Esther's Sling (47 page)

“I am happy to comply. Just confirming with Isfahan center now,”
said Miller finally.

At the Isfahan regional air traffic control center, the man who had passed SAAC 622 Heavy
onto Tehran approach minutes earlier, was listening to the discussion. His radar showed the big plane on its usual course heading north toward Tehran. He was confused by the conversation. He keyed his transmitter. “SAAC six-two-two Heavy. Isfahan.”

Miller reacted to the transmission as if it were a miracle. “Isfahan. SAAC six-two-two Heavy. Please provide course instruction.”

“SAAC six-two-two Heavy. I show you at flight level three one heading three four five. Confirm.”

“Affirmative. Confirmed, Isfahan. SAAC six-two-two at thirty-one thousand fee
t and heading three four five.”

In the SAM command bunker, the Iranian officer was forced to decide between what he had just heard from the Isfahan ATC center or what his own radar sets were telling him. He chose the latter. “SAAC six-two-two, I don’t give a damn about Isfahan control. Alter you
r course immediately. Confirm!”

Inside Mount Olympus, Amit Margolis
and the other flight personnel listened to the exchange of radio communications between the American pilot, the Isfahan air traffic controller and the Iranian military officer. Each person was struck by the calmness in Miller’s voice and the increasing desperation and anger in the Iranian officer’s voice. Everyone realized that Jim Miller had to still be in the cockpit of the big plane, which would commence its final death dive any moment. The personnel of Mount Olympus already knew how this was going to end. No one spoke.

At Fordow to the north, relatively small explosions were the first sign that this was not another night. Spice 1000 bombs hit known and fixed SAM command bunkers and two static target acquisition radars.
But just seconds later, a muted flash lit the ink black night for a fraction of a second, illuminating the rocky mountain outlines around the Fordow enrichment site. The first MOP had penetrated 183 feet through the hardened lava flows that formed the mountain above the underground chambers. It exploded just past the void of the southwest corner of the decoy chamber. A shockwave instantly obliterated everything and everyone in the decoy chamber. Four Iranian technicians died without ever having a conscious knowledge of their fate.

Three seconds later, the second MOP hit the crater wall that had just been formed by the first explosion and penetrated 212 feet at an angle, exploding just inside the hidden main chamber. Everything in the chamber was evaporated. Only seconds later, four Spice 1000 bombs simultaneously hit the uranium reception building, destroying its interior and the four horizontal autoclaves that heated uranium hexafluoride into vapor for insertion into the Fordow centrifuge cascades.

At the same moment, SAAC 715 Heavy turned its nose down, gaining speed as it lost altitude. The plane was now a guided missile, its mass and remaining fuel comprising the primary destructive potential.

The Ilyushin 76 met its end inside the massive crater created by the two MOPs. Its speed at impact was a supersonic 689 miles per hour.

James Miller clicked on his microphone to speak. When he pulled his mask away, he felt the shuddering of the plane stop. The cargo plane was suddenly flying level and smooth, all of its weapons having now been expended. Miller released the button on his microphone, his body relaxing in the pilot seat. He said a prayer for the first time since he couldn’t remember. He spoke to his God as if talking to his mother, seeking forgiveness for all he had done wrong in his life.

In the command bunker
, the Iranian officer shouted his order. “Fire bird one.” A single SA-5 Gammon missile’s solid rocket fuel ignited instantly, propelling it from a standstill to Mach 3.4 in under 20 seconds. Tracking in on the Ilyushin was easy. The big plane had a massive radar cross section and was taking no evasive action. The plane started to lower its nose to commence its final act – to fly into Natanz as a highly radioactive missile. The Ilyushin lost about 500 feet of altitude as James Miller closed his eyes and continued to pray to a God who he could not fault if He wasn’t listening.

The Gammon missile was still in its boost phase when it exploded just thirty meters in front of the nose of the plane, spraying it with hundreds of ball bearings, each the size of double-aught buckshot. The supersonic shrapnel ripped through the nose, wings and engines of the Ilyushin, four pellets killing James Miller instantly. The plane exploded in flight, forming a fire ball that fell toward earth like a withering
meteor.

