IFF-identify, friend or foe. The skies over the Persian Gulf were still crowded with civilian air traffic despite a thirty-day-old war and the declaration that the Gulf was a war zone. There were many civilians who insisted on exercising their right to fly over international waters.
Once on the ground at Bandar Abbas, the transport pilots entered an alien world. It was a world of substandard living conditions where Americans had to make extraordinary efforts simply to maintain life.
The seemingly utter chaos, destruction and clutter were in sharp contrast to the neat, clean airfields at home, with their grass bordered runways, well-painted buildings and efficient organization.
Here air raids left craters and scars, and hasty offloading operations resulted in mountains of discarded packing and blocking materials along the runways. The shuffling of aircraft, Army and Air Force, combat and transport, added to the confusion. Without exception, the transport pilots dreaded most the wait on the ground.
After along flight, they were thrust into a dangerous and confused environment over which they had no control. They eagerly sought to make their stay in Iran as short as possible. Through careful control, wellplanned and -executed defense of the air corridors, and the extreme range that Soviet pilots had to travel to get at them, losses to the transports had been “minimal and acceptable.” This, however, was a concept that was incomprehensible to a four-year-old child who was told that her daddy wouldn’t be coming home anymore.
For a moment Martain was overcome by a desire to go home. In that instant nothing mattered to him more than to see his wife and daughter.
He wished there were some way he could go back with one of the transports for a day, a half day, an hour. All he wanted to do was hold his wife in his arms, feel her arms around his neck, run his hands down her sides and embrace her. Martain dreamed of looking into the round smiling eyes of his young daughter as he lifted her. The smell of baby shampoo in her hair and the ceaseless sweet babble of her stories without beginnings or ends evoked tears as the soft images passed through his mind.
Martain stood and began to walk in an effort to compose himself. He would not be going home today. Nor tomorrow or the next day. Instead he would fly two or three missions, the same as he had done yesterday and the day before. He would continue to fly until the conflict had been resolved or he could no longer fly. Already the squadron had lost three of its aircraft and two crews. One crew had died with its plane as it disintegrated after being hit by a Soviet air-to-air missile. The crew of a second aircraft had ejected safely but had landed in the no man-land between the advancing
Soviet and U.S. forces four days prior. Attempts to recover the crew had been unsuccessful. If the Iranians didn’t take them the desert would.
Omaha Flight had, to date, been successful in surviving and in carrying the war to the Russians. Martain had accounted for three confirmed kills, and his wingman had one to his credit. Martain’s first kill had been so simple that he had difficulty accepting the fact that he had actually shot down another fighter. All he had done was listen to the
AWACS
as it vectored him into a position where his wizzo picked up the target. When the wizzo had good track on the target and the target did not respond to the
IFF
interrogation, Martain fired from a range of fifteen miles. The blip that had represented a multimillion-ruble jet fighter simply disappeared from his plane’s radarscope and that of the
AWACS
. His second combat, a real knife fight during which he used his guns, was more like what Martain had expected. High-speed maneuvers with turns that pressed his body into his seat as the invisible vise known as Gs tore at his frame were countered and followed by the Soviet fighter he pursued. One minute Martain was the hunter, the next the hunted as the two opponents hurled themselves at each other. He had enjoyed that victory. He had worked for it and could see the shattered remains of the
MIG
plummet toward earth in a ball of fire.
His thoughts were interrupted by. the sound of a sergeant running from tent to tent waking the squadron’s air crews. Martain looked at his watch. It was still too early for normal operations. Something was up. He was about to turn when the sound of a C-5A transport rumbling down the runway caught his attention. Another transport was headed home, without him.
