Firebreak (43 page)

The prime minister seemed to accept what Yuriden was saying.

“Sooner or later,” the Ganef added, “we will have to accept a cease-fire and negotiate.”

Now Ben David sat down, much calmer. “Yes, that’s true. I can afford to wait a little longer.” As long as the Arabs do not escalate, he thought.

Neither the Ganef nor Yuriden pressed him further on the subject of cease-fires. But both were thinking how desperately they needed one.

The pilots were lined up on both sides of the ready room’s center aisle in their proper places when Brigadier General Hussan Mana arrived. He walked down the aisle ignoring the bows of the men and stepped onto the low dais in the front of the room. “Please take your seats,” he said. The pilots were more worried than reassured by this kindness. Normally, Mana kept them standing at attention when he spoke to them.

“We have received a communication from Al Mukhabaret,” Mana began, as every pilot stiffened at the name of Iraq’s Department of General Intelligence, “that the Americans have secretly deployed twelve F-Fifteen Es here.” He pointed to a map on the wall behind him and jabbed at the Turkish base at Diyarbakir. “The communication states that the American Eagles will be launched against a target here.” He pointed to the nerve gas plant and arsenal outside of Kirkuk. “As you can see, we”—now he pointed to their base at Mosul located between Diyarbakir and Kirkuk—“are in a perfect position to intercept them. Further, Al Mukhabaret is certain that the Americans will launch within the hour and has placed two agents to report their exact takeoff time.”

“I didn’t know Al Mukhabaret used its spies in foreign countries,” Johar Adwan mumbled loud enough for Samir Hamshari to hear.

“There’s a first time for everything,” Samir mumbled back.

“It is my intention to intercept and destroy them,” Mana announced. He stepped aside and let the squadron’s first officer go over the plan. It was the same “bearing of aircraft” formation they had flown in the past. Again, Mana would be in the lead. There was nothing in it for Johar and Samir and they were to continue to sit standby alert in the squadron.

The two pilots remained in the ready room while the remainder of their squadron rushed out to man their Su-27s and await the scramble order from ground control. “Can you believe it?” Johar grumbled. “A bearing of aircraft? Has Mana learned nothing?”

“I wouldn’t want to take on an Eagle from that formation,” Samir replied. “Our aircraft are every bit the equal to the F-Fifteen. Why don’t we use them right?”

“I don’t know,” Johar sighed. “But I am certain about one item; Mana may be many things, but he’s no coward.”

The air base at Diyarbakir was little more than three hangars and a few low buildings off to one side of the commercial airport. The Turks used it for a forward operating location and to support the nearby American compound. No one knew what the Americans did there, but the massive arrays of antennas, satellite dishes, and radomes indicated it was a communications monitoring site. The only sign of any unusual activity were the twelve F-15Es that had recently landed with their support crews. Four of the dark gray jets were parked between the hangars, almost totally hidden in the heavy shadows, two were parked in the revetted shelter that was originally intended to house alert aircraft, and the other six were inside the hangars.

A sharp-eyed observer outside the perimeter fence scanned the F-15s with high-powered binoculars and noted that each of the jets was loaded with two GBU-24s, one on each wing pylon, four Sidewinder missiles on the shoulder stations above the GBUs, and four AMRAAMs slung under the conformal fuel tanks. The observer also noted that well-armed security teams were hidden in the shadows.

At 0215 hours local, one of the side doors of the middle hangar opened and twelve men walked out. They headed for the waiting jets. The hangar doors rolled back and at 0230 the distinctive, sirenlike wail of the F-15s’ jet fuel starters echoed across the ramp as the twelve jets started engines. The first two jets taxied out of the alert revetments at 0235 followed by pairs at thirty-second intervals. The first two jetstook the runway and a green light flashed from the tower, clearing them for takeoff. The two jets roared down the runway for a formation takeoff at exactly 0240 as the second set of two taxied into position and held, waiting for the green light that would come thirty seconds later.

The sequence repeated itself until all twelve F-15s had launched. By 0243 the base had reverted to its usual sleepy quiet. Colonel “Mad” Mike Martin, call sign Viper 01, had led the eleven other Vipers of the 45th Tactical Fighter Wing in a “com out” launch and was streaking toward Kirkuk at 540 knots, four hundred feet off the deck. ETA Kirkuk: 0310.

The observer who had been watching the air base started his car, drove to a nearby house, and made a phone call.

