It took another hour to execute Admiral Tufayli’s evacuation plan.
Since all of the Khomeini’s helicopters were either destroyed, crippled by the adhesive, or under repair, a Mil8 helicopter had to be flown out from the destroyer Sadaf to fetch the admiral; a simple oilcloth tarp was laid out on deck for the helicopter to land safely. While Tufayli waited for his helicopter to arrive, he had to suffer listening to the systematic destruction of fran’s fleet by Gulf Cooperative Council air attacks. One by one, the smaller ships in the Khomeini’s escort fleet were struck and hit by wave after wave of GCC jets and helicopters launching Harpoon, Exocet, and Sea Eagle anti-ship missiles—without forward early-warning radar coverage or air defense cover from the carrier or the Chinese cruiser Zhanjiang, the escorts were easy prey for GCC attackers. Twice the cruiser Zhanjiang was hit; three times the close-in-weapon systems on the carrier Khomeini came to life, destroying inbound anti-ship missiles seconds before they plowed into their prey.
When Tufayli was brought up on deck to board his helicopter, he saw the devastation in the seas around him: dotting the horizon in every direction were the bright spots of flickering red, yellow, and orange light representing burning Iranian warships. The Zhanjiang was still under way, and had repositioned itself between the Omani coast and the carrier, but a fire below-decks was still not fully contained. But even worse than that sight was the look of fear, anger, and betrayal in the eyes of the Iranian sailors around him. The Khomeini was still afloat, crippled but still fighting—but its commander was running. Tufayli could almost hear the sailors’ derisive words, calling him a coward”
It didn’t matter, Tufayli thought bitterly. It was their job to fight and die for him and their country—it was his job to command, to lead, and he couldn’t do it very well from a crippled aircraft carrier covered in contact cement, with a six-meter-wide hole yawning in its belly and a nuclear warhead threatening to blow at any second.
ABOARD THE CV-22 PAVE HAMMER TILT-ROTOR, OVER THE GULF OF OMAN THAT SAME TIME The CV-22 Pave Hammer tilt-rotor aircraft’s refueling probe had no sooner nestled into the HC-130P Hercules tanker’s lighted basket of the refueling drogue and transferred a few hundred pounds of JP-7 fuel when the navigator aboard the HC-130P Hercules called on secure interplane, “Hammer Zero-One, Peninsula Shield Skywatch is reporting a single helicopter, designate Target Seven, leaving the deck of the Khomeini.”
“Roger,” the pilot of the CV-22 responded. “Continue the transfer.” He clicked open the intercom: “Right when you said he’d show, Major.”
Hal Briggs punched the air with satisfaction and smiled broadly at the men of Madcap Magician surrounding him. “You were right, Paul—but we don’t know Tufayli’s on board that helicopter. It could be a medevac, could be anything”
“Even so, Tufayli will still be on it—no matter how many injured there might be on that carrier, I’ll bet Tufayli will make room for himself.” He paused, then regarded Briggs and said, “But the next step’s up to you, Hal. You’re in charge of this mission.”
“Thanks,” Briggs said. “And I say we go see who’s out flying around at this time of night.” He clicked open the intercom: “Greg, get a vector to Target Seven, finish your on-load, and intercept.”
“Got it,” the CV-22 pilot responded happily.
In less than five minutes, the HC-130P tanker had filled the CV-22’s tanks. The CV-22 disconnected, turned to clear the tanker—they were flying less than 500 feet above the Gulf of Oman, so no one dared descend to get separation!and transitioned to airplane mode to pursue the Iranian helicopter. Their top speed in helicopter mode was only about 110 miles per hour, but once the CV-22 tilt-rotor’s twin engine nacelles swiveled horizontally, which changed the helicopter rotors to function as aircraft propellers, the CV-22 quickly accelerated to over 360 miles an hour. Following vectors from the Saudi Arabian E-3S AWACS radar plane orbiting near the Omani border in the southeast corner of the Arabian Peninsula, the CV-22 sped northward after its quarry at low altitude.
