With Hostile Intent
Page 1
WITH HOSTILE INTENT
Robert Gandt
What they’re saying about Robert Gandt’s books. . .
More thrilling than a back-to-back showing of Top Gun and Iron Eagle, this red-hot piece of military fiction is certain to keep readers riveted. . . some of the most suspenseful battle scenes in recent military fiction.
—PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
Robert Gandt is a former Pan Am pilot who also happens to have the pen of a poet.
—CHRISTIAN SCIENCE MONITOR
Gandt is a rare treasure, a Navy jet jock with the rare gift of being able to tell a compelling story in a believable and exciting manner that leaves the reader exhausted at the end.
—PACIFIC FLYER
Written in a wonderful bold style, with pathos, humor, tragedy, and gripping suspense . . .
—STEPHEN COONTS
Gandt has a way with words that will send the reader soaring.
—NEWS CHIEF
Former navy pilot and military historian Gandt is a first-rate storyteller.
—PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
WITH HOSTILE INTENT
Robert Gandt
Copyright 2014 Robert Gandt
Smashwords Edition
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For Annie,
Partner, best friend, sweetheart
Also by Robert Gandt
Nonfiction
SEASON OF STORMS
The Siege of Hongkong, 1941
CHINA CLIPPER
The Age of the Great Flying Boats
SKYGODS
The Fall of Pan Am
BOGEYS AND BANDITS
The Making of a Fighter Pilot
FLY LOW, FLY FAST
Inside the Reno Air Races
INTREPID
The Epic Story of America’s Most Famous Warship
THE TWILIGHT WARRIORS
The Deadliest Naval Battle of WWII and the Men Who Fought It
Fiction
ACTS OF VENGEANCE
BLACK STAR
SHADOWS OF WAR
THE KILLING SKY
BLACK STAR RISING
THE PRESIDENT’S PILOT
May God have mercy on our enemies;
they will need it.
General George S. Patton
In waking a tiger, use a long stick.
Mao Tse-tung
It is always the one you don’t see that gets you.
World War II Ace Maj. Tommy McGuire,
KIA January 1945
Chapter One
The Kill
AWACS Station Zulu
1435, Friday, 18 April
“Fulcrum!”
The effect was always the same. Just calling out the radar contact never failed to spike First Lieutenant Tracey Barnett’s pulse rate upward by twenty beats. She knew it was having the same effect on the other two controllers. In the spectral glow of the E-3C Sentry’s red-lighted command-and-control compartment, she could see them both hunched over their own consoles.
“Make that two Fulcrums!”
She had them tagged now. They were out of the Al-Taqqadum air base, just west of Baghdad. They were headed south, toward the thirty-third parallel, the boundary of the No Fly Zone. And she could label them as bona fide, no-shit bandits, meaning they were hostile. She had a good electronic ID on them and these guys were definitely MiG-29s — twin-engine Russian-built fighters with the NATO code name “Fulcrum.”
They were coming her way.
Tracey studied the two blips on her scope. It was not like the Iraqi Air Force to come out and challenge the allied air patrols. If they took off at all, they would make a faint-hearted thrust at the NFZ, then cut and run back to the interior of Iraq.
At least, that’s what they usually did. But not today. These guys weren’t running. They were supersonic, about 1.2 mach and accelerating.
Still coming this way. Headed south toward the NFZ.
Just to be sure, she called up Rivet Joint, the intelligence-gathering RC-135, in its own orbit over the Gulf. Like the AWACS, Rivet Joint was a version of the ancient Boeing 707, but without the saucer-like radome atop the fuselage.
“We confirm that, Sea Lord,” said the controller in Rivet Joint. “Two Fulcrums in the air. Looks like the game’s on. Hope you got shooters available.”
Tracey went back to her console, giving the display a quick scan, checking her assets. She needed shooters — armed and ready fighters. Now, where were they. . .?
There. Perfect! A flight of four Navy F/A-18s, just launched from the Reagan, still refueling on the tanker.
She called the fighter division lead. “Stinger One-one, this is Sea Lord. You with me?”
A mini-second’s pause. “Stinger One-one is up, Sea Lord,” the F/A-18 flight leader answered.
“Show time, Stinger. Got a hot vector for you.”
“You called the right number, Sea Lord. You point, we shoot.”
<>
One hundred-ten kilometers to go.
The desert was sweeping beneath them in a brown-hued blur. Colonel Tariq Jabbar knew that at this velocity — one and a half times the speed of sound — they would reach the thirty-third parallel in less than five minutes.
Ninety kilometers.
Of course, the trick at this speed was to time your turn to avoid penetrating the forbidden air space. In fact, Colonel Jabbar did not intend even to get close to the so-called boundary, just rush at it in a threatening way. Taunt the Americans. Make them scramble fighters and go through yet another useless exercise.
An idiotic game, thought Jabbar. A senseless waste. It was all an extension of the Gulf War, which had been the mother of all idiotic games. He felt a wave of anger rise in him, just as it always did when he recalled the slaughter of thousands of young Iraqi men. For nothing.