Before the wreckage of SAAC 622 Heavy hit Iranian soil, 26 of 28 EGBU-28Bs punched through ten meters of dirt and four meters of reinforced concrete roofing and exploded within the voids of the enrichment halls of Natanz. Two of the sophisticated bombs failed, each one burying itself harmlessly into barren land before detonating at a depth that engulfed their warheads. Spice 1000 bombs hit their targets only moments later. One of the Spice bombs crashed through the relatively thin roof of the SAM battery command bunker. The Iranian officer who had just decided the fate of Jim Miller didn’t live to enjoy the downing of the big attacking cargo plane – or to suffer the consequences of his failure to shoot the plane out of the sky befo
re it had launched its weapons.

The ability of Natanz to enrich uranium had been eliminated at the cost of an aging Russian cargo plane and an aging gay American pilot who would soon be immortalized as
a hero of the state of Israel.

Flying over the Caspian Sea toward the southeast at a point about 170 miles north of Tehran, the Boeing 737-400F from Zurich via Ganja was cruising at 36,000 feet. The plane had flown 465 kilometers from Ganja and had fuel left to fly only another 300 to 350 kilometers depending on when its payload was released and it began descending. The crew, in discussion with Mount Olympus, had decided that they would perform their mission and then turn around to land at Baku. But right now the plane was still flying away from that salvation.

The co-pilot spoke up. “We are inside the launch window. Baku is now 270 kilometers away and growing.”

“I hear you,” responded the captain. He switched his transmitter to the encrypted satellite link to Israel. “Executing Sierra November.” The pilot then entered a code into the plane’s flight computer.

The cargo cabin quickly depressurized. Underneath the fuselage, a door that had been added by IAI engineers opened up. Within 20 seconds, eight Delilah missiles had been ejected, each one with a pre-programmed target along the Iranian coast or in Tehran. Immediately after the last Delilah was launched, the first of 46 Miniature Air-Launched Decoys, or MALDs, was ejected from the plane. It took another
two minutes for the process to complete.

Each MALD was programmed to fly an attack pattern that mimicked what the Iranians expected to see from the Israeli Air Force. This mission was the culmination of Operation Northwind and was designed to convince the Iranians that the attack this night was coming from the north. The Delilah missiles would do no strategic damage, but would add to the illusion of attack from Azerbaijan.

As soon as the last MALD was launched, the Boeing turned back around and headed for Baku, calling in an emergency after ten minutes of travel back toward the Azerbaijani capital.

At the same moment, General Hassan Shahbazi was exiting the building on
Doshan Tappeh Air Base that was the temporary headquarters for the Iranian Air Force. He was headed to his car and once there, to Arad Hospital. He cursed the distance he had to walk to reach the parking area and started to jog. He had been unable to establish any communication with his family and with every step he fought an internal war to suppress the darkest thoughts that ran wild in his mind. He was half way when it happened. He heard the swoosh of an object flying a great speed and very close by. His mind had only a fraction of a second to process the sound.

The heat from a massive explosion hit the general’s face a moment before the shockwave knocked him off his feet. The sound of the blast punctured his right ear drum. It would take him a couple of minutes to fully shake off the effect of the concussive forces that had just hit him. Debris rained down around him, one piece of lumber hitting his leg and
cutting his thigh. One hundred and twenty meters away to his right, the building that was the permanent headquarters of the Iranian Air Force and that he would have been working in if not for the wiring renovation underway, lay in fiery ruins.

Before he realized where he was, two men from his staff were walking him back to the temporary building he
had just exited. Inside, a junior officer trained in first aid started to wipe blood from the general’s head and neck. Colonel Askari walked up to him. “Sir, we are under attack.”

Shahbazi just looked back at his underling with incredulity. He put his hand up to the left side of his head and cupped it behind his ear.

Askari leaned forward and raised his voice. “Fordow, sir. Fordow has been bombed.”

Suddenly the general understood everything. His daughter was unharmed, but his nation was under assault from Israel. “What
comms do we have?” he shouted, his lack of hearing leaving him unable to judge his own volume. He received a quick summary of a situation that was pure confusion. The direct tactical communication link between the temporary command building and the air defense assets of Iran was out. This meant that both direct communications and the radar feeds from the early warning radar net were down. But the building still had a link to the country’s internet backbone and email traffic was starting to flow.

As the general was being tended to, the colonel started receiving summaries of emails coming in from around the country. Critical news was being shouted to him from across the room as m
en read their computer screens.

“Natanz air defense reports that they have engaged and shot down an attacking plane,
” came a shout across the room.

“One plane
?” the colonel shouted back. “Find out how many planes are attacking and where they came from.”

