I've had this idea on the back burner of my head since about 2006, and it's only about now that I've got around to writing some of it. Hopefully, there'll be enough interest to stimulate me on further.
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For those who served in the Strategic Air Command and their families.
Peace Was Their Profession
1946 - 1992
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Mace Six Zero Chapter One - The Center Cannot Hold
Tehran, Iran
November 4, 1979, 5:00 AM Local Time
As the pale light of dawn slowly began to creep across the sleeping metropolis of Tehran, hurried discussions were taking place all across the city between the various Revolutionary groups, as they finalized their plans for the day to come. On the grounds of Tarbiat Modarres University, the leaders of one such group were finalizing their plans.
“Is everything in readiness?” asked the leader of the group in between drags on the cigarette he was smoking to ease his tension. Since getting up an hour and a half ago, he'd already gone through two packs.
“Yes Mahmoud. The weapons have been distributed, along with photographs of the top officials of the Lesser Satan.”
“Excellent work, Ali. What of the strike on the Greater Satan?”
“They're not telling us much, but we do know that final preparations are underway.”
“Good.”
The British Embassy Compound, Tehran, Iran
November 4, 1979, 7:00 AM Local Time
Sir Dan Ofer watched the crowd milling about the entrance to the Soviet Embassy across the street. The protesters had arrived a half an hour ago, and more were arriving by the minute as buses drove up and deposited their loads. “What do those bloody fools think they're doing?” he muttered as he watched a slight altercation between what appeared to be a female protester clothed in traditional Muslim garb, and the hard-faced Soviet guards at the gate.
The woman (at least he thought it was a woman, you couldn't tell with those robes) suddenly fell to the ground, clutching her head in obvious pain, as one of the Soviet guards brought his AK-74 back to arms after clubbing her over the head with it.
On the ground below, Junior Sergeant Andrei Grigorev muttered darkly under his breath. Damned fanatics, he thought. The woman had tried to cut the lock on the gates to the Embassy compound with a pair of bolt cutters that she had concealed under her flowing traditional robes.
“Signal the other guards to be on heightened alert. The blackasses might try something,” he ordered.
Moments later, a shot rang out and riocheted off the ground in front of him. Instinctively, he and his group of soldiers dropped back and fell into defensive postures, their weapons at the ready. The crowd took this movement backwards to be a sign of weakness and surged forward, shouting curses in Farsi as they did so.
A series of sharp stuttering cracks rang out, and several protesters crumpled to the ground, who died under a crush of feet as the crowd surged forward even more, maddened by the sound of gunfire.
Unlike the US Marine guards at the American Embassy across town at that same hour, the Soviets weren't going to give up without a fight.
“My God,” muttered Ofer as he watched full scale war erupt at the gates of the Soviet Embassy, with grenades being thrown and machineguns opening up. Reaching for his desk, he grabbed the phone. “Get me London.” he cried to the woman manning the Embassy's switchboard.
Across the street, the noises of battle increased by the minute as more “protesters” joined battle with the elite of the Soviet Military.
Nebit Dag PVO Airfield
Turkestan Military District
1:15 PM Local Time
The MiG-21SMT Fishbed-K's of the xxx IAP taxied on the runway, each one carrying a pair of drop tanks on the inboard pair of hardpoints and a mixture of air-to-air and air-to-ground munitions on the two outer hardpoints. It would be tricky, but with the extra fuel in the SMT version, and the drop tanks, they would be able to make the roughly five hundred kilometer journey to Tehran and back with a margin to spare.
A few hours ago, the Regiment had received orders from STAVKA to prepare for airstrikes on targets in Tehran itself, in support of the survivors in the Embassy. The ground crews had worked hard throughout the morning to prepare the aircraft of the Regiment for combat, and now as each plane roared down the runway, the ground crews crumpled down to rest wherever they could find shade, and began the unenviable task of waiting.
