Primary Target (1999)

by Joe - Dalton;Sullivan 01 Weber

  "We may need some help," Jackie said as she felt the helo shudder and start to vibrate. "Stay with us."

  "I'm not going anywhere."

  Scott was holding Maritza with both arms, but she was beginning to slip as the wind whipped them in tight circles. During the harrowing escape, his twin boom microphones had been ripped off by the rappelling rope, making it impossible for him to communicate with anyone.

  "Hang on," he said to Maritza. Jackie, get us on the ground! "We're going to make it," he continued in a soothing, calming voice. "Just another minute or two."

  "My arms are going numb," she said, keeping her head buried against his neck. "I can't feel them."

  Hanging by the upper right side of his parachute harness, Scott strained to hold Maritza next to him. If she lost her grip on him, it was going to be impossible for him to hold her very long. If they didn't land soon, Maritza would fall to her death.

  As the seconds passed, Maritza struggled to keep her legs around Scott's waist. The more she strained, the more she slipped and the heavier she seemed to become.

  Dalton gripped her with all his strength, but he was rapidly losing the battle. He closed his eyes and willed himself to keep her from falling, but it was useless. Land this thing! Rapidly slowing and descending, Jackie triggered the bright spotlight, then adjusted the focus of the beam slightly ahead of the LongRanger. She brought the helo to a slow halt and gently settled toward a grassy knoll.

  "We're almost down," she said to Dalton, hoping he could hear her over the beat of the main rotor blades.

  Without warning, a shoulder-fired SAM missile flashed past the helo's shattered cockpit.

  "Oh, shit!" Jackie swore as she instinctively ducked her head. We've gotta get out of here.

  A few seconds later Maritza lost her grip around Scott's neck and her legs swung wildly downward. Another missile slashed by as Dalton caught her under the arms.

  "Land this sonuvabitch," he shouted as Maritza slowly slipped through his hands and fell.

  Chapter 20

  Shiraz, Iran.

  Enjoying his notoriety as the killer of the American's F-14 Tomcat reconnaissance plane, Major Ali Akbar Muhammud led three MiG-29 Fulcrums as they circled their airfield at Shiraz, then turned west toward the Persian Gulf. One of the pilots in the formation was Major Viktor Kasatkin, a renowned Russian fighter pilot and advanced tactics instructor. A graduate of the Kharkov Higher School of Pilots and the Gagarin Air Force Academy, Kasatkin was honing the skills of the Iranian pilots.

  Muhammud, having received reliable up-to-the-minute information from the auxiliary patrol boat Gavatar and the Iranian corvette Naghdi, was prepared to confront the Americans if they attacked Iran.

  Equipped with Flash Dance radars, air-to-air missiles, and thirty-millimeter cannons, the MiGs represented the most advanced of the flyable fighters in the Iranian Air Force. Major Muhammud adjusted his cockpit lights to enhance his night vision and darted a look at his Iranian wingman, who had been selected from the best the Iranians could muster. He was tucked in close to his leader's wingtip.

  Muhammud, the politically powerful son of an Iranian Air Force general who was killed in a 1995 JetStar crash, was considered by his peers to be one of the most talented fighter pilots in the Iranian Air Force. But then again, during mock dogfights, no one was stupid enough to seriously challenge the cocky and temperamental pilot.

  Not far behind, three more MiG-29s joined in trail and followed Muhammud to their patrol sector between the coastline and Khark Island. The well-educated pilots came from Iran's upper classes; however, their aviation training wasn't up to the standards of the West. The Iranians could demonstrate passable displays of air combat maneuvering, but their basic dogfighting capabilities were considered to be limited at best.

  In addition, the aviators weren't as young and proficient as they once were. A lack of flying time had eroded their skills and prevented the training of new pilots. Almost to a person, the Iranian pilots dreaded the thought of pitting themselves against the highly competent, younger, and better-trained Americans. A bootlegged video of the movie Top Gun had added to their anxiety, especially the scenes of "fangs out" aggression that unfolded during combat training engagements.

