“The Iranian fighters will be next,” White shouted as he hurried back on the hangar deck. On intercom, he shouted, “Countermeasures, launch floater! Plot, where are those fighters?”
On the starboard side of the Valley Mistress near the stern, the countermeasures crews released a large raftlike unit, nicknamed a “floater,” that contained specially designed radar reflectors, signal generators, and infrared energy generators designed to mimic the radar and infrared cross-section of the ship. Once clear of the ship, the floater began shooting chaff rockets into the air. After reaching 300 feet, the rockets began ejecting bundles of hair-thin strips of metal that would expand and bloom into a sausage-shaped cloud. Hopefully that would present a more inviting target on radar than the Valley Mistress's stern.
“Range nine miles. Target bearing one-five-zero.” The Valley Mistress turned northwest as the fighter swung slightly south—the fighter was maneuvering to try to get a larger profile picture of its quarry, and the helmsman of the Valley Mistress was trying to turn to keep the fighter behind the ship.
“Seven miles, bearing two-two-zero ...” No sooner had the ship finished that first right turn than it suddenly heeled sharply to starboard as the helmsman threw the ship into a tight turn to port. The fighter had turned farther around, coming in from the southwest, so the helmsman now tried to point the bow of the Valley Mistress at the incoming fighter instead of the stern. “Six miles, bearing ...”
Suddenly the sea behind the ship exploded into a huge geyser of water and foam, followed by a second explosion. The sound rolled across the deck a second later, hitting them like a double thunder-clap. “That motherfucker fired at us!” Masters shouted. “They're shooting at us!” The Su-33 fighter had launched two radar-guided anti-ship missiles, which had locked on to the much larger radar target—the decoy floater. The missiles hit the water less than a thousand yards astern.
“Range five miles, target turning north escape vector bearing one-eight-zero ... range three miles ...”
“Stinger crews, batteries released!” White ordered. “Nail the bastard!”
Unlike with the attack on the helicopter, this time the Stinger launcher crewman couldn’t see the fighter itself through the viewfinder, so he had replaced the regular optical viewfinder on his Stinger launcher with a two-inch-square LCD screen, which showed an electronic image of the Stinger viewfinder and the Iranian fighter, along with target flight data and missile status. Data received from the AWACS radar plane orbiting over Saudi Arabia was transmitted via wireless datalink to the Valley Mistress, then to a receiver carried by the Stinger launcher crew, and presented on the tiny screen so that the launcher crewman could aim his Stinger system in total darkness. |
When the electronic image of the fighter was centered in the screen, the launcher crewman first hit a button on the right handgrip, which fired a radio interrogation signal at the fighter. A friendly plane would have responded to the radio signal—this one did not. “IFF negative! Clear me to shoot!”
“Clear to shoot!” White shouted. Again, the Stinger crew fired. The missile disappeared from view into the darkness ... but far out on the horizon, they saw a bright flash of light and a stream of fire— another hit.
But there was no celebrating their victory. Everyone knew there were at least nineteen more fast-movers and six more fling-wings out there based on the aircraft carrier Khomeini, plus hundreds more based in Iran just a few hundred miles away, that could quickly send the Valley Mistress to the bottom of the Persian Gulf. Their little counterattack merely bought them a few precious minutes, perhaps a little hesitation or overcaution in the minds of the Iranian attackers, perhaps a mile or two closer to the Omani coast, where the Iranians might not pursue. But the fight was still on. . ..
Aboard the Khomeini
“Contact lost with Patrol Three! ” the radar operator shouted on the intercom. He began reading off last position, altitude, and airspeed, which would be relayed to rescue forces. “Lost contact with attack two as well!”
“What in hell happened?” Admiral Tufayli shouted. “Did the pilot crash? Get me a report!”
“Message from scout helicopter, just before contact was lost,” General Badi interjected. “The pilot reported that a missile was fired from the deck of the American salvage ship shortly after they fired their warning shots.”
“Missiles? That American ship fired missiles?” Tufayli shouted. “I want that damned ship on the bottom of the Gulf of Oman now!”
