by Dale Brown
Inonu felt as if he were sitting on a triangle-shaped seat. The Russian bomber was well within cruise missile range now, and could be overhead in just nine minutes. It would take the oiler Akar nearly twenty minutes just to execute a 180-degree turn and head for shore. Akar would have to fight it out just like Fatih and the patrol boats. “Air defense weapon stations, check in.”
“Sea Sparrow crews, up and ready.”
“One-twenty-seven station, up and ready.”
“Sea Zenith station forward, up and ready.”
“Sea Zenith station aft, up and ready.”
“Thank you, weapons.” Captain Inonu knew these crews were ready to go—the section chiefs would have reported in if they were not—but Inonu put the report on shipwide intercom and on the task force network so crews on the patrol boats and crews on the oiler Akar could hear it. Hopefully it would make each and every crewmember stay on his toes.
“Sir, decoy pattern one laid down,” the EW detail reported. A decoy pattern was a thirty-foot-wide by one-hundred-foot group of floating decoys deposited in Fatih’s wake that, hopefully, resembled a large vessel on radar or visually.
“Sir, active Golf-band radar, identified as Tu-22M maritime patrol and targeting radar,” the EW section reported. “Electronic countermeasures capable and standing by.”
No use in staying passive now, Inonu thought—the Russian bomber had a radar fix and a clear shot. Staying radar-silent now would only reduce their own combat effectiveness. “Clear to begin active jamming on downlink and continuous wave signals, EW,” Inonu ordered. “Take down the missile targeting radar as soon as possible. Do not jam their nav radar until they close within thirty miles.” Most maritime patrol planes had infrared sensors that could see out twenty to thirty miles, so few used radar within that range at night unless they were lining up to attack; but in any case jamming non-weapon-related electronics such as ship-to-ship radio or navigation radar was considered a hostile act. Inonu wanted to avoid any charges that he was pushing for a fight—besides, the fight was coming to him plenty fast.
“Copy, sir. Beginning active radar jamming now.”
The “shooting” had started. Even though no actual explosive weapons had been employed by either side, exchanging electronic signals was just as critical and just as important as firing a projectile. Successfully using radar jammers and other electronic tactics could negate billions of lira worth of pyrotechnic weapons. But being in range of jammers meant that they were well within range of other more deadly weapons. Technically, painting a foreign ship with a missile targeting radar was an act of war, but in the Black Sea it was all part of the game. Who would blink first? Who would “escalate” the “conflict” by jamming? Who would shoot first?
“Radar, where are those bombers … ?”
“Sir, range sixty miles, altitude two thousand feet, closing speed six hundred ten knots,” the radar officer reported, as if he were reading his captain’s thoughts. “We are still passive on air-search and targeting radars. Shall we lock on now?”
Sixty miles—very close for a high-speed Russian missile attack. A Russian AS-4 antiship missile had a range of over one hundred miles at the bomber’s current altitude. Newer Russian antiradar missiles had a range of only forty to fifty miles, and a gravity bomb attack over a frigate was unlikely, so if the fight wasn’t on in the next fifteen to thirty seconds, these Russians were pissing away their opportunity. But with an AWACS radar plane overhead, the frigate had the advantage—no use in wasting it yet. “Negative. Stay passive until ten miles outside Sea Sparrow range. At thirty miles, I want full-spectrum jamming and active missile targeting—I want to leave no doubts in this guy’s mind that we mean business. Comm, this is Combat, call fleet headquarters again and request permission to engage hostile targets if they do not alter course. Make the request in the clear on the emergency frequency and in English. Is that understood?”
“Copy, sir, make request for permission to release batteries in the clear.” Seconds later, Inonu heard the transmission in his headphones as the broadcast was made on the international maritime emergency channel 16. This would have the ultimate affect of alerting the media and creating a lot of anxiety among all the governments that bordered or accessed the Black Sea, but Inonu wasn’t going to back down.
“Sir, Diamond reports the F-16s have intercepted the Russian bombers,” Communications reported. “Radar scan only. Count is now six Tupolev-22M bombers. No word yet on weapons or … stand by, Combat … stand by for priority red alert.”
