Shadows of War
Page 14
Well, thought Gritti, that was a mistake they weren’t going to repeat. Gazing through the hatch, he could see the procession of CH-53Es that stretched for a mile behind him. Ahead of the column flew a swarm of gunships—AH-1W Whiskey Cobras—armed with Gatling guns, 2.75 rockets, and Hellfire missiles. Their escorting AV-8B Harriers had already swept past them, low and fast on the deck, loaded with “shake and bake”—Mark 20 Rockeye cluster bombs and napalm—to take out any threats to the helicopters.
Gross overkill, reflected Gritti. And that suited him just fine. It was another lesson from Yemen. Overkill was good.
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Dezful Air Base, Iran
“Where are the others, Colonel?” asked Captain Zahdeh from the back seat of the F-14.
“Coming,” said Colonel Shirazi, trying not to show his anger. “They will join us in a minute.”
Col. Hassan Shirazi fumed in his cockpit while he waited for the members of his flight to taxi out. The slow-moving laggards! For the first time in their careers, the young fighter pilots of his squadron had been summoned to engage a real enemy. And they were late, damn them.
Two were still starting their engines. The third, Lieutenant Bassiri, had just taxied out to the end of the runway at the Dezful air base. Shirazi could see the faces of Bassiri and Lieutenant Mahmood, his RIO—radar intercept officer—in their cockpit. Both wore the expressions of men on their way to their executions.
Which, reflected Shirazi, they probably were.
Colonel Shirazi had always known that this day would come. As a squadron commander and the senior fighter pilot in the Iranian Islamic Revolutionary Air Force, it was his duty to defend Iran against an invading enemy.
This particular enemy—Americans, undoubtedly—had even been brazen enough to transmit a warning. They were conducting an operation in the northwest sector of Iran. Shirazi guessed that it was against one of the lunatic groups that had taken root in the low country. Instead of throwing them out as they should have, the timid Teheran government had bowed to the mullahs and clerics and given the terrorists sanctuary.
Now they would pay the price.
A voice crackled in his earphones. “Jaguar leader, your number three and four pilots report that their aircraft are out of service. Your orders are to conduct the mission with your two remaining fighters.”
Shirazi felt a wave of despair sweep over him. Two fighters. Two decrepit F-14A Tomcats to repulse a dozen or more top-of-the-line American fighters.
Shirazi loved the Tomcat. Or at least he had loved the Tomcat when both he and the fighter were in their prime. Iran had been the only country other than the United States to be equipped with the Grumman F-14 Tomcat. Seventy-nine of the swing-wing fighters, armed with Phoenix air-to-air missiles, were delivered to the Shah in the 1970s, giving Iran the most potent air force in the Middle East.
And then came the Islamic revolution. The Shah was gone, and with him half the pilots and skilled technicians of the air force. With no support or spare parts to maintain the F-14s, the air force was forced to cannibalize most of the fighters to keep a few flying.
In the war against Iraq during the 1980s, Shirazi had earned legendary status for himself by shooting down four Russian-built MiG-25s and one MiG-21—a feat that made him the only living ace in the Iranian Islamic Revolutionary Air Force. His photograph adorned the walls of every Iranian air base.
The name of Shirazi struck fear in the hearts of Iraqi fighter pilots. Saddam Hussein had gone so far as to offer a reward of a million dinars to any pilot who downed Shirazi. No one collected.
That was nearly twenty years ago. Both Shirazi and the Tomcat had become relics of Iranian history.
“What will we do, Colonel?” asked Captain Zahdeh from the back seat. “With only two aircraft . . .”
“We will do what warriors have always done,” said Shirazi. The canopy of the F-14 closed with a clunk. He released the brakes and steered the Tomcat toward the runway. “We will engage the enemy and destroy him.”
Chapter 13 — Ace
Mashmashiyeh, Iran
0816, Thursday, 18 March
“We have a warning, Colonel.” The technician swung away from his console. His voice was strained. “The southern sector. The battery commander reports incoming aircraft.”
Al-Fasr was instantly alert. “What kind of aircraft? How many?”
The technician listened for several more seconds, then said, “Many aircraft. Different kinds. Jets, big helicopters, smaller ones, probably gunships. Coming up the Shatt al-Arab waterway.”
