“Damn, I hope this works,” Matt muttered.
“Keep the faith, babes,” Furry said.
“Bandits now zero-nine-zero at forty-five, angels eighteen,” the tactical controller aboard the AWACS radioed Martin. “The threat is still in trail.”
“Roger,” Martin answered. His eyes narrowed as he considered his opening move. While Martin’s fangs may have been out and his hair on fire, he was no fool nor did he have a death wish. Surprise was his number one tactic and he had every intention of sneaking up on the bandits unobserved. To accomplish that, he hid down in the weeds at two hundred feet and had his radar in standby. Martin had no illusions about what he was doing; it was the work of the assassin, not bold knights jousting in the lists of combat. “Aldo, say bandits’ heading.”
“Turning to the south,” Aldo answered. It was what Martin wanted to hear. Now the Flankers’ radar was pointed away from him and couldn’t paint him. He doubted if the Iraqis’ ground-based search radars could find him and with the AWACS serving as his eyes, he had the advantage of situational awareness over his opponents.
The colonel was almost in AMRAAM range. Should he turn on his radar and launch one of the highly sophisticated missiles or press for a close-in opening attack? He decided to keep his radar off and close. One of the Flankers would certainly detect his radar so why tell Joe he was out here? He uncaged the seeker head of a Sidewinder and let it search for a target. Almost immediately the comforting growl indicating a lock-on filled his headset. He pressed closer, now deciding to use his gun and do a hit-and-split followed by a reattack.
“Aldo, say position of trailing two aircraft,” he radioed. He still didn’t have a visual contact.
“Viper Zero-One, the bandits are now in a wheel on your nose at six miles, I cannot break trailers out.”
“Are they still on the deck?” Martin asked, his voice still calm and measured.
“Unknown. Stand by,” Aldo answered. The radar on the AWACS could differentiate altitudes but had to change itsmode of operation and that took a few seconds, which Martin no longer had.
“Tallyho,” the colonel called. He could see the bandits high in the sky, still in front of him, silhouetted against the reddening dawn. He pulled back on the stick and climbed, hooking into the six o’clock of the nearest Flanker. He had hidden, now it was time to be quick. The Flanker was still four thousand feet above him when he hit the weapons select switch, bringing his radar out of standby. The radar did as it was commanded and locked on the nearest target. The symbology on the HUD switched to air-to-air and he followed the steering dot. The pipper centered on the target and he squeezed the trigger, sending a short burst of 20-millimeter into the Flanker.
Now he skidded violently to the left and did a Split S, heading back for the deck. Joe had to know he was out here now. “Splashed the bastard,” his wizzo told him, confirming that he had his fourth kill.
“Shit hot!” Martin shouted, not because he was one kill short of becoming an ace, but because his radar had just found two aircraft down on the deck below him. One of them had to be Joe. “One pass, haul ass,” Martin promised his backseater.
Johar’s head was twisted to the right as he scanned the sky above him, looking for the fighter that he knew was out there. He could see the falling dart of fire that had been a Flanker, the latest commander of Mosul. How many are out there? he wondered. Don’t panic, take them one at a time. They’ve got to find me. Now his radar warning gear growled at him. He glanced inside the cockpit and saw a single symbol for a fighter at his six o’clock position. “Samir,” he radioed, “bandit six o’clock, closing, no tally.”
“No tally,” Samir answered. They drove straight ahead and waited. Both men strained to see the fighter they knew was slashing down on them.
“Tallyho!” Johar shouted. He had finally seen the dark silhouette of Martin’s F-15 against the morning glow. “Turn and hook … Now,” Johar commanded. The “turn-and-hook” was a low-level tactic they had worked out while sitting standby alert. Since Johar had called for it, he would make a level turn to the right as low to the ground as possible. At the same time, Samir would reef into a hard climb, maintaining his airspeed. The goal was to make the attacker commit on one of them. It didn’t matter which.
