The Art of War c-17

by Keith Douglass

  “I’ll be in my quarters,” Henry said. “Call me if you need me.”

  Iranian Shore Station

  Tuesday; May 4

  2350 local (GMT +3)

  Wadi walked in on an argument raging inside his operations center. He stood just inside the door, watching the chaos for a few moments. The men, most dressed in traditional garb with only a few in uniform, flowed and eddied around the wide open space, shouting, gesturing, each one louder than the next. His cousin Jemal stood in the center, striving to be heard over the noise as he shouted at another man instead of attempting to regain control of his people. It was, Wadi knew, his cousin’s greatest failing, this inability to see the big picture, to step into a position of leadership. If he could not control even his own staff, how could he be expected to deal with powerful heads of neighboring Arab states?

  No, Wadi was the one to seize the reins of leadership, to take the Middle East into the next era. It was so clear now as he stood there and watched his relatives, his subordinates, his entire staff disintegrate into a squabbling mob in the absence of strong leadership.

  And the way to settle this was not to be the loudest, to participate in this game. No, there were other ways.

  He stepped into the center of the room, a powerful presence. The men around him who were arguing faltered, tried to carry on their arguments but could not do so under his calm, impassive stare. He let them feel this presence, not speaking, reaching out to each one of them to exert his influence over them.

  Quiet spread out in ripples around him, within a few minutes reaching to the farthest corners of the room. Only Jemal refused to yield, continuing — or at least trying to continue — an argument with another officer, deliberately ignoring Wadi’s presence in the room. Finally, when his disobedience became ludicrous even to himself, he capitulated. He turned, and a bright smile of friendship spread across his face.

  “Cousin,” he boomed, making a welcoming gesture. “Welcome.”

  Wadi stared at him, his face still impassive. He let the full meaning of his displeasure sink in with his subordinates. It was as though he could actually see the power draining away from his cousin, coming to him. Finally, when his cousin’s smile began to falter, Wadi unbent slightly. “Is there some problem?” he inquired, as though sincerely concerned. “I wish be able to make a full report to my father.”

  His cousin recognized the threat for what it was. “Of course not,” he said, perilously close to losing his own temper again. “We were simply discussing the next step.”

  “Which needs no discussion,” Wadi said smoothly. “The sequence of events is well-established. And all is ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “I said yes.” Wadi could see his cousin struggle to keep his voice down.

  “In one hour,” Wadi said calmly, “I will return. The first phase should begin two hours after that, unless I am mistaken.” He glanced around the room, as though inviting comment. “I am not mistaken, am I?”

  “No, of course not. All will go as scheduled,” Jemal replied.

  Wadi crossed the room in a few strides to reach his cousin’s side. He clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Excellent. And just to make sure, I will assign you to the missile station itself to look after the details. After all, who can I trust more with the sensitive assignment than my own blood?”

  His cousin turned pale. “I am of more use here.”

  Wadi leaned forward, and dropped his voice to a whisper. “You are of no use here. Go — go now while you still have the chance. If my father hears of your performance here, you’ll be executed before dawn. You understand that?”

  His cousin trembled visibly, although no trace of discomfort showed on his face. Wadi silently gave him credit for that. “But the Americans — they will retaliate immediately,” he stuttered. “If I’m there…”

  “If you are there, you’ll take the same chances as your men. You’ll be by their side, and Allah willing, you will be spared. Then again, if you were to perish today, you would take your rightful place in paradise. I can only envy you the opportunity.”

  Wadi turned to his chief of staff. “My cousin is leaving.” His voice was pleasant. “Arrange the transportation immediately. I am depending on you to make sure my orders are carried out.” With that, Wadi turned and left the room. It remained silent behind him.

  He walked out of the compound, past the armed guards standing duty at the fence, and headed for the desert. He was aware that he was not yet fully acclimated, yet he found himself with an overwhelming desire to test himself against the desert, to feel it suck the water from him.

  He walked out into the desert until the station was just a blurred smudge on the horizon. He felt every care in the world sloughing off him as it receded, felt his soul peel down to its essence until he stood naked before Allah. He fell to the ground, prostrated himself on the hard-packed sand and dirt, and prayed.