Inonu touched the shipwide intercom button. “All hands, stand by for priority red alert.”
“Combat, red priority, red priority, Diamond sends, F-16 interceptor aircraft engaged by Sukhoi-27 fighters. Count unknown.”
Kemal help us, Inonu thought, those fighters must’ve been flying in close formation with the bombers, screening themselves from radar to disguise their numbers. “All hands, this is the captain, Russian bombers had fighter escorts that just engaged our F-16 fighters. Everyone look sharp.”
“Sir, copying mayday calls from two F-16 fighters, range forty miles.”
“Range to the bombers?”
“Getting telemetry, sir.”
Not fast enough, he thought. “Radar, go active, all stations, prepare to engage hostile aircraft.”
“Sir, Diamond confirms three F-16 fighters shot down at forty-two-miles range.”
“Dammit, I want range to the bombers, “ Inonu shouted.
“Sir, radar contact aircraft, range twenty-eight miles, speed six-two-five, altitude five hundred feet.”
“Copy that. All stations, batteries released, clear to engage, repeat, clear to engage. Begin active jamming on all frequencies.”
But that was exactly what the Russian bombers had been waiting for: seconds after the radars on Fatih were reactivated, they heard, “Sir, missiles inbound, many missiles, ballistic flight path.”
“All stations, go passive!” Inonu shouted. “Bearing to incoming missiles?”
“Bearing three-five-zero.”
“Helm, come to course zero-four-five, best maneuvering speed.” That heading would allow all of Fatih’s weapons to be brought to bear on the missiles—they had a better chance of destroying the missiles than dodging them. “Chaff rockets, EW, full salvo. Deploy emitter balloons. All stations, check full passive.” Another last-ditch decoy device they used, primarily against antiradar missiles, was tiny radar transmitters tied to large helium balloons—they made tempting targets for not-too-smart missiles.
“Balloons away, sir.”
“Very well. Bearing to miss—”
But Inonu did not have a chance to finish that last request. He saw the launch indications for the Sea Sparrow missiles, then saw the firing command and heard the steady pounding of the 127-millimeter gun, and then heard the buzzsaw-like scream of the Sea Zenith guns, all in rapid succession—and then the sickening crunch of metal and the sudden vertigo as the normally stable deck heeled sharply over to starboard.
“Ah, poulako,” Inonu swore. “Damage control, report!” But Inonu didn’t need the full report to see that the Sea Sparrow and aft Sea Zenith gun mount were out or faulted—one of the Russian antiradar missiles must’ve hit aft of the number-two stack.
“Sea Sparrow launcher is out,” Inonu’s combat officer reported. “Aft Sea Zenith mount faulted … air section reports minor damage to helo deck.” The report continued with minor fires on the helo deck while the 127-millimeter cannon and the forward Sea Zenith gun battery opened fire again.
“Where are those bombers?”
He was answered by an immense explosion on the portside forecastle, just a few compartments forward from CIC, followed by another smaller explosion abovedecks. Console lights went blank and emergency lights snapped on. “Damage control, report,” Inonu yelled into his intercom. No response. He switched to the backup battery-powered intercom—still no response.
The crewmen sitting behind blank consoles were turne
d toward their captain, waiting for their orders. None had risen out of their seats, although they clearly heard the sounds of rushing water and knew something bad had happened. Inonu had no choice—deaf and blind down here in CIC, it was no place for his crew.
“One-twenty-seven crew and IR, stay at your posts,” Inonu shouted. The 127-millimeter cannon and the passive infrared/laser tracking system were still functioning, and they might get a shot at the Russian bombers still. “All other crewmen, damage-control procedures.”
Quickly but orderly, all but four technicians and the section directors rushed for the hatch. Each man departing CIC had a damage-control position topside, and they would stay there until relieved or ordered back to CIC. The CIC section chiefs would try to get the gear working again.
As much as he hated to abandon the post, Inonu’s responsibility was now with the ship. Lieutenant Ecevit knew that, and he was standing beside the CIC officer’s seat, waiting to take over. Inonu reluctantly rose. “Lieutenant, take over here,” the captain said. “Thanks for your work, Mesut. You too, chief. If you pick those bastards up on the IR sensor, blast them to hell for me.” The captain clasped his young officer’s shoulder and headed topside.
