The Art of War c-17

by Keith Douglass

  Iranian Shore station

  Friday, May 7

  0500 local (GMT +3)

  It was still dark out when the last aircraft was done. The Russian leader watched, feeling the inevitability of the future rushing toward him. There was a peculiarly fatalistic streak in most Russian psyches, and he was no exception. He did not want to die — how he did not want to die!

  He contemplated the newly refurbished aircraft. Perhaps it was not much to look at — the finish was still rough, but a few coats of paint would have improved its appearance as well as its aerodynamic characteristics. Still, the engines were sound, the avionics working, and it would do for what the Iranians intended.

  But what would happen when they were through ejecting the United States? Would hungry eyes turn northward, to the fertile planes of Ukraine? To Russia herself?

  This project was a test of what the Arabs claimed was a new era of peaceful cooperation. Deal fairly with Russia and Russia would deal fairly with you. But betray her, and expect threefold results returned to you.

  He summoned the shift leader to him. “Send a messenger. He will want to know we are done, even at this hour.” There was no question as to who he was. The shift leader’s eyes sought his out, anxious and afraid. “Perhaps you’re wrong.”

  The leader forced a smile. “Perhaps I am.”

  But I’m not. You know it, and I know it.

  Just as the sun reached the horizon, two food service trucks pulled up to the hangar. They discharged huge tubs of iced vodka, vats of Russian caviar along with all the accompaniments. A staff car followed in short order, along with a troop carrier. Wadi emerged, smiling, very awake. He bowed and spread his hands expansively.

  “You have done well — well beyond all expectations. My men are passing out a small token of our appreciation.” The soldiers moved among the crowd, handing out packages that contained thin strips of gold. The men gasped, awe on many of their faces. It was more money than they would see in their entire lives.

  “Drink, eat.” Wadi pointed toward the groaning tables. “Each of you take a bottle and bring it with you. I wish to have a final picture to memorialize the new era existing between your country and mine.” The Russians swarmed to the buffet tables, helping themselves. Soon they were talking loudly, boasting, an eager flush of anticipation on each face.

  “The photos,” Wadi said. He pointed at the horizon. “I would like you in three lines, facing the horizon, facing the new day.” Their spirits now buoyed by food and drink, the Russians followed the soldiers. They lined up in roughly three lines. Gromko remained behind to stand with Wadi, who was still smiling.

  Wadi turned to him and said, “Several times now, you have asked me whether Iran has the military power and might to make a success of this plan. Have we pilots, have we the technology — your questions become tedious. I will demonstrate to you myself just how determined we are.”

  With the Russian technicians watching, Wadi withdrew a pistol from his robe and shoved the nose against the Russian’s head. “Do you doubt me now?”

  The Russian turned smiling and spat in the Arab’s face. Wadi pulled the trigger, and the Russian’s head disintegrated into a mass of blood, bone, and brains. A second later, the Iranian troops hosed down the technicians, then moved methodically through them, dealing final death shots to those who survived the onslaught.

  When they were done, Wadi posed in front of the sprawled bodies for the official photograph. There would indeed be a memento to commemorate the new relationship.

  Operations Center

  Wadi walked into the operations center, the Russian’s blood still spattered on his robe. His aide offered him a damp, clean cloth without comment. Wadi wiped the remnants of brain tissue from his neck and face. He did not bother to try to remove the debris from his clothes.

  Let them see it. Let them see it and wonder.

  He turned to his operations officer, and asked, “The submarine is in position?”

  “Yes, sir. Exactly where she should be.” It was clear that the operations officer was shaken by his superior’s appearance.

  Wadi nodded. “Have her linger near the straits,” he ordered. “The American battle group is doomed now.” He paused, shut his eyes for a moment and then nodded. “They have a saying… something about closing the barn door after the horse is out.” He smiled, his teeth stark white against his dark complexion. “Fortunately, it is not one of our proverbs. Instead, we shall let the horse into the barn then shut the gate behind it. You understand?”

  “Of course.”

