The SA--7 missile is one digit higher than the SA--6, but that doesn't make it more advanced—they're weapons of entirely different classes.
The SA--6 is a medium-range surface-to-air missile, over five metres long and with a reach of twenty-five kilometres. The SA--7 is a shoulder-fired, short-range missile barely a metre long, with a four-kilometre reach for individual air defence.
The instant Zhang Feng saw that SA--7 crate, he was elated—now the other side would finally taste some pain!
The missile's combat record is impressive. In August 1969, the SA--7 debuted in Egypt along the Suez Canal, downing six Israeli aircraft in a single engagement. During the fourth Arab–Israeli war, Egypt and Syria used eight-round self-propelled SA--7 launchers to maul Israeli low-level aircraft and helicopters; within a week the Israelis had lost seventy-eight planes, giving the Arab forces the upper hand at the war's opening.
But why the hell didn't that bastard Wahrih tell me they had these?
"Wahrih!" Zhang Feng shouted.
"Yes, my lord Qusay." Wahrih ran up drenched in sweat; an anti-aircraft gun had jammed and he'd been frantically repairing it.
"You've got SA--7s—why didn't you report it?"
"My lord, only the missile battalion crews know how to fire them, and they're not here. None of us are trained." Wahrih looked utterly innocent.
Clearly Iraqi training is too narrow—everyone should be able to use these. Even terrorists will handle them later; back in '03 one brought down an Airbus, opening the era of attacks on civilian aircraft.
Zhang Feng stared at the missiles in disappointment, kept two for himself, and ordered the rest back onto the trucks.
He tore open a crate and set to work: connect the thermal battery, power-on self-test, hook up the gas bottle, check the pressure—if the round fails to eject he'll be the one blown sky-high.
Wahrih gaped. "My lord Qusay, you can actually operate this thing?"
"I've even been inside a nuclear submarine—this little shoulder-fired toy is nothing," Zhang Feng muttered, head down.
Sustained ultra-low flying is the moment that tests a pilot's endurance to its limit.
Right now terrain-following flight-control systems haven't been invented; otherwise, with an external nav/terrain-match pod and fly-by-wire, the computer could fly the mission itself.
Raz glanced at the clock: 17:10—they were already inside Iraqi airspace.
Behind him, three f－16s and his own aircraft formed a falcon-shaped flight, skimming the desert at speed. Farther back, another four f－16s under Nahumi's lead flew as the second element, hugging the ground so low it seemed they were ploughing it.
Thirty metres above the deck at 0.8 Mach—this was dancing with death.
With drop-tanks jettisoned they held 0.8 Mach without afterburner; light the burners and they'd break the sound-barrier down low, the sonic boom collapsing houses in their path.
The third wave—six F-15s—would soon climb to seize air superiority.
The timing was chosen with care: nearby Iraqi bases were sitting down to dinner, at their most relaxed, and after the strike the return flight could hide in gathering dusk.
Raz looked at the load under his wings: a pair of Mk84 907-kg bombs—unguided iron, but at nearly a tonne each, dropped from a kilometre up they would punch through the reactor's steel dome; the delay fuze would detonate them deep inside, ruining the core. It is the heaviest bomb any fighter can carry, and after a year of drills every pilot in the squadron can plant one squarely on the dome.
Another plus: once released, the aircraft can climb and sprint away. Laser-guided weapons would require constant designation—more exposure, more risk.
With one of those monsters under each wing the jet wallows; after release it will feel like a true Fighting Falcon again.
On each wingtip rail an AIM-9L Sidewinder waits for self-defence.
Encountering enemy fighters is unlikely; so far the Iraqi air-defence net hasn't noticed them. Imagine the brilliant bloom they'll soon gift Saddam—what a shock that will be on the old man's face.
In minutes the third wave's six f－15s will roar upward to snatch air supremacy, ready to splash any Iraqi fighter that dares launch, covering the strike force.
The F-15 is a pure air-superiority fighter. Twin F100-PW-100 turbofans give a thrust-to-weight above unity; the jet can stand on its tail and climb straight up, acrobatic and effortless. For combat it carries four AIM-7F Sparrows, two AIM-9L Sidewinders, plus an ALQ-119 jamming pod—taking apart Iraqi MiG-21s and MiG-23s is child's play.
Colonel Bahari, flying his F-15, checked the nav display: forty kilometres west of Baghdad—exactly on station.
"F-15 squadron, begin climb," Bahari broke radio silence.
He slammed the throttles into afterburner and hauled the stick back.
The crushing push into the seat returned; the fighter, a roused beast, speared skyward.
While climbing, the six f－15s split into three pairs, radars on, heading for their assigned intercept points.
Element one covers Habbaniya (Tammuz) and Al-Taqaddum; element two, Al-Muthanna and Al-Rashid around Baghdad; element three patrols near Salman Pak. All three bases host Iraqi fighter squadrons—the greatest threat to the strike package.
"My lord Qusay, aircraft!" Wahrih warned.
"Ignore them—those are F-15 air-superiority fighters. Our prey is the F-16," Zhang Feng said coolly. "Pass the word: stay alert, no one fires early. Give away our position and you'll answer to martial law."
The f－16s lug nearly a tonne of bombs each—lethal to the reactor. The worst an F-15 carries are Sparrow AAMs; knock out the f－16s and the f－15s will have to go home empty-handed.
With the escorts now climbing to cover the arena, the bomb-laden f－16s can't be far behind.
The f－15s lit afterburner to sprint here; the f－16s, heavy with bombs and hugging dense low-level air, are slower—only minutes away now.
Zhang Feng felt a surge of excitement; the warrior inside him was awakening. The blood still runs hot.