Shadows of steel pm-5 Read online

  There before them, in two rows of six, stood the steel launch canisters of the Khomeini’s P-700 Granit medium-range attack missiles. Each canister was six feet in diameter and thirty-six feet long, stretching far above, all the way to the flight deck.

  Cranes and hoisting devices were strung everywhere on deck to move the 11,000-pound missiles in the compartment. “We have no reloads now, sir,” Tufayli said. “but when we have enough missiles to allow for reloads, they will be stored in a shielded magazine in the area by the bulkheads fore and aft. All the carrier’s missiles, including the P-700s, are transferred through the hatch on the port-side—we have the proper equipment to allow under-way missile transfers, although most transfers will probably be at dockside. Missiles are transferred from the magazine via the cranes to be loaded in the launch canisters.”

  Tufayli motioned to the weapons officer. A warning light began to flash, and one of the launch canisters began to lower itself down to the deck, like a giant sequoia slowly falling to the forest floor. Once on the deck, the top part of the canister swiveled open toward the side of the ship, revealing the missile inside.

  It looked like a long, thin, winged needle, with a narrow cylindrical body, short, narrow, steeply angled wings, and small aft wings. A small air intake could be seen on top of the missile. On the aft end, two long cylindrical detachable booster motors were mounted nearly flush with the engine exhaust tailpipe.

  The missile was a spongy light gray color except for the nose cap, which was hard red plastic, and a section near the front that was outlined in yellow and black.

  “The P-700 Granit anti-ship missile, the largest and most powerful anti-ship weapon in the world,” Tufayli said proudly. “It can fly over twice the speed of sound to ranges in excess of six hundred kilometers. It is guided by its own inertial navigation computer until within fifty kilometers of its target, when it activates its own onboard radar, locks onto the largest radar target in its line of sight, and guides itself precisely on target. The missile blasts out of the launch canister on those two rocket motors to about Mach one, when the turbojet engine takes over. It flies a powered ballistic path up to thirty thousand meters’ altitude until very close to the target, when it executes a high-speed dive—almost impossible to shoot down with any known antiaircraft weapons. This rubbery coating burns off during its flight to protect the guidance and warhead sections.”

  “And the warhead?”.Buzhazi asked.

  Tufayli turned to the weapons officer, who assured him that all nonessential personnel were out of the compartment, then he nodded to Buzhazi. “Yes, sir,” he said, “this is what you wanted to see—the NK-55 thermonuclear warhead”—and Tufayli slapped his hand on the yellow-and-black bordered section. The sudden slap sound made them all jump. “Selectable yield from five-hundred-kilogram high explosive to three-hundred-kiloton nuclear. Barometric and radar altimeter fusing, detonating two to three thousand meters above the target., with impact backup.”

  “Do you think it is wise to slap that warhead like that, Admiral?”

  Buzhazi asked acidly.

  “Perfectly safe, sir,” Tufayli the idiot replied, not understanding Buzhazi’s meaning at all—Buzhazi meant to ask if he thought it was wise for Tufayli’s career and continued good health to be scaring the chief of staff like that.

  “Yes … and the other canisters …?”

  “Still all one-thousand-kilo high-explosive contact warheads on all the rest,” Tufayli replied. “We look forward to getting more warheads such as this one for our other missiles.”

  “That appears unlikely,” General Buzhazi said, “unless we can convince the President that the Islamic Republic needs more nuclear warheads to counter our enemies in the Persian Gulf region and elsewhere.”

  “President Nateq-Nouri would be happier, I think, if Iran had no warships or missiles at all,” Tufayli said. “This proposal to ban all warships from the Persian Gulf and Gulf of Oman? Ridiculous.

  You should advise the President that it would be in all of our best interests to continue an aggressive weapons buildup and develop a better indigenous weapons manufacturing-“

  “Yes, yes, Admiral, you are correct, of course,” Buzhazi interrupted, shutting off this egotistical, strutting popinjay.

  Any other officer would be immediately dismissed for trying to tell Buzhazi how to do his job—but he needed Tufayli to outfit this battle group and get it out into the Gulf of Oman, where it would have maximum psychological effect against the GCC and the West … or could be best used to spearhead a drive to close off … the Persian Gulf, and ultimately propel himself to the presidency.