Colonel Jabbar pushed the thought from his mind. He had a mission today, senseless that it was. If he wanted to survive another encounter with the enemy he had to remain focused. He already knew from experience that he was on his own out here. He could not obtain help from any quarter. What information he received from his own GCI — Ground Controlled Intercept — was not only sparse, it was often woefully wrong. Iraq’s air defense network had been so pummeled by allied anti-radiation weapons, they had only a single functioning intercept radar. It was co-located with the approach control radar at the Baghdad airport, which had saved it from being demolished like the others.
Without an adequate air defense radar, even sophisticated warplanes like Jabbar’s MiG-29 were easy prey for the American fighters, who had the backing of their AWACS ships and a fleet of ship-borne control systems. The Iraqi fighters were flying blind.
But Colonel Jabbar, commander of the 21st Air Intercept Squadron of the Iraqi Air Force, was, if nothing else, a pragmatist. His task today was not to win wars or even to do battle. He and his wingman would merely feint at the allied-imposed No Fly Zone, cause some sphincters in the American warplanes to tighten. Then they could return in triumph to Al-Taqqadum. Their glorious humiliation of the cowardly Americans would be duly reported to the President. Both Colonel Jabbar and his wingman, Captain Hakim Al-Fariz, would be summoned to the presidential palace to have medals pinned on them by Saddam himself.
This would come to pass, Jabbar knew, because of one simple truth: Captain Al-Fariz, incompetent ass that h
e was, was the son of Saddam Hussein’s second youngest sister. It was no secret that the young officer had been designated for rapid advancement in the Iraqi military. Even though he had just completed his initial training in the MiG-29, he was already assigned as Jabbar’s assistant squadron commander.
Today was Al-Fariz’s first tactical mission in the MiG-29. And he was useless.
Jabbar glanced over his left shoulder, checking on his neophyte wingman. At first, he couldn’t find him. Then he spotted the MiG, down low, nearly a mile in trail.
“Close it up, Blue Wing,” Jabbar barked on the radio. “Bring it abeam, and closer.”
“Yes, Colonel.”
Jabbar watched Al-Fariz’s MiG slide forward. It was not enough. The oaf knew nothing about tactical formation. He was still too far out, still in trail. Jabbar felt like keying his microphone and telling the imbecile, as he would any other pilot in his squadron, what a worthless specimen of fly-encrusted shit he was, that he had no business driving a goat cart, never mind a supersonic killing machine like the MiG-29.
Colonel Jabbar kept his silence. The idiot nephew of the country’s idiot President held the key to Jabbar’s own destiny. If Jabbar returned from this mission with Al-Fariz safely on his wing, he would be covered in glory. Of course, if the unthinkable happened and something happened to the nephew, Jabbar would be peering down the muzzles of a Republican Guard firing squad. Such was life in the Iraqi Air Force.
Forty kilometers. Two minutes. Jabbar rolled into a bank, searching the pocked desert for landmarks. There were few good visual cues for the invisible 33rd parallel. Again he cursed the worthless Iraqi air defense radar. They had no reliable way to guide him to the precise boundary of the NFZ. He would have to depend on the MiG’s quirky navigational display and on his own knowledge of the Iraqi landscape.
There! A wave-like series of wadis, a twisting road in the desert leading to a rocky promontory. Jabbar recognized the landmarks that identified the boundary — the invisible line drawn in the sand after the Gulf War, beyond which the Iraqi Air Force was forbidden to fly. Jabbar figured that his headlong charge at the boundary would already have lit up the allies’ radar screens and alerted their interceptors. Now he and his wingman would execute a hard turn, parallel the boundary, tease them like a cat taunting a leashed dog.
The trick was knowing how long the leash was.
<>
Commander Killer DeLancey, leader of the four-plane flight of F/A-18E Super Hornets, watched his second section refueling from the KS-3 Viking tanker. Delancey and his wingman, Lieutenant Hozer Miller, were finished with their own refueling. Now they were in a high perch position off the tanker’s left wing.
DeLancey glanced at the MDIs — Multipurpose Disply Indicators — on his instrument panel. With the afternoon sun streaming over his shoulder, he could see his reflected image in the glass screen — camo-drab helmet, oxgyen mask pressed against his face, sun visor pulled down over his eyes. He looked like a creature from science fiction.
While he waited, DeLancey assessed the tools of his trade. The Super Hornet was armed with an arsenal of air-to-air weaponry. With the touch of a button he could select three different ways to destroy an airborne adversary. On each wingtip he carried an AIM-9 heatseeking Sidewinder missile. On inboard stations were mounted the AIM-120 radar-guided missiles. In the long pointed snout of his Hornet fighter nestled the twenty-millimeter Vulcan cannon with its horrific 6,000-round-per-minute rate of fire.
With his right hand DeLancey kept a light hold on the control stick. The stick grip bristled with knobs and switches — cannon and missile firing trigger, the pickle button that launched air-to-ground munitions, the three-position air-to-air weapon select button.
DeLancey’s flight had been scheduled for a routine CAP — Combat Air Patrol — of the NFZ. It was supposed to be a four-ship CAP. But that was before the call from AWACS.
