Still, a fighter pilot liked his fights in the raw… radar against radar, missile against missile, gun against gun, pilot against pilot. This SBR, in a way, was too many legs up. But the Russians would be sure to make that same estimate… and even surer to do something about it. Question was… when, how?
"Pyekatah Rahz, pyekatah Rahz, ztah gryppa tpety Aviatsii, came the heavily garbled and barely readable radio call. "Awtvyet syeychahs shye. Infantry one, this is Aviation Group Three. Answer immediately."
The young Russian radioman of the Seventy-First Shock Troops quickly logged the time and frequency on which he had heard the call, picked up his microphone and replied, "I read you, Aviation Group Three. This is Seventy-First Shock Fire Base Seven. Proceed."
"Roger, Fire Base Seven. We are en route to your location for peripheral bombing strike. Requesting discrete forward combat controller frequency and vectors. Over."
"Copy, Group Three. You are weak and barely readable. This is the incorrect frequency. Repeat, incorrect frequency. I require authentication before assigning a combat controller."
"Roger, Fire Base Seven. Understand. That is the standard procedure. Standing by to authentication."
"I'm unable to give you an authentication," the radioman said. "Stand by." The young Russian infantryman stood up, went to the door of the administration office turned radio room of Tehran's Mehrabad International Airport, and waved down a senior starshiy praporshchik.
He returned to the radio. "Stand by for authentication, Group Three."
"Roger, Fire Base Seven." A pause, then: "Fire Base Seven, can you give us the weather and tactical condition there?"
The radioman checked for his senior warrant officer, who was being bombarded by requests from senior officers as he tried to make his way to the radio room.
"Fire Base Seven. Reply, pazhaloosta."
The infantryman made one last check; the warrant officer was still being intercepted by officers who wanted something done now. It was improper procedure to give any information on the radio without authentication, but this was a special headquarters-only frequency, and these flyboys were Russians, and the starshiy praporshchik was taking forever, and all they wanted was the weather…
"Fire Base Seven, do you read? Please reply. Over."
The infantryman went back to his seat. "Group Three, this is Fire Base Seven. I read you. I do not have the latest weather, but the temperature is cold and there are no clouds. Runway two-nine is open. Winds are variable from the west at ten kilometers per hour. We are under sporadic mortar and small-arms fire from outside the airport boundaries, but the SPETNAZ Special Forces and the Seventy-First have secured the airport and — the town of Mehrabad. You will probably attack the town of Akbarabad east-northeast of the airport. That's where most of the mortar attacks are—"
"Spakaystvey," came a shout from behind. The radioman turned, to see an enraged senior wan-ant officer descending on him. "Who are you talking to? Who?"
"Aviation Group Three…" The radioman let go the microphone like a child dropping a stolen cookie. "He called in requesting a combat strike controller—"
"Did you authenticate?"
"No, sir, I called you immediately."
"Then what were you giving him?"
"The weather. He asked for the weather and the tactical conditions here. There's nothing classified about the weather—"
"You idiot, we're in blackout conditions. The enemy can home-in on these radio transmissions and locate our headquarters here—"
"But they spoke perfect Russian…"
"That is your proof?" The warrant officer switched to broken English. "Am I now Amirikanskaya when since I speak English?" The warrant officer grabbed the microphone. "I think this is the medium bomber force from Lyaki. Whoever they are, I hope they won't report this major breach of radio security. We'll all be shot if they do." He keyed the microphone. "Aviation Group Three. Are you prepared to authenticate?"
A slight pause, then: "Da, pyekatah syedmay." The two infantrymen looked at each other in relief.
"Proceed, Group Three. Another slight pause, then in crisp, clear English they heard, "Authenticate my ass, jerk-offs."
The warrant officer stared at the young infantryman long enough to see the man's face drain of all color, then lunged at the large red button on the portable communications console and activated the emergency attack-alert signal.
The horn had only echoed through the airport grounds for ten seconds when the first bombs hit.
The two F/A-19C supersonic Nighdiawk stealth bombers raced across Tehran-Mehrabad International Airport at six hundred knots and barely one hundred feet above ground. The six Soviet SA-13 Gopher motorized surface-to-air missile batteries surrounding the airport saw nothing but faint radar echoes until the two bombers were less than ten miles from the airport, and by the time the missiles were ready to fire, the NightHawk's two-thousand-pound, laser-guided, runway-cratering smart bombs and antipersonnel bomblets were already falling.
The two NightHawk fighter bombers did not survive the killing battlefield air defenses the Soviet army had established around Tehran Airport, but before the NightHawks were destroyed by gunfire from a battery of three ZSU-23/A radar-guided antiaircraft artillery weapons, they had reduced the peripheral defenses and central command and control units to nibble.
The hundred Soviet army troops that survived the bombing had to face an even worse threat than a surprise American stealth bomber attack: the sight of hundreds of vehicles of all descriptions slowly moving, unopposed, down Makhsus Road from Akbarabad and Tehran toward the airport. The pop-pop-pop of gunfire and the cries of blood-anger from the advancing Muslim hordes could be heard for miles.
"Attention on the station. We're passing under target-area horizon. Stand by for recon data transmission and reconfiguration. This station is on yellow alert."
The command-module people relaxed, rubbing aching muscles and tired eyes — all but Saint-Michael, who watched the last transmitted picture of the northern Iran area, a hand cupped to his earset. The display was already twenty minutes old but he watched it as intently as ever, especially the IFF transponder images of the F-15E Eagle strike force, designated Tango November, and the last images of the two F/A-19C NightHawk bombers over Tehran.
A few moments later Colonel Walker maneuvered over to him. "Message from Kigzi Airbase, General. Tango November flight is checking in. All eight of them."
Saint-Michael nodded. "That's great news. We should be getting their report in—"
He stopped. Walker obviously had more. "Tango Sierra flight…?"
"The navy intercepted a broadcast in the clear from Tehran. Two American fighter bombers shot down over Mehrabad Airport."
Saint-Michael brought his hand down hard on the arm of his commander's chair.
"That Russian radio message also reported the destruction of Seventy-First Shock Troops' headquarters at Tehran Airport," Walker quickly added. "Thirty-eight dead or injured. Last report was that the airport was being overrun by Iranian militiamen."
Saint-Michael rubbed his throbbing temple. "I'd hate to be a Russian ground-pounder in Tehran right about now."
Walker handed Saint-Michael a printout. "I saved the best for last, General. The navy also sent along an intercepted radio message from a Russian rescue patrol in the Elburz Mountains. They're describing debris scattered across five hundred square miles of mountains. At least seven fires out of control in the area from aircraft-crash debris."