“The American vessel appears to be still under way. It is crossing into Omani territorial waters, now five kilometers offshore and less than twenty kilometers northeast of Ra’s Haffah, heading southwest at twenty knots. The pilot of Attack Two said he had contact on the target, but apparently he struck a decoy.”
“Decoys . . . antiaircraft missiles . . . this is no damned salvage ship, and its no spy ship, either—it is an American z^rship, and they have declared war with Iran and with my battle group!” Tufayli shouted.
“Sir, Strike Unit Nine is ready for launch,” General Badi said. Tufayli looked outside his flight deck windows and saw the long double tongues of flame erupting from the holdback spot, as the Sukhoi-33 fighter-bomber activated its afterburners. A second later, the fighter began to roll down the long flight deck, uncomfortably slow at first but rapidly picking up speed. The afterburner flames described a bright yellow arc through the sky as the fighter leapt off the ski jump, sank toward the water, slowly leveled off, then accelerated with a smooth, shallow ascent into the sky. Passing 200 meters’ altitude, the afterburner flames disappeared. “What are your instructions, sir?”
“Destroy that ship!” Tufayli screamed. “Destroy it!”
“But, sir, the vessel is in Omani waters now,” Badi said. “It is within sight of land, and there are many small villages near.”
“I do not care how many people will see this—I want that American warship destroyed!” Tufayli cried. “Divert another fighter with anti-ship weapons to follow if the second pilot fails as well, then rearm another fighter for anti-ship operations, and do it now!” Badi could do or say nothing else.
Aboard the S.S. Valley Mistress
The first two lifeboats were loaded up with technicians from Sky Masters, crowded shoulder to shoulder in three rows of ten men in each boat. They had just been lowered to the water and were beginning to motor toward the UAE shoreline when the intercom blared, “Incoming aircraft bearing zero-three-zero, speed six hundred knots, range thirty-six miles and closing!”
“Go! Fast as you can! ” White shouted to the crew of the second lifeboat as they finally detached from the lowering cables and started the lifeboat’s engine. A third lifeboat was being loaded with the rest of the civilian contractors plus the non-essential seamen—only a handful of seamen, the ten officers, and the thirty members of Madcap Magician remained aboard the Valley Mistress. “Lower lifeboat! ” White shouted. “Head for shore and don’t stop! ” He keyed his intercom mike: “CM, release floater! Stinger crews, stand by!” When White returned to the helicopter landing pad, the members of the crew assigned to the countermeasures crew were assembled there, waiting for him. He was shocked to see Jon Masters standing with them. “Masters, what in hell are you doing here? I ordered you to go in the third lifeboat.”
“They needed some help with the signal generator on the floater,” Masters replied. “Its fixed.”
“That was the last floater, right?” White asked. He got a nod in reply. “Take lifeboat four and head for shore. Jon, bridge, crew, engineering, you go with them.”
“Lifeboat four is the last one,” Masters said. “You won’t have a boat.”
“We’re not leaving without the rest of you,” Master Sergeant Steven Cromwell, the senior member of the twenty-four-man Marine platoon attached to Madcap Magician, said sternly. “Our job is to protect the ISA technical group. We don’t split up and we don’t leave anyone behind.”
“If you all get captured by the fucking Iranians, we�
��ll all be in deep shit, Sergeant.”
“You said it yourself, Colonel,” Cromwell said. “‘Deep Shit’ is our middle name. We’re not leaving. We’ll man an extra Stinger crew if you want one.”
“What I want is a Stinger crew in lifeboat four to trail the others and provide air cover in case an Iranian helicopter tries to pursue,” White said. “Grab four men and as many tubes as you can carry and head toward the others. You’ll have a datalink as long as the ship is still operational—if you lose the datalink, you’ll just have to guide by hearing. Get going, Steve.” He looked at Jon Masters, then at Cromwell, and said, “Take Dr. Masters with you.”
“I’ll stay here if it’s all the same.”
