Larry Bond - Exit Plan

VFA-147 Argonauts Ready Room

The pilots of Fighter Attack Squadron 147 were used to getting briefings on threat aircraft, everything from older MiGs like the Fishbed and Flogger to first-line aircraft like the Flanker. Nobody expected to fight the Russians anytime soon, but third-world countries had a lot of Russian gear. The Iranians had MiG-29 Fulcrums, for example.

But they also operated French Mirage F1s and even old American-made F-4 Phantoms, so Zipper, aka Lieutenant (jg) Allan Zirpowski, the air intelligence officer, had put together briefs for those aircraft as well. It was more than just data on speed, ceiling, and weapons carried. Tactics needed to be adjusted to match the opponent and the pilots. He gave good briefs, and the Argonauts listened hard and took notes. Sleeping though a threat brief was a good way to end up dead.

But this was too much. Zipper was displaying images of a brown-and-tan mottled F-16, an American-built Fighting Falcon flown by the Israeli Air Force. “They call the F-16I variant ‘Sufa,’ or ‘Storm. ‘ Note the ‘shoulder pads.’ “ He pointed to two long bulges on the upper fuselage. “These conformal tanks give it the range, with refueling, to reach Iran and come back. Our Super Hornets have the APG-79 radar, which has a longer range than their APG-68. We carry the AMRAAM D model, which is smarter and has a longer range than their AMRAAM C-5s. But their Python 5 dogfight missile substantially outranges our AIM-9X Sidewinder. The Israelis like to tweak their gear, adding their own special upgrades, but our gear was buffed up before we came on this deployment.

“They’re a hundred knots faster at high altitude than we are, and we expect they’ll have over twice our numbers. But we have two engines, they have one. And they’re a long way from home. In other words, gents, it’s a fair fight.”

The squadron commander, Tom “Heretic” Dressier, stood up. “I hate fair fights.” His voice boomed in the darkened ready room. “The best fight is one where you sneak up on the other guy and he’s dead before he even knows you’re shooting. That will not be the case tonight. They’ll know who we are, where we’re coming from, and will get to watch us take the first shot, if it comes to that.”

He gestured to Zipper, who changed the screen to show a map of the Persian Gulf, with the supposed flight path of the Israeli raid and the position of Reagan marked. “They will get their feet wet here, just south of Kuwait. We have to intercept them while they are over the gulf, in international waters. That’s a space of just under a hundred and thirty nautical miles, which they will cover in fifteen minutes. We cannot allow them to enter Iranian airspace. This is straight from the CAG, Commander Taz, and he got it straight from POTUS himself. Everybody recognize that call sign?” Heads nodded.

“The skipper has orders from the ‘Big Guy’ to shoot them down, if we have to, and we’ll go up ready to do just that. The president also made it clear to our boss that nobody wants to shoot anybody. If that happens, the Iranians will be the only ones smiling. So our boss is going to do his best to turn them back with no shooting. That’s the happy ending we’re looking for here.”

He pointed to two airborne early warning stations over Iraq and the Gulf. “E-2Ds are deployed here and here, and should pick up the Israeli strike about three hundred and fifty nautical miles away. As soon as they detect the Israelis, they will drop back, keeping their distance but staying in contact.

“We will launch, climb to co-altitude, and position ourselves directly across their flight path. We will be number two squadron in the barrier, with the 323rd on the left and the 146th to our right, and beyond them the 154th. Flights within the squadrons will be stacked at thousand-foot intervals, squadrons spaced one mile apart. Aside from a few hangar queens, every Hornet flies. Counting the escorts for the Hawkeyes, that will give us approximately forty-five fighters in the air.

“The Growlers will be back here and above us to provide jamming support, but like us, they won’t send out an electron until Taz gives the go. He will be in the ready E-2 that will launch first. He intends to use the comm systems on the Hawkeye to talk to whoever’s leading the Israeli strike.”

Heretic paused, and one of the pilots asked, “Skipper, what if the Israelis fire first?”

“Maneuver defensively, but hold your position in the barrier as long as possible. The Growlers will jam their guidance links and seekers, but if it’s a mass launch they won’t be able to cover everyone. Force them to maneuver. They’re tight on fuel, so if we can make them burn it up, then they have to go home. Do not return fire, even if you’re fired on first, until the order is given.”

That brought murmurs, if quiet ones, from the squadron. “I repeat, you will fire only if you hear the order from Taz or me, and I won’t give it unless I hear it from Taz. I won’t have to punish anyone who shoots without orders, because he’ll have to answer to the president.” He paused for a moment, and added, “I know you don’t like what I’m saying, but if we have to take a few hits to get the Israelis to turn around, well, that’s what they pay us the big bucks for. The only other option is to do nothing and let the Israelis start a war.”

Reagan’s 1MC announced, “ALL HANDS, FLIGHT QUARTERS,” followed a moment later by the general quarters alarm. Zipper hit a key and the map changed to show the real-time position of Reagan, her battle group, and all known air contacts. A large number of unknown aircraft over Saudi Arabia were headed toward the gulf. Orders for each squadron flowed across the bottom of the screen.

“We launch in fifteen, Argonauts,” Heretic announced. “Do it right.”

As the squadron commander watched his people file out the door, one of the pilots approached him and spoke quietly. “Sir, permission to speak frankly.”

Heretic nodded. “Of course, Smokey. This job is too important to leave any question unanswered.”

The lieutenant sighed. “Sir, of course I’ll follow your orders on this, but I’m not happy about risking my life to defend the Iranians.”

“Taz says the Iranians want this fight, Smokey. They’re on a downward slope and they want to pull everyone down with them. You are not defending the Iranians. And if you’re risking your life, it’s to stop a war.”

8 April 2013

0448 Local Time/0148 Zulu

1st Regiment Headquarters, 47th Salam Brigade, Bandar Lengeh

The ringing of his cell phone jolted Rahim out of a deep sleep. Not quite awake, he fumbled for the squawking device on the floor by his cot. Finally managing to grab it, he sluggishly opened the flip cover and answered, “Major Rahim.”

“Major!” It was Dahghan, his voice was loud, excited. “A Pasdaran patrol on the Bandar Shenas breakwater has come under attack. An unknown number of assailants fired on the patrol from a boat and the shore.”

“When?” shouted Rahim. He bolted from the cot toward the door, the surge of adrenaline snapping him from his lassitude.

“Within the last few minutes, sir. We’ve lost contact with the patrol leader.”

“Are there any other patrols nearby? Can they confirm the presence of a boat?” Rahim thrust his hand into his pants pocket, searching vigorously for his keys.

“Another patrol is responding, but they are too far away to see anything,” replied Dahghan. Rahim heard the sounds of a man running, breathing hard.

“Where are you, Karim?” he said, as he slammed the accelerator to the floor. The tires spun, spewing gravel behind them.