Primary Target (1999) (3 page)

The near-real-time imagery of the TARPS-equipped Tomcats expanded the reconnaissance role of the F-14 during crisis situations. The aircraft delivered aerial photos so incredibly clear you could read street signs and license plates. Although "national systems"--Pentagonese for spy satellites and intelligence-gathering aircraft such as the U-2 and Rivet Joint--were excellent platforms for gathering vital information, they occasionally malfunctioned or were not in a proper position to spy.

When time is critical, a call to an aircraft carrier in the vicinity of a potential target allows the president the luxury of assessing the threat in a matter of minutes or hours. In addition, with aerial refueling, the manned Tomcat could provide increased flexibility for the commander in chief and his military advisers.

"I appreciate the heads-up," Stockwell said flatly. "We're going to press on with the mission."

"Understand you're going to continue?"

"That's affirm."

A short pause followed.

"Ah ... Roger."

Skeeter Jeffcoat keyed the intercom. "Skipper, the place is crawling with missiles and fighters. Are you sure you don't want to abort?"

Stockwell hesitated a few seconds. I don't want to screw this up with the whole air wing watching. "Normally, I'd go home, but this mission is a White House priority. I'm goin' for it, unless you're uncomfortable."

The seasoned naval flight officer faltered a few moments before he answered. "I'd be lying if I said I don't have some reservations, but if you want to march on, I'm game." "Then let's do it."

"Yessir."

Piece of cake, Stockwell told himself as he played the controls and watched the hose and basket. The delicate ballet continued while Jeffcoat monitored the sky. Approaching a full load of fuel, Stockwell's throttles began creeping forward.

"Time for an adjustment," he said to himself.

Flying as smoothly as possible, Stockwell added power to maintain the proper refueling position. He counted the seconds until the F-14 was full, then keyed his radio. "Thanks for the drink."

"Anytime, sir."

Darting a final look at the boom operator's station, Stockwell disconnected the probe and eased the Tomcat aft and down from the KC-10. Clear of the tanker, he retracted the probe and pushed the throttles into minimum afterburner.

Long, white-hot flames belched from the turbofans as the multirole fighter raced away from the tanker and rapidly climbed toward the bright midday sun.

The previous day, Stockwell and Jeffcoat had flown the same route to capture their primary targets in the long shadows of early morning. Now, after another request from the president, they would be photographing the sites with the hot midday sun directly overhead.

Passing 36,000 feet, Stockwell advanced the throttles to maximum afterburner to rapidly build airspeed for the final climb.

Ascending through 43,000 feet, Jeffcoat prepared to engage the Defensive system. "Ready for the DEF gear?" "Shoot her the juice."

"You got it."

Jeffcoat energized the state-of-the-art system and the Tomcat immediately experienced a power surge that momentarily caused the enunciator panel in the cockpit to light up like a Christmas tree.

"Ho-leeee shit," Stockwell exclaimed as he fought to calm his nerves. "What the hell is going on back there?"

"Sorry, boss." Jeffcoat quickly turned off the faulty system. "The DEF gear went haywire."

"Jesus," Stockwell muttered as he sucked in a breath of oxygen. "My heart won't take another shot like that."

"I've got it secured."

"Yeah, forget it." Stockwell sighed, feeling the effects of the adrenaline rush. "The damn thing only works on training flights."

The demon named Fear had slipped out of Stockwell's subconscious, taunting him, coiling around him like a boa constrictor, squeezing tighter and tighter until it was so palpable that he had trouble swallowing. The snarling, hissing distraction possessed the power to erase a pilot's judgment and skill. During his long career, Stockwell had successfully conquered the demon many times.

"What d'ya think, skipper?" Jeffcoat asked with a trace of anxiety in his voice. "Press on, or get out of town?" Stockwell stared at the horizon while he fought the impulse to cancel the mission and return to the carrier. Maybe we should abort, or wait for another AWACS. He considere
d
the knowns and unknowns. If we loiter and wait for an AWACS, we'll have to refuel again. The timing will be of because the sun won't be directly overhead.

"Why me?" he quietly asked himself, then allowed a thin smile to crease his face. "Skeeter, the president is waiting. I'm committed, unless you're dead set against it."