“It is not,” White said. “Sergeant, your responsibility now is the safety of the disembarked crew and the civilians. You are to deliver all the members of the ship’s crew and the civilian contractors, including Dr. Masters here, safely to the U.S. embassy in Dubai or Abu
Dhabi, or any friendly agency or military unit, to ensure the safe delivery of these men back to the United States. You are to take any and all steps necessary to ensure their safety and the security of the ISA cell. Is that clear?”
Cromwell appeared as if he were going to make another argument for staying, but he knew White was right. Most of the ISA cell members were going to be on shore, and White had four Marines to help him here. “Yes, sir,” Cromwell responded. He turned to the Stinger crew members and said, “Sergeant Reynard, you’re in charge of this detachment.” The young Stinger crewman acknowledged the order, and Cromwell saluted White and departed with his men. Masters still hesitated: “Hey, Paul...”
“Get moving, Doc. I want you on that lifeboat.”
“Why don’t you come with us?” Masters asked.
“Can’t leave the ship,” White replied.
“But if the Iranians get... you know, if they attack ...”
“You’re assuming they’ll attack, and assuming they’ll hit us, and assuming they’ll put us out of commission,” White said. “I don’t make assumptions. We’ll get off the ship only when it’s necessary— otherwise we stay.”
“But you’re ISA, you’re Madcap Magician,” Masters said. “We need you to reassemble your team. Let the ship’s crew take care of the ship. If they get captured, they’ve got an airtight cover.”
“Listen, Doc, I’ve put too much time in this tub to leave it when it’s still slimy side down and running,” Paul White said. “It may not technically be my ship, but I made it what it is right now. I’m not leaving the Mistress until it’s not safe to stay. Now get moving, Jon.” White turned away, and a Marine was pulling at Masters’s arm, practically dragging him to the last lifeboat.
“Nice working with you, Colonel,” Masters said, but White was talking on his headset and didn’t hear him. One minute later they were speeding away from the ship, trying to catch up with the other three lifeboats. The Marines on board had one Stinger missile assembled and ready for launch, with one Stinger missile “coffin,” containing two missile tubes, a spare launcher grip assembly, and three battery units, opened up and ready to load.
As they sped away from the ship, Jon Masters remembered the first day he set foot on the Valley Mistressabout three months earlier. He had thought it was the ugliest thing afloat. It had a cleft bow for hoisting things up from the bow cranes up on deck; two huge cranes, one twenty-ton aft and one ten-ton forward; plus lots of standpipes and hoses and other weird things jutting out from the deck and superstructure that just made it look cluttered and made it hard to move around without banging knees or elbows on things. Now it seemed like the most welcome sight on earth, and he wished he was back on deck, complaining about the lack of windows, the poor TV reception, the lack of fresh water, the boring menu, and the out-of-date videotape library.
The dim green light of the electronic viewfinder illuminated the Stinger launcher crewman’s right eye as he raised the weapon and pointed it to the north. “Datalink active,” he reported. “One fighter inbound from the north, range twenty klicks. I’ve got another slow-mover, possibly another patrol helicopter, orbiting about ten klicks north of the ship.”
“Maybe the fighter and the chopper will have a meeting of their minds,” one Marine quipped.
“Button it,” Cromwell ordered. “If it flies within four klicks of our position and doesn’t squawk friendly, kill it. And I want you bozos to set a new record for readying a second missile for launch. Maxwell, keep an eye out for lifeboat number—”
Suddenly a bright orange ball of fire erupted from the starboard side of the Valley Mistress, followed by another directly alongside. The sound of the explosion followed a few seconds later, and to Jon Masters it felt like a red-hot fist punching him in the face. “Oh, shit, they’re hit!”
“Target bearing zero-niner-zero, ten klicks!” the gunner yelled.
“Helm, starboard turn heading north!” Cromwell ordered. “I want that hostile kept on the starboard beam!” The helmsman swung the tiller over and pointed the lifeboat north. Everybody ducked and scrambled out of the way as the Stinger crew reoriented themselves and reacquired the Iranian fighter.
