Every Man a Tiger (1999)

by Tom - Nf - Commanders Clancy

  Meanwhile, Horner could see that Colin Powell was growing nervous that Horner was making “too good” a case for airpower—he had always found Powell easy to read—but the Chairman had such control of the meeting that he never came right out and said it.

  At the first break in the questions, Horner took the opportunity to return to his seat against the wall to watch the debate that followed, primarily between State and Defense, the real centers of gravity that morning. Between those two, there was considerable staking-out of positions and ill-concealed hostility:

  STATE: “Let’s not rush into overt action that might make matters worse. We need to know more about what is going on over there.”

  DEFENSE: “We better get involved and ready to take action before matters get worse.”

  All of this discussion was open, freewheeling, and acrimonious in ways that set Horner wondering. Such open conflicts would never occur in a military conference, in which everyone bows to the senior officer and to the position they feel the commander has in mind. Yet he liked it. He liked to see people looking at the problem from a variety of angles. In the military, he thought, it’s too easy for everyone to back what they think the commander wants. So if you guess wrong and the boss is stupid, you strike out on two counts. Horner called such things “school solutions”—like giving an answer in a classroom because you know the teacher endorses it.

  During the discussion, the President scarcely spoke. He seemed detached, even lost in deeper contemplation, as the talk whirled around the table. It was clear that he wanted to hear what people had to say and didn’t want to cast his shadow over the examination of the issues.

  When he finally began to speak, two overriding concerns emerged: first, how to use military force against the Iraqis while keeping down the loss of life, and second, how to bring in other nations to form a coalition against Iraq (and thus avoid the arrogance of Vietnam). Chuck Horner easily identified with both concerns. It would have been hard for anyone who’d fought in Vietnam not to.

  When Bush began raising the loss-of-life issue, Horner could see in his face and body language that it wasn’t perception, or spin, or bad headlines he was worried about. It was about people bleeding and suffering. His personal anguish over the killing was unmistakably visible, and it wasn’t just a question of U.S. lives, but of everybody’s—U.S., Allied, and even Iraqi.

  Horner—already in tune with those feelings—was pretty sure that Schwarzkopf felt the same way, but the others in the room seemed inclined to discuss the issues from a more distant standpoint—the way one would talk about putting out a new product, or taking out a line of credit. “What’s the impact on our stock? What are the chances of success in the marketplace? What’s the price of failure?” But the President saw that the discussion was about human life, and while he seemed willing to go down that road, he knew at a gut level the real price that would have to be paid.

  The President’s second set of concerns increased Horner’s growing respect for him, for they represented a departure from the traditional American views of the world. Instead of marching in as the all-knowing Yanks, the President was saying: “We’re not alone in the world. We need help and advice. We all have a problem, and let’s see if we can all find a consensus about fixing it.” It made Chuck Horner want to stand up and cheer.

  Next, Bush moved on to practicalities: “What are we going to do about the invasion of Kuwait and the threat to Saudi Arabia?”

  Baker continued to take the line that the United States must move cautiously. Powell’s thinking was similar: “We have to protect our interests in the region, but let’s not get into water that’s over our heads.” Cheney was most hawklike, but never outspokenly aggressive. His position was in tension with Baker’s, but without acrimony.

  To Horner, it all seemed like a lot of posturing with very little plain talk. It was what he called the “staff two-step.” Everyone danced around the fact that they didn’t have the slightest notion about a course of action. All the smart, articulate presidential advisers, unable to give a meaningful answer, seemed more concerned about avoiding the perception of being wrong than about working the problems.

  Once that became clear to the President, which didn’t take long, he asked Baker to consult with other world leaders. Bush already knew what Margaret Thatcher, the tough-minded prime minister of England, advised—he had spoken with her earlier in the week in Aspen, Colorado. She was all for kicking the Iraqis out. He planned shortly to call the French president, François Mitterand, to find out his views. “But what about King Fahd?” he asked. “After all, he is the one most threatened at this point.” Here he struck a dry hole. The President’s advisers simply repeated the positions they’d been taking all morning.

  Then he turned to Cheney. “Dick, I want you to fly to Jeddah and talk to King Fahd. Find out what he thinks should be done.”