  From the first briefing after Washington and her battle group neared the Strait of Hormuz, there had been a strange sense of foreboding among the Iranian pilots. Something seemed different from previous alerts. Most of the younger aviators sensed that their superiors were also more tense than usual. Thanks to the Russian fighter instructor pilots, the Iranian aviators were improving. However, they knew they were up against some of the best-trained fighter pilots in the world. With both flights in close proximity, Muhammud entered their assigned patrol area and waited for further instructions. The mission plan was highly modified from the usual sorties they flew, which heightened Muhammud's sense of anticipation. If nothing happened in the next twenty minutes, they would begin cycling planes to a coastal airstrip for refueling. Seventy-three miles south of Muhammud's position, seven additional MiG-29s were steering a circuitous course toward Hendorabi Island. The American carrier battle group was steaming southwest of the island. Eight miles behind the MiG fighters, three cruise-missile-equipped Dassault Mirage F1 s were prepared to attack the carrier if ordered to do so. Slightly above and a mile behind the F1 s, two aging Bushehr-based F-4 Phantom jets were positioning themselves to attack. Both fighters were equipped with Chinese-made C801 Sardine antiship cruise missiles.

  If hostilities erupted, the Iranians' strategy would be to lure the U. S. aviators close to their homeland, or over any of the seven Houdong-class guided-missile patrol craft, where surface-to-air missiles would be used to make the fight more deadly. Few of the Iranian pilots were willing to discuss the fact that Iran's SAMs couldn't identify friend from foe. A senior pilot who had questioned the tactics disappeared from the base. No one would openly speculate as to his whereabouts.

  Saudi Arabia Four U. S. Air Force F-15 Eagles from the 33rd Fighter Wing's 58th Fighter Squadron taxied into position on the dark runway and held their brakes. Based at Eglin Air Force Base in Florida, the flight crews were completing the last two weeks of a routine rotation to Saudi Arabia.

  Normally, the seasoned fighter pilots enforced Operation Southern Watch, the United Nations--mandated "no-fly" zone in southern Iraq. This early morning wasn't any different for the "Nomads," except that these four highly experienced pilots were preparing to take off on a special mission.

  Their commanding officer and flight leader, a former Thunderbird demonstration pilot, was about to take the pride of the Air Combat Command's 9th Air Force to the Persian Gulf. The pilots' collateral mission was straightforward; fly cover for American warships while the U. S. Navy sent Iran a message.

  A veteran of the Persian Gulf War, Lieutenant Colonel Trent McCutchin took in the panoramic view from his cockpit. Behind the tightly secured fence lines, motion sensors and surveillance cameras mounted atop a watchtower scrutinized the flat, barren desert for miles.

  Turning his head toward his wingman, McCutchin glanced at Sting Two in his F-15. Bathed in the soft glow of his cockpit lights, Major Tim Cotton appeared to be an alien sitting in the clear dome of a flying saucer.

  Satisfied that Sting Two was in the proper position, McCutchin checked his warning enunciators. Loaded with AIM-120 Advanced Medium Range Air-to-Air Missiles, AIM-9 Sidewinders, and 940 rounds for the M-61 Vulcan cannon, the powerful F-15s were ready to add another page to the record book. With over 100 confirmed air-to-air kills--with no losses--the Eagle was considered by many to be the best air superiority fighter in the world.

  McCutchin set the flaps and keyed his radio. "Sting One, radio check."

  The other pilots replied in clipped voices.

  On McCutchin's next call, he and his wingman shoved their throttles forward and released their brakes. Belching tongues of white-hot exhaust from the afterburners, the F-15s blasted down the dark runway. With the precision of
a seasoned aerial-demonstration team, the two Eagles lifted off the runway in a shallow climb.

  Spewing flames from their afterburners, Three and Four were rapidly accelerating to rotation speed.

  Seconds later, after the four fighters were aerodynamically clean, McCutchin initiated a smooth transition to a steep climb. Behind his oxygen mask, the flight leader smiled to himself. He was surrounded by some of the best fighter pilots in the U. S. Air Force.

  Back on the runway, eight F-16 Fighting Falcons taxied into position. Cleared for takeoff, Fang Flight and Rock Flight immediately thundered down the runway in sections of two.