  It is time. Lead us now, my God. Show me the way. I am so unworthy, yet I am all that there is. Guide me, that I might unite your nations into one powerful force, capable of showing the world the glory of our faith. Guide me, and show your face to us that all might come to your will.

  Wadi lay facedown on the desert until he felt the still, cool peace descend over him. Then he rose, renewed, and headed back to the compound. He had work to do.

  SIX

  Tomcat 109

  Station Noble, Persian Gulf, eastern leg of CAP

  Wednesday, May 5

  0015 local (GMT +3)

  Lieutenant Brad “Fastball” Morrow slid the dual throttles of his F-14D back into idle, allowing his bird to slow as he turned into the northeastern leg of his combat air patrol (CAP). Morrow and his lead, Bird Dog, were flying a counter-rotating CAP along the northeastern threat axis toward Iran. Four such CAPs were stationed around Jefferson’s Battle Group; two consisted of F/A- 18s and two of F-14Ds. CAG would have used all Tomcats but for the fact that there were only ten available, and he needed the Tomcats for their LANTIRN and TARPS capabilities.

  Fastball had joined the squadron just a few weeks prior to cruise and was still a “nugget.” The first thing anyone had learned about him was that he was a San Diego Padres fan — in fact, fan was too mild a word. If ever the beleagured team from southern California had had the perfect fan, it was in him. Fastball had a baseball shirt with Tony Gwinn’s number on it, and he could cite statistics and details of every game for the last ten years. He had compared flying the Tomcat to throwing the perfect fastball and the name had stuck. It was only with great difficulty that his squadron mates convinced him that playing baseball on the flight deck would not only result in a dinged aircraft and dangerous conditions, but that they would lose more balls over the side than could easily be replaced.

  Fastball had been crushed. Somehow, he had gotten it in his head that it would be possible to form a battle group league and have teams from each ship ferried over to the carrier for games. No one had been able to convince him that as impossible as it was to play baseball on the flight deck, the smaller ships faced even more serious limitations.

  Morrow checked the radar picture on his Tactical Situation Display (TSD), then clicked his mike. “What do you make of this, Rat?” he asked his RIO over the ICS.

  Lieutenant Johnnie Davis had been watching several groups of aircraft forming up just about ten miles off the coast of Iran. The E-2C had told her of three separate groups: one group of four MiG-29 Fulcrums from Bandar Lengeh, and eight Su-24 Fencer-Ds from Chah Bahar. Four F-5E Tiger IIs were also airborne near Kish Island and circling. Two Iranian F-14As were circling far to the east, over Iran, probably providing AEW for the pending strike with their AWG-9 radar, she thought. The Iranian F-14s were already registering a feint return on her Radar Warning Receiver (RWR).

  “I don’t know, Fastball. They did the same thing this morning, too, but then broke off at the last minute. It may be a feint to draw us in closer to their SAM range. The
y’ve got SA-2s all along the coast.” Rat focused on her Tactical Information Display, also called TIDs. She had selected the Link-16 data link, which fed radar information directly to her display from the E-2C via the JTIDS. The link tracks appeared as a small upside-down “Us” for friendlies and a upside-down “Vs” for hostile.

  She then noticed the group had joined and had turned toward the picket destroyer, Algonquin. Jefferson had a smaller air wing (CVW-14) than normal, due to downsizing — about seventy aircraft. Also with the CVBG were two Middle East Task Force destroyers, HMS Liverpool (Sheffield-class) and the Canadian destroyer Algonquin.

  Tomcat 106

  CAP station two miles west of Tomcat 109

  “Hammer, King, picture. Two groups, southeast Chicago, twenty miles,” came a monotone voice over the tactical comm. “Suspect second group are strikers. Both groups hostile, repeat, both groups hostile. Recommend commit.” The call was from the E-2C Hawkeye II airborne early warning aircraft circling near Jefferson. The Hawkeye II’s sophisticated APS-145 radar allowed it to see out some 300 miles over the horizon, spotting both air and surface threats. “Chicago” was the brevity code word for the Iranian airbase at Kish Island and served as a fixed reference point for all friendlies. The distance and direction was from that reference point.

