Shadows of War

by Robert Gandt

  The transmission abruptly ended.

  < >

  “—less than ten seconds out.”

  Alexander couldn’t hear the last words of his own transmission. He was talking into a dead microphone.

  The goddamn radio! It had just quit. So had his RWR. What the hell was going on? His multi-function display was flickering on and off like a cheap motel sign. His jet was turning into a bag of electronic shit.

  He had seen the first missile overshoot Pearly’s jet. The hard break had outturned the SAM. The second missile had gone stupid during their turn to egress, chasing the chaff cloud. Pearly was home free.

  But not you, Alexander. You’re in a world of shit. The second volley of missiles—the ones with his name on them—were coming like homing pigeons with their asses on fire.

  And he couldn’t communicate.

  One thing was certain. The SAMs would kill him in less than ten seconds. That was how much time Maxwell said was remaining on the HARM countdown.

  He keyed the mike again to call Pearly for another break turn. Nothing. The radio was dead as a dog turd.

  No time left. He racked the Hornet into another max-G break turn to the left. Grunting against the G forces, Alexander peered over his shoulder, looking for the killer SAM. The turn would take maybe five seconds. He was buying time. Keep turning, make the SAM turn with you, throw it off. Run out the clock. . .

  Kabloom! He felt the concussion through the airframe of the jet.

  Alexander tensed himself, ready to eject. How bad am I hit?

  He waited, counting the seconds. Nothing happened. No warning lights, no fire, no failures—except the goddamn radio that had already gone tits up.

  Gradually he let himself realize that he had escaped. The SAM had come close enough to detonate its proximity fuze, but the whirling, gnashing cookie-cutter teeth of the warhead had not sliced through his Hornet.

  He was okay. He realized he was holding his breath, still grunting against the force of the max-G turn.

  In the next instant his RWR came back on. After the momentary BIT check, the display was clean. No more targeting. Maxwell’s HARM must have landed. Somewhere in Tabruz, what used to be an SAM-2 launching unit was now a bonfire, and the gomers who tried to kill him were crispy critters. Alexander felt like whooping and rejoicing—and then he caught himself.

  Shit. Something else was going on. His radios were still dead, and the displays were flickering like a video game. But that wasn’t all.

  Smoke. A dark, acrid cloud was seeping up from the consoles.

  < >

  Time to get out of Dodge, Maxwell decided. They were still a hundred-fifty miles inside Indian country. “Runners egress south,” he ordered on the radio. “Heading one-nine-five.”

  As he started his turn, he saw B.J. turning her jet to the south, staying with him. By the indications on his own display, the missile battery was no longer emitting. “Anyone still spiked?” he called.

  “Runner Two naked.”

  “Runner Four naked.”

  The HARM had done its job. Neither B.J. nor Pearly were getting hits from the missile battery radar.

  Bullet hadn’t replied.

  “Runner Three, say your status.”

  No reply.

  “Looks like Runner Three has a problem,” called Pearly. “He’s NORDO.” NORDO was the brevity code for “no radio.”

  In his display Maxwell could see the data linked symbols of Alexander’s and Gates’s jets. They were only twelve miles away, closing. “Pearly, you take the lead, and we’ll join on you. Maintain angels thirty on a 195 heading.”

  He called the AWACS. “Snow King, are you copying all this?”

  “Snow King copies,” answered the controller. “Do you require assistance?”

  Maxwell considered for a moment. They might need the SAR—Search and Rescue—helo if Alexander had to get out and walk.

  “Stand by. I’ll let you know.”

  Keeping a constant bearing on the two symbols in the display, Maxwell set up an intercept. The link with Alexander’s jet was intermittent. At a range of six miles, he picked up the two specks of the Hornets, slightly low, at his ten o’clock.

  What the hell was going on with Bullet’s jet? The F/A-18E had not one but two UHF radios. He’d never heard of a dual failure in the Super Hornet before, but—

  “Runner One from Four. Three just blew his canopy. I think he’s going to eject.”

  Uh, oh. “Snow King, Runner One. Tell Sandy to scramble.” Launch the SAR helo. And with it, the A-10 armed escorts.

