Primary Target (1999) (26 page)

"We have people in the water," McCutchin shouted on Guard frequency. "Get out here!"

Working hard to line up a good deflection shot, McCutchin fired a couple of bursts that did little more than alert the MiG driver. Aware that his plane was absorbing cannon fire, the Iranian came out of burner and dove for the deck. Squinting to see his prey in the dark, McCutchin continued to hose the MiG with armor-piercing, explosive fragmentation rounds. The heavy shells tore through the fuselage, ripping the innards to shreds.

The pilot ejected while the airplane was still shedding parts. Slowly, the Fulcrum rolled inverted and plummeted toward the Gulf, streaming burning fuel all the way to impact.

Gasping for oxygen, McCutchin snapped the Eagle into a punishing high-G batturn that caused transonic vapor to erupt above the wings. Rolling level, he pitched the nose up and was clobbered by a SAM. The powerful explosion shattered the canopy and rendered him semiconscious. With his oxygen mask drooping on his chest, McCutchin rode the spinning Eagle to a watery grave.

Chapter
25

Aboard the Caravan
.

Flying low over the coastline, Scott glanced at the former Phoenician city-state of Sidon. Graced by Castle of th
e
Sea, the northern harbor of Saida was quiet at this time of the morning. Scott began a shallow climb to improve his chances of contacting the Permak Express. Surprisingly, the ship immediately answered the radio call, although the transmission was weak and broken. Seconds later the ship was steaming toward the stricken Caravan.

Out of habit, Jackie and Scott glanced at the fuel gauges as they continuously computed and updated the time and distance to the container ship. At best, the chances of reaching the Permak Express were fifty-fifty.

She turned to him and spoke in a low voice. "Well, it wasn't pretty, but we got the job done."

"Yeah." Scott shrugged. "The key word is 'lucky.' " Jackie remained silent.

"I'm going to check on Greg and Maritza," Scott said as he unbuckled his seat and shoulder harnesses. "You have the airplane."

"I have it," Jackie said as she assumed control of the turboprop. "What are you going to tell them?"

"The truth," he said, then remarked idly, "which I'm sure they've already figured out."

Jackie remained quiet while Scott stepped out of the cockpit. Maritza and Greg were sitting on the bare floor next to the life raft. They were cold, in constant pain, and soaked raw with jet fuel. Neither one had complained.

Scott knelt beside them and spoke in a soft, soothing voice. "Both of you need immediate medical attention, but we're going to have to make some changes in our--"

O'Donnell and Gunzelman interrupted him at the same time.

"Don't worry about us," Greg said steadily. "The mission comes first, so do what you need to do."

Scott reached for Maritza's hand and felt the pressure of her cold fingers. Her eyes reflected a deep sense of fear and emotional pain. "You're going to have to ditch the plane, aren't you?"

"Yes," Scott said without hesitation. He allowed his head to droop. "We don't have many options left, so we're going to get you aboard the container ship as soon as possible."

O'Donnell's gaze inadvertently shifted to Scott's eyes. "Bubba, you can't bluff worth a shit," he said with a ragged smile. "We're going to run out of fuel first, right?"

Scott shrugged his shoulders. "That's a distinct possibility, Captain Optimistic. Aren't you the guy who always has the upbeat, 'top of the morning' attitude about everything?"

An awkward quiet settled over the pungent smell of the cabin.

Maritza finally broke the silence. "Greg tells me that you're the best," she declared in a firm voice. "And I told him that Jackie's the best, so we're not worried."

Scott quietly nodded, then patted her hand and returned to the cockpit. God, if you have a miracle to spare, we really need one.

Over the Persian Gul
f
"Diamond One-Oh-Seven," the senior Hawkeye controller radioed to the lead BARCAP pilot, "six--make that seven bogies at your twelve, noses on, at sixty-three miles, Angles fourteen."

"One-Oh-Seven, we've got 'em." Lieutenant Commander Denby Kaywood inched the Tomcat's throttles forward.

"Diamond One is comin' up on the power. Let's go combat spread, Stan."