  “Make sure she is well inside the Straits. Two hours after she passes our last checkpoint, perhaps. Then shut the gate. Permanently.”

  Iranian submarine

  0545 local (GMT +3)

  When the message came, the submarine captain felt a surge of relief. The sooner they executed their mission, the quicker he could leave to a safer position. The water was barely one hundred feet deep, almost too shallow to keep the submarine entirely submerged. And around the straits, the heavy traffic posed a constant threat. He had been up all night, supervising the operations of the sonar suite and the officer of the deck as he dodged heavily loaded merchant ships inbound. Their draft exceeded the clearance.

  “Two hours?” his second in command asked. He pointed at the tactical chart. “The American aircraft the Carrier cannot possibly escape. Even at her top speed, she is three hours from the Strait. I will start the clock now, sir.”

  “Do that.”

  USS Seawolf

  0600 local (GMT +3)

  “I’m satisfied that we have not been detected,” Bellisanus announced. He looked over at Powder and saw a nod of concurrence. “Let’s come up to communications depth and tell the carrier what’s going on. It wouldn’t hurt to have an update on the situation as well. The last I saw, it was going pretty smoothly.”

  “Aye-aye, sir.” The XO turned to the officer of the deck, and listened as the order was relayed and translated into technical terms down to the planesman and helmsman.

  This time the submarine rose slowly, careful not to breach the surface of the ocean. They would come shallow enough to poke their satellite antenna above the water, spit out the message, and suck down data from the Link. God willing, the whole maneuver would take no longer than five minutes. Every second spent shallow, even with only an antenna exposed, increased the risk exponentially.

  “Good data,” the data systems specialist announced. The tactical screen began filling with updated positions.

  The captain and the XO stared at the screen in horror as the situation unfolded in front of them. The cruiser was devastated, in close to the carrier. Jefferson herself just clearing the Straits and now in the Gulf. How had so much gone so wrong so quickly?

  “At least it will make the medical evacuation quicker,” the XO said. “Doc says the sooner the better.”

  The captain grunted. “They always say that.”

  The captain picked up the microphone that fed into the tactical circuit. “Jefferson, this is Seawolf, over.” He listened to the odd warbling over the secure line. A response came back immediately.

  “Seawolf, Jefferson. Go ahead.”

  Briefly, the captain sketched in what had occurred, and then said, “We’re going to need medical evacuation for one of the men. When can you stage that?”

  There was a long silence, then “Seawolf, Jefferson. Wait. Out.”

  The captain hung up the microphone, seething with frustration. He had expected no less, but it was still frustrating.

  The flag TAO would have to find the admiral, who would then no doubt need to consult with his staff before he decided whether or not to risk the dangerous evolution. Thirty minutes, at a minimum, he decided. Thirty minutes was lightning speed in terms of planning, but an eternity to a submarine at communications depth.

  “Conn, sonar! Holding contact on a subsurface contact, bearing 180, range 8000 yards. I classified this as the Iranian diesel we were holding earlier,
sir.”

  The captain swore quietly. Had they been detected? Had air assets seen their antenna? Or this was the simply bad luck?

  No matter. It required immediate action. “Conning officer, take us down.” He turned to the XO. “Tell Doc I’ll get him answer as fast as I can, but we have a problem to take care of first.”

  The captain walked back into sonar and took a look at the displays himself. Not that there was much point to it — if Renny Jacobs had made a mistake, the chief would have caught it, and the captain’s untutored eyes would have been no help. “Any indication he’s doing anything I should know about?” the captain asked.

  “No, Captain,” the chief said. “He’s lying quiet on the bottom, just waiting. Not even moving.”

  “Are we going to have any difficulty holding him with part of the conformal array damaged?”

  “Too soon to tell. Right now we’ve got him, but I suspect we will have some blind spots on some bearings. I won’t know until we try.” The chief sounded worried.

  The carrier had to have transited the Straits barely two hours ago. If the submarine had intended to make a run on her, that would have been the time to do so. So what was she doing lying in wait by the Straits instead of tracking the carrier?

