The Disciple

He saw Chicago’s gun vomit a burst, but she didn’t pull up immediately, which surprised him. He had anticipated the pull-up, started pulling himself, so now he had to jam his nose down, steepen his descent to get back into position. The Gs and flying sensations had thoroughly disoriented him; the hazy sky without a discernible horizon didn’t help. His only attitude reference was his leader. The radar altimeter sounded a warning, but in the cacophony of sound assaulting his ears, he didn’t even notice.

O’Hare kept descending for a second, probably thinking about a low pass. When she did pull up, it surprised Hillbilly again; he was late matching her maneuver, and his sink rate was greater. He yo-yoed down toward the water. And hit it.

An object striking water at 415 knots reacts as if it had struck concrete. Even though it had struck the ocean a glancing blow, Hillbilly Jones’ Hornet disintegrated on impact, killing him instantly. The pieces traveled along for almost a half mile as they decelerated, making a rolling, continuous splash. Fuel and tiny pieces rained down on the gunboat and tanker as they steamed into the cloud.

Chicago O’Hare was the first American pilot to realize what had happened. She looked back as she climbed, saw the cloud of pieces and fuel and the roiled water and sca

Harry Lampert had his hands full. The incoming Sukhois had him and Goose locked up for missile shots; the wailing ECM audio told him that, as did the flashing missile light on the panel in front of him.

Now, on top of everything, he had a plane in the water. Did the Iranians shoot it down?

He had several decisions to make, and he had only seconds to do it. Should he turn on his ALQ-199, thereby defeating the Sukhois’ radars and electronically hiding his plane, or should he leave it off? Guess wrong and you die, Harry.

He couldn’t yet see the Sukhois, but he had them on radar. They were at thirty miles and closing.

“Gadget off, Goose,” he said over the air.

“Roger.”

“Chicago, did you see any flak?”

“That’s a negative. Looks like Billy went in when I pulled out from my shooting pass.”

Sca

“Don’t see one,” was the reply.

“Don’t let the gunboats get near the wreckage,” Lampert told O’Hare, talking loudly over his ECM. Suddenly infuriated, he reached with his left hand and turned off the ECM audio. Enough of that shit!

He checked his armament panel. Still set up for guns. He flipped the switch for heat. Now the Sidewinders on his wingtips were hot. He bore-sighted the incoming Sukhois and headed right at them. If they launched a missile at him, at least he’d see the flame as the engine lit off. He turned the last fifteen degrees toward the approaching Iranian fighters.

Chicago O’Hare saw Omar’s gunboat slow and turn back into the area where the remnants of Hillbilly’s plane had impacted. She didn’t hesitate. Nose down, she steadied out, glanced at the ball to ensure it was centered and fired a nice two-second burst into the water in front of the boat. It turned away.

She was coming back for another pass when the destroyer’s bow gun began firing. Splashes landed in the wake of the gunboat, one after another, getting closer. Now the second gunboat was taking splashes in its wake.

The two gunboats within range of the destroyer were maneuvering wildly. Yet their crews did not open fire. To the south, the third gunboat was still at least a mile from the empty tanker, still heading toward it.

Suddenly, probably in response to a radio call, all three gunboats turned as one and headed back to Iran.

Harry Lampert and his wingman still had their troubles. As they closed the Sukhois, the missile light in both cockpits continued to flash. To make matters worse, now Harry saw that he was getting a launch indication of an SA-20 surface-to-air missile from Iran.

So was Goose, and he said so.

Another decision to be made: Was there a missile in the air, or were the Iranians faking it to provoke an American reaction?

“Leave the gadget off,” Harry said again. “These guys are just jerking us around.”

Now the Sukhois were begi

Harry raised his nose a trifle, and they went by so quickly that he didn’t see a single detail, just a blur.

“Right turn,” he roared into the radio microphone in his oxygen mask. He whipped his plane around in a six-G pull and, coming out of it, locked the Sukhois up with his radar. He didn’t have a radar-guided missile aboard, but the Sukhoi drivers didn’t know that. Turnabout is fair play.

But the Sukhois were only making one pass. They made a long, gentle high-speed turn that carried them almost into Oman, then headed off to the north as they slowed to subsonic speed.

With the gunboats returning to base and an American destroyer sitting on the slowly settling wreckage of Hillbilly Jones’ Hornet-and presumably searching for whatever was left of Hillbilly-there was nothing for Lampert’s Hornets to do but return to the carrier. The admiral already had another flight of four Hornets on the way up the strait to cover this tanker, which was still steaming steadily south toward the Gulf of Oman, the Arabian Sea, then the Indian Ocean, on her way to America or Japan or Singapore or Europe or India or China with a load of crude to keep the wheels turning.

“Well?” Habib Sultani asked the Russian technician at the equipment under the tree. The Russian pulled off his earphones, leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette.

“They never turned them on,” he said.

Disappointed, Sultani walked away with Ghasem at his side. “Too bad,” he muttered. “I was hoping they would use an ALQ- 199.”

“So it didn’t work,” Ghasem said.

“It was always a long shot.”

“You could have shot a missile at them-they would have turned it on then. Afterward, you could claim the launch was a mistake.”

“Would you have done that?”

Ghasem smiled. “No. The international situation is too tense. Ahmadinejad is in discussions with the French and Russians, and they would be outraged.”

His uncle nodded. “If we want to be a nuclear power, we must show the world we can be trusted, that our armed forces will always obey the civilian government. Accidents with missiles and bombs ca

As they walked toward the car that had brought them to this site, Ghasem asked, “Why is it, Uncle, that you want me to spend so much time with you?”

“Your cousin Khurram is something of a fool. You know that.”

“But I am a scholar. That is what I want to do with my life.”

His uncle stopped and looked him in the eyes. “In the days that come I may need someone beside me with brains and good judgment, someone I trust. We ca

“I understand,” Ghasem said, nodding.

Together they walked on toward the waiting car.