Shadows of steel pm-5 Read online

  “Except Skywalker was destroyed,” White said. But then what was the computer talking to? “Shit, Jon, shut that thing off! That Iranian helicopter might have an electronic warfare suite that can send satellite transponder interrogate codes. Your computer was sending sync codes to the Iranians, trying to lock on to it!”

  “I didn’t know … I didn’t realize it was still active!”

  Masters cried, yanking cables and practically overturning the terminal to shut it down. “Skywalker was off the air, shot down … I didn’t think to shut down the up-link channel!”

  “The Iranians must be reading our satellite transponder data signals,” White said. “No way those signals can be mistaken for communication or navigation signals. And if they picked up Skywalker’s up-link signals and matched them with our transponder signals … shit, the Iranians will know we were talking to Skywalker. We just gave ourselves away to the bad guys.”

  ABOARD THE IRANIAN AIRCRAFT CARRIER KHOMEINI “Message from Patrol Helicopter Three,” General Badi reported to Commanding Admiral Tufayli. “The crew reports non-directional microwave signals emanating from the salvage ship. They report the signals are identical to the signals transmitted by the unidentified aircraft.”

  “Excellent! We have them!” Admiral Tufayli shouted. “And that unidentified aircraft definitely constituted a hostile aircraft overlying my fleet without proper identification or communications. That is an act of war, and I am permitted to defend my men and vessels by any means at my command. General Badi, what anti-ship strike aircraft do we have ready at this time?”

  “One fighter is airborne over checkpoint four, carrying two AS-18 radar-guided missiles and two AA-10 air-to-air missiles,” the air operations officer reported. “It is scheduled to return to base in eleven minutes. Its replacement will be ready for launch in five minutes.”

  The patrol point for that fighter was only five kilometers east of the American warship—perfect! “Divert the fighter over checkpoint four, issue vector instructions to that American spy ship,” Tufayli ordered. “As soon as the replacement fighter comes up on deck, launch it as a second strike and air cover; if the spy ship is still afloat, have the second fighter divert as well. We must attempt to keep that vessel out of Omani waters until we can reach it with a boarding party. Divert the destroyer Medina and Pasdaran Boghammar patrol boats to the spy ship’s location to capture and detain any survivors and to search the wreckage for evidence; have Patrol Helicopter Four and the Medina’s helicopter keep visual contact on the spy ship until the Medina arrives on station. We will teach the Americans a lesson for spying on my ships!

  S.S. VALLEY MISTRESS Jon Masters had that equipment packed up, last terminal and all the rest of the rigged, and thrown overboard in record time, and he even helped move several of the cargo boxes into the reconnaissance room, as the crew furiously tried to make the room look more like a cargo container and less like a control room.

  The underwater explosions reverberated through the ship as, one by one, the fifty-three containers associated with the Skywalker unmanned reconnaissance drone were blown into a hundred pieces and scattered across the bottom of the Gulf of Oman.

  “Are we in Omani waters yet?” Masters shouted to White as he trotted back outside for another box.

  “Get your life jacket on, Jon,” White said grimly. He had just returned from the helicopter deck, where he’d been monitoring the crew as they stowed the surface and air search radar arrays. The SPS-40 was already stowed in its container and was even partially disassembled and the pieces thrown overboard—it would look very, very bad to have the Iranians find a sophisticated air surveillance radar on a salvage ship—but the SPS-69, which had been hoisted 100 feet above the deckhouse, was slow in coming down. It would not be so bad for the Iranians to find an SPS-69 on the Valley Mistress, but it would look very suspicious indeed for it to be up on a 100-foot mast.

  “It’s down in my cabin.”

  “Then get it,” White shouted, grabbing Master’s arm and pulling him around so that he was facing down the catwalk toward the ladder leading to the crew cabins, “and don’t let me see you without it until we get back on dry land.”

  Masters stared at White in absolute terror. “Hey, Colonel …”

  “It doesn’t matter if we’re in Omani waters or international waters or U.S. waters,” White said, “because the Iranians are coming to get us. Now, get your damned life jacket, and make sure you’ve got your passport on you and no papers, disks, faxes, or computer records in your cabin. If you’re not sure, toss the computer overboard. Move.”

  Masters had never seen White this grim, and it scared him even more. “Paul, I … I’m sorry about the terminal, about the satellite.”

