The Warbirds (49 page)

Shaw thanked Percival and was out of his office. Pullman met him with a staff car at the front door. “Got to hurry, General. The Herky bird is waiting for us, engines running.”

“We make a country-fair team, Mort.”

“I’d say, General.”

5 September: 0900 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 0500 hours, Washington, D.C.

The men huddled behind the President were reluctant to admit to themselves or to him the significance of the information displayed in front of them. At any other time Cunningham would have been amused by the sight of the President’s advisers literally hiding behind the man they were supposed to counsel and support. At least there was no doubt in Cunningham’s mind now that he had the undivided attention of his commander-in-chief. He waited impatiently, concentrating on the growing activity in the War Room.

The President, more hardheaded than his advisers, wasn’t afraid to hear bad news. Not that he easily accepted it. “I expected nothing on this scale; I underestimated their intentions…What’s their primary objective?”

“The capture of Ras Assanya,” Cunningham told him.

“What would that do for them?” The President did have a flaw: he believed the men that moved the world’s events were at least rational actors, and so if he knew what their goals were he could anticipate their actions.

“Get us out of the Persian Gulf, and for a long time,”
Cunningham said. The silence around the table presumably confirmed his statement.

“Why are you so sure they will attack within twelve hours?”

“Because, sir, there is no naval force in place that’s strong enough to block them. By the time we can get our fleet back into the Gulf they’ll be ashore. That’s why they have to go in now, when they feel there’s little resistance…”

One of the President’s advisers handed him a note that he scanned and held up a hand, interrupting Cunningham. “General, I have just been informed that the PSI has made a new offer for a permanent cease-fire. The United Arab Command believes it’s valid and urges us not to overreact.”

“Mr. President…I believe that’s a ploy to keep our fleet out of the Gulf. Sure, the PSI will be glad to negotiate
after
they’ve overrun the 45th.” The general had no illusions about his enemy; he would not underestimate their ability or resolve again…“Please don’t sacrifice the 45th.” Cunningham could hear the pleading in his voice and didn’t give a damn.

The President looked at him intently, then picked up an electronic pointer and flashed it on the screen, circling the cluster of ships poised to sortie across the Gulf. “I can’t allow the 45th to be sacrificed as a quid pro quo for a truce. As long as the PSI keeps its ships in international waters we shouldn’t attack them. But after their first attack, the intentions are obvious and nothing takes away our right to self-defense. If those ships move toward the west”—he directed the pointer on the screen towards Ras Assanya—“I will consider them a threat to the 45th. Tell the 45th to hit the S.O.B.’s the moment they head across the Gulf.”

He was warming to it now. “And order the fleet back into the Gulf and have the carrier air group ready to launch in support of the 45th when they’re in range. If that force attacks Ras Assanya, it will not return. Also, I want an orderly draw-down of Ras Assanya so it can be rapidly evacuated, but keep them fighting.”

Cunningham was forced to reevaluate this President.
realizing, if belatedly, that the man was one helluva geo-politician, willing to trade measured blows with an antagonist to advance the interests of the U.S. But playing the game only so far before reacting with the forces at his disposal…

Two hours later a Navy admiral announced to the President that the force behind Khark Island had sortied and was turning to the west. He pointed to the map of the Indian Ocean. “Sir, there is one hell of a storm building down there, an early-season typhoon. Our ships will have to reduce speed and the carrier will not be able to launch aircraft until they clear the area. It makes you wonder whose side God is on.”

“Admiral, God is the all-time neutral in war, even though we’ll claim he’s in our camp. The Greeks called it
hubris
, pride, and you know what pride goeth before: the fall.”

5 September: 1048 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 1348 hours. Ras Assanya, Saudi Arabia

Sergeant Nesbit ripped the latest transmission off the high-speed printer and handed it to Waters. The colonel scanned and added it to a growing pile of messages, then huddled with Stansell and Farrell trying to make sense out of the flood of information. “Everything,” Waters began, “points to an attack in the next few hours. We can defend ourselves and are cleared in hot against anything that moves toward us. At the same time, we start to move our people out while maintaining the wing’s combat readiness.” Waters glanced at the board on the wall that tracked arrival and departure times of transient aircraft. There was only the C-130 that had been given to them for a shuttle. Without more airlift in the next ten to twelve hours he was not optimistic about moving many of his people before the base was attacked. “Rup, get as many people onto that C-130 as you can every time it lands. I’ll holler for more aircraft…” He did not know about Shaw’s C-130 that was seven hours away from landing.

