The general didn’t like one bit the thought of his signature on a recall message, proof positive who had sent it for any congressional committee. And for Cunningham. Stansell was already bent over the microphone, calling the AWACS, “Delray Five-One, say status of last mission….”
“Scamp One-One, come right ten degrees, target is at your eleven o’clock position, seven miles.” The controller in the AWACS was giving the C-130 a cut-off vector before turning them toward the airliner’s stern. Brenda Iverson, Kowalski’s copilot, acknowledged the new heading. The crew had practiced intercepting another C130 at Nellis under the control of an AWACS that was participating in Red Flag. They had repeatedly run against a target aircraft, learning how to follow a controller’s directions until they got a visual contact and could complete the intercept on their own. Mostly, they had practiced approaching the target from the rear quarter, a simple matter of using overtake speed and cutoff angles. But this was different. It was going to be a much more difficult intercept as they approached from the front quarter.
Kowalski was pushing the C-130 along at 265 knots, much faster than they had practiced intercepts or ever flown at low level, and the Hercules was protesting.
“Turbine inlet temperatures are high,” the flight engineer said, worry etching her voice as she watched the gauges climb past 1,000 degrees. “We’re over-temping. Going to have to back off.”
“Not yet,” Kowalski said. Both pilots scanned the night, straining to catch sight of the Iranian airliner’s anti-collision or position lights.
“Negative radar contact,” the navigator told them. Sue Zack was trying to find the transport version of the Fokker Friendship with her APN-59 radar set. She was hoping that the props of the twin-engined, high wing turboprop aircraft would help reflect radar energy. No such luck.
“Tallyho,” Kowalski called over the intercom. She could see the red anti-collision light flashing in the darkness. “Keep trying to find them, Sue. I need the range. Double-check all lights. Make sure we’re dark.” Kowalski’s commands rippled out as she waited for more information from the AWACS.
“Target at your nine o’clock, five miles,” the AWACS told them. “Come left forty degrees.”
“What the hell?” the copilot said, worried about the new heading. “We’re cutting it close.” They waited for the next command from the AWACS.
“Contact,” the navigator called out, “Three and a half miles.” They had turned enough for the C-130’s nose-mounted radar to paint their target.
“Keep feeding me ranges, Sue,” Kowalski said. “I think the AWACS is blowing this … We’re going to shoot by and cross right in front of the airliner.” She tried to visualize what was happening from a bird’s-eye view.
“I’ve lost him off the left side of my scope at two and half miles,” Sue told her.
“Scamp, turn left twenty degrees.” the AWACS commanded. The call was too late and the turn too little. It was going to be a botched intercept.
Kowalski made her decision. She had been judging their closure and watching the Fokker’s red flashing anti-collision light. She could still see the airliner at the C-130’s left ten o’clock position. They needed room to turn onto the airliner. She wrenched the Hercules further to the left, standing it on its wing in a ninety degree bank, turning away from the Iranian. “Judy,” she called over the radio, the command that said she was taking over and maneuvering on her own to complete the intercept.
It was the right decision. Almost immediately, Kowalski wrenched the Hercules back to the right, playing the throttles and sending the turbine inlet temperatures past 1050 degrees. Now they were arcing onto the Iranian’s stern and closing rapidly. She wanted to harden up her turn, pull more than two Gs as they turned, but she was worried about her bird standing up to the strain. “Come on, old gal…”
The small Fokker transport was still crossing left to right, directly in front of the C-130. Kowalski estimated the Iranian was climbing out at about a hundred and thirty knots and crossing at almost ninety degrees to her heading. Right now it was all seat-of-the-pants flying for the captain. Her instincts had better be good.
“I’ve got a radar contact,” Sue called out. She couldn’t quite match Kowalski’s cool. “Inside a half mile.”
The dark form of the Fokker filled the pilot’s windscreen as it surged past them. “Overshoot!” she yelled. Now the C-130 was going to cross directly behind the Iranian. Kowalski rolled wings level and pulled back on the yoke, bringing the nose high into the air. Her heading was ninety degrees off the Iranian’s. She rolled a hundred and ten degrees to the right and pushed the nose down, turning after the Fokker. It was as close to a high yo-yo as a C-130 could come.
On the cargo deck only the seatbelts the Rangers were wearing kept them from spilling over the compartment when Kowalski maneuvered, rolling the big cargo plane up onto one wing, then the other. They had never experienced that before. Dirt and dust filled the air and anything loose tumbled onto the men. Only the load-master, Hank Petrovich, had not been strapped in and he had smashed against a bulkhead, gouging a furrow in his forehead. Then they were straight and level, less than a thousand feet behind the Fokker. It had been a near thing.
The two Iranian pilots never saw the dark specter that bore down on them off their right wing because the C-130’s camouflage blended into the night and it was running dark. Only the red glow of instrument lights on the flight deck broke its shadow. It was hard to say what their reaction would have been if they had seen the Hercules slice behind them, traveling at 265 knots, slow for a fighter but all too fast and close for a pilot who had last maneuvered like that in pilot training.
Inside the C-130 the jumpmaster unstrapped and ran forward to check on the loadmaster. Blood was pouring down Petrovich’s face, and he was groggy from the blow. The jumpmaster ripped a first-aid kit off the side of the fuselage, pulled a compress bandage out and stopped the bleeding. “A Band-Aid would probably do the trick,” he reassured the man, binding him up.
The loadmaster sat on a jump seat, put his headset on and checked in with the flight deck. “We’re okay back here, captain. Hey, I didn’t know a Herky Bird could do that.”
“Yeah,” Kowalski said, “the old bird is pretty maneuverable. A four-engine fighter. We heard you took a header. Sure you’re okay?”
“I’m okay. You didn’t get my balls, Captain. Look worse than I am.”
The corporal sitting next to Baulck rasped, “I thought you said she knew what she was doing.”
“You better count on it,” Baulck shot back.
Slowly the tension on the flight deck eased a notch as Kowalski maneuvered the C-130 into position, two hundred feet behind and slightly below the Iranian airliner, as the turbine inlet temperature moved back down into normal operating range. The pilot keyed her intercom. “Everyone on oxygen. Time to start prebreathing and do a little purging.” She wanted to get nitrogen out of everybody’s blood for when they depressurized at altitude. No point in risking a case of the bends. Then: “Thank you, Mr. Lockheed.”
Mado was staring at Stansell. The AWACS had not answered the colonel’s question about the status of Scamp One-One but had told them to standby. Now the command post Emergency Actions Controller was copying another encoded message from the AWACS. “Send the recall message,” Mado growled, his decision finally made. He scribbled his name across the bottom, releasing it for transmission.