Iran nuclear war story 2004 or so

i wrote this in 2004 or so... this will happen...

KAHLIA AKASHA ISFAHAN NUCLEAR STRIKE

(Please play "I don’t feel like dancing" by the Scissor Sisters.)

We painted my lovely warplane white for our deadly strike on our enemy, Iran. After Iran kidnapped 12 British military personnel and damaged a destroyer, the nod was given. Act on the No1 enemy's No 1 target – Isfahan, a city of a million, numerous military targets, an airbase and the infamous nuclear facility – a real bomb factory. We painted her white after much preparation, with special radar-absorbent stealth paint. Faint red soviet stars in the usual places, wings, tail, fuselage. Red bort number 666, we acted for the devil. We sweated, we fucked, we got drunk, we ate and slept by the plane. We got the single thermonuclear bomb from an abandoned bunker in East Germany – an electronics package to let bomb and jet talk, removal of the twin barrel 30mm underfuselage cannon to house the bomb semi-recessed, new computer software to allow blind bombing at night/bad weather linked to the autopilot, four practise missions, additional weapons and a re-paint was all it took. Now the mission was for real.

We took off on mission from our secret base on the edge of Oldham. We bought the single runway at a discount rate, along with our prop jet fighter. I met my partner online, on an old pen-pal site, now long hacked. She loved planes and war like I did. The rest is history. Here we were on the runway; she did the cockpit checks, armed the bomb, checked our other weapons, fuel status and other systems. Climb out was gentle to save fuel, throttle set to cruise, altitude increased in steps to 50,000ft. No rush at a steep angle, just slight nose up to our angelic height. We would be shielded from any radar by our stealth paint, low radar profile, height and route round all radars – both enemy and friendly.

I looked out at the ground below, towns all lit up in the clear night air. A view for miles, leaving the northwest of England, towns of Oldham, Ashton, Rochdale and Manchester. Out over the North Sea, over mainland Europe. By autopilot, but I couldn’t sleep. From my rear cockpit, I watched my gal, my love. She checked systems, radar, infra-red, weapons, avionics. Radar blips of airliners ten thousand feet below us showed on my radar repeater. Looking out and down, I could see two jet planes on separate headings, vapour trailing, nav lights blinking. A pretty site. No trouble from NATO radar or anyone else. We weren't there, invisible. An interception by a fast jet would be a challenge to evade. If, say, a Hungarian Gripen scrambled after they picked us up, could we escape? If he went at supersonic low level, he could zoom climb to get us, for he was twice as fast. Had Amraam missiles with forty mile kill range and could shoot four at once! We could jam his radar, his missile radars, drop chaff decoys, use our greater agility and our stealth. It would only take one missile to hit us. If we evaded three, one was still all it would take. We would fire back with our bright star short range dog fight missiles, our axe head medium range weapons, or dive to ground level, make him hit the ground. Or run him out of fuel. It never happened over Hungary or anywhere else, our technology was our cloak. We would fight if we had to, over Iran almost definitely. To do our evil work, anything goes. We both knew this.

The Iranian coast came up. My gal passed radar control to me, air to air to sweep ahead for any enemy fighters on combat air patrol, training missions or scrambling up after us. We were ready. I had two short and two medium range missiles to kill any brave Iranian stupid to stop us. We had four drop tanks inboard of our missiles. These would be jettisoned when empty. Red light flashed – last two tanks empty. I dropped them over the coast, our first gift to Iran. Soon we would unleash the sun. Our speed increased, less drag. My lover calmly alerted me to two search radars ahead, below us. One to each side. We ghosted past, stealth cloaking us like a rapist hunting his prey. No lock on as we passed; any blip they got from us would be seen as an anomaly.

I gently pushed the single throttle forwards to reach our attack speed – 610mph. Our top speed with half weapon load. I climbed slowly to use our speed for height. We slowed in the thin upper air, hardly enough to give lift. Engine power pushed us forth, up to 53,524ft. It was the maximum height that we could fly level. Nothing could touch us. More radars searching below us, a great web of electronic eyes many miles apart. Short, medium, long range. All to detect the enemy, be it Israel, America, Britain or another, us, doing covert work for the Brits. In a Soviet warbird.

There! A group of blips on the screen!

No missile trails or launch warnings, just the problem radars. We had no anti-radar weapons; we needed more air-to-air than anti-radar missiles. The threat was more deadly. We started to leave the radar group behind. Our jamming denied them more than the shortest lock. It was enough, though. Our own radar picked up rising airborne targets – Iranian fighters. I locked up the four most dangerous closest jets. All I had to do was click my trigger on the stick or lock my helmet site to fire if time was short. Distance and time to target unwound in my head’s up display. Jammers switched to air-to-air.

