Operation Caspian Shield
Scenario Name: Operation Caspian Shield
Time and Date: August 22, 1968, 01:00:00 (Zulu)
Friendly Forces:
Primary Country/Coalition: Soviet Union
Bases of Operation:
Airbase: Mozdok Air Base, North Ossetian ASSR, Soviet Union (43.7836° N, 44.5883° E)
Order of Battle:
Aircraft:
4x 3M 'Bison-B' Strategic Bombers
Loadout (per aircraft): 52x FAB-250M-54 GPB 1
Home Base: Mozdok Air Base
Adversarial Forces:
Primary Country/Coalition: Imperial State of Iran
Bases of Operation:
Airbase: Vahdati Air Base (Dezful), Iran (32.4339° N, 48.3992° E)
Military Installation: Unnamed training and logistics camp near Ahvaz, Iran.
Order of Battle (Known and Suspected):
Ground-Based Threats:
Integrated Air Defense Systems (IADS):
MIM-23 Hawk SAM Site: vicinity of Vahdati Air Base (approx. 32.43° N, 48.40° E)
ZSU-23-4 Shilka SPAAGs: Expected to be defending key points around the target area.
Early Warning Radars:
AN/TPS-43 Radar Site: Likely providing long-range surveillance near the Iran-Iraq border, west of the target area (approx. 32.5° N, 47.8° E).
Aircraft:
F-4D Phantom II: A squadron is known to be based at Vahdati Air Base.
F-5A/B Freedom Fighter: Potentially operating from Vahdati Air Base or other nearby airfields.
Mission & Objectives:
Geopolitical Situation:
Following the Soviet-led invasion of Czechoslovakia to crush the "Prague Spring," tensions between the Warsaw Pact and NATO are at an all-time high. In a show of support for the West and to apply pressure on the Soviet Union's southern flank, the Shah of Iran has allowed the United States to covertly establish a logistics and training camp for anti-Soviet mujahideen groups. Intelligence gathered by the KGB has pinpointed the location of this large camp near the city of Ahvaz. The facility is being used to funnel arms and train insurgents for operations in Soviet Central Asia. Soviet leadership has decided that a swift and decisive conventional strike is necessary to eliminate this threat before it can fully mature. A squadron of 3M 'Bison-B' bombers has been tasked with executing a large-scale night raid to obliterate the facility.Friendly Mission:
Your mission is to command a flight of four 3M 'Bison-B' bombers on a nighttime raid to destroy the covert insurgent training camp near Ahvaz, Iran. You will need to navigate through potential Iranian air defenses, deliver your payload accurately, and return to base. The objective is to inflict maximum damage on the camp infrastructure and personnel, sending a clear message against interference in Soviet affairs.Success Criteria:
Primary Objective: Destroy at least 80% of the buildings and structures at the insurgent training camp located at coordinates 31.3250° N, 48.6750° E.
Secondary Objective: Avoid engaging Iranian Air Force interceptors unless absolutely necessary for self-defense.
Constraint: Do not lose more than one 'Bison-B' bomber.
Constraint: Minimize collateral damage to the city of Ahvaz. All weapons must be delivered within the designated target perimeter.
Operation Caspian Shield: Probability Assessment
Scenario Summary
Mission: Four Soviet 3M 'Bison-B' bombers conduct a night raid from Mozdok Air Base to destroy a covert insurgent training camp near Ahvaz, Iran.
Objectives:
Destroy at least 80% of the camp’s structures.
Avoid engaging Iranian interceptors unless in self-defense.
Do not lose more than one bomber.
Minimize collateral damage to Ahvaz.
Key Threats and Mission Factors
1. Early Detection and Air Defense
AN/TPS-43 radar provides long-range surveillance, likely detecting the bomber formation as it approaches Iranian airspace.
MIM-23 Hawk SAM site near Vahdati Air Base covers the approach to the target, with a 40 km engagement range and high effectiveness against high-altitude bombers.
ZSU-23-4 Shilka SPAAGs defend the immediate target area, posing a threat if bombers descend to lower altitudes for accuracy.
2. Interceptor Threat
F-4D Phantom II and F-5A/B Freedom Fighters are capable of rapid scramble and interception, especially if the bombers are detected early.
Nighttime conditions and the lack of advanced Iranian GCI in 1968 reduce, but do not eliminate, the risk of successful interception.
3. Bombing Accuracy and Collateral Damage
FAB-250M-54 bombs are unguided; high-altitude release increases survivability but reduces accuracy.
Achieving 80% destruction of a dispersed camp is challenging, especially while strictly avoiding collateral damage to Ahvaz.
4. Bomber Survivability
The main risks are from Hawk SAMs and interceptors. Defensive guns are largely ineffective against modern fighters and SAMs.
Night operations and electronic countermeasures (if equipped) provide some mitigation.
Probability Breakdown
Combined Full Mission Success
Probability of achieving all objectives:
0.65×0.55×0.65×0.70×0.80≈0.130.65 \times 0.55 \times 0.65 \times 0.70 \times 0.80 \approx 0.130.65×0.55×0.65×0.70×0.80≈0.13 (~13%)
Partial Success
Probability of destroying the camp but losing two bombers or causing minor collateral damage:
~35%
Failure
Probability of failing to destroy the camp, losing more than one bomber, or causing significant collateral damage:
~52%
Summary Table
Key Points
Most likely outcome: The bomber force reaches the target, but faces significant risk from Hawk SAMs and interceptors. Achieving 80% destruction with minimal collateral damage is challenging due to bomb accuracy and the need to avoid Ahvaz.
Greatest risks: Early detection, effective SAM engagement, and the difficulty of precise night bombing.
Best practices for success:
Maintain strict formation and electronic discipline.
Time the approach to exploit any gaps in radar or interceptor coverage.
Prioritize accurate bomb delivery within the target perimeter.
In summary:
Odds of full mission success: ~13%
Odds of partial success: ~35%
Odds of failure: ~52%
Operation Caspian Shield is a high-risk, moderate-reward strike, with the main threats being early detection, modern air defenses, and the challenge of precision bombing under strict constraints.