When Inonu made it up on the portside catwalk to take the outside run to the bridge, the sight that greeted him made him freeze in absolute shock. Fatih had come through the antiradar-missile attack relatively unscathed—the patrol boat Poyraz and the oiler Akar had both been hit, and hit hard. The patrol boat looked like it had its fires under control, although occasionally a lick of flame would shoot skyward as a weapon magazine was blown open or another high-pressure line ruptured. Akar’s aft crew section, where the radars were located, was burning fiercely in two places. The fires had obviously not reached the fuel storage tanks yet, but there was no sign that the fires were under control either. No searchlights or deck lights were illuminated, and none of the lifeboats or motor launches were unstowed or on deck level—that meant that damage-control procedures were being hampered or were nonexistent.
Inonu jumped as the 127-millimeter cannon boomed once, twice, three times—and then Inonu heard them. They sounded like an approaching freight train, like an avalanche, like what it might sound like seconds before being hit by a speeding car. The Russian bombers careened overhead, slicing crudely through the air, rupturing the skies with their huge engines. Inonu knew what would happen next—he had seen American and Italian bombers do attacks on Turkish ships before, but they had only been simulated then—and he covered his ears tightly.…
The supersonic boooms, three of them, rolled over the Fatih seconds later, far louder than his 127-millimeter gun, louder than any gun Inonu had ever heard. The shock wave was so solid against the chill night air that he thought he could feel it, maybe sidestep it or cruise around it. He heard the shock wave retreat across the sea like a giant knife slicing through paper at a thousand miles per hour. Kemal be blessed, he hoped to turn one thousand years of age before he heard that sound.…
Inonu had reached the final ladder that led to the bridge when he realized that the Russian bombers had deliberately flown overhead, but had not dropped any bombs or launched any more missiles. Was the antiradar-missile attack going to be all… ? No, he realized, there had to be more. “Mine countermeasures!” he shouted as he raced up the ladder to the bridge. It was too loud to be heard, but maybe a lookout would hear him. “Release torpedo decoys, damn you! Lookouts to the forward rail! Watch for mines.”
But it was too late.
After launching several AS-12 antiradar missiles from long range, the Tupolev-22M bombers had sown strings of shallow E45-75 torpedoes in the path of the frigate and the patrol boats. Activated by the ship’s engine sounds or by detecting the ship’s magnetic influence, the torpedoes activated their electric motors and acoustic sensors, maneuvered themselves around, then launched themselves at their targets at high speed. Before anyone could react, three torpedoes had hit the frigate Fatih and two had hit the stricken patrol boat Poyraz. The weapons were small—the torpedoes’ size was spent in speed and maneuverability, not explosive power—but their effects were devastating enough. Fatih was crippled and listing badly in less than fifteen minutes; the patrol boat Poyraz had capsized, with twelve men trapped below-decks, in less than half that time.
THIRTY-TWO
Over the Eastern Mediterranean Sea The Next Morning
Good thing the digital avionics and Multi-Function Displays on the RF-111G Vampire translated English measurements into metric, Rebecca Furness thought as she keyed the mike button on her throttle quadrant. “Ankara Air Control Center, Thunder One-Zero flight is with you, level at eight thousand meters, over.”
The voice that replied had twinges of Turkish and British accents in it, which made Furness smile—she had certainly heard a wide variety of accents on this trip. “Thunder Flight, this is Ankara Air Control Center, I read you, level at eight thousand. Turn left heading zero-seven-zero, descend and maintain five thousand meters.”
“Thunder One-Zero flight, roger, left to zero-seven-zero, leaving eight for five thousand meters.”
