helicopter had appeared. No doubt it had seen the radar mast blown off the ship.
A side door was open, and a door gunner could be seen aiming a large gun at them. “That gunner’s got a forty-millimeter grenade launcher aimed at us,” Knowlton said. “Those suckers are serious.”
“Wave, everybody, wave,” White said. “We’re supposed to be a friendly, non-hostile salvage vessel.” He got back on shipwide intercom: “All hands, this is Lightfoot, visitors off the stern, Buddy Time procedures in effect now.
Break. Plot, you need to relay AWACS data to me now that our radars are down. That Iranian helicopter sneaked in on us and probably saw us blow the radar mast. Keep the reports coming.”
“Copy, Lightfoot, sorry,” the radar officer responded. “AWACS reports air target two, bearing two-eight-three, range twenty-five miles, altitude one thousand, six hundred, speed five hundred knots, probable a fighter from the carrier Khomeini.”
“Probable shit, that’s exactly who it is,” White shouted. “Helm, Lightfoot, match reciprocal bearings on air target two, keep it off the stern as best you can. Break. Comm, send out a coded flash message via the AWACS plane to Gulf Cooperative Council or U.S. forces and request some fighter support—we’ll be under attack in a couple minutes. Break. Stinger team, report to the helo deck on the double, but stay inside the hangar, out of sight—that Iranian helicopter is sitting right off our stern watching us. CM crews, stand by below-decks with floaters.
Break. All hands, this is Lightfoot, hostile fighter aircraft inbound from the east, report to your damage control stations, Stinger and countermeasures crews responding. Break. Plot, count me down on air target two.”
ABOARD THE KHOMEINI “Sir, Patrol Helicopter Three reports the crew on that salvage ship set off a small explosive charge to sever a tall mast on its superstructure.,” General Badi reported. “The mast was cut free of the ship and abandoned in the water. Some crew members are on the helicopter landing pad, waving at the helicopter. They appear to be friendly, but they are obviously crowding the deck to show their numbers and prevent anyone from boarding her. “That could have been the satellite antenna they used to control that spy plane,” Badi said.
“Obviously they did not want us to see it on their ship.”
“I understand that, Badi. Any response to our hails?” Admiral Tufayli asked.
“They insist they are responding to an urgent call and cannot be stopped,” Badi replied. “They will not allow anyone to be lowered on deck.”
“Order Patrol Three to flash ‘heave-to’ light signals to their bridge,” Tufayli ordered. “If they do not respond, fire a warning shot across their bow. If they do not respond to that, open fire on the ship until they stop.”
Badi looked at Tufayli in sheer horror: “Are you sure, Admiral?” he asked in a low voice. “Fire on an American salvage vessel?
This ship has a Naval Reserve designation, sir—it’s been verified. We’d be attacking an American naval vessel!”
“I want that ship stopped and its crew placed under arrest,” Tufayli said. “It is obvious they are fleeing us to Omani waters to prevent their being discovered as spies, and I will not allow that. Now see to it that vessel is stopped immediately!”
ABOARD THE VALLEY MISTRESS White, Knowlton, Masters, and the other men on deck watched as the Iranian helicopter maneuvered around to the Valley Mistress’s bow and began flashing bright red and white lights at the bridge.
“Heave-to signal,” Knowlton said. “As a general rule, in international waters we’d have to stop unless we really were enroute to an emergency.”
“Well, we aren’t stopping.”
“That means they’ll try to …” Just then, they saw a bright flash of light from the open crew door on the helicopter, and a huge geyser of water erupted just a few dozen yards off the bow. A rolling boom! caused everyone on the hangar deck to jump. “… fire warning shots next,” Knowlton said.
“Question is, would those crazy suckers put one of those grenades into us?” White asked. He answered his own question right away, and keyed his mike: “Comm, any reply from anyone for air cover?”
“Affirmative, Lightfoot,” came the reply. “U.S. Air Force is vectoring fighters on our position, ETA fifteen minutes.”
