Just as the third airplane seemed to come to a complete halt, it started up again, and was now bearing down on the small fishing boat at an extremely high speed. Krotchoki could no longer hear his grandson’s screams, his ears were filled with the roar of pure mechanical horror. He was certain the airplane was going to crash right into the boat. He immediately dived for the cover of a nearby net spool.
Then, just like that, the strange airplane streaked overhead, neatly clipping the top of the boat’s mast and destroying the UHF antenna.
Then it was gone.
Krotchoki looked up and found the sky empty. His grandson was an arm’s length away, still screaming from the pain in his ear. This was the only sound Krotchoki could hear—that, and the gentle lapping of water against the sides of the boat.
Krotchoki crawled along the deck on his hands and knees, his head shaking involuntarily. Reaching into a chum bucket near the hold lock, he took out the warrior crab and with all his strength threw it overboard.
His grandson stopped screaming soon afterward.
The pilots of the Tornados were both volunteers from the Texas Air Force. As such, their radio call signs were Texas One and Texas Two.
They were streaking along at barely a hundred feet off the ground, approximately sixty miles west of the coastal city of Nagashima. With their wings completely overloaded with Mk84 2,000-pound GP bombs, the airplanes were straining to maintain an altitude high enough to search for their assigned target.
They were looking for a narrow and deep valley hidden in a series of shallow hills that ringed the outskirts of a place called Hakkan San. The target was referred to as “Kimono Valley” in Jones’s intelligence reports. It earned its nickname because a tremendous camouflage net had been stretched across it from the surrounding hills. Over three miles wide, the net made the valley appear as little more than a long, wide gully, a contour perfectly natural to the surrounding landscape.
Yet hidden somewhere in that valley was the entire satellite up-and-down link system that fed every Cult installation worldwide. In other words, Kimono Valley served as the long-distance communication service for the Cult’s far-flung armies.
But because of its expert disguise, no one on the United American side knew exactly where it was.
Initially, this wasn’t going to be a problem. Had the Tornados been launched for a night mission, as was originally planned, they would have relied on their superior infrared Night Vision targeting systems to pinpoint the satellite station’s location. In early morning daylight, however, the pilots of Texas One and Two would have to rely on their own hunting instincts.
One quick pass over the general area had the Tornado pilots eyeballing the terrain below, looking for any clue, any sign, that would distinguish Kimono Valley from the rest of the rolling terrain. Yet even from the low altitude, nothing looked out of place at all.
A dangerous game had begun. The pilots knew that the Cult air defense gunners had to be tracking them. But for the enemy to open up on them with antiaircraft fire would reveal the huge, heavily-concealed position. So would painting them with search radars from their SAM batteries.
But just how long this cat-and-mouse game could continue was impossible to say.
The Tornados banked around and crisscrossed the area again. Their valuable fuel was quickly burning up as they plowed through the sluggish air close to the ground. By the time they came around for the third time, each pilot knew they had enough fuel to loiter for about another minute. Then they would both have to make a very critical decision: abort the mission and return to the carrier with the bombs still attached. Or…
Suddenly the pilot of Texas One spotted something that wasn’t quite right. A small patch of brown in the sea of green jungle below them looked slightly out of place. He signaled his wingman and then roared in for a closer look.
To the pilot of Texas One, the brown patch looked like dead foliage. Yet it was on the sunny side of a small hill and looked like it would get the same amount of groundwater as the rest of the growth.
Then why was it a different color?
Texas One had to think quick. Could it have been because the brown patch was foliage cut a while ago and not replaced with fresh foliage in the net in a while?
He had to take the chance that it was.
He streaked to the far end of the valley, rolled over, and dived right at the “ground,” opening up with his two 27mm cannons. Instantly he saw his HE shells start to rip open the great net that was indeed stretched across the valley. He’d found it.
Now came the hard part.
Gulping two quick breaths of oxygen, he dived through the hole he had just made, disappearing from view of the higher flying second Tornado.
Texas One couldn’t believe his eyes. Not only was there plenty of flying room underneath the net, but lining the flow of the valley below were row upon row of satellite dishes.
He also saw dozens of SAM batteries and Triple-A guns.
And they were all pointing at him.
Almost immediately, these antiaircraft batteries opened up with everything they had. Hundreds of tracer rounds from 23mm cannons, fired from the scores of ex-Soviet ZSU-23-4-Shilka mobile self-propelled anti aircraft guns systems, flashed all around the Tornado, searching for their marks.
But the Tornado pilot had little time to do anything else but line up his plane with a series of dishes, drop a couple of Mk84s, then try to get the hell out of there. But it wasn’t as simple as that. The enemy cannon fire was starting to find him. He suddenly took a couple of direct hits right behind the cockpit, destroying his entire IFF and UHF data link, and his low/mid/high receiver systems. A second burst went through his right wing.
Releasing the two Mk84s, he booted in his afterburner and raced toward the far end of the valley. As he pulled back on the stick, he opened up once again with his 27mm cannons and sliced himself an exit hole. Zooming through into the open air once again, he just cleared the net when the pair of the delayed-fused 2,000-pound bombs detonated.
