The Warbirds

by Richard Herman

  Cunningham was pleased when Locke was identified as the pilot who had volunteered to create a diversion for the rest of his flight and in so doing hit a secondary target that turned out to be a major petroleum-storage area. And this was the man some people wanted to court-martial. Fortunes of war? Good planning? Dumb luck? Whatever, there was no denying Locke’s and his wizzo’s tenacity in attacking the target after their wingman had aborted. And they had paid the price, taking a hit by a SA-9 SAM, being wounded, and still landing. Locke, it turned out, had been more severely wounded than Bryant, but hadn’t lost consciousness until he managed a remarkable landing with one engine out and no utility hydraulic pressure. The general decided he would sign an order awarding both Locke and Bryant the Air Force Cross, the decoration second only to the Congressional Medal of Honor. It was up to Waters and Third Air Force to recommend them, but that should be no problem…

  Cunningham had a tougher decision to make about the KC-135 tanker pilot. Or rather about the tanker pilot’s wing commander, one Colonel Simmons. The idiot had recommended a court-martial for the pilot after he had flown his tanker into Iran to rendezvous with a Wolf that had been hit by a Triple A and was leaking fuel like a sieve. The KC-135 pilot had taken a chance but knew in advance there was not likely to be much Iranian air defense in the area. He’d maneuvered his tanker into position and made a hookup after the Phantom flamed out—a terrific performance. The tanker had dragged the F-4 home, pouring more fuel into the sky than into its engines. It was the sort of action Cunningham applauded and wanted his pilots to be capable of when necessary. What the hell was the matter with his commander’s…did they have something against smarts and guts?

  The general stomped out of the room. “Ask that genius Simmons what medal he’s recommending for the tanker driver,” he said to his aide, well within the hearing of everyone in the room. Even the commander of the KC-135 unit would get the implied message about the court-martial. In his office now, Cunningham told his aide Stevens, “Hold all calls for about twenty minutes. Dick, am I getting soft? Not so long ago I would have sacked Simmons.”

  “Probably,” Stevens replied, keeping a straight face as he quickly departed.

  Sinking into his soft leather chair, Cunningham folded his hands across his stomach, closed his eyes and attacked the problem that had kept him awake most of the night. What were those sons of Allah, the PSI, going to do next? The President’s National Security Adviser seemed to have all sorts of faith in the negotiations that were starting, but to Cunningham’s mind it looked very much like the beginning of a song-and-dance routine…or as his mother used to say, all butter and no potato. Every intelligence estimate he’d seen indicated the PSI were still a force to consider in spite of the recent beatings they’d taken. And he didn’t like the U.S. fleet being withdrawn to Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean to encourage negotiations.

  Never mind…his instincts, educated instincts, told him the 45th was not done fighting. He called his aide. “Dick, arrange a commander’s conference for me at Third Air Force early next week. I want to take a hard look at what’s going on in the Gulf. Have the commander of JUSMAG and Waters there.”

  He relit his cigar. He’d decided on some action. He was feeling better.

  17 August: 0630 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 1000 hours, Teheran, iran

  The commander of the PSI had ordered his aides to lift him from his hospital bed in Teheran and helicopter him to his headquarters when he received the news of the latest attacks by the 45th. The military situation his generals were now laying out on the big chart table enraged him. He motioned an aide to wheel him away, his good eye blazing with hatred. He was not going to accept the stalemate his enemies had created.

  Two doctors proceeded to lift the frail little man into a hospital bed that had been rushed to the headquarters and tried to monitor his vital signs, but he waved them away and motioned to an aide, speaking in a barely audible voice. Within minutes a group of men were gathered around the bed in a council of war. “The Americans have blocked our jihad,” he told them. “But our holy war must go on. For now we must try to negotiate an end to the fighting—but only until we can resume the jihad. Our Soviet allies”—he spoke the word like a curse—“ask too much for the supplies we need to continue. We will not be their lackeys. We will not allow them to build bases in our country. But we must negotiate from strength. Remember, we still have the means to punish our enemies. We will not be treated as powerless children at the negotiating table but as equals. And we will have our revenge.”

