The Kirya, Tel Aviv, Israel
The generals, and especially the air force chief, were feeding in an almost three-dimensional picture of the aerial battle, and as expected, Iran was doing very poorly, even as the second wave of fighters closed in. That would hasten Tehran’s decision. If they couldn’t shoot the airliner down…
“How long a delay in seconds between a ballistic missile launch and when our board here would show it?” Gershorn asked no one in particular.
Two members of the general staff turned to answer. “No more than five seconds, sir. This is an amalgam of real-time satellite sensors and imagery.”
He nodded thanks, his mind racing. The order to intercept any launched missile in boost phase was already signed. The order to launch the nuclear preemptive strike would take a maximum of two minutes consultation.
“One more question,” Gershorn asked evenly, consciously hanging on to his emotions. “What are the expected civilian casualties if we go for preemption?”
The room quieted immediately, as if a judge had asked a defendant at the start of a trial which prison he’d prefer.
“Between… 7,000 and 20,000, sir, in primary and secondary casualties in the communities in which they’ve tried to hide the enrichment facilities.”
“And our fighter is in place for a shootdown?”
“Awaiting your order, sir.”
“How long would it take Tehran to understand the threat was gone?”
“They would see the target break up and disappear. But, they might not know who shot them.”
“In other words, they might still push the button based on the assumption that we were attacking?”
The generals in the room were all glancing at each other as if forming an unspoken collective resolve over what to say. The prime minister was clearly teetering on a razor edge. The wrong phrase, the wrong word, might push him in the wrong—or the right—direction.
The final tumbler suddenly dropped into place in Gershorn’s mind, unlocking his resolve.
And somehow, in Tehran, he knew his counterpart had also reached an equally historic decision.
CHAPTER SIXTY
Aboard Pangia 10 (0542 Zulu)
“I tried to tell the fighters, but they’re not responding,” Jerry said as Dan pulled on his headset and triggered the radio the Israeli had been using. “I’m starting a turn.”
“Patyish Lead, this is Pangia 10! We have regained control! Repeat, we have regained control and are reversing course back to Iraq.”
There was no response, yet another explosion in the distance off to the east announced the fact that the engagement wasn’t over.
“Where are we?” Dan asked.
“Just inside their airspace. Baghdad is right behind us. See if you can punch up the airport in case we need it.”
“Absolutely we’re going to…”
The rest of the answer was drowned out by a thunderous explosion on the right side of the Airbus and they could feel the big bird stagger and yaw to the right. Emergency warnings, beeps and horns and messages began flooding the ECAM computer screens.
“Jesus God!”
“What the hell was that?” Jerry demanded.
“Something exploded!”
“No shit, Sherlock! But what?”
“I don’t know… maybe a missile. We’ve lost number two engine, I think.”
Dan jerked his head back forward, quickly scanning the cascading readouts on the screen. “Yes, number two engine is down!”
“We have a fire light?” Jerry asked.
“What? Yes, dammit!”
“Run the ECAM procedure.”
“Roger. Engine fire number two, I have the fire switch for number two, confirm?”
The procedure intimately familiar from training scenarios, Jerry reached his right hand up and touched the same fire switch Dan was pointing to.
“Roger, number two confirmed.”
“Pulling two, continuing checklist. Shutting off number two start switch.”
The sudden feeling of deceleration superimposed itself over all their other senses as Jerry looked with feral intensity toward his copilot.
“No, No, Dan! Number TWO! Not number ONE!”
“I pulled two!”
“We just lost number one! Confirm the fire switch is in and try a restart…”
“Jerry!”
“…we can get her back! Quickly!”
“JERRY!”
“What?”
Dan was pointing to the forward panel and the depiction of the fuel tanks.
“We’re out of gas, Jere!”
“What?”
“We’ve run out of fuel. I’ve got all the pumps on.”
Dan leaned left to get closer to the fuel readouts, confirming it. No useable fuel in number one main tank, and essentially none in number two.
“We’re zeroed, Jerry.”
“Oh, fuck! But what happened to two?”
“They shot us.”
“Who? Who is they? Who shot us?”
“Man, I don’t know, but it had to be the Iranians.”
“But I’d just started the turn! We were nose on to them.”
“I don’t know…”
“Couldn’t be a surface-to-air, we’d be in pieces.”
“Okay, look, we need to maintain control here.”
“I know it!”
“Is she still responding?” Dan asked
“Yes. Sluggish but responding.”
“I’m deploying the RAT. And… we’re depressurizing, Jerry. Oxygen masks on, confirm 100 percent.”
Jerry let go of the sidestick long enough to sweep on his oxygen mask, checking the 100 percent position on the selector before resuming his death grip on the stick.
“Comm check, Dan. How copy?” Jerry asked, his voice sounding strange in the oxygen mask microphone.
“Loud and clear. How me?”
“Good. Run the depress checklist, but we cannot do an emergency descent.”
“Hell, no. I got that. We don’t want to anyway. We don’t know the damage.”
“Jump seat on,” Bill Breem reported, followed by a quick confirmation from Tom Wilson.
“Obviously it punched our fuselage,” Jerry added. “Do you suppose we’ve lost anyone back there?”
The question was in cadence with the rapid fire back and forth of the previous thirty seconds but the reality of it stopped both men cold. The memory of the gaping hole that had swallowed nine of United Airlines Flight 811 passengers in 1989 replayed in their heads as clearly as if there had been an HD screen on the glareshield.
“No,” Dan answered suddenly. “No, not possible. The pressure loss was slow and steady, not explosive.”
The electrical power flickered and stabilized with a reduced number of instruments, as Dan reached up to start the auxiliary power unit.
“The APU isn’t going to do us much good without fuel, Dan,” Jerry managed, trying his best to grin at him.
“I forgot,” Dan replied, shaking his head at the oversight.
“Is there an airport we can reach?”
“Yes. Baghdad International! Eighty-five miles, heading two-eight-zero. We’re at 37,000 feet… we have enough energy to glide 120 miles, Jerry. So we can do this.”
“You think it was a sidewinder or something?”
“Yeah, a missile, I’ll bet anything. But you’re the fighter jock.”
“We’ve got to get on the ground before someone comes back to finish us off!”
“Agreed.”
“That had to be a heat seeker or we’d be toast. Had to be Iranian.”
“Probably,” Dan said, another possibility nipping at the back of his mind.
“I imagine our Israeli friends are still holding them off.”
“Let’s just concentrate on getting down, Jerry,” Dan replied, trying to force his thoughts back to the myriad of tasks at hand. “Lemme dial up Baghdad tower. I have no idea if they’re clear or socked in down there.”