by Dale Brown
Their flight path took them over the Pacific and Indian oceans, on a less direct course far from the normal transoceanic flight routines in order to avoid visual detection by a passing airliner.
Since this was a secret mission, they didn’t need to give position reports or talk to anyone when crossing international boundaries.
McLanahan activated the radar for a few seconds every time they passed close to land, but mostly kept it in standby to prevent stray electronic emissions from giving away their position. They had no anticollision lights or transponder beacon codes activated—they were counting on the “big sky” theory to keep them away from other aircraft.
They’d overflown the Hawaiian Islands four hours after takeoff and received their first refueling about 120 miles west of Honolulu.
They passed within radar range of Guam, overflew the Philippines, and shot a two-second radar image each of Vietnam, Malaysia, and Thailand—all without one challenge from any nation’s air defense systems. They were nothing but ghosts.
Approaching the Maldives in the northern Indian Ocean southwest of SriLanka, out of radar range of India’s potent Soviet-built air defense network, they refueled from a U.S. Air Force KC-10 Extender tanker. Now, with full tanks and in long-range cruise mode, the real magic of this incredible warplane was obvious: they could just as easily fly all the way back to Hawaii now if they wanted. The computer listed all the alternate and emergency airfields available to them with their full tanks—they ranged as far north as Anchorage, Alaska, as far south as Auckland, New Zealand, or Cape Town, South Africa, even as far west as London!
If they included civil airfields on the list, runways big enough for a standard Boeing 727, they had their choice of about three hundred airports within max fuel endurance range.. That kind of power really impressed Tony Jamieson, and it was what drove him to the big bomber game and the B-2A Spirit stealth bomber in particular. The power he commanded was unlike anything ever believed possible. With only two aerial refuelings, he could fly halfway around the world—but more impressive, he could fly over their fleets, their capitals, their cities, their military bases, and he could unleash devastating weapons on all of them, and those on the ground would not know he was ever there, even after the missiles hit! He knew the U.S.S. Abraham Lincoln aircraft carrier battle group was just a few minutes farther east in the Arabian Sea—they had flown within Sixty miles of the group—but the greatest seaborne battle group in the world had had no idea they were nearby.
Eleven hours after takeoff, they’d finally come within radar range of the Arabian Peninsula. McLanahan knew there was an American E-3C Airborne Warning and Control System radar plane flying in southeast Saudi Arabia, to observe all air and sea activity near the Iranian aircraft carrier fleet; Saudi Arabia also operated a sophisticated peninsula-wide air defense command-and-control system called Peace Shield Skywatch, which linked seventeen regional radar sites to a central control facility in Riyadh. But the bomber had overflown Saudi Arabia, then southern Iraq, and then down along the Persian Gulf into southern Iran without one squeak of a radar locked onto them or one challenge on any radio frequency, even though there were lots of Saudi, Iranian, and American fighter patrols up that night. Less than sixty miles away was the Strait of Hormuz and the Iranian military city of Bandar Abbas, one of the most heavily defended places on earth, Just 100 miles south of the strait in the Gulf of Oman was the huge Khomeini aircraft carrier battle group, challenging all those who tried to enter the Persian Gulf.
“I don’t friggin’ believe this,” Jamieson exclaimed. “We’re flying over no-man’s land here. One missile jock get, lucky, and he bags himself a B-2A stealth bomber.” McLanahan made no reply—probably the first indication that night that he was nervous. The threat indicator on McLanahan’s supercockpit display was showing massive amounts of threats all around them: numerous SA-10 surface-to-air missile sites near the larger cities in western Iran; a cluster of mobile SA-8 missile units and ZSU-23/4 antiaircraft artillery sites in Iraq, all radiating and searching the skies; and a handful of high-performance MiG-29s over Iran, not too far away. They were bracketed by long-range search radars, but not one of them showed any indication of locking a continuous-wave or height-finder signal on them.