The pilot of Texas Two saw the gigantic net rise like an inflated balloon from the twin explosions and then settle back again. The concussion hit him a split second later. He tried to raise Texas One on the radio but got no response. But as the first Tornado got closer to him, he saw why: his partner’s entire communications system had been shot away.
But Texas Two didn’t have to talk. It was now his turn.
Aiming for the exit hole that his partner had just made, Texas Two dropped in and began his run up the valley. But this time, the Cult gunners threw up an additional wall of AA fire. Hundreds of D-30 howitzers, entrenched high up on the inner sides of the two ridges that made up the wide valley, were at the ready. They opened up on the Tornado as it entered their killing zone. Round after round of 122mm HE fragmentation shells outfitted with near-proximity fuses blasted down at him as he quickly tried to find a suitable target through the smoke and dust of the last explosions. A small concrete bunker, situated amid three satellite dishes, got his attention on his targeting screen. His thumb eased over to his weapon’s release button.
Suddenly a tremendous explosion rocked his airplane. Smoke instantly filled his cockpit. He knew immediately that he’d been hit and hit bad. The 122mm shell had exploded just behind him, nearly blowing off his entire tail assembly. He barely had control of his jet, but somehow he kept his laser bomb sight steady on the concrete bunker.
“Just a little more, honey,” he whispered to himself. “Just a little more …”
Suddenly, he was there. Releasing a pair of 84s, he took the Tornado straight up, not attempting to go for the hole at the end of the valley that Texas One had made. But his 27mm cannons didn’t have time to open the net wide enough. Ripping through the steel cables supporting the net, he sheared off part of his left wing, a piece of his tail, his pilot tube, and his flight refueling probe.
But somehow he made it through and was still flying. His pair of GPs exploded a second later, but by then, he’
d punched the Tornado to full military power and was safely away.
He formed up with Texas One and streaked across the hidden valley again. They both knew they had taken out a number of the dishes and communication bunkers—but there were plenty more still to go. And if just one remained, the mission would not be successful. So it was clear what they had to do: they would both have to go in again.
This time, there was only one way to do it.
Breaking off, each pilot headed to the opposite end of the valley, and, at the same time, dived in through the gaping holes in the net. Dropping deep down and as close to the floor of the valley as possible, the two crazy Texans streaked directly at each other, lining up to drop their remaining general purpose bombs.
Confused, the enemy gunners nevertheless threw up everything they had at them. The entire valley was filled with rounds of 122mm HE and 23mm cannon shells, as well as any Stinger, Blowpipe, or SA-7 Grail shoulder-launched SAMs the ground crews could muster. Added in were thousands of 7.62mm tracer rounds fired from hundreds of AK-47’s belonging to the Cult ground troops stationed in the valley.
But the incredible fusillade didn’t stop the Tornados. Ignoring the pings and clunks striking their jets, they continued on their high-speed collision course.
Releasing their payloads at the same time, the two Tornados appeared to just about plow head-on into each other, when they suddenly turned on their sides and passed each other belly to belly: it was a maneuver known as the Texas Rose. Continuing to opposite ends of the valley, they once again cleared the net a split second before their heavy ordnance erupted in one tremendous roar.
But they didn’t turn for home yet.
Straddling the sides of Kimono Valley, the two Tornados raked the edges of the net with what was left of their 27mm cannon rounds, severing most of the camouflage covering’s support cables and wires from their moorings. As they roared back overhead, the two pilots saw the entire net tremble, then collapse into the burning valley beneath it.
Out of fuel, bombs, and bullets, they formed up and immediately climbed up to safer altitudes. They knew they’d been successful in knocking out the target—what they hadn’t destroyed outright had certainly been damaged by the collapse of the heavy, burning net.
But at what cost? They pulled up close to one another and each pilot surveyed the other’s damage. They were both horrified. Large pieces of fuselage, wings, and tail sections were falling off both planes. Each Tornado was also perforated with dozens of holes of all sizes, most of which were smoking heavily. Both were also spewing long trails of ugly black smoke.
The pilots immediately turned east, toward the carrier, hoping against hope that there was enough left of their airplanes to make it back.
At just under 600 miles per hour, the IAR-93 Orao (AKA the “Yugo”) and the Indian Air Force Marut twisted and turned through the desolate river canyons leading to their destination.
They had gone in the hard way—up the rolling, twisting Fusaki River, their tails sometimes no higher than twenty-five feet off the top of the dirty yellow water.
They’d been over enemy territory for twenty minutes now and had not been spotted. But the two pilots—both Free Canadians—knew all hell was going to break loose soon. For directly ahead of them now they could for the first time see their target: the snowcapped outline of Mount Nanzenji.
There was no need for any communication between the two pilots. They both were well versed in their roles for Operation Long Bomb and knew what had to be done.
All that was left was for them to figure out just how to do it.
Because of all the targets, this one had the least pre-strike intelligence simply because of its remoteness. In fact, the only thing known about the target was that it was heavily defended with SAM batteries that ran right up the side of the mountain, all the way to the peak.
So the plan all along was for these two oddballs to reach the target, recon it quickly, come up with a strike plan of their own, carry it out, and try to escape.