  “Hammer One, contact, your call,” Music responded. “Hammers committing.” Music checked his scope. “That’s it, Bird Dog. Let’s get ’em.”

  “Hammers, committing bandits, southeast Chicago thirty miles. I’ve got four MiGs in-bound leading the strikers.” Music quickly sorted through the contacts with his powerful APG-71 radar confirming their formation, then called out a short target modification to the preflight brief. “Hammer Two, target trail group.”

  Tomcat 109

  “Two,” Rat acknowledged. She began to set up her shot, slewing the cursor over the lead Fencer-D of her group. Her Tomcat’s radar scanned ahead of her in Track-While-Scan mode, watching all of the in-bounds. “Just like we briefed, Fastball. Just like we briefed.”

  “Don’t worry, Rat. I’ve got it under control.” Fastball jammed his throttles into full burner. The kick of the mighty F110s bumped her in the butt. She looked up from her TIDs for a moment considering Fastball’s comment. This new pilot’s arrogance was getting old fast. And Johnnie, as a rather diminutive female in what was still a man’s career, knew all too well what it was like to be on the receiving end of an attitude. But her demeanor usually kept her from acting on it. She didn’t expect to be treated special, but she was his senior, and she had two cruises under her belt. Plus, she was fresh from TOPGUN, which meant she knew a hell of a lot more of tactics than some “fresh-from-the-RAG” nugget. “Just watch the gas. Rats don’t swim well,” she finally replied.

  Tomcat 106

  Bird Dog swung his Tomcat southeasterly, separating from his wing. As he leveled, he glanced left, noticing that Fastball was well ahead of where he should be and speeding toward the Fulcrums.

  “What’s that kid doing, Music?” Bird Dog hollered over the ICS. While he had only flown with the new kids on three occasions, he could already see himself a few years earlier — young, cocky, fully of overconfidence. And perhaps about to learn a few lessons. There’s one thing about rising in the ranks, Bird Dog thought. You see life come full circle.

  Tomcat 109

  Rat finished her Phoenix firing solution on the two Fencers. “Fastball, your dot,” she said, meaning that the shot was set up and ready to launch.

  “Why aren’t we getting the MiGs, Rat? This doesn’t make any sense. We kill them and we can play with the Fencers all day.”

  “Leave the strategy to Bird Dog. Just fire the damned missile.”

  “But…”

  “Fire the missile.”

  “Fox Three on lead MiG, 20,000 feet, south group,” he finally called the shot, then watched as it soared ahead and climbed to its attack altitude. Although a Mach 5 missile, much of the Phoenix’s punch came from its death dive toward its target, rather than its engine thrust. The missile was “fire and forget,” which meant that, unlike the Sparrow, several Phoenix could be simultaneously targeted and launched without waiting for each missile to hit its target.

  “Second shot ready, your dot.”

  Tomcat 106

  “Two is Fox Three. And…” Music called in a calm voice, “it’s your dot.”

  “Take it, Music.”

  “Roger,” Music smiled as he reached for the button. “Fox Three on the lead Fencer, angels 15, main group.” His eyes followed the two Phoenix missiles for a second, then rechecked the overall situation.

  “Bird Dog,” Music said. “We should join on Fastball. Those northern MiGs are closing on him fast. The southern guys are still with the Fencers. Let’s get the Hawkeye to watch them.”

  “Roger, make it happen.” Bird Dog considered his new RIO. As much as he enjoyed flying with Gator, he had to admit that this new guy was good, and, to Bird Dog’s satisfaction, he knew when to talk and when to shut up.

  “King, Hammer One. Monitor southern group, Chicago south at three-five. We’re heading north.” With that, Bird Dog rolled his bird on its side and headed toward his wingman.