Stan Greenwich, Kaywood's wingman, clicked his radio button twice and worked his throttles forward while he banked away from his flight leader.

"Three more bogies in trail," the Miniwacs controller said excitedly while another controller notified Washington. "Diamond One-Oh-Seven," the controller said hastily. "Make that five aircraft. They're hugging the deck, seven to eight miles behind the first wave. They're--the wingmen are diverging from the leader. They've jinked out ten--'bout fifteen degrees."

"Roger that," Kaywood answered, scanning his engine instruments. "They gotta be carryin' cruise missiles."

"Yeah, best bet."

"Diamond Three and Four step to the left," Kaywood ordered, trying his best to sound calm. "One and Two goin' for knots, comin' right twenty."

With a click click on the radio, the second section leader and his wingman banked and disappeared in the dark sky. They would maneuver in combat spread, ready to splash the oncoming bogies.

In Kaywood's backseat, Chet Hoffman had his head buried in the radar scope, tweaking and interpreting the information displayed on the screen. He was one of the best when it came to anticipating an enemy's moves and visualizing the fight well before the merge. In order to keep the surface of the water from interfering with his radar, Hoffman wanted to get below the adversaries so he would be looking up at the enemy.

"Let's take her down," Hoffman suggested a split second before Kaywood radioed their wingman, then lowered the nose and plunged downward, leveling at 4,000 feet and 470 knots.

"Warning Yellow, Weapons Hold," the Air Warfare Commander ordered. "Repeat, Warning Yellow, Weapons Hold." "Copy, Diamond One-Oh-Seven."

The U
. S
. pilots were in an intermediate stage in the process of preparing to fire in self-defense.

Hoffman kept his face glued to the radar scope while Kaywood talked to himself. "Fifty-eight miles, speed 450, Angels twelve."

With his reflexes in survival mode, Kaywood watched the separation shrink at an alarming rate. When the bogies reached twenty-two miles, he keyed his radio. "Master Arm On."

"Master Arm On," Stan Greenwich repeated from Diamond 104.

"Three."

"Four's ready to dance."

Chet Hoffman felt warm perspiration on his forehead. "I can't believe this," he quietly said over the intercom. "And to think I gave up submarines for this kind of crap."

"Centering the T," Kaywood announced as he worked on a steering cue to ensure an optimum missile launch position. "Eighteen miles, centering the dot. Lookin' good, Chet."

When the Iranian leader reached fifteen miles, Kaywood didn't hesitate. "Fifteen miles. Fox One! Fox One!"

"Here we go," Hoffman said, then gulped oxygen as the Sparrow missile rocketed toward its prey. "Stan fired a missile. Two's got a missile off."

"Fox One!" Three declared.

"Fox One," Four said evenly.

"Eleven miles!" Kaywood reported, then stopped breathing a few moments. In the distance, he saw a series of white flashes, followed by a high-pitched warble sound in his earpads. The bogies had launched air-to-air missiles. He felt his heart pound as the adrenaline kicked in.

"Nine miles!" Kaywood announced. "Fox One again!" "Oh, shit," Hoffman said over the intercom. "This ain't good."

A bright flash, followed by a rapid succession of pulsing explosions lighted the sky as one of the MiGs disintegrated in a shower of white-orange plumes.

"Good hit!" someone radioed. "You nailed him!"

Taking evasive action, the MiGs broke left and right with one of them going straight up. Diamond Three savaged the stray MiG when the pilot pulled through the top of an egg-shaped loop and started down.

"Another hit! Good kill!"

Kaywood snapped the Tomcat into a face-sagging vertica
l
climb, rolling ninety degrees over the top to position himself for another shot.

"Go Fox Two," Hoffman advised in a ragged voice. "Select Fox Two."

"Okay," Kaywood replied, selecting heat. "Fox Two." While Kaywood tracked a MiG in an effort to get a missile tone, another flash and explosion lighted the night. Kay-wood's instincts told him it was his wingman.

"Stan, you okay? You up, Stan?"

A brief moment of silence answered his questions. With the entire tail missing, Greenwich's F-I4 had yawed sideways, departed from controlled flight, then violently cart-wheeled across the sky. Stunned by the direct hit, Greenwich and his RIO ejected after the first tumble.