“Germi reports thirty
plus bogeys over the Caspian Sea inbound to Tehran,” came another shout. Close to the northern Iranian mountain town of Germi, an early warning radar station similar to Dehloran kept watch over Azerbaijan and the Caspian Sea.

“Isfahan radar has nothing other than commercial traffic,” responded the first man.

“Find out what the hell just hit us,” shouted the colonel in an angry tone that every man in the room shared. Colonel Askari had been dreaming of one day taking command of the Iranian Air Force. Now as his commander was still unable to hear what was happening, Askari found himself temporarily in charge at a moment and in a situation he did not want. Men continued to shout updates as the lights went out. Battery back-ups kept the computers on as emergency lights flickered to life, casting a dull yellow glow over the room. Askari said a silent prayer for the generators, which had only been hooked into the temporary building a couple of days earlier, to turn on. About twenty seconds later his prayers were answered.

“Okay. Everyone be quiet,”
Askari shouted. “Send ‘Alert Status Three – Attack Imminent’ to all bases and air defense posts.” He walked over to the man communicating with the Northern Defense Sector. “Get Tabriz and Mehrabad fighters up right now and vectored by Germi. I want two F-14s airborne for radar control right away.” The Iranian Air Force still had 15 functioning F-14 Tomcat fighters and two were maintained on ready alert. Their AN/AWG-9 radars, despite being 1970s technology, were still powerful enough to act as de facto AWAC platforms for the other fighter aircraft of the IRIAF.

Askari returned to the side of General Shahbazi. The general’s hearing in his left ear was slowly returning. Askari gave his commander a brief summary of what they knew. Shahbazi issued several orders. “Scramble all tactical bases. Get all fighters airborne. Get all commercial traffic on the ground at the nearest airport. Tell all tactical air bases and radar units to implement Code Blizzard.” The last order would inform all air defense missile bases that attacks were underway and they should be scanning the skies for targets. Anything without proper IFF was now a legitimate target.

The general pulled Askari close to him. “Email the IRGC a status update. You must personally contact the Supreme Council. Try to get through to Imam Khomeini directly or his aide. We have to establish a direct link with him.” The general was already thinking about the aftermath and repercussions of what was happening.

Over the Persian Gulf, the second Boeing 727-400F that had departed from
Ras Al-Khaimah 48 minutes earlier began to execute its mission. It was several minutes behind schedule, the plane fighting heavy headwinds at its cruising altitude. At a point that was 326 miles west of the UAE, the recently installed door underneath of the plane opened up. Eight Delilah missiles were quickly ejected. As the wings of each Delilah missile cut into the cold thin air high above the Persian Gulf, its rocket motor ignited, sending the missile towards its target. The first six missiles, travelling in pairs, headed for three early warning radar installations along the Persian Gulf coastline: Kish Island, Siraf and a site known to the Olympus planners as Bushehr Southeast. The remaining two missiles, each carrying runway denial mines that scattered by the dozens and detonated if disturbed, heading due north for the Iranian airfield at Shiraz. The plane continued flying on toward the west as the door closed. It had another nine minutes of flying to reach its next release point 70 miles further along its route.

At 26,000 feet about 75 miles to the north of the Boeing, an Iranian Air Force MiG-29 Fulcrum fighter aircraft based out of Shiraz was flying a standard patrol pattern. For the pilot, it was another typical night in which the greatest excitement was the occasional encounter with the many U.S. Navy warplanes operating over the Persian Gulf. The protocols for these encounters were well established. He could
“paint” an American plane with his targeting radar for about three seconds, but no longer. Maneuvering to get your radar onto an enemy bandit was the fighter pilot’s equivalent of puffing out your chest in a bar room showdown. A few seconds of illuminating your opposition was the way to keep score and was the basis for post-flight braggadocio once back at base.

There had been no encounters with the Americans this evening and the pilot was resigned to a quiet patrol. He was starting to look forward to returning to base for a shower when a radio transmission caught his ear. “Specter Five, alert status three. Confirm.”

“Shiraz, Specter Five. Repeat status.”

“Alert three. This is not a drill. Confirm.”

The pilot, a veteran of over 4,000 hours in the single seat of the MiG-29, felt his face flush. This status meant war. “Specter Five. Alert three. No drill. Target eagles?” He was asking if Iran was at war with America.

“Negative. Assume defensive posture. Cleared to engage any penetration.”