Tensions in the region were always high, but since the invasion of Abu Musa Island and the deployment of the Khomeini carrier group, it seemed everyone had every man and every piece of military hardware they owned out in the field, ready for battle. “What in hell are we doing up here, McLanahan? This is nuts …”
“There’s an ISA rescue mission being executed now over Bandar Abbas,” McLanahan said—he knew that Jamieson knew why they were doing this mission, but he had to get his AC’s mind off the threats surrounding them and back on the mission right now. “That salvage vessel that got hit by the Iranians the other day? It was an ISA ship. They took several captives, and the ISA’s going to get them back.”
“I heard it was a civilian vessel,” Jamieson said.
“It was civilian, but it was being used by the Intelligence Support Agency to run surveillance on the Khomeini carrier group.”
“So that’s why the Iranians are pissed,” Jamieson commented. “Can we blame them?”
“We can and we do,” McLanahan said. “They were conducting surveillance only, no closer than thirty miles to tiny ship, operating over international waters and airspace.”
“So when the rag heads said that the crew of the ship shot down two of their fighters … that was true?”
“In self-defense, and only after the ship was attacked by fighters from the Khomeini.” McLanahan said. He looked at Jamieson. “Any more questions, Colonel?”
“Touchy, touchy,” Jamieson said. “Just wanted to listen to you explain our mission—I wanted to see how much of a brainless little government robot you’ve become.”
“Glad to see you’re keeping yourself amused,” McLanahan said. He continued: “Our intelligence says the crew members that were captured aboard the ship were taken to Suru Prison near Bandar Abbas. The infiltration group is going right into the prison itself. We’re going to provide air cover for them.”
“We fly all this way, I expect to blast something apart,” Jamieson said, with mock grumpiness. “A carrier would make a mighty big boom, for instance-“
“Stand by, target area’s coming up,” McLanahan interrupted. With little else to do, Jamieson leaned over to watch McLanahan operate his cosmic equipment. It was nothing like any of Whiteman’s Block 10 or Block 20 planes—in fact, it was nothing like the future Block 30 planes, not yet in production, or any other concept Jamieson had ever seen for the B-2A.
Dominating the right side of the B-2A’s cockpit was a huge rectangular monitor, larger than three normal-sized multifunction displays put together. McLanahan called this his “supercockpit” display, and the term fit. Air Vehicle 011 obviously had had this equipment in it earlier, when it had been known as Test Vehicle 002 at Dreamland, because it had taken less than a day for engineers to reinstall this huge screen. Instead of fixed-function buttons around the edges, the display had function buttons on the screen itself that could be selected using the trackball, by touching the big screen, or by using spoken commands. McLanahan was obviously very adept at it—he used all three methods simultaneously, which allowed him to operate his controls with incredible speed.
For most of the flight, the supercockpit display was configured to resemble a normal B-2A right-side cockpit: graphic depictions of three B-2A MDUS, showing aircraft and computer status “home” page; the Horizontal Situation Indicator with compass, artificial horizon, and autopilot steering indicators; and navigation displays with present position, heading, ground speed, and time and distance to go to the next way point. Occasionally, McLanahan would call up a graphic typewriter keyboard and use it to compose satellite messages to the National Security Agency—heck, Jamieson mused wryly, McLanahan even used a weird layout, called a Dvorak keyboard, that he operated with speed and
precision but would be three times as hard for anyone else to use.
Closer to the target area now, just minutes away from the action, McLanahan still had the three standard MDU displays on the screen, except they were about one-fourth their normal size and relegated to the upper portion of the screen where he and Jamieson could still monitor them. The rest of the screen showed a digital chart of Hormozgan Province of southern Iran, including the Strait of Hormuz and the city of Bandar Abbas. The province was fairly rural and hilly, with only one medium-sized city, one small city, and perhaps two dozen towns and significant villages in the entire 18,000square-mile area.
