Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 05 (59 page)

 
          
Tufayli
thought for a moment, then nodded—he knew Badi was right. If just a few of the
remaining P-700 cruise missiles went up, the carrier could be at the bottom of
the
Gulf
of
Oman
in just a few short minutes. And if missile
number seven, the nuclear-loaded missile, exploded . . . well, they would be
spared the humiliation of a court-martial, at least. “All right, General,”
Tufayli said. “I will transfer to Chah Bahar with the intelligence staff—but
the captain stays with this ship at all times, do you hear me? I want no member
of the ships complement to leave unless this ship is ready to capsize! I want
the cruiser
Sadaf
to dispatch a
helicopter to stand by with us at Chah Bahar, ready to take us back to the
Sadaf
to direct the remainder of the
battle group in case the bomber tries to attack the fleet again.

 
          
“Badi,
next, I want this ship to maneuver in the center of the international sea lane
in the
Gulf
of
Oman
and remain in place,” Tufayli continued.
“If it sinks, I want it to sink in the center of the sea lane, and I want the
sea lanes blocked by all the other ships. Whoever attacked this batde group, I
want it made clear that we will still close this waterway to all traffic and
control its access, even if we have to use our own ships hulk to do it!”

 
          
It
took another hour to execute Admiral Tufayli’s evacuation plan. Since all of
the
Khomeini
s helicopters were
either destroyed, crippled by the adhesive, or under repair, a Mil-8 helicopter
had to be flown out from the destroyer
Sadaf
to fetch the admiral; a simple oilcloth tarp was laid out on deck for the
helicopter to land safely. While Tufayli waited for his helicopter to arrive,
he had to suffer listening to the systematic destruction of
Iran
’s fleet by Gulf Cooperative Council air
attacks. One by one, the smaller ships in the
Khomeini
’s escort fleet were struck and hit by wave after wave of
GCC jets and helicopters launching Harpoon, Exocet, and Sea Eagle anti-ship
missiles—without forward early-warning radar coverage or air defense cover from
the carrier or the Chinese cruiser
Zhanjiang
the escorts were easy prey for GCC attackers. Twice the cruiser
Zhanjiang
was hit; three times the close-in-weapon
systems on the carrier
Khomeini
came
to life, destroying inbound anti-ship missiles seconds before they plowed into
their prey.

 
          
When
Tufayli was brought up on deck to board his helicopter, he saw the devastation
in the seas around him: dotting the horizon in every direction were the bright
spots of flickering red, yellow, and orange light representing burning Iranian
warships. The
Zhanjiang
was still under way, and had repositioned
itself between the Omani coast and the carrier, but a fire belowdecks was still
not fully contained. But even worse than that sight was the look of fear,
anger, and betrayal in the eyes of the Iranian sailors around him. The
Khomeini
was still afloat, crippled but
still fighting—but its commander was running. Tufayli could almost hear the
sailors’ derisive words, calling him a coward.

 
          
It
didn’t matter, Tufayli thought bitterly. It was their job to fight and die for
him and their country—it was
his
job
to command, to lead, and he couldn’t do it very well from a crippled aircraft
carrier covered in contact cement, with a six-meter-wide hole yawning in its
belly and a nuclear warhead threatening to blow at any second.

ABOARD THE CV-22 PAVE HAMMER
TILT-ROTOR, OVER THE
Gulf
of
Oman

THAT SAME TIME

 
          
The
CV-22 Pave Hammer tilt-rotor aircraft’s refueling probe had no sooner nestled
into the HC-130P Hercules tanker’s lighted basket of the refueling drogue and
transferred a few hundred pounds of JP-7 fuel when the navigator aboard the
HC-130P Hercules called on secure interplane, “Hammer Zero-One, Peninsula
Shield Skywatch is reporting a single helicopter, designate Target Seven,
leaving the deck of the
Khomeini.
”

 
          
“Roger,”
the pilot of the CV-22 responded. “Continue the transfer.” He clicked open the
intercom: “Right when you said he’d show, Major.”

 
          
Hal
Briggs punched the air with satisfaction and smiled broadly at the men of
Madcap Magician surrounding him. “You were right, Paul—but we don’t know
Tufayli’s on board that helicopter. It could be a medevac, could be anything.
...”

 
          
“Even
so, Tufayli will still be on it—no matter how many injured there might be on
that carrier, I’ll bet Tufayli will make room for himself.” He paused, then
regarded Briggs and said, “But the next step’s up to you, Hal. You’re in charge
of this mission.”

 
          
“Thanks,”
Briggs said. “And I say we go see who’s out flying around at this time of
night.” He clicked open the intercom: “Greg, get a vector to Target Seven,
finish your on-load, and intercept.” “Got it,” the CV-22 pilot responded
happily.

           
In less than five minutes, the
HC-130P tanker had filled the CV- 22’s tanks. The CV-22 disconnected, turned to
clear the tanker— they were flying less than
500feet
above the Gulf of Oman, so no one dared
descend
to get separation!—and
transitioned to airplane mode to pursue the Iranian helicopter. Their top speed
in helicopter mode was only about 110 miles per hour, but once the CV-22
tilt-rotor’s twin engine nacelles swiveled horizontally, which changed the
helicopter rotors to function as aircraft propellers, the CV-22 quickly
accelerated to over 360 miles an hour. Following vectors from the Saudi Arabian
E-3S AWACS radar plane orbiting near the Omani border in the southeast corner
of the
Arabian
Peninsula
, the
CV-22 sped northward after its quarry at low altitude.