Americans, thought Al-Fasr. They didn’t take the bait. They’re not attacking Iran. They’re coming for us. The Shatt-al-Arab waterway flowed along the Iraqi and Iranian border, which meant it was an assault force coming from ships in the Gulf. Marines, probably, preceded by a wave of strike fighter aircraft.
“Sound the alert,” Al-Fasr said to Shakeeb, seated at a desk by the door. He turned back to the technician. “What’s the range? Has the southern SA-2 battery engaged them?”
“He has secured the acquisition radar, the battery commander says. He’s worried that—” A frown came over the technician’s face.
“He’s worried about what?”
The technician shook his head. “I don’t know. His transmitter has gone silent.”
Al-Fasr nodded. The Americans would be armed with anti-radiation missiles, HARMs probably. It was always the first target, the air defense radars. The southern sector air defense commander foolishly emitted enough radar energy to give them a target. Now his installation was a smoking hole in the earth.
“Order all battalion commanders to deploy their units,” said Al-Fasr. “And summon Abu Mahmed. I need him here with me.”
“Yes, Colonel.”
Al Fasr had often hoped for an assault by the Iranians. The Iranian army was demoralized and inept. The Bu Hasa Brigade would have scattered them like chickens. A victory over Iran would have cemented Al-Fasr’s claim to Babylon.
But the Americans. . . The Bu Hasa Brigade had no chance of repulsing an assault by the Americans, who would be armed with laser and GPS and IR-guided weapons, flying strike fighters and helicopter gunships and assault helicopters filled with Marines. Their ground assault force would try to capture as many Sherji as they could, eradicate the rest, then scorch the ground where Bu Hasa lived.
It was the worst case scenario, but Al-Fasr had prepared for this eventuality. His Sherji would put up a fight, kill a few Americans, maybe even down some airplanes. In the end, they would yield the ground and vanish into the marshes. They would blend into the ancient countryside.
Eventually the United States would lose interest. America was losing its stomach for guerrilla warfare in places like Afghanistan and Iraq and now Iran. The wars on terrorism—one after the other—had exhausted their spirit.
When the raids were finished and the Americans were gone, Al-Fasr would still be there. Babylon would be his.
But first he had to survive the coming battle. Where was Abu?
“Shakeeb,” he snapped to the sergeant. “It is imperative that I speak with Abu. Go find him now.”
“Yes, Colonel.”
While he waited, Al-Fasr went to the comm technicians’ consoles. They were receiving steady reports now from the defense positions. Low-flying jets had taken out two of the SA-2 batteries. Helicopter gunships were firing on the southernmost positions.
That was to be expected, thought Al-Fasr. The Americans were dangerous but predictable. They would suppress threats to their helicopters first. Then the main assault force would land and establish a perimeter. Not until then would they engage the Bu Hasa Brigade on the ground.
By then the Sherji would have vanished like the ghosts of Babylon.
The sound of an explosion rattled the fixtures in the room. A five hundred pound bomb, Al-Fasr guessed. Then something else—the staccato belching of anti-aircraft guns. It was one of the 37 mm, mixed with the rapid-fire bark of the mobile 23 mm.
They don’t know where the headquarters is. They’ll have to find it.
Or will they? Perhaps they know. But how?
The sounds of battle were drawing nearer. Where is Abu?
The plan for extricating the Brigade from the jaws of the enemy depended on Abu Mahmed. He was supposed to mount a decoy attack on the eastern flank, drawing the attention of the advancing ground forces. Al-Fasr and the rest of the Sherji would retreat along the bank of the Karkeh River, northward to Lake Hawr Umr Sawan, Under cover of darkness, they would disperse in airboats throughout the low, impenetrable marsh country.
At least that was the plan. It all depended on Abu Mahmed.
Listening to the whump of explosions to the south, Al-Fasr had a gnawing sensation in his gut. Something wasn’t right. Where is Abu?
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Gritti hit the ground in a dead run. Directly in front of him was Sergeant Major Plunkett, moving at a surprising rate for a man weighing nearly 250 pounds. Both men sprinted for cover, coughing on the fine dust kicked up by the whirling blades of the CH-53E.
