Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 05 (58 page)

 
          
Following
McLanahan’s programmed flight plan, the four “Elmer’s” missiles arced north of
the Iranian battle group, then turned south-southeast, roughly following each
other in trail 1,500 feet apart. They were just a few dozen feet above the
tallest antenna on the destroyer
Zhanjiang
by the time they passed over the fleet. As
they passed overhead, tiny bomb bays opened up on each missile and an invisible
liquid vapor cloud sprayed over the Iranian warships. The heavy vapor droplets
setded quickly in a straight sausageshaped pattern, coating the ships with a
thin, odorless, tasteless film. As the missiles completed their silent
deliveries right on target, they splashed harmlessly into the
Gulf
of
Oman
, completely undetected and unrecoverable.

           
In seconds, exposed to air, the thin
clear film that had been deposited over the two big warships began to
change....

Aboard the aircraft carrier
Khomeini

 
          
“It
is about cursed time!” Admiral Tufayli shouted. The first rescue helicopter was
just lifting off the deck and taking position on the portside, ready to rescue
any crewmen who might have to eject shortly after takeoff. It had taken more
than five minutes to scramble a crew and get a helicopter airborne, and that
was totally unacceptable.

 
          
The
admiral turned from the helicopter deck forward to the short holdback point
near the center of the carrier in front of the island superstructure, where a
Sukhoi-33 fighter sat loaded with two R-73 long-range air-to-air missiles—the
deck crews had managed to off-load the fighter’s four Kh-25 laser-guided attack
missiles, but did not have the time to replace the empty stations with more
air-to-air missiles. With only a 400-kilogram payload and a partial fuel load,
that Su-33 could use the shorter 100-meter takeoff run, while the heavier
fighters had to use the 200-meter run along the portside of the ship. Tufayli
was impatient, but he knew that night carrier operations were the most
dangerous and the crews were working at their best speed. “Any radar
indications on that bomber?” he asked.

 
          
“Possible
unidentified target bearing zero-five-zero, range twelve miles, flying away
from us,” came the reply.

 
          
“That
has got to be the bomber, Badi,” Tufayli said. “I want it checked out
immediately! And dispatch a radar helicopter to track that aircraft. If our
fighters shoot it down, I want searchers to recover any bodies and as much
wreckage as—”

 
          
“Sir,
we have an emergency, the pilot of our rescue helicopter reports a hot
hydraulic pack and wants a ready deck for an immediate precautionary landing,”
General Badi announced suddenly.

 
          
“Denied!
” Tufayli shouted. “I want two fighters airborne before any other deck
operations! ”

 
          
“Sir,
the Mil-8 helicopters have only a single hydraulic pack and an emergency
system,” Badi reminded the Pasdaran commander. “The emergency system is useful
only in performing a controlled descent, not for maneuvering. Sir, no hostiles
are engaging us—it is not critical to have fighter coverage airborne right
away. We should bring that helicopter aboard.”

 
          
“All
right, Badi, but
after
the first
fighter launches,” Tufayli said. Relieved, Badi passed along the order.

 
          
As
a second fighter was placed into the holdback position on the 600-foot launch
run, the first fighter on the number two 300-foot launch track activated its
afterburners, and after a few seconds to allow the thrust to stabilize, it was
released and it headed for the ski jump. Acceleration looked normal, although
any fighter launch off the short 100-meter run was always very tense. The
fighter hit the incline bow “ski jump,” sailed gracefully into the night sky, disappeared
as it fell beneath the ski jump, then could be seen straight off the nose, its
afterburners still on full power. “Finally!” Tufayli shouted. “Recover that
helicopter, then get that second fighter airborne as soon as ...”

 
          
“Sir,
Interceptor One is reporting a flight-control malfunction! ” Badi shouted.
Tufayli turned his attention back to the fighter that had just taken off. It
was still in max afterburner, climbing at a very steep angle. “The pilot is
having great difficulty moving any flight controls, and the landing gear is
stuck in an intermediate position.”

 
          
“What
in hell is it, Badi?” Tufayli shouted. The fighter disappeared in the night
sky, its afterburners still on full. At that rate of fuel consumption, Tufayli
thought, it might have time for one long- range missile shot at one of the
intruders before it had to return.

 
          
“It
could be contamination in the hydraulic fluid,” Badi speculated. “This is a
similar malfunction as the patrol helicopter. I.. .” He paused as he listened
to the intercom report in his headset, then turned, ashen-faced, to Tufayli.
“Sir, flight ops reports the pilot of Interceptor One was unable to maintain
control of the fighter and was forced to attempt to eject.”

 
          
“Eject?”
Tufayli shouted. He leapt to
his feet and scanned the horizon for the plane, but saw nothing. “What
happened?”

 
          
“His
last report stated that his ejection system had malfunctioned,” Badi reported.
“The fighter has been lost on radar.”

 
          
Tufayli
was momentarily in shock, but his only thought was of the unidentified fighters
out there. “Get Interceptor Two airborne! ” he screamed. “Get it up there
now!”

 
          
“Sir,
there is something happening on the flight deck,” Badi said. “I do not know if
it is fuel or hydraulic fluid contamination or corrosion or some kind of
maintenance error, but it may have affected the entire air wing. We should
postpone all aircraft launches until the problem has been—”

 
          
“No!”
Tufayli shouted. “I want air cover
up immediately! We are unprotected without it! Range to the bomber?”

