With Hostile Intent

by Robert Gandt

  When Morse was finished, CAG Boyce walked up to the podium. “I know that for most of you, this is your first shooting war. Put your trust in your strike leaders, stick with the plan. Remember, this is not just another punitive exercise. This is for real, and the placement of your bombs will determine whether the enemy will be able to strike back at us and our allies.”

  In his seat in the third row, Maxwell listened to Boyce’s briefing. As he jotted notes on his kneeboard, he thought about the strike. He would be leading a four-ship division of Hornets armed with laser-guided GBU-24 bombs. His second section, on whom he would depend to protect his flank, was led by Craze Manson, with Hozer Miller flying as his wingman. Maxwell’s own wingman was B.J. Johnson.

  Some line up, he thought. Two guys who hated his guts and a nugget wingman who had never seen combat.

  He glanced across the row of seats. B.J. looked nervous, he thought. She was clutching something in her right fist, squeezing it, unsqueezing. Well, he thought, that was normal. Anybody who wasn’t nervous before they launched on a combat mission ought to have their brain examined.

  B. J. saw him looking her way. She opened her right hand and showed him what she had been squeezing: two shiny steel balls. Her gift from Cheever and Miller.

  Maxwell almost laughed out loud. He nodded and flashed her a thumbs up.

  At the podium Boyce finished his briefing. He pulled a fresh cigar from his flight suit vest pocket. “Okay, folks, that’s it. Let’s go rip ‘em a new one.”

  But the briefing wasn’t over. Before anyone could leave, Whitney Babcock stepped to the front of the room.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, taking the microphone, “the forty-eight hour grace period the United Nations issued has now expired, and Iraq has been officially notified that its weapons facilities are subject to immediate destruction.”

  “Why don’t we just send ‘em our battle plan?” said someone.

  Barely subdued laughs rippled through the room. CAG’s face darkened and he shot a fierce warning look at the offenders.

  Babcock appeared not to notice. He rambled on for several more minutes. Finally he said, “The President is confident that your efforts today will show the world that America will not tolerate the rogue ambitions of a country like Iraq. Good hunting, ladies and gentlemen.”

  No one applauded.

  CAG said in a loud voice, “Strike leaders, brief your people. Everyone draw their sidearms in your ready rooms.” Then he added, as an afterthought, “Try not to hurt yourselves with them.”

  <>

  A tall African-American Marine sergeant arrived in the VFA-36 ready room to issue the automatic pistols. One by one the pilots checked out their weapons. Though they had all qualified with small arms early in their training, most had long ago forgotten what they knew about the 9 mm. pistols.

  The sergeant was not happy. As he watched the pilots fumble with the weapons, a pained expression came over his face. He couldn’t help noticing that Leroi Jones was trying to stuff the ammunition magazine into the pistol backward. Horrified, he saw Flash Gordon peering down the barrel of his own pistol.

  Carefully, the sergeant reached over and directed the muzzle away from Gordon’s eyeball. He said to the group, “Gentlemen, take my advice and just keep those things in the holsters, okay?”

  “Yeah, good idea, Sarge.”

  Maxwell’s own sidearm was the one handed down to him by his father, a pearl-handled Colt .45. He was loading the magazine of the automatic pistol when DeLancey walked up to him.

  “Where’d you go this morning?” DeLancey demanded. “You were late to the brief.”

  “I had a job to do.”

  “You went someplace in the ship’s helo. I want to know where.”

  “To check something out over on the Blue Ridge.”

  DeLancey was eyeing him warily. “I gave you a direct order to butt out of the investigation. You were to stop snooping.”

  Maxwell holstered the Colt. “I found out what happened to Spam Parker.”

  The nervous chatter in the room abruptly ceased. A heavy silence descended on the assembled pilots. They stared at Maxwell and DeLancey. DeLancey looked like he’d received an electric charge.

  Maxwell picked up his helmet and nav bag and walked out of the ready room.

  <>

  He rode the escalator to the gallery deck, then stepped up onto the flight deck. Red-shirted ordnance crews were going from jet to jet loading and arming weapons. Every strike fighter carried a full load of weapons.

  Maxwell looked around for his jet. It was spotted on the number two elevator, just forward of the ship’s island.