“He’s on me,” Johar called, watching for a missile, extending his speed break and slowing below 200 knots. As expected, a Sidewinder leaped off the F-15 and tracked on him. At die same time, Samir was ruddering his bird over to hook into the fight from above. Johar watched the missile close. His left hand dropped behind the throttles and bounced off a big button, laying a string of flares and chaff behind him to decoy the missile while he honked back on the stick. His airspeed was below 140 knots. Now his tail was turning away from the missile, presenting a reduced heat signature for the missile to home on. His angle of attack increased to above forty units as the nose came up and he slowed even more. The missile homed on a flare.
Johar watched the F-15 do exactly as he had planned. The American pilot had obviously seen Samir coming down from above and had to think about disengaging. The F-15 headed directly for Johar and accelerated for one last snap shot with his gun—something to keep Johar occupied while he ran for safety. It would have worked beautifully with an average pilot.
Now Johar honked back even farther on the stick and the Flanker mushroomed above a thousand feet, its nose high in the air. It resembled the head of a cobra rearing back to strike. Now the F-15 pilot had no chance for a snap shot and was in full afterburner as he flashed by underneath Johar’s cobra, now disengaging, worried more about Samir. Johar had been counting on the American to see him as a sitting duck—a pilot who had let his airspeed decay and gotten himself into a stall while trying to avoid a missile.
But the Flanker was nowhere near a stall. Johar pushed the stick forward and retracted his speed brake. The nose of his Flanker dropped, the head of a cobra striking at its victim. Johar’s timing was perfect and he sent an R-60 dogfight missile at the escaping jet. The F-15 pilot saw the missile and jinked to the left. Then he turned harder to the left, keeping the missile and the two Flankers in sight. Flares popped out behind the Eagle. But the missile NATO called Archer ignored the flares and followed the F-15 through the turn. Itwas still accelerating when it flew up Martin’s left exhaust and exploded. The F-15 pitched into the ground.
“Samir, say position,” Johar radioed. He was in a left turn, orbiting the burning wreckage.
“At your six, joining on your right.” The two Flankers flew one 360-degree turn over the destroyed F-15. Johar tried to reconstruct the engagement from the dead pilot’s point of view to analyze the effectiveness of the turn-and-hook tactic. The American had engaged using hit-and-run tactics and opted to “hit” on him when it looked like Samir had zoomed out of the fight. Johar’s slow speed had tricked the American into closing for a guns solution after launching a Sidewinder. If the pilot had been less aggressive, not so sure of himself, and had turned away and disengaged immediately after launching the Sidewinder, he would still be alive. Would it work again? He didn’t know.
The radio crackled with commands from their ground controller, demanding they report in. “Go common,” Johar said, changing to a frequency where they would not be disturbed.
“What now?” Samir asked when they were established on the new frequency.
“Our controllers are worthless,” Johar said. He checked his fuel, thinking. The Flanker carried more than twenty-two thousand pounds of fuel internally and could stay airborne for long periods of time. “We know the corridor the Americans use,” Johar told his wingman. “Let’s wait for them to come to us.”
Michael Cagliari and General Cox were huddled over the Teletype operator in the small room that housed the Hot Line to the Kremlin. After being off-line for days, the machine was spitting out a message. Someone in the Kremlin wanted to talk to the Americans. The Teletype operator was fluent in Russian and read out the text a line at a time as it scrolled up. �
��Get another translator,” he told his supervisor. The woman motioned for another Teletype operator to read the message. The two men conferred, wanting to be absolutely sure they had it right. An English language translation of the message started to type out. “The Russians want to be sure we don’t botch the translation,” the first operator said.
“Acknowledge receipt,” Cagliari said. “Write your translation down and get it to me.” He picked up the originalcopies and hurried into the Situation Room while Cox called the hospital to tell the President that the Hot Line was up and that the newest leader of the Kremlin wanted to talk to him. Then he followed Cagliari into the Situation Room.
The secretary of state was reading the message out loud to Bobby Burke. He carefully laid the message down when he was finished. “What do you think?” he asked Burke.
“Obviously, we don’t know what’s on his mind, but it’s not going to be good. Count on it.”