  Tomcat 109

  Rat watched her TID, waiting for the Phoenix to find their prey. She gave a quick glance outside, then returned her stare to her screen. It had been ten seconds since the launch and the two missiles had just gone active. She could see the small blips making their way toward the…

  “Splash one Fencer!” she shouted, followed quickly by a “Splash two.” Seconds later, Music called the same. Four Fencer-Ds were now heading into the Persian Gulf, burning and in pieces. That left only four for the Algonquin’s air defenses.

  “Hot damn!” Fastball yelled, feeling the rush of adrenaline over come him. “That’ll teach them to play with Uncle Sam.”

  Rat now turned her full attention to the remaining contacts — the Iranian MiG-29As. The four had separated into pairs and the northern two were speeding toward her Tomcat. At ten miles, she gave her required HUD call, “Out of blower, switching VTR from TSD to HUD,” signaling Fastball to activate his HUD recorder. Powering out of afterburner also reduced his heat signature now that he was within range of the MiG’s infrared missiles. “Ten right, ten miles, twenty degrees high”, she called, using the standard “bearing, range, elevation” format. “Wing should be left and low.”

  “Now let’s get some MiGs. Select Sparrow.”

  “Locked, and ready,” Rat said, hooking the next target, then hesitated for a second. “Fastball, can I take this one?”

  “No, this is my plane, Rat. Fox One,” he called without waiting for her response.

  Johnnie shook her head in disgust, but held her anger only for a moment. “We’re spiked!” she said, indicating that the enemy had a missile lock on their aircraft. “Launch at our one o’clock, high.” Rat set up her ECM gear, then reached for her dispensibles. “Jammers on, popping chaff.”

  Fastball pulled into a tight banking turn just long enough to break the lock, then nosed back toward the MiG. He was determined to get his first MiG kill and join the small cadre of fellow pilots, whose beginnings dated back to the skies of Korea.

  “They’re splitting,” Rat called out, watching the two northern MiGs trying to set up a position. She had seen enough sorties at the Fighter Weapons School to know that this wasn’t developing into a good situation. “I don’t like this, Fastball.”

  “I’m going north. Let’s bag the one running. Switching to heat.” He clicked his weapons switch.

  “Fastball, turn into him. Go nose to nose. We can’t have him on our—”

  “No, this guy’s giving me his pipes. Just watch your MiG!”

  “Tally on the southern mover.” Rat grunted, but kept her eyes peeled on the trailing Fulcrum. The thought quickly struck her that this kid wasn’t about to give her experience any deference. She’d have to fix that when… if they made it back to the Jefferson. “Tr
ailer’s slowing to come around. He’s setting you up, Fastball! It’s a drag! Reverse right! Reverse right!”

  “I’ve got him, Rat!”

  “Fastball, reverse now! We’re spiked, trailer!”

  Tomcat 106

  “Music, we better get over there. Fastball’s getting himself in deep. He’s locked up by that second MiG.”

  “Bird Dog!” Music answered. “We’ve got our own problem. Spiked, three o’clock. Break left!”

  Tomcat 109

  “Missile in-bound,” Rat hollered. “Four o’clock high.”

  “I see it.” Fastball jerked his stick hard right, placing the missile on his starboard beam. The MiG’s radar, the Slot Back, guided the missile and giving it a flat return surface temporarily broke the radar’s lock. “Chaff, now!” Fastball called. Rat responded with three small clouds.

  “Missed. That was close!”

  Fastball pulled his nose back around. “You’re mine,” he called, then cranked his Tomcat into firing position.

  “Smoke!” Rat saw another missile loosed from the bottom of the MiG and quickly released a stream of flares. “Brad, this MiG’s on us bad! He’s at our four… coming around… climbing… he’s going over the top.” Her breathing was getting heavy. “Smoke! Smoke!” she cried out. “Six o’clock! He took a shot.” She quickly pumped another trio of hot flares into their jet stream. “Dive! Break… right!”

  The missile exploded just aft of the Tomcat’s right engine, sending a shower of perforated rods into the Tomcat’s tail structure. The jolt shook the Tomcat, forcing Morrow to fight to recover his bird. The rudder was now bent and one of the stabilizers torn. Both of them felt the sudden deceleration.