The shrill wail of the siren reached the small room in the officers’ quarters where Johar was sleeping. He was fully awake when he heard the first bypass turbofan engine of a Su-27 crank, splitting the night air. Johar glanced at his watch; 0251 local time. He sighed, got out of bed, pulled on his flight suit, and walked over to the officers’ mess for breakfast. Samir was already there, waiting for him.

The AWACS orbiting ninety nautical miles north of Mosul in the tri-border region of Turkey, Iraq, and Iran monitored the takeoff of eight Su-27s being led by Mana. The tactical controller punched the button that selected the Have Quick radio and tromped on his foot pedal to transmit, warning the in-gressing F-15s that interceptors were airborne out of Mosul and moving into a formation. It worried him that the Iraqis had responded so quickly.

Matt’s Tactical Electronic Warfare System came alive just as they copied the AWACS warning on the bandits coming at them from Mosul. “I’ll be damned,” Furry mumbled from the rear. “That’s an SA-Three.” The chirping on the TEWS audio shifted to a higher beat as the surface-to-air missile went into a launch mode. The SA-3 Goa was an old Soviet-built weapon with a range of eighteen miles. Its radar could track up to six aircraft and launch two missiles at a single target. Neither Matt nor Furry was overly worried about that missile since they were well below its minimum guidancealtitude. But like Mad Mike had repeatedly yelled at them, “Always honor the fuckin’ threat!”

Martin’s voice came over the Have Quick radio. “Matt, nail that SA-Three. I hold him at your two o’clock, twelve miles.” He should have used Matt’s call sign, Viper 03, but the use of his name over the secure radio prevented confusion. In the heat of battle, it was easy to miss the numbers after a name.

“Roger, boss. Will do.” By calling Martin “boss” instead of using his call sign of Viper 01, there was no doubt whom he was talking to. Now another threat popped up on the TEWS. Two SA-6 sites directly ahead of them had become active.

“Sean,” Martin ordered his wingman, Leary, “get the one on the left. I’ll get the right.” As planned, the lead aircraft would engage whatever threat came up to open up a corridor for the ingressing F-15s. By taking out the surface-to-air missile sites, the following aircraft could concentrate on hitting the target and have a safe escape route. The operations plan named Trinity called for the Eagles to open up a corridor twenty miles wide and, for a very brief period, establish air superiority.

Matt pointed the nose of his jet directly at the SA-3 site, double-checked to be sure he had selected a GBU-24 and that the Master Arm switch was up, and looked through the HUD. The Navigation FLIR had penetrated the dark and was showing him a three-dimensional view of the world in eleven shades of gray. He saw the flare of a rocket plume directly in front of him—a SAM missile launch. The bright plume of the SA-3 captured Matt’s attention as it corkscrewed off to the right. “Foxed ‘em,” Furry chuckled from the pit. The TEWS had done its magic and decoyed the missile’s guidance system. “Designating,” came from the rear. Furry had slued the Target FLIR onto the SAM site and locked it up. Matt mashed the pickle button and held it, waiting for the weapons delivery computer to reach a solution. The F-15 gave a slight shudder as the two-thousand-pound bomb under their left wing separated.

Now Furry concentrated on the Target FLIR and refined the placement of the cross hairs, laying them directly over the Low Blow fire control radar that was the heart of the SA-3. “Lasing,” he said. Matt watched the second missile flashby well behind them. Then the target disappeared in a bright explosion. “That’s wasting a perfectly good GBU,” Furry allowed.

“Honor the threat,” Matt grunted.

“I’ll make it a rule,” Furry answered. Two more explosions flared in front of them as Martin and his wingman worked over the SA-6 sites.

The voice of the tactical controller on the AWACS came over the Have Quick radio. “Viper Zero-One. Eight bandits zero-nine-zero degrees at forty nautical miles. Heading two-three-zero degrees, angels ten, cospeed.” The tactical controller had told Martin that Mana’s formation was forty nautical miles to the east of him at ten thousand feet and was on a heading that would intercept them. Matt ran the geometry through his head and calculated they would merge twenty-five miles downtrack.

But Martin had other ideas. “Aldo, have you identified the threat?” Aldo was the call sign of the AWACS.

