Force of Eagles

by Richard Herman

  A tactic used by Willie Driscoll, a famous Navy jock, came back—“Turn to kill, not to engage.” Now he had the F-4s visually in his HUD. They were still flying straight and level, in echelon, not maneuvering, coming straight at him, still high, holding their altitude. “Hold on, Byers.” He turned forty-five degrees to the left and dropped still lower. Just before the two F-4s came by him on his right he reefed the F-15 into a hard right turn and pulled up and into them. It was a stern-conversion and the bandits had not yet seen him. With his thumb he toggled the weapons-select switch on his throttles to the rear and selected his 20mm cannon. He surged into the bandits’ right rear quarter, still below them, and sent a short burst of high-explosive shells into the lead F-4 on the right. Two puffs of smoke trailed from the Iranian F-4 and a tongue of flame licked out from under its belly. Then it pitched nose down, tumbled, and exploded.

  Jack pulled back to the left and up, again using the vertical to reposition for a reattack or to disengage, whichever looked better when he was on top with energy to maneuver and choose his options. The other F-4 had buried its nose and was reversing course, running away. Jack let him live and headed for the prison, and mentally went through the switchology that would allow him to call up a Maverick missile…

  *

  Northwestern Iran

  “Cowboy,” the fighter controller’s voice was more rapid and high pitched now. He had never directed fighters into an actual engagement before. “Bandits at zero-niner-zero degrees, seventy nautical miles.”

  “Burners, now,” Snake ordered. His three flight members shoved their throttles forward into the fourth-, then fifth-stage afterburner, and the F-15s accelerated straight ahead. He had worked out a mental map of the C-130’s position and the converging bandits. He had to hurry to get between them.

  “Multiple hits, zero-eight-zero, sixty-five miles,” his wingman sang out. He had a radar contact on the bandits. The F-15s started to sort them out, deciding who would engage who. But above all, Snake was determined to keep the bandits off the C-130. He had learned his lesson.

  *

  Kermanshah, Iran

  Jack flew past the prison, monitoring his TEWS. It was quiet. The Iranian tanks had reached the airfield. “Byers, put the crosshairs for the Maverick smack in the middle of the admin building. Got it?” Byers asked if the admin building was the one with the smouldering fire that had been hit by a bomb. “That’s it, we’re in. “Jack rolled the F-15 up onto its left wing and rolled out into a shallow dive. Byers had the knack now and drove the crosshairs onto the admin building and locked on. Jack hit the pickle button and launched the first Maverick. He called up another Maverick. “Lock on again.” Byers did, and it was sent on its way…

  Mokhtari was in the first-floor office of the main cell block trying to reconnect the telephone a Ranger had ripped out of its connection when he heard the F-15. Instinctively he dived for cover under the desk and threw his arms over his head. The blast from the two Mavericks momentarily deafened him. Then a hard look of satisfaction spread over his face when he realized the attacking plane had hit the wrong building…

  Jack came off the target and repositioned. He selected bombs, ripple and started his second run, placing his target reticle on the edge of the prison. He would walk his five remaining bombs across the main cell block and into the admin building…

  The sound of the returning F-15 pounded at Mokhtari. Fear was numbing. At first he had an overpowering urge to urinate, then panic drove him from the office. He ran down the short flight of stairs and out the main door heading for the reinforced concrete tunnel that served as the prison’s entrance…

  Jack saw the lone figure running across the exercise yard. “I hope to hell that’s you,” he said aloud, designating with the pickle button. His right foot feathered the rudder pedal. skidding the F-15 onto a new path.

  Terror had replaced hate as Mokhtari realized the F-15 was pointed directly at him, freezing him in his !tacks. He lost control of his bladder when he saw the five bombs separate cleanly from the aircraft. He raised his head and watched the F-15 pull off. And watched as the first bomb exploded only fifteen feet in front of him…

  *

  Northwestern Iran

  “Cowboy, Defray,” the AWACS transmitted. “Bandits are now at zero-two-zero degrees, twenty miles.”