“Shit, some of those UAE or Omani fighters would be real welcome right now,” White said. “It’ll be way too late for U.S. fighters from Saudi. We’re in deep shit.”
Just then they felt a hard impact on the port-side of the Valley Mistress, and a cloud of fire erupted just below the bridge.
White and the others raced over to the left side of the ship and saw that an Iranian grenade launched from the helicopter door gunner had hit the foredeck just forward of the superstructure at the base of the forward crane. “Stinger crews on deck!” White ordered. “Target helicopter, off the port beam!” He shouted to the others on the helicopter pad, “Everyone but the Stinger crews, clear the chopper pad! Stand by damage and rescue stations!”
The Marine Corps Stinger teams were beside White on the helicopter deck in an instant, and in less than thirty seconds a Marine had a Stinger MANPADS (Man-Portable Air Defense System) missile launcher on his shoulder. Another Marine was beside him, guiding his movements; two more Marines were nearby, ready to load another missile canister and back up their teammates if necessary. “I have the target!” the gunner shouted. Just then, a second grenade blasted into the side of the Valley Mistress, just above the waterline.
They saw the Iranian helicopter gunner swing his grenade launcher toward the helicopter deck, and then the helicopter wheeled right, nose-on to the Stinger crew, presenting the smallest possible target. “Batteries released!” White shouted. “Nail the bastard!”
The Stinger missile crewman pulled a large lever down with his right thumb, which activated the battery and charged the ejection gas system. “My launcher is charged!” he shouted.
“Clear to encage!” the spotter shouted.
While keeping the target centered in his viewfinder, the launcher crewman squeezed a large button on the front of the launcher tube, which uncovered the seeker head of the missile. He immediately got a low growling sound in his headset—he was locked on.
“Target lock!” he shouted. “Clear!”
The spotter took one quick look behind them, checking the blast area, then patted the launch crewman on the rear. “Clear to fire!”
“I’m clear to fire!” The crewman raised the ‘Stinger launcher.
“One away!” he shouted, and squeezed the trigger. There was a loud pop! and a gush of white gas from the exhaust end of the Stinger tube. No one could see it in the darkness, but the Stinger missile flew for several yards through the air; then, just as it began to descend at the end of its ballistic travel, the rocket motor ignited and the missile plowed into the helicopter, directly into the engine compartment atop the fuselage. The launcher crew did not bother to watch the result of that hit—they hurriedly made ready for a second launch.
For what seemed like a full minute, nothing happened. Just as Masters thought the missile had missed or harmlessly plunged into the sea, he saw a bright flash of light and a puff of fire; then, as if the helicopter pilot had decided to land, the helicopter descended quickly to the ocean, nosing over slightly just before hitting the water. It was out of sight in an instant. “We got him!” Masters shouted. “Man, I never seen anything like that—it happened so quick, but it was like it was in slow motion.”
“The Iranian fighters will be next,” White shouted as he hurried back on the hangar deck. On intercom, he shouted, “Countermeasures, launch floater! Plot, where are those fighters?”
On the starboard side of the Valley Mistress near the stern, the countermeasures crews released a large raft-like unit, nicknamed a “floater,” that contained specially designed radar reflectors, signal generators, and infrared energy generators designed to mimic the radar and infrared cross-section of the ship. Once clear of the ship, the floater began shooting chaff rockets into the air. After reaching 300 feet, the rockets began ejecting bundles of hair-thin strips of metal that would expand and bloom into a sausage-shaped cloud. Hopefully that would present a more inviting target on radar than the Valley Mistress’s stern.
“Range nine miles. Target bearing one-five-zero.” The Valley Mistress turned northwest as the fighter swung slightly south—the fighter was maneuvering to try to get a larger profile picture of its quarry, and the helmsman of the Valley Mistress was trying to turn to keep the fighter behind the ship.
“Seven miles, bearing two-two-zero …” No sooner had the ship finished that first right turn than it suddenly heeled sharply to starboard as the helmsman threw the ship into a tight turn to port. The fighter had turned farther
