the waist. That meant one plane every thirty seconds, but it all depended on the plane handlers and the rest of the flight deck crew.
Flight deck operations on a carrier have been called a “ballet.” Like ballet, it’s a precise art, and the performers on
Ready to launch, each Hornet weighed twenty-five tons, and was parked inches apart from the next. Almost any collision between two planes would render one or both unable to fly. The plane handlers had to move each plane in the proper order to its assigned catapult, line up the nose gear so the launch bar on the strut was engaged by the catapult shoe, and not get sucked into an intake or fried by an exhaust in the process.
A plane handler in a bright blue shirt ran over and stood in front of his aircraft, holding lighted wands so Heretic could see his arm signals. As much as it depended on the plane handlers, Dressier had to do his part, and follow their orders precisely.
Heretic released his brakes and gently increased power, taxiing past the other aircraft to the outboard port waist catapult. To the commander’s eyes, with his nose pointed toward the portside edge of the flight deck, it looked like the handler was going to put him over the side, but at the right moment the petty officer ordered the squadron commander into a hard right turn, almost pivoting on the right wheel. The Hornet ended up aligned perfectly with the catapult. The handler inched him forward, and he felt the catapult shoe engage the launch bar on his nose gear.
He had time to watch the plane ahead of him in the launch order — the last of the Argonauts except for him — spool up his engines to full afterburner and launch. Heretic watched the catapult officer, reflexively bracing his helmet against the seat behind him. He felt the nose of the plane drop as the catapult put tension on. Then he hit full burner, waited for the displays to settle, saluted the catapult officer, and grasped the handhold with his right hand. The computer would handle takeoff.
Heretic hardly noticed the blackness around him as he climbed to join his squadron.
For Colonel David Zohar, it was all about fuel. Everything else had been argued over, rehearsed, modified, and polished until there was precious little left to manage except the fuel.
Zohar commanded 69 Squadron, “The Hammers,” which flew the F-15I Ra’am, or “Thunder.” The squadron’s name was especially appropriate on this raid. Each plane carried a five-thousand-pound GBU-28 on the centerline, a monster weapon that could penetrate meters of rock and concrete. Each of his twenty-four aircraft carried one GBU-28, two smaller GBU-31s, two drop tanks, and air-to-air missiles for self-defense.
The formation had just finished in-flight refueling from KC-707 tankers, something that would have been impossible without Saudi permission. But thanks to their agreement, every plane would start their attack run with virtually full internal and external tanks. Even so, it might not be enough, if they had to use too much throttle, or had to deviate from the planned flight path, or suffered battle damage.
The tanker aircraft were hurrying back to base as quickly as their portly airframes allowed, where they would fill up again and take off to meet the returning planes. Recovery tankers have saved many pilots and planes, and the Israeli Air Force would go to great lengths to make sure everyone came home.
Reflexively, he scanned the horizon, then the sky above and below them. There was precious little to see from that altitude at that time of day. The lights of a few urban areas, especially farther west, glowed against the dark landscape below them, but there was nothing on the horizon and nothing above them.
His radar was off, his radio unused since he’d climbed in the cockpit. He didn’t need the radar or radio to navigate. Modern nav systems and GPS laid rails for them in the sky.
And he wasn’t blind. A Shavit electronics aircraft had taken off before them and surveyed the enemy defenses. A data link from the Shavit via satellite gave Zohar a complete tactical picture without having to send out a single electron. He could see the Iranian defenses, the American carrier strike group and its aircraft, surface traffic in the gulf, even Saudi fighters patrolling to the east if he wanted to expand his view.
Right now, he kept the displays centered on his route, studying the Iranians. In ten minutes he would begin to descend from thirty-five thousand feet down to five hundred feet, a carefully calculated downward slope designed to keep them below the horizon of the enemy’s radars.
But he wanted to stay at high altitude as long as possible. The Ra’am’s jet engines worked best in the thin air up high. At low altitude, they’d guzzle fuel at almost twice the rate, and the thick air also slowed them down. As long as they were undetected, he wanted to stay high.
Zohar’s back-seater was working the problem, but wasn’t helpful. “Colonel, I recommend we descend as planned. The hostile radars are performing as expected. If we push it now and are detected, they gain ten or even fifteen minutes’ reaction time. We might have to fight our way to the target.”
Which they had all discussed, and planned for. If the Shavit’s efforts were detected, or some fluke of atmospherics increased detection ranges, the Iranians could be wide awake when the raid arrived. But what was the worst that could happen?
Every radar and SAM site along the raid’s path was being targeted, just in case. With enough warning, the Iranians could get some fighters in the air, or at least more fighters than with no warning, but none of the Iranian planes were a match for the Israeli aircraft. In fact, Zohar had been forced to punish a few of his boys who were too overconfident. But there were two squadrons of F-161 escorts between the Iranian interceptors and the strike aircraft, and once the two squadrons of strikers had delivered their load, they were equally lethal in the air. The Iranians would have better luck trying to take a bite from a chainsaw.
Daniel was a junior captain, but was one of the best back-seaters in the squadron. And it was best not to take chances. “Understood, Dan. We will descend as planned.”
“This is Yuri to all squadrons. The lion sleeps. You are cleared through the IP.” General Tamir’s message was a little redundant, since they planned to proceed unless ordered otherwise, but positive confirmation was worth the effort. The voice transmission was via satellite, and encrypted like the data link, so the chance of detection was nil.
Zohar looked at the American surveillance aircraft on his display. They had a perfect position to watch the approach. There was nothing they could do to stop the Americans, but nothing they needed to do about it, either.
Daniel’s report came on schedule. “Five minutes to IP.”
The colonel was watching the clock count down and reviewing the descent plan when the symbols started appearing on the display. His threat warning receiver was almost shouting at him, displaying multiple air intercept radars — more than he could count — ahead of them.
“Daniel, do you have this?”
General Tamir forced himself to step away from the console operator. Breathing down Ari’s neck was not helpful, and he could see the screen fine from a few steps back. He just could not comprehend what he was seeing.
The raw sensor display was almost useless, covered with bearing lines from literally dozens of fighter radars, all appearing in the last ten seconds.
“They’re all American — APG-73 and APG-79 radars, General.” That meant Hornet and Super Hornet fighters from the U.S. carrier.
The shock filling the lieutenant’s voice was not just from the sudden appearance of so many signals, but their position. The fighters lay in a band directly across the raid’s path. Altitude was hard to determine based on passive signals, but Tamir would bet they were at the same altitude. That location could not be an accident.
Okun’s voice pulled the general away from the console. “Yuri, someone’s calling the raid on military distress.”