Now he wanted to move out. He rolled his Hornet into a turn and shoved the throttles up. Hozer Miller stayed glued to his left wing.
“Stinger one and two will take the hot vector,” Delancey said. “Three and four, rejoin after you’ve tanked.”
“Standby, Killer,” came the voice of Commander Brick Maxwell, leading the second section of Hornets. Maxwell’s wingman was still plugged into the tanker’s refueling drogue. “We haven’t finished tanking. This oughta be a four-ship.”
DeLancey assessed the situation. That damned Maxwell was lecturing him again. Maxwell was DeLancey’s operations officer. He had been in the squadron three months and he was a royal pain in the ass.
DeLancey gave it a moment’s thought, then reached a decision: Screw Maxwell. Screw the four-ship. This was war.
He swung the nose of his Hornet to the north. He was not going to wait while those two old ladies took their sweetass time refueling. Not with MiGs headed into the NFZ.
“Stinger One-one is taking the vector,” Delancey said. “Hozer, stay joined. We’ll engage as a two-ship.”
“Roger that, Skipper,” Miller replied without hesitation. Hozer might be a suck up, thought DeLancey, but he was a team player.
DeLancey knew the radio exchange was being monitored and recorded both aboard the AWACS and back in the Combat Information Center on the Reagan. He also knew he would catch hell from CAG Boyce, the Air Wing Commander. So be it. It wouldn’t be the first time he had to explain his actions in front of some thumb-up-his-ass captain or admiral. This was combat, or at least the closest thing to it. In combat you had to seize opportunity.
DeLancey knew about seizing opportunity. On the side of his Hornet, just beneath his name, were the painted silhouettes of three fighters. One was a MiG-21. The other two were Super Galebs. The MiG was from the first night of Desert Storm, over Iraq. The Galebs were a flight of two in Yugoslavia. DeLancey had caught them from behind and shot them both with AIM-9 Sidewinders. With three kill symbols on his fuselage, Killer DeLancey was America’s top-scoring fighter pilot.
Here was another opportunity. Two bandits.
The significance of the two Iraqi jets aimed southward was fixed like an implant in DeLancey’s brain. Another kill symbol on his jet would ensure his status as the world’s top fighter pilot. Two more. . . the thought made him almost giddy. Killer DeLancey would be the only active-duty ace in the world.
He would be a legend.
<>
Tracey Barnett could see the whole picture. It was a classic intercept. On her tac display, the shooters and the bandits were converging like glow worms in a meadow. “Stinger One-one, Sea Lord,” she said in her microphone. “Bandits bearing zero-one-zero, range sixty-two miles, at thirty-one-thousand. Looks like they’re turning to parallel.”
Tracey was beginning to relax. This was going to be another of those cruise-the-boundary capers the Iraqis liked to pull. She wondered why they bothered. Why did they want to expose themselves? Maybe it made them feel good.
Sometimes Tracey marveled at how progress and antiquity were melded together in this business. The lumbering four-engined E-3C, for example, with its saucer-shaped radome and array of advanced electronic warfare equipment. This big truck was the same basic Boeing 707 that first flew nearly fifty years ago. Yet it was the most sophisticated — and deadly — command and surveillance tool on the planet.
She heard the Hornet leader. “Stinger One-one has a lock.”
Tracey stared at the screen. A lock? That meant the Hornet leader was targeting the bandits. What the hell was going on?
“Your weapons status is tight, Stinger One-one. Copy that?” “Tight” meant that the Hornets did not have clearance to arm their air-to-air missiles. They had to wait for an indication of hostile intent.
She waited for Stinger One-one’s acknowledgment.
And waited.
Nothing.
“Stinger One-one, confirm weapons status tight.”
Still nothing. Damn! He was stonewalling her. She could see the fighters — Hornets and MiGs — converging on th
e tac display.
Fifty miles. Okay, guys, this is going too far.
She jabbed her intercom button. “Butch, you better check this out.”
“Coming,” answered Butch Kissick, a graying, crew-cut Navy lieutenant commander. Kissick was the ACE — Airborne Command Element — who reported directly to a three-star general headquartered in Riyadh.
Kissick walked to Tracey’s console and plugged in his own headset. He looked at the tac display, and a frown passed over his face. The Hornets were flying a pursuit curve that would put them in firing range in the next two minutes.
“Stinger One-one, this is Hammer,” Kissick said. “Answer up, cowboy, or I’m gonna yank your ass out of there.”
Three seconds passed.
Finally, “Stinger One-one copies, Hammer. We show the bandits turning nose hot.” “Nose hot” meant that the opposing fighter’s nose was pointed toward them. It was an indication of hostile intent.
“Negative, negative,” Kissick replied, his voice rising. “They’re gonna turn and stay north of the border.”
Another two seconds. “Copy.”
Kissick stood there, watching the glow worms on the screen come closer. If this peckerhead in Stinger One-one pushed any harder, Kissick was going to call the game off. But as long as they followed the rules of engagement, he’d let them play. At least they might scare the crap out of a couple Iraqi fighter jocks.