The Mission Commander
Name: Dmitri Fyodorovich Volkov
Callsign/Codename: Medved 1-1 (Bear 1-1)
Age: 41
Nationality: Russian, Soviet Union
Affiliation: Soviet Air Forces, Long-Range Aviation
Rank/Position: Lieutenant Colonel, Bomber Regiment Deputy Commander / Lead Pilot
Assigned Unit & Location: 362nd Heavy Bomber Aviation Regiment, Mozdok Air Base
Physical Description: A man of medium height with a solid, compact build. His face is weathered from countless hours at high altitude, with deep-set grey eyes that are accustomed to scanning instrument panels and night skies. His movements are economical and precise, betraying no excess energy.
Psychological Profile: Volkov is the archetypal Soviet officer: stoic, disciplined, and utterly devoted to the Motherland. He views the mission not with fear, but with a sense of grim necessity. He trusts his crew and his machine but harbors a professional skepticism for the overly optimistic intelligence provided by the KGB. His primary internal conflict is the immense responsibility for the lives of the 39 men under his aerial command, weighed against the strategic imperative of the mission. He is a pragmatist who understands the 52% failure probability better than the political officers.
Role-Specific Skills: Master of the 3M 'Bison-B' with over 2,000 hours in type. Expert in long-range, high-altitude navigation and formation flying under radio silence. Proficient in executing complex bombing patterns under pressure.
Background Summary: A veteran of the post-war Soviet aviation buildup, Volkov's father was a pilot killed during the Great Patriotic War. This legacy drives him. He has spent his entire adult life in the cockpit of strategic bombers, viewing them as the essential shield of the Soviet Union. He was selected to lead this mission for his steady nerve and flawless record during high-stakes readiness exercises.
The Ground Controller
Name: Kian Parsa
Callsign/Codename: Shahbaz Control
Age: 28
Nationality: Iranian
Affiliation: Imperial Iranian Air Force
Rank/Position: Captain, Ground-Controlled Intercept (GCI) Officer
Assigned Unit & Location: AN/TPS-43 Radar Site, west of Ahvaz
Physical Description: Tall and lean, with sharp, intelligent features and meticulously groomed hair. He wears his American-style uniform with pride. His eyes are constantly in motion, darting between the radar scope, tote boards, and the tele-talk lines.
Psychological Profile: Ambitious, sharp, and a fervent nationalist loyal to the Shah. Kian was educated in the United States and feels a mixture of admiration for American technology and a fierce desire to prove Iranian self-sufficiency. He sees the Soviet Union as a looming threat and this incursion as a personal affront. He is frustrated by the technical limitations of his equipment and the slower reaction times of his superiors, creating a conflict between his desire for decisive action and the rigid chain of command.
Role-Specific Skills: Proficient in interpreting raw data from the AN/TPS-43 long-range radar. Skilled at vectoring interceptors under high-stress conditions. Fluent in both Persian and English, allowing seamless communication with both Iranian pilots and US advisors.
Background Summary: The son of a diplomat, Kian chose a military career to be at the forefront of modernizing Iran. He was part of the first cohort of Iranian officers trained on advanced American radar systems. He believes that a strong, technologically superior military is the only thing protecting Iran from its aggressive northern neighbor.
The American Advisor
Name: Michael "Mike" Thorne
Callsign/Codename: "Argus"
Age: 35
Nationality: American
Affiliation: Central Intelligence Agency, Special Activities Division
Rank/Position: Case Officer / Paramilitary Advisor
Assigned Unit & Location: Unnamed training camp near Ahvaz, Iran
Physical Description: Nondescript build, with sandy hair and a complexion that has been baked by the sun. He has the easy-going posture of a civilian contractor, but his eyes are cold, watchful, and miss nothing. He is never more than an arm's length from a concealed Browning Hi-Power.
Psychological Profile: A hardened Cold Warrior, Thorne is cynical, resourceful, and mission-obsessed. He views the mujahideen not as allies, but as assets—tools to bleed the Soviets in their "soft underbelly." He is furious that his operation, a key piece of the Agency's strategy to pressure Moscow, is about to be wiped out due to what he perceives as a catastrophic intelligence leak. His conflict is between his instinct to evacuate and save his assets (including himself) and his orders to maintain a low profile and observe, gathering intelligence on Soviet tactics.
Role-Specific Skills: Expert in covert communications, unconventional warfare, and explosives. Fluent in Farsi and conversational in several Pashto dialects. Highly proficient in small arms and fieldcraft.
Background Summary: A former Green Beret with two tours in Vietnam, Thorne was recruited by the CIA for his field experience and linguistic skills. He has spent the last three years in the Middle East building networks and running deniable operations. The Ahvaz camp is his brainchild, and its imminent destruction feels like a personal failure.
The SAM Commander
Name: Major Parviz Amin
Callsign/Codename: N/A
Age: 45
Nationality: Iranian
Affiliation: Imperial Iranian Air Defense Forces
Rank/Position: Major, SAM Battery Commander
Assigned Unit & Location: MIM-23 Hawk SAM Site, vicinity of Vahdati Air Base
Physical Description: Stocky, with a thick mustache and a permanent scowl etched onto his face. He carries himself with the stiff authority of an old-school artilleryman, uncomfortable with the new American systems he has been forced to learn.
Psychological Profile: Cautious, methodical, and deeply skeptical of new technology. Major Amin trusts manual calculations and visual confirmation over the flickering symbols on a radar screen. He is under immense pressure from Tehran to protect the Vahdati airbase, a key strategic asset. His internal conflict stems from his lack of faith in the Hawk system's reliability against a determined, high-altitude bomber attack at night, versus the career-ending consequences of failing to engage and destroy the enemy.
Role-Specific Skills: Veteran of artillery command. Proficient in the operational doctrine of the MIM-23 Hawk system, though he struggles with its technical nuances. Expert in site defense and camouflage.
Background Summary: Amin began his career in the Shah's army as an anti-aircraft gunner. He has seen the technology change from World War II-era flak cannons to modern surface-to-air missiles. He was given command of the Hawk battery due to his seniority, not his technical acumen, a fact that makes him and his younger, better-trained subordinates nervous.