  And that was it. The room was cleared of outsiders, so the principals could carry on in private. To pass the time, Horner took a short tour of Camp David with Deputy Secretary of Defense Paul Wolfowitz. The two immediately warmed to each other. Wolfowitz was a power in the Pentagon, an insider with the Secretary of Defense and extremely smart, but a humble, thoughtful, approachable, good-humored man, who was just as interested in touring Camp David as Horner was. They were like a couple of starstruck tourists: “Gee, so this is the gym . . .” “Gee, here’s where they watch TV . . .”

  About the time the tour finished, the meeting of the advisers broke up. Their errand done, Horner and the others in Schwarzkopf ’s party hopped into the helicopter back to the Pentagon, then out to Andrews AFB and aboard the C-21 back to MacDill AFB.

  GOODBYES

  By that time, it was late afternoon, and Schwarzkopf dismissed the visibly worn-out Horner at planeside, thinking that his air commander would fly back home to South Carolina. However, a trip home wasn’t possible that day, since he was out of what the Air Force calls “crew rest”: an unbreakable rule—outside of war—says a pilot must have twelve hours of rest before he can fly. So Horner checked on his F-16, which was ready to go as always, then caught a ride over to the Visiting Officers Quarters to get some sleep, planning to fly home first thing the next morning. He was in bed by 7:00 P.M.

  The phone rang. It was the Shaw AFB command post.

  “General Horner, General Schwarzkopf asks that you call him secure.”

  He asked for the number, then realized he didn’t have a secure phone in the VOQ room. Since General Schwarzkopf ’s house was only two blocks away, just in back of the base officers’ club, he got up, dressed, and walked over. When he rang the bell, “BeBe” Bell, the CINC’s executive officer, answered the door.

  The CINC was holding a minimum-size staff meeting in the living room, and his mouth gaped when Horner walked in, thinking Horner had reappeared at MacDill via some Star Trek transporter beam.

  His message to Horner was brief. Tomorrow the CINC was going to Saudi Arabia for a couple of days, and he wanted these people with him: his Army ground component commander, and old Arab hand, Lieutenant General John Yeosock; his Air Force air component commander, Chuck Horner; and his planner, Admiral Grant Sharp. The flight was leaving from Andrews about noon.

  “No problem.”

  “Keep the trip confidential,” Schwarzkopf added. “And bring one other person.”

  Horner excused himself, ran back to the VOQ, and called Shaw AFB to set up a C-21 to leave about 10:00 A.M., to get him to Andrews by 11:30. As usual, he didn’t tell his wife. He knew that if he did, she would have to keep the secret, which was very difficult for such an open, friendly person, so he decided to keep the burden away from her.

  Besides, he said to himself with a laugh, she thinks I’m an insensitive lout anyway.

  ★ The next morning at dawn, Chuck Horner’s F-16C leapt off the ground and soared up just as the orange ball of the sun broke the horizon.

  Joy!

  No matter how troubled he was, no matter how fearful or anxious
, flying put his mind right. He couldn’t take his troubles with him in the jet. There was no time for extra thoughts, no room for distractions as he slipped past the tumbling bright clouds and shielded his eyes from the sun, feeling the incredible union with the beautiful, sleek jet to which he was strapped.

  Shaw AFB was asleep when he landed. After the transit alert crew chocked the Lady Ashley and put her covers on, he gave her a parting glance, not knowing then that he’d never fly Lady Ashley again.25 He threw his flight helmet, parachute harness, and G suit in the trunk of his staff car and left.

  The drive home took him around the base golf course, where hackers were already out on the front nine. He could understand their eagerness. It was a beautiful South Carolina morning, and the course was lovely. Will I really be leaving all of this? he asked himself. And leaving Mary Jo yet one more time? He thought of the demands pilots asked of their wives: “Take care of the home, raise our children, and face the emergencies alone, while we chase around the world. And always be ready for the visit—you know the one.”

  Mary Jo knows what’s going on in Kuwait, he thought. She knows I’m likely to go if a war starts. But it’s still not fair to her.