  “How soon can you be on station in the Gulf of Oman, Admiral?”

  Buzhazi asked, as he headed for the hatch to go back up on deck.

  “We have a few minor repairs to conclude, nothing too serious,” Tufayli said. “We should be fully operational, with a full complement of aircraft and weapons, in two days.”

  Judging by the looks of things in the aircraft hangar, Buzhazi thought, this idiot Tufayli wouldn’t be ready to fight for two years, but he didn’t say that. Instead: “Very well, Admiral.

  Good work. In two days, I will see you on station in the Gulf of Oman, ready to counter any seagoing force which may threaten the sovereignty of the Islamic Republic. Good luck, and good hunting.”

  “Thank you, sir!” Tufayli said in his best academy parade voice.

  “You will be pleased and gratified by the trust you have placed in me.”

  Just don’t get sunk by your own stupidity, Tufayli, Buzhazi thought. Do what I will tell you to do, whatever I tell you to do, and you will do just fine. When it comes time to launch that missile, don’t think about it—just do it.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  20 APRIL 1997, 0906 HOURS ET

  “A mysterious attack on an island in the Persian Gulf that some claim was perpetrated by the United States against Iran; a bold so-called defensive move by Iran’s new aircraft carrier battle group into the Gulf of Oman, punctuated by a recent deadly attack against an unarmed rescue vessel; a military arms buildup by Iran, Turkey, and Pakistan unprecedented in two decades,” Tim Russert, the host of NBC News’ “Meet the Press,” began. “In the aftermath of the collapse of the Soviet Union and the glut of high-tech weapons of mass destruction on the world’s arms market, the Middle East is becoming an even more dangerous powder keg. Is it ready to explode?

  “Joining us to help put all this in perspective is today’s very special guest, the Vice President of the United States, Ellen Christine Whiting. Madam Vice President, welcome to ‘Meet the Press.”

  “Thank you, Tim.” The image of Russert, the “saber-toothed teddy bear,” flashed in her mind, almost making her laugh, and instead prompting her famous “ten-million vote” smile.

  “Finding the first one hundred days challenging enough, Madam Vice President?” Russert asked.

  It was the patented Russert disarming tactic, she thought: hit the guest with his boyish, chubby-faced smile, then the light, easy banter, the brainless question she could answer while half-asleep.

  He liked to make his guest feel at ease, as if this were going to be an easy Sunday-morning chat, then whammo … “It’s a challenge I’ve been savoring ever since I was a young campaign volunteer in Frederick, Maryland, Tim,” Whiting replied. “But let’s get right down to the issues your viewers want to hear about.”

  “Indeed, let’s,” Russert said with a smile, but his voice turned decidedly harder after being upstaged like that. “Let’s first talk about what seems to be on everyone’s mind, Madam Vice President, and that’s the attack on those disputed Iranian islands, allegedly by the Gulf Cooperative Council, the launching of Iran’s huge nuclear aircraft carrier battle group, the attack on that rescue vessel with the loss of about a half dozen lives and a dozen still unaccounted for, and the administration’s apparent wait-and-see, do-nothing attitude.

  What’s the latest on this, Madam Vice President?”

&
nbsp; “Tim, at the risk of sounding like a broken record—and I know most of your audience still remembers what a record is—we’re looking into exactly what happened out there in the Persian Gulf,” Whiting replied. “The Gulf Cooperative Council is preparing a full report on their attack on Abu Musa Island, but claims it was a defensive, preemptive strike on Iranian offensive missile emplacements that threatened ships in the Persian Gulf oil lanes.

  Given Iran’s huge military buildup on that island since their illegal annexation of those islands in 1992, their explanation seems somewhat justified.”

  “And Iran’s claims that U.S. and Israeli commandos were involved in the raid?”

  “Nonsense,” the Vice President replied. “This appears to be a GCC operation, and the White House was not notified of the action before or during the attack.

  “As far as the salvage ship Valley Mistress attack, the U.S. company, Jersey Tech Salvage, out of Elizabeth City, is currently under investigation by the Justice Department for its recent activities,” the Vice President continued. “Apparently the ship that was attacked by Iranian aircraft was involved in some … illegal operations, taking advantage of its U.S. Naval Reserve Fleet designation. These operations have something to do with shipping weapons, possibly to Iraq, possibly to anti-Iranian government rebels.”