“Checking with Duster now,” the AWACS controller answered. Duster was the call sign for the RC-135 Bill Carroll was on. Carroll’s job was to monitor the Iraqis’ radio nets and try to learn if Mana was airborne. The Americans were going after him, the threat they thought was Joe. “Viper Zero-One,” the AWACS controller was back within seconds. “Duster says the lead bandit is your target. KILL. Repeat KILL.”

“Roger, Zero-One copies,” Martin answered, confirming he was going after Mana. “Sean, go spread.” He told his wingman to move into a line-abreast, combat spread position. The lieutenant was going to have his hands full just keeping his lead in sight, so Martin turned his formation and position lights to bright. Martin turned forty degrees to the left, onto a collision course with Mana. “Lead’s engaged,” he transmitted, telling Matt that he was now leading the attack onto Kirkuk, as planned.

“This is Aldo,” the radio spat. “Multiple bandits now launching from Kirkuk.” The tactical controller on board the AWACS had detected a second group of fighters launching. The warning had increased Matt’s situational awareness and he knew he would have to fight his way into and off the target.

Now Martin and Leary were bearing down onto Mana, approaching from the Iraqi’s front right quarter. On theground, Martin had decided to open the engagement with head-on missile shots and then split to bracket their opponent, if he was still alive. The idea was to get Mana to commit on one of them, who would then become the engaged fighter. The other man would become the free fighter and protect the engaged fighter’s back or, depending on circumstances, move in for a sequential attack. Like most things that sound simple, it was hard enough to do in daylight; at night it was almost impossible. But Martin never suffered from a lack of confidence.

Both attacking F-15s were down in the weeds, still four hundred feet off the deck, less than a thousand feet apart, with their radars in standby. They did not want the bandits’ radar warning gear to detect them. Martin’s wizzo concentrated on the picture he was getting from the Navigation FLIR. When he caught a glimmer of movement, he slued the Target FLIR onto that portion of the sky in front of him. The powerful sensing device broke out the heat signature and the image of a Flanker appeared on his screen. Since the FLIR was totally passive and die bandit would have no indication he was being tracked, the wizzo locked on. “Bandit on the Target FLIR,” he told Martin.

Martin punched up the Target FLIR and was now looking at the world through a greenish soda straw. While he had a very narrow field of view, he could clearly make out the oncoming Flanker. His first thought was how much it resembled an F-15. Then he saw a second Flanker behind the first. He recognized a bearing of aircraft when he saw one and his combative instincts drooled with hunger. It was going to be a turkey shoot.

The colonel thumbed the weapons select switch aft; the radar came alive and locked on the nearest target, which was Mana. Martin shoved the switch full forward, which called up an AIM-120 AMRAAM, and hit the pickle button. A missile dropped out of its well underneath the fuselage and streaked toward Mana. Martin fully expected the target to reach and take evasive maneuvers when the pilot saw die missile’s plume fighting the night. No reaction. Now Martin had closed to inside nine miles. He moved the weapons select switch to its middle detent and the reassuring growl of a Sidewinder filled his headset. He mashed the pickle buttonagain and a Sidewinder leaped off the left inboard missile rail and homed on the Flanker.

Now Mana had two missiles coming at him and still no reaction. Martin’s wingman, Sean Leary, wanted a piece of the action and when he saw Martin launch a Sidewinder, he locked up the second aircraft in line with his radar and repeated the performance, sending first an AMRAAM and then a Sidewinder at the second Su-27. But the lieutenant was overeager and had launched the Sidewinder too early. Unlike Mana, the pilot in the second Flanker had his head out of the cockpit and wasn’t listening to the directions from the ground controller. He saw the two missiles coming at him and turned hard left just as Martin’s AMRAAM flew under Mana’s right wing. It would have been a near miss except that the proximity sensor worked perfectly and the warhead exploded, sending a hail of expanding metal core into the underside of the Flanker.

Mana fought briefly for control as the Flanker jerked to the left, its triple fly-by-wire systems able to handle most of the damage and keep the Flanker flying. But Mana panicked and jerked at his ejection seat handle. Fourteen hundred pounds of rocket thrust kicked Mana and the 450-pound K-36 ejection seat out of the aircraft just as Martin’s Sidewinder flew up his Flanker’s right tail pipe and exploded.

The pilot in the second Flanker honked back on the stick and climbed, not realizing that Mana was now between him and the missiles Leary had fired at him. Leary’s AMRAAM was transitioning from semiactive guidance to full internal guidance when its radar detected the second Flanker climbing. It had no trouble homing on its target.