Marines were spilling out of the helos, fanning out, setting up the perimeter defense for the landing zone. As more assault helicopters swept into the LZ, the pall of dust swelled like a storm cloud. The zone looked like it had been savaged by a tornado. A wave of AV-8B Harriers had dispensed cluster bombs, then the Whiskey Cobra gunships gave it a sweep with Gatling guns.
Gritti followed Plunkett to a sheltered outcropping of rock, then waved for the corporal hauling the PRC-119 ManPack UHF TACSAT radio. He could hear the distinctive three-round bursts from the M16A2 combat rifles, interspersed with the angry brrrrp of an H&K MP-5N nine millimeter submachine gun.
No answering Kalashnikov fire that he could pick out. A good sign.
“What are they shooting at?” he asked Plunkett.
“Stragglers. The few who survived the air attack.”
It took less than five minutes. Gritti saw one of the fire teams coming back into the perimeter prodding half a dozen prisoners in front of them. The prisoners wore dark gellebiahs—the long, shirt-like garb favored by the Bu Hasa Sherji. They walked with their hands on their heads, staring at the tableau around them with wide-eyed, stunned expressions.
“That’s it,” said Plunkett. “Colonel Hewlitt reports very light resistance at LZ One. He thinks the gomers have pulled up stakes and are already heading north.”
Gritti stood up and wiped the dust from his mouth. “Time to move out. Let’s set up the welcome wagon.” LZ One was four miles south. The idea was for Hewlitt’s force to sweep northward, driving the terrorists out of their positions around the village of Mashmashiyeh. According to the intel brief, the Bu Hasa terrorists would flee northward, up the Karkeh River, where Gritti and his three rifle companies would cut them off.
The terrorists—Gritti refused to dignify them by using their own label, Sherji— could join the legion of jihad martyrs, or they could throw down their weapons and come out with their hands on their heads. Either way was fine with Gus Gritti.
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Western Iran, 25,000 feet
“Gipper One-one, your weapons status is yellow and tight. Acknowledge.”
Maxwell acknowledged the call from Sea Lord. “Gipper One-one, yellow and tight.”
“Yellow and tight” meant there was a possibility of a threat, but none was yet identified. His Master Armament switch was supposed to remain safe.
Beneath him, he could see the smoke and flame of the exploding bombs. The strike was going well, without serious opposition. The strike fighters were obliterating Bu Hasa targets like boots stomping an ant hill.
Maxwell felt a twinge of envy. He was up here, removed from the action by twenty-five thousand feet. Off his left wing, in a combat spread, was his wingman, Lieutenant B.J. Johnson. To his right were the long, delta shapes of the two F-14Ds from VF-31.
Maxwell’s four-ship BARCAP had just finished the northwestward leg of the fighter sweep, paralleling the Iraq-Iran border. The picture was still clear, according to the controller in the Hawkeye. No Iranian fighters had come up to challenge them. So far.
“Gipper One-three, take spacing,” Maxwell called.
“Gipper One-three, roger,” answered the RIO of the lead Tomcat, Commander Butch Kissick. Kissick had just joined VF-31, the Reagan’s F-14 squadron, as the new XO. His pilot was Lieutenant Rusty Schroeder. The second F-14 was flown by Lieutenant Commander Big Mac MacFarquhar and his RIO, Lieutenant Jeff-Ro Bush. Mixing the aircraft types—Hornets and Tomcats—in the fighter sweep was Boyce’s idea. They worked well together.
Maxwell watched the pair of Tomcats take their spacing, setting up the two-by-two BARCAP formation. They would begin their racetrack orbit, oriented towards the Iranian fighter bases that housed the only threat aircraft in the area.
The F-14D was still the fastest and most brutish of carrier-based warplanes, but it was in the twilight of its career. The Tomcats were being replaced, a squadron at a time, with F/A-18 Super Hornets.
The happy hour arguments about which jet—Hornet or Tomcat—could kick the other’s butt would rage on for years. The big Tomcat, with its sleek wings-retracted delta shape, could charge into battle at over twice the speed of sound. It had the fuel capacity to fly long sorties without refueling, and in its later years had been retrofitted, to the disgust of fighter purists, as a capable bomber. But the complicated airplane had become a maintenance nightmare, sucking up precious assets that the Navy needed for new aircraft.