Missile range coming up, now! I confirmed with my gal, then launched one medium range weapon. It glared like a demon, spearing down into the dusk sky. On my scope our axe head missile merged with plane. A distant flash – nothing. Five other Iranian jets turned away, shocked by my first blood. They'd be back.

We changed course. Isfahan was ten minutes away. My gal armed our single one-megaton nuclear bomb. All in the green. Here we go, countdown on my screen. Bomb drop will be automatic but my lover and I will ghost it, both press the red button just to make sure. Our most intimate act. Fuck! Enemy jets coming back, three to port, four to starboard. Classic sandwich tactic. My weapons outrange them but we only have one BVR missile. I’ll hit the group to our left! Here we go – missile away! Range closing, they’re going supersonic. Close the gap. Ready, our two bright star weapons, the Soviets’ best close range weapon. I drop chaff and flares, set jammers to auto. Talk to my gal. Okay? Yes. Glad to be here? Yes, wouldn't be anywhere else.

Here we go, their mid-range weapons speed to us. Most fired blind, their dated air-to-air radars just can’t see us. Our tech is better than theirs. Bang! My axe head blows an Iranian Sukhoi to kingdom come. Four missiles from the left jets, five to the right. Only one of the latter guide, with a faint lock on. Chaff decoys it, jamming takes care of their radar. I turn sharply to port – my entrance to Isfahan is there. Locking up my two heat seekers by infra-red, I have two more kills. Steady, wait for five mile range – one away, two away. Straight and level through any remaining fighters. No need to turn, to pursue them. We outfought them in level flight by our technology. In a dogfight we had the best plane ever built. I see my two missiles hit home – only one left.

We shoot past the last jet, drop decoys to stop any missiles fired by the others. For some reason there was none. We were one our own. A walk in the park. Two minutes to go. Nothing would stop us. We are ready, last checks, our last weapon ready. We had four kills, a million more would follow. See it now, industrial haze, faint street plan, big buildings, grey against the brown desert, straight line of the nearby Mig airfield and the main target - Isfahan nuclear facility. Queen of the Iranian bomb program, where they built the weapon used on the Jews. Israel held back, for World War III would follow their revenge. We acted for them all.

Shit! Surface to air missile launched, one after the other. Launched blind or by infra-red, can see the dust kicked up and light of the rocket engines. Now multiple search radars lighting up, to guide the missiles. Jamming now, chaff, flares released, gently weave my jet in the thin upper air to add to the confusion. Multiple explosions far below, medium height stuff. We are too high. Just two reach our height, missing on a ballistic trajectory. Now level flight, wings level. 5,4,3,2,1 – bomb away!

My finger and my gal’s finger follow up auto release. Two minutes to detonation height of five thousand feet above Isfahan city centre. Everything in 15 miles would be destroyed, city, airbase, nuke site. A million plus dead and injured. More missiles, all ballistic. Not a single lock on, we did it!

Turn to escape heading, stay high to be safe for we were unarmed now. Our speed 630, our maximum. We would feel a moderate shockwave. Nothing more. We could have gone in low level but flak would have been a danger, as well as high fuel burn.

Flash! Whiteness, the touch of God. We did it! Targets destroyed. Time to go home...

 

FINAL FLIGHT

Harriers hit us at dawn. Did their job pretty well. Bombed our runway, cratering the tarmac in a dozen places, killing six ground crew, two aircrew and two officers. Our fuel truck went-up, too, as did three planes. We can use the grass to fly; we’ll miss our ground crew, but we can service our own jets. Sacha and his WSO never got to the shelter. A sad loss, we’ll fight back even harder. Officers, screw them. Fuelling by hand from 55-gallon drums and hand pump is hard, but what we train for. Our planes can’t be replaced. Scorched and blasted to bits, like our lost men. Gone. Time to fly, to hit back against NATO (North Atlantic Treaty Organisation). Yes, we’ll really screw them over. Everyone to the briefing tent, including my Annie. She’s my co-pilot, navigator, Weapon System Operator, and sensor operator. She’s good, that’s why I chose her to be with me in battle. She is second-to-none – and I’m in love with her, completely. If our officers knew of our affair, I’d be grounded – she would be transferred at the least. But, this is war – World War III, to be exact.

We receive a full briefing considering our field conditions. Our officers are jerks, but good at their job. Everyone listened, wanting to miss nothing. We all knew some would die.

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To our warplanes! Take the netting off – annoying as it always snags on the eight-blade prop. Open the cockpit canopy. Annie climbs into her front cockpit to do the pre-flight check and bring the systems up. I do the walk round checking to see if anything isn’t as it should be. I get to the weapons and remove the arming pins. Our loadout is two Brightstar IR (Infra-Red) air-to-air missiles on each outer wing pylon, two Saffron anti-tank missiles inboard, two Medusa anti-radar missiles on the inner wing pylons and, to enhance our range, three drop-tanks: two inboard of the Medusas and a centre line one behind the semi-recessed twin 23mm cannon pack. This Annie armed when I was in the cockpit. Nothing amiss, I climbed aboard and did my own pre-flight, checked with Annie that everything was green, then closed the canopy.

