Brown, Dale - Independent 01 (24 page)

           
When the
two groups rolled out of the turn they found the Russian planes dead ahead of
them, less than eight miles away.

           
“Fox One,”
Fourier said—and the skies were suddenly on fire.

           
Disorganized,
with aircraft all around them in the pitch-black skies over
Iran
,
the Russian pilots were forced to do the wrong thing: stay on their original
heading. The four Backfire bombers accelerated and started a descent toward the
protective radar clutter of the
Elburz Mountains
of
northern
Iran
,
but with escorts and wingmen all around them the huge bombers never strayed
from their southeasterly course. The Flanker fighter-bombers followed the
Backfire bombers down but dutifully stayed with the bombers in tight formation.

           
The Condor
transport pilots, feeling safe with four of the Soviet’s most advanced fighters
surrounding them, took no evasive action. Two of the Condor’s escorts accelerated
to give chase to the undetected intruders, but their new and untried
Kalskaya-651AG pulse- Doppler attack radars lost track of the American fighters
when they went into their hard turns, and the two Flankers had begun to return
to their formations. All twelve Soviet pilots felt safe from attack when the
intruders disappeared ... their threat-detectors and electronic countermeasures
equipment never gave any indication that the intruders had activated any
airborne search or missile-guidance radars.

           
But with
Silver
Tower
’s space-based radar tracking
both the American and Soviet aircraft, no airborne radars were needed. As soon
as the eight F-15s were rolled out and heading directly broadside to the
Soviets they launched their radar-guided AAM-155C Viper missiles, and with each
Eagle launching six Viper missiles, the sky was suddenly filled with
death-dealing fire.

           
The Viper
missiles took their initial guidance vectors from the data- link between the
Eagles and Armstrong Station, which helped to point the missiles toward their
targets—no threatening radar signals that could have give the position of the
Eagles away were transmitted. Once stabilized in flight, the Viper’s own
on-board terminal-guidance radars automatically switched on and started to seek
targets on their own.

           
The two
Sukhoi-27 Flanker fighters that had given chase were the only ones able to spot
the missile launches and take evasive action in time, and the Viper missiles
chasing them exploded harmlessly after their propellent was exhausted. One of
the Backfire bombers had accidentally released a cloud of chaff as the bomber’s
defensive-systems officer activated his countermeasures equipment, and a Viper
missile locked onto the radar-reflective tinsel and steered away a bare
halfsecond before plowing into the bomber’s left engine.

           
But those
were the only three out of twelve Soviet aircraft to survive. Forty-five Viper
air-to-air missiles found targets that night, sending two and a half million
pounds of Soviet machines, and men, crashing into the northern Iranian
mountains.

           
Fourier and
his seven attacking Eagles did not wait to check on the outcome of their
assault; immediately after launching their Viper missiles they accelerated at
max afterburner once again, climbed and turned westward for home. Each had kept
two Viper missiles on wingtip pylons ready to launch in case of pursuit.

           
But there
was no pursuit. The two remaining Su-27 Flankers circled the area over the
Elburz
Mountains
for a short time as the Russian emergency frequency was
filled with the sounds of air-crew locator- beacons bleeping and buzzing,
activated automatically on ejection or on impact with the ground. They copied a
few calls for help and a few position coordinates of downed pilots or aircraft
for possible rescue, then climbed out of the dark Iranian mountains and headed
north for safer territory. The one remaining Backfire bomber decided to follow
its
escorts
home instead of risk a lone penetration
run toward
Tehran
.

           
“Tango November flight, post-release and station checks.”
Fourier stripped off his oxygen mask as he received acknowledgments and bingo
fuel-updates from his wingmen. He felt wrung out. He looked at the
weapons-control and flight-director on his heads-up display with a sense of
awe, and some mistrust. It was damned effective, this Armstrong Space Station.
He’d always thought of the station in abstract terms, as an idea waiting to be
made real, to have a real impact. ... He’d learned better this night....

           
Still, a
fighter pilot liked his fights in the raw.. . radar against radar, missile
against missile, gun against gun, pilot against pilot. This SBR, in a way, was
too many legs up. But the Russians would be sure to make that same estimate...
and even surer to do something about it. Question was ... when, how?

           
“Pyekatah Rahz, pyekatah Rahz, ztah gryppa
tpety Aviatsii,” came the heavily garbled and barely readable radio call.
“Awtvyet syeychahs shye.
Infantry one, this is Aviation Group Three. Answer
immediately.”

           
The young
Russian radioman of the Seventy-First Shock Troops quickly logged the time and
frequency on which he had heard the call, picked up his microphone and replied,
“I read you, Aviation Group Three. This is Seventy-First Shock Fire Base Seven.
Proceed.”

           
“Roger,
Fire Base Seven. We are enroute to your location for peripheral bombing strike.
Requesting discrete forward combat controller frequency and vectors. Over.”

           
“Copy,
Group Three. You are weak and barely readable. This is the incorrect frequency.
Repeat, incorrect frequency. I require authentication before assigning a combat
controller.”

           
“Roger,
Fire Base Seven. Understand. That is the standard procedure. Standing by to
authenticate.”

           
“I’m unable
to give you an authentication,” the radioman said. “Stand by.” The young
Russian infantryman stood up, went to the door of the administration office
turned radio room of
Tehran
’s
Mehrabad
International
Airport
,
and waved down a senior
starshiy
praporshchik.