The Phantom Pilot
Name: Captain Farhad "Frank" Rostami
Callsign/Codename: "Spitfire 1"
Age: 26
Nationality: Iranian
Affiliation: Imperial Iranian Air Force
Rank/Position: Pilot, Flight Lead
Assigned Unit & Location: 71st Fighter Squadron, Vahdati Air Base
Physical Description: Wiry and energetic, with a cocky grin and restless eyes. He moves with the swagger of a fighter pilot, even on the ground.
Psychological Profile: Aggressive, confident, and a superb natural pilot. Rostami loves the power and speed of his F-4D Phantom and is spoiling for a real fight. He views the Soviet bombers as clumsy relics and is certain he can shoot them down. His defining conflict is his impatience with his GCI controller's caution and his burning desire to be the first IIAF pilot to score a kill against a Soviet strategic bomber. This overconfidence is both his greatest asset and his most dangerous flaw.
Role-Specific Skills: Expert in the F-4D Phantom II, particularly in air-to-air interception. Highly skilled in night flying and instrument meteorological conditions (IMC). Proficient with the AIM-7 Sparrow and AIM-9 Sidewinder missile systems.
Background Summary: Born into a wealthy Tehran family, Rostami was drawn to the glamour and prestige of being a fighter pilot. He excelled during his training in the United States, earning the respect of his American instructors for his raw talent. He sees himself as a modern-day knight, defending the Persian sky in a chariot of steel.
The Bison Navigator
Name: Senior Lieutenant Pavel Morozov
Callsign/Codename: N/A
Age: 27
Nationality: Ukrainian, Soviet Union
Affiliation: Soviet Air Forces, Long-Range Aviation
Rank/Position: Navigator-Bombardier
Assigned Unit & Location: 362nd Heavy Bomber Aviation Regiment, Mozdok Air Base (Aboard Medved 1-1)
Physical Description: Thin and cerebral, with pale skin from hours spent in dimly lit cabins. He wears thick glasses and has ink stains on his fingers. He is perpetually hunched over his charts and navigation computer.
Psychological Profile: Meticulous, intellectual, and prone to anxiety. Morozov feels the weight of the mission more acutely than anyone. A single miscalculation in his celestial navigation, dead reckoning, or Doppler radar input could lead the entire formation astray or cause them to miss the narrow target window. He trusts his math more than anything. His internal conflict is a battle between his crushing anxiety about the mission's high-risk profile and his intense professional focus on the complex sequence of calculations required to place 52 unguided bombs on target from 11,000 meters.
Role-Specific Skills: Master of celestial navigation, Doppler navigation systems, and optical bombsights. Capable of performing complex fuel and drift calculations under extreme stress.
Background Summary: A graduate of the Chelyabinsk Red Banner Military Aviation Institute of Navigators, Morozov was a star pupil. He was drawn to the mathematical purity of navigation. This is his first live combat mission, and the theoretical exercises of the classroom are now a terrifying reality.
The KGB Overseer
Name: Viktor Grigoriyevich Chebrikov
Callsign/Codename: "The Delegate"
Age: 52
Nationality: Russian, Soviet Union
Affiliation: Committee for State Security (KGB), First Chief Directorate
Rank/Position: Colonel
Assigned Unit & Location: Attached to Mozdok Air Base for Operation Caspian Shield
Physical Description: An unremarkable man in a poorly fitting suit. Grey, thinning hair, and a soft, fleshy face. His eyes, however, are sharp and miss nothing. He seems to blend into the background, yet his presence commands a nervous deference from the uniformed military officers.
Psychological Profile: Patient, ruthless, and politically astute. Chebrikov is the embodiment of the KGB's power. He sees the mission not in military terms, but as a political instrument. Its success will validate his intelligence and strengthen his position within the Committee; its failure will be blamed squarely on the Air Force. He is not concerned with the lives of the aircrew, only the result. His conflict is managing the flow of information, ensuring Moscow receives a report that reflects favorably on the KGB, regardless of the actual outcome.
Role-Specific Skills: Expert in intelligence analysis, political manipulation, and inter-service maneuvering. Master of reading people and exploiting their weaknesses.
Background Summary: A career Chekist who rose through the ranks during Stalin's final years and navigated the subsequent power struggles. He was the officer who compiled and presented the definitive intelligence on the Ahvaz camp to the Politburo, personally vouching for its accuracy. The entire operation is, in essence, his creation.
The Mujahideen Leader
Name: Ahmad Shah Massoud Al-Badakhshi
Callsign/Codename: N/A
Age: 32
Nationality: Afghan Tajik
Affiliation: Jamiat-e Islami (Mujahideen Faction)
Rank/Position: Commander / Senior Trainee
Assigned Unit & Location: Unnamed training camp near Ahvaz, Iran
Physical Description: Tall, charismatic, with a piercing gaze and a thoughtful expression. He has the lean, hard look of a man who has spent his life in the mountains. He wears a traditional pakol cap.
Psychological Profile: A devout believer, a natural leader, and a budding strategist. He is in Iran to learn modern tactics and acquire the weapons he needs to fight the communists in his homeland. He is grateful for the American and Iranian support but deeply distrusts his patrons, viewing them as temporary allies of convenience. His conflict is between the need to absorb the training offered by the CIA's "Argus" and his suspicion that they are teaching him just enough to be a nuisance, not enough to truly win. He is more concerned with preserving his core group of fighters than the camp itself.
Role-Specific Skills: Natural guerrilla tactician. Charismatic leader, capable of inspiring fierce loyalty. Quick learner of new weapons systems.
Background Summary: A former engineering student, Ahmad left his studies to organize resistance against the growing communist influence in Afghanistan. His intelligence and charisma marked him as a future leader, and he was sent to the Iranian camp as part of the first wave of senior commanders to receive advanced training. He senses the camp's vulnerability and has already made contingency plans.
The Shilka Gunner
Name: Sergeant Reza Naderi
Callsign/Codename: N/A
Age: 19
Nationality: Iranian
Affiliation: Imperial Iranian Ground Forces, Air Defense Artillery
Rank/Position: Gunner, ZSU-23-4 Shilka SPAAG
Assigned Unit & Location: Air Defense Platoon, Ahvaz camp perimeter
Physical Description: Young and thin, with a face still holding adolescent softness. His eyes are wide and constantly scanning the night sky, a mixture of boredom and terror. He is dwarfed by the complex machinery of his Shilka.