  “Forget it,” White said. “I think the Iranians were coming for us anyway. Now get going. Meet me right back up here on deck.”

  Masters ran all the way back to his cabin.

  “Lightfoot, bridge.”

  White keyed his intercom button: “Go.”

  “Air target one now approaching at one hundred knots,” the radar officer on the bridge reported.

  Shit, White swore to himself, that meant trouble. The helicopter was moving into visual range—reporting to other Iranian inbounds, no doubt. “Any other targets?”

  “Negative.”

  “There will be,” White warned him. “Keep me posted. Out.”

  “Paul?” It was Carl Knowlton, supervising the work on the SPS-69 radar.

  “What’d you get, Carl?”

  “No good on the radar mast—it’s jammed,” Dammit, dammit, dammit—”Well, I was hoping NSA would buy me a better system anyway,” White said. “That patrol helicopter is moving in fast. Blow the radar mast’ Sound the bell fifteen seconds prior. Break. All hands, this is Lightfoot, use caution, the SPS-69 mast is coming down hard. Take cover when you hear the alarm bell.”

  Masters met up with White on the helicopter pad, where they could watch the SPS-69 but close enough to the hangar door so they could run inside if the mast and radar antenna fell toward them. The life preserver he wore was a thin-line Class V jacket, which looked more like a thick Windbreaker than a typical vest, but it still looked three sizes too big on Masters. “My cabin’s cleaned out,” he told White breathlessly. “I tossed everything overboard, even my pager.”

  “Good. Thanks.” A few seconds later the alarm bell rang, followed shortly by two flashes of light and two loud bangs as the mast and the port-side guy wires were cut by small explosive charges and the SPS-69 radar antenna and forty feet of mast toppled over to starboard into the sea. Two more explosive charges cut the starboard guy wires a second later, and the antenna disappeared from view. “The damned Iranians owe me a new surface search radar,” White said under his breath. “Bridge, Lightfoot.”

  “Go.”

  “We’re receiving numerous radio calls from the Iranian Beet, ordering us to heave to for an inspection,” the bridge officer reported. “We’ve told them repeatedly that we are an American Naval Reserve Fleet rescue vessel and cannot be detained on the high seas while under way, but they are still ordering us to heave to. I’m quoting chapter and verse out of the law books, but they’re ignoring it.”

  “Keep on reading ‘em the law,” White said. “Not that they’ll obey it, but keep on reading it to them anyway. Broadcast on international distress freqs, too—maybe a maritime lawyer will jump in.”

  There was a slight pause, then: “Lightfoot, bridge, they are asking if they can lower an inspector on our hangar deck by helicopter.”

  “Tell them we need to keep our decks clear.”

  “They’re asking why we’re running from them and if we know anything about a spy aircraft that tried to attack them just now.”

  “Tell them … shit, bridge, tell them anything, read them the Bible, read them the law, just keep on looking innocent. But we’re not stopping.”

  “Lightfoot, the Iranians advise us that they’re lowering an Iranian customs officer to t
he helicopter deck to speak with the captain. They state that we were in Iranian waters and they have a right to have customs inspect our vessel. They say if we do not submit to an inspection, they will attempt to stop us by force.”

  “Tell them we weren’t in Iranian waters, but we’ll be happy to submit to an inspection at our destination port, Muscat. We’re o an urgent call, and that’s where we’re headed. Lowering a man onto our deck at night is too hazardous, so we refuse.”

  “Oh, shit—look,” Knowlton said, pointing to the north. Just as the radar mast hit the water, the Iranian patrol 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, b
ut 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 around, coming in from the southwest, so the helmsman now tried to point the bow of the Valley Mistress at the incoming fighter instead of the stern.

  “Six miles, bearing..

  Suddenly the sea behind the ship exploded into a huge geyser of water and foam, followed by a second explosion. The sound rolled across the deck a second later, hitting them like a double thunderclap. “That motherfucker fired at us!” Masters shouted.

  “They’re shooting at us!” The Su-33 fighter had launched two radar-guided anti-ship missiles, which had locked on to the much larger radar target—the decoy floater. The missiles hit the water less than a thousand yards astern.

  “Range five miles, target turning north escape vector bearing one-eight-zero … range three miles …”