by Walt Gragg
“Roger, Echo Control. Battle zone still masked by smoke?”
“Affirmative. No significant change in conditions from this morning. Your systems will handle it just fine. Should be able to put your ordnance right on target.”
“Any bandits in the area?”
“Negative, Blackjack. Just like it’s been since the carriers arrived. No sign of enemy aircraft. Even so, we’ve got Super Hornets at thirty-five thousand feet to cover your heads.”
“What about Pan-Arab air defenses?”
“Still plenty of Stinger missiles and antiaircraft systems around. Growler aircraft will hit the strike zone with chaff and electronic countermeasures moments before you arrive. That should jam their radar and disrupt their air defenses. It’ll help with the advanced Russian stuff the Pan-Arabs are using, but once you drop your bombs and head down to attack with your Vulcan cannons, you’re on your own against the Stingers. So don’t be a hero. Use the smoke to hide your position. Drop flares and take evasive measures at the first sign of a Stinger firing.”
“Roger, Echo Control. We’re on our way.”
At fifteen miles a minute, the Hornet pilot and his wingman sprinted toward the evolving battle. The remainder of the attack squadron would be right behind. The first of the help the Marines needed was three minutes away.
The soaring duo had been flying as a section for two years. In their significant hours in the sky together, they’d learned to read each other’s thoughts and anticipate each other’s actions. Each had absolute confidence in his partner’s abilities. In a tight spot, Mitchell knew he could count on his wingman. And Sweeney knew he could depend on his section leader to make the right decision.
The swift pair passed over the North African coastline. Just over a minute before the attack would begin.
Even with a thick blanket of gray obscuring the trackless ground below, with the F/A-18E’s sophisticated instrumentation it wasn’t hard to find the unending targets.
“Worm, this is Blackjack, oncoming armor confirmed on highway and surrounding desert,” Mitchell said to his wingman. “Pan-Arab lead elements are just south of our lines and closing fast.”
“Roger, Blackjack, I’ve got them spotted.”
“There are five Hornet pairs scheduled to follow us in on the attack. They should be showing up in one-minute intervals. Let’s hit the lead elements of the enemy armored column first. That should blunt the Pan-Arab attack and give the Marines a little breathing room while they wait for further Hornets to arrive. Be real careful, though, the last thing I want is to hit our people by mistake. Bombing run first, then we’ll circle around and strafe the hell out of them with our cannons. Hopefully, the Growlers jammed things real good. But just in case, keep your eyes open for air defense radar locks or Stinger firings.”
“Roger, Blackjack, I’m wide-awake back here. Make your pass, I’ll be right behind you.”
Mitchell raced toward the surging T-72s. Sweeney hugged his tail. The F/A-18Es lined up the release point on their cockpit displays. At precisely the right instant, Mitchell dropped tons of high explosives from the ruinous stores beneath his fighter’s shimmering belly and wings. A line of thousand-pound killers tumbled from the ashen skies. They headed straight for the inviting prey striving to cross the potent desert two miles below. A brief moment later, Sweeney also hit his release. A second set of death-laden armaments fell toward the mournful earth. For the Super Hornet pilots it was a routine task. Their exceptional aircrafts’ computer systems had performed the majority of the work. When the systems told them to fire, they dropped their toxic payloads onto the targeted area. As the lethal pair circled to the rear to set up their strafing run, they didn’t give their actions a second thought.
Even so, for the followers of Islam the compelling acts of the American pilots held far greater importance. Without warning, a demonic swath of contested desert a quarter mile long erupted in a blazing corridor of death and destruction. The wide highway disappeared. Directly in front of Erickson’s position, two dozen tanks and half as many armored personnel carriers were ripped apart in a blinding flash. A ghastly inferno filled with suffering and damnation fell upon the Mahdi’s attackers in a thunderous series of explosions. The inescapable flames of an unspeakable maelstrom reached out to consume three hundred once-breathing souls. Most never knew what hit them. In another sixty seconds, a second pair of F/A-18Es was scheduled to do the same. And behind them would come another, and another, and another, almost without end, until the dreary sands in front of the Marine positions would become an inhospitable no-man’s-land filled with the charred remains of vanquished flesh and ravaged machines.