Jeffcoat took a deep breath and slowly let it out. "We can hack it, sir." Just concentrate on the mission.

With their pulse rates winding down, the two men remained quiet while the F-14 climbed through 54,400 feet, then accelerated to the "speed of heat" and leveled off at 54,000 feet. High above most of the other air traffic traversing the busy Gulf of Oman, the Mach 2.34 Tomcat was back in its environment. In less than fifteen minutes, they would be photographing the first of two recently constructed missile sites along the coast of Iran.

Spacecraft imagery and electronic data indicated the new launch pads were being equipped with Shahab-3 and Shahab4 missiles. According to dissidents in Tehran, the Shahab-3 could deliver 1,650 pounds of explosives over 860 miles, allowing Iran to inflict severe damage to Jerusalem and to U
. S
. forces at bases in Turkey, Kuwait, Bahrain, and Saudi Arabia. A few Shahab-3s carrying anthrax could easily kill the majority of American troops in the Gulf region. More powerful, the Shahab-4 had the range to hit cities in Egypt. With the assistance of Russian, North Korean, and Chinese engineers and technicians, a third generation of Iranian ballistic missiles was being manufactured at Hemat Missile Industries, which contained a production facility thirty feet underground.

The news had caused a mad scramble at the Pentagon, and frayed nerves at the White House and the State Department. Capable of reaching Paris or London, the state-of-the-art missiles were equipped with thermonuclear warheads.

Other Chinese and Russian advisers headquartered at the Shahid Bagheri Industrial Group in Tehran were in the final stages of developing a 6,300 mile missile that could strike Washington, D
. C
., and New York City. The Iranian weapons of choice for the U
. S
. were terrorists to disperse anthrax, followed days later by missiles with thermonuclear warheads. Jeffcoat punched the play button on the small portable CD
p
layer he had modified to plug into his helmet. A few seconds later the greatest hits of Hank Williams filtered through his earpads. Jeffcoat adjusted the volume while he listened to "Hey, Good-Lookin'," then glanced at the horizon and tilted his head back.

The bluish dome of sky turned dark blue as his gaze traveled higher. Far below the spy plane, the sky was powder blue and fillcd with fluffy white clouds that resembled puffs of cotton randomly scattered about.

After studying the curvature of the earth for a few moments, Jeffcoat turned his attention to his instruments in an attempt to ease his growing uneasiness. The increased pressure to accomplish this particular mission was subtle, but it was there. Jeffcoat closed his eyes and sighed. First the AWACS--now the DEF gear. What next? He unconsciously tapped his foot to the beat of the music. We're hangin' it out on this pass.

Mulling over the possibility of being attacked by the Iranians, Jeffcoat finally shrugged off his concern. He keyed his intercom. "What d'ya think, skipper--is the commander in chief about ready to teach the big shots in Tehran a lesson?" "I wouldn't bet against it." Stockwell quietly chuckled. "Giving us a deadline to have our troops out of Sandland wasn't a stroke of diplomatic genius."

"Yeah," Jeffcoat said, "and now they're threatening to close the Strait of Hormuz if we don't get out by the deadline."

"It may come down to a shoot-out." Stockwell paused while he glanced at the Persian Gulf and the coast of Iran. "They're sure as hell flaunting their muscle--trying to intimidate us."

"Not a smart idea," Jeffcoat declared.

"True, but you have to remember who you're dealing with." Stockwell made a slight heading adjustment. "After watching Bassam Shakhar threaten us on CNN, the president may want to give him and Tehran a demonstration of who really runs the show in the Gulf region."

Skeeter nodded in agreement. "Yeah, it might get noisy down there before too long."

"Real noisy," Stockwell said with conviction. "And then real quiet."

"Like Stone Age quiet," Jeffcoat suggested.

"Yeah, something like that."

Skeeter closed his eyes and sighed while the lyrics of "Your Cheatin' Heart" floated lightly and smoothly through his headphones. "Wake me up if you get lost."

"You'll be the first to know."

Stockwell pointed the Tomcat toward the initial point of the photo run, then made a sweeping left turn to align the aircraft with the desired track to be photographed. Traveling at twenty-six miles a minute, there was no room for miscalculation or pilot error.