 
          
With
a nearly 200-mile-per-hour overtake, the Madcap Magician special-ops aircraft
closed the distance in ten minutes, less than 100 miles from the Iranian
shoreline. The Iranian Mil-8 cargo/anti- submarine warfare helicopter, a rather
round, squat, bug-shaped machine with twin tails and two sets of main rotor
blades counterrotating on one rotor mast, showed up perfectly in the CV-22’s
imaging infrared scanner, and they maneuvered above and to the left, out of
direct sight of the helicopter’s pilot. The helicopter was cruising without
running lights at medium altitude; its engines were brighdy glowing red-hot
from the engines high-power setting. The CV-22 pilot used a small thumbwheel on
the cyclic/control stick to swivel the engine nacelles up to a
thirty-five-degree setting, to obtain the best combination of forward speed,
maneuverability, and vertical flight capability.

 
          
“The
Mil-8 is definitely not made for high-speed cruising,” Briggs observed as he
studied the Mil-8’s image on the copilot’s monitor. “Its engines will probably
have to be shelled after this flight. See any door guns on that thing?”

 
          
“Negative,”
the pilot responded. “Nothing stopping them from sticking a rifle out the
window and blowing us away, though.”

 
          
“We
got a few popguns of our own,” Briggs said. “If you see even one pistol aimed
at you, blow that bug out of the sky.”

 
          
“They’re
going to call for help,” the pilot said, “and the Iranian fighters aren’t too
far away. We got no comm jammers ...”

 
          
“We’ll
give Tufayli the chance to surrender, or we splash him,” Briggs said angrily.
“I’m not letting him get away. Peace Shield Sky-watch better do their job. Lets
take this bad boy down.” With a touch of the power control lever, the CV-22
slipped within sight of the Mil-8’s copilot, and they hit the exterior lights..
..

 
          
“What in God's name
...
?”
The copilots scream made the pilot’s
head snap over as if he’d been slapped. It was hard to see exacdy what was out
there, but in the flashing red and white lights, they saw an immense aircraft,
as large as a small cargo plane but with propellers canted at an unusual angle.
But there was no mistaking the black-and-green star centered between three
horizontal bars—the chevrons of an American military aircraft. The copilot
could see weapons pylons with some sort of missile on it—it resembled a four-
round American Hellfire anti-tank missile pod—plus a large steerable cannon on
a chin turret, with the muzzle of the big Gatling gun aimed right at them!
Seconds later, the American aircraft’s lights winked out, plunging the
horrifying scene back into total darkness. “Admiral! ”

 
          
“I
saw it,” Major Admiral Akbar Tufayli said. “What are you waiting for? Get on
the radio and get some fighters from Chah Bahar or Bandar Abbas out here to
help us.”

 
          
“Shall
we try to lose it?”

 
          
“Don’t
be a fool,” Tufayli said. “It found us easily, at night and at low altitude.
They must be in contact with their radar planes and using infrared
scanners—running will do us no—”

 
          
“Attention
on the Iranian Mil-8 helicopter,” came a voice in English on the international
GUARD emergency frequency. “You have been intercepted. Turn left heading
two-zero-zero immediately or you will be destroyed. Repeat, turn left to a
heading of two-zero- zero immediately or you will be destroyed.”

 
          
“Ignore
them,” Tufayli ordered. “Continue on your present course and speed. Any
response from our fighters?”

 
          
“A
flight of two Sukhoi-27 fighters, Interceptor Eleven flight, will rendezvous
with us in five minutes,” the copilot responded.

           
“Good,” Tufayli said. “Then I
want...”

 
          
Just
then a brilliant flash of light and a line of bright white tracers lanced
across the sky—the tracers were so close that everyone in the cockpit could
hear the concussion of the shells beat on the canopy. Then they heard a voice
in Farsi say, “Admiral Tufayli, you cannot escape.”

 
          
“He
knows you!” the pilot shouted. “He knows you are on board!”

 
          
“Colonel
Paul White,” Tufayli said angrily. “It is the American spy we captured. So the
rumor is true: President Nateq-Nouri did conspire with the Americans to release
White from prison.”

 
          
“Admiral
Tufayli, you have one last chance,” White radioed. “Turn about now or die.”

 
          
“Where
are those fighters?” Tufayli shouted.

 
          
“Our
fighters have the American aircraft locked on radar,” the copilot shouted as he
monitored the tactical frequency. “He will be in missile range in less than two
minutes.”

 
          
“Tell
him to fly at full reheat if he has to,” Tufayli shouted, “but get him in
firing position
now!”

 
          
It
took a litde more than one minute for the Iranian MiG-29 fighter to report that
he was in radar-missile firing range . . . but: “Be advised,
Khomeini
Five, that I am painting only
one radar return, repeat, one radar return. I do not see the second aircraft on
my radar.”

 
          
“He’s
flying too closely, sir,” the pilot of the Mil-8 helicopter said. “Our radar
images are merging.”

 
          
“Tell
him to close the infrared scanner range,” Tufayli ordered. He knew that the
MiG-29 fighter had a system called IRSTS, or Infrared Search and Track System,
which could guide the fighter pilot into an intercept and kill even at night,
without the use of airborne or ground-based radar. “Tell him to use his guns.
The American tilt- rotor is northwest of us.” The MIG-29 pilot acknowledged
Tufayli’s instructions.

 
          
“Admiral
Tufayli, I order you to turn around and surrender,”