Stephen Coonts - The Disciple

All Fereydoon Abassi had to do was ensure the American carriers were within range and launch the missiles properly.

He went from launcher to launcher, checking everything. The semitrailer launchers were stabilized with hydraulic feet; the missiles themselves were housed inside closed-end containers, which had been properly elevated; a course was set into their computers. The diesel engines in the launchers were running, providing electrical power.

He looked at his watch. It would soon be dawn, and he and his men must be off this ridge by then-and the missiles must be in the air.

He sent his launcher crews marching away north, down the road out of the pass. Then he walked a hundred feet south, past the launchers, along the road to the mobile radar van. One man, the operator, was manning it. The diesel engine was snoring nicely; the lights on the panel were on.

“Are you ready?” he asked the sailor, who stood at attention.

“Yes, Captain.”

“Let us proceed. A very short look. I want the distance and azimuths to the two carriers, and the instant I get it, I will tell you to cease radiating. You must stop radiating immediately, shut down the diesel engine and run after the others.”

“We will abandon the equipment?”

“If the Americans do not destroy it, it will still be here tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.”

Abassi straightened his uniform as the operator threw switches. Over the man’s shoulder Abassi could see the scope, which glowed. Even as he watched, blips appeared.

“Over a dozen ships,” the operator said, staring at the scope as he manually moved the azimuth cursor.

“The largest ones,” Abassi said, “in the center of the formations.” The Americans were so predictable.

“Range ninety kilometers, bearing one-seven-two degrees”-the operator turned the knob-“and range ninety-five kilometers, one-six-five degrees.”

“Cease radiating. Shut down the engine and run.”

The operator quickly did as directed. The diesel abruptly died, leaving only the faint sound of the diesel engines in the launchers.

In an EA-6B Prowler, the radiation from the Russian-built mobile radar was detected and recognized for what it was. These radars, the U.S. Navy intelligence officers believed, were often used by the Iranians to aim cruise or antiship missiles.

The EA-6B operator informed the E-2 Hawkeye circling over United States and her sister ship, USS Columbia , even as he flipped a switch to jam the radar. However, the few seconds it took for the jammer to go to that frequency proved to be too much. The Iranian radar had ceased radiating.

In the flag combat control spaces aboard United States , Admiral Stan Bryant gave the order. “Possible missiles inbound. Code red. Notify all ships.”

The warning would merely sharpen the troops already at battle stations. Bryant had ordered battle stations, and the closure of all watertight doors, throughout the task force prior to the first launch earlier this morning. Buttoned up tightly, all internal air circulation in the ships was now secured. In the red-lit passageways the damage control parties stared at the bulkheads and each other.

Captain Abassi walked quickly-he refused to run-toward the first launcher, which still had its prime mover attached. The lid for the control panel was already open. He checked the switches and settings one more time, then manually tuned the azimuth control to one-seven-two and range control to ninety kilometers. Satisfied, he raised the covers of the two fire buttons and simultaneously pushed them both. Then he jumped into the cab of the fireproof prime mover, pulled the door closed and jammed his fingers into his ears.

Ten seconds later the missile’s solid-fuel booster engine ignited in a stupendous roar and a blast of white-hot flame that illuminated the area as the missile shot forward off the launcher. It raced away toward the dark ocean, accelerating quickly so that the liquid-fueled ramjet engine could ignite when the booster burned out. It rapidly became a receding star.

Abassi fought the temptation to watch it and climbed out of the cab. He ran to the next launcher and repeated the process. One-seven-two degrees, ninety kilometers. Pushed the buttons and climbed back into the cab. This missile followed the first.

On the third, fourth and fifth missiles, he dialed in one-six-five degrees, ninety-five kilometers. In less than three minutes, they had followed the others on their way to glory.

Fereydoon Abassi jumped from the cab of the last prime mover and raced off down the road after his men, as fast as his feet would carry him.

“Missile launch!” The sensor operators in the EA-6B were the first to detect the distinctive radiation from the radar in the nose of the Yakhont missile. “Missile in the air.”

A moment later, an F/A-18 Hornet pilot flying above the coast of Iran, invisible to antiaircraft radar thanks to its ALQ-199, spotted the brilliant plume of a Yakhont coming off the launcher and shouted to the E-2 controller, “Missile in the air. Headed south. We are attacking the launch site.”

He jerked his plane around, stuffed the nose down and pushed the throttle forward. His wingman, well out to his left, followed him down. As he descended and flipped switches on the stick with his thumb to select the proper ordnance, he saw the last of the Iranian ship-killers lift off and go streaking southeast. He already had the master arm switch on and the crosshairs of his bombsight pointed at more or less that spot, so now he sweetened his aim and designated that spot as the target.

Within seconds his computer began giving him steering to his release point. His eyes flicked to the panel. He was going to salvo all his ordnance, six five-hundred-pound cluster bombs, two at a time, at minimum intervals. The clamshell housing on the bombs would open well above the ground and scatter a cloud of bomblets, each of which would detonate and spray shrapnel when it hit something solid.

Heart pounding, he concentrated on following the computer’s steering commands. Passing four hundred knots, six thousand feet, the computer released the bombs with a short series of trip-hammer thuds.

He pulled up and left, out to sea, to clear the area for his wingman while he watched the ground. He saw multiple flashes as the bomblets scattered over the empty launch vehicles and mobile radar van. There were no explosions on the ground since all the missiles were in the air.

Running down the road, Captain Abassi heard the swelling noise of jet engines at full throttle, and the whip-cracks of the cluster-bomb containers opening. The noise of the jet peaked when the bomblets went off, so he didn’t hear them. He did hear the second plane roll in, and he heard the containers open. This jet had dropped a little long-and several of the bomblets hit the hard road around him and exploded with white flashes. Shrapnel cut into his legs and body, scything him down.

He was lying in the road, bleeding and laughing, when the sound of the jet engines finally faded. He had done it!

Yessss! For the glory of Allah, and Iran !

Dick Hauer and JoAnne Rodgers were still flailing around in the darkness over western Iran in their F-15E, trying to find their target, Tunnel November, even though they were twelve minutes past their target time. Rodgers refused to give up, and Hauer wasn’t about to abort the mission unless his WSO suggested it first.

Both of them were startled when a missile plume came up out of the darkness several miles off to their right. Their first reaction was that the Irani ans had launched a surface-to-air missile at them, but they quickly realized that wasn’t the case. The exhaust plume illuminated the thick air with a dull glow as the ballistic missile rose on its pillar of fire, going straight up, accelerating.