 
          
“Sir,
the only possible target is now thirty kilometers from the carrier and
increasing—it is not a threat to the group,” Badi said. He touched his headset,
listening carefully to the intercom reports. “Sir, combat section is reporting
a possible malfunction of the radar arrays.”

 
          
“What
in hell is going on here?” Tufayli shouted. “Is everything breaking all at
once? What sort of malfunction?”

 
          
“Problem
with the antenna itself, possibly a bad bearing or problems in the gear
mechanism—the radar array is not rotating properly,” Badi replied. “We still
have adequate radar coverage and antiaircraft capability.. .. Sir, Interceptor
Two is ready for takeoff. I request permission to delay takeoff until a fast
examination of the aircraft hydraulic system can be accomplished. It will
only—”

 
          
“No,
launch Interceptor Two immediately!” Tufayli shouted. Badi had no choice but to
give the order.

 
          
The
takeoff appeared normal—for only a few seconds, right at the beginning of the
takeoff run. The afterburners flared, the fighter paused, the holdback bar
released, the fighter leapt toward the ski jump—then seemed to actually
slow down!
Tufayli thought it was an
optical illusion, but as the fighter neared the beginning of the jump, it
seemed as if the pilot were braking to a halt—it
was
slowing down! “Badi, what in Gods name . . . ?”

 
          
Just
as Badi was keying his mike button, ordering flight ops to order the pilot to
abort the takeoff, the long twin afterburner plumes wobbled unsteadily from
side to side, then suddenly pitched upward as the nose gear collapsed. Still in
full afterburner power, the force of the engines snapped the Su-33 fighter in
half, the fuel tanks burst open, and the fighter exploded in a huge fireball
that instandy engulfed the entire flight deck. The men on the admirals bridge
dropped to the deck as the observation windows imploded, and a wall of searing
heat followed the ear-shattering thunder of the explosion. Several secondary
explosions rumbled around them as other fighters and helicopters up on deck
caught fire and exploded.

 
          
“All
stop! All stop! Damage-control report!” Tufayli was shouting. The collision and
damage-control alarms were blaring as Tufayli weakly got to his feet and stared
in utter amazement and horror through the shattered observation windows at the
flight deck of the
Middle
East
’s first
aircraft carrier. Although the foam firefighting cannons at the flight deck’s
edge had activated, the forward half of the flight deck was still on fire.
Damage-control floodlights revealed dozens of naked, burned bodies lying all
over the scorched deck. “Badi, damn you,
report!”

 
          
“No
report from damage control yet, sir! ” General Badi, his face cut up and
blackened by the blast, replied. “Sir, I am receiving a report from the
destroyer
Zhanjiang
...”

 
          
“I
do not care about the destroyer, Badi. What is happening to my carrier?”

 
          
“Sir,
the
Zhanjiang
is reporting a foreign substance on its
decks and superstructures that is causing severe damage to all abovedecks equipment,”
Badi went on. “Radar, weapons, all reporting severe corrosion from a sticky
substance that is preventing any movement—objects are being stuck together, as
if they had been coated with a powerful liquid cement.”

 
          
“What?”

           
“Yes, sir—the
Zhanjiang
cannot operate its radar or train any of its weapons, and
even personnel on deck are having trouble moving around. Sir, it could be that
the same substance fell on the
Khomeini.
If
it got onto the fighters’ landing gear, it would have prevented a normal
takeoff. If it got onto the rotors or transmission of the helicopter, it could
cause stress on the hydraulic system and an overheat of...”

 
          
“What
in hell are you saying, Badi?” Tufayli shouted. “You are saying we were somehow
attacked ... by
glue?
Someone sprayed
our ships with
glue
to cause such
damage?”

 
          
“I
do not know, sir,” Badi said, placing a hand on a cut on his forehead. He
listened to his intercom, then said, “Sir, the fire has spread to the hangar
deck. Damage-control crews are responding. The ammunition magazines and fuel
stores are in no immediate danger.” He paused, then said, “Sir, you should
consider evacuating the ship. You can transfer your flag to the
Sadaf.
”

 
          
“Evacuate
...
my
...
ship?”
Tufayli
muttered. “Never! I will
never
—! ”

 
          
But
he was interrupted by a sharp explosion and a rumble throughout the ship. He
searched and found that one of the P-700 Granit anti-ship missiles, housed in
vertical launch boxes on the front of the carrier near the ski jump, had
exploded inside its canister, blowing huge sections of steel into the sky and
gouging out large sections of the ship. Each missile weighed 11,000 pounds and
carried a 2,200-pound high-explosive warhead.

 
          
“One
Granit missile has exploded, sir!” Badi reported.

 
          
“I
can see that, damn you, Badi!” Tufayli shouted. “Damage report!”

 
          
“Substantial
damage reported on all forward decks,” Badi reported. The generals battle staff
was in complete disarray; reports were coming in from all corners of the ship,
and he could hardly understand any of them. “Sir, you should evacuate the ship
immediately. You should take the entire intelligence staff; the senior staff
will remain on board. I now suggest transferring directly ashore to Chah Bahar,
since it appears that the
Zhanjiang
has been damaged and cannot defend itself,
and it is too dangerous to bring the
Sadaf
alongside.”