The Turkish warships were in international waters, so aircraft could legally fly very close as long as they did not pose a threat or do anything unsafe, but the Russian jets never approached closer than one or two miles. The Russians sometimes sent Tupolev-95 Bear reconnaissance planes as well during the day, and they approached within a half-mile or so from the Turkish ships if they were in international waters, but always with a couple of Turkish F-16 or F-4E fighters on their wing and tail.
It was a common cat-and-mouse game in the Black Sea — Turkey sent F-4E and RF-5A reconnaissance aircraft over Russian ships in the Black Sea every day as well, and even Romania and Bulgaria, both of whom had very small air and naval forces, had overwater patrols these days. Nevertheless, Captain Inonu did not want to appear relaxed or overconfident, even for a moment. The Russians had been pledging they would cease all hostile activities and back off, but they still sent patrol aircraft close to Turkish ships, and that bothered Inonu. The Russians were not successfully demonstrating peaceful intent.
The Combat Information Center on the Fatih was a large armored room in the center section of the ship, two decks down from the bridge. It contained two radar consoles for the DA-08 air-search radar; two consoles for the navigation and maneuvering radar controllers; two consoles for the STIR (Separate Track and Illumination Radar) and WM-25 fire control directors, which controlled the Sea Sparrow missiles and the 127-millimeter gun; two sonar operators manning the SQS-56 sonar; two operators manning the radar-warning and signal-gathering systems; and two controller consoles for the TV/infrared/laser fire-control tracking systems for the weapons, one for the front half of the ship and one for the aft hemisphere, which could accurately track and compute attack geometry on aircraft and cruise missiles out to a range of five miles without emitting any telltale electronic energy. Two console operators shared a communications technician/assistant. Each system section (weapons, electronic warfare, and radar) had a director, who reported to the combat officer or ship’s captain. Two seamen also manned a lighted manual vertical-plotting board, situated in the center of the compartment in front of the combat officer’s station, on which all of the information from the various sensor operators was integrated into a readable pictorial display.
Captain Inonu sat in the combat officer’s chair, beside the chief of combat operations who would act as his assistant and communications officer. “Report, Lieutenant,” Inonu ordered as he put on a set of headphones and made himself comfortable in the combat officer’s seat.
“The ship is at general quarters, sir. Battle stations manned and ready, weapons final check in progress.”
“Very well. Communications, this is Combat, broadcast on emergency channels for all aircraft to remain outside ten miles of this task force because of night-flying restrictions and close proximity to resupply vessels. I don’t feel like messing around with the Russian Air Force tonight. Radio the contact and our close-approach restriction to task force headquarters at Sariyer.” Inonu clicked on the intercom. “Radar, have you picked up those Russian aircraft yet?”
“Negative, sir,” the chief of the radar plot section replied. “Should be within range in a few minutes if they stay at five thousand feet. Current position from AWACS plane Diamond has them about one hundred ten miles north of our position.” Inonu was ready to acknowledge the call and ask the chief to remind him of the plane’s status when the chief radioed back immediately. “Sir, message from Diamond, inbound aircraft were declared an air defense item of interest. Targets now closing at over six hundred knots on a missile attack profile.”
“Copy,” Inonu said. Dammit, he knew it, he knew this was going to happen. The fucking Russians! “Combat, go passive.” On intercom, he ordered, “Helm, Combat, get the feed from the AWACS plane and put us on the attack forty-five, and make sure we screen the Akar as much as possible. EW, begin radar countermeasures and decoy dispersal. Signal the task force to disperse and begin countermeasure procedures.” On the shipwide intercom, he said, “All hands, this is the captain in Combat. Air defense is tracking inbound Russian aircraft on a possible attack profile. Go to blackout procedures, go passive on all transmitters, initiate radar decoy procedures. Report in by section when passive condition is set.”
“Message from fleet, sir.”
“Later. Status report first, all sections.”
The one hundred and eighty crewmen of the Fatih, along with the thirty-eight crewmen on each of the patrol escorts, configured their ships for combat operations within seconds. All electronic transmissions that might be intercepted and used as a homing beacon were extinguished; the Fatih could aim its Sea Sparrow missiles and the 127-millimeter dual-purpose gun with steering signals from the NATO radar plane until the targets got within firing range. The helmsman would receive positioning cues from radar plot to position the frigate “on the forty-five”—at a 45-degree angle pointing toward the incoming planes — they could freely swivel the cannon, the Sea Sparrow launcher, and the two Sea Zenith close-in cannon mounts both before and after the planes passed by, and also present as small a radar cross-section as possible to the incoming planes in case they launched an attack.
The helmsman would also try to position the ship as much as possible between the Russian planes and the replenishment oiler Akar to protect it from an antiship-missile attack. Although the Akar was liberally armed with six antiaircraft-artillery guns and a Mark 34 fire control radar, its huge size and poor performance underway made it an inviting target. All four Turkish ships carried radar decoys, which were small, boatlike radar reflectors with heat and electronic emitters on board that would act as decoys to radar-guided antiship missiles. As a last-ditch measure, all four vessels could fire chaff rockets to try to decoy a missile away from the ship, and Fatih had two Sea Zenith close-in weapon system mounts, which used four-barreled radar-guided 25-millimeter cannons to try to destroy an incoming missile seconds before impact.
“Position of the inbounds?” Inonu yelled out. He did not need to address his request to anyone in particular — the radar director should know that information or direct his technicians to respond.
“AWACS has the inbounds one hundred miles north, approaching at six hundred knots, altitude now three thousand feet.”
“Very well.” On intercom, Inonu radioed, “Communications, this is Combat, go ahead with instructions from fleet headquarters.”
“Yes, sir. Fleet requests you protect the oiler to the maximum extent possible and detach it as soon as possible,” the communications officer replied.
“That’s it?”
“Message ends, sir.”
Great, Inonu thought. Not even a “good luck” or a “hang tough. “ Shit. “Comm, I want instructions from Fleet on how to handle this hostile, not a wish list. Request instructions.”
Inonu turned to the ship’s combat officer, a young man named Mesut Ecevit, on his first extended patrol in a frigate after commanding a patrol boat for many years. “What am I forgetting, Lieutenant?” Inonu asked. “Decoys, blackout, passive routine — what else should we be doing?”
The young crewman thought briefly, then responded, “We could get the helicopter airborne … perhaps give the bomber crews something in their face to worry about.”