243: Chapter 243 Moths to a Flame

"That's an F-35I on a training flight," a radar operator (Junior Death Soldier) pointed at the screen. "Distance 120 kilometers, altitude 8,000 meters. Our radar can see it, but the signal is weak, like... looking at flowers through a fog."

"Enough." Sinwar stood before the screen. "We don't need fire-control precision; we just need to know it's coming and from which direction. Leave the rest to the air defense system."

The deployment of the eight HQ-17AE systems was even more scattered.

They were hidden deep within ruins, semi-basements, and even camouflaged truck containers. Each system included a tracked launcher vehicle (equipped with a quadruple missile launch box) and a command radar vehicle. The modified vehicle bodies were painted in standard desert yellow camouflage, blending perfectly with the environment of Gaza.

The most critical "Collaborative Combat Data Link" module was installed at three key nodes. This module allowed the eight air defense systems to share radar data, with a central computer uniformly allocating targets, achieving networked operations where "Radar A detects, System B intercepts."

All deployments were completed by dusk the following day.

Sinwar stood on the roof of the northern radar station, watching the sunset dye the ruins a dark red.

"System self-check," he said into the communicator.

"Radar One, normal."

"Radar Two, normal."

"Radar Three, normal."

"Air defense units 1-8, all in position, missiles loaded."

"Data link synchronization complete, fire-control network established."

"Very good." Sinwar looked at the southern sky. "Now, we just wait."

Wait for those confident moths to fly into the flame.

Negev Air Base, flight briefing room.

Four pilots sat in a row, a large screen before them displaying a 3D digital map of the Gaza region. Three prominent red marks on the map were labeled "Alpha," "Bravo," and "Charlie."

"The mission is clear," said Wing Commander Lieutenant Colonel David Stern, standing at the podium. "Low-altitude penetration at night, utilizing terrain masking and stealth characteristics to infiltrate within 15 kilometers of the target area. The launch window is only thirty seconds—the EOTS system will automatically lock onto the targets after entering range. You only need to press the launch button, then turn back."

"Bombing altitude?" one pilot asked.

"Six thousand meters is recommended. At this altitude, the 'Storm Hammer' has its maximum glide distance, allowing you to stay outside the range of man-portable air defense missiles." Lieutenant Colonel Stern paused. "Although intelligence shows they have no decent air defense system, don't take risks. Remember, you are flying aircraft worth 120 million dollars each, and more importantly—yourselves."

"Targets confirmed?" another pilot looked at the three red dots.

"Squid Nation intelligence confirms that the core command nodes of the Resistance Organization are at one of these three locations. But they aren't sure which one exactly. So, destroy them all."

Lieutenant Colonel Stern switched the display to show thermal imaging and structural analysis of the buildings.

"Point Alpha: Suspected entrance to an underground command center, with high-intensity radio signals emitted from the surface."

"Point Bravo: Frequent vehicle traffic, abnormal night heat signatures."

"Point Charlie: Most suspicious—in the footage of last week's Iron Dome interception operations, some shots seem to have been taken from a high point in this direction."

"Three aircraft will each be responsible for one target, with the fourth as backup and electronic warfare support. Any questions?"

The pilots shook their heads.

"Then, mission time: Takeoff at 2300 hours tonight. Estimated arrival at the target area: 2345. Attack window: 2345-2347. Return time: 0005. Good luck to everyone."

The briefing ended, and the pilots rose to leave.

On the way to the locker room, Captain Jack Mitchell, lead pilot callsign 'Hammer 1-1', patted the shoulder of his wingman, Lieutenant Tom Harrison, callsign 'Hammer 1-2'.

"Nervous?"

Tom shrugged. "A little. It is a live-fire mission, after all. Even though I've practiced it hundreds of times in the simulator..."

"Relax," Jack smiled. "Those guys couldn't even break through the Iron Dome without a sea of rockets. Against stealth fighters? They won't even see us coming."

"I hope so."

In the locker room, the two began putting on their flight gear: G-suits, helmets, and survival equipment. The helmet was the F-35's specialized HMDS (Helmet Mounted Display System), worth 400,000 dollars, which could project sensor imagery directly onto the visor, achieving a "see-through the fuselage" effect.

Jack finally checked the items in his leg pocket: a pistol, flares, a first-aid kit, a GPS locator, and a survival card written in English, Arabic, and Hebrew that said, 'I am an American pilot, please give me humane treatment.'

He glanced at the card and gave a self-deprecating smile.

He wouldn't need it.

Exactly 2300 hours.

On the runway of Negev Base, four F-35Is taxied, accelerated, and lifted off in sequence. Eerie blue afterburner flames pulled four streaks of light through the night as the fighters climbed rapidly, merging into the night sky.

Inside the cockpit, the screen before Jack showed the formation status. The four aircraft flew in a diamond formation, spaced five kilometers apart at an altitude of 8,000 meters. Radar and infrared signatures were suppressed to their minimum, and the data link used directional encrypted transmission.

"Hammer formation, passing Checkpoint One," Jack said over the comms channel. "Altitude 8,000, speed Mach 0.8. All systems normal."

"Base copies. Continue flight as planned."

Outside the canopy, the Mediterranean Sea shimmered with silver ripples under the moonlight. Further ahead lay the Sinai Peninsula, followed by the narrow strip where Gaza was located.

Jack opened the EOTS system's preview interface. The spherical electro-optical sensor located under the nose could identify details of vehicles, buildings, and even personnel from dozens of kilometers away. But now, the screen was just a void of darkness.

"Begin descent in ten minutes," he reminded the formation. "Prepare for low-altitude penetration."

"Copy."

2340 hours.

The altimeter showed: five hundred meters.

The four F-35Is were flying almost at ground level. The dunes of the Negev Desert rushed past below, the shadows of the fighters sweeping across the sand in the moonlight like four silent ghosts.

On the helmet-mounted visor, the digital terrain matching system constantly updated the flight path. The aircraft automatically adjusted their altitude, clearing the dunes with a minimum gap of fifty meters and avoiding known radar sites.

"Entering the target area," Jack said. "Hammer 1-2, 1-3, 1-4, break as planned and proceed to your respective attack positions. Hammer 1-1 will maintain altitude and provide electronic warfare cover."