With a nearly 200-mile-per-hour overtake, the Madcap Magician special-ops aircraft closed the distance in ten minutes, less than 100 miles from the Iranian shoreline. The Iranian Mil-8 cargo/anti-submarine warfare helicopter, a rather round, squat, bug-shaped machine with twin tails and two sets of main rotor blades counter-rotating on one rotor mast, showed up perfectly in the CV-22’s imaging infrared scanner, and they maneuvered above and to the left, out of direct sight of the helicopter’s pilot. The helicopter was cruising without running lights at medium altitude; its engines were brightly glowing red-hot from the engine’s high-power setting.
The CV-22 pilot used a small thumbwheel on the cyclic/control stick to swivel the engine nacelles up to a thirty-five-degree setting, to obtain the best combination of forward speed, maneuverability, and vertical flight capability.
“The Mil-8 is definitely not made for high-speed cruising,” Briggs observed as he studied the Mil-8’s image on the copilot’s monitor.
“Its engines will probably have to be shelled after this flight.
See any door guns on that thing?”
“Negative,” the pilot responded. “Nothing stopping them from sticking a rifle out the window and blowing us away, though.”
“We got a few popguns of our own,” Briggs said. “If you see even one pistol aimed at you, blow that bug out of the sky.”
“They’re going to call for help,” the pilot said, “and the Iranian fighters aren’t too far away. We got no comm jammers …”
“We’ll give Tufayli the chance to surrender, or we splash him,” Briggs said angrily. “I’m not letting him get away. Peace Shield Sky-watch better do their job. Let’s take this bad boy down.”
With a touch of the power control lever, the CV-22 slipped within sight of the Mil-8’s copilot, and they hit the exterior lights “What in God’s name …?” The copilot’s scream made the pilot’s head snap over as if he’d been slapped. It was hard to see exactly what was out there, but in the flashing red and white lights, they saw an immense aircraft, as large as a small cargo plane but with propellers canted at an unusual angle. But there was no mistaking the black-and-green star centered between three horizontal bars—the chevrons of an American military aircraft. The copilot could see weapons pylons with some sort of missile on it—it resembled a four-round American Hellfire anti-tank missile pod—plus a large steerable cannon on a chin turret, with the muzzle of the big Gatling gun aimed right at them! Seconds later, the American aircraft’s lights winked out, plunging the horrifying scene back into total darkness. “Admiral!”
“I saw it,” Major Admiral Akbar Tufayli said. “What are you waiting for? Get on the radio and get some fighters from Chah Bahar or Bandar Abbas out here to help us.”
“Shall we try to lose it?”
“Don’t be a fool,” Tufayli said. “It found us easily, at night and at low altitude. They must be in contact with their radar planes and using infrared scanners—running will do us no-“
“Attention on the Iranian Mil-8 helicopter,” came a voice in English on the international GUARD emergency frequency. “You have been intercepted. Turn left heading two-zero-zero immediately or you will be destroyed. Repeat, turn left to a heading of two-zero-zero immediately or you will be destroyed.”
“Ignore them,” Tufayli ordered. “Continue on your present course and speed. Any response from our fighters?”
“A flight of two Sukhoi-27 fighters, Interceptor Eleven flight, will rendezvous with us in five minutes,” the copilot responded.
“Good,” Tufayli said. “Then I want …”
Just then a brilliant flash of light and a line of bright white tracers lanced across the sky—the tracers were so close that everyone in the cockpit could hear the concussion of the shells beat on the canopy. Then they heard a voice in Farsi say, “Admiral Tufayli, you cannot escape.”
“He knows you!” the pilot shouted. “He knows you are on board!”
“Colonel Paul White,” Tufayli said angrily. “It is the American spy we captured. So the rumor is true: President Nateq-Nouri did conspire with the Americans to release White from prison.”
“Admiral Tufayli, you have one last chance,” White radioed. “Turn about now or die.”
“Where are those fighters?” Tufayli shouted.
“Our fighters have the American aircraft locked on radar,” the copilot shouted as he monitored the tactical frequency. “He will be in missile range in less than two minutes.”
“Tell him to fly at full reheat if he has to,” Tufayli shouted, “but get him in firing position now!”
It took a little more than one minute for the Iranian MiG-29 fighter to report that he was in radar-missile firing range …