  He lay back in his bed, trying to gather his strength. Finally, he motioned to his valued agent and courier, the man from the silver Mercedes. “Why weren’t we warned of these latest attacks?”

  “Our spy Mashur al-Darhali was ordered to England to attend the Farnborough Air Show. We did not know of the attack,” the man answered, handing the commander a thin folder. “Darhali will live only as long as he is useful. I do not trust Saudi princes who claim to support us.” The bedridden man studied the photo in the folder.

  “Is this the one that leads the 45th?”

  “Yes. His name is Anthony Waters. He is only a colonel.”

  The commander’s eyes squinted as he brought the photo into focus. Every feature of Waters’ face stood in sharp relief as hate flowed through the old man. His voice took on strength. “Begin the game of negotiations, but delay. Gather our forces at Bushehr and wait for the weather conditions to favor us. We will demonstrate our strength by destroying Ras Assanya. And with it the presumptuous colonel…”

  23 August: 1135 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 1235 hours, Mildenhall, England

  Sara was waiting with John and Beth Shaw when the C-141 bringing Waters to the commanders’ conference taxied up to the terminal at Mildenhall. Beth marveled at the grace of the young woman in her eighth month of pregnancy, remembering wryly how her own pregnancies had blown her up. As she watched Sara rush into Muddy Waters’ arms, she also noted the lines around the colonel’s eyes that hardened into deep furrows. Muddy had changed, been changed by command…Similar things were going through her husband’s mind as he observed his old friend, understanding now what he had only seen on his visit to Ras Assanya. Anthony Waters had found himself in the lives of the men and women who served under him.

  The conference Cunningham had called opened with Colonel Charles Bradford, Cunningham’s latest protégé, giving a quick update on the situation in the Gulf. He pointed out a military buildup around Bushehr, the Iranian air base located on a bay one hundred forty-five miles due east of Ras Assanya across the Persian Gulf. “Fighting has stopped. But negotiations with the PSI are stalled as the buildup at Bushehr gains momentum. I believe the PSI will strike out of Bushehr at the UAC, perhaps at Ras Assanya, in order to strengthen their position at the negotiating table.”

  Cunningham leaned over the table, coming to the reason for the conference. “The President is personally calling the shots on this one. It’s his call if the 45th will be used again in combat, if it will be reinforced or withdrawn. Our job here is to figure out what the Air Force can do to protect Ras Assanya while the President negotiates us out of the Gulf.”

  For the next two hours the men assembled faced up to how they were to accomplish that job. Not with mirrors or rah-rah but with tactics that would put the 45th on the line as never before. As Captain Bryant would say, “So what else is new…?”

  That night Sara cradled into her husband’s arms, making sure he could feel their child growing inside her. The deep pleasure she felt was conditioned by the knowledge that she would only have him for this night, after which he would return to his wing. It was only a fantasy, and so impossible, but she wanted to run away with him, escape to a place they could never be found. And then reality crowded in, and she returned to the reality of this man who had changed her life, fulfilled it. Be grateful for the moment, Sara, and show it. And she forced her fears into the shadows and gently caressed her husband.

  The next morni
ng Sara rode with her husband to Mildenhall, determined to stay in control of herself. She had a bad moment when Waters’ flight was announced over the PA system and felt the too familiar panic that she was losing her husband. Together they walked to the waiting C-141, and after he kissed her good-bye she stood for a moment, waved as he entered the open hatch, then turned quickly. At least he deserved not to see her tears.

  31 August: 0725 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 0925 hours, Wiesbaden, West Germany

  The physical therapist ran her fingers lightly over the freshly healed wound and down the pilot’s leg. “Roll over,” she commanded. Her fingers moved gently down his back, tracing an old scar on his right side. She slipped her fingers under the elastic of his shorts and pulled them down, inspecting his buttocks.

  “Didn’t know I was wounded there,” Jack said, not exactly suffering from the inspection that was interrupted as Thunder walked into the room and, overhearing the remark, told him, “She’s checking out your brains, hero.”