  “Rog, Delray,” Snake replied, “Judy.” With the Judy-call he told the AWACS they were taking over the intercept. As flight lead, Snake was still working on how best to engage the six bandits they were closing on. He and his wingman were going to attack the lead aircraft while his other F-15s, the second element of F-15s, were going to attack the rear aircraft. He had to keep the bandits off the C-130, but his weapons could only be fired forward. So he had to have his nose pointed at the enemy to be a fighter. Otherwise he could easily become a target. Even the most advanced fighter was at a disadvantage against an old, obsolete jet that had maneuvered to the six o’clock position and was firing.

  Snake updated his three-dimensional image of the relative position of the bandits. The F-15s were dosing from the bandits’ front-left quarter and the C-130 was behind him. He was in time.

  Now he entered the attack phase of the engagement. Snake understood the psychological advantage an aggressive attack gave him—no matter the odds, put your opponent on the defensive and keep him there—otherwise, get the hell out of there. But since he couldn’t disengage and leave the C-130 unprotected, he was going to make the bandits turn away from the Hercules. At the same time he wasn’t going to be sucked into a turning dogfight—like Jack, he would only turn to kill, not to engage.

  “Cowboy flight, deploy now,” he ordered. It was a simple command but one they had worked out in repeated training flights. Houseman and his wingman pulled up into the sun, gaining altitude, while the second element dove for the ground. They would attack in a pincers movement, Snake from above and in front, his second element from the rear and below. The contract they had worked out between themselves was to launch AIM-7M radar missiles when they were inside fifteen miles, then to blow on through the formation and reposition for another attack. Only this time, Snake and his wingman would go low and the other element would go high.

  “Bandits are Floggers,” the leader of the low element whooped over the UHF. The MiG-23 the Iranians were flying was a good jet but it couldn’t turn with an F-15 and the pilot couldn’t check his six-o’clock position.

  The MiGs first realized they were under attack when their radar-warning gear started screaming that a hostile radar was locked on them. That was immediately followed by the sight of two smoke trails coming at them from out of the sun. Hard to ignore a brace of AIM-7s when pointed at you, and the MiGs broke formation as they turned—scattering across the sky.

  Snake’s AIM-7 missed, but his wingman’s came within a few feet of its target and the proximity fuse did as designed and detonated, sending a shower of expanding rod-core into the underside of the MiG, ripping into the lower half of the pilot. The Iranian saw his fire light come on and felt the flight controls go dead, but all he could do was watch the ground rush up at him…

  The two trailing MIG’s never saw the low element of two F-15s but reacted to their radar-warning gear and broke hard for the ground, evading the missiles shot at them. The AIM-7 was well-named the Great White Hope.

  Cowboy flight blew on through the turning MiGs as they had planned and repositioned for another attack.

  Now Snake and his wingman came back into the fight from below. Although Snake was going almost straight up it looked like he was porpoising as he maneuvered on his next target. The MiG buried its nose toward Snake and turned under while Snake did a loop over the top and fell in behind the MiG. Now they were going straight down with the AIM-9 seeker-head tracking the Flogger’s afterburner. Snake fired a Sidewinder and broke away, leaving the fight. The Sidewinder flew up the MiG’s tail pipe and exploded.

  That was it. The MiGs disengaged and headed east into Iran. The F-15s h
ad shot down two MiG-23 Floggers in less than seventy-two seconds. Snake called for a fuel check and joined up on the C-130, escorting the POWs across the border into Turkey, and safety, ignoring two other bandits who were looking for them.

  *

  The Pentagon

  The main floor of the command center was pandemonium. People pounded each other on their backs and shook hands. The noise wouldn’t die down. But the major who was handling the communications panel sat quietly, not joining in the celebration over Scamp 15’s safe deliverance. She folded her hands in her lap and looked at Cunningham, waiting. The general nodded at her. His Air Force, it was a-changing.

  Stevens told him the President wanted to see him, and Cunningham heaved himself out of his chair and hurried to the Command and Authority Room.