  As he arrived at the parked Hornet, he saw DeLancey come marching up behind him. The fury showed in his face. “What the hell do you mean, you found out what happened to Parker?”

  It occurred to Maxwell that he could almost enjoy this. Never before had he seen DeLancey look scared. “You almost got away with it,” he said. “The ‘X-W’ on your kneeboard card. It meant ‘Check Winchester,’ right? Funny, I’d almost forgotten the old Winchester frequency — 303.0. That’s what you use when you don’t want anyone else to hear you.”

  “Prove it. There’s no record of it.”

  “None on the Reagan because you destroyed the only tape. But I found out about the Blue Ridge, the command ship. They still had it in their RF spectrum scan.” Maxwell reached into his shoulder pocket and pulled out a tape cassette. “I’ve got it right here.”

  DeLancey’s brows lowered like hoods over his eyes. “That doesn’t mean shit. It could be anyone’s voice on that tape.”

  “The legal officer tells me that voice printing is easy to identify, and it’s very admissible evidence. The tape happens to be date and time-stamped, by the way, at exactly the time Spam crashed.”

  DeLancey’s jaw muscles were clenching. “Give me that tape, mister. That’s an order.”

  Maxwell stuffed the cassette back into his shoulder pocket and zipped it closed. “You’ll get a chance to hear it,” he said. “At your trial.”

  DeLancey reached for him, shoving Maxwell against a rack of 2,000 pound bombs. “I gave you an order. I want that goddamn —”

  A hand grasped DeLancey’s shoulder and pulled him back. “Hey,” said CAG Boyce, “if you guys want to fight, then get in your cockpits. We’ve got MiGs to kill.”

  <>

  He almost made it.

  In fact, thought Tyrwhitt, he would have made it from the Rasheed without being spotted if it hadn’t been for the damned Cyfonika. He was on Tammuz Street, only three blocks from the hotel, trying to get the antenna extended on the thing. It had to protrude through the window of the Beetle to get a clean signal to its satellite. He had to stop the car in order to keep the antenna at the correct azimuth to the satellite.

  He transmitted his message in the open. No more encrypted intelligence reports embedded inside official news releases. The game was up. It no longer mattered that the Bazrum could intercept his transmissions.

  He transmitted the news that the Baghdad operation was compromised. He knew that they would infer that Iraq’s missile attack was imminent. He then reported, without being specific, that he was making his egress from Baghdad. He would call again when he was clear of the city.

  Just as he concluded the transmission, he saw him — one of the safari suits, standing in the street, holding a walkie-talkie and staring at him like he had just seen an extraterrestrial.

  How ironic, Tyrwhitt thought. He had put his life at risk to retrieve the satellite phone because he thought it would get him out of trouble.

  Now he was in real trouble.

  In his rearview mirror, he could see the Fiat pursuing him. There were at least three in the car. Tyrwhitt could tell that the driver was handling the automobile well. That was more bad news. Now his only chance of escape was to lose this guy quick before the Bazrum scrambled every black Fiat in Iraq.

  He sped eastward, across the Tigris and into the den
se Al-Karrada district. The streets narrowed, lined with street vendors and produce stalls. Pedestrians and bicyclists peeled away as he blew his horn.

  Tyrwhitt was alternately flooring the accelerator, then stomping on the brakes, screeching around corners in a four-wheel slide. The four-cylinder VW engine was screaming like a tortured buzz saw. It would be great fun, he thought, if the nasty little buggers back there weren’t trying to kill him.

  Ahead lumbered an ancient lorry stacked with baskets of vegetables. Tyrwhitt jammed his fist on the horn. The lorry driver’s left arm extended, flashing an upraised finger.

  Shit! thought Tyrwhitt, slowing behind the lorry. In the mirror he saw the Fiat closing on him.

  Tyrwhitt swerved to the left, looking for an opening. There wasn’t enough space to pass between the lorry and the row of vendors’ stalls.

  The Fiat was close enough for Tyrwhitt to see the faces of the men inside.

  He stomped on the accelerator and roared alongside the lorry. The angry driver yelled and shook his fist.

  And then, too late, Tyrwhitt saw them.

