Like a thunderclap, the realization of what the Soviets were up to hit the operations officer of the AWACS. As an Air Force officer, he had looked at the situation from a purely Air Force view. The incoming raids, oriented on obvious targets of concern to the Air Force, had evoked the reaction the operations officer had been trained to execute and the Soviets had hoped for. At the time when the massive Soviet air assault forces were still airborne and thus the most vulnerable, U.S. aircraft that could have smashed the assault had been placed in a defensive posture well to the south.
With precious little time, the operations officer had to completely reorient his attention. While the situation over the Gulf continued to build and demanded attention, forces had to be shifted to the north against the air assault. A quick analysis of the enemy situation and the location and status of friendly forces resulted in few good choices. The Air Force could defeat the threat to U.S. forces in and along the Gulf or its aircraft could charge north and strike at the Soviet air mobile forces. To attempt both would run the risk of failing in both areas.
As the operations officer discussed the situation with the small staff of the AWACS, he watched the situation screen and half listened to the reports coming in. The wing from Bandar Abbas, the one nearest and best capable of influencing the situation to the north, was beginning to engage the incoming Soviets near its base. In another minute, it would be fully involved in combat and unavailable for commitment to the north. The next group available were the fighters scrambling from Oman, which were tagged to protect the AWACS. Options narrowed rapidly. One, send the F-15s from Bandar Abbas north, leave that base open, and accept, at best, severe damage to the airfield and the port facilities. Two, send the fighters coming from Oman north and jeopardize the AWACS. Third, have the fighters from Oman cover Bandar Abbas and have the F- 15s go north.
Fourth, do nothing about the north and leave all fighters to perform their assigned missions.
The seconds passed and the window of opportunity to influence the situation slipped as the opposing aircraft joined battle. Already new radar tracks representing ai rto-air missiles could be seen on the screen. The Soviets had achieved surprise. Realization of the error in assessing the situation came too late for effective reaction. By saying nothing, the operations officer could let all orders stand.
It would be so easy not to make a decision.
But no decision was a decision, a decision that would have terrible results for the Army.
Despite the fact that the radar tracks representing the first wave of Soviet helicopters were descending on their targets, the operations officer decided on a compromise. He ordered a squadron from the F-15 wing at Bandar Abbas north to Kerman. There was little probability that they would make it there in time to influence the situation. The effort, however, had to be made.
Martain could not believe that they had just received the order to break contact and head north. Most of the aircraft had already engaged or were about to enter combat. Omaha Flight was on the verge of bouncing a flight of four MIGs when the order to recall came. From the backseat Martain's wizzo exclaimed, "Shit! Another thirty seconds-that's all we need."
Martain looked at his displays. He had complete situation awareness.
All was in order. Everything was set for their attacks. He and his wingman could each get a single short-range missile shot, kick in their after burners for a second, clear the remaining MIGs before they could react, and be on their way north. There was no sense in pissing away a perfectly good setup. Without further thought, he hit his radio transmit button. "Omaha Two, this is Omaha One. I got my fangs out. Follow me."
He had no sooner finished his transmission than the squadron commander came back and ordered Martain to break off his attack. Martain's mind, however, blocked him out. All Martain's thoughts were focused on making the kill. He watched his displays and listened for the radar tone. For the next fifteen seconds his eyes were glued to the heads-up display to his front. Ever so carefully he guided his F-15 through an easy turn as he aligned the blip representing the MIG with a small box in the center of his display that represented the proper angle for a missile attack. As soon as the blip and the box were aligned, he got a steady tone. Launching a missile, he yelled to his wizzo to hang on, threw the F-15 into a violent turn and kicked in his after burners.
Only when they had passed the speed of sound did he acknowledge the squadron commander's order. A rebuke from the commander was followed by confirmation from an AWACS controller hundreds of miles away that Omaha
OI's missile shot was a kill. Fuck the Old Maneven he can't argue with a kill, Martain said to himself.
The men of 1St Platoon, recently stirred from their sleep, slowly made their way into their fighting positions from a wadi to their rear where they had bivouacked. Duncan, watching them, could hear the lieutenant yelling to the men to pick up the pace and get into position. While some of the platoon sergeants didn't mind having a second lieutenant who tried to do everything himself and therefore left little for them to do, it pissed Duncan. He hadn't worked to become a senior NCO and platoon sergeant just to have a lieutenant fresh out of Fort Benning come into his unit and try to run the whole outfit single-handed.
Duncan was a proud man. He took pride in his abilities as a soldier and an NCO. He loved his work and the training. It therefore bothered him when his young platoon leader didn't let him do what he was supposed to.
Two quick explosions, a small one followed rapidly by a bigger one, to the front of the platoon's positions, startled Duncan. Instinctively he dropped to the bottom of his position, shifted himself from the rear to the front wall and listened. Immediately a machine gun from the platoon's positions began to fire. Duncan slowly raised his head over the lip of the fighting position and surveyed the scene. In the darkness he could see nothing to his front except the tracers from the machine gun. At the top of his lungs he repeatedly yelled, "Cease fire!" until the machine gun stopped. When silence returned, he listened Nothing. Nothing could be heard or seen to the front.
Slowly, men who had been in the open when the explosions went off crawled or moved in a crouch to their positions. Duncan didn't bother to turn around when the lieutenant tumbled into his fighting position.
The lieutenant sat on the floor of the hole with his back against the wall facing Duncan. Out of breath and excited, he blurted, "What the hell was that?
Mortars?"
Duncan continued to peer into the darkness, searching for an answer, while he replied, "A mine. A grenade and a mine. Someone was out there fucking around and tripped a booby-trapped mine."
"Maybe an animal tripped a mine."
Still watching to the front, Duncan calmly replied, "If an animal had tripped a mine, the mine would have gone off first, not the grenade. Someone was out there fucking with our mines and got lucky."
"Iranians?"
"Maybe. Maybe Russians. Didn't the Old Man tell us we could expect their recon elements anytime?"
The lieutenant, now composed, got up and made his way to the front wall, next to Duncan, before replying. "Why would the Soviets bother messing around with our mines?"
"Maybe they wanted to clear a lane. Maybe they wanted to lift the mines and put them to our rear. Shit, Lieutenant, you tell me."
The lieutenant didn't reply. Slowly he lifted his head over the lip of the fighting position and began to search for any telltale sign that would answer his question. As much as he wanted to know why, the young officer was not sure he would like the answer.