  The President came directly to the point. “I gave a direct order for Scamp One-Five to escape through Iraq. That order was disobeyed.”

  “That’s true, sir,” Cunningham had to bite his lip, not trusting himself to say what he was thinking—that the President had made a dumb decision.

  “I want to know why. And I want some balls crunched.”

  “May I smoke?” Cunningham asked, pulling out his favorite cigar. “I’ve got to cut back…” He lit it up and puffed, and it became a waiting game to see who would speak first.

  The President made the move. “Lawrence, today has been a new experience for me…”

  Cunningham knew that was as close to bending as his commander in chief would come. “Sir, I need to check it out about why your orders were not followed. It will take some time. But look at the results.” He motioned at the center situation board. “As of now, sir, it looks like the tactical director in the AWACS had a more current, more accurate grasp of the situation than we did. He did what he judged to be correct. It may not have been the best decision, but it worked.”

  Cunningham looked uneasily at the President, saw no special reaction and went on…“We train them, give them multi-million-dollar toys to play with, then we’ve got to trust them when the heat’s on. Just the way it is, sir.” The President stared for a moment, then slowly nodded. “We look at the results,” Cunningham continued, encouraged, “try to learn from what happened, pick up the pieces, give ’atta boys to the ones who did good and try to do it better next time.” He didn’t mention that some balls would still need to be crunched.

  “Thanks, Lawrence.” The President stared out over the room that was now quieting down. “Is it always this hard?”

  “Yes, sir. It is. And we’re not out of it yet. Two more C-130s to go.”

  Chapter 52: H Plus 16

  Western Iran

  “How’s it goin’?” Kowalski asked her loadmaster over the intercom. Hank Petrovich looked around the cargo deck. Almost every Ranger was asleep. Gregory and his S-3 were huddled with a medic going over the casualty list while another medic crouched on the deck working on Thunder. Stansell was there trying to help. Petrovich was relieved to see that they had stopped the captain’s bleeding. “Most everyone is asleep,” he told her. “But one of them wants to come up and talk to you.”

  “Send him up.” Petrovich motioned at Andy Baulck, who worked his way through the sleeping men and up onto the flight deck.

  Kowalski turned and looked at him. “How ya doin’, Sarge?”

  “Playing in the major leagues, Captain, swingin’ one hell of a big bat.” Kowalski smiled at him. It was the truth. “Captain, I wanted to say thanks. They told me how you held the takeoff waiting for us to pull in…”

  “My job, Baulck. Besides, you didn’t think I’d turn an asshole like you loose on a bunch of unsuspecting civilians?” Baulck grinned and crawled back down the stairs onto the cargo deck and fell into a deep sleep.

  “Well, now,” her copilot Brenda Iverson said, “we got a visitor.” Jack Locke had joined up on the C-130’s right wing, giving them a thumbs-up.

  *

  Eastern Turkey

  Nelson sank back into his seat on the AWACS, aching with fatigue. He had been airborne too long and needed rest. When the AWACS had landed at Incirlik after their first sortie and the insertion of Romeo Team aboard Scamp 11, the flight crew had changed out. But the mission crew in the rear had stayed aboard. Should have told more people about Operation WARLORD, he thought, so the mission crew could also have swapped out. Mustn’t suffer from “get homeitis,” we’re not headed for the barn yet. He studied the tactical display in front of him and called his fighter allocator for an update.

  ‘The situation is fluid,” the fighter allocator told him. “I have six bandits airborne, two F-4s and four Floggers. They just seem to be roaming around. Someone over there must have figured out by now we’re egressing through the tri-border region and should try to position them as a blocking force.” Another voice interrupted to announce that four more bandits were now airborne out of Tabriz and two more were being scrambled.

  “Any idea who they’ll commit on?” Nelson asked. “Scamp One-Two or Scamp One-One?”

  “Whichever one they can find. I’ve got four F-15s, Rustler flight, still with the tankers and gassed, ready to go. Why don’t we send them in to escort Scamp One-Two since it’s the closest to the border, put Cowboy flight on the tankers for gas and then send them in to escort the last C-130 out?”

