“Shoot her the juice.”
“You got it.”
Jeffcoat energized the state-of-the-art system and the Tomcat immediately experienced a power surge that momentarily caused the enunciator panel in the cockpit to light up like a Christmas tree.
“Ho-leeee shit,” Stockwell exclaimed as he fought to calm his nerves. “What the hell is going on back there?”
“Sorry, boss.” Jeffcoat quickly turned off the faulty system. “The DEF gear went haywire.”
“Jesus,” Stockwell muttered as he sucked in a breath of oxygen. “My heart won’t take another shot like that.”
“I’ve got it secured.”
“Yeah, forget it.” Stockwell sighed, feeling the effects of the adrenaline rush. “The damn thing only works on training flights.”
The demon named Fear had slipped out of Stockwell’s subconscious, taunting him, coiling around him like a boa constrictor, squeezing tighter and tighter until it was so palpable that he had trouble swallowing. The snarling, hissing distraction possessed the power to erase a pilot’s judgment and skill. During his long career, Stockwell had successfully conquered the demon many times.
“What d’ya think, skipper?” Jeffcoat asked with a trace of anxiety in his voice. “Press on, or get out of town?”
Stockwell stared at the horizon while he fought the impulse to cancel the mission and return to the carrier. Maybe we should abort, or wait for another AWACS. He considered the knowns and unknowns. If we loiter and wait for an AWACS. we’ll have to refuel again. The timing will be off because the sun won’t be directly overhead.
“Why me?” he quietly asked himself, then allowed a thin smile to crease his face. “Skeeter, the president is waiting. I’m committed, unless you’re dead set against it.”
Jeffcoat took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “We can hack it, sir.” Just concentrate on the mission.
With their pulse rates winding down, the two men remained quiet while the F-14 climbed through 54,400 feet, then accelerated to the “speed of heat” and leveled off at 54,000 feet. High above most of the other air traffic traversing the busy Gulf of Oman, the Mach 2.34 Tomcat was back in its environment. In less than fifteen minutes, they would be photographing the first of two recently constructed missile sites along the coast of Iran.
Spacecraft imagery and electronic data indicated the new launch pads were being equipped with Shahab-3 and Shahab-4 missiles. According to dissidents in Tehran, the Shahab-3 could deliver 1,650 pounds of explosives over 860 miles, allowing Iran to inflict severe damage to Jerusalem and to U.S. forces at bases in Turkey, Kuwait, Bahrain, and Saudi Arabia. A few Shahab-3s carrying anthrax could easily kill the majority of American troops in the Gulf region. More powerful, the Shahab-4 had the range to hit cities in Egypt.
With the assistance of Russian, North Korean, and Chinese engineers and technicians, a third generation of Iranian ballistic missiles was being manufactured at Hemat Missile Industries, which contained a production facility thirty feet underground.
The news had caused a mad scramble at the Pentagon, and frayed nerves at the White House and the State Department. Capable of reaching Paris or London, the state-of-the-art missiles were equipped with thermonuclear warheads.
Other Chinese and Russian advisers headquartered at the Shahid Bagheri Industrial Group in Tehran were in the final stages of developing a 6,300 mile missile that could strike Washington, D.C., and New York City. The Iranian weapons of choice for the U.S. were terrorists to disperse anthrax, followed days later by missiles with thermonuclear warheads.
Jeffcoat punched the play button on the small portable CD player he had modified to plug into his helmet. A few seconds later the greatest hits of Hank Williams filtered through his earpads. Jeffcoat adjusted the volume while he listened to “Hey, Good-Lookin’,” then glanced at the horizon and tilted his head back.
The bluish dome of sky turned dark blue as his gaze traveled higher. Far below the spy plane, the sky was powder blue and filled with fluffy white clouds that resembled puffs of cotton randomly scattered about.
After studying the curvature of the earth for a few moments, Jeffcoat turned his attention to his instruments in an attempt to ease his growing uneasiness. The increased pressure to accomplish this particular mission was subtle, but it was there. Jeffcoat closed his eyes and sighed. First the AWACS — now the DEF gear. What next? He unconsciously tapped his foot to the beat of the music. We’re hangin’ it out on this pass.
Mulling over the possibility of being attacked by the Iranians, Jeffcoat finally shrugged off his concern. He keyed his intercom. “What d’ya think, skipper? Is the commander in chief about ready to teach the big shots in Tehran a lesson?”
“I wouldn’t bet against it.” Stockwell quietly chuckled. “Giving us a deadline to have our troops out of Sandland wasn’t a stroke of diplomatic genius.”
“Yeah,” Jeffcoat said, “and now they’re threatening to close the Strait of Hormuz if we don’t get out by the deadline.”
“It may come down to a shoot-out.” Stockwell paused while he glanced at the Persian Gulf and the coast of Iran. “They’re sure as hell flaunting their muscle — trying to intimidate us.”
“Not a smart idea,” Jeffcoat declared.
“True, but you have to remember who you’re dealing with.” Stockwell made a slight heading adjustment. “After watching Bassam Shakhar threaten us on CNN, the president may want to give him and Tehran a demonstration of who really runs the show in the Gulf region.”
Skeeter nodded in agreement. “Yeah, it might get noisy down there before too long.”
“Real noisy,” Stockwell said with conviction. “And then real quiet.”
“Like Stone Age quiet,” Jeffcoat suggested.
“Yeah, something like that.”
Skeeter closed his eyes and sighed while the lyrics of “Your Cheatin’ Heart” floated lightly and smoothly through his headphones. “Wake me up if you get lost.”
“You’ll be the first to know.”
Stockwell pointed the Tomcat toward the initial point of the photo run, then made a sweeping left turn to align the aircraft with the desired track to be photographed. Traveling at twenty-six miles a minute, there was no room for miscalculation or pilot error.
Feeling a sudden chill race down his spine, Stockwell scanned the curvature of the horizon and thought briefly about Francis Gary Powers and the U-2 Affair. I wonder what he was thinking when the missile hit him. Must’uv been a major “OH, SHIT!” for sure.
Checking his instruments, Stockwell tried to quell his uneasiness. I hope we slide through this without becoming the center of an international incident.
During the previous two days, Tehran had repeatedly threatened to shoot down the reconnaissance planes if the “provocative acts” continued. To bolster their declaration, Iranian fighter planes equipped with the latest generation of Russian-made air-to-air missiles were patrolling the skies. The heated threats from members of the Supreme Council for National Defense were being shown on MSNBC and CNN against a backdrop of Iranian fighter pilots manning their planes and preparing for takeoff.
Stockwell breathed deeply, enjoying the cool oxygen. Well, God never loved a coward. “Are you ready, Skeeter?”
Jeffcoat hit the pause button on the CD. “Skipper, I was born ready.”
“We’re goin’ for it,” Stockwell said with a tinge of apprehension in his voice. “Keep me honest.”