Simchukov and three other Soviet scientists were responsible for training a select group of Iranians to become nuclear weapons technicians. The seemingly endless program was expected to be completed in less than two months, freeing the homesick scientists to return to Russia and their families.
Taking a last drag on his cigarette and crushing it on the ground, Simchukov cringed when he heard an eerie sound. He’d never heard a Tomahawk missile, but he instinctively knew it was the sound of death. Simchukov leaped to his feet and ran as fast as he could for the perimeter of the compound. In his mind, he knew it was useless to run, but his every instinct told him to flee. The ensuing explosion blew the scientist through the chain-link fence, killing him instantly.
The conflagration in the assembly yard would be totally out of control by the time the second and third Tomahawks plowed into the warhead storage building. The nuclear storage-and-assembly complex at Bandar-e Abbas had suffered a similar fate only minutes before. While chaos reigned at the demolished nuclear facilities, Cheyenne’s cruise missiles began arriving. Fortunately, as General Chalmers had assured President Macklin, none of Iran’s nuclear weapons detonated.
24
Flying level at 22,000 feet above the Persian Gulf, Lieutenant Colonel Trent McCutchin checked his fuel and noted the time. Between fifty and eighty miles to the west, a U.S. Air Force RC-135 Rivet Joint surveillance aircraft and an E-8 Joint-STARS Boeing worked with an E-3 AWACS Airborne Warning and Control aircraft.
The RC-135 is considered so menacing that senior officers in the Soviet Union’s chain of command willingly risked their careers and international scorn by shooting down Korean Airlines Flight 007, a Boeing 747 they mistook for a Rivet Joint aircraft probing Russia’s eastern defenses.
The Rivet Joint team focused on coordinating the location of electronic emissions with the AWACS powerful aerial radar and the Joint-STARS ground radar and moving-target indications. With all the elements working in harmony, nothing could hide from U.S. intelligence for over 300 nautical miles beyond an enemy’s front lines.
McCutchin’s confidence was high even though a glitch had developed in the Joint Tactical Information Distribution System (JTIDS) aboard the AWACS aircraft. Instead of operating in an environment of greatly enhanced situational awareness — a “God’s-eye view” of the Persian Gulf — they would be forced to revert to old-fashioned night-fighter tactics. If the Iranians attacked the U.S. fighters, the lack of JTIDS capability could translate to a lower kill ratio, a lower percentage of survivability, and the possibility of fratricide incidents.
Craning his neck, McCutchin glanced toward the coastline of Iran and immediately saw a bright flash split the night, followed by a rising fireball near Bushehr. The Navy folks are right on the money. A moment later he heard a hollow voice speak to him from the bowels of the Boeing E-3 Sentry AWACS aircraft.
“Ah, Sting Flight, multiple bandits turning into you,” the senior Air Force captain said. “Six hostiles at sixty-two miles — ah, level your altitude, nine o’clock. Warning Yellow, Weapons Hold.”
“Sting One.” McCutchin’s mouth went dry and his neck muscles tightened as rivulets of sweat trickled down his temples. He rechecked his armament panel and listened to the AWACS controller talk briefly with the combat search-and-rescue helicopters and their fighter escorts. Seeing another bright flash at Bushehr, McCutchin tightened his restraining straps and prepared to defend himself.
The E-3 Sentry operator spoke again, this time with a hint of trepidation in his soft voice. “Sting Flight, the six hostiles now at your eight o’clock — your altitude. Come left zero-seven-zero.”
Breathing deeply and forcing himself to relax, McCutchin keyed his radio. “Sting One, we’re coming left to zero-four-zero.”
“Negative, Sting. Zero-seven-zero. Come left to zero-seven-zero.”
“Zero-seven-oh.”
“Roger, Sting.”
Flying in an offset trail position, the other three F-15 Eagles turned in unison with their leader while two flights of F-16 Fighting Falcons positioned themselves for aerial combat. In addition to air-to-air missiles, the “Electric Jets”—Fang Flight and Rock Flight — carried jamming pods and HARM High Speed Anti-Radiation Missiles to knock out any SAM sites that locked onto them with radar. The opposing forces had a closure rate of over 1,000 miles per hour.
Orbiting northwest of the battle group, the E-2C Hawkeye warned the carrier about the approach of hostile aircraft. “Strike, Screwtop. Seven bogies off the coast of Iran turning inbound to your position. Zero-two-five at seventy-five miles. Angels twelve.”
“Roger that,” the controller on the ship radioed while Captain Jensen listened to the conversation. Her uneasiness grew as she contemplated the possibility of being attacked. This can’t happen… not on my watch.
“Strike,” the Hawkeye controller radioed, “I’m seein’ three additional targets. They’re really low, eight miles behind the other bogies.”
“Copy, Screwtop.”
Jensen reached for her direct line to the Combat Direction Center. After speaking to the senior officer in CDC, Jensen took a deep, silent breath and turned to the officer of the deck. “Sound General Quarters,” she ordered, and reached for her life jacket and battle helmet.
The heart-pounding sound of general quarters immediately set off a well-orchestrated stampede throughout the ship. In a wild scramble, all hands scampered to their battle stations as a. sense of concern turned to raw fear.
Coordinated chaos reigned in Primary Flight Control, the glass enclosed control tower jutting over the flight deck.
“Get the DLI in the air!” Rear Admiral Ed Coleman said impatiently. “Let’s move it, Wade!”
“Yessir,” Captain Wade Kavanaugh calmly replied as squawk boxes blared and telephones rang.
“And get the Alert Five birds up to the cats!”
“Workin’ on it, Admiral.”
“The White House”—Coleman popped a stick of gum in his mouth—“wants to kick some ass.”
“Yes, sir.”
Kavanaugh, Washington’s air boss, was used to Coleman’s penchant for barging onto the bridge or into PriFly. A laid-back native of Georgia, Kavanaugh tried to ignore the crusty battle-group commander while he talked to the catapult officer. The “shooter” was in the process of launching Lieutenants Ridder Cromwell and Fred Singleton in the duty Deck Launch Interceptor, call sign Diamond 107.
“Let’s get ’em in the air,” Coleman barked above the clamor. “This isn’t a weekend drill!”
“They’re clearing the deck, sir.”
Coleman was steeling himself for action. “It’s time for Roosevelt to make her entrance — get her planes up here.” Without saying another word, the admiral spun on his heel and headed for the bridge.
Kavanaugh and his assistant, known as the “miniboss,” glanced at each other and breathed a sigh of relief.
With the fueling hose clear of the F-14, Cromwell exercised his flight controls to the stops and then selected afterburner. With his heart stuck in his throat, he checked his instruments as the screeching, roaring Tomcat shook and vibrated and strained at the holdback fitting. The center of the jet blast deflector glowed reddish orange as twin streaks of white-hot flames shook the steel shield.
Satisfied with the indications on his engine instruments, Ridder Cromwell toggled the external lights, then braced himself for the violent stroke of the catapult. For the next few seconds their fate would be out of his hands. They were just two pieces of adrenaline-charged protoplasm about to go on a rocket ride.