  He could see the other two Super Hornets clearly now, Bullet in the lead, Pearly flying a loose wing position on his left side. Alexander’s jet looked like a cabriolet, the big Plexiglas canopy gone. He could see him hunched down in the cockpit, trying to keep his bulky shape out of the violent wind blast.

  Why did he blow the canopy? Maxwell wondered.

  “Runner Four, start a descent now,” he called. They were still at twenty-eight thousand feet. Alexander’s cockpit was unpressurized. He needed to get down into thicker air.

  As the flight of jets slanted downward, Maxwell came close alongside. He ordered Pearly and B.J. to move out to a loose tactical formation.

  Maxwell could see Alexander peering at him through his black helmet visor. As Maxwell slid in close, Alexander pointed to his oxygen mask with his left hand, tapped the side of his helmet, then he gave a thumbs down.

  No transmit, no receive. Alexander’s radios were shot. They had to communicate by hand signal.

  Maxwell signaled that he was taking the lead, and Alexander dropped back to a loose position on Maxwell’s right wing.

  As they exchanged more air-to-air hand signals, Maxwell began to get the picture. Alexander had some kind of electric problem. Smoke had filled his cockpit, which forced him to blow the canopy for ventilation.

  Alexander was signaling again, this one non-standard. He was holding up a middle finger, waving it around the cockpit.

  It took Maxwell a second to get it, then he had to laugh. This jet is all fucked up.

  He nodded back to Alexander. Roger that.

  At ten thousand feet, he leveled off. Only seventy more miles to feet wet—the safety of the open sea. All they had to do was get back to the Reagan, then make a two-ship approach with Alexander flying his wing. At a quarter mile out, Alexander would detach and fly his own pass to the deck. Routine.

  All they had to do was get out of Iran.

  “Runner One,” called the ACE. “For your info, Sandy is airborne. They’ll hold at the border until cleared in. What’s your status now?”

  Maxwell glanced at Alexander’s topless jet. Status? Royally fucked up, thank you. “Looks like we’ll make it feet wet.”

  “Copy that. Suggest you change heading twenty degrees right. Your present course will take you over a possible triple-A threat.”

  “Runner copies, coming right twenty.” A good call. At ten thousand feet, they were sitting ducks for large-caliber anti-aircraft guns.

  He eased the throttles forward nudging their airspeed up to 450 knots. It was a hell of a ride for Bullet in his topless cockpit, but the sooner they got out of hostile territory and to the ship, the better.

  He saw movement off his right wing. Alexander was coming alongside again.

  As he came close, Maxwell saw him giving another hand signal. Electrical failure Same problem, thought Maxwell. So why was he—

  Bullet held up a blank briefing card. Maxwell could see the grease-penciled letters: FIRE.

  < >

  Mashmashiyeh, Iran

  By the time Al-Fasr reached his command building—a stucco hut festooned with antennas for SatComm and the data link to the missile batteries—the pain in his right leg had worsened. It was throbbing as if his thigh were on fire, forcing him to walk with a limp that he could not conceal.

  The damaged leg was the price he paid for escaping from a shattered MiG-29 at zero altitude. A half swing in the para
chute, then he slammed into the hard dry earth of Yemen. But the worst damage had occurred during the day and a half he spent in a horse-drawn wagon before his fractured femur could be attended by a clumsy village doctor.

  It was a miracle that he had survived. It was an even greater miracle that he and half his Sherji managed to escape Yemen before the Americans could hunt them down like wild animals.

  Jamal Al-Fasr sometimes wished he could attribute such miracles to Allah. It would be a blessing to possess the blind faith of zealots like Abu and his men. Whatever happened, regardless of their mistakes, it was the will of Allah.

  One of their cherished beliefs was that death in battle entitled them to a reward in heaven that included seventy virgins. The image always forced Al-Fasr to suppress a laugh. Seventy virgins. It was a cruel myth, but it had enticed thousands of Arab men to become martyrs.

  He could not let the Brigade sense his true feelings. They had to believe that they were engaged in a holy war. They mustn’t suspect that Al-Fasr’s mission was something else, and it had nothing to do with virgins or the fear of Allah.