The Valley Mistress was partially illuminated from the fires on the portside—it was already listing heavily. “Get off that thing, dammit, it’s sinking! ” Masters shouted to anybody that might still be on board the stricken ship. The lifeboat swung farther east as the fighter flew closer. Just then, they saw a Stinger missile launched from the helo deck of the ship. The missile and the gunner on the lifeboat were lined up—the Stinger missile appeared to be tracking perfectly—but then they saw several blobs of bright white floating in the sky, followed by a bright but brief explosion. “Flare decoys,” Masters said. “The fighter got away.”
“No way!” the Stinger gunner on the lifeboat shouted. “Range three miles! Weapon charged .. . negative IFF response! Two miles .. . lost contact! Lost the datalink!”
“Uncage! ” Cromwell shouted. It would be almost impossible for the gunner to find the fighter in the dark, but Cromwell wasn’t about to let it get away. The missile’s seeker head was their last chance. “Find that fighter! ”
The gunner squeezed the uncage button, still swinging right to follow what he thought was its flight path. He got a lock-on signal right away. “Locked on! Clear me to fire! ”
Cromwell thought for a moment: if the Stinger missed, they’d have highlighted themselves to the fighter. The helicopter might come after them then ... but the others might be safe, might have time to make it. “Clear to fire! ” Cromwell shouted.
“Missile away!” the gunner shouted as he superelevated the launcher and squeezed the trigger. The missile popped out of the launcher, its main rocket motor ignition seemingly close enough to touch. The Stinger missile heeled sharply north, the motor burned out. . . and seconds later, they saw another bright glob of light and a streak of fire drawn across the night sky. “Got the motherfucker!” the gunner shouted. They saw the streak of fire continue north—it was on fire, but apparendy still flying.
“A half a kill is better than nothing,” Cromwell said as the crew fitted another missile onto the firing grip assembly. In twenty seconds they were ready to fire a second round.
The helmsman turned the lifeboat back on a westerly heading, toward shore but away from the brightly burning ship. It was hard to pick out details, but the shape was different; it was listing heavily to port, almost capsized, Jon Masters guessed. He had never seen a ship sink for real before—even from this distance, it was horrifying. They could hear hisses and pops and tearing, grinding metal sounds roll across the water; then, several minutes later, nothing. The ship was out of sight a few minutes later, lost forever.
The white House, Washington, D.C.
SEVERAL HOURS LATER
“Do not talk to us of treachery and sedition, Madam Vice President,” Dr. Ali Akbar Velayati, the Iranian Foreign Minister, said over the phone. His English was good, with a touch of a British accent. “
First the United States assists the Gulf Cooperation Council with a wanton attack on Iranian soil—then you violate our sovereignty, our peace, and our right to free access to international waters and sovereign airspace by flying spy planes over our vessels. Not only that, madam, but our vessels and aircraft came under attack by your spy vessel! This is an act of war, and you have started it! ”
“The United States had no spy vessels or aircraft anywhere near your ships, Dr. Velayati,” Ellen Christine Whiting said. “The United States will not tolerate air or naval attacks on unarmed civilian vessels in international or allied waters ...”
But Velayati was already speaking before the Vice President
could finish: “It is vital for the peace and safety of the entire region for all to stop these threats and accusations, pledge assistance to help in rescue-and-recovery efforts, and pledge cooperation in restoring peace to the region,” Velayati said. “The Islamic Republic is conducting rescue-and-reconstruction work on our damaged property on Abu Musa Island—the death and destruction, I must remind you, which was caused by you and your Zionist stooges!”
“I can assure you, Minister, that the United States government was not involved in the attacks against Abu Musa Island,” Whiting said, “and neither were the Israelis. The Gulf Cooperation Council was responding to the threat of anti-ship, antiaircraft, and long-range missiles placed on your illegal military installations. I can assure you, Minister, that the United States will not tolerate any—”
“I have told you, madam, that Iran is not responsible! Not responsible!” Velayati exploded. “Do not provoke my government, madam! America wants war with Iran! We are not begging for war like America! We want peace! But we will act to protect our people and our homes! We want all warships to depart the Persian Gulf at once. All foreign warships must leave.”
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