Brown, Dale - Independent 01

by Silver Tower (v1. 1)

  CHAPTER 9

  August 1992

  ROBAT, MASHIZ PROVINCE, SOUTH-CENTRAL IRAN

  Topography and climatology tactical situation briefings said it was a region with a dry, subtropical climate, but no one could convince First Lieutenant Jeremy Ledbetter of that. The twenty-two-year-old army officer, fresh out of ROTC at Penn State University and specialty training at Fort Devins, Massachusetts, was packed in a layer of “Chinese underwear” thermal-quilted underclothes beneath his desert gray fatigues, which themselves were covered by a reinforced plastic poncho. In the predawn hours in central Iran, even in mid-August, he was freezing his butt off. On top of that, Iran, which rarely got any rain during the summer, was experiencing a real Kansas-style gully- washer.

  As Ledbetter surveyed his encampment he felt as if he was in charge of the entire defense of Iran. In fact he was in command of a combined air defense battery, a CAB: a MIM-104 Patriot and an MIM-23 I-Hawk missile battery just outside the sleepy little peatfarming town of Robat in the Meydan Valley of Iran. He commanded an eighty-man detachment of U.S. Rapid Deployment Force soldiers and at least ten million dollars worth of high-tech surface-to-air missiles. His third Patriot high-altitude missiles and eighteen I-Hawk low-to-medium-altitude missiles virtually sealed off the entire Mey- dan Valley to unidentified aircraft for one hundred miles in any direction.

  Ledbetter’s CAB was also the “snare,” the choke-point between two other Patriot sites on either side of the Meydan Valley. Enemy aircraft would circumnavigate the Patriot missile batteries at Anar and Arsenjan. That would force them down the Meydan Valley and right into Ledbetter’s all-altitude-capable missiles. Once enemy aircraft were caught in the narrow valley, there was no escape for them except to try to outrun or outmaneuver the oncoming missiles—both hugely difficult feats.

  The proof was there for all to see: a Soviet Backfire-B supersonic bomber had been caught in the “snare” and had tried to use its speed to outrun one of the I-Hawk missiles. Unfortunately for the Backfire’s pilot, in his hurry to escape attack he had been diverted from his job as a pilot. His Backfire had splattered all up and across the western wall of the Jebal Barez Mountains to the east of Robat, traveling at least at Mach one at three hundred feet off the valley floor. Ledbetter’s Patriot and Hawk missile radars could still pick up the wreckage of the crash on the mountainside. No doubt other Soviet bombers’ radar could detect it too.

  Well, let it be a warning, Ledbetter thought, as he sipped coffee from a metal cup. The message: don’t mess with the Three-Thirty- Fifth.

  He had gotten up early this morning to check on his perimeter security units. His rapid deployment force unit had been supplemented with Iranian Revolutionary Guard regulars, some of the toughest and meanest men he had ever met up with. The problem was that the Iranians had no idea how to fire a Patriot or Hawk missile, even though Iran had had Hawk missiles for years, so Ledbetter used the Iranians as security guards. But being a mere watchdog was way beneath a Muslim revolutionary guard—in centuries past, guard duties had always been left to slaves, peasants, conquered heathens or eunuchs—and so arguments would often break out between Ledbetter’s people and Iranians. Ledbetter’s surprise inspections would usually help keep conflicts down and morale and watchfulness high, but he couldn’t really blame the eager Iranian soldiers for grabbing an American rifle and charging Soviet-occupied Shiraz or Tehran. Even so, he tried to convince them that their responsibility was here.

  Ledbetter cruised by the first sergeant’s tent just as his unit’s senior NCO, Sergeant Plutarsky, was emerging from his tent. “Good timing, Sergeant.”

  “Heard you coming, sir.” Plutarsky threw his young commander a salute. The two men, the veteran NCO and the green officer, had somehow become friends after arriving at one of the hottest hot-spots in the Iran conflict. They complemented each other well: Ledbetter knew surface-to-air missiles and electronics; Plutarsky knew his men. Seldom did the two cross, which seemed to make the unit hum along. Ledbetter didn’t mess with the men; Plutarsky didn’t mess with the missiles.