The new heading put the island of Cyprus on their right wing and the Taurus Mountains of southern Turkey on their left. Ahead about eighty miles was the Nur border region between Syria and Turkey, the scene of much combat over the past few years during the Middle East War of 1993 and 1994. In 1993, a combined military effort by Syria, Jordan, Iraq, and Yemen to rearm and strengthen Iraq, weaken Israel, and take over the Persian Gulf region (the move was advertised as an attempt to form a strong pan-Islamic fundamentalist nation) threw most of this area in chaos. The decisive military power in the region turned out to be Turkey. With its strengthened military forces, its strategic location, its Islamic heritage, and its strong Western ties, it proved to be a vital factor in allowing the West to drive back a broad-front attack by the Islamic Coalition, as well as negotiate a true ceasefire with the Muslim nations.
This was a pretty pitiful show for such an important ally, Furness thought as she checked out her wingmen around her. Furness was leading a gaggle of twelve RF-111G Vampire bombers, representing the White House response to Turkey’s call for help. The flight was spread out into three groups of four, stacked down five hundred feet from one another and spread out to about two miles apart. Although they were very heavily armed—with defensive weapons only, but potent nonetheless—Rebecca would have expected a much greater response from so powerful a friend, in such a volatile part of the world, especially after that ally had just been attacked. When Kuwait was attacked, the United States had fifty F-15C Eagle fighters from the First Tactical Fighter Squadron in Saudi Arabia in twelve hours, and within three days another two hundred warplanes, mostly Reservists and National Guardsmen, were in the Kuwaiti Theater of Operations.
Twelve twenty-five-year-old RF-111G Vampires were sure to be welcomed, but it was not that impressive. She was sure part of it had to do with the President’s decidedly less-aggressive stances than his war-hero predecessor.
“Got the Seyhan River valley and Adana on radar, seventy miles straight ahead,” Mark Fogelman said. He switched to the tactical electronic warfare threat display and peered into the “feed bag,” the black plastic hood around the multifunction cathode ray tube before him. “I’m picking up Echo-3-band search radar from Adana, from Latakia, Syria, in front of us, and from Nicosia behind us. Latakia has a Bar Lock search and intercept radar, probably for an SA-5 SAM system—and I’m picking up Hotel-band Square Pair fire control signals from Latakia, but they aren’t locked on to us. Echo-band height finders out there, associated with the SA-5. Too early to get an ID on the missile, but the bearing is from Syria, so I’m guessing SA-5 system.” He took his eyes out of the CRT hood, called up the missile launch control page for the AGM-88C HARM (High-speed Anti-Radiation Missile) on his right-side Multi-Function Display, and checked the indication on the CRT. “I’ve got a good HARM acquisition on the Echo- and Hotel-band radars. Thirty more miles east, an
d we can kill them. Still not picking up the Lima- or Kilo-band Patriot or Hawk radars in Turkey—they must’ve been nice and shut them down for us.” He took his eyes out of the scope and searched the early morning skies until he located each and every one of the Bravo Flight aircraft. “The flight looks good—looks like people are starting to close in a little. They must be getting antsy with all the bad guys painting us out there.”
“Copy, Mark. Thanks.”
“Copy” was not nearly an appropriate enough response for the stunning transformation that had come over Mark Fogelman. He was a totally different airman. The old Fogelman would have been asleep five minutes into the flight and would have stayed that way until landing—this Fogelman had been awake the entire trip, nearly eighteen hours now. The old Fogelman would have not touched the radar and would never have practiced using the electronic warfare suite to locate and identify radar systems around them—this Fogelman had been giving Rebecca a near nonstop recitation on every electromagnetic bleep within range of their sensors. He had even dry-fired his HARM missiles at simulated targets and run down the proper flight procedures for engaging different threats. The old Fogelman never cared about formation procedures and had considered the control stick and throttles on the right side of the cockpit a nuisance. This Fogelman had been right on top of his formation procedures, constantly checking on his wingmen, recommending flight leader changes and position changes in case someone’s neck was getting tired from always looking in the same direction. He was on the radios constantly, talking to air traffic control and overwater-flight following, and he was into his second roll of SATCOM printer paper because he was sending and receiving so many satellite “ops normal” and weather reports. The most shocking request came when Mark actually asked to fly the Vampire into air refueling contact position behind a tanker. To Rebecca’s surprise, he was actually damn good at it, and had managed to stay in contact position for a good five minutes until a small burst of turbulence knocked him off the boom and he shyly declined to go back in again.