Wiggins considered that maybe Satherwaite was nervous, which was understandable. This was, after all, according to the Ops briefing, the longest jet attack mission ever attempted. Operation El Dorado Canyon was about to make some kind of history, though Wiggins didn't know what kind yet. There were sixty other aircraft somewhere around them, and their unit, the 48th Tactical Fighter Wing, had contributed twenty-four F-111F swing-wing jets to the mission. The tanker fleet that was flying down and back with them was a mix of the huge KG-10s and the smaller KC-135s—the 10s to refuel the fighters, and the 135s to refuel the KC-lOs. There would be three midair refuelings on the three-thousand-mile route to Libya. Flying time from England to the Libyan coast was six hours, flying time toward Tripoli in the pre-attack phase was half an hour, and time over target would be a long, long ten minutes. And then they'd fly home. Not all of them, but most of them. "History," Wiggins said. "We are flying into history."
Satherwaite did not reply.
Chip Wiggins informed Bill Satherwaite, "Today is Income Tax Day. Did you file on time?"
"Nope. Filed for an extension."
"The IRS focuses on late filers."
Satherwaite grunted a reply.
Wiggins said, "If you get audited, drop napalm on the IRS headquarters. They'll think twice before they audit Bill Satherwaite again." Wiggins chuckled.
Satherwaite stared at his instruments.
Unable to draw his pilot into conversation, Wiggins went back to his thoughts. He contemplated the fact that this was a test of endurance for crew and equipment, and they'd never trained for a mission like this. But so far, so good. The F-lll was performing admirably. He glanced out the side of his canopy. The variable wing was extended at thirty-five degrees so as to give the airplane its best cruise characteristics for the long formation flight. Later, they'd hydraulically sweep the wings back to a streamlined aft position for the attack, and that would mark the moment of the actual combat phase of the mission. Combat. Wiggins really couldn't believe he was going into actual Jesus H. Christ combat.
This was the culmination of all they'd been trained for. Both he and Satherwaite had missed Vietnam, and now they were flying into unknown and hostile territory against an enemy whose anti-aircraft capabilities were not well known. The briefing officer had told them that the Libyan air defenses routinely shut down after midnight, but Wiggins couldn't believe that the Libyans were quite that stupid. He was convinced that their aircraft would be picked up on Libyan radar, that the Libyan Air Force would scramble to intercept them, that surface-to-air missiles would rise to blow them out of the sky, and that they would be greeted by Triple-A, which did not mean the American Automobile Association. "Marcus Aurelius."
"What?"
"The only Roman monument still standing in Tripoli. The Arch of Marcus Aurelius. Second century A.D."
Satherwaite stifled a yawn.
"If anybody hits it by mistake, they're in big trouble. It's a UN designated world heritage site. Were you paying attention at the briefing?"
"Chip, why don't you chew gum or something?"
"We begin our attack just west of the Arch. I hope I get a glimpse of it. That kind of stuff interests me."
Satherwaite closed his eyes and exhaled in an exaggerated expression of impatience.
Chip Wiggins returned to his combat thoughts. He knew that there were a few Vietnam vets on this mission, but most of the guys were untested in combat. Also, everyone from the President on down was watching, waiting, and holding their breath. After Vietnam, and after the Pueblo fiasco, and Carter's screwed-up rescue mission in Iran, and a whole decade of military failures since Vietnam, the home team needed a big win.
The lights were on in the Pentagon and the White House. They were pacing and praying. Win this one for the Gipper, boys. Chip Wiggins wasn't going to let them down. He hoped they wouldn't let him down. He'd been told that the mission could be aborted at any time, and he feared the crackle of the radio with the code words for abort—Green Grass. As in the green, green grass of home:
But a little piece of his mind would have welcomed those words. He wondered what they'd do to him in Libya if he had to bail out. Where did that thought come from? He was starting to think bad things again. He glanced at Satherwaite, who was making an entry in his log. Satherwaite yawned again.
Wiggins asked, "Tired?"