“Request vector,” the pilot stated to his ground controller.

There was a pause as the ground controller communicated with the nearby radar station at
Siraf. “Vector one-nine-zero for bogey in civil lanes at angels three-four on course two-seven-five. Distance one-twenty. One-two-zero. Speed seven-three-eight. Confirm.”

“One-nine-zero to angels three-four at one-two-zero. Cleared to engage?”

“Negative. Visual escort. Await further orders.”

“Specter Five, on seek.” The pilot turned his nose to the south and pushed his throttles forward through military power until his afterburners kicked in. Within seconds his speed was approaching 600 knots and his plane was climbing to 35,000 feet. Once at altitude, he throttled off his afterburners. He kept his search radar off until he closed the range. He only wanted to turn on the radar if the bogey he was chasing had no navigation lights on.

At its speed, the MiG closed the distance to the Boeing in under seven minutes. The night was crystal clear and the pilot easily spotted the blinking red navigation lights of the Boeing against the forest of stars from thirty kilometers away. The target was exactly where he expected. The Iranian pilot came in behind the Boeing and slowly descended until he was about a hundred feet above his target and trailing about a quarter mile behind and to the north of it. He turned on his forward-looking infrared and locked the target finder onto the Boeing jet flying in front of him.

The pilot’s mind was racing as he thought through what was happening. He was now shadowing a cargo plane on a standard commercial flight while somewhere over Iran war was underway. He was frustrated. “Positive bogey identification,” he reported to his ground controller. “Civil aviation. Boeing seven-three-seven or Airbus three-twenty class.”

“Hold position,” came the reply.

The MiG continued behind the Boeing for another two minutes. The pilot was antsy, sure that he was missing the chance to defend his country – his skills and training going to waste following a civilian plane high over the Persian Gulf. “Request alter
nate vector,” he finally asked.

His timing was prescient. His ground controller at Shiraz was about to contact him. “We have lost contact with Kilo station.” The controller was referring to the early warning radar at Kish Island. “We need visual fly by. Alter to course one-one-zero. Cleared to deck on VFR. Distance three-eight-five kilometers. Confirm.”

The pilot was ecstatic. If Kish Island was under attack, he would be headed into the fray. “Course one-ten to deck. Specter Five disengaging.” The pilot turned off his forward-looking infrared sensor. He pulled his joystick to the left, eager to turn around and head back to the southeast toward Kish Island, but careful to keep his plane clear of the vortices created by the Boeing’s two large engines. As the nose of the MiG turned to the south, the pilot looked back at the cargo plane one last time to make sure he was clear of the bigger plane’s turbulence. As he looked at the Boeing, its bottom navigation beacon flashed. The flash of red light reflected off something that caught the pilot’s eye. He was certain he had seen something fall away from the plane.

“Turning back on bogey. Heavy G,”
said the pilot instinctively into his radio. He began his anti-G straining maneuver as he rotated his stick back to the right and applied power to quickly close the distance to several hundred meters. He turned on his infrared sensor and locked it on the cargo plane. What he saw shocked him. On the flat panel display he could see a door open underneath the Boeing. He watched as two Spice 1000 bombs slid out the doorway, their wings immediately deploying. The pilot got on his radio. “Bogey is hostile, not civil. Repeat hostile. Engaging target.”

The pilot did not wait for authorization. He had found the war. He flipped a switch on the left side of the cockpit that activated his
GSh-30-1 cannon in his left wing mount. “Cannon hot,” he said into the radio. He raised the nose of his warplane and squeezed the trigger. Twenty rounds fired toward the Boeing’s fuselage; each round held a small incendiary explosive charge. Every third projectile fired was a tracer round, its path clearly illuminated in the dark sky. The first six rounds were below the Boeing’s fuselage and the pilot pulled back just slightly on the joystick to adjust his fire. The next rounds cut into the fuselage of the Boeing, penetrating its thin aluminum skin effortlessly and detonating just inside the fuselage. The third round that entered the plane collided with a MSOV and caused one of its runway munitions to detonate. Within a fraction of a second, the remaining submunitions inside the MSOV detonated and the explosions caused the remaining Spice 1000 bombs to detonate. The MiG pilot reflexively pushed his stick down and right as he prayed to survive the rapidly expanding fireball in front of him. He opened his eyes after a few seconds and realized that he was still flying, the disintegrating Boeing now behind him. Allah had been with him.