Psychological Profile: Inexperienced, tired, and jumpy. Reza was conscripted a year ago and has no love for military life. He has been told for weeks that an attack is possible, and the constant alert status has frayed his nerves. His internal conflict is simple and primal: the terror of facing giant Soviet bombers against the fear of showing cowardice in front of his crew commander. He desperately wants to survive the night.
Role-Specific Skills: Trained on the ZSU-23-4's radar and 23mm cannons, but has never fired them at a live, hostile target.
Background Summary: The son of a farmer from a village near Ahvaz, Reza was drafted into the army. His decent math scores got him assigned to the "Shilka," a posting he neither understands nor wanted. He spends his nights on guard duty, staring into the dark and praying nothing comes out of it.
The Bison Electronic Warfare Officer
Name: Captain Leonid Brezhnev (no relation)
Callsign/Codename: N/A
Age: 31
Nationality: Belarusian, Soviet Union
Affiliation: Soviet Air Forces, Long-Range Aviation
Rank/Position: Electronic Warfare Officer (EWO)
Assigned Unit & Location: 362nd Heavy Bomber Aviation Regiment, Mozdok Air Base (Aboard Medved 1-1)
Physical Description: A man with a perpetually furrowed brow and intense, focused eyes. He has a nervous habit of tapping his fingers on his console. His corner of the bomber is a nest of wires and glowing dials.
Psychological Profile: Highly intelligent, technically brilliant, but deeply pessimistic. Leonid understands the capabilities of Western radar and missile technology better than anyone on the crew, and it terrifies him. He views the mission as a flight into a spider's web of sophisticated electronics he must counter with the blunter instruments of Soviet jamming pods. His conflict is a constant, high-stakes chess match against an unseen opponent, knowing that if his electronic countermeasures fail for even a few seconds, a Hawk missile will find them. He often shares his surname with a grim sense of irony.
Role-Specific Skills: Expert in the theory and application of Soviet electronic countermeasures (ECM) and electronic support measures (ESM). Proficient in identifying and classifying enemy radar emissions (AN/TPS-43, Hawk's CW illuminator).
Background Summary: A graduate of the Minsk Higher Engineering Radio-Technical School, Leonid was recruited into the Air Force for his exceptional understanding of radio frequencies and electronic systems. He is a new breed of airman, one whose battlefield is the electromagnetic spectrum. He believes the age of the high-altitude bomber is over, and this mission feels like a final, desperate charge from a bygone era.
22 AUGUST 1968
01:00 ZULU
MOZDOK AIR BASE, NORTH OSSETIAN ASSR, SOVIET UNION
The air at Mozdok tasted of jet fuel and damp Caucasian earth. It was a taste Lieutenant Colonel Dmitri Fyodorovich Volkov had known his entire adult life, but tonight it felt different. Thicker. It coated the back of his throat with the grime of impending violence. Four colossal machines, the Myasishchev 3M ‘Bison-B’ bombers of the 362nd Heavy Bomber Aviation Regiment, squatted on the hardened concrete under the harsh glare of portable floodlights. Their long, elegant wings drooped slightly, heavy with the fuel that would carry them deep into hostile territory. Their cavernous bomb bays were packed tight with fifty-two FAB-250 general-purpose bombs each, a total payload of over fifty metric tons of high explosives destined for a patch of Iranian desert that, until a week ago, had not officially existed.
Volkov stood beside the nose wheel of his aircraft, Medved 1-1, the lead bear. The rubber, taller than he was, smelled of ozone and immense pressure. At forty-one, he was a product of the post-war Soviet machine—solid, weathered, his grey eyes accustomed to judging distances in kilometers and threats in probabilities. He performed a final walk-around, his gloved hands tracing the aluminum skin of the fuselage. It was a ritual, a quiet communion with the beast that would either carry his ten-man crew to victory or entomb them in a fireball miles from home.
The geopolitical situation was, in the dry language of the General Staff, ‘complex.’ The Prague Spring had been crushed under the treads of Warsaw Pact tanks, and the world held its breath. NATO was on high alert, and this mission—Operation Caspian Shield—was the Kremlin’s answer to a new and insidious threat on its southern flank. The Shah of Iran, that strutting peacock in American-tailored uniforms, had allowed the CIA to set up a camp near Ahvaz. Not a simple listening post, but a full-blown logistics and training hub for the dushmany, the ghost-like insurgents being groomed to bleed the Soviet Union in Afghanistan and its Central Asian republics. The KGB’s First Chief Directorate had found it, and now Long-Range Aviation was being sent to erase it.
“All systems green, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel.” The voice of his co-pilot, Captain Orlov, crackled faintly from the small speaker wired to the ground crew’s comm-link.
Volkov grunted an affirmative. He didn’t need the confirmation. He could feel it in the hum of the ground power unit, in the disciplined quiet of his crew as they completed their final checks in the pressurized compartments above. What he felt, what none of the manuals could quantify, was the crushing weight of the odds. A briefing memo, authored by some faceless analyst in Moscow, had put the probability of complete mission success at a laughable 13 percent. The chance of failure—losing more than one bomber, failing to destroy the target, or sparking a wider conflict with Iran—was a stark 52 percent. It was a politician’s gamble, using his men as the stake.
He glanced towards the edge of the hardstand, where a black Volga sedan was parked, its engine off, its presence a cold weight on the proceedings. Inside sat Colonel Viktor Chebrikov of the Committee for State Security. “The Delegate.” Chebrikov was a man who moved through the world of uniforms and military hierarchy like a phantom, his soft hands and ill-fitting suit a jarring contrast to the raw power he wielded. He wasn’t there to wish them luck. He was an auditor of loyalty, a political commissar sent to ensure the Party’s will was executed without question. Earlier, as Volkov had left the final briefing, Chebrikov had intercepted him.
“A historic night, Lieutenant Colonel,” Chebrikov had said, his voice a dry rustle. “You will be delivering a message that will echo from Tehran to Washington.”
“My concern is delivering 208 bombs to the designated coordinates, Colonel,” Volkov had replied, his tone clipped.
Chebrikov’s eyes, small and intelligent, had narrowed slightly. “The Party has every confidence in your abilities. And in your resolve. Do not disappoint.” It was not an encouragement; it was a command, backed by the implied threat of a fall from grace, or worse.