Feeling a sudden chill race down his spine, Stockwell scanned the curvature of the horizon and thought briefly about Francis Gary Powers and the U-2 Affair. I wonder what he was thinking when the missile hit him, must'uv been a major "OH, SHIT!" for sure.

Checking his instruments, Stockwell tried to quell his uneasiness. I hope we slide through this without becoming the center of an international incident.

During the previous two days, Tehran had repeatedly threatened to shoot down the reconnaissance planes if the "provocative acts" continued. To bolster their declaration, Iranian fighter planes equipped with the latest generation of Russian-made air-to-air missiles were patrolling the skies. The heated threats from members of the Supreme Council for National Defense were being shown on MSNBC and CNN against a backdrop of Iranian fighter pilots manning their planes and preparing for takeoff.

Stockwell breathed deeply, enjoying the cool oxygen. Well, God never loved a coward. "Are you ready, Skeeter?" Jeffcoat hit the pause button on the CD. "Skipper, I was born ready."

"We're goin' for it," Stockwell said with a tinge of apprehension in his voice. "Keep me honest."

"I won't even blink."

Twenty seconds later, they blasted over the southern coast of Iran. Flying at a speed of 1,560 mph, they were thundering over hostile territory at an altitude in excess of ten miles. Time seemed to expand as the minutes slowly passed. With their survival instincts keyed to a high degree of intensity
,
Stockwell and Jeffcoat concentrated on flying a flawless pass over the missile sites.

"That's one down and one to go," Stockwell declared as they flew over Bandar-e Abbas.

"I feel like we're swimming in molasses," Jeffcoat commented in a hollow voice.

"I've got the throttles two-blocked." Stockwell's voice reflected a display of false bravado.

"It still isn't fast enough for me," Jeffcoat said, then counted the time until the TARPS recon pod began documenting the missile site at Bushehr.

"Uh-oh," Jeffcoat said as the radar warning receiver began to bleep. "Someone's painting us, no shit."

"We're about through," Stockwell observed in a soothing voice. "Another thirty seconds and it's Miller time." Jeffcoat's heart stuck in his throat as the time slowly passed. This ain't good.

"That's it," Stockwell said boldly.

Twenty-three minutes after the fuel-thirsty F-14 started the recce sweep over Bandar-e Abbas and Bushehr, Stockwell began a shallow left turn to coast out over the Persian Gulf. "They're still on us," Jeffcoat said in a tense voice. "Now, ah, it's intermittent, but someone's tracking us."

"Okay, Skeeter," Stockwell said as he forced himself to relax, "you can start breathing again."

"Yeah, that's a wrap." Jeffcoat punched the play button on his CD player an instant before the Tomcat exploded in a horrendous yellow-orange fireball. Rendered semiconscious by the violent blast, Stockwell and Jeffcoat sagged in their ejection seats while the F-14 shed the right wing and right engine, then broke in half and exploded a second time. The twisted and scorched remains of the fighter tumbled out of the sky, trailing flames and blazing jet fuel.

High Above the Persian Gul
f
Easing the throttles out of afterburner, Iranian Air Force Major Ali Akbar Muhammad gently banked his Soviet-built MiG-29 Fulcrum as he and his wingman rapidly descended from 52,000 feet. Muhammud's first missile had malfunctioned and gone ballistic, but his second missile had destroyed one of the Great Satan's reconnaissance planes. Smiling with unbridled satisfaction, he glanced at his wingman. Although the Iranian Air Force had greatly increased the number of aircraft patrolling their borders, Muhammud's flight was the first to make contact with the "hostile" recce planes. A few primary radar returns on an air traffic controller's screen had made the difference. It had given the MiG pilots a basic heading to intercept the intruders.

After descending to 2,300 feet, Muhammud leveled off and watched the fuselage of the Tomcat plunge into the Persian Gulf. Scanning the hazy sky for parachutes, the MiGs flew a sweeping circle around the impact area as more debris splashed into the water. Unable to spot any sign of the downed crew, Muhammud and his wingman added power and banked toward their base at Shiraz.