The city of Bandar Abbas and its many military bases and military-industrial centers were protected by modern long-range SA-10 Grumble, medium-range Hawk, and short-range antiaircraft missile sites, along with numerous medium- and short-range antiaircraft artillery sites. In addition, the airfield at Bandar Abbas had the largest tactical air force in Iran outside of Tehran, with modern MiG-29, ex-U.S. Air Force F-4 Phantoms, and ex-U.S. Navy Tomcat F-14 fighter interceptors airborne on patrol.
Jamieson and McLanahan were flying well inside the normal lethal range of the SA-10 Grumble surface-to-air missile, hoping that their plane’s stealth characteristics would keep them safe. Those thick, multilayered defenses would be deadly to any aircraft trying to fly into Bandar Abbas, and only the B-2A Spirit stealth bomber had the capability to approach the area and knock out those missile sites.
MINA JEBEL ALI NAVAL BASE, DUBAI, UNITED ARAB EMIRATES THAT SAME TIME Gunnery Sergeant Chris Wohl was making a final preflight inspection of his men’s personal equipment, checking for proper survival clothing; although the CV-22 Pave Hammer tilt-rotor aircraft was safe and reliable even in harsh combat conditions, Wohl always made sure that its occupants dressed as if they’d have to walk or swim back to base.
As was typical with Intelligence Support Agency operations, the men wore a mishmash of clothing items, mostly generic military-style clothing intermingled with civilian clothes, with all patches and labels removed and local clothing makers’ labels sewn on. Some shaved, although it had to be done without soap or shaving cream to avoid telltale aromas that might attract dogs or guards; most did not shave and had short Middle East-style beards.
Hair was usually cut very short and washed with unscented soap, or shaved completely bald. Headgear usually consisted of full-face ski masks or balaclavas worn over an extra watch cap to better protect the ears from frostbite. Most of the unit wore thick woolly mittens over thin wool or cotton glove inserts, with cutouts in the mitten palms to allow them to extend a trigger finger. The men were lightly armed—a few had AK-74 assault rifles, but most others carried small submachine guns like the .45 caliber Uzi or the 9-millimeter MP-5. They carried a variety of favorite side arms and two days’ worth of patrol supplies—the rest they would gather from the land as they traveled.
All of the men in the unit were experienced professionals, so this was just a quick safety inspection, not an instructional one, but Wohl began a short briefing and a special mission topic during his quick inspections. “Listen up,” Wohl said, as he continued his inspections, “just to bring you all up to speed: Our target area tonight is the naval prison medical facility at Suru, a few klicks south of Bandar Abbas. Our route of flight will take us northwest around Abu Musa, feet-dry at Bostaneh Point, twenty klicks west of Bandar-e Lengeh, then terrain-following across the Laristan range, along the Kot River, and touchdown just outside Bandar Abbas.
“This is our second infil into this area, and as you all know, we got creamed over the Tumb Islands the other night, so stay heads-up tonight. We’re checking three different exfiltration points tonight outside Bandar Abbas. If our guys are out there, I want them brought back on board the Pave Hammer without a scratch.
You all know the code words and code signs. Anyone who doesn’t return a recognition signal is a hostile. We’re not going in to slaughter civilians, but you will protect your own sorry butts and those of your fellow grunts to the maximum extent.
“Assignments: Monroe will be the wheel; Bennet is port guard; Reid’s on starboard guard; I’ll be the ramp guard. Guards, remember, don’t go out too far or your gunners watching your back will lose sight of you, and he’s likely to blow your ass away.
Guards, use your recognition signals; flash them whenever you see the aircraft, since a gunner probably has you in his sights and his finger’s tightening on the trigger. Schiff is tail gunner, Morgan is port gunner; Andrews, you’re starboard gunner. Gunners, radio out for signals before you open fire, and wait to get a return signal—but if you don’t get one, shoot first, then call out your hostile’s position. You don’t get extra credit for shooting off a whole can of ammo—make your shots count. Our call sign tonight is ‘Japan.”