Waters’ mouth drew into a tight, narrow line as he scanned the board that listed only fifty-one mission-capable F-4s, a reminder of the losses his wing had suffered in less than ten weeks. The wing had eight other Phantoms with severe enough combat damage to make them of doubtful use. “Steve, use the four Weasels we’ve got left for air defense against the ships; load out twenty-two planes for air-to-air. Hang AGM-65s on the other twenty-five.” He would use Mavericks against the ships.

Jack felt like a damn spectator as he watched the men go to work carrying out Waters’ orders. Waters kept staring at the big situation map board, which for now was blank. Finally the colonel pushed his chair back and headed for the coffee pot. Jack joined him. “Sir…I want to get back to the squadron—”

Waters shook his head, then added, “Jack, I’ve been so busy the last few hours trying to bring things together I’ve forgotten about the basics. I want you—”

“Throwing me a bone, sir?”

“No. And stop feeling sorry for yourself. We’ve got to keep control of the air over the base. Start working on it and get back to me and Farrell.”

In the COIC Jack realized the bone Waters had thrown him was keeping air superiority, controlling their airspace. The Air Force hadn’t done that since the early days of World War II. Some assignment…

Sergeant Nesbit ripped another message off the printer and handed it to Waters. Immediately he summoned Carroll to the Command Post and handed him the message. Carroll sat down, feeling sick. “Much worse than I thought,” he said. “They’ve got four assault landing ships and three small coastal freighters escorted by two frigates and three large Sherson-class torpedo boats coming our way. There must be another dozen or so small, fast boats they’ve mounted a machinegun or grenade-launcher on, running along with them. Colonel, that’s a good-sized
fleet
for this part of the world.

“And we’ve got to stop them from coming ashore…”

The battle for Ras Assanya had begun.

5 September: 1205 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 1505 hours, Bushehr, Iran

The squadron commander selected to lead the first attack on Ras Assanya walked around his MiG-23, preflighting the four eleven-hundred-pound bombs hanging on the pylons under the fixed inboard wings. He patted one fondly, pleased that its target was the Americans. His plan was simple: twenty-four bomb-laden MiG-23s would take off in radio silence, fly at low level across the Gulf, avoid early detection and drop their bombs on the base. At the same time sixteen MiG-23s would launch as a CAP and escort them at high level, engaging any Phantoms that came to challenge them. The pilot commander thought it especially appropriate that they were using the Americans’ own method of attack.

5 September: 1220 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 1520 hours. Ras Assanya, Saudi Arabia

The CAP launched first, as planned.

Mary Hauser’s GCI radar detected them when they climbed above fifteen hundred feet. She warned the 45th of the inbound bandits and lowered the elevation angle of her search antenna, hunting for bandits on the deck. Her low-altitude coverage was very poor at that long range but improved closer to the radar head. A momentary flicker at one hundred ten miles caught her eye. She hit the sequence of switches that allowed her IFF to query Soviet transponders, and the screen lit up with five responses. “I can’t believe it,” she said aloud. “They won’t turn off their IFF. Just like last time.” Again she sent a warning to the 45th.

Jack sat next to Steve Farrell watching the board plotters post the MiG warnings. “I’m betting there’s more than five on the deck,” Jack said. “GCI’s radar will get skin paints when they’re inside eighty miles. Don’t be suckered into going after the CAP.”

Waters nodded and scrambled sixteen of his air-defense
craft onto the runway, holding six in their bunkers. The first eight taxied onto the Active and held, waiting for a release from the Command Post, while the second group of eight held on the taxiway.

Mary’s radar started picking up skin paints at ninety-two miles on the MiGs ingressing at low level. They’re not that low, she told herself, and again warned the 45th.