  Ledbetter nodded in return at Plutarsky; neither stood for much formality. “I want to take a look at Whiskey Three first.” Whiskey Three, or West Three, was one of the posts guarding the main long- range search radar.

  “You mean you want to take a look at Shurab,” Plutarsky said. “Me too. Mister Shurab has had a stick up his rear ever since he’s been here. He’s got all the rest of the Iranians kowtowing to him.”

  “He says he’s from the family of one of the religious members of Alientar’s government, or something like that,” Ledbetter said. “But you’re right. He acts as if this whole war is being fought for his benefit.”

  Along the way, they stopped and inspected several of the other components of the CAB. To reduce the risk of one bomb taking out the entire missile system, the individual units of each missile system were widely separated. The control center for the whole CAB was in a trailer that had been buried underground to protect it from attack; that was where Ledbetter slept. To help secure the site, most of the men slept at their posts. The main Patriot phased-array radar was on a hill overlooking the valley about five miles away.

  In the center of the encampment Ledbetter’s CAB had a standard search-radar system that provided long-range surveillance of the area. Although the search-radar was not tied into any of the surface-to-air missiles, the radar could detect aircraft approaching the area up to two hundred miles away, from ground level to well above fifty thousand feet, and the search radar could “slave” the other acquisition, tracking and uplink radars with it to help the smaller radars find targets for their missiles.

  The search radar had been hoisted on top of an old rusted oil derrick about thirty feet above ground, along with a satellite communications dish and other shorter-range radio antennas. Nearby was a circular sandbag bunker with another set of acquisition radars inside, and a hundred feet beyond was the first of eight four-missile Patriot missile launchers, also in a sandbag bunker. Ledbetter could just barely make out the outline of the derrick on the horizon as he blew warm air onto this hands while they approached the derrick.

  “Cold, Sarge?”

  “I’m from Florida, sir,” Plutarsky said. “Anything below sixty degrees is the next Ice Age to me.”

  At the derrick a few minutes later, they heard a rustle of footsteps and the unmistakable sound of an M-16 rifle on its web sling. “Stop,” a voice called out, except the heavy Maine accent sounded more like, “Stawp. Who gowahs theah?”

  Plutarsky was chuckling. “These Iranians speak better English than you do, Cooper.”

  They heard the rifle clattering back onto the technician’s shoulder. “Good moawin’, First Sahgeant. Up early, ayuh?”

  “Me and the lieutenant are touring the grounds. We’re thinking of building a Hilton here.”

  “A Hilton. That’s a good one.”

  “Where’s the ragheads?” Plutarsky got a disapproving look from Ledbetter.

  “Around heah somewheahs, Sahge,” Cooper replied. “They’s quiet like mice, don’t ya know.”

  “Shurab too?”

  “King Shurab says he switched shifts with some of his pals.”

  “Again?” Ledbetter said. “I don’t think he pulls any guard duty.”

  “I know damned well he don’t,” Plutarsky agreed. “When I find him I’m going to straighten his ass out.”

  “Better take it easy, Sarge,” Ledbetter said. “The Iranians are at least technically our allies, and Shurab is an allied officer. Let them run their detachment the way they want it. If he’s doing something that affects security, then I will put the hammer down. Emphasis on the ‘I.’”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They left Cooper to guard the oil derrick and continued on. After a few moments they came across a circle of five Iranian guards armed with M-16 rifles. All five came to attention, and one saluted Ledbetter.

  “Good morning to you, Commander,” he said. Ledbetter retu
rned his salute.

  “Where’s First Captain Shurab?” Ledbetter asked.

  “He is at guard house, Commander.”

  “He’s supposed to be on patrol.”

  The Iranians looked puzzled, as if they didn’t understand. Plutarsky then stepped forward. “Shurab, dammit. Patrol. He has patrol.”

  “No patrol,” one of the other revolutionary guards said. “I take patrol. I patrol.”

  “You’re Khaleir, aren’t you? Khaleir?” The soldier nodded.

  “You had the morning patrol. Shurab has the night patrol.”

  “No. I take.” He bent to listen to one of his comrades, then said in carefully accented English, “I switch.”

  “Get Shurab. Bring him here,” Plutarsky said. The soldiers stood around, only superficially trying to act as if they didn’t understand but obviously trying to decide what to do.

