After a night of preparation, the Air Force strike group finally stepped onto the stage of the Susangerd Swamp.
Leading the formation were two MiG-25 interceptors.
As an interceptor, the MiG-25 was second to none; with two turbojets each delivering 110 kN of afterburning thrust, it could touch Mach 3, though only for three minutes. Even in cruise, its superb aerodynamics let it outrun the MiG-21.
Once over the battlefield, the MiG-25s' main tasks were reconnaissance and wrestling air superiority from the dreaded F-14.
Again flying the leader was "sky falcon" Reyer, on his fortieth combat sortie.
Was the F-14 truly terrifying? Every encounter left Iraqi pilots fleeing in disarray. Reyer resolved to break that pattern and restore the Air Force's pride. Soviet instructors had taught him that, excellent though pulse-Doppler radars were, they had a fatal flaw; he had drilled one maneuver that could break lock on the enemy's scope.
Behind him came a four-ship of MiG-21s, all armed with air-to-air missiles to escort the sluggish Su-20 strike aircraft trailing further back.
The Su-20 was the export version of the Su-17 Fitter, a variable-sweep, single-seat fighter-bomber evolved by the Sukhoi Design Bureau from the fixed-wing Su-7.
With its nose intake, it looked much like a MiG-21, but the centre-body was enlarged to house a rangefinder, radar-warning receiver and other avionics; twin pitot tubes sprouted above the nose. A tall spine along the fuselage held extra fuel and equipment. In that era, swing-wings were all the rage; the Su-20's distinctive outer panels could sweep from 28° to 62°. Eight hardpoints carried up to 4,000 kg of ground-attack ordnance—rocket pods, 240 mm rockets, retarded bombs, AS-7 Kerry missiles—while two 30 mm HP-30 cannon, 70 rounds each, sat at the wing roots. The aircraft looked every bit the brawler.
Underpowered, its thrust-to-weight ratio fell below one even clean; now laden with bombs, the Su-20s crawled forward.
Even slower, the Mi-24 Hinds would reach the battlefield half an hour later.
By now the MiG-25s had swept the airspace and found no enemy fighters.
They knew Iran's Air Force was no longer what it had been at the war's start; spare shortages grounded many of the "Pandas." Since the Iranian fighters hadn't come, the sky belonged to Iraq.
On the ground, the Iranian armoured force was already wavering.
Rajavi had overlooked the most crucial factor: although fighters rarely patrolled here, once his force was spotted, Iraq's slow-moving air arm—if it could arrive—would turn the tables.
Tanks versus aircraft meant certain death, leaving not even scraps behind.
He radioed rear headquarters at once: send fighters, whatever it took, to chase the intruders away. Even if the F-14 Pandas couldn't make it, vintage F-5 Tigers would do.
Speed was life; the instant he spotted the two MiG-25s overhead, Rajavi appealed to Ahvaz for help.
Second order: the entire armoured division attacks!
Until friendly air power arrived, the only way to evade the coming airstrike was to mingle with the enemy.
Once the lines were entangled and every direction held both friend and foe, the strike aircraft overhead would be hard-pressed to attack; merely telling the sides apart would be trouble enough.
Neither side possessed many precision weapons; firing rockets risked fratricide.
So Rajavi ordered every armoured vehicle to charge at full speed and mix it up with the Iraqis.
A single second's delay undid him.
The enemy tanks were already reversing, APCs even faster—though limited by the marshy ground. A clear gap persisted between the two forces.
That gap was the distance between life and death. Soon, blanket rocket fire would rain from above. On open ground, rockets were little threat, but from the air they struck the thin top armour—even a Chieftain could not survive. A direct hit from a 240 mm rocket anywhere but the frontal arc meant destruction.
Rajavi's third order: the M163 Vulcan, converted from an M113, was to engage immediately.
The six-barrel 20 mm gun was meant for front-line air-defence, but how much use it would be against high-flying jets only allah knew.
Rajavi had no idea that General Sharaf and overall commander Abolhassan were in deep trouble.
The moment word of Iraqi aircraft arrived, Abolhassan ordered the base east of Ahvaz to scramble two squadrons of F-5s to drive the Iraqis from the swamp.
The powerful Pandas, tasked with defending key sites, were beyond his authority.
But the air base refused the chairman of the Supreme Defence Council, citing a direct order from Supreme Spiritual Leader Khomeini: the Air Force answered only to him.
Abolhassan knew the crisis had turned critical.
During the revolution that toppled the Pahlavis, Abolhassan and Khomeini had stood shoulder to shoulder, yet with time their rift had widened.
Abolhassan was Iran's first popularly elected president; Khomeini, its spiritual guide.
Abolhassan had always insisted the spiritual leader should remain just that, with the president running the state—but now the presidency was mere window-dressing, and the Supreme Leader ruled unchallenged.
He tried to phone Khomeini, yet could not reach him; unknown to Abolhassan, the Imam was chairing a parliament session that would impeach him.
This offensive had been Abolhassan's last command of the war, and he had lost it—defeated by one man's hunger for power.
Still he kept trying, making final efforts to salvage the promising raid.
As the MiG-25s swept overhead for the third time, Rajavi saw no friendly fighters—only the distant shapes of fully laden attack aircraft.
The raid was finished.