Signalling to the ground crew to remove the power lead, I initiated start-up procedure: six steps to get our eight-blade prop spinning. Hear the APU (Auxiliary Power Unit) whine and turn the turboprop over. Noise building, even in my earphones. All okay on the MFD (Multi-Function Display) showing engine parameters. Move the single throttle from idle to minimum to max power. Feel our bird come alive. See Annie busy with her screens. Check to see if she is okay and that our plane is; switch to encrypted channel and quick clearance to go. Yes! We roll out of our earth revetment to the grass take-off strip. Why didn’t the Harriers sow denial weapons? We’d have lost more jets. Full power, away we go, bumping over the grass past burnt-out planes, to the sky. We are airborne! Climb out at shallow angle to stay below NATO radar (we don’t believe it, radar has moved on) and give us maximum surprise.

Our fuel burn is higher but we are so near the front... I scan my three MFD screens, see we’re being picked up by NATO radar, so I drop us lower – our radar-absorbing paint and carbon fibre helps, but death is death. My tension increases.

I see Annie before me, her head moving from display to display, to her HUD (Heads Up Display), to look outside and back again. I feel the urge to tell her what she means to me, that the songs are true. I don’t. I order a new course to our target. We all fly alone. Good or bad tactics? Historians will discuss this later, if anyone survives this.

Suddenly, our RWR (Radar Warning Receiver) comes alive – NATO fighter! I turn into the threat that my display shows is to my port. I order Annie to turn our ECM (Electronic Counter Measures) jammer to manual then to auto. Should’ve done it before! Could be our death! I switch my HUD to dog fight mode and do a series of turns to check our tail. Clear. There! Sun glinting on a canopy, a flare of flame as a missile is launched. Heat-seeker this close; dropping chaff to break his lock, flares to blind his missile. Come on, Annie, jam his radar, be my eyes. G-force crushes me, my turn takes us to a wing above the ground. Be careful! Climb, full combat power. Turn, roll, face him. His Sidewinder misses as my turn is too tight and the missile cannot follow us. BANG! As it detonates twenty metres away, shockwave from 25 pounds of iron filled with explosives shakes my plane. A Devil slap, white-hot shrapnel cuts into the right wing, two neat holes in the carbon fibre skin. I glance at the holes, at my MFD showing minor damage only, nothing bad, and at the holes again, then at the enemy. I recognise him as an F-20 Tigershark as she shoots past. NATO’s best fighter means trouble.

Annie turns our radar to air-to-air, gives me control of it and our two Brightstar missiles and wishes me luck as I turn and follow him. Almost out of sight, he arcs around in a high g-turn to re-attack. My Topaz radar acquires him, I lock him up with my HOTAS (Hands On Throttle And Stick) controls and I grunt as a green box appears on my HUD. His coffin, should he enter it. My helmet sights back it up, gives overkill when my enemy is outside my HUD. I bring our nose up, roll wings level and speed towards him. Several hundred feet up and climbing, visible to AWACS (Airborne Warning And Control System) and everyone else scanning heavenwards. Growl in my ear. Lock-on! F-20 in my helmet sights, just above my HUD. Press the tit, port Brightstar ignites on a tail of fire, spears away so fast. I half roll, turn and dive away for the deck. I punch out half-a-dozen flares and chaff, ignoring the centre MFD and HUD repeater saying that Annie is dispensing the same damn countermeasures. Close in, our jammers struggle due to his high power agile radar. The RWR gives bearings on two search radar. SAMs (Surface to Air Missile). More dangerous than any F-20 – hidden death from below. Cutting it fine, I dive us below tree level, roll into a valley and safety. Our RWR goes black. Glancing around and above, I see a brief explosion over a hill. Did we get him or did he evade our missiles, like we did his – just? Ground warning horn blaring – ten feet limit! I pull-up around fallen boulders, turn around valley sides, follow a winding path. In my element, I lift my wing as the horn goes off again. Annie shouts her curses at me, the war...

Recklessly, I scream at her, my Annie who’d die if I push instead of pull the stick. Who I’d never let anyone else have – like my plane. I killed the damn horn, pushed my control stick and we headed lower. Five feet above level ground, she screams in terror, startling me. I pull-up over a boulder as big as a tank. Glancing at my mirror, I see dust kicked up by my prop-wash. I let our nose rise, kick full right rudder and snap-roll in the valley. Scream my love for Annie, who turns to look at me in terror, some loose black hair twirling with the g-force. She sees my wicked grin and returns it, briefly. I level off as the valley dies out. Annie curses me, says she loves me for always, that I’m the best pilot. I smile. This is as close to marriage as we could get.