  “So the reports that this was a spy ship are completely false?”

  “The ship may have done some government or defense work in the past,” the Vice President acknowledged, “but it was not operating under a government contract when it was attacked and hadn’t received a government contract since the Gulf War. The President has asked the Justice Department to thoroughly investigate Jersey Tech Salvage and all other contract and Naval Reserve Fleet companies to see that abuses are quickly stopped.”

  “But what about the Americans reportedly being held by the Iranian government?”

  “We are not positive whether or not anyone is being held, or if they are American citizens or legal employees of Jersey Tech Salvage,” Whiting replied. “Iran is not cooperating with anyone, yet they continue to throw unsubstantiated rumors and wild accusations around every time a reporter cruises near. Now Jersey Tech is not cooperating with State Department officials because they’re under investigation by the FBI. It’s very frustrating.”

  “But surely the United States has spies, intelligence personnel, in the area? Can you tell us anything they’ve learned?”

  “Tim, you know I can’t talk about any ongoing intelligence operations,” Whiting said seriously, letting her smile turn stern and disapproving, as if gently scolding him. Her hope was that the viewers would scold him in their minds and side with her, not him. “That’s strictly off limits. As a veteran journalists I’m very surprised you asked me about that.

  “I wasn’t asking you for specific information or specific sources, just general information …”

  “Tim, you know about this—we’ve talked about it before,” the Vice President said, not recalling if they had or not, but trying to sound as if he were pumping her for information he knew was supposed to be off the record. “We can’t go into specifics, as you very well know. Let me say this”—a brief pause as the camera moved closer, building a little anticipation that she was about to reveal a very inside piece of information—”yes, we have analysts working ‘round the clock, studying events all over the world.

  “But I have to tell you, Tim, that one source of information we use has been the press, not just in the U.S., but all over the world, and frankly the media has the intelligence community going around in circles. The intelligence folks follow up every news item, every piece of so-called evidence, reinterview so-called experts, and check every lead, even if it’s only to completely discount it. It may be enlightened speculation to the press, but every bit of speculation adds to the confusion.”

  “But what about Iran’s aggressive military buildup, and their apparent drive to become the warlords of the Islamic world?”

  “I don’t think the American people want us speculating on something as important and as far-reaching as this, Tim,” Vice President Whiting said. “The press can afford to speculate all it wants, and when we hear a news item from a supposedly respected and authoritative source, yes, we check it out. In this particular case, the media has been all over the place, so that hasn’t been a good source lately. The fact is that Iran is not on the warpath—far from it. In fact, they’ve proposed a bold new peace initiative that would eliminate the threat of that aircraft carrier from the Persian Gulf. No one seems to believe Iran is serious about that initiative except the President.”

  “So the White House is going to do nothing else about Iran, Madam Vice President?” Russert asked.

  “Tim,” the Vice President responded in an exasperated tone, exaggerated slightly for the viewers at home, “it sounds like you’re suggesting that we send American troops twelve thousand miles from home back to the Persian Gulf to threaten Iran simply because they are choosing to deploy weapon systems such as the Khomeini carrier group. It seems as if you’re suggesting we do something just because. I don’t agree with that view, Tim.

  “I think the American people out there want us to be ready to act if America, her allies, or her vital interests overseas are threatened. Otherwise, I think America wants our military forces to stay home with their families. We will proceed with extreme caution, and trust that diplomacy and common sense will win out.”

  ABOARD THE B-2A SPIRIT STEALTH BOMBER AV-011, OVER THE PERSIAN GULF 23 APRIL 1997, 0113 HOURS LOCAL TIME

  “Let’s go into COMBAT mode,” McLanahan announced. “Give me consent.”

  Tony “Tiger” Jamieson flipped a red-guarded switch near his left elbow, checked all the rest of his switch configurations, then nestled his butt deeper into his seat and tightened up his lap belt and shoulder straps. “Consent switch up. Clear to engage.”

  McLanahan pressed a small switch light on the eyebrow panel marked COMBAT, and just that quickly, the checklist was complete for arming the weapon systems, configuring the threat warning and defensive systems, and preparing the computers, aircraft systems, and avionics for combat. Both men checked the MDUs (Mission Display Units) as the computer reported all of the subsystems’ status, and then prepared themselves to penetrate enemy territory.