And do it all in less than fifteen seconds.
They took the last turn of the river and then popped up to 500 feet.
At that moment, a clock started ticking.
Fifteen seconds to go. Each armed his 30mm cannons, activated his missiles.
Fourteen seconds. Both pilots yanked back hard on their joysticks and punched in their afterburners.
Thirteen seconds. With an ear-splitting roar, the two jets seemed to shoot straight up out of the ground, sending the outer perimeter SAM crews diving for cover.
The Orao and the Marut kept going up hard and fast, trying to gain as much altitude as possible before the rest of the air defense system operators figured out what the hell was going on.
It wouldn’t take them long.
Ten seconds. Each jet’s warning system panel lights were blinking like it was the Fourth of July. They’d been locked onto by at least one SAM battery, and probably many more. It was now time for some serious evasive action.
Eight seconds. A half-dozen SA-13 Gopher SAMs had been launched and were closing in on their tails. Each of these SAMs was loaded with an 8.8lb contact-and-proximity-fused HE fragmentation warhead. Just one of these exploding in the right spot could bring both planes down.
Seven seconds. Both pilots waited for the last possible instant before the enemy antiaircraft missiles achieved contact/detonation range, and then banked hard away from each other, hoping to confuse them. It worked. The maneuver freaked the SAMs’ gyrosystems, sending them tumbling out of control, and impacting to the ground below.
Six seconds. KABOOOOOOOOMMMM!
The pilot of the Marut was thrown hard against the side of his cockpit—a Gopher had exploded just off his nose. His jet pitched steeply to the left, his cockpit warning panels lighting up even brighter than before.
Five seconds. KABOOOOOOOOMMMM! A second Gopher detonated just twenty feet from the Yugo’s tail, out of killing range, but close enough to knock the airplane briefly out of control.
The Yugo pilot looked up and saw the Marut wobble but attempt to get steady. He also saw black smoke begin to pour from his wingmate’s fuselage. And he saw yet another SAM zeroing in.
Snapping into a quick dive, the Yugo crossed the Marut’s tail, hoping that the SAM would follow. It did. Now the Yugo pilot headed straight for the ground as fast as his jet would go.
Four seconds. The Yugo pilot yanked the stick back with both hands, pulling his machine up, while straining against tremendous G-forces. The SA-13 kept going straight down and slammed into the earth.
Three seconds. The resulting explosion sent up thousands of red-hot pieces of shrapnel, many of which peppered the underbelly of the still-staggering smoking Marut.
Two seconds. Ignoring the loss of pressure in his hydraulic and fuel lines, the pilot of the Marut saw a SAM heading right for the now top-flying Yugo. Without thinking, he squeezed his cannon trigger and put a burst into the missile. A sudden red-orange burst obliterated the Gopher and set off a second missile directly behind it.
One second to go. It was too late to turn away. The Marut had to fly right through this explosion, the force shattering his windscreen and popping most of the rivets that held on his right wing’s leading edge flaps.
Zero …
At last they saw the goal: the giant antenna farm covering the snow-covered dome of Mount Nanzenji.
The place was a major target. The two rows of twenty antennas, each 300-feet high, first boosted and then sent off the signals that carried thousands of low-level radio orders from the high command to the lower echelon commands in all the countries now occupied by the Cult. Where the satellite stations inside in Kimono Valley served as a communication link between the high-profile commanders (and therefore carried the big orders to the big brains), the antennas atop Nanzenji provided the radio network for the heart, mouth, feet, and stomach of the Cult’s legions.
To cut these down would be to slice the vocal cords of this great octopus whose tent
acles were slowly strangling Asia and reaching out to the rest of the world.
Dropping down to 100 feet, almost to the height of the concrete bases of the antennas, the two jets entered between the. rows of these steel towers and began dropping bombs.
The AS.37 Matras and AGM-78 ARM modified antiradar missiles went first. Then the AGM Walleye ASM and the AGM-88A Harms shot out from under the pair of oddballs as they twisted through this maze at close to the speed of sound. The bombs expertly blasted away at the bases that supported the great steel towers. These blasts caused the antennas to shudder and sway, and some began to twist and collapse under their own weight. The pilots were sowing so much destruction, the screech of the bending and stretching steel support beams could be heard even inside their cockpits.
At least thirty of the fifty towers were hit, but the pilots quickly realized that what they had done was not enough to bring down all these great steel superstructures. But suddenly, there was a tremendous explosion, followed by another and another and another. The four quick explosions caused the jet fighters to lurch forward and be tossed around, almost out of control. Looking back, the pilots discovered that what they had failed to do was being done by the enemy themselves.
Trying to stay locked on to the two jinking jets, a quartet of SAMs had bored through the standing towers that the jets couldn’t topple, and the warheads began to explode as they struck the support beams in their paths. Each explosion toppled a tower into the path of another SAM, and it too exploded, furthering a domino effect.
As the two planes screamed to a higher altitude, the pilots looked behind them and saw what was left of the great antenna farm—a twisted and contorted pile of steel girders, occasionally rocked by secondary explosions, and now melting from the several fires.
And they had done it with not a second to spare.
War of the Sun Page 7