  He entered the command building and flopped into the padded chair at his desk, extending his aching right leg straight out. Abu followed him inside while Shakeeb took up his station at the doorway, watching both men from beneath his dark, hooded eyebrows.

  Abu stood in front of Al-Fasr, his shoulders hunched forward in a combative posture. “Jamal, you have gone too far. You have humiliated me in front of —”

  “You are impertinent. A subordinate may not address his senior by his given name. In public, you will address me as ‘Colonel’.”

  “This is the Bu Hasa Brigade, not your emirate air force. We have no rank here.”

  “We have discipline here!” Al-Fasr slammed his fist on the desk. “We are soldiers, and we will conduct ourselves like soldiers. That means you will not carry out the execution of civilians without direct orders from me.”

  “You were not here. As second-in-command, I made the decision.”

  “You made a mistake, Abu. Let us hope it was not an irreparable mistake.”

  Despite his anger, he forced himself to soften his tone. Abu was a prideful, swaggering figure who coveted authority. This was not the time to turn him into an enemy.

  “You are a good soldier,” said Al-Fasr. “I want you to stay focused on our mission. We wish to establish a permanent base in this country, and it does not serve our purpose to alienate the people who live here.”

  Abu nodded, apparently placated by Al-Fasr’s change in tone. “How would you have me deal with those who resist our occupation?”

  “Regard them as stubborn children. The day will come when they will thank us for restoring their land.”

  “What about those we have rounded up to witness the executions?”

  “Release them. They may hate us, but they will be thankful to be alive.”

  Abu nodded again. His expression showed that he did not agree. “And the attack on the Americans? When will you give the order to proceed?”

  “Soon. The timing is critical. The nature of the attack must leave no doubt about where it comes from.”

  “What if the enemy is not deceived?”

  “They will be. The Americans are very predictable. They are obsessed with retaliation.”

  “Al ain bel ain sen bel sen.” The words seemed to amuse Abu. “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.”

  “Ironic, isn’t it?” said Al-Fasr. “We will cause them to behave like Arabs.”

  At this, Abu laughed and relaxed his hunched posture. “Inshallah,” he said. “If God wills it.”

  Al-Fasr laughed with him. The crisis had passed—for now. Al-Fasr dismissed him with a wave, and Abu left the command building, still laughing to himself.

  From the doorway, Shakeeb watched with narrowed eyes. When Abu was gone, he turned to Al-Fasr, who was massaging his leg. “He is not a loyal comrade, Colonel.”

  “It doesn’t matter. He is a good soldier.”

  “I am not so sure. I hear things from the Sherji.”

  Shakeeb had been at Al-Fasr’s side since their years together in the emirate air force. He trusted him more than anyone in the Bu Hasa Brigade.

  “What things do you hear?” asked Al-Fasr.

  “Tiny things. Insignificant perhaps, but they cause me concern. Abu is ambitious. He is a dangerous man.”

  “We are at war. I need dangerous men.”

  “Do not trust this one, Colonel. He is a smiling snake.”

  < >

  Southwest Iran, 10,000 feet

  Bullet Alexander was pointing to his watch, making a landing gesture with his left hand. I need to land NOW.

  Maxwell nodded his understanding. Bullet had a fire, and they were running out of options. He would have to eject if the fire worsened or if he lost electronic commands to the Hornet’s fly-by-wire flight control system.

  They were almost feet wet—out of Iran and over the water. Ahead he could see the slate gray void of the Persian Gulf looming like a colorless blanket. Returning to the Reagan was becoming a bad idea. The ship was a hundred and fifty miles down the gulf. Setting up the two-ship approach to the ship would take too long, and Alexander had too many problems to add the demanding task of a carrier landing.

  “Snow King, Runner One,” he radioed. “A change in the game plan. Runner Three has an electrical fire, and we’re diverting to Kuwait City.” Kuwait was less than a hundred miles away, almost in view.

  No immediate reply from the AWACS.

  Maxwell scrawled a big black note on his own briefing card and held it up for Alexander to see: KUWAIT. Alexander flashed him a toothy grin and a thumbs up.