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Hell! Armoured column! Tanks passing under us. No radar. I line-up to fire my 23mm cannon, see shells strike a tank without harm. Another. Too much top-armour. Troop carrier. Quick correction – got him! Light armour smashed by my explosive and armour piercing shells. I smile at the thought of NATO troops being blown to bits, burned alive and killed. Annie brings up ground scan on the radar, tells me what I can already see: thirty-plus vehicles on one narrow road; now SAM or anti­aircraft defence as the RWR was blank. I fire at another APC (Armoured Personnel Carrier). Ordered Annie to lock-up a tank with a Saffron missile on our next pass. At full throttle, I open the air-breaks, turn on a wing and shoot back down the line. Annie smoothly talks herself through her act, launches. I felt the kick back as our port anti-tank missile left the rail. Down it went to kill a Challenger tank in one go. Soon, our other Saffron did the same, another tank and crew dead. What a run! Better than any training exercise, any day! Around again with guns blazing, searching-out troop carriers that stop to try and save their men. I get one kill, another damaged before my ammo runs out. Annie calls up the squadron and army tank-killing choppers to come to the party. We head-back to base.

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Mission almost over, quick exhilaration of battle leaves me tired. Annie snaps me out of my reverie as we change course. My IFF (Identification Friend or Foe) gives off friendly signals as Annie tells me Major Topol, our CO (Commanding Officer), has congratulated us on the tank find. He is inbound to attack, co­ordinating with two other of our planes. Two others had used all their ammo on pre-set targets, they RTB (Return To Base). We had already lost one jet with crew missing. Annie made it clear that it was so nearly us, I stopped her. I am a better pilot than what-was-his-name? The new guy from Kirov. Newbies die first. Still, my two years on Sukhoi Su-25s in Afghanistan had taught me well. I was hit by small arms fire nine times, lost an engine to a Stinger and struggled back in a dying jet. There weren’t many 25s then, I was honoured by my CO but that meant little when I saw my comrades die every week. Then I learnt to hate officers, transferred out of the war to the new Aeroprogress training centre on the new Sukhoi T.720B attack fighter. My combat experience was needed due to their new design being ready to be shipped to the war. We spent two years deciding what worked, what didn’t. A guerrilla war was nothing for what we planned for: the full takeover of Western Europe by force. I was shocked when I learnt the truth, but I had expected it. NATO had sabre-rattled against our front line re-equipment. Our new T.720B was just such a weapon, along with attack choppers like our Mil 28 and Kamov 52, our MiG 29 and Sukhoi 27 multirole fighters, our Tupelov 22M3 and Tupelov 160 nuclear bombers. Not to mention the nuclear missiles for if – and when – NATO responded. We had new tanks, APCs and all the other equipment we would need. As the T.720B was a two-seater, I was crewed with Annie to show her what tactical fighting was all about. Falling in-love wasn’t part of the plan, our secret and ours alone. Now we needed one another like never before. It was total war.

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Suddenly, our RWR came alive with three ground radars searching for us. Immediately one locked-on to us, warning tone changing from a mesmerising sound like a bird to an evil report that I turned down. A second had got intermittent lock. We, me and Annie, talked, planned. Climbing so we popped-up permanently on their scopes, we turned our jammer to manual. Annie gently found their frequency, told the computer to follow any shifts and jammed them every three seconds, on a low power setting. We didn’t have long before a Roland SAM came after us. Now! Annie ordered. She launched our port Medusa in hunter-killer mode, down the NATO radar beam. He would be hit, even if silent. He emitted and died, data linked to us before impact confirmed a hard-kill. Annie launched our last offensive weapon at another site; this was further and launched two Roland SAMs on our tail. I got us in the weeds; Annie dumped countermeasures and jammed them. Rolling and turning over flat fields at 500 knots was fast but not Mach 3 like a Roland. I checked my fuel on my MFD; time to drop our wing tanks. Jolt as they fell free, our centre one will follow when empty. Speed 550 now, no indication of a hard-kill. Both Rolands go whizzing off our track, ballistic. We got past them! Just one IR missile left, better take no chances. Got our map up on my centre MFD, check with Annie for best course. Fuel is okay but combat must be avoided.

On our encrypted radio something comes through. NATO just went tactical with nukes! Annie swears. This is it – they did it, pushed the button. More orders, Annie patches them to me. In code. I go white. All planes RTB to re-fuel and re-arm with tactical nuclear weapons. No words said, just a code sequence unique to each surviving plane. Target data discs would be given when we landed, our bombs loaded with engine running. Hot refuelling. Annie already gave me the two best ways back. I take the fastest. NATO troops fire small arms at us, red tracer arcs past us, missing. Jinking around trees and low hills we come to base. I send our code word and slow to land. A fast blur distracts me. No! Annie!

Whiteness.

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