Now, Volkov pushed the man from his mind and focused on his crew. Inside the cramped, dimly lit navigator’s station below the flight deck, Senior Lieutenant Pavel Morozov was sweating, though the cabin was cool. A thin, cerebral Ukrainian of twenty-seven, Morozov was a master of the celestial sphere and the arcane mathematics of dead reckoning. His station was a cathedral of dials, charts, and the green, Cyclopean eye of the RPBN-2 navigation radar. Ink stains smudged his fingertips. A single miscalculation, a degree of drift unaccounted for, and they would miss the target, dumping their payload on empty sand or, worse, on the outskirts of Ahvaz. This was his first live combat mission. The theoretical classroom exercises had evaporated, replaced by the terrifying certainty of the task ahead. He felt the 52 percent probability of failure like a physical sickness in his gut.
Further aft, in the isolated electronic warfare compartment, Captain Leonid Brezhnev monitored his consoles. No relation to the General Secretary—a fact he often delivered with a grim, ironic smile—Leonid was a new breed of airman. His battlefield was the electromagnetic spectrum. He was thirty-one, a brilliant but deeply pessimistic Belarusian who understood the capabilities of Western technology far better than the generals who sent him to fight it. To him, the mission was a flight into a spider’s web of American-made radar and British missiles. He had to defeat it with the blunter instruments of Soviet jamming pods, massive cylinders of raw power that screamed noise into the ether, hoping to blind the enemy long enough for them to slip through. He saw his powerful SPS-100 jammer not as a shield, but as a prayer.
Volkov took one last look at the sky, a star-dusted canvas of infinite black. He climbed the steep ladder into the fuselage, the clang of the metal hatch sealing him inside the machine. The world outside vanished, replaced by the familiar glow of the instrument panel.
“Medved 1-1 to formation,” he spoke into his throat mic, his voice calm, betraying none of the cold acid in his stomach. “Engine start sequence. On my mark.”
01:25 ZULU
AN/TPS-43 RADAR INSTALLATION, KHUZESTAN PROVINCE, IRAN
The night was a blanket of profound silence, broken only by the chirping of insects and the low, steady hum of diesel generators. From his chair inside the darkened, air-conditioned shelter, Captain Kian Parsa of the Imperial Iranian Air Force saw the world as a series of phosphorescent green lines and symbols painted on the circular glass of a radar scope. At twenty-eight, Parsa was the epitome of the Shah’s new military: sharp, ambitious, and American-trained. His uniform was crisp, his hair meticulously groomed, and his English as fluent as his native Farsi. He commanded this lonely outpost, an advanced AN/TPS-43 long-range surveillance radar planted in the desert west of Ahvaz, a silent sentinel watching the border with Iraq and the vast, threatening expanse of the Soviet Union beyond.
For three hours, the watch had been agonizingly dull. Sweeps of green light, painting the familiar clutter of the Zagros Mountains to the east and the flat plains to the west. Then, something changed.
“Sir, look here.” The voice of his subordinate, a young lieutenant, was hesitant. “On the northern sector. Azimuth zero-one-five.”
Kian leaned forward, his eyes tracing the path of the sweeping line. There. Four tiny blips, barely distinguishable from atmospheric noise. They were extremely high, at the absolute maximum range of the TPS-43, somewhere over the Caucasus. Most likely high-altitude weather phenomena. Or perhaps a civilian airliner off-course, though their flight path was unusual. He watched them for another full rotation. The blips remained. They were moving south, slowly, but with a discipline that weather did not possess.
“Give me a strobe on those contacts. Track-while-scan,” Kian ordered, his voice suddenly tight.
The operator’s fingers danced across the console. The computer-aided system, a marvel of American technology, assigned tracking numbers. The tote board flickered to life with raw data: Altitude: 40,000 feet plus. Speed: 490 knots. Formation: disciplined, rectangular.
This was not a civilian flight. Civilian jets didn’t fly in rigid formation.
A cold dread, mingled with a surge of adrenaline, washed over him. He had run this simulation a dozen times with his American advisors. This was the profile. This was the attack vector for Soviet Long-Range Aviation striking from bases like Mozdok.
“Get me Shahbaz Control on the horn,” he snapped, reaching for the secure tele-talk handset. “And wake up the Major at the Hawk battery. Now.”
His heart hammered against his ribs. He was the first line of defense. The first to see the bears coming out of their northern cave. For years, the Soviet Union had been a dark, monolithic threat on the horizon. Tonight, that threat had become four small green symbols on his radar screen. The question that burned in his mind was whether anyone would believe him before it was too late.
01:55 ZULU
SOMEWHERE OVER THE CASPIAN SEA
The four Bisons, designated Medved 1 through 4, flew in perfect, silent formation. The takeoff from Mozdok had been a masterpiece of controlled violence, each 200,000-kilogram bomber clawing its way into the night sky with the raw thrust of four Dobrynin VD-7 turbojets. Below them, the dark, churning waters of the Caspian Sea were an ink-blot stretching to the horizon. They were flying under strict EMCON—emissions control—conditions. No radio chatter. No active radar. They were four ghosts, navigating by the stars and the quiet genius of men like Pavel Morozov.
In the navigator’s bubble on Medved 1-1, Morozov worked under a single red bulb, his face a mask of concentration. He lowered the sextant from the overhead astrodome, quickly scribbling calculations on his pad. He cross-referenced the celestial fix with the data from his Doppler navigation system, a device that measured their drift by bouncing radar beams off the water below. Every few minutes, a quiet chime would sound, and he would make a minute course correction, feeding the information to Volkov on the flight deck. His hands were steady, a betrayal of the frantic terror in his heart. The Iranian coastline was less than an hour away.
“Navigator to Commander,” he whispered over the intercom, the protocol allowing for minimal internal communication. “Approaching Waypoint Four. Estimate Iranian coastline in forty-seven minutes. All tracks nominal.”
“Understood,” Volkov’s voice came back, a rock of calm in the vibrating fuselage.