           
He returned
to the radio. “Stand by for authentication, Group Three.”

           
“Roger,
Fire Base Seven.” A pause, then: “Fire Base Seven, can you give us the weather
and tactical condition there?”

           
The
radioman checked for his senior warrant officer, who was being bombarded by
requests from senior officers as he tried to make his way to the radio room.

           
“Fire Base
Seven. Reply,
pazhaloosta.”

           
The
infantryman made one last check; the warrant officer was still being
intercepted by officers who wanted something done
now.
It was improper procedure to give any information on the radio
without authentication, but this was a special headquarters-only frequency, and
these flyboys were Russians, and the
starshiy
praporshchik
was taking forever, and all they wanted was the weather....

           
“Fire Base
Seven, do you read? Please reply. Over.”

           
The
infantryman went back to his seat. “Group Three, this is Fire Base Seven. I
read you. I do not have the latest weather, but the temperature is cold and
there are no clouds. Runway two-nine is open. Winds are variable from the west
at ten kilometers per hour. We are under sporadic mortar and small-arms fire
from outside the airport boundaries, but the SPETNAZ Special Forces and the
Seventy-First have secured the airport and the town of
Mehrabad
.
You will probably attack the town of
Akbarabad
east-northeast of the airport. That’s where most of the mortar attacks are—”

           
“Spakaystvey,”
came
a shout from behind. The radioman turned to see an enraged senior warrant
officer descending on him. “Who are you talking to? Who?”

           
“Aviation
Group Three....” The radioman let go the microphone like a child dropping a
stolen cookie. “He called in requesting a combat strike controller—”

           
“Did you
authenticate?”

           
“No, sir, I
called you immediately.”

           
“Then what
were you giving him?”

           
“The
weather. He asked for the weather and the tactical conditions here. There’s
nothing classified about the weather—”

           
“You idiot,
we’re in blackout conditions. The enemy can home-in on these radio
transmissions and locate our headquarters here—”

           
“But they
spoke perfect Russian....”

           
“That
is your proof?” The warrant officer
switched to broken English. “Am I now
Amirikanskaya
when since I speak English?” The warrant officer grabbed the microphone. “I
think this is the medium bomber force from Lyaki. Whoever they are, I hope they
won’t report this major breach of radio security. We’ll all be shot if they
do.” He keyed the microphone. “Aviation Group Three. Are you prepared to
authenticate?”

           
A slight
pause, then:
“Da, pyekatah syedmay”
The two infantrymen looked at each other in relief.

           
“Proceed,
Group Three.”

           
Another slight
pause, then in crisp, clear English they heard, “Authenticate my ass,
jerkoffs.”

           
The warrant
officer stared at the young infantryman long enough to see the man’s face drain
of all color, then lunged at the large red button on the portable communications
console and activated the emergency attack-alert signal.

           
The horn
had only echoed through the airport grounds for ten seconds when the first
bombs hit.

           
The two
F/A-19C supersonic NightHawk stealth bombers raced across
Tehran-Mehrabad
International
Airport
at six hundred knots and barely one hundred feet above ground. The six Soviet
SA-13 Gopher motorized surface-to-air missile batteries surrounding the airport
saw nothing but faint radar echoes until the two bombers were less than ten
miles from the airport, and by the time the missiles were ready to fire, the
NightHawk’s two thousand-pound, laser-guided, runway-cratering smart bombs and
antipersonnel bomblets were already falling.

           
The two
NightHawk fighter bombers did not survive the killing battlefield air defenses
the Soviet army had established around
Tehran
Airport
, but before the NightHawks
were destroyed by gunfire from a battery of three ZSU-23/A radar-guided
antiaircraft artillery weapons, they had reduced the peripheral defenses and
central command and control units to rubble.

           
The hundred
Soviet army troops that survived the bombing had to face an even worse threat
than a surprise American stealth bomber attack: the sight of hundreds of
vehicles of all descriptions slowly moving, unopposed, down
Makhsus
Road
from Akbarabad and
Tehran
toward the airport. The pop-pop-pop of gunfire and the cries of blood-anger
from the advancing Muslim hordes could be heard for miles.

 
          
ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION

 
          
“Attention on the station. We’re
passing under target-area horizon. Stand by for recon data transmission and
reconfiguration. This station is on yellow alert.”

           
The
command-module people relaxed, rubbing aching muscles and tired eyes—all but
Saint-Michael, who watched the last transmitted picture of the northern
Iran
area, a hand cupped to his earset. The display was already twenty minutes old
but he watched it as intently as ever, especially the IFF transponder images of
the F-15E Eagle strike force, designated Tango November, and the last images of
the two F/A-19C NightHawk bombers over Tehran.

           
A few
moments later Colonel Walker maneuvered over to him. “Message from Kigzi
Airbase, General. Tango November flight is checking in. All eight of them.”

           
Saint-Michael
nodded. “That’s great news. We should be getting their report in—”

           
He stopped.
Walker
obviously had more.

           
“Tango
Sierra flight....?”

           
“The navy
intercepted a broadcast in the clear from
Tehran
.
Two American fighter bombers shot down over
Mehrabad
Airport
.”

 
 
         
Saint-Michael
brought his hand down hard on the arm of his commander’s chair.