"Diamond One-Oh-Four is in the drink!" Kaywood radioed on Guard. "Get someone out here--do it now!" "Screwtop copies. CSAR is eight miles and closing. We have a bogie extending away from the area--headed home." "Roger," Kaywood acknowledged. "We're going to need tankers."

"They've got one up, and one ready to shoot, and we have aircraft from Roosevelt on the way."

"Tell 'em to buster!"

"They're supersonic, fifty-five miles."

"Copy."

Except for the lone defector, the Iranians continued to press the engagement as the remaining Tomcats jockeyed for position. Stationed in a reserve position, the four Hornet pilots were ready to pounce if another F-14 was shot down. Hoffman worked a merging target while Kaywood maneuvered behind a MiG for another shot.

"Shoot him," Hoffman encouraged. "Fox Two."

"No tone," Kaywood yelled in a strained voice. "Come on!"

Hoffman concentrated on his scope. A different bogie was beginning to gain a slight advantage on Diamond 107. "Lock him up!" Hoffman said excitedly. "Shoot him!" Kaywood heard a .-,ring sound in his headset, confirming that the Sidewinder had a, wired the infrared signature of the bandit's jet exhaust.

"Fox Two," Kaywood said as the "Winder" whooshe
d
away, then curved upward and went ballistic. "Son of a bitch," Kaywood uttered as he racked the straining F-14 into the vertical to try to counter the bogie stalking him. A loud explosion shook the Tomcat as a missile detonated in the aft section of the starboard engine.

"Shit," Hoffman exclaimed, feeling a twinge of panic. "Let's go! Let's get out of here!"

With warning lights flashing in his face, Kaywood secured the right engine and turned for the carrier.

"Diamond One-Oh-Seven is hit!" he declared as a sizable lump developed in his throat. "I'm disengaging and goin' to home plate."

"Roger, Diamond." The Hawkeye controller paused to inform the carrier, then came back on the frequency. "You have a ready deck. Your bogies appear to be ?
. V
ithdrawin'-- goin' north."

"One-Oh-Seven," Kaywood replied as a trace of acrid smoke drifted up toward the dome of the canopy. We gotta get to the boat.

"Thunderbolt One," the Miniwacs controller radioed to the Marine pilot in the VMFA-251 Hornet. "I'm going to divert you. We're tracking five bogies--low on the deck--eleven o'clock at twenty-eight miles. Looks like they're goin' for the carrier."

"T-Bolt copies," Major Buck Martin replied, and banked toward the approaching planes. "Thunderbolts, arm 'em up." "Two."

"Three."

"Four."

Martin lowered his nose and shoved the throttles into burner. "I've got 'em tied on radar. Got 'em locked." "Copy. Diamond One is closing from your seven o'clock, nine miles. Marauder One and Two are off the deck and climbing."

"T-Bolt One."

Martin remained quiet while his flight of F/A-18s accelerated and drifted apart in a line-abreast spread. Armed with AIM-120 missiles with multispectral seekers that can sense both infrared and radar signatures of cruise missiles, the pilots were confident they could handle the bogies.

Approaching the hostiles, Martin keyed his radio. "Guido, shoot the one on the right, Phil and I will take the center three, and John you go for the left one."

In rapid order, the pilots acknowledged the orders.

"Here we go," Martin announced, and fired a missile at the center bogie, then waited a second and fired another. "Fox Two--Fox Two."

In quick succession, four more missiles were streaking toward their targets. The three Mirage F-1s were easy pickings. The Iranian pilots held a steady course while they prepared to fire their Exocet cruise missiles. The left wingman was hit a nanosecond before he fired his missile. The other two pilots launched their Exocets seconds before their Mirages disappeared in huge fireballs.

The U
. S
.-built Iranian F-4s fired their Chinese cruise missiles, then broke hard to starboard in full afterburner. The flight leader's jet exploded halfway through the turn. The other Phantom, manned by senior officers, escaped unharmed.

"Good hits!" Martin exclaimed. "Good kills!"