  “I want Shurab here,” Ledbetter said.

  “Yes, sir,” a voice said. Out of the darkness walked a tall, mustachioed man, unshaven, dressed in a clean desert gray combat jacket and immaculately spit-shined boots, and smoking a cigarette. He was easily the best-groomed man in camp—even the mud seemed to refuse to stick to his boots. His well-tended veneer only served to increase Plutarsky’s foul mood.

  “First Captain Shurab, sir, you are supposed to be leading the western guard patrol,” Plutarsky said. “Why aren’t you at your post?”

  “I switch with Abdul, sir,” Shurab said to Ledbetter, pointedly ignoring Plutarsky.

  “You can’t switch with a man who has already pulled one twelve- hour patrol,” Ledbetter told him. “I won’t have tired guards on duty, especially at night. We’re only a few miles from Soviet-held territory—”

  “I spit on the Soviets, sir.”

  “Good for you.” Ledbetter turned to Plutarsky. “First Captain Shurab will lead the remainder of the night patrol and the whole morning patrol. He is not authorized a replacement under any circumstances. If he is not at his post as ordered he will be reported to the revolutionary guard commandent at Bandar-Abbas for dereliction of duty. See to it, Sergeant.”

  “Yes, sir.” Ledbetter walked off toward the oil derrick. Plutarsky moved forward toward Shurab. “Do you understand your orders, sir?”

  “I will not be addressed by a subordinate—”

  “I don’t give a flying—” But Shurab had turned his back on Plutarsky and was walking toward the guard house. At which point Plutarsky blew a fuse. He reached out, grabbed Shurab by the collar from behind and yanked him up and back so that he landed on his rear end. This time, the mud was sticking—all over Shurab’s starched fatigues.

  Shurab, appropriately enough, swore loudly in Arabic and shouted an order. All five of the Iranian guards moved toward Plutarsky, but before they could take two steps toward him Plutarsky’s nine-millimeter Beretta service pistol appeared in hand.

  “One more step and fancypants gets a hole in his starched shirt.” Everyone then froze... until abruptly Shurab laughed, stood up and brushed himself off.

  “My apology, Sergeant,” Shurab said, smiling. “I will go.” He ordered his men to back away, and Shurab headed toward the western guard post. With Plutarsky still watching him, pistol drawn, Shurab suddenly stopped and turned. “Touching a superior is a capital offense in my country, Sergeant. And you are in my country.”

  “I’m not impressed by you or your damned country....”

  Shurab waved gaily at Plutarsky, turned and left. Plutarsky held the pistol in his direction until he was well out of sight, then holstered it and trotted back to the oil derrick, feeling he had lost for winning.

  “I heard some shouts back there,” Ledbetter told Plutarsky when they met a few minutes later. The lieutenant was absently staring up at the revolving antenna belonging to the main search radar. “Problems?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle, sir.” Plutarsky followed his young commander’s gaze up to the top of the derrick then to the L-band radar bunker nearby, but all he noted was a slight squeak in the massive bearings supporting the search antenna every time the green mesh dish swung toward the north. “I’ll get someone on those bearings, too______ “

  But Ledbetter wasn’t listening. Suddenly, without a word, he took off at a fast trot back toward the underground command trailer.

  “Sir... ?” Plutarsky had to run to catch up to the lieutenant’s longlegged lope. “Something wrong, sir?”

  “Didn’t you hear it, Sergeant?”

  “Hear what? The bearings... ?”

  “The L-band pulse-acquisition radar,” Ledbetter said. “They turned the L-band radar on.”

  “I didn’t hear anything,” Plutarsky said. Ledbetter was speeding up, and Plutarsky had to hustle to keep pace with him. “How can you hear a radar?”

  “The L-band radar in the bunker is slaved to the search radar,” Ledbetter told him. “Everytime the bearings in the search radar squeaked at the ten o’clock position I could hear the L-band radar move. I-Hawk’s been activated.”

  “Well, shouldn’t we have gotten a—?”

  Just then Ledbetter’s walkie-talkie beeped. Ledbetter already had it in his hand and didn’t wait for the message.

  “Ledbetter here. Sound air-attack warning. I’m on my way.” Both he and Plutarsky were back to the underground trailer by the time the first air raid warning horns began blaring.