“Echo Control,” Mitchell said, “this is Blackjack Section. Have completed our bomb run. Beginning cannon attack.”
“Roger, Blackjack Section. Second section is thirty seconds out. They’ll commence their assault the instant you clear the area.”
Mitchell and Sweeney lined up their position behind the endless enemy. Now would come the most exhilarating, and most dangerous, part of the pilots’ mission. Screaming in so low over the blighted sands that they could see the anguished faces of those they were destroying, Mitchell and Sweeney would assail the enormous armored column with their Vulcan cannons. From above and behind, their 20mm armor-piercing shells would penetrate the upper and rear armor of a T-72 to mutilate and kill those sheltering within. Suffering and death would follow in the Hornets’ wake.
The avenging F/A-18Es roared in side by side with their shining wing tips nearly touching the rolling dunes. They streaked across the ill-prepared column at thirteen hundred feet per second. The attacking armor was right in front of them. Mitchell made a first brief squeeze of his trigger, allowing the weapon’s burst controller to determine the number of shells expelled. The shattering shells spewed from beneath the Hornet’s nose. At four thousand rounds per minute, without the burst controller he would’ve emptied his Vulcan’s chamber in six seconds. He fired another lightning burst. Sweeney unleashed a quick blast of his own. Their armor-piercing cannons tore into the stretching lines of faltering tanks and personnel carriers. At such incredible speed, the T-72 commanders had no time to react with their antiaircraft machine gun. The perishing hulks were defenseless against the shrieking raptors’ infinite power.
But the Chosen One’s air defenses were not. Thirty Stingers were lifted onto the shoulders of Allah’s warriors. The Stinger gunners fought to track the wailing bandits. If they could lock on to one of the despicable aircraft and destroy it, when their own death arrived their honored place in a blissful eternity would be assured. The air defenders begged to hear the firing tone go off telling them their heat-seeking Stinger had found the lusting target. Even so, none of the unsophisticated little missiles was capable of distinguishing the intense heat of the ground-hugging F/A-18E engines from the burning tanks and scorching sands all around them.
In seconds, the pernicious Hornets completed their run. Two hundred additional beings departed the world of mortal man. The solemn journeys across the River Styx would be many on this day. Both aircraft rocketed over the American defenses and raced back into the morose heavens. As they passed, each pilot saw the situation on the ground below. The swirling clouds of ever-darkening fires soon covered their escape.
“Christ, Blackjack,” Sweeney said. “Our efforts barely slowed them down. Did you see those sons-of-bitches? They’re right on top of our guys.”
“I saw them. Looks like the Marines are about to catch hell. We’ve still got half our 20mm shells. Let’s circle around. After the next pair of Hornets makes their bomb run, we’ll complete another quick pass before heading back to rearm.”
“Roger, Blackjack. I’m with you.”
“Echo Control, this is Blackjack Section. Our guys are in big trouble. Get the other sections in here as fast as you can. We’re about to turn and make another run to buy some time.”
“
Blackjack, this is Echo Control. Negative on that. Cease your engagement immediately. All Hornet sections are to break off their attack at once.”
“What?” Mitchell said. “Did you hear me, Echo Control? The Marines are going to be slaughtered if we don’t give them a hand.”
“Roger, Blackjack, we heard you loud and clear. But there’s something very odd going on. All of a sudden we’ve got bandits all over the place on our radar. More and more are popping up every second. And they’re headed this way. Hornet sections are to switch from ground attack to dogfight modes. Find a clear piece of ocean to jettison your bombs before heading west to meet the enemy.”