Over the Persian Gulf 0405, 28 June (0035 Hours, 28 June,
GMT
) The buildup of Soviet air activity had been slow and near normal that morning. Transports on routine flights deep behind the lead elements of the advancing Soviet forces lumbered to and fro. Activity over Iraq started to build earlier than normal and began to appear as if it had a purpose for a change. Soviet recon flights, sent aloft to get a picture of the situation at first light, lifted off airfields around Tehran and were detected by the
AWACS’ radar and tracked by its computers. Operators at their stations watched and reported but were not concerned. Another day of war was beginning.
With a suddenness that bewildered the operations officer aboard the
AWACS
, the entire situation changed. The clear screens of the operators degenerated into a cluster of static and sparkling clutter.
Powerful electronic jamming from what had been thought to be transports en route to forward bases began to blanket the AWACS’ radar frequencies. A war waged by computers and electronic devices began as the AWACS’ computer flipped its radar frequencies in milliseconds in order to escape jamming, and the
Soviet electronic-warfare aircraft beamed barrage after barrage of static toward the
AWACS
in an effort to degrade or jam its radar. For brief seconds the operators were able to see clearly before the Soviet radar and computers found the AWACS’ new radar frequency and jammed it.
From the brief glimpses, the operations officer began to put together a picture of what was happening. The aircraft that had been loitering over
Iraq had turned and were now making high-speed runs toward the Gulf.
The aircraft that had been mistaken for recon flights were likewise headed for the Gulf. The computer, working with these brief glimpses, began to piece together an attack profile. The straight flight patterns being followed by the Soviet aircraft and their speed left the operations officer no doubt as to what was happening. The Soviets were making for Bandar Abbas, for the air corridors that transited the Gulf and, worse, for the
AWACS
.
Orders immediately went down to the air wings in Iran, Oman and Saudi Arabia to scramble all fighters and intercept the incoming bandits.
The
F-15s in Iran were directed to cover their base, those in Saudi Arabia were dispatched to cover the air corridors, and the Omanbased fighters were called to wrap themselves around the
AWACS
. In addition to the scrambling of the fighters, incoming transports were waved off to alternate landing sites out of range of the Soviet threai. The
AWACS
began to leave their oval tracks and fly south, attempting to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the incoming attack.
Given time, the Soviets would catch up with the
AWACS
if the American fighters didn’t make it. Every second, however, helped in combat.
In the flurry of activity and orders, the controllers, now personally involved in the life-and-death struggle in the sky for the first time, did not see the real threat of the day wind its way slowly and insidiously toward the American front. Like snakes slithering through tall grass, hundreds of transport helicopters from the north began to converge on several points along the perimeter held by the men of the 12th Division and the 17th Airborne.
Aboard an M-8 Helicopter North of Kerman 0415, 28 June (0045 Hours, 28 June,
GMT
)
The move from Tabriz to bases south of Tehran had been greeted with mixed feelings by the men of the Soviet 285th Airborne Regiment. Some of the men had become quite comfortable with their garrison duties and were in no hurry to put themselves again in danger of mutilation or death. Others had found their duties either boring or distasteful and sought combat as an acceptable form of escape.
Junior Lieutenant Ilvanich was one of those who sought escape. His duties as an executioner had been a source of pain and conflict to the young lieutenant. Hiding behind the excuse of duty did nothing to wipe away the images of dead civilians falling before the rifles of his men with a regularity that was maddening. Each day he promised himself that he would leave what he did during the day in the confines of the courtyard where the executions took place. Each night, however, he failed as the images of the dead crept into the small room where he struggled to sleep. Only the intervention of the
KGB
major who had given him the task in the first place saved Ilvanich from total insanity.
The
KGB
major took a liking to the young lieutenant and his men, and, content that Ilvanich was deserving, he arranged for better billeting and rations for them as a reward. Ilvanich, though at first reluctant, accepted the improved conditions. A few days later, the major began to use Ilvanich for special missions, including courier and liaison duties. For this
Ilvanich was given a vehicle that, the major casually mentioned, could be used by Ilvanich when he wasn’t needed for official duties. The young lieutenant, taught from an early age to distrust the
KGB
, made sure to do only what was required and not abuse his freedom or status.
