With precious little time, the operations officer had to completely reorient his attention. While the situation over the Gulf continued to build and demanded attention, forces had to be shifted to the north against the air assault. A quick analysis of the enemy situation and the location and status of friendly forces resulted in few good choices. The Air Force could defeat the threat to U.S. forces in and along the Gulf or its aircraft could charge north and strike at the Soviet air mobile forces. To attempt both would run the risk of failing in both areas.
As the operations officer discussed the situation with the small staff of the
AWACS
, he watched the situation screen and half listened to the reports coming in. The wing from Bandar Abbas, the one nearest and best capable of influencing the situation to the north, was beginning to engage the incoming Soviets near its base. In another minute, it would be fully involved in combat and unavailable for commitment to the north. The next group available were the fighters scrambling from Oman, which were tagged to protect the
AWACS
. Options narrowed rapidly. One, send the F-15s from
Bandar Abbas north, leave that base open, and accept, at best, severe damage to the airfield and the port facilities. Two, send the fighters coming from Oman north and jeopardize the AWACS. Third, have the fighters from Oman cover Bandar Abbas and have the F- 15s go north.
Fourth, do nothing about the north and leave all fighters to perform their assigned missions.
The seconds passed and the window of opportunity to influence the situation slipped as the opposing aircraft joined battle. Already new radar tracks representing ai rto-air missiles could be seen on the screen. The Soviets had achieved surprise. Realization of the error in assessing the situation came too late for effective reaction. By saying nothing, the operations officer could let all orders 168 stand.
It would be so easy not to make a decision.
But no decision was a decision, a decision that would have terrible results for the Army.
Despite the fact that the radar tracks representing the first wave of Soviet helicopters were descending on their targets, the operations officer decided on a compromise. He ordered a squadron from the F-15
wing at Bandar
Abbas north to Kerman. There was little probability that they would make it there in time to influence the situation. The effort, however, had to be made.
At 42,000 Feet, North of Bandar Abbas, Iran 0423 Hours, 28 June (0053
Hours, 28 June,
GMT
)
Martain could not believe that they had just received the order to break contact and head north. Most of the aircraft had already engaged or were about to enter combat. Omaha Flight was on the verge of bouncing a flight of four MIGs when the order to recall came. From the backseat Martain’s wizzo exclaimed, “Shit! Another thirty seconds-that’s all we need.”
Martain looked at his displays. He had complete situation awareness.
All was in order. Everything was set for their attacks. He and his wingman could each get a single short-range missile shot, kick in their after burners for a second, clear the remaining MIGs before they could react, and be on their way north. There was no sense in pissing away a perfectly good setup. Without further thought, he hit his radio transmit button. “Omaha
Two, this is Omaha One. I got my fangs out. Follow me.”
He had no sooner finished his transmission than the squadron commander came back and ordered Martain to break off his attack. Martain’s mind, however, blocked him out. All Martain’s thoughts were focused on making the kill. He watched his displays and listened for the radar tone. For the next fifteen seconds his eyes were glued to the heads-up display to his front. Ever so carefully he guided his F-15 through an easy turn as he aligned the blip representing the
MIG
with a small box in the center of his display that represented the proper angle for a missile attack. As soon as the blip and the box were aligned, he got a steady tone. Launching a missile, he yelled to his wizzo to hang on, threw the F-15 into a violent turn and kicked in his after burners.
Only when they had passed the speed of sound did he acknowledge the squadron commander’s order. A rebuke from the commander was followed by confirmation from an
AWACS
controller hundreds of miles away that Omaha
OI’s missile shot was a kill. Fuck the Old Maneven he can’t argue with a kill, Martain said to himself.