The command post’s frequency came alive, launching the waiting Phantoms, committing them against the bandits that were on the deck. Jack sat in the command post listening to the radio traffic and wondering if he could follow the directions he had given the crews: make them jettison their bombs and run like hell, don’t hang around trying for a kill.

It was against everything they’d been trained for. The only thing he was grateful for was that he couldn’t hear what they were calling him…

The MiG pilot leading the attackers on the deck saw his radar-warning receiver come to life and scanned the sky at twelve o’clock high, expecting to see the distinctive smoke trails of Phantoms high above them. The warning tone in his headset became louder, indicating the threat was closing in. He momentarily froze when he saw two Phantoms swinging in on him from his left eight-o’clock position and another two doing the same at his right two o’clock position. And they were all
below
him…it was a classic low-altitude intercept that had been turned into a pincers maneuver…

The lead Phantom pilot keyed his radio, “Tallyho, the fox,” he called out, telling his flight the MiGs were carrying bombs, the ones they were after. The Flogger pilots, not expecting American low-level engagement, weren’t able to counterturn or evade a fighter below two thousand feet. So they did the only thing they knew: jettison their bombs and make level turns back to base as the Phantoms shot through.

Five of the Phantoms managed to launch Sidewinders as they made one turn onto the MiGs, and three of the missiles traced their characteristic sideways guidance pattern, like a Sidewinder rattlesnake, through the sky to a
target. One F-4 squeezed off a snap gunshot when he turned onto a Flogger, raking the fuselage and sending the MiG tumbling into the sea. For most of the Phantoms it was a one-hundred-eighty-degree turn through the Floggers’ formation before they disengaged and ran for home. And because the Floggers had jettisoned their loads, it was all “one pass, haul ass” for the F-4s.

The Phantoms reformed into elements of two as they disengaged, the backseaters twisting in their seats, looking for the Floggers they knew were still out there. Mary monitored them as they ran from the bandits and assigned hard recovery altitudes: once inside a five-nautical-mile ring around the base the Phantoms would not leave their assigned altitude until cleared to land by the tower. The Rapier crews also copied the hard altitudes Mary was assigning to the Phantoms and dialed their IFF interrogators to the codes the F-4s would be squawking on recovery.

They were turning the base into the “flak trap” Jack had planned…

The MiGs flying CAP were not aware of the Phantoms until their comrades started yelling over the radio. Then they pushed over and headed for the engagement that was eight miles away and thirty thousand feet below them, not happy about engaging in a dogfight on the deck. When the MiG pilots saw the Americans “running away,” four of them, sensing an easy kill, chased after the Phantoms. With the F-4s at known altitudes and their IFF transponders squawking the right codes, it was easy for the Rapier crews to break out the Floggers as they were lured into range. The Firefly radar operator of the Rapier battery at the north end of the runway used the track-while-scan mode to lock onto the leading MiG while placing his secondary-target symbol on the following Flogger. The operator hit the fire-control button and sent two missiles off the round turret toward the MiG, then immediately transitioned to the second target and rapid-fired two more missiles.

Both MiGs died within eight seconds of each other.

The other two Floggers lost their enthusiasm, lit their afterburners, dropped down onto the deck and ran for home. The tail-end MiG hugged the water at fifty feet and
accelerated to 550 knots, the lowest and fastest the pilot had ever flown, but the Rapier battery at the south end of the runway tracked him down onto the deck and fired. The missiles found their target.

Nineteen minutes after launching, the first Phantom touched down and taxied rapidly back into its bunker to be refueled and rearmed for its next mission.

The squares on the board that tracked aircraft launch and recovery rapidly filled up, and there were no open spaces to indicate a plane missing. Waters sank back into his chair, closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He turned to Farrell and Jack. “Judging by the radio chatter, it was a turkey shoot.” There was no elation or pride in his voice, it was a simple statement of fact. The PSI’s best pilots had led the first attack and attrition had reduced their ranks.

Nesbit caught Waters’ attention and pointed to the transient aircraft board. He had just grease-penciled in the ETA for another C-130 that was five hours out. “We might get out of this one yet,” Waters said as he scanned the situation plot board, noting the position of the ships that were heading directly at the base, trying to estimate when they would be offshore. Such stuff wasn’t his game.