This behavior, noted by the major, in turn resulted in greater trust and new duties, including the guarding of the
KGB
headquarters in Tabriz by Ilvanich’s men. Though boring, it was preferable to being executioners.
The greatest surprise came when Ilvanich was made a Hero of the Soviet
Union for his role in stopping a breakthrough at the airfield in Tabriz during the opening days of the war. Though he was pleased to receive the honor, realization that the
KGB
major had probably been instrumental in securing the award for him frightened Ilvanich. Slowly he was being drawn into the
KGB
major’s power. The major had adopted the young lieutenant and seemed to be preparing him for other duties that the State required. It was therefore a blessing when orders came down to report back to the regiment and prepare for future operations.
The regiment had changed. In his old battalion there were new officers and men. Ilvanich was surprised to find that a captain from the division staff, rather than the old deputy company commander, had been put in command. From the beginning Ilvanich and Lvov did not get along. The captain had not made the jump into Tabriz and had no combat experience. He knew how to give a good political indoctrination to the company, but that failed to impress those of the unit who had survived the jump. Ilvanich, on the other hand, was looked up to by all the officers and men. First, he was a veteran, a recognized leader and a decorated hero. Second, he had been able to take care of his men by securing special privileges and rations for them.
Finally, the men could trust him and talk to him. They felt comfortable in his presence and he in theirs.
Captain Lvov sought to humble the young junior lieutenant in an effort to solidify his position as the commander, but failed when Ilvanich responded with cold but proper military courtesy. As the unit trained and prepared for the upcoming mission, the junior lieutenant always had his men ready before anyone else and without fail was always one or two steps ahead of the captain in anticipating requirements or reading the tactical situation.
Rather than use his lieutenant’s ability to his advantage, the captain only redoubled his efforts to break him. Public ridicule and dressing-downs for trivial matters became a routine for Ilvanich. This treatment, however, never seemed to bother him. Lvov’s efforts to evoke a hostile response with abuse were always returned by a cold, hard stare from
Ilvanich’s steel-blue eyes and expressionless face. There was nothing the captain could do to penetrate the hard shell that the junior lieutenant had created and withdrawn into out of necessity.
The interior of the M-8 helicopter was black as a coal mine. Yet Ilvanich could feel the captain’s eyes on him. The feeling was more than mere paranoia. When the company began to assemble and prepare for the mission, the captain always seemed to be behind Ilvanich, watching him. Ilvanich’s men had noticed the captain’s behavior and casually asked whether there was something the young lieutenant needed. Each time one of his squad leaders asked him that question, the lieutenant merely answered that he would not require any assistance in doing what was necessary. Ilvanich clutched his assault rifle and pondered what would really be necessary.
The announcement by the pilot that they were fifteen minutes out tore Ilvanich’s thoughts away from his dilemma and switched them to the impending operation. Two battalions of the 285th Airborne Regiment were going in to seize the airfield at Kerman by air assault. Defending the airfield was a battalion of Americans from the elite 12th Light Infantry
Division. This would be the first confrontation between Soviet and American ground forces. The men new to the regiment were uneasy, not knowing what would happen and unsure how they would act. The veterans, almost to a man, slept. Only Ilvanich, clutching his rifle, was awake, peering into the darkness in the direction of his captain.
Over the Persian Gulf 0422 Hours, 28 June (0052 Hours, 28 June,
GMT
) Like a thunderclap, the realization of what the Soviets were up to hit the operations officer of the
AWACS
. As an Air Force officer, he had looked at the situation from a purely Air Force view. The incoming raids, oriented on obvious targets of concern to the Air Force, had evoked
the reaction the operations officer had been trained to execute and the
Soviets had hoped for. At the time when the massive Soviet air assault forces were still airborne and thus the most vulnerable, U.S. aircraft that could have smashed the assault had been placed in a defensive posture well to the south.