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...

Riga chill sub

Riga Chill Sub

Riga was in her plane cockpit. The lid was closed. She was still on the ground. The turboprop engine spun over. It made a whirring noise. Quite pleasant if somewhat odd. Not a bad sound. The Aircon hummed along. This was cool in more than description. It was chilling the small pilot. Her mood was cool. Not fury. She nodded. This was good. One thing I like about the plane is the AC. The makers installed a good system. It cannot be improved. Riga adjusted the vents. They were positioned within reach. Even with a full flight suit she was fine. She finished her pre-flight checks. Flicked through computer screens. Checking the bird’s stats. Its stats were her stats. All was in the green as normal. Riga allowed another minute to cool down and for any errors to show up. There were none. She advanced the single throttle to Full Power. A whine filled the cockpit now. Releasing the brakes, she moved forward. The runway was visible through the canopy and Heads Up Display. She taxied onto the centre and got radio clearance off the tower. Grinning she tightened her face mask. Away they went. Acceleration pushed her into the seat as six thousand horses did their joyous work. Soon Riga was flying. She brought up the gear and kept the flaps down for best climb speed. Up aloft. Nothing serious now. A training test mission. A few loops and rolls and going up to maximum height. Riga closed her visor and monitored the screens and gauges. A clear flying day. The AC did its job. As did Riga. Noting off test points on the chart strapped to her knee with a pencil. Easy peasy lemon squeezy! Riga the test pilot loving the Aircon. Her six-ton plane was part of her. She rolled upside down. Her hair fell loose. Her heart jumped with joy. I am a bird. Bird Riga...

***

Riga 309 Despondent

 

Riga 309 Despondent

Riga flew her Messerschmitt 309 in a curve. She tilted the stick to the left and fed in left rudder. Her plane described part of a huge circle in the sky. The sky was grey. Here I am. Riga the pilot. Only me up here. Free for a few hours that I have fuel for. On patrol looking for enemy planes. Their bombers are dangerous, their spy planes more so. Yet they or the war take nothing away of the beauty up here. Look at the sunbeams flashing through the clouds there. It’s like the sky is alive. So very pretty. Only I see it. Pedro would like this. Oh! Where are you now Pedro? I am sorry for banishing you from my life…

  

Just then Riga’s engine stopped. The roaring noise ceased. Silence. Fucking Hell! The oil pressure immediately dropped to zero. She small gal was snapped from her reverie. Her hands and mind were quick. She feathered the prop and stilled the wind milling blades. She extended her flaps and switched the engine off. Monitored the displays and gauges. Then she checked her location and height. Next, she radioed base.

 

“This is Riga. I am on patrol in Quadrant 3. I have an emergency! Inflight engine failure. Oil pressure is zero. I cannot maintain flight or height. I will attempt to force land. Am sending my co-ordinates now. I need to find a landing place. I am declaring a Mayday. Standby for co-ords…”

 

“Base Control acknowledges. We hear you Riga. We see you on radar and will send the rescue chopper. Get down safely. Radio back if you get down ok. Happy landings! Base out.”

 

Riga adjusted her seat straps. They were tight. As was her helmet strap. She lifted up the tinted visor and lowered the clear visor. She fiddled with her glasses. Excellent vision was needed now. Her eyes scanned the terrain twelve thousand feet below. It was flat and semi-desert. This part of China was big. She reversed course and glided in the direction of her base. How far was it? There was no way an engineless plane would reach it. If she landed well and they sent mechanics maybe, just maybe she could fly out again. Maybe. The next few minutes would tell. Her third forced landing. She thought of Pedro. How to get him back.

 

 

He Fell Between Two Peaks

 

He Fell Between Two Peaks

A long time ago in Norway in World War 2 an event happened that spanned decades and brought two men together as brothers. A British four engine heavy bomber was out bombing German targets in the occupied country. The mission details were not known. What is known is what happened to the warplane. German gunfire accurately hit it. Mortal damage was done. Flames erupted from two or three engines and the burning aeroplane plunged down. Men would die in a situation like that. Young men in the early twenties fighting for freedom and the Allied side. Trying to defeat the Nazis, a tenacious capable lethal enemy.

 

Such an example was the hitting of the English bomber. It was dangerous to fly at low or medium altitudes in daylight. Enemy gun crews well trained and motivated manned all types of anti-aircraft guns. Their flak was a killer. The aircraft flew level losing altitude the fire getting worse. It had to land soon or control would be lost and any still alive would perish. The pilot flew the plane. This was a wild mountainous area with fjords, coastline, high ground and trees. Where could such a plane force land?

 

A local man watched the surreal scene. A large burning bomber falling from the sky. It flew between two mountain peaks. Without hitting either if crash landed beneath them. The plane touched the ground in tearing ripping screeching metal. Pieces were ripped off. The fire got worse and soon would explode the fuel tanks. The young Norwegian mountain man saw his chance.

 

As the plane came to a halt he ran to it. Risking an explosion he closed in on the wreckage. Orange flames blossomed forth feeding on alloy rubber bullets and flesh. Black smoke lazily wafted up. The man was desperate to free any trapped or wounded crew. It was the major mission of his life. Not enduring an enemy occupation but here and now. Trying to do the impossible. The fuel could go up any second.

 

By the luck of the Devil he rescued one shaken dazed but aware Allied flier who survived the crash. Quickly with both their lives in danger he led the airman away. They made it! Shortly after the smashed bomber plane exploded completely destroying itself.

 

The two men had a language issue. They were similar ages in their twenties. If it weren't for the war they wouldn't have met. Hitler changed all that and here they were. The man took the downed flier to a safe house. Here he was fed and given new clothes and a fake identity. Over the weeks he was smuggled out of Norway.

 

That wasn't the end of the story. The shoot down happened in 1944. Sixty years later on a beautiful summer's day they met again. The Norwegian rescuer and the crashed British airman. Saved by a local hero who dared brave a burning warplane to rescue any survivors. The Allied flier again thanked the Norwegian man. With tears in their eyes they shook hands and remember what happened here sixty years ago to the day.

 

A crippled burning bomber fell between to peaks. One man was saved that day. Six others paid the ultimate price for freedom against fascism. Rest In Peace the dead. Remember their sacrifice. They were young men with dreams and ideals. Often foolish often dreaming the dreams of the young.

 

So many gave their lives for an idea and cause. In this they believed and however they died they are not forgotten. That day young individuals from Norway and Britain were brought unforgettably together.

 

 

 

 

 

KAHLIA AKASHA ISFAHAN NUCLEAR STRIKE

 

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 under fuselage cannon to house the bomb semi-recessed, new computer software to allow blind bombing at night/bad weather linked to the autopilot, four practice 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...