  Just then, the lines on the sonar began to shift. New frequencies appeared, digitized, processed, and labeled with the sonar’s best guess as to source. “She’s on the move,” Renny said. “Heading for the straits.”

  “How long until she gets there?”

  “About fifteen minutes. It’s like she’s been waiting for something, sir,” Renny added.

  The captain looked at him slightly askance. Sure, the sonar technician had a keen grasp acoustically of what a submarine looked like, but speculating on tactical decisions at this level was a little bit out of his league. Still, he glanced up and saw the chief nodding as well.

  “Talk to me — let’s think this out.” the captain said.

  “No doubt,” Renny said without hesitation. “If it’s not the carrier, it’s the Straits themselves. Captain, I think—”

  Just then, a broad swath of noise shot across the display. Even the captain knew what it was. “Compressed air. But no torpedo.” The captain felt a sick feeling starting in his gut.

  There were only a few reasons for a submarine to be shooting compressed air out of her tubes. First, to launch a torpedo, but had she launched a torpedo, it would have been immediately evident on the screen. Second, she could be dumping garbage. Not likely during daylight hours. She could also be launching a special device to determine the sound velocity profile of the water, or a message buoy. But the final possibility, the captain knew instinctively was the right one.

  Mines. The submarine was launching mines. He saw agreement in the sonarman’s eyes.

  “But why? The carrier’s already in the Gulf. Who’s he trying to keep from getting in?”

  “Maybe he’s not trying to keep anyone from getting in, sir,” Renny said slowly. He pointed to the green lines on the screen that were the carrier’s acoustic signature. “Maybe he’s trying to keep us from getting out.”

  TFCC

  0700 local (GMT +3)

  “They’re what?” Batman roared. “The hell you say — is Bellisanus certain?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s a single line across the Straits. He’s requesting orders, Admiral,” the TAO said. He held out the scribbled message they’d just received from the satellite.

  “Take it out,” Batman said unhesitatingly. “Take it out now.” He turned to survey the tactical plot. “And I’ll deal with the rest of it. I want everything we’ve got in the air. First priority — deal with those Iranian F-14s and give us night air superiority. It’s gonna go downhill from there for them. Real downhill — and fast. Now do it now!”

  Almost before he’d finished speaking, the low howl of Tomcats spooling up rattled overhead. Twenty minutes later, virtually the entire airwing was airborne and headed for the coast of Iran.

  Sick Bay

  Rat was the first one out of bed, but Fastball wasn’t far behind her. They were pulling on their uniforms before the corpsman could even get to them, and by the time he’d found Bernie, they were already headed for the door.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” the doctor demanded. “Back in bed — both of you!”

  “Not a chance,” Rat said tartly. She pointed at the overhead. “You hear that? They’re launching everything we’ve got onboard. We’re fine and you know it. And I’m not about to let an aircraft sit on the deck for lack of an aircrew, even if I have to fly with this idiot.”

  “Yeah,” Fastball said, not entirely comfortable with agreeing that he was an idiot, but figuring that he’d settle that later with Rat. “We’re out of here, Doc.”

  Bernie regarded them for a moment, and saw the determination on both faces. Really, there was no medical reason they couldn’t fly right now, although he would have been far happier keeping an eye on both of them for another couple of days just to be certain. But if there’s one place that you can’t wait around for certainty, it’s on an aircraft carrier.

  “Go,” he said finally. “No punching out.”

  Rat and Fastball grinned and sprinted out of the sick bay. Five minutes later, after wangling permission from a harried CAG who barely seemed to remember who they were, they were walking to the paraloft to get their gear.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Tomcat 102

  Friday, May 7

  1000 local (GMT +3)

  Fastball leaned back in his seat for a moment, trying to ease the nervousness that filled his body. He was flying a northeasterly course over the Persian Gulf. His section was at about 10,000 feet. His RIO had been quiet for some time, no doubt setting up her LANTIRN and readying the two huge 2,000 lb.GBU-24 Paveway III laser-guided bombs his bird carried. They were meant for one of the hardened aircraft shelters at the MiG base near Bandar Lengeh.