Volkov stared ahead into the blackness. Flying the ‘Bison’ was a physical task. It was a pilot’s aircraft, demanding constant attention, with hydraulic controls that felt heavy and direct. The wings, spanning over fifty meters, felt like extensions of his own arms. He trusted this machine. It was honest, powerful, and, despite its age, still one of the most capable bombers on earth. But he also knew its weaknesses. It was large. It was subsonic. And its heat signature from the four powerful turbojets was a beacon for any heat-seeking missile.
It was then that Leonid Brezhnev’s voice, tight with tension, cut through the quiet hum.
“EWO to Commander. I’m getting something. Faint sweeps. Long-range air search radar. Bearing one-eight-five degrees south. They are painting us.”
Volkov’s knuckles whitened on the control yoke. “Classification?”
“Hard to be certain without active analysis… but the pulse repetition frequency is consistent with an American AN/TPS-43. They see us, Comrade Commander. They see us.”
So, it had begun. The 52 percent had started to assert itself. They were still hundreds of kilometers away, but the invisible tendrils of the Iranian air defense network had already found them. The spider knew the fly was in its web.
02:15 ZULU
UNNAMED TRAINING CAMP, NEAR AHVAZ, IRAN
The air in Khuzestan was thick and oppressively hot, even after midnight. Michael “Mike” Thorne, known here only as “Argus,” sat on a crate of 7.62mm ammunition and watched the recruits drill. They were a mix of Afghan Tajiks, Pashtuns, and a few Uzbeks, men with hard faces and eyes that held a generational hatred for the Shuravi, the Soviets. Thorne, a thirty-five-year-old CIA case officer with two tours in Vietnam under his belt, saw them not as freedom fighters, but as assets. They were the tip of a spear he had painstakingly forged over the last eight months, a deniable weapon to be thrust into the soft underbelly of Soviet Central Asia.
His camp was an impressive, if temporary, achievement. Spread out over several square kilometers of dusty terrain were firing ranges, classrooms fashioned from canvas tents, an obstacle course, and barracks. It was all funded by the Agency, sanctioned by the Shah, and about to become the most dangerous place on Earth.
He felt a presence beside him and turned to see Ahmad Shah Massoud, the thirty-two-year-old commander of the Tajik contingent. Massoud was different from the others. Where they had only zeal, he had intellect. A former engineering student, he possessed a keen strategic mind that Thorne both admired and distrusted. He wore his traditional pakol cap, his piercing gaze fixed on his men.
“They learn quickly,” Massoud said in Farsi, his voice quiet and thoughtful.
“They have a powerful motivation,” Thorne replied, lighting a cigarette. He offered one to Massoud, who politely declined.
“Motivation is not enough. They need the tools to fight a modern army. The RPGs you have promised us, they have not yet arrived.”
“Patience is a virtue, Commander,” Thorne said, the phrase sounding hollow even to him.
For the past few days, Thorne had been plagued by a deep, gut-wrenching unease. It was the same feeling he’d had in the A Shau Valley just before an NVA ambush had wiped out half his Special Forces A-team. A sixth sense, honed by years of living on the edge, screamed that something was wrong. An intelligence leak? A change in Soviet posture? He didn’t know, but he had sent a coded flash message to his station chief in Tehran, advising a temporary stand-down and dispersal of the trainees. The reply had been unequivocal: Maintain posture. Asset is too valuable. Do not break cover. Observe and report.
Suddenly, a sound cut through the humid night air. It was faint, a low, resonant drone that seemed to come from the sky itself. It was not the familiar sound of the Imperial Iranian Air Force F-5s from Vahdati. This was deeper, heavier.
Massoud’s head snapped up, his eyes scanning the star-filled sky. He had spent his life in the mountains, and his senses were acute. “What is that?”
Thorne was already on his feet, the blood draining from his face. He knew that sound. It was the sound of high-altitude, multi-engine aircraft. A sound that had absolutely no business being here. The dread in his gut coalesced into ice-cold certainty. The 52 percent was coming for them.
“To the trenches,” he hissed at Massoud, his voice a strained whisper. “Get your men to the trenches! Now!”
02:28 ZULU
VAHDATI AIR BASE / HAWK SAM SITE
The klaxons at Vahdati Air Base shrieked, tearing the night apart. On the flight line, the ground crew of the 71st Fighter Squadron swarmed over the hardened aircraft shelters. Captain Farhad “Frank” Rostami, already strapped into the cockpit of his F-4D Phantom II, grinned with savage delight. This was it. After months of boring patrols, a real scramble. Real bogies. Soviet strategic bombers. He watched as his Weapons Systems Officer, a fledgling lieutenant, frantically completed his own checks in the seat behind him.
“Any more data from Shahbaz Control?” Rostami barked into his helmet mic.
“Negative, Spitfire 1,” the WSO stammered. “Just four contacts, angels forty, heading south. GCI says they are activating electronic warfare.”
Rostami’s grin widened. “Let them. The Sparrow doesn’t care about their peasant jamming.” He pushed the throttles forward as the ground crew gave him the signal, the Phantom’s twin J79 engines roaring to life. He felt the familiar, thrilling kick as the afterburners engaged, a river of blue flame erupting behind him. This was his chance for glory, to become the first pilot in the IIAF to down a Soviet Bear.
Fifteen kilometers away, in a camouflaged bunker, Major Parviz Amin of the Imperial Iranian Air Defense Forces stared at the tactical display of his MIM-23 Hawk missile battery. He was a stocky, mustachioed man of forty-five, an old-school artilleryman who trusted his eyes more than the flickering symbols on a screen.
“Report!” he demanded.
“Major, Shahbaz Control confirms four hostile targets, classification ‘Bison,’” a young operator announced. “Range one hundred fifty kilometers. Altitude forty-two thousand feet. They are inside the engagement envelope.”
Amin scowled. Kian Parsa, that overeager young captain at the long-range radar site, was screaming for them to fire the moment the targets were in range. But Amin was cautious. This could be a sophisticated Soviet probe, an attempt to make them reveal their capabilities.
“The targets are emitting powerful jamming signals,” another technician reported, his voice tight. “The target acquisition radar is having trouble maintaining a lock.”
“Then use the continuous-wave illuminator. Burn through it,” Amin ordered, though his own faith in the American-made system was shaky. It had failed twice during live-fire exercises. To fire a multi-million-rial missile at a ghost would be the end of his career. To fail to fire at a real threat would be treason. The pressure was immense.