  It took only thirty seconds to confirm that the computer had switched all systems into COMBAT mode. “We’re in COMBAT,” McLanahan announced.

  “Confirmed,” Jamieson responded—and that was the most he had had to do in the past three hours.

  There was one thing that Tony Jamieson hated more than anything else, and that was sitting idle. As a B-2A Spirit stealth bomber mission commander, he did anything but—the MC was by far the busiest crewman aboard. Although they still called the B-2A left-seaters the AC—the “aircraft commander,”—he was no longer responsible for the success of a mission, as were other aircraft ACs. The AC’s job was to fly the plane and monitor the systems—in the B-2A stealth bomber, it meant to follow the “blue line,” the computer-generated course line on his lower-center MDU, and to respond to computer-generated WARNINGS, CAUTIONS, and ALERTS, or WCAs. Any good AC kept up with the mission progress and was ready to complete the mission from the left seat if something catastrophic happened to the mission commander; although the B-2A was ultra-reliable and redundant and the AC rarely intervened, he had to be prepared to drop weapons, navigate, communicate, and operate all of the defensive systems from the left seat if necessary.

  The damned problem was, Jamieson wasn’t prepared to do that in Air Vehicle 01 1. This fucking plane had been so heavily modified by the plane’s current MC, Patrick McLanahan, the now-defunct HAWC, and his Intelligence Support Agency engineering pukes that he didn’t recognize a thing on the right side of the plane. From his studies over the past several days, he knew that he could do a number of’ things from the left seat, but in the heat of battle he seriously doubted if he could fly the plane and run a checklist at the same time
. All he’d really done so far on this mission was a preflight, takeoff, two air refuelings—one east of Hawaii, the other north of Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean—airspeed adjustment to make sure they were on time, and a flip through MDU pages, checking stuff. That, and look out the window as they chased the sunset.

  Long flights in the B-2A bomber were comfortable and relatively stress-free, but in this plane it was even more brainless than in the Block 10 and Block 20 planes at Whiteman. Navigation was managed by an automatic navigation System run by dual redundant inertial reference unit a Northrop astro-tracker—first developed for the Blackbird spy plane—that could track and lock on to stars even in daytime for accurate heading data, and a Global Positioning System satellite navigation system for position and velocity data—the B-2A’s navigation accuracy could be measured in a few feet, even without using the radar.

  The fuel-management system was automatic and completely hands-free. Jamieson trusted the automatic navigation and flight-control systems enough to take short catnaps throughout the flight when things were quiet (he would never, ever admit he trusted McLanahan well enough to watch over things). The seats were big and comfortable—unlike most ACES II ejection seats, which were narrow and hard—and the cockpit was very quiet. You could take the “brain bucket” off, put electronic noise-canceling headsets on, and listen to the single-sideband HF radio channels from all over the world while monitoring the plane and the computers. Station and oxygen checks every thirty minutes, mission status reports by satellite every hour, and sit back and wait for the action to start. The GLAS, or Gust Load Alleviation System—the pointed “beaver tail” on the back of the B-2A’s short fuselage—smoothed out the occasional turbulence bumps with ease.

  Jamieson didn’t know if McLanahan ever napped. Whenever a message came in on the satellite receiver, he was right there to receive it; whenever the computer alerted them to a Significant navigation turn point or mission checkpoint, McLanahan was always right there to respond. Jamieson used the chemical toilet mounted behind the mission commander’s seat quite often—Jamieson had never subscribed to the “low-residue” diet recommended for long over-water flights and had brought along two big box lunches filled with fried chicken, bologna sandwiches, raw vegetable sticks, and fruit juice, plus sticky buns that could be warmed up in the bomber’s microwave oven in the tiny galley beside the entry hatch, and plenty of coffee. On the other hand, McLanahan had brought only Thermos bottles of cold protein drinks, plus coffee and lots of water; even so, he’d cleared off for relief only twice. Had to be the “B-52 bowels,” Jamieson decided—since the big B-52s carried only a cramped, uncomfortable, smelly “honey bucket” instead of a real chemical toilet on board, some crew members got accustomed to flying very long missions without using it.