  Chickens. Crates of them, stacked atop each other ten feet high, extending halfway into the street. The owner of the chickens was gesturing wildly as he ran for his life.

  Whap! The Volkswagen plowed into the crates.

  Tyrwhitt lost sight of the road ahead. The Beetle’s windshield filled with feathers, flapping chickens, shattered crates, bird droppings.

  Whang! He felt the VW sideswipe something — the lorry? Then he emerged from the cloud of feathers.

  The way ahead was clear. The windshield was a mess, festooned with chicken droppings and feathers. He looked in the mirror. Behind him the lorry lay on its side, blocking the street. Baskets of vegetables were spilled in the street. A white flurry of chickens flapped and squawked and ran loose in the street.

  The black Fiat was not in sight.

  Tyrwhitt whipped the VW around the next corner. He was coming into the Babil district in the southeast section of the city. He had to stay off the main avenues, keep working his way southward, then intercept the road to Al-Mussayyib.

  After that, the desert.

  He again crossed the Tigris River, driving southward over the old Al-Jami’aa bridge. The streets were filled with bicycles and mopeds and battered automobiles. He came to a round-about in the Al-Jazair suburb. The circle was clogged, and traffic had slowed to a crawl.

  Tyrwhitt was beginning to relax. It was good, he decided, that it was morning rush hour. The shabby Volkswagen, shabbier than ever with its coating of dung and feathers, was inconspicuous in the chaos of Baghdad traffic. All he had to do now was blend in. Keep driving south —

  Fucking hell! A wave of fear swept over him like an arctic chill.

  Two of them, waiting at the far periphery of the circle.

  One was a marked police car, the other a black Fiat.

  Tyrwhitt’s heart raced. He saw the Bazrum agent standing beside the Fiat, scanning the traffic. The agent suddenly spotted the Volkswagen half way across the circle.

  He stopped scanning, and for an instant he and Tyrwhitt locked gazes.

  The agent yelled to the policemen. Then he reached inside the Fiat and snatched something that looked like a transceiver. Still looking at Tyrwhitt, he began talking into the transceiver.

  Tyrwhitt peered around him. He was locked in the glut of traffic. Vehicles surrounded him on either side, in front and behind.

  He was about to jump from the car and run. Then he saw an opening. There, to the right, a hundred yards before the waiting Bazrum agents. It was a narrow street, threaded between two rows of ancient stuccoed buildings.

  He veered the Beetle into the stream of traffic. Clang! He banged fenders with an old Trabent in the next lane. The outraged driver leaned out his window, yelling obscenities.

  Tyrwhitt gave the man a wave. Sorry, mate. Send the bill to Saddam. He pulled in front of the Trabent — Scrunch! — tearing off the front bumper.

  He cut across the outer lane, knocking over an old man on a bicycle. A rusty taxi, honking its horn, careened onto the walkway and whanged into a stuccoed wall.

  Tyrwhitt jammed down on the accelerator. Gathering speed, the Volkswagen barged into the side street.

  And then his heart sank.

  The street extended only about three hundred meters. Laundry flapped from overhanging ledges. Plastic crates of garbage lined both sides.

  No matter, thought Tyrwhitt. You’re committed. Go for it and hope for he best.

  He gunned the car on down the street, knocking over crates of garbage. Dogs and old women and children scurried out of the way.

  He reached the end of the street and — Thank God! — another narrow lane diverged to the left. Tyrwhitt swung the VW hard to the left. He saw that the narrow lane extended for many blocks.

  He saw something else, coming out of an intersection.

  A desert-colored army truck, carrying a squad of soldiers. Republican Guard, Tyrwhitt could tell. The truck pulled into the street, blocking his way.

  Tyrwhitt slammed on the brakes and threw the VW into reverse. As he did he, looking over his shoulder, he saw the familiar shape of a black Fiat. The Fiat entered the street and stopped, blocking his exit.

  He was trapped.

  Tyrwhitt brought the VW to a stop and sat there for a moment regarding the Fiat. Three Bazrum agents, wearing their brown safari suits, climbed out and began walking toward him. He looked in the opposite direction. The Republican Guardsmen were piling out of the truck. A dozen of them, carrying their weapons, were advancing toward him.