Rafsanjan, Iran 0425 Hours, 28 June (0055 Hours, 28 June,
GMT
) The men of 1St Platoon, recently stirred from their sleep, slowly made their way into their fighting positions from a wadi to their rear where they had bivouacked. Duncan, watching them, could hear the lieutenant yelling to the men to pick up the pace and get into position. While some of the platoon sergeants didn’t mind having a second lieutenant who tried to do everything himself and therefore left little for them to do, it pissed Duncan. He hadn’t worked to become a senior
NCO
and platoon sergeant just to have a lieutenant fresh out of Fort Benning come into his unit and try to run the whole outfit single-handed.
Duncan was a proud man. He took pride in his abilities as a soldier and an
NCO
. He loved his work and the training. It therefore bothered him when his young platoon leader didn’t let him do what he was supposed to.
Two quick explosions, a small one followed rapidly by a bigger one, to the front of the platoon’s positions, startled Duncan. Instinctively he dropped to the bottom of his position, shifted himself from the rear to the front wall and listened. Immediately a machine gun from the platoon’s positions began to fire. Duncan slowly raised his head over the lip of the fighting position and surveyed the scene. In the darkness he could see nothing to his front except the tracers from the machine gun. At the top of his lungs he repeatedly yelled, “Cease fire!” until the machine gun stopped. When silence returned, he listened Nothing. Nothing could be heard or seen to the front.
Slowly, men who had been in the open when the explosions went off crawled or moved in a crouch to their positions. Duncan didn’t bother to turn around when the lieutenant tumbled into his fighting position.
The lieutenant sat on the floor of the hole with his back against the wall facing
Duncan. Out of breath and excited, he blurted, “What the hell was that?
Mortars?”
Duncan continued to peer into the darkness, searching for an answer, while he replied, “A mine. A grenade and a mine. Someone was out there fucking around and tripped a booby-trapped mine.”
“Maybe an animal tripped a mine.”
Still watching to the front, Duncan calmly replied, “If an animal had tripped a mine, the mine would have gone off first, not the grenade.
Someone was out there fucking with our mines and got lucky.”
“Iranians?”
“Maybe. Maybe Russians. Didn’t the Old Man tell us we could expect their recon elements anytime?”
The lieutenant, now composed, got up and made his way to the front wall, next to Duncan, before replying. “Why would the Soviets bother messing around with our mines?”
“Maybe they wanted to clear a lane. Maybe they wanted to lift the mines and put them to our rear. Shit, Lieutenant, you tell me.”
The lieutenant didn’t reply. Slowly he lifted his head over the lip of the fighting position and began to search for any telltale sign that would answer his question. As much as he wanted to know why, the young officer was not sure he would like the answer.
North of Rafsanjan, Iran 0425 Hours, 28 June (0055 Hours, 28 June,
GMT
)
A flash cut through the darkness and caught the attention of the young Soviet recon-platoon leader. Immediately he put his night-vision device up to his eye. He watched as machine-gun tracers stabbed out into the darkness, and made a mental note of where they came from.
Twelve seconds later he heard the two explosions, followed by the report from the machine gun. Then nothing. He scanned the area for other signs of activity or firing, but could not detect any. Slowly he lowered the nightvision device, then pounded his fist on the top of his armored car and cursed. His men had failed. Instead of clearing a path through the mine field and marking it for the dawn attack by the 381st Motorized Rifle Regiment, they had killed themselves and alerted the Americans.
The lieutenant considered his options for a moment. There wasn’t enough time to send another team forward. Even if there had been, the Americans were alerted. He hoped his other patrols would be able to make it back without incident. He looked at his watch. In another thirty-five minutes he had to make his final report. The thought of reporting that his men had been detected made the lieutenant ill. At least he had been able to locate all of the Americans’ forward outposts and their main positions. If the remaining patrols came in with the command post and artillery locations, perhaps he could be forgiven for not clearing the lane. That thought passed quickly, however. His commander was the type that was never satisfied with partial results.
There would be hell to pay for that mistake.
The Airfield at Kerman, Iran 0430 Hours, 28 June (0100 Hours, 28 June,
GMT
)
The sudden flash of explosions just ahead of the helicopters alerted the paratroopers that they were about to go into battle again.