  “I’ll make the rounds of the launchers,” Plutarsky called out as Ledbetter hurried for the dirt stairs leading own to the trailer.

  “Better clear the Patriot launchers first,” was the last thing he heard Ledbetter say as he disappeared underground.

  The trailer smelled musty. Three radar operators sat on the right side of the trailer at bare control consoles, and a long row of power transformers, electronics racks and circuit breakers lined the left side. The only light in the trailer came from the radar screens and the control panels. Just as Ledbetter entered he heard one of the operators on the combined UHF-VHF radio calling: “Unidentified aircraft one hundred miles north of Robat, heading one-six-zero, altitude two-zero thousand, authenticate Delta Sierra. Over.” The operator had a finger on a switch that would broadcast a computer-synthesized warning message in Russian and in Arabic, but Ledbetter put a hand on his shoulder.

  “No need to give them more than one chance to identify themselves, Sergeant. If they don’t have an IFF transponder or didn’t call ahead of time it’s a bad guy.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tracking six, repeat six inbounds,” the search-radar operator said. “They look like they’re almost line abreast. Slightly staggered altitudes ... now showing eight aircraft, sir, eight inbounds.”

  “Range?”

  “Approaching max Patriot range in about one minute.”

  “Patriot has the inbounds, sir,” one of the other radar controllers reported.

  “I-Hawk has the bogeys,” the third put in.

  “All batteries clear to launch at optimum range,” Ledbetter said. “1 need a report on—”

  “Inbounds turning, sir,” from the search-radar operator. “All inbounds turning right toward. . . . Now I have several high-speed in-bounds, altitude three-zero thousand and climbing, speed... speed well over the Mach and accelerating. Heading toward us...

  Ledbetter went over to the search-radar scope. The picture showed the whole scene in sharp relief. The classic Kingfish Soviet cruise- missile launch and flight profile was being represented just like a training simulation: the big heavy launch platforms, probably Tu-95 Bear or Tu-16 Badger strategic bombers; the launch just before the bombers reached the engagement circle for the long-range Patriot missiles and the escape turn; the missiles in their high-speed climb to supersonic cruise altitude. In less than a minute they’d be bearing down on their target: the Americans’ SAM emplacements.

  “Radio warning message in the blind on all tactical and emergency frequencies and on FLTSATCOM,” Ledbetter ordered. “Three-thirty- fifth CAB under attack; attack profile show
s Soviet missile attack. Send it.”

  “Yes, sir.” There was a one-minute pause, with the search-radar operators calling off the range to the nearest missile.

  “Message acknowledged on FLTSATCOM. I’m receiving warning messages from the other sites.”

  “Missiles now climbing above five-zero thousand feet, speed approximately Mach two, range fifteen miles.... Altitude decreasing now. ... Missiles dropping rapidly.... Range ten miles ... nine ... eight...seven....”

  Sergeant Plutarsky had just received a ready-for-action report from the second Patriot missile launcher bunker he visited when the first of the high-altitude Patriot missiles cooked off, the sudden glare and awful ear-shattering sound of the Thiokol solid-fuel motor almost knocking Plutarsky off his feet. Two more missiles launched in rapid succession, along with missiles at other bunkers. Most of the missiles were headed almost straight up. The air was quickly filled with hot, acid-tasting smoke.

  Plutarsky had just stopped to wipe sweat from his face and decide where to go when an explosion erupted ahead of him. This time he was not merely knocked off his feet—he was picked up by a red-hot hand and thrown ten yards backward. The air seemed to be sucked right out of his lungs and replaced by superheated gas that choked him as if he were drowning in lava.

  Somehow he found himself alive and whole when he dared to open his eyes. There were fires all around him. The ground for dozens of yards around looked as though it had all been run through a huge grater. There was nothing taller than a clump of dirt standing anywhere. He tried to stand but found his right ankle twisted or broken.

  There was one barely recognizable object nearby, and he crawled on his hands and knees, down where the air was a bit cooler, toward it. He didn’t have to crawl far to realize what it was. The explosion had been so great that it had excavated the command trailer completely out of the ground and then crumpled it like a sheet of paper. The ten-foot-tall trailer had been squashed down to no more than a few feet high.