  When Mary Jo met Chuck at the door, the questions started, as they always did when they met after an absence. But Horner could give her no answers. He was returning from a chat with the President of the United States and was about to leave home for an undetermined amount of time in a strange and distant country, but he still couldn’t talk about it. She was still asking questions as they kissed hello. He told her he needed to pack some things, and she helped him pack enough underwear and clothes for a two-day trip. Nine months later, when he returned, the shorts were worn out. As he packed, he whistled and sang the way he always did when he was about to go off and slay dragons. Mary Jo always hated it when he packed, because she knew that she was going to be left behind.

  ★ When General Schwarzkopf told Horner he could take one person on the trip to Saudi, he probably expected him to bring his aide, Jim Hartinger, or his executive officer, Colonel George Gitchell. But Chuck Horner’s thought process was different. He said to himself, If you’re going to a war, and you can only take one person, who would you take?

  The answer was obvious—his logistician. There are three kinds of staff people who are never heroes, but without whom a commander is dead in wartime:his intelligence, communications, and logistics chiefs. He can limp along in peacetime with less than capable people in those slots, but he’s dead if there is any weakness there when the shooting starts. There is great truth in the old adage that amateur warriors study tactics, and that professionals study logistics. So Horner called his own command’s logie, Colonel Bill Rider, and told him to pack his bags for the Middle East, and to be prepared for the deployment and beddown of some fighter squadrons in the CENTCOM area of responsibility.

  “Yes, sir,” he answered, “I’ll meet you at the plane.”

  ★ The next morning, Chuck Horner woke up the way he had many times before, eager as a bird dog before a hunt.

  His goodbye kiss with Mary Jo was as special as he could make it. She still didn’t know he was leaving for war, and he wasn’t sure himself; but he couldn’t get out of his head the times when he’d left for Vietnam. Each time they’d both had serious doubts about whether they would see each other again. When he’d gone as a “Wild Weasel,” the odds had been high that he’d be killed or captured, leaving her with two kids and rapidly receding support from her Air Force family.

  This day, he knew, was another such moment of truth in their marriage.

  A terrible moment, as always. “There’s no justice when you marry a military person,” he observes. “Words are useless. So you just embrace and kiss each other. The pilot’s anxious, nervous, and raring to go; and she’s jealous because of all that, yet she loves him anyway, just as he loves what he does. Tears are not permitted. He can’t cry because he’s never learned how, and she can’t because it hurts too much. Besides, there will be plenty of time later during the dreary loneliness she’ll endure. So it’s an ‘I Love You’ kiss, then he’s off to somewhere that he can’t even tell her, and she’s off to play the organ at the nine o’clock Protestant service. He climbs in the car with a prayer, ‘God give me time in Heaven to be a loving husband, because I sure as hell have been a shit to her on earth.’ ”

  ★ This is getting to be a habit, Horner thought when the C-21 disgorged him and Bill Rider at Andrews AFB.

  Waiting in the distinguished visitor lounge was Lieutenant General John Yeosock, commander of the United States Third Army, which was the Central Command ground component, known as ARCENT. He, too, had the hunting dog look.

  Yeosock was a soldier other soldiers referred to as “a piece of work.” He had an IQ of about 140 and a homely face; he was totally selfless and impossible not to like. His only vice was cigars, expensive ones that came in metal tubes. John and Betta Yeosock had been at the National War College with the Horners and the Powells, and they’d all remained friends afterward. Even today, Horner and Yeosock still call Colin Powell “Your Highness.”

  Soon they went out to meet Schwarzkopf ’s assigned VC-135, a military version of a Boeing 707, from the 89th Airlift Wing. Then the three of them piled into a car and headed for the Pentagon. During the ride, Horner learned that confusion had already set in. Who was going to Saudi Arabia? What was the agenda? What authority did they have to negotiate agreements? They didn’t even know whose airplane they would take. As he listened to all this, Horner kept silent, but it seemed a little disorganized for a military operation.

  Since it was Sunday morning, the Pentagon was almost empty. They went directly to Secretary Cheney’s office, where Powell was waiting. As usual, the Chairman charmed everyone, especially Yeosock and Horner, because of their time in school together. A ready laugh, a hug; the man knew no strangers.

  Then the discussion started. At first, it was, “Cheney’s going. No, Powell’s going. No, Cheney’s going.”