Lieutenant Ilvanich could feel his heart pounding in his chest. The palms of his hands were sweating as he continued to grip his AK assault rifle. One minute to go, two at the most. Flashes of light from the explosions lit the interior of the helicopter for brief seconds Ilvanich could see others in the cabin shuffle and squirm. The new men leaned forward, glanced to their left and right and tried hard to see what was going on.
The veterans merely sat back in their seats, their faces fixed in an expressionless stare to their front. They knew what was going on and what was about to happen.
Ilvanich watched for the landing. Tracers were dashing wildly between the approaching helicopters. The Americans were alert and returning fire. The pilot was bringing the helicopter in fast and would no doubt hit hard. Instinctively, Ilvanich yelled, “Get ready!” When the aircraft was a couple of meters from the ground, he unsnapped his seat belt and swung himself in front of the open door.
A sudden jolt left no doubt that they were on the ground. With the battle cry of “Follow me!” Ilvanich leaped from the helicopter and charged into the darkness without looking back. He dashed for ten meters, then dropped to the ground. To his left and right other men from the helicopter dropped, too. Automatically they began to search the area immediately to their front for threats and targets. While they waited for the helicopters to finish disgorging their passengers, Ilvanich attempted to get his bearings. To his front at a distance of two hundred meters there were several American helicopters burning. The light from those fires was more than enough to allow him to make out the hangars and maintenance shops on the far side of the runway. The mission of his company was to clear those hangars and establish defensive positions three hundred meters beyond, facing away from the airfield.
Just after the last of the empty Soviet helicopters from the first wave had lifted off, several of them exploded, lighting up the sky and showering the paratroopers below with fragments. Ilvanich, who was in the process of getting up, dropped again and covered his head as the fragments pelted him on the back.
Over the Airfield at Kerman, Iron 0436 Hours, 28 June (0106 Hours, 28 June,
GMT
)
Neither Martain nor his wizzo had ever seen anything like it before.
Dozens of targets suddenly popped up on
his screen at the same instant. Omaha Flight, flying low and fast, suddenly found itself saturated with them. While most of the squadron had gone in high to deal with Soviet air cover, two flights of two ships each had gone in low, looking for the helicopters. Martin had no doubt they had found them. “Omaha Two, this is One. Check six, then follow me. There’s more than enough for both.”
“Roger that, Omaha One. Nothing behind or above. I’m coming through.”
There was no problem lining up on the slow-moving targets. Once Martain had the first blip aligned in his sight, he let fly a missile and turned to line up the next shot. His wingman did likewise, with terrible and swift results. The wizzo watched his screen in fascination as helicopters scattered in a mad rush to escape them. It was like shooting fish in a barrel.
On the Ground at Kerman, Iran 0438 Hours, 28 June (0108 Hours, 28 June,
GMT
)
The roar of the jet engines just above their heads was deafening. The thought that American fighters had made it through the protective fighter screen was a shock to Ilvanich. For a moment he watched the burning crumpled wreckage that was the helicopter he had just exited.
Without effective air cover, there would be no follow-on waves. The men in the first wave were on their own.
Ilvanich turned his attention back toward his objective. He could hear the volume of American small-arms fire increase. The enemy was now bringing mortars to bear on them. The effect of the assault’s initial surprise was being lost. Ilvanich knew they couldn’t stay there. Their only chance was to go forward with force and violence. He glanced to his left and right.
“Where’s Captain Lvov?” No one answered.
Ilvanich raised himself on one elbow and turned to search to his rear.
“Captain Lvov?” There was no response. He had to be dead. Why else had he not answered or taken charge? No loss, Ilvanich thought. His only regret was that he hadn’t had the pleasure of doing it himself.
Without further thoughts on the subject, llvanich got to his feet and faced the company. “Men of the 3rd Company. Our objective is to clear those hangars over there and set up positions beyond them. Follow me.
For the
Motherland. Attack!”
As in the helicopter, the young lieutenant turned and went forward without bothering to look behind to see whether his men would follow.