“Partial burn-through on the lead target!” the operator shouted. “It’s intermittent, but we have a firing solution! It’s there, sir!”
Amin stared at the wavering symbol on his screen. The fate of his country, the honor of his command, rested on this single decision. He took a deep breath.
02:41 ZULU
ABOVE AHVAZ, IRAN
“We are crossing the Initial Point,” Pavel Morozov announced, his voice unnaturally calm. He was now looking down through the optical bombsight, a circular glass plate etched with crosshairs, the ground 11,000 meters below swimming into view. “Target bearing zero-niner-zero. Wind shear is minimal. On final approach track.”
To their right, the city of Ahvaz was a sprawling constellation of orange and yellow lights, a forbidden zone they had to avoid at all costs. Ahead lay only blackness, the patch of desert the KGB had marked with an ‘X’.
“EWO to Commander!” Leonid Brezhnev’s voice was a high-pitched cry of alarm. “Multiple new emissions! They’ve activated a ‘Fan Song’ type radar! It’s a SAM site! They have a Hawk battery down there and it is trying to lock us!”
Simultaneously, Volkov saw the warning lights flash on his panel. Missile Launch Warning.
“Jamming at maximum power!” Volkov ordered. “Medved 2, 3, 4, begin evasive maneuvers, pattern Delta, after weapons release.”
The belly of Medved 1-1 opened to the screaming wind. For a heart-stopping ten seconds, the world seemed to slow down. Morozov’s voice was a steady stream of minute corrections. “Left two degrees… steady… steady…”
On the ground, Mike Thorne threw himself and Massoud into a shallow trench as the first of the bombs struck. The world erupted in a cataclysm of fire and thunder. The earth bucked and heaved, and the air was filled with the shriek of flying metal. One moment there was a motor pool full of trucks; the next, a crater of incandescent fire. Tents, barracks, and classrooms vanished in a rolling wave of concussions that hammered the air from his lungs.
From his fighting position on the camp’s perimeter, Sergeant Reza Naderi, a nineteen-year-old conscript, screamed in pure animal terror. He saw the colossal shapes of the bombers pass overhead, blacker than the night sky, their forms momentarily illuminated by the chain of explosions they had unleashed. His platoon commander was shouting orders, but Naderi couldn’t hear anything over the ringing in his ears. He gripped the controls of his ZSU-23-4 Shilka, swiveling the quad 23mm cannons toward the sky and pulling the trigger. Bright green tracer rounds stitched a frantic, useless line into the darkness, falling pathetically short of the high-altitude behemoths.
In the cockpit of Medved 1-1, Morozov shouted, “Bombs away!”
Volkov didn’t wait. He threw the 200-ton bomber into a steep, banking turn, the airframe groaning in protest. The other three Bisons followed, their own deadly cargo already on its way down.
But the spider had struck.
Just as they turned, Major Parviz Amin, his face illuminated by the green glow of his console, gave the command he was born to give. “Fire!”
A single MIM-23 Hawk missile, freed from the constraints of its cautious commander, leaped from its launcher on a brilliant pillar of white smoke. Its seeker head, impervious to the jamming that had blinded the acquisition radar, locked onto the massive, unambiguous heat signature of Medved 1-1’s port-side engines. It climbed at Mach 2.5, a silver needle of vengeance against the black sky.
On the flight deck, the tail gunner’s scream was primal. “Missile! Six o’clock high! Missile!”
Volkov hauled on the yoke, trying to pull the bomber’s nose down, to present a smaller target, but he knew it was too late. The Hawk wasn’t aimed at the aircraft; it was aimed at the space the aircraft was about to occupy.
The missile’s proximity fuze detonated exactly as designed, fifty meters from the bomber’s port wing. The warhead exploded, unleashing a shaped cone of thousands of steel fragments. The effect was that of a giant shotgun blast. Shrapnel shredded the wing’s skin, tore through fuel lines, and ripped into the two port-side VD-7 engines.
The world inside Medved 1-1 became a symphony of catastrophic failure. Warning horns blared. Fire bells clanged. The entire aircraft shuddered violently and snapped into a sickening roll to the left. The number one and two engines were gone, transformed into flaming torches that trailed a thick plume of black smoke. Volkov fought the controls, his muscles straining against the immense aerodynamic forces trying to tear his plane apart. He was flying half a bomber.
The electronic warfare duel was over. As Medved 1-1 fell out of formation, its powerful jamming pods died.
In the cockpit of his F-4 Phantom, streaking through the night sky miles away, Captain Farhad Rostami’s world suddenly became crystal clear. The snow on his radar scope vanished. Three beautiful, solid green squares appeared. The fleeing Bisons.
“Shahbaz, I have clear contact! Multiple targets!” he yelled, his voice electric with predatory joy. He selected the nearest contact, Medved 2. “Spitfire 1, locked on! Fox One!”
He squeezed the trigger. A single AIM-7 Sparrow missile dropped from beneath his Phantom’s wing, its rocket motor igniting a split second later, propelling it into the darkness on a quest for Soviet metal.
Below, the Ahvaz training camp was a sea of secondary explosions and raging fires. Mike Thorne, covered in dust, staggered to his feet. The devastation was absolute. The structures were gone. The equipment was burning. A strategic victory for the Soviets. A catastrophic failure for the CIA. But through the smoke, he saw Massoud, already rallying his surviving fighters, his face grim but his eyes burning with a cold, hard fire. He had saved his core group. The asset was wounded, but not eliminated. The war was not over.
High above, Dmitri Volkov wrestled with his dying machine, the fire on the wing growing more intense. The controls were barely responsive. He was losing altitude fast. Through the shattered cockpit window, he could see the inferno on the desert floor—the target he had been ordered to destroy. He had succeeded. But the cold arithmetic of the 52 percent failure probability had claimed its due.
“Bail out!” he screamed into the intercom, his voice a raw command against the roar of the wind and the screech of tearing metal. “Bail out! Bail out!”
He felt a distant, shuddering explosion far behind him—the Sparrow missile finding its mark on Medved 2. Two down. He didn’t think about the burning camp. He didn’t think about Colonel Chebrikov’s report to Moscow. He thought only of the nine other men on his aircraft, their parachutes hopefully blossoming in the hostile Iranian dark, and the long, cold fall to earth that awaited them all.
