Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 05 (9 page)

           
“What’d you get, Carl?”

 
          
“No
good on the radar mast—it’s jammed.”

 
          
Dammit,
dammit,
dammit
. .. “Well, I was
hoping NS A 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 shordy by two
flashes of light and two loud
bangs
as the mast and the portside 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 fleet, 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 as 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 the 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 responding to 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 belowdecks 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—its 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 en route to an emergency.”

 
          
“Well,
we ain’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 portside 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 heli-

 
          
copter
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 uncage! ” 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 raftlike 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.