  The girl recovered by bustling around, full of professional advice. “You’re not ready to start exercising yet, maybe in another two days; we mustn’t open the wound…” She handed him his robe and crutches, wishing his buddy would drop dead. This one was a live one, but like most of them, he got away…

  In the solarium Jack said, “As soon as they let us out on convalescent leave I’m going to Stonewood and try to find out why Gillian never wrote. I might not like the answer but at least I’ll know.”

  “Like I told you, maybe she never got your letters.” Thunder didn’t know that Jack had only written once. “Why don’t you phone her while you’re here?”

  “I can’t chance that. Something went wrong. I’ve got to try to straighten it out face to face. If I’m lucky…” “What?” “I want to marry her. Can you believe it?”

  Thunder shook his head. “I’ll try, old buddy. But what about the therapist with wandering hands?”

  Before Jack could try an answer an orderly ran up and handed him a shred of yellow paper, saying, “I’ve never seen a flash message before.”

  Jack scanned the short message and handed it to Thunder. “Well, at least it’s nice to know we’re needed at Rats Ass,” he said, at the same time irritated that once again his so-called personal life was on hold.

  “They’re holding a C-5 at Rhein-Main for you,” the orderly said.

  “It’s got to be important if the Boss wants us back this fast,” Thunder said. “Waters doesn’t usually hit the panic button.”

  Jack limped down the hall after Thunder, forcing thoughts of Gillian to the back of his mind, wondering about the summons from Waters.

  The big transport plane’s lower deck was loaded with cargo and two batteries of SAMs that Jack had never seen before. Each battery consisted of three small trailers: one had a turret that held four short missiles; the second, an optical tracker; the third, a compact radar that resembled a cone-shaped hat sitting on top of a square box.

  Jack found an empty seat on the upper passenger deck next to the Army lieutenant in charge of the new SAMs, and during the flight into Ras Assanya the lieutenant told how he had been selected to field-test the latest version of the British-made Firefly Rapier. He seemed to delight in describing how the system’s radar could simultaneously scan for aircraft and track a target. The high probability of a kill that the lieutenant claimed for his SAMs made Jack hope the PSI never got hold of any of them.

  31 August: 1555 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 1855 hours. Ras Assanya, Saudi Arabia

  The ramp was full of equipment and people waiting to onload when the C-5B taxied to a halt at Ras Assanya. By the time they deplaned most of the cargo was out of the back and two loadmasters were motioning equipment into line and up the forward ramp. Jack scanned the bunkers in the rapidly fading light. “The F-15s are gone…?”

  Their confusion increased when Stansell stopped his pickup truck and motioned for them to hop in. “Appreciate the lift, Colonel,” Jack said, “but what in the hell is going on?”

  “We’re digging in. That group on the ramp is the last of my squadron and equipment. The President ordered us to withdraw two days ago. You’ll hear all about it, but first you’ve got to see Doc Landis for a clearance to go back to work.”

  Doc Landis was the only person in the clinic and was sorting out equipment and packing it into small boxes designed for use in the field. “We’re dispersing the clinic into four bunkers around the base,” he said. “That’s where everyone is.” He led them to a wall map of the base and pointed out where they could find the temporary aid stations. “If you haven’t got the picture yet, we’re preparing for an attack.” He lifted Thunder’s flight cap and examined the WSO’s head, checking his eye movement and reflexes. “You’ll be ready to fly in a few more days.” He motioned for Jack to drop his flight suit and sit on the examination table, gently probed the new flesh on Jack’s thigh, concerned over the depth of the scar. “The quack who patched you up knew what he was doing. You’re only a few weeks away from flying. Start some leg-lifts tomorrow. About five, twice a day to start with.”

  They found their wing commander in the command post section of the COIC talking to a sergeant they did not recognize. Waters introduced Master Sergeant John Nesbit, telling them that the sergeant was detached from the Pentagon to set up and run a direct communications link with the Watch Center. “He worked for Tom Gomez,” he added, giving Nesbit instant acceptance. “Rup, if you’re going to catch that C-5, you’d better shake it.”

  “Sorry, boss, I’m not going. My wing wants me to write up an after-action report, have it ready when and if Cunningham asks for it.”