02:44 ZULU
KHUZESTAN PROVINCE, IRAN
The order to bail out was less a command than a final, desperate reflex. Inside the mortally wounded Medved 1-1, gravity and physics had taken command. The bomber, its port wing a skeleton of burning spars, fell into a tighter, unrecoverable spiral. The centrifugal force was immense, pinning men to their stations, turning the familiar cabin into a deadly centrifuge.
In the navigator’s bubble, Pavel Morozov clawed his way towards the escape hatch. Charts, dividers, and shattered instruments swirled around him in a zero-gravity ballet of chaos. The red glow of the instrument lights mixed with the hellish orange glare of the fire outside. He pulled the jettison handle for his downward-ejecting seat, his mind a blank slate of terror. There was a violent bang, and the night air punched him, a brutal, freezing shock after the stale confines of the cabin. He was tumbling, end over end, the burning wreck of his bomber receding above him like a dying star. He fumbled for the ripcord, his gloved hands clumsy and numb.
Further aft, Leonid Brezhnev, the pessimistic EWO, met his fate with the grim satisfaction of a prophet whose direst warnings have come true. The G-forces pinned him against the bulkhead, his escape hatch just meters away but as unreachable as the moon. He saw the fire burn through the fuselage wall, a liquid yellow eye that stared at him for a moment before the world dissolved into light and heat. He had been right. The age of the high-altitude bomber was indeed over.
On the flight deck, Volkov fought the yoke to the last, a stubborn captain refusing to abandon his bridge. He felt the co-pilot, Orlov, eject beside him. Only when the aircraft began to break apart, the horrifying screech of tortured metal filling the air, did he pull the handles on his own ejection seat. He was blasted upwards into the violent slipstream, the force of the wind tearing the helmet from his head. As he fell, he saw his command, Medved 1-1, the lead bear, finally surrender. It nosed over, a flaming spear of Soviet power, and plunged into the dark Iranian desert, impacting with a silent, brilliant flash that illuminated the landscape for miles.
He counted the parachutes. He saw three, maybe four, ghostly white mushrooms blossoming against the blackness, scattered by the wind. His crew had been ten men. A cold, hard knot of failure tightened in his chest, colder than the high-altitude air.
Miles away, the crew of Medved 2 had no such time for reflection. Captain Farhad Rostami’s AIM-7 Sparrow missile, a weapon of ruthless efficiency, did not cripple. It killed. Traveling at over twice the speed of sound, the missile’s continuous-rod warhead detonated just as it passed the bomber’s wing root. The expanding ring of interconnected steel rods scythed through the aircraft’s fuselage and main structural members with irresistible force. For the crew of Medved 2, there was a single, blinding flash of white light, a moment of unimaginable violence, and then nothing. The Bison disintegrated at 40,000 feet, its full bomb load and thousands of kilograms of jet fuel detonating in a secondary explosion that was brighter and more terrible than the first. It became a new, short-lived sun in the night sky.
In the cockpit of his F-4 Phantom, Rostami let out a triumphant yell. “Allahu Akbar! Splash two! WSO, confirm splash two!”
“Confirmed, Spitfire 1!” his back-seater shouted, his voice giddy with adrenaline. “Target is gone! Total disintegration!”
Rostami’s radar was now clear, showing two remaining green squares, the last of the bomber formation, pushing north at maximum speed. His blood was up. The hunt was on.
“Shahbaz Control, Spitfire 1,” he radioed, his voice sharp and predatory. “Two hostiles destroyed. I am in pursuit of the remaining two bogies, heading north.”
The calm, professional voice of Kian Parsa came back instantly from the GCI station. “Solid copy, Spitfire 1. We show the same. You are cleared to engage. Vector zero-zero-five. They are running for the border. Godspeed.”
Rostami checked his fuel gauge. The afterburner-fueled climb and high-speed intercept had been costly. He had enough for one more engagement, one more pass, before he would hit ‘bingo’ fuel and be forced to return to Vahdati. It was enough.
The commanders of Medved 3 and 4 were no longer flight leaders; they were survivors. They had witnessed the sudden death of their comrades with a mixture of horror and professional detachment. Radio silence was broken.
“Medved 3 to 4,” a strained voice crackled over the secure channel. “We are proceeding to emergency escape corridor. Maximum thrust. Deploy all countermeasures.”
Their mission was complete, in the most brutal way imaginable. The objective now was survival. Pushing their engines to the fire-walled limit, they began to dump bundles of chaff—thin strips of aluminum designed to create a false radar target—and pop flares to decoy any heat-seeking missiles. They were no longer a disciplined formation but two wounded animals fleeing a predator.
On the ground, the second, higher explosion had not gone unnoticed. Mike Thorne saw it clearly from the edge of the burning camp. A high-altitude detonation. That wasn't a bomb. That was an intercept. The IIAF had scrambled and gotten one. Maybe more. He looked over at Ahmad Shah Massoud. The Mujahideen commander was calmly directing his men, establishing a defensive perimeter, salvaging what weapons they could from the burning armories. Massoud pointed a lean finger at the sky.
“The Shah’s airplanes are fast,” he said, his expression unreadable. He had just seen the hammer of the Soviet Union fall from the sky, and he had seen it challenged by the American-made sword of Iran. He was not just a survivor; he was a student in the world’s most violent classroom, and he was learning lessons that would one day shape the destiny of his own country.
High above the chaos, Dmitri Volkov drifted down towards the land he had just violated. The cold night air bit at his exposed skin. He saw the flaming wreckage of his bomber, a funeral pyre for the men who hadn't gotten out. He saw the wider, more dispersed fires of the insurgent camp he had successfully destroyed. He had followed his orders. He had delivered the Politburo’s message. But as he descended into the heart of enemy territory, swinging gently beneath a canopy of white silk, he was no longer Lieutenant Colonel Volkov, Deputy Commander of the 362nd Heavy Bomber Aviation Regiment. He was a downed airman, a survivor, a piece of human wreckage left in the wake of a political storm, with the high probability of failure now a terrifying, all-encompassing reality. His war was not over. It had just entered a new, and far more personal, phase.
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