"No."
"Scared?"
"Not yet."
"Hungry?"
"Chip, shut up."
"Thirsty?"
Satherwaite said, "Why don't you go back to sleep? Or better yet, I'll sleep and you fly."
Wiggins knew this was Satherwaite's not-too-subtle way of reminding him that the Weapons Systems Officer was not a pilot.
They sat again in silence. Wiggins actually considered catching a nap, but he didn't want to give Satherwaite the opportunity to tell everyone back at Lakenheath that Wiggins slept the whole way to Libya. After about half an hour, Chip Wiggins looked at his navigation chart and instruments. In addition to his job as Weapons Systems Officer, he was also the navigator. He said to Satherwaite, "At nine o'clock is Cabo de Sao Vicente—Cape Saint Vincent."
"Good. That's where it belongs."
"That's where Prince Henry the Navigator set up the world's first school for sea navigation. That's how he got his name."
"Henry?"
"No, Navigator."
"Right."
"The Portuguese were incredible mariners."
"Is this something I need to know?"
"Sure. You play Trivial Pursuit?"
"No. Just tell me when we're going to change heading."
"In seven minutes we'll turn to zero-nine-four."
"Okay. Keep the clock."
They flew on in silence.
Their F-lll was in an assigned position in their cruise flight formation, but because of radio silence, each aircraft maintained position by use of their air-to-air radar. They couldn't always visually see the other three aircraft in their flight formation—code named Elton 38, Remit 22, and Remit 61—but they could see them on radar and could key off the flight leader, Terry Waycliff in Remit 22. Still, Wiggins had to anticipate the flight plan to some extent and know when to stare at the radar screen to see what the lead aircraft was doing. "I enjoy the challenge of a difficult mission, Bill, and I hope you do, too."
"You're making it more difficult, Chip."
Wiggins chuckled.
The flight of four F-111s all began their turn to port in unison. They rounded Cabo de Sao Vicente and headed southeast, aiming right for the Strait of Gibraltar.
An hour later they were approaching the Rock of Gibraltar on the port side and Mount Hacho on the African Coast to starboard. Wiggins informed his pilot, "Gibraltar was one of the ancient Pillars of Hercules. Mount Hacho is the other. These landmarks defined the western limits of navigation for the Mediterranean civilizations. Did you know that?"
"Give me a fuel state."
"Right." Wiggins read the numbers off the fuel gauges, commenting, "Remaining flight time about two hours."
Satherwaite looked at his instrument clock and said, "The KG-10 should be rendezvousing in about forty-five minutes."
"I hope," Wiggins replied, thinking, If we somehow miss the refueling, we'll have just enough fuel to get us to Sicily and we'll be out of the action. They had never been out of range of land and if they'd had to, they could jettison their bombs in the drink and put down at some airport in France or Spain and casually explain that they'd been on a little training mission and had run short of fuel. As the briefing officer had said, "Do not use the word 'Libya' in your conversation," which had gotten a big laugh.
Thirty minutes later, there was still no sign of the tankers. Wiggins asked, "Where the hell is our flying gas station?"
Satherwaite was reading from the mission orders and didn't reply.
Wiggins kept listening for the code signal over the radio that would announce the approach of the tankers. After all this time
in the air and all this preparation, he didn't want to wind up in Sicily.
They flew on without speaking. The cockpit hummed with electronics, and the airframe pulsed with the power of the twin Pratt and Whitney turbofans that propelled the F-111 F into the black night.
Finally, a series of clicks on the radio told them that the KG-10 was approaching. After another ten minutes, Wiggins saw the contact on his radar screen and announced the approach to Satherwaite, who acknowledged.
Satherwaite pulled off power and began to slide out of the formation. This, Wiggins thought, was where Satherwaite earned his pay.
In a few minutes, the giant KG-10 tanker filled the sky above them. Satherwaite was able to speak to the tanker on the KY-28 secured and scrambled voice channel, which could be used for short-range transmissions. "Kilo Ten, this is Karma Five-Seven. You're in sight."
