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The catapult fired. Lieutenant Commander Bradley Mitchell’s Super Hornet roared down the runway and leaped from the Lincoln’s deck. Lieutenant Norm Sweeney was half a minute behind. They took to the heavens and headed west across a sparkling fall sea.
To the northwest, twenty miles distant, the Eisenhower’s raging fires burned. If anything, the uncontrollable flames appeared worse than they’d been when the pair undertook their last mission a few hours earlier. Each tried to ignore the horrific sight, but neither could do so. They couldn’t deny the anguish they felt each time they viewed the burning aircraft carrier. The fierce blazes tore at the pilots’ wounded spirits.
The F/A-18Es ripped across the afternoon sky. The target was thirty minutes away.
Mitchell considered this an easy mission, well below his immeasurable skills. Most of the fleet’s pilots, however, wouldn’t have agreed. Despite the determined efforts to eliminate them, the Pan-Arab air base Blackjack Section was scheduled to attack bristled with air defense weapon systems. A careless American could easily forfeit his life on a mission such as this. Nevertheless, to so adept a pilot, even with the air base’s deadly defenses, the assignment was a routine one.
For the first time, he couldn’t put his family problems behind him. The relentless distractions were starting to get the better of him. Brooke was there in the cockpit, her complaints weighing heavily on his mind.
They reached the Libyan coast. The target would soon appear. The mission could no longer wait. He did his best to push Brooke aside.
Mitchell spoke into his radio, “Echo Command, this is Blackjack Section . . .”
But Brooke was never far from his thoughts.
33
3:19 P.M., OCTOBER 20
BLACKJACK SECTION, FIGHTING SQUADRON VF-57
USS ABRAHAM LINCOLN
OVER THE LIBYAN AIR BASE
On the ground, figures raced toward the relative safety of their bunkers and gun emplacements. Blackjack lined up the target. The aircraft hangar was within his sights. Hidden within the buttressed shelter were a half-dozen MiGs. One right after the other, Mitchell released a quartet of thousand-pound bombs. Sweeney did the same.
This wasn’t the first attempt to take out the fortified structure. The hangar’s roof showed the scars of the daily raids against it. So far, the stout enclosure had withstood the pounding. Still, the framework was clearly weakened by the continual assaults. And it couldn’t resist the bombings forever. With any luck, Blackjack Section’s plummeting armaments would penetrate the building and destroy the aircraft inside.
The lethal ordnance sailed toward its purpose. A series of mighty explosions hit the hangar.
The F/A-18E pilots had performed their task perfectly. The only thing remaining was for the intelligence experts to determine the extent of the damage. They’d do so using the Super Hornets’ video of the attack and the spy satellites’ next pictures of the air base. If the Americans were fortunate, the images would confirm the objective had been destroyed. If not, another bombing run would be undertaken tomorrow and on each day following until elimination of the shelter and its aircraft was complete.
“All right, Worm,” Mitchell said, “looks like we nailed it. Let’s move on to the secondary targets.” There was no enthusiasm in the section leader’s voice.
“Confirm your assessment, Blackjack. Moving on to targets two and three.”
“Even though there’ve been no sign of them, keep your eyes open for enemy radar locks.”
“Roger, Blackjack,” Worm said. “With the vivacious Lisa awaiting my return, the only desert I want to find myself standing on has a big ‘Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas’ sign stuck in the middle of it. I’ve no intention of letting an air defense missile sneak up on us anytime soon.”
“Roger, Worm. Let’s begin our next run.”
A trio of bombs would soon be unleashed to assault a smaller aircraft hangar. And once that task was completed, the pair would move on to attacking the air base’s runways with their Vulcan cannons. The second hangar was soon within their sights. The bombs were released. And once more, the target was struck dead center.
The pilots moved on to the third, and by far the most dangerous portion of the mission.
Screaming in wing tip to wing tip a few hundred feet above the ground, they’d fire untold 20mm shells into the glistening black pavement of the air base’s primary runway in an attempt to put it out of commission.
“Let’s get set to nail that runway. Once we’re done, we’ll head for home.”
“I don’t even know why we’re bothering, Blackjack. We tear them up and they come out five seconds after we’re gone to fix them. No matter how much damage we do, an hour from now they’ll have repaired this thing good as new.”
