some time, no doubt setting up her LANTIRN and readying the two huge 2,000 lb.GBU-24 Paveway III laser-guided bombs his bird carried. They were meant for one of the hardened aircraft shelters at the MiG base near Bandar Lengeh.
He adjusted his night-vision goggles. This “strike stuff” was still new to him. He had always been a fan of the Tomcat’s air-to-air prowess and had selected the Tomcat community because of its primary fighter mission. But the events of the last few years, with the addition of the LANTIRN and the shortage of strike aircraft due to downsizing, had forced the Tomcat community to take a lead role in strike warfare. Now, because of its vastly superior FLIR over that carried by the Hornet, the Tomcat was considered the air wing’s preeminent strike platform.
Fastball was damned glad that he had an experienced RIO in his backseat. If Rat was anything, she was a good RIO. She was quiet and difficult to get to know, but she was one of the best RIOs in the squadron. Strike was her bag at the RAG and her specialty at TOPGUN. Some joked that she could find a cigarette on a busy street with her LANTIRN.
Fastball returned his attention to the flight. Glancing to his right, he saw Rat’s FLIR display on his TSD. She was quietly looking over an Iranian oil platform. Probably taking a GPS fix, he told himself. A quick glance outside his cockpit revealed an empty, black sky, tinted only by the greenish cast given by the night-vision goggles.
He reconfigured his display screen and checked his time. He still had a minute-thirty to reach his next way- point — right on time. So far everything checked out. This mission was key to the
A similar strike was planned for the MiG base near Chah Bahar. If these strikes succeeded, they could well destroy the vast majority of MiG-29s, which would leave Iran with no credible night-capable fighters and give the U.S. air superiority for at least a portion of the day.
“Coming up on way-point four,” Rat said calmly. “Turn left, heading three-three-five. Mark.”
“Copy,” Fastball responded, banking his plane slightly for the turn.
“Start your descent to angels eight.” Rat changed her display. “We are fifty-five miles from the target. Confirm weapons armed.”
“Confirmed.”
“Come to course three-one-five. Feet dry.”
“Knocker’s up” she called, meaning that she was switching her focus from air-to-air to her attack mission.
“Football, Packers, we are blank,” radioed Lieutenant Tom “Lyfa” Riley, one of the F/A-18 Hornet pilots flying SEAD. A “blank” call meant that the suppression of enemy defenses (SEAD) aircraft did not detect any emitters of interest. Riley’s APG-73 radar scanned ahead in ground-mapping mode, his ESM gear listening for the telltale signs of air defense radars that might spring to life.
Fastball steadied his stick and throttle, settling into the designated speed and angle of attack. A blip now appeared on their radar fifty miles to the northeast of their position. A soft chirp also registered on their RWR. The Iranian Tomcats were out again, collecting airborne early warning data. Even though they were flown by considerably less capable pilots than those whom he had fought back in the States, Fastball was glad the Tomcats were staying clear of the fray. The Phoenix was still deadly, even in the hands of a green pilot.
Johnnie checked her radar predictions, comparing her hand-drawn maps against her FLIR picture. She could see the base of a few hills, a small cluster of buildings, and…
Three search radars suddenly appeared on Riley’s radar screen just south of the airfield. The Iranians were certain to know that something was en route.
Johnnie checked the flight path against the mask curve on her screen. It looked fine, she thought. Fastball was flying right on course. She gave a quick check of her kneeboard card, which outlined the prebriefed release point, then depressed the hand-controller trigger, beginning the illumination. Unlike the smaller GBU-series bombs, the GBU-24’s release point had yet to be programed into the Tomcat’s computers, with the end result being that the bombs had to be released manually, based on visual and geographic cues. Johnnie began her range countdown, “three… two… one…
Fastball triggered the first, then, on cue, the second GBU-24. The two bombs dropped from the Tomcat’s undercarriage with a noticeable thump, then deployed their glide wings.
Morrow angled his fighter away from the target to his left, giving the LANTIRN’s laser-designator its maximum unmasked field-of-view. Both crew members watched the display for a moment, seeing the men on the tarmac around the hanger scrambling about in reaction to the TLAM strikes. The brightness of the flash on their NVGs made them squint.
Johnnie had just switched back to air-to-air and was about to call the Hawkeye for a “picture” when a sharp
“I’ve got it.”
“Music on. Packers, Steelers Two, SAM, north Bullseye at fifteen.”
“Breaking right,” Morrow called. “Watch our mask.”
“Copy, downtown.” Riley loosed one HARM at the missile’s source, then a second. The missiles zoomed off his bird and sped away at nearly Mach 5. Riley loved the SEAD role. It reminded him of the Shrike-armed Iron Hand missions his father flew in his A-4 over the skies of North Vietnam. But the HARM was vastly superior, he thought. It could remember where the site was even if it shut down.
“Looking good.” Johnnie watched the bombs track and the LANTIRN’s mask or blind spot. “Come left!”
“Second launch!” Morrow slid into afterburner and banked into the SAM before rolling inverted and pulling toward the ground. Johnnie punched three clouds of chaff, just enough to confuse the guidance radar.
But the two HARMS loosed by Riley smashed into the SA-2’s Fan Song fire control radar, destroying the unit and sending the SAMs ballistic.
“Football, Talon, picture, two groups. Southeast, Bullseye for fifteen. East Bullseye for twenty. East group are Tomcats.”
“Copy your call,” came the response from each element.
“Steelers, eastern group. Packers, southeastern group.”
“Steelers One, copy your call.” Lieutenant Commander Steve “Jolly” Rogers quickly evaluated the developing scene. “Send Two after the AEW. Have Three-join on our wing.”
“Roger that,” his RIO acknowledged, then called the plan.
“Okay, Rat. Let’s get us a Tomcat.”
