17

 

The Gulf of Oman

South of Chabahar, Iran

Captain Bingham stood on the deck of the USS McCain and watched the plane take off from the supercarrier group he was assigned to. It was a magnificent sight to behold—the navy’s first-ever stealth fighter. Some day, he thought, I’ll have control of a ship with one of those to call on.

The pilot of the F-35 C Lightning II was out over the water and supersonic so swiftly that Captain Bingham had trouble keeping his eyes on it as it made the climb up and over Iran’s southern coastline. It was headed north, inland, toward Zahedan.

Captain Bingham knew the pilot’s mission. Yet what no one in the supercarrier group knew just yet was whether he’d be given the ability to fire once he’d reached his target.

The navy’s version of the F-35 stealth fighter had gone operational only in the past six months. As of yet, there were only a half dozen in service. This was the sole F-35 navy stealth fighter assigned to the Persian Gulf region.

A fifth-generation stealth fighter, the plane would have little trouble reaching Zahedan. Iran had no ability to track or fire on this plane, Captain Bingham knew. He just wished he could see it in action.

The F-35 pilot maintained radio silence for the flight of two hundred miles or so between the supercarrier group and Zahedan. There was no need to communicate anyway. This was an easy mission. The X37B was providing every conceivable piece of coordinate data he could possibly need.

While he knew there was virtually no way Iran’s antiquated airdefense system could track him, he still kept an eye out for possible threats as he sped across Iran’s countryside. None emerged. He was south of the city of Zahedan in a matter of minutes.

He took a hard right to buy some time and began a lazy arc to serve as a holding pattern. He wanted to make sure he didn’t fly too close to the city.

He turned his mike on. “I’ve arrived at the destination. I’m ready for orders.”

“Coming shortly,” the answer came back an instant later. “Hold for now.”

“I’ll make a pass, and then circle back.”

“Roger that. Keep the line open. We’ll have your orders momentarily.”

The F-35 stealth pilot—the first in the navy’s history—continued a long, slow loop. He arrived back at the target area a minute later. He armed his missiles to be sure he was ready.

“Is the target painted yet?” he asked.

“Not yet. Hold.”

“Roger. But weapons are going hot. I’m waiting on your command.”

The pilot wasn’t sure whether he’d be firing at a car or a house. But in either case, he’d be ready. He’d prepared for a mission like this his entire career. Very few of his fellow fleet pilots even knew where he was and who they were going after. If he succeeded—and there was no doubt whatsoever in his mind that he would succeed—they’d learn soon enough.

As he worked the plane north again, toward the city, he took several deep breaths and steadied himself. He was ready. The southern edge of the city was starting to come into view. He checked the console. The weapons were hot. Two targets, both the car and the house, had been painted. He only needed confirmation of his orders.

“Stand down,” the voice came across. “The orders just came through. We won’t be firing on the target today.”

The pilot looked down, his face a grim mask. He could not believe what he was hearing. “I want to make sure I heard that right.”

“Yes, you heard it right. Stand down. You are to return to the group. We will not be going after that target today.”

“You’re serious?” the pilot asked, frustrated. “We’re going to let him go? Just like that?”

“You have your orders. Stand down, and turn back.”

The pilot knew better than to ask why over essentially open airwaves. He could not see any possible explanation for it. But he had his orders. He took a hard left and headed back south toward the carrier group. He wondered if he’d ever be given an explanation.