The aircraft weaved a stomach-turning, swooping, diving course through the coastal mountains, following a path that stitched them through the invisible holes in overlapping ground radar coverage like a thread being passed through the eye-holes of a dozen scattered needles.
The choppers and Spooky began their penetration of Iranian air space at four hundred feet, but as they moved inland and crossed the canyons and rift valleys between the coastal mountains, they averaged an altitude of as low as twenty feet above ground.
As they flew nap of the earth, their flight paths controlled by terrain-following guidance systems, the aircraft zigged and zagged, twisting and turning to keep their fuselages hidden amid the ground clutter, but also lurching and swaying in crosswinds and thermals that buffeted the aircraft and complicated the already difficult maneuvers.
There was as much seat-of-the-pants flying here as flying on instruments, and the reactions, skill and daring of pilots were just as important to the successful inbound flight as were the high technology navigational aids the aircraft used to make the incursion.
At last, after over an hour of these gut-wrenching aerobatics, the three aircraft cleared the main spine of the mountains and overflew the far lower foothills that extended for several score miles from their base.
The aircrew now knew that there would not be much more flight time left. They had almost reached their destination and the radio direction finder pod mounted just beneath the AC-130H's left cockpit windshield was already picking up coded signals from the ground troops' transponder beacon.
Detachment Omega had made the abandoned salt mine without further incident and fanned out into defensive positions. The cargo trucks were parked just within the walls of the huge open pit, at the end of a sloping access road, and so positioned as to be available for cover in case unfriendlies appeared. This turned out to be a prudent precaution, because an assault was not long in materializing.
Suddenly the air was split by missile strikes as an armored enemy force appeared on the perimeter of the mine. As the US troops returned fire, Breaux had Jeckyll radio for an ETA on the airborne extraction package.
Jeckyll reported that the rescue mission was currently fifteen minutes away from their position. Jeckyll also notified the inbound aircrews that it would be a hot extraction, as they were now under heavy attack. Spooky affirmed that report and took the lead, outdistancing the choppers to give cover fire for the rescue force.
The AC-130H Spectre gun ship arrived on scene to find blue force personnel facing a regiment-sized ground contingent of Iranian regular troops as well as an airborne squadron of attack helicopters. Spooky's FCO or fire control officer, usually irreverently abbreviated as "Fucko," ordered his crew to go in after the helos first, and the Spectre's gunners opened up on the attack choppers with front-mounted 20 mike-mike Vulcan cannon fire and the 105 mike-mike automatic howitzer that was mounted in the well just behind the left wing. A flaming hail of the thirty-two pound projectiles fired by the howitzer slammed into the enemy choppers, literally ripping them apart in midair.
Spooky next went after the enemy ground troops. It began pouring fire down at the Iranians while Omega emptied its guns at the bearded men in olive drab opposing them on the ground. Between the AC-130H and Omega the Iranian regiment was quickly whittled down to a bloody butt-end. The remnants of the force soon withdrew to sheltered fire positions while their commander radioed for reinforcements.
Amid continuous firing, and before fresh troops could arrive on the scene, the two CH-53E Sea Stallions landed inside the abandoned salt mine. With engines idling they began taking on evacuees.
With full loads of grateful soldiers, the choppers rose up off the ground and began the outbound leg of their flight. They were thousands of pounds heavier by now, and their fuel stores were borderline, but each CH-53E was certified to carry a nine-ton payload and each Stallion had been outfitted with two external 450 gallon drop tanks, enough to nearly double its five hundred mile range. The AC-130H continued to ride shotgun as the mission made a run back to the Iranian coast.
Onboard the helos, Detachment Omega was dazed and confused. Some of the men experienced the post-battle euphoria that can overcome soldiers after prolonged combat. Under the circumstances this was a dangerous high to ride. There were still almost two hours of flight time left, involving tricky negotiation of miles of treacherous terrain. The mission was still open to attack by Iranian aircraft.
In short, they were all still in the shit and had no cause to party.
"Fighters," the lead helo pilot suddenly announced.
The euphoria died as quickly as it had come on.
Dead ahead there were MiG-29 Fulcrums. Two first-line fighters manned by Iran's best pilots. The fighters closed in, going after the AC-130H Spectre first, which they rightfully judged to be their most serious threat. Spooky had a fight on its hands, and its flight crew all knew it. While the pilot kept the left wing-tip pointed at the oncoming planes, the Fucko's sensor operators locked on with their radar and infrared target identification and acquisition systems, awaiting their chief's order to commence firing. The Fucko gave the order and Spooky's 20 mike-mike Vulcan gun array, 40 mike-mike cannon and 105 mike-mike howitzer unleashed a coordinated pattern of fire at the incoming fighters.
The trick here was to get the planes on the first salvo, because the AC-130H Spectre was not an aircraft designed for aerial combat. Intended to take on ground targets, all the plane's guns and most of its sensors were located on the left side of the fuselage, and an attack on its vulnerable blind side could easily prove fatal.
Spooky's crew cheered as they saw one of the MiGs take a hit and go spinning out of control, its right wing completely chewed off by a burst of intense automatic and cannon fire. More of the fighter fuselage disintegrated under the steady barrage, and the burning, smoking hulk went spinning out of control, the shot-up pilot ejecting in a bloody, burning mass and falling to earth without his chute ever opening.
The rest of the smoke-spewing metal eggshell went smashing into the side of a mountain, exploding into a balloon of fire and scattering blast debris down the sheer slope to the floor of the canyon below.
The second Fulcrum had been hit by Spooky's fire too, but it managed to evade mortal damage and returned fire at the AC-130H while winging-over onto the Spectre's blind-side. A salvo of AA-11 missiles exploded near the gun ship and jagged, whirling shrapnel tore into the skin of the nacelle of its right prop engine.
With one engine now dead, the AC-130H went into a spin. Before the pilot could compensate, Spooky had crashed into the cavern wall and burst into flames, and the airframe's wreckage cascaded to the rock floor below.
With the Spectre gone the surviving MiG came hurtling after the Stallions. By this time, though, pursuer and pursued alike had flown into the teeth of another cyclonic sandstorm. With visibility cut down by the shamal, infrared and radar targeting accuracy was reduced, and the choppers evaded missile strikes that slammed into the mountainside, sending gouts of shattered rubble spraying against their rotors and hulls. The lone MiG tried to follow but was leaking hydraulics by now. Its manual backup flight control systems had begun to fail too. Spooky hadn't killed the Fulcrum outright, but it had injected slow poison into its veins that would end up killing it by delayed reaction.