  Then, “We’re going to take Schwarzkopf ’s airplane. No, Cheney’s airplane.”

  Why was there all the confusion and changes of mind, especially after Camp David, when the President clearly seemed to want Cheney to talk to King Fahd? Horner had no idea.

  As the powerful flew in and out of the office and talked on the phone, Horner and Yeosock chatted, mostly about how confused and screwed up the powerful seemed. They both wondered what the Saudis would think about all this, especially considering that Americans often accused them of being slow to reach a decision. They’d probably get a laugh out of watching the Americans run around in circles.

  Since smoking in government buildings was prohibited, Yeosock spent some time in the bathroom. You can reasonably assume it was thick with blue cigar smoke before he left.

  Finally, the powerful came out of Cheney’s office and seemed to know what was going to happen: Cheney would lead, and they’d go on his airplane. Colin Powell wished all of them the best of luck and they were off.

  The trip to Jeddah was long and uneventful. The jet was a standard Boeing 707 that had been reconfigured with a private, simulated-wood-paneled “office” for VIPs just behind the cockpit. It took up about a third of the cabin space, with a double door opening toward the aft two-thirds of the aircraft; an aisle along the side of the aircraft connected the aft cabin with the plane’s entrance behind the cockpit. The VIP office had large leather chairs, a sofa that opened up into a bed, a small desk, and a telephone hooked up to the communications panels forward in the cockpit area. This let the VIPs talk with anyone in the world on encrypted telephones with the highest levels of security. The lesser lights were seated behind the office in rows of large, comfortable, business class-type airliner seats. Aft of that was a small galley where a host of stewards heated frozen TV dinners (worse, if you can imagine, than standard airline meals).

  During the flight, General Schwarzkopf frequently disappeared into Cheney’s stateroom, and these visits fa
scinated the ordinary mortals. From where Horner sat, he could see the CINC through the open double doors squatting down next to the Secretary’s easy chair, talking with great animation and intensity. Whatever they were talking about, the CINC chose not to reveal it, so Horner and Yeosock just chatted, read, and tried to get some rest.

  JEDDAH

  They landed in Jeddah at 4:00 P.M. on Monday, August 6, and a blast of hot air hit them the minute the aircraft door came open. It was a not totally unwelcome reminder to Horner that he was in a country that he loved and among people that he loved. He was looking forward to seeing and working with his friends again.

  Chuck Horner relates how his association with the Arab world first began:

  Though I’d met a good many Arabs before 1981, the first senior Arab Air Force officer I got friendly with was a tall, taciturn brigadier general named Ahmed Behery, who was then the base commander at Taif.26 By 1990, Behery had become commander of the RSAF, the Saudi Air Force.

  In 1981, Behery was escorting an energetic, fast-talking prince, whose name was Bandar bin Sultan (then a colonel in the Saudi Air Force and a pretty fair F-15 pilot, and more recently the Saudi ambassador to the United States and a major player in the Gulf War), on a visit to Nellis AFB. Major General Bob Kelly, the Fighter Weapons Center commander, held a garden party in their honor, and the wing commander of the tenant wing at Nellis, the 474th TFW, Colonel Chuck Horner and his wife Mary Jo, were invited. The generals and host wing commander clustered around Bandar, who is extremely charming, and so I felt it wise to converse with the equally tall and distinguished, but much quieter, commander from Taif. Mary Jo and I walked over to him and introduced ourselves.

  Behery is extremely shy, but not because other people frighten him. He is just reluctant to meet and greet. We made small talk for a while, until Mary Jo, in her blunt Iowa manner, broke in with some gripes against Arab men that had long rankled her. A particular incident still burned: During the days I was the wing commander at Williams AFB, we used to go to the graduation dinners for the foreign military sales training classes in the F-5E. At one of these, Mary Jo tried to strike up a conversation with an Arab student, either Saudi or Jordanian. Mary Jo is so open and friendly, it’s hard for her to grasp how anyone can fail to respond to her overtures. So when this one did—he was off-puttingly distant, stiff, and unfriendly—she took that as a characteristic of the people. I suspect the man was more concerned that she was the wing commander’s wife than that he was talking to a woman without a veil. Nonetheless, she came away with the idea that Arab men patronize women.