The message was from Marshal Grigori Fydor Stenilov, now general secretary of the Communist party and the leading hard-liner in the Soviet Union.
Levy was leading what was left of his tanks and APCs down a hollow that opened onto the main valley floor. When he saw movement in the gap in front of him, he ordered his tanks to disperse to both sides and hide, hoping whatever was out there had not seen them and would slip by. Levy didn’t want to be trapped short of the jumping-off point for their breakout. Halaby guided the tank up a low ridge, heading for concealment on the other side. “GO!” Levy shouted. The movement had turned into three T-72s and the lead tank had seen them.
The V-12 diesel engine roared as Halaby buried his foot in the big gas pedal and the tank dropped over the crest with a jarring crunch as the torsion bar suspense absorbed the impact. The lead T-72 fired, but it was too late and the range too far. Now they were on the back side of the ridge heading for a deep wadi in front of them. Levy planned to take a hull-down position and drill any tank that came over the crest of the ridge after them. Halaby slowed as he nosed the tank down the slope, across some difficult terrain. Then the tank stopped.
“I threw a track,” the driver shouted.
Amos Avner grabbed a long communications extension cord, popped the loader’s hatch over his position, and scrambled out of the tank before anyone could say a thing. Shoshana was surprised at how fast the young man could move and plugged her com cord into the station Avner had been using. She could hear him talking.
“Nazzi, it’s the right track. The top has driven off underneath the fender and is still on the rollers and the front idler. It’s partially on the sprocket.” There was none of the harsh tones that usually accompanied exchanges between the driver and loader. “The right track is on the down side of the hill. You’ve done this one before.” There was triumph in his voice. “Start backing up.”
Shoshana stuck her head out the loader’s hatch and saw Avner beside the tank, holding on to the com cord and guiding Halaby as he backed up. She felt him steer to the right, which stopped the right track. The nose of the tank inched slowly to the left.
“TANK ON THE RIDGE!” Levy shouted and the turret traversed to the left.
Shoshana dropped back into the turret but left the hatch open for Avner. Still the tank inched backward and she could hear Avner’s voice directing Halaby. “Easy, easy, Nazzi. You’ve almost got it.” The tank was turning back onto the track.
“GUNNER! IMI! TANK LEFT!” Levy ordered, going through the firing sequence.
“UP!” Avner shouted, still doing his job while on the outside of the tank. They had been battle-carrying the hyper-velocity armor-piercing round.
“IDENTIFIED!” (Bielski)—“FIRE” (Levy)—“ON THE WAY!” (Bielski).
The loud crack-boom of the main gun echoed through the open hatch and the tank rocked with the recoil. The round hit the underside of the T-72 as it came over the ridge.
“The track’s on!” Avner shouted. “You did it, Nazzi!”
“GUNNER, IMI, TANK!” Levy had seen a second tank coming over the ridge at them, its nose still high in the air. But Avner was outside the tank. Shoshana had watched Avner load the main gun and knew where he stored the different types of rounds. She pulled an Imi out of its storage canister and shoved the fifty-pound round into the open breech with her fist. The breech automatically snapped closed, almost catching her hand. “UP!” she shouted.
Again, they went through the firing sequence and the spent shell casing automatically ejected out of the breech and rolled on the floor of the turret.
“Amos!” Levy shouted over the intercom. “Where are you?” No answer. The loader had been scrambling up theside of the tank when it fired and the recoil had thrown him off.
Again, Levy called out another tank and Shoshana went through the loading routine. But she lost her balance and dropped the fresh round. Rather than scramble for the round, she reached for another one. The delay was too long. The T-72 had crested the hill and got off the first shot. Bielski shouted “IDENTIFIED!” as the round hit the left side of the turret. It was a glancing blow and the reactive armor detonated, sending an explosion out, canceling the explosion coming in.
“FIRE!”
“ON THE WAY!”