  “Sounds good. Do it.”

  *

  Maragheh, Iran

  The new controller sitting at the radar-control console was sweating. He had seen the body of the last controller still lying on the ground when he had driven up the mountain. At least he had the undivided attention of the captain in the control center and didn’t have to make any critical decisions. The captain had a vengeful Ayatollah looking over his shoulder and would have to answer for any mistakes. Still, there was guilt by association…

  “Do you have the C-130s on your scope?” the captain barked over the command line from the control center.

  “Not at this time. But I do know their approximate position. The first is halfway between Kermanshah and the tri-border area. The other has only taken off from Kermanshah and is headed north. Please standby, I have activity.” The controller studied his scope for a few moments. “Four fast moving targets have departed the tanker and are descending. I will lose them for a period of time when they are in the mountains. But I will paint them later. They are most likely fighters ingressing to escort the C-130s. I have four more targets now joining on the tankers.”

  There was a long pause on the other end. “The last time,” the captain said, “they directed four F-15s to escort one C-130. It is a pattern. Monitor the four fighters that are penetrating our airspace. We will send four of our fighters against them when they rendezvous with a C-130. We use our remaining fighters to attack and destroy the C-130 they leave unprotected.” The Iranian command-and-control net had finally gotten its act together.

  *

  Western Iran

  “Shee-it, Cap’n,” Byers grumbled from the back seat, “what’s all that bleepin’?” The F-15’s sensitive Tactical Electronic Warfare System was sending loud warning signals through Byers’ earphones.

  “That’s the TEWS,” Jack Locke told him. “The chirp means airborne search radars are looking for us. There’s a knob on your left console that can turn down the volume.” The pilot glanced at his TEWS, not liking what he saw. “Lots of Gomers up and about.”

  The UHF radio came alive as Rustler flight joined up on Duck Mallard’s C-130. Then the transmissions crackled with commands as Rustler flight reported bandits in the area. The frequency became a torrent of words as Rustler flight capped the C-130 and sorted out the bandits. Jack listened to the radio traffic, building a mental picture of the developing engagement, then rechecked his own radar and TEWS and it all fell into place…Four bandits were bouncing Mallard’s C-130 and the four F-15s of Rustler flight while he and Kowalski headed straight for a hornet’s nest of at least eight orbiting fighters that were obviously looking for them.

  He called K
owalski over to another frequency, leaving the channel clear for Rustler flight. He keyed his radio. “Delray Five-One, this is Stormy Zero-Two. How copy on this frequency?” The answer came through scratchy but readable. “We have multiple threats in the area,” Jack told the AWACS, “and need to divert to the west.”

  “Negative, Stormy,” the AWACS answered. “Hostile reception to the west.” The Iraqi air defense system was still up and active.

  “Then send some damned help,” Jack demanded.

  “Stormy, be advised Rustler flight is engaged. Cowboy flight is refueling. Will send Cowboy in flights of two as they come off the tankers.”

  “Tell ’em to hurry. Scamp, you copy all?”

  “Roger,” Kowalski answered.

  “We got to get down in the rocks and weeds. We’re going right under a cloud of Gomers looking for us. They don’t have a very good lookdown capability so they got to find us with their eyeballs. Help’s on the way.”

  “Roger on the help,” the C-130 pilot answered, skepticism lacing her words.

  “Cap’n”—it was Byers—“look behind you.” Jack twisted his head around, glad for the excellent visibility in the F-15. Two distinctive sets of smoke trails were coming right at them. Iranian F-4s.

  He reversed course with a hard slashing pitch-back to the left. “Two bandits six o’clock, seven miles, I’m engaged,” he transmitted for both the C-130 and the AWACS to hear. At the top of the vertical he studied the oncoming bandits and continued to zoom, delaying the completion of the pitch-back and letting the F-4s close. Then he pulled down into the fight.

  *

  “Hank!” Kowalski shouted over the intercom to her loadmaster, “get everybody strapped in and tie everything down. It’s about to get rough.”