21
4:17 P.M., OCTOBER 18
BLACKJACK SECTION, FIGHTING SQUADRON VF-57
USS ABRAHAM LINCOLN
TWENTY MILES FROM THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA
Muhammad Mourad was no military genius, but he wasn’t nearly the fool the Americans believed him to be. His air forces were quite powerful. Yet the Mahdi understood no winged force in the world was a match for those he faced. His MiGs and Mirages performed well during the initial advance into Egypt. In days, they’d gained a modicum of control in the skies over North Africa. He realized, however, that they couldn’t hold on to their delicate domination against the accomplished Americans. So the moment the Allied planes arrived, he withdrew his five hundred fighters to wait for precisely the right moment.
His overly confident opponent had been lulled by the Pan-Arabs’ failure to provide any heaven-based opposition. There’d been significant losses of American aircraft to ground-based missiles, but the threat to the pilots and ships from an airborne enemy was presumed to be nearly nonexistent. This was exactly what Mourad wanted them to believe. The moment he’d been searching for had arrived. To return to his primary task of throwing everything he had into seizing Cairo, he had to destroy the impudent American Marines who’d brazenly landed behind his lines. To do so, he needed to eliminate his adversary’s air superiority.
Without air support, his dogged opponent would stand no chance against his massive army. He’d wipe them from the face of the earth as easily as one would dispatch an irritating insect. And with the Marines no longer biting at his backside, Cairo would be his by sundown tomorrow.
The time had come to spring the trap. In a surprise assault, he’d launch every fighter he had against the carrier-borne aircraft. Once the Super Hornets were engaged and pulled away from their ships, he’d fire scores of cruise missiles, each with a thousand-pound warhead, at the naval fleet. Sink an aircraft carrier and the American military might struggle to recover. Sink both carriers, and he would gain air superiority over North Africa for at least a week. And with eleven thousand infidel bodies floating in the Mediterranean, he might gain far more than control of the skies. With such casualties, a stunned America could lose the taste for war.
The Iraqis and Iranians would undertake a similar air assault against Saudi Arabia. There was no way either country’s air forces could penetrate the Patriot missile defenses or buzzing fighter aircraft. But that was never their goal. Their attack would be a well-timed ploy to tie down the land-based aircraft in Saudi Arabia and carrier-based aircraft in the Arabian Sea. With those forces engaged, the two carriers hovering off the Egyptian coast would be isolated.
It was a gamble. Mourad was rolling the dice. He was risking his air armada in a bold strike designed to destroy the Americans’ ability to stop him in Egypt. He knew his skyward forces would suffer heavy losses against his opponent’s planes and pilots. Yet it was a risk worth taking. From Algeria and Libya, hundreds of French-made Mirages and Russian-made MiG-25s and SU-24s rose from their runways on a sweltering fall afternoon. The American surveillance satellites spotted them the instant they left the ground.
At the moment of Mourad’s surprise attack, there were twenty-four Super Hornets in the far-flung heavens over northern Egypt. Those twenty-four would have to defend the fleet until help appeared in the skies behind them.
“All aircraft, say again, all aircraft. This is Echo Control. Pan-Arabs have launched a massive fighter attack. Approximately five hundred bandits are headed east at a high rate of speed. Eisenhower and Lincoln will launch all fighters immediately. First groups are to hold the enemy until reinforcements arrive.”
The carrier battle group had nearly one hundred and eighty planes that had so far survived the intense combat. Of those, eighty-eight were top-of-the-line F/A-18Es and F/A-18Fs. Those eighty-eight would bear the brunt of the Chosen One’s invasion.
Blackjack Section would limp into the air battle with half its cannon shells expended and a single heat-seeking Sidewinder on each of its pilots’ wing tips. Mitchell would’ve felt much better about engaging the enemy with two AIM-132 and four AIM-120 missiles also nestled under his wings. But there was nothing he could do to change that reality. For the moment, there was no time to return to the Lincoln to reload. The Americans didn’t have a minute to spare, and the thirty minutes Blackjack Section needed to land and rearm couldn’t be considered.
* * *
—
From his field headquarters beneath the lengthening shadow of the Great Pyramid, the Mahdi waited. The moment his hemmed-in foe took the bait and sent their aircraft to battle his MiGs, he’d initiate the second part of his plan.