  Incirlik Air Base, Turkey A U. S. Air Force Fast-deploying Air Expeditionary Force, including F-15s from the 1st Fighter Wing, Langley Air Force Base, Virginia, F-16s from the 388th Fighter Wing, Hill AFB, Utah, and the 20th Fighter Wing, Shaw AFB, South Carolina, would join F-117s from the 49th Fighter Wing, Holloman AFB, New Mexico, to provide a powerful response if Iran mounted an aggressive counterattack. Navy and Marine aviators would patrol along the southern coast of Iran. The flight crews would act as a barrier between Iran and the Washington battle group. Other U. S. warplanes based in Oman, Qatar, Bahrain, and Kuwait would provide additional cover for the U. S. warships. If the pilots were confronted by Iranian aircraft, or Iranian surface-to-air missile sites, the rules of engagement were clear. They were free to respond to any threats.

  Chapter 21

  Near Lake Qaraaoun.

  Scott flexed his knees and closed his eyes when the LongRanger's downwash began whipping the ground and slinging debris in every direction. When his feet hit the ground, he ran from under the helo and quickly detached himself from the D ring on the rappelling rope.

  While Jackie maneuvered the damaged helicopter off to the side, Scott turned to search for Maritza. He shielded his eyes and ran toward the inert form lying a few yards away. When he knelt beside her, he was convinced she was dead. When the lifeless body moaned, Dalton almost shouted in relief.

  "Maritza, can you hear me?"

  "Yes," she gasped in excruciating pain. She was staring straight up at the stars and struggling to breathe. "I think my back is broken."

  "Save your strength," Scott said as he held her hand. "I'm going to have to carry you to the helo, okay?"

  She nodded weakly as Jackie rushed to Maritza's side. "Oh, God," Sullivan uttered as she brushed grass and dirt out of Maritza's hair. "We're going to get you out of here." "I know," Maritza said with a convulsive intake of air. Without warning, a series of gunshots rang out and the LongRanger's bright searchlight exploded in a puff of smoke.

  "Let's go!" Scott said to Jackie as he started to lift Maritza. To his surprise and amazement, she turned over and struggled to her knees before he could help her to her feet.

  "Your back isn't broken," Dalton exclaimed as Maritza took a step and almost fell against him.

  "That's the good news," she said, trying to get her wind back. "But my ankle's shattered."

  He scooped her into his arms and ran for the helo. Seconds later Jackie added power as Scott gently placed Maritza in the back of the cabin, then scrambled in beside her.

  More shots rang out as Jackie lifted the LongRanger off the knoll, then lowered the nose to transition into high-speed forward flight. As the ship climbed away, a round went through the tail-rotor gearbox.

  While Scott tended to Maritza, Jackie kept the helo's forward speed up and maintained a shallow climb.

  "Uh-oh," Sullivan said to herself when the helicopter started a steady series of vibrations. Subtle at first, the vibrations grew more intense as the helicopter ascended. She gently nursed the cyclic, collective, and tail-rotor pedals. When the tail-rotor controls didn't respond normally, she knew that something was on the verge of failing. "Just stay together," she pleaded out loud as she gently reduced power.

  "What's wrong?" Scott shouted from the wind-whipped cabin.

  "We have a problem."

  Dalton covered Maritza with a thin blanket and tucked the edges under her shoulders and legs. "How bad is it?"

  "I don't think we can stay in the air much longer," she said in a resigned voice, then keyed the radio. "Umpire, Charlie Tango."

  "Go," Greg O'Donnell shot back.

  "I have a major problem," Jackie said tersely. "I'm going to try for the dirt strip between the power plant and the south end of Lake Qaraaoun. We need assistance ASAP."

  "Site Delta?" O'Donnell asked.

  "That's affirm."

  "I'm on my way."

  Greg adjusted the dim light above his kneeboard, then flipped the selector switch to the number-two radio. "Transco Twenty-seven is on fire! Transco Two-Seven is on fire!" he said in a panicked voice as he pulled the power and rolled the big Cessna into a step turn, allowing the nose to drop straight toward the ground.

  O'Donnell kept the transmit switch keyed. "Transco Twenty-seven is going down. Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!" he continued as he flicked the external lights off.

  "Transco Twenty-seven is on fire! Going down, out of control! We're going in," he shouted, switching back to the number-one radio while he turned off the transponder.

  From what the air traffic controllers saw on their scopes, Transco 27 had vanished from radar over the peaks of the Anti-Lebanon Mountains.

  Pulling out of the steep dive east of Dahr at Ahmar, Greg steered a direct course for the emergency landing strip at Site Delta.