The White House
Washington, DC
8:30 AM Washington Time, 5:00 PM Tehran Time
“Mister President, things have moved a lot since our last meeting,” began John Pavlik, the unfortunate soul who had the bad luck to be on duty at the CIA's Iranian desk when things had begun to go pear-shaped earlier that morning. Despite having a quick shave before beginning his second briefing of the day, the strain as well as lack of sleep was showing in the bags under his eyes.
“The Soviet embassy has fallen, despite attempts to provide air support from units based in the Turkmen SSR. We're still trying to figure out what's been going on over there, but reports from that region are very confusing. What we do know is that losses were taken on both sides by the Soviet Air Force and the Iranian Air Force.”
“Any chance this will remain limited?” asked James Earle Carter, 39th President of the United States.
“No sir. Our intelligence assets, both electronic and human, in the Soviet Union show that a very large mobilization is taking place, the 40th Army in the Turkestan Military District has been alerted and all the communications links in Tashkent are lighting up like a Christmas tree. We're picking up bits and pieces elsewhere that the Soviets are indeed mobilizing a full Airborne Corps for intervention in Iran.”
“What about our embassy? What's the latest?” asked Cyrus Vance, Secretary of State.
“Grim,” replied Milenky. “Most of the embassy grounds have been overrun, we don't know how our people are doing, rumors are flying around about executions of our people. What little we do know is from the secure communications section there, which is still sending out reports, despite the best the Iranians are doing to get into the place.”
Carter groaned and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. “Hamilton,” he said, summoning his Chief of Staff. “Get me the heads of the news networks, and tell them that I'm holding a conference at noon.”
Wurtsmith Air Force Base
Oscoda, Michigan
12:05 PM Eastern
“The Molehole”, as those who lived in it briefly each week called it, sat on the northern end of the great airbase named for Paul Wurtsmith, who had died in a B-25 Mitchell crash in North Carolina back in 1946. Outside, nine B-52G Stratofortresses sat perched on concrete aprons, their bellies heavy with Armageddon, guarded by grim-faced Air Force Security Policemen.
Inside the windowless bunker, the crews assigned to the bombers passed their one-week alert duties through various methods. Thus it was that Major Michael J. Kozlowski was about to take home the jackpot in an unsanctioned poker game when the word that the President would be holding a news conference swept through the building, causing everyone to drop what they were doing and huddle around the television sets, leaving Kozlowski staring at the jackpot he had been within moments of winning.
“Life just isn't fair.” he moaned to no one in particular.
“Quiet, Ski, the President's speaking!” shouted the co-pilot of another bomber.
“Says the guy who wasn't about to win a house payment or two.”
Turning to the screen, he saw the traditional setting of the Oval Office, with the President sitting behind his desk, a grim look on his face.
“My fellow Americans, I have grave news today for you. Both the American and Soviet Embassies in Tehran have been attacked by armed mobs under the orders of the so-called 'Revolutionaries' in Iran. The last confirmed message from the communications section of the Embassy, which fell two hours ago, tells a grim tale of our people being executed for baseless reasons, which I will not dignify by repeating them here. The Soviet Union has suffered as well, yet their response is not that of one who desires peace. They have attacked Iranian territory and bombed Tehran itself; and begun large-scale mobilization of military assets in the region.”
“The region now under threat from Soviet troops is of great strategic importance. It contains more than two thirds of the world's exportable oil, and any successful invasion would put Soviet troops astride the Straits of Hormuz, the waterway through which most of the world's oil must flow.”
“The position of the United States is absolutely clear. Any attempt by an outside force to gain control of the Persian Gulf region will be regarded as an assault on the vital interests of the United States of America, and such an assault will be repelled by any means necessary, including military force.”
“Thank you, and God bless America.”
“Holy shit,” muttered someone in the crowd. “Does this mean we'll be at war with Commies if they go into Iran?”
“Looks like it,” replied Kozlowski. “I suggest you get out anything you can find on Iran and start studying.”
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