“I know. But orders are orders. And we’ve been directed to unload our Vulcans on that runway. So let’s get to it and head back to the boat.”
The speeding pair raced across the featureless desert. As they reached the runway Mitchell released a quick burst from his Vulcan cannon. Armor-piercing shells poured forth from the aircraft’s lethal nose. The striking armaments tore huge gashes in the three-mile ribbon of patch-marked asphalt. Sweeney squeezed his Vulcan’s trigger, spewing further angst upon the hot tar.
As they neared the attack’s midway point, the Mahdi’s air defenders let loose with their antiaircraft guns upon the low-flying Americans. Both rocketed through the fierce streams of gunfire. When they reached the western edge of the base, the duo turned to make a final approach. With a few hundred rounds remaining in each of their cannons, their assignment was close to its end.
Blackjack Section soared into the solemn skies, turned, and plummeted toward the ground. Entering a teeth-rattling dive, they headed for the black ribbon once more. It was then Worm spotted the first serious threat to their survival.
“Blackjack! I’m picking up a radar attempting to lock on to us.”
“Roger, Worm. My system confirms.”
“I’m picking up a second one.”
The Hornets continued plunging toward the sultry air base. Mitchell watched his screen.
Mourad’s air defenses were doing their best to grab hold of the immense prize.
“Did you copy, Blackjack?” Worm said. “These guys are getting close. Maybe we should abort and get the hell out of here.”
Suddenly Mitchell’s system screamed the warning. A searching radar had achieved a lock on the leading Super Hornet. An enemy missile would soon rocket skyward to destroy the first of the invaders. No longer was this a routine mission.
For a split second, he didn’t react. If anything, the knowledge his death was imminent seemed an odd relief. An ironic smile came over his masked face. He’d never thought of his life’s end being a solution to the problems he faced in his difficult marriage. Yet there it was, unexpectedly. He’d found an answer to his nagging concerns. Succumb to the Chosen One’s missile and there’d be no more Brooke and her petty annoyances.
Mitchell was stunned by his response. He fought against the startling impulse. His innate need for survival seized control, shaking him from the momentary lapse and forcing him to respond.
“Worm, I’ve got a missile lock! Break off the mission! Break off the mission!”
Mitchell’s F/A-18E raced skyward. A Russian-made, radar-guided SA-6 ground-to-air missile fired. Both pilots hit their afterburners and roared into the heavens. Each instituted evasive actions. The devastating missile closed with the lead Hornet. The nimble F/A-18E twisted and turned, dodged and wove. On the ground, the missile system’s operator matched his every move. The killer drew near. One of the Navy’s best pilots was locked in a life-and-death struggle in the bright skies over Libya. Mitchell’s thoughts were racing at incredible speed, yet he remained perfectly calm. Now wasn’t the time to panic. The tracking execut
ioner was right on his tail. Blackjack released chaff and a long string of flares. If that didn’t fool the unmerciful assassin, there’d be no choice but to blow his canopy and bail out. If the ejection didn’t kill him, he’d soon be dangling at the end of a billowing parachute floating toward the Sahara. He’d find himself on the scorching desert, alone and vulnerable, deep within enemy country.
Whether he could elude his pursuers would require both luck and skill. With only a Beretta pistol, he’d be no match for any armed unit in search of him. If he could evade capture after his fearful descent, he’d try to find a deep hole in which to crawl. There he’d turn on his rescue beacon and wait for help.
He scanned the staid terrain with one eye while watching his screen with the other. The ground beneath him looked barren and sparsely populated. Maybe, just maybe, if no one spotted his parachute he’d stand a chance. A search-and-rescue helicopter would be launched immediately. With so great a distance to travel, however, they’d need at least three hours to arrive, pinpoint his location, and pick him up. And with so bleak a landscape for him to hide in, three hours would be a lifetime. He realized his odds weren’t good. There was an excellent chance his head would be severed and stuck on a pole long before the rescuers drew near.
He was out of time. He could die a certain death in the heavens or take his chances on the inhospitable ground. He reached for the canopy release. But luck was with him. The falling curtain of chaff and long line of flares fooled the system’s inexperienced operator. The SA-6 swerved off course, pursuing a falling flare. The misguided killer raced after the descending decoy. It exploded a few hundred yards behind the fleeing fighter.