  He adjusted his night-vision goggles. This “strike stuff” was still new to him. He had always been a fan of the Tomcat’s air-to-air prowess and had selected the Tomcat community because of its primary fighter mission. But the events of the last few years, with the addition of the LANTIRN and the shortage of strike aircraft due to downsizing, had forced the Tomcat community to take a lead role in strike warfare. Now, because of its vastly superior FLIR over that carried by the Hornet, the Tomcat was considered the air wing’s preeminent strike platform.

  Fastball was damned glad that he had an experienced RIO in his backseat. If Rat was anything, she was a good RIO. She was quiet and difficult to get to know, but she was one of the best RIOs in the squadron. Strike was her bag at the RAG and her specialty at TOPGUN. Some joked that she could find a cigarette on a busy street with her LANTIRN.

  Fastball returned his attention to the flight. Glancing to his right, he saw Rat’s FLIR display on his TSD. She was quietly looking over an Iranian oil platform. Probably taking a GPS fix, he told himself. A quick glance outside his cockpit revealed an empty, black sky, tinted only by the greenish cast given by the night-vision goggles.

  He reconfigured his display screen and checked his time. He still had a minute-thirty to reach his next way-point — right on time. So far everything checked out. This mission was key to the Jefferson’s ability to obtain air superiority over the Iranian coastal areas. The goal was to hit the air base with a combination of Tomahawk cruise missiles and strike aircraft from Jefferson. The first barrage of cruise missiles would hit the control tower and a few of the smaller structures. Hopefully, the explosions would cause the aircrews and maintenance personnel to rush to ready their MiGs to scramble. The second, albeit smaller, wave of cruise missiles would then hit, exploding their submunitions over the tarmac, tattering planes and men. The Tomcats would then strike the hardened shelters with their 2,000 lb. bunker-busters.

  A similar strike was planned for the MiG base near Chah Bahar. If these strikes succeeded, they could well destroy the vast majority of MiG-29s, which w
ould leave Iran with no credible night-capable fighters and give the U.S. air superiority for at least a portion of the day.

  “Coming up on way-point four,” Rat said calmly. “Turn left, heading three-three-five. Mark.”

  “Copy,” Fastball responded, banking his plane slightly for the turn.

  “Start your descent to angels eight.” Rat changed her display. “We are fifty-five miles from the target. Confirm weapons armed.”

  “Confirmed.”

  “Come to course three-one-five. Feet dry.”

  “Knocker’s up” she called, meaning that she was switching her focus from air-to-air to her attack mission.

  Hornet 406

  “Football, Packers, we are blank,” radioed Lieutenant Tom “Lyfa” Riley, one of the F/A-18 Hornet pilots flying SEAD. A “blank” call meant that the suppression of enemy defenses (SEAD) aircraft did not detect any emitters of interest. Riley’s APG-73 radar scanned ahead in ground-mapping mode, his ESM gear listening for the telltale signs of air defense radars that might spring to life.

  Tomcat 102

  Fastball steadied his stick and throttle, settling into the designated speed and angle of attack. A blip now appeared on their radar fifty miles to the northeast of their position. A soft chirp also registered on their RWR. The Iranian Tomcats were out again, collecting airborne early warning data. Even though they were flown by considerably less capable pilots than those whom he had fought back in the States, Fastball was glad the Tomcats were staying clear of the fray. The Phoenix was still deadly, even in the hands of a green pilot.

  Johnnie checked her radar predictions, comparing her hand-drawn maps against her FLIR picture. She could see the base of a few hills, a small cluster of buildings, and… there! “I’ve got the airport.” Rat’s thin voice interrupted. They were now at thirty miles. She slewed her crosshairs over the second hanger, locked, then sweetened the fix with her thumb switch. “Captured. Designating the northern hangar.” Rat clicked open her tactical mike. “Two captured.”