“I won’t even blink.”
Twenty seconds later, they blasted over the southern coast of Iran. Flying at a speed of 1,560 mph, they were thundering over hostile territory at an altitude in excess of ten miles. Time seemed to expand as the minutes slowly passed. With their survival instincts keyed to a high degree of intensity, Stockwell and Jeffcoat concentrated on flying a flawless pass over the missile sites.
“That’s one down and one to go,” Stockwell declared as they flew over Bandar-e Abbas.
“I feel like we’re swimming in molasses,” Jeffcoat commented in a hollow voice.
“I’ve got the throttles two-blocked.” Stockwell’s voice reflected a display of false bravado.
“It still isn’t fast enough for me,” Jeffcoat said, then counted the time until the TARPS recon pod began documenting the missile site at Bushehr.
“Uh-oh,” Jeffcoat said as the radar warning receiver began to bleep. “Someone’s painting us, no shit.”
“We’re about through,” Stockwell observed in a soothing voice. “Another thirty seconds and it’s Miller time.”
Jeffcoat’s heart stuck in his throat as the time slowly passed. This ain’t good.
“That’s it,” Stockwell said boldly.
Twenty-three minutes after the fuel-thirsty F-14 started the recce sweep over Bandar-e Abbas and Bushehr, Stockwell began a shallow left turn to coast out over the Persian Gulf.
“They’re still on us,” Jeffcoat said in a tense voice. “Now, ah, it’s intermittent, but someone’s tracking us.”
“Okay, Skeeter,” Stockwell said as he forced himself to relax, “you can start breathing again.”
“Yeah, that’s a wrap.” Jeffcoat punched the play button on his CD player an instant before the Tomcat exploded in a horrendous yellow-orange fireball. Rendered semiconscious by the violent blast, Stockwell and Jeffcoat sagged in their ejection seats while the F-14 shed the right wing and right engine, then broke in half and exploded a second time. The twisted and scorched remains of the fighter tumbled out of the sky, trailing flames and blazing jet fuel.
Easing the throttles out of afterburner, Iranian Air Force Major Ali Akbar Muhammud gently banked his Soviet-built MiG-29 Fulcrum as he and his wingman rapidly descended from 52,000 feet. Muhammud’s first missile had malfunctioned and gone ballistic, but his second missile had destroyed one of the Great Satan’s reconnaissance planes.
Smiling with unbridled satisfaction, he glanced at his wingman. Although the Iranian Air Force had greatly increased the number of aircraft patrolling their borders, Muhammud’s flight was the first to make contact with the “hostile” recce planes. A few primary radar returns on an air traffic controller’s screen had made the difference. It had given the MiG pilots a basic heading to intercept the intruders.
After descending to 2,300 feet, Muhammud leveled off and watched the fuselage of the Tomcat plunge into the Persian Gulf. Scanning the hazy sky for parachutes, the MiGs flew a sweeping circle around the impact area as more debris splashed into the water. Unable to spot any sign of the downed crew, Muhammud and his wingman added power and banked toward their base at Shiraz.
En route to the airfield, Muhammud recalled the emotional pep talk their squadron commander had given the pilots. The infidels are going to have to face reality; the Islamic Republic of Iran will no longer tolerate the intrusive acts fomented by the president of the “capital of global arrogance.” Today marks the emergence of a different, more powerful, more determined Iran.
Muhammud swelled with pride, knowing that he was the first of Iran’s elite fighter pilots to strike a deadly blow to the Americans.
4
Scott Dalton stumbled sideways in the Kenai River when a king salmon snagged his line. Thrashing wildly, the powerful fish almost jerked the rod out of Scott’s hands. He quickly found his footing and regained his balance while line screeched off the reel. This was Dalton’s third attempt at landing a king salmon and he was determined not to let this one get away, especially not in front of his longtime friend and fishing buddy, Greg O’Donnell.
The former Marine Corps Harrier pilots had a standing wager. When they rendezvoused in Alaska for one of their fishing trips, whoever caught the first fish of the day enjoyed dinner at the expense of the loser, and the winner of the biggest fish of the day received free drinks for the evening. The traditional rivalry had been pretty much a wash thus far, with Dalton buying most of the drinks and O’Donnell paying for the majority of their dinners.
Enjoying the cool of early morning, Dalton fought the fish and stole a glance at O’Donnell’s king salmon lying on the edge of the riverbank. The gleaming trophy was a rare beauty that Scott figured would tip the scales at 40 to 45 pounds. He looked at the sun rising over the picturesque river, then cast a look at a moose and her calf. He decided that life couldn’t get any better. The day was in glorious bloom, the birds were trilling, and the salmon fishing promised to live up to the reputation of the Kenai River.
The descendant of a disciplined Confederate general, and the son of a hard-charging Vietnam-era Marine Corps brigadier general, Scott Johnston Dalton was a strapping native of Nashville, Tennessee. Broad-shouldered and strong-willed, Dalton was an intelligent, intense man who had learned to take time out for a few of life’s pleasures. He enjoyed flying aerobatics in his Great Lakes biplane and sailing his immaculate Morgan 33 around Chesapeake Bay. At six feet even, with dark hair, he was ruggedly handsome and had startling blue eyes that exuded charm and wit.
A three-year varsity quarterback for the “Commodores” of Vanderbilt University, Scott had been Greg O’Donnell’s flight leader during a number of combat missions in support of Operations Desert Shield and Desert Storm. When Captain Dalton’s Harrier was shot down over southern Iraq, O’Donnell flew cover for him until an Army rescue helicopter could reach the injured pilot. Shortly after he returned to flying status, Scott made the difficult decision to leave the Marine Corps and pursue a different career.
Less than six months later he reported for initial training at the Central Intelligence Agency. During his first years at the Agency, he established a solid reputation for successfully completing the most complex and hazardous assignments. After he qualified as a counterterrorism-strike-force team leader, many of Scott’s daring and courageous feats made him an instant legend in the CIA. As his reputation grew, the White House began calling on him to conduct special covert operations in various corners of the world.
Following several years of political infighting within the Agency, Scott elected to resign and start his own security consulting firm in the Crystal City complex near Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport. Specializing in corporate security measures, which many of his former associates knew was a sophisticated front, Dalton also accepted “sensitive” assignments for the Terrorism Warning Group within the Counterterrorist Center.
Reporting to the CIA director, the CTC was designed to bring all elements of the intelligence community together to collect and analyze information about terrorist groups from all over the world.
In his role as a private citizen and consultant to international entrepreneurs, Scott could circumvent certain obstacles that might prove embarrassing to the White House or the Pentagon if one of his covert operations went awry. In addition, Scott’s activities were not subject to the cumbersome congressional reporting requirements that accompany CIA-directed covert operations. Scott’s assignments centered around one basic element of covert operations, no fingerprints and no headlines.
To that end, Greg O’Donnell often provided pilot services for Dalton’s far-flung expeditions. The off-the-record excursions, sometimes as a jet captain and sometimes as a jump pilot, provided a sound financial base for Greg’s Learjet charter service.