  Tyrwhitt waited. He was no longer in a hurry. He had sometimes wondered how it would feel when it came down to this. Every game had an end. Over the past six months, usually after several scotches, Tyrwhitt had reviewed in his mind all the possible endings. This was one he had rehearsed.

  One thing had changed. His heart was no longer racing. He was calm.

  He wrapped his right hand around the Beretta in his jacket pocket. Then he opened the door and stepped out. He turned to face the Bazrum men.

  The morning was still cool. A dampness glistened on the cobbled street. On a balcony above the street, a woman was hanging out laundry. The woman stopped and stared at the scene below.

  One of the Bazrum agents yelled an order to the soldiers behind him. Tyrwhitt understood the order: Don’t shoot.

  They wanted him alive. And Tyrwhitt knew why.

  Tyrwhitt gave the Bazrum agents a big grin. Let them know he was surrendering. It was a good chase, right? Great sport, actually. He waved and began walking toward them. The agents waved back.

  When he was fifteen feet away, Tyrwhitt pulled out the Beretta. “Manyouk!” he said, speaking in Arabic. Fuck you. He shot the nearest agent in the chest. Firing quickly, he dropped the second agent with a bullet in the belly. He fired at the third man. The round missed, blasting a patch of stucco from the wall behind.

  The panicked agent was running, his head ducked. He yelled back at the Guardsmen.

  Tyrwhitt followed him with the Beretta. He squeezed off the shot just as the fusillade of bullets tore into him.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Bandits

  AWACS Station Alpha

  0645, Friday, 30 May

  At her console in the AWACS, Tracey Barnett uttered a silent prayer: Please, God, don’t let me screw up.

  On her tac display she could see the Air Force F-15s, flying high fighter sweep, preceding the low-flying F-15Es to their target at Al-Taji. To the southeast, she saw the cluster of blips that represented the strikers from the Reagan. They were commencing their ingress to their target at Latifiyah. Almost to their targets were the Brits, streaking low over the desert in their Tornado strike fighters.

  “Sea Lord, this is Gipper Zero-One,” called the leader of the Reagan strike group. “Any activity on the Purple Net?”

  Tracey recognized the voice of Red Boyce, the strike leader. Air wing commanders didn’t usuall
y lead strike groups. But she knew Boyce. He was the kind of commander who led from the front.

  “Negative, Gipper. Picture clear.”

  Purple Net was the AWACS data link with all the other information-gathering sources. Boyce was wondering the same thing they were: Where were the MiGs?

  On her tactical display in the great lumbering AWACS, Tracey could see the Iraqi radar sites lighting up like tiny pen lights. Iraq had awakened to the fact that they were under attack.

  “Burner Two, Burner Three active,” she called, “East Reno, ten miles.” Burner Two and Three were SA-2 and SA-3 surface-to-air missiles.

  Butch Kissick, the ACE, appeared behind her. “Where the hell are the HARM shooters?”

  “There.” She pointed to the phalanx of blips — F/A-18s — sprawled across her screen. “They’re thirty seconds out.”

  “Too damn close,” said Kissick. “The F-15s and the Tornadoes are almost in the TA.”

  Tracey nodded. It was close. If the HARMs didn’t snuff out the air defense radars, the SAMs would make dog meat of the strike jets. She repeated the silent prayer.

  Thirty seconds later, she heard the report: “Magnum! Magnum!”

  The radar-killing HARMs were in the air. One after the other came the reports, “Magnum! Magnum!”

  Fascinated, Tracey watched the attack unfold on her display. She saw several of the Iraqi radars shutting down. They had picked up on the bad news that they were targeted, and they were hoping to elude the incoming barrage of HARMs.

  Too late, bubbas, thought Tracey. The HARM had a memory like a killer elephant. Once it found a radiating source, it locked the target’s position into its guidance system.

  The Brits were the first on target. She saw the blips of the Tornado strike jets streaking across the Shayka Mazhar air base, southeast of Baghdad. They were dropping APAM anti-personnel and armor munitions intended to crater the runway and make it unusable for the squadrons of MiG-29s and MiG-25s based there. Tracey always shuddered when she thought about how the APAM worked. The stuff would shred every object on the field — man or MiG — that stood taller than waist-high.