The new Super Hornet possessed a state-of-the-art weapons package and a modular-replacement maintenance system. After a heated debate in the bureaus of the Pentagon, the Super Hornet was anointed as the Navy’s all-mission fighter for the next generation.
Watching the eruptions of smoke from his perch on the BARCAP, Maxwell wondered again if the Iranians would join the battle. The threat axis for Operation Slamdunk was not well defined. If they did put up a fight, it would come from one of their bases near the western border—Isfahan, Shiraz, or Dezful.
Maxwell wished again that he had assigned himself a ground attack role. Flying BARCAP for a mission where all the action was—
“Gipper One-one, Sea Lord.” The Hawkeye controller’s voice broke through his thoughts. “Purple Net info reports four bandits moving at Dezful. Two on the runway now.”
Maxwell was instantly alert. Purple Net was the Hawkeye’s link to all the intelligence gathering sources. “Gipper, roger. Do we have an ID?”
“Not yet. Fulcrums or Tomcats. We’ll call it when we see them airborne.”
Maxwell acknowledged. Forget the clear picture. If the Iranians were coming out to play, it meant his BARCAP was the only barrier between them and the assault force.
What kind of bandits? Iran’s Fulcrums—twin-engine, Russian-built MiG-29s—were mostly decrepit ex-Iraqi jets flown to Iran to escape destruction in the first Gulf War. Though they had a few modernized Fulcrums imported from Russia, they weren’t based at Dezful.
He turned to gaze for a moment at the two silhouettes off his right wing. What if the bogeys were Tomcats? He shook his head at the irony. Who would have dreamed back in the seventies, when the U.S. outfitted Iran with the F-14, that this day would come?
“Gipper One-one, pop up contact over Delta, in the weeds, climbing and accelerating. Multiple contacts. Probable flight of two.”
Here they come. The bogeys were airborne, low and climbing. Delta was the code for the Iranian fighter base at Dezful.
“Gipper One-one, roger.”
A pause. “Sea Lord shows the bogeys as Tomcats, Gipper. Flight of two. Two more on the ground not yet moving.”
Maxwell acknowledged. His own radar was picking up the contact. He was also at the end of his leg of the racetrack. “Gipper One-one, turning cold.”
From the lead BARCAP Tomcat, Butch Kissick replied, “Gipper One-three turning hot.” As Maxwell’s nose turned away from the incomi
ng bogeys, Kissick was turning his fighters toward them.
“Sea Lord shows the bogeys twenty south of Delta, low and fast, hot.” The Iranian fighters were headed towards the ground assault operation.
“Gipper One-one.”
“Gipper One-three, clean high, looking low.” Kissick was reporting that the airspace above them was clear, and now his radar was scanning below them.
Maxwell stayed riveted to his own radar display. He saw the two datalink symbols representing the targets, still coming his way.
“Gipper One-three, contact twenty-five south Delta, angels ten, climbing, fast, hot.”
“Those are your bogeys,” answered Sea Lord. “Signal India.”
India was the code for “intercept and identify.”
Maxwell considered for a moment. From this angle, his number three and four wingmen, the Tomcats, were in better position to lead the intercept. He could pass the tactical lead to Kissick, and support him from the rear. That would be the safest way to run the intercept.
To hell with that. He was the flight leader. He’d run the intercept.
“Gipper One-one turning hot,” he called. “One-three, turn cold and join on me.”
“Three,” acknowledged Kissick, sounding skeptical.
Radio chatter from now on would be minimal. Each of Maxwell’s fighters had Dolly—radar-data linked information—in his display. Each pilot could see the others’ speed, altitude, and heading.
Maxwell’s radar was showing the two contacts about thirty miles south of Dezful air base, climbing through fifteen thousand at a speed of about six hundred knots. His situational display held the datalink tracks of the same bogeys.
In the same display he could see the symbols of the other members of his flight. His wingman was paralleling him, maintaining a combat spread. Kissick’s Tomcats were already in their rendezvous turn. He glanced outside to his left, and there they were—the delta-shaped plan forms of the F-14s, sliding into position.