The tank rocked and Shoshana could hardly believe they were okay. The turret traversed as they looked for other tanks. Only three burning hulks were on the ridgeline above them. Levy popped his hatch, looking for his loader. But Avner had taken the full force of both explosions and had simply disintegrated. There was nothing left that could be called a body. Levy keyed the radio and checked in with his small force.
In the silence, Shoshana could hear a low moan from Halaby. “Are you okay?” she asked. The driver turned and looked at her, grief, not pain, written across his face. He told her that he was not hurt.
Shoshana looked at Bielski, not understanding. “They were friends,” the gunner told her. “They just didn’t know it.”
“We’re moving out,” Levy said. “We got them all.”
Levy’s Luck had held again, but this time at the price of Amos Avner.
Matt was talking to Sean Leary, his wingman, over the Have Quick radio, telling him how die flak trap at Mosul had been set up. “Al Sahra is probably the same so stand off as far as you can.”
A cool “Roger” answered him.
“I hope he doesn’t press it too hard,” Matt told his wizzo.
“You know Sean,” Furry answered. The attack sequence called for Leary to make a low-level run at Al Sahra and toss a GBU at max range, break off and move outside the range of the SAMs and AAA circling the field. Hopefully, the air defenders around Al Sahra would be concentrating on Leary while Matt ran in, right down the runway.
“I’m in,” Sean radioed, starting his attack run.
“Don’t press it,” Matt mumbled to himself.
Leary’s voice came over the radio: “Thirty seconds.” He was thirty seconds away from pickle, the cue for Matt to start his run. He shoved the throttles into Mil power, touching 600 knots. Now the defenders started to react and the TEWS lit up with numerous threats.
“Bomb gone!” Leary yelled. “I’m outa here.”
Matt could see numerous missile plumes, all on Leary. He concentrated on his run, sweat pouring down his face. Now he could see the runway. A hangar disappeared in a bright flash—Leary’s bomb. “Come left,” Furry said. He had their target on the Target FLIR—six Transport aircraft parked on the ramp.
“Tally,” Matt replied. He could see the aircraft. One was starting to move.
Now they were over the edge of the ramp and Matt felt the six Snakeyes ripple off as the aircraft on the ramp disappeared under his nose. He shoved the throttles into full afterburner and went through the Mach. Furry hit the button that popped flares and chaff in their wake while he twisted around in his seat, checking on their bombs. “Got ‘em!” he shouted. Now they were running for safety, overflying a gun pit and two SAM launchers. Then they were clear.
“Sean,” Matt transmitted, “
say position.”
“North of target. Battle damage.” Every word of the short transmission was strained.
Matt turned to the north and used his radar to find the F-15. He had a single, slow-moving target on his nose at thirty miles. “I’m coming,” he told the stricken pilot. “Can you push your airspeed up?”
“Negative,” came the reply.
“Say damage,” Matt transmitted.
“Controllability problems. Smoke and fumes in cockpit, on emergency generator, MPDP out.” The MPDP was the Multi-Purpose Display Processor that controlled the HUD and video screens in both cockpits.
“He’s blind and flying on backup instruments,” Furry said. “He must be hurt bad.”
Matt felt a coppery taste in his mouth. Leary was in a world of hurt because of him. He had planned the attack. He had determined who would lead the attack. Now it was hisresponsibility to get Leary out. “Hold on,” he radioed. “I’m on the way.”
“Got him on the Target FLIR,” Furry said. Matt looked down and saw the greenish image of an F-15 on the screen. They were still beyond visual range, but the FLIR was imaging the stricken plane. Most of the right rear vertical stabilizer was gone and smoke was streaming from under the right engine. Matt’s resolve hardened.
“Aldo, Viper Zero-Three,” Matt transmitted. The AWACS acknowledged the call and Matt explained the emergency and that he was escorting his wingman out. Then he asked for the mission results. Aldo told him that all aircraft were safely off target and that the convoy had been caught at the ferry and destroyed.
“Relay our status to Viper Zero-One,” Matt requested.
There was a long pause. Then another voice came over the radio, the tactical director. “Be advised that contact with Viper Zero-One was lost during an engagement with two bandits. Suspect he was splashed.”
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