  “Your wing needs—”

  “Shee it,” he drew the obscenity out into two words. “My wing’s got more colonels than it knows what to do with. The way I see it, we’ll be back when the fighting starts back up, and I’ll need to be here to get the F-15s in action. In the meantime I can help you out.”

  Waters nodded. “I need all the help I can get. Our Rapiers came in on the C-5. Get them sited and camouflaged before morning. I want them to be a big surprise for the Floggers. Then chase over to the Security Police and find out how Chief Hartley is doing training his latest batch of volunteers and reinforcing the perimeter.”

  Stansell found that Hartley had done everything but dig a moat and said so.

  “Right, sir. We dig a ditch and turn this place into an island.”

  “Chief, do you have any idea what you’re saying? The narrowest part of the isthmus is almost two thousand feet wide. And what happens if it floods before we finish? What about the road to the mainland? We can’t cut that.”

  “Colonel, we’ve got three bulldozers on this base. Let’s use them.” Stansell keyed his brick and relayed the chief’s request to the command post. An hour later, a NCO arrived with the first bulldozer and listened in shock to the chief’s directions.

  “We start bulldozing from both sides of the road toward the water. We turn the road into a causeway and bury demolitions under it. Make the cut at least thirty feet wide with steep sides. Push the dirt into an embankment on the base side. That will give us ridge to fight from. I want ten feet of water in it.” The sergeant tried to argue with the chief, telling him it would take days to move that much earth. “Sarge,” the chief said wearily, “am I speaking in a language you don’t understand? Don’t tell me why you can’t do it; I only want to hear how you’re going to do it.”

  The sergeant shut up and went to put his bulldozers to work.

  When Stansell asked the chief what else he wanted he was not surprised by his request: “Mines,” and he gestured toward the water surrounding the base, “plus some boats to lay them with.” Stansell headed back to the command post to see what he could find.

  Waters put Jack to work helping move the command post into a new concrete bunker, and Carroll kept trying to explain why the wing was not being withdrawn while negotiations were underway and that Waters was driving the wing into a deep def
ensive crouch, as Cunningham had ordered at the conference at Third Air Force. “We’re getting reports of increased terrorist activity between us and Kuwait,” Carroll told him. “Only armed convoys are moving down the coast road and they’re coming under heavy attack. The last two have been turned back.”

  “That’s our only land link,” Jack said. “Sounds like we’re being cut off.”

  “Looks that way. Waters figures we’ll be getting some attention pretty soon. He’s using everyone and everything to hunker down and prepare for attack. What a pisser to be the last man killed in this shitty little war,” Carroll said. And Jack thought, Who could argue with that?

  The third day after returning from the hospital, Jack was asked by Waters to take care of a Saudi F-15 that had just declared an emergency for fuel and was in the landing position. Jack borrowed one of the few pickups on base and was waiting on the ramp when the F-15 taxied in. The canopy raised while the engines spun down. The pilot took his helmet off—it was Reza. He climbed down the boarding ladder a crew chief had hooked over the canopy rails, looking very much the fighter pilot, and shook Jack’s hand. “I can only stay long enough to refuel, but I must speak to your Colonel Waters.”

  “Byzantine politics again?” Jack ventured.

  “I’m afraid so. And this is quite serious.”

  At headquarters Reza came directly to the purpose of his visit. “We have information that you will be attacked the day after tomorrow. It will come from Bushehr, before early morning prayers…”

  As he said it Reza hoped the Americans would accept his warning and not press him for more information. He could not reveal that he had learned of the attack from the PSI agent who had been running his cousin Mashur, or how the agent had decided to switch sides. For a substantial price, of course. It had been decided by the UAC not to warn JUSMAG or the 45th. The UAC in their peculiar wisdom believed the PSI would only negotiate when it appeared they were winning and an attack on Ras Assanya would presumably create that illusion. The Arabs calculated that the attack would further weaken the PSI and make them less of a threat. So it had been decided to let the Americans serve as a pawn to be traded off for negotiations with the PSI. The prince did not agree. Sacrificing good allies did not match his own well-bred sense of honor, Byzantine or otherwise.