  Jackie's cautious expression dissolved when the Long-Ranger suddenly started vibrating violently laterally and vertically. She was instantly afraid that the main rotor blades would disintegrate, causing a catastrophic failure that would send them plunging to their deaths.

  Wide-eyed with fear, Sullivan concentrated on stabilizing the ship and turned to Scott. "I have to put it down!" "You're the pilot."

  "Umpire," Jackie said over the radio, "I have to set it down here." She looked at the GPS and gave O'Donnell the coordinates.

  "I've got it firewalled," he assured her, and read back her position. "Keep me informed."

  Before Jackie could reply, there was a resounding vibration and banging that shook the helo so hard that she couldn't read the instruments. Reacting to the terrifying crisis, Jackie eased off the power at the same time something snapped in the tail-rotor gearbox. The LongRanger immediately began oscillating from side to side as she desperately fought the controls.

  "Tail-rotor failure!" she cried out as she frantically lowered the collective and rolled off the throttle to keep the ship from rotating out of control under the main rotors. Jackie entered an autorotation and, before she thought about it, hit the switch for the searchlight.

  Nothing happened.

  "Great," she said as she stared down at the black hole they were descending into. "Brace yourselves," she shouted to Maritza and Scott.

  "Umpire," Jackie said urgently, "we've had a tail-rotor failure. I'm autorotating near the south end of the lake." "Roger that," Greg advised. "I'm hurrying."

  Without the powerful searchlight, Jackie was having a difficult time seeing the edge of the shoreline.

  "Scott, are you and Maritza strapped in?"

  "We're all set," he said as he covered Maritza's head with a pair of folded blankets. "It's too late for me to strap her into a seat."

  "This is gonna be a rough landing," Jackie warned as she fought to control the plummeting helicopter.

  "It couldn't be as bad as my last one," Maritza deadpanned.

  Watching the radar altimeter, Jackie was about to begin a flare over the edge of the reservoir when the helo hit an unseen electric power line. A bomb burst of blue-white sparks flew in every direction as one of the wire strike cable cutters snagged the high-voltage power line.

  The LongRanger entered a violently pitching, spinning, disorienting, out-of-control maneuver. The spinning created a centrifugal force that pulled Jackie forward toward the shattered windshield.

  For a few seconds the helicopter hesitated precariously in midair and then crashed into the sh
allow lake. The megavolt power line separated and dropped into the reservoir as the LongRanger rolled over on its right side.

  Dazed and gasping for a breath of air, Scott could feel electrical shocks coursing through his body. He struggled with his restraining straps while the helicopter sank below the surface of the reservoir. The cool water was pitch-black and he was feeling light-headed. Finally, after what seemed like minutes, Dalton cleared his head enough to snap the quick-release buckle open and free himself from his restraints. He tried to move, but something was holding him back.

  ***

  From a distance of seven miles, Greg O'Donnell saw the pyrotechnic display from the power-line strike. He glanced at his chart. Sure enough, the high-voltage lines exiting the power plant ran along the southern edge of the lake. His heart sank to the pit of his stomach as he selected 121.5, the emergency frequency, on his number-two communications radio. "Charlie Tango," Greg radicied as he began a high-speed descent, "this is umpire on guard. Do you copy?"

  The radio remained silent.

  "Charlie Tango, come up guard."

  Stay calm, Scott told himself as he shoved the shoulder straps aside. He attempted to move again, then realized that the sleeve of his jumpsuit was caught on a twisted edge of his seat. His mind, disciplined by years of conditioning and training, began to flash a warning. Panic in the water is an irreversible behavior. With his lungs aching in searing pain, he reached for Maritza. She wasn't there.

  Scott kicked at his bent door and finally forced it open. He swam free of the cockpit and bashed against one of the twisted main rotor blades, then shoved off into the inky blackness. Near the surface of the lake, the water seemed to glow as Scott saw an array of minuscule organisms drift lazily in front of his eyes. A split second later he surfaced as his oxygen-starved mind screamed for air.

  With his lungs heaving, Scott treaded water and frantically looked around the floating debris. The steady surge of electrical shocks continued as he noticed waves of blue electricity shimmering across the water. The pungent smell of jet fuel permeated the air and made breathing difficult.