  “Runner One, this is Hammer.” Maxwell recognized the voice of Hatch, the ACE. “Be advised that diversion to Kuwait City is not approved. The general says he doesn’t want any military aircraft at the international airport.”

  Maxwell felt a flash of anger, but he kept his voice calm. By now the general was probably monitoring the channel. And Hatch knew it too, which was why he was being an asshole.

  “Roger that. We’ll use Al Jaber then. It’s almost as close.” Al Jaber Air Base was a Royal Kuwaiti Air Force installation just outside Kuwait City.

  “Ah, Runner One, that’s not approved either. The general wants to you divert to Dhahran.”

  Maxwell did a quick calculation. Dhahran was in Saudi Arabia, across from Bahrain, another two hundred miles south. The general was concerned about politics. Kuwait was going through a fresh wave of anti-American demonstrations. Armed U.S. warplanes dropping in for a visit would stir up more trouble.

  “Hammer, Runner One. Does the general understand that my wingman is on fire?”

  “He’s aware of your problem, Runner.”

  “Please advise the general that I know he’s the boss. But with all due respect, Runner Zero three will not—repeat, will not—make it to Dhahran. Advise Kuwait control we will land at al-Jaber in one-zero minutes.”

  An ominous silence came over the radio. He knew Hatch was having a one-sided conversation with the general. Kiss your job goodbye, Maxwell.

  He took advantage of the break and detached his second element—B.J. and Pearly—to return to the Reagan. He saw the two Hornets pull up and start a turn to the left, back towards the southern Persian Gulf.

  Hatch was still keeping his silence. Listening to the general have a tantrum, Maxwell guessed. Air Force generals didn’t take it well when their orders were flouted by Navy pilots.

  Finally the ACE’s voice came back on the tactical frequency. “Runner One, Al Jaber has been notified you’re inbound.” Hatch sounded subdued now. “Your IFF mode four is confirmed and the MEZ is cold.”

  Maxwell acknowledged. Mode four was the discrete radar code that identified them as friendlies. The MEZ—Missile Engagement Zone—was the field of fire for the Patriot missile batteries. Also good news.

  “Runner One, contact Kuwait Approach Control on 258.3.”


  “Runner One switching. Thanks for the help.” And give my regards to the general.

  Thirty miles from Al Jaber, the approach controller switched him to the Al Jaber tower frequency.

  “Lucky for you that you’re coming to Al Jaber,” said an American voice. “You’ve got U.S. Air Force controllers here in the tower, and the Louisiana Air National Guard waiting for you on the ground.”

  “We’re going to close your runway for a little while,” said Maxwell. “My wingman will take the approach end cable. How about keeping the parallel taxiway clear in case I need to land there?”

  “You’ve got it, Runner One. Emergency crews and equipment are standing by.”

  Because of his mechanical problems, Alexander would be landing without flaps, adding extra knots to his approach speed. Stopping the troubled jet would be a problem. He’d have to use the Hornet’s tailhook to engage Al Jaber’s approach end arresting cable.

  The airspeed was rolling back through three hundred knots, two-fifty, back to the maximum alternate landing gear extension speed.

  At fifteen miles, Maxwell gave Alexander the hand-crank signal—the cue to lower the landing gear. Alexander would have to use the alternate gear extension because of the electrical failure.

  A few seconds later, Maxwell saw the wheels extend from Alexander’s jet and lock into place. Then the tailhook came down.

  So far, so good.

  On short final he passed the lead to Alexander, then stayed on his wing as Alexander aligned his jet with the centerline of the runway. They were descending through three hundred feet.

  Twenty seconds to touchdown.

  Something wasn’t right. As they swept low over the sand-covered terrain, Alexander’s jet was making erratic pitch changes, descending rapidly, then over-correcting and pitching up too high.

  Fifty feet off the desert, still descending.

  “No lower,” Maxwell yelled into his mask, forgetting that Alexander couldn’t hear him. “You’re too damned low.”

  The jet descended nearly to ground level, then lurched back into the air, climbing a hundred feet. The Hornet was wallowing like a torpid fish, nose oscillating up and down, wings rocking.