One hundred Tomahawk cruise missiles were sitting on the coast of Libya waiting to be fired. Their targets would be the Lincoln and Eisenhower.
A smile came to the Chosen One’s weathered face. The unbelievers were about to feel the full power of Allah’s wrath.
* * *
—
The Marines were all but forgotten as the fighters rushed west.
With only the Cobras and drones to aid them, on the shifting sands of Egypt the confounded defenders were on their own.
22
4:17 P.M., OCTOBER 18
3RD PLATOON, BRAVO COMPANY, 2ND RECONNAISSANCE BATTALION, 2ND MARINE DIVISION
THE CAIRO–ALEXANDRIA HIGHWAY
A Cobra fired another of its air-to-air missiles at an overmatched Hind-D. The streaking shadow ripped through the low heavens at incredible speed. The Sidewinder rushed headlong toward the intense heat being produced by the Hind’s engine. There’d be no chance of escaping the fiery death soaring through the macabre skies to seize the Pan-Arab crew. The older-model Russian helicopter exploded. It fell in flaming pieces upon the grappling lines of the Chosen One’s foot soldiers running across the weighty sands.
The harrowing helicopter clash had started minutes earlier, with twenty-four Hinds facing nine Cobras. With the American helicopter’s latest kill, the numbers had dropped to sixteen against seven. At the present rate, it wouldn’t take but another quarter hour for the Marine pilots to sweep their overmatched opponent from the battle zone. The surviving Cobras would then turn their attention toward cleaning up what remained of Mourad’s forces after the Hornets were through annihilating their ground-based foe.
In a completely unanticipated move, in the center of the swirling battle, a Hind boldly rushed past the fierce Cobras. The instant it breached the darting defenders, the Pan-Arab helicopter dove for the protection of the desert floor. The Hind bobbed and weaved at over one hundred and eighty miles per hour. With its engine running full out, it sped toward the Marine battalion.
A smile came to the roaring pilot’s face. He was almost there. Over the next rise their abhorred opponent awaited his vengeful wrath. His machine guns and rockets would soon be ripping the first line of outclassed defenders apart. As he raced past his own lines, the Hind cleared the last of the barren dunes separating him from his saintly purpose. The Americans were right in front of him. His glorious moment had arrived. Uncontrollable joy swept over him.
His surging elation would, however, be short-lived. The firing tone went off, ringing in James Fife’s ears. He squeezed the trigger. The Stinger rocketed off his shoulder. Straight as
an arrow, the scant missile roared toward the hurrying Hind.
The helicopter’s radar screamed for its pilot to take evasive action. But the determined Stinger was so near he’d almost no time to react. The mindless killer was closing at ten times the Hind’s speed. In an instant, the pilot’s euphoria was replaced by the stark terror of his impending defeat. His only chance was to turn skyward while dropping strings of white-hot flares in a desperate attempt to fool the unsophisticated little heat-seeker streaking across the skies to destroy him. Maybe, just maybe, a scalding flare would confuse the Stinger and cause it to chase a false target. It was a long shot at best. And with so short a distance between attacker and prey, there was scarcely any possibility of success. Still, a slim chance was better than none at all.
The hell-bent assassin was nearly there. The panicked pilot raced into the hazy firmament while clawing at his flare release. But his frantic efforts would do little good. Before the first shielding flare could free itself, the relentless executioner was upon him. The Stinger’s death-tipped nose flew into the Hind’s engine. Another numbing blast shattered the horrific world above the battlefield.
On the ground, the gunnery sergeant paid scant attention to his victory. There’d be no revelry on Fife’s part. With the first of the rampaging Pan-Arab armor and infantry cresting the final rise, there was no time for that. The enemy was scarcely two hundred yards away. Both sides opened fire. From every corner, the horrendous battle exploded with relishing fury.
While a solid curtain of rifle fire stung the intemperate desert, the platoon’s senior sergeant placed the empty missile tube on the ground and started disassembling the firing mechanism. With the spent tube discarded, he reached for a replacement missile. In less than a minute another Stinger would be attached, ready to leap from the wily Marine’s shoulder once more.