“You got the standard escape-and-evasion plan memorized, I hope, but the basic plan is head west and stay away from everyone and everything. You should all know where our backup and emergency pickup points are; I’m going to ask all of you to point them out for me on your map on the way out, and if you miss even one, you’ll be on KP for a week. “I remind you that we’re going into the area with the Iranian military on high alert, which means a very likelyhood we could see action and might even get shot down,” Wohl continued, scanning each Of his men’s eyes to try to gauge their readiness for this mission. “if we’re shot down, remember to evacuate out the back of the aircraft, not the sides. Grab a buddy or a crewman or extra gear, but don’t waste time evacuating the aircraft if things are going to shit. Get as far away from the crash site as possible after the crash. Most guys who get captured after a force-down are captured near their aircraft within ten minutes, so the farther you can get away from your force-down point in the first ten minutes, the better.
“Move only at night, avoid all contact with civilization as much as you can, and move during daytime only long enough to get oriented, then get back into deep hiding,” Wohl went on. “Make your way to a pickup point, but stay away from roads, railroads, rivers, or streams—that’s where the bad guys will be looking for you. Trying to blend in with the locals is a Hollywood stunt, not a valid escape-and-evasion technique. Don’t make contact with anyone unless You’re hurt, but I goddamn guarantee that you better be hurting real bad, because if you ask someone for help you’ll likely be captured and tortured and then the pain will be unlike anything You’ve ever experienced.
“When you get to a pickup point, don’t just march right into it—take a few hours and check it out first. If you’re able, backtrack and check your rear—we don’t want the ragheads setting up any ambushes for Your rescuers. And remember to preserve the pickup points for other unlucky saps who ‘night need it in the future. Don’t just bolt out of a spider-hole when you see the angel coming down for you if the bad guys aren’t on your tail, police your area and recamouflage everything before the pickup to make it tougher for the ragheads to find the hiding Spots. Okay.
What are your questions for me?” No responses.
“Good. I got one more thing to say,” Wohl went on. “We got three guys hurt on the last sortie, including the FNG, Major Briggs.
They’re all right, but they’ll be out of action for a few weeks. I wanted to remind all you swinging dicks that sometimes no matter how much you shake your snake, that last drop can still roll down your pants. The latest prelaunch intel had the antiaircraft stuff moved off the Tumb Islands onto Abu Musa; we didn’t know they had put more stuff on Lesser Tumbs until it was too late. Shame on us. Shit happens.
Forget about the last mission and concentrate on this one. Don’t let it get you down. We’re here to find Colonel White and our shipmates and bring ‘em back alive.
“We got some help tonight—apparently some other ISA cell is going to stir up some shit for us tonight,” Wohl said. “Maybe it’ll keep the ragheads off balance, maybe it won’t. Forget about them and concentrate on your work tonight. Our job is to go in, check the escape-and-evasion areas, rescue any
one that might be out there waiting for us, and come back alive. Let’s get loaded up.”
Wohl had picked the men personally for this patrol, so he really was not looking into each individual’s face as he went down the line just before boarding the chopper—he could usually recognize each man by his build or choice of weapons or voice or attitude.
He came to the last and most senior man in his squad, the “wheel,” who would coordinate the flight crew’s activities with the ground team. Monroe had his balaclava on, shielding his face against the freezer-like chill of the hangar. “Ready to do it tonight, Monroe?” he asked him. No response, just a thumbs-up and a rather nervous shuffling of the feet. Wohl looked and saw the man’s right finger extended out of his mitten, covering the trigger guard of his suppressed IAI Uzi .45 submachine gun—this bad boy, he thought, was ready to go …
… but unfortunately, he wasn’t going to go! “You are one stupid son of a bitch, Briggs,” Gunnery Sergeant Chris Wohl said in a low voice. “You are just too stupid for words. Did you really think I wasn’t going to notice you on my aircraft?”