"Roger, Karma Five-Seven. Here comes Dickey."
"Roger."
The KG-10 boom operator carefully guided the refueling nozzle into the F-1l1's receptacle, just aft of the fighter's cockpit. Within a few minutes the hookup was completed, and the fuel began to flow from the tanker to the fighter.
Wiggins watched as Satherwaite finessed the control stick in his right hand and the engine throttles in his left to maintain the jet fighter in exact position so that the refueling boom would stay connected. Wiggins knew this was an occasion for him to stay silent.
After what seemed like a long time, the green light near the top of the tanker's boom flicked off and an adjacent amber light came on, indicating an auto disconnect. Satherwaite transmitted to the tanker, "Karma Five-Seven clearing," and eased his aircraft away from the KC-10 and back toward his assigned spot in the formation.
The tanker pilot, in acknowledgment that this was the last refueling before the attack, transmitted, "Hey, good luck. Kick ass. God bless. See you later."
Satherwaite responded, "Roger," then said to Wiggins, "Luck and God have nothing to do with it."
Wiggins was a little annoyed at Satherwaite's too cool jet-jockey crap and said to him, "Don't you believe in God?"
"I sure do, Chip. You pray. I'll fly."
Satherwaite tucked them back into the formation as another jet peeled off for its refueling.
Wiggins had to admit that Bill Satherwaite was a hell of a pilot, but he wasn't a hell of a guy.
Satherwaite, aware that he'd ticked off Wiggins, said, "Hey, wizo," using the affectionate slang term for a weapons officer, "I'm going to buy you the best dinner in London."
Wiggins smiled. "I pick."
"No, I pick. We'll keep it under ten pounds."
"Figures."
Satherwaite let a few minutes go by, then said to Wiggins, "It's going to be okay. You're going to drop them right on target, and if you do a good job, I'll fly right over that Arch of Augustus for you." ;
'Aurelius."
"Right."
Wiggins settled back and closed his eyes. He knew he'd gotten more than Satherwaite's quota of non-mission words, and he considered that a small triumph.
He thought ahead a bit. Despite the small knot in his empty stomach, he was really looking forward to flying his first combat mission. If he had any qualms about dropping his bombs, he reminded himself that all their mission targets, his own included, were strictly military. In fact, the briefing officer at Lakenheath had called the Al Azziziyah compound "Jihad University," meaning, it was a training camp for terrorists. The briefing officer had added, however, "There is a possibility of some civilians within the military compound of Al Azziziyah."
Wiggins thought about that, then put it out of his mind.
CHAPTER 14
Asad Khalil struggled with two primitive instincts—sex and self-preservation.
Khalil paced impatiently across the flat roof. His father had named him Asad—the lion—and it seemed that he had consciously or unconsciously taken on the traits of the great beast, including this habit of pacing in circles. He suddenly stopped and looked out into the night.
The Ghabli—the hot, strong southerly wind from the vast Sahara—was blowing across northern Libya toward the Mediterranean Sea. The night sky appeared misty, but in fact the distortion of the moon and stars was caused by airborne grains of sand.
Khalil looked at the luminous face of his watch and noted that it was 1:46 A.M. Bahira, the daughter of Captain Habib Nadir, was to arrive at precisely 2:00 A.M. He wondered if she would come. He wondered if she had been caught. And if she'd been caught, would she confess to where she was going and with whom she was going to meet? This last possibility troubled Asad Khalil greatly. At sixteen years old, he was perhaps thirty minutes away from his first sexual experience—or he was several hours away from being beheaded. He saw an uninvited mental image of himself on his knees, head bowed as the massively built official executioner, known only as Sulaman, swung the giant scimitar toward the back of Khalil's neck. Khalil felt his body tense, and a line of sweat formed on his forehead and cooled in the night air.
Khalil walked to the small tin shed on the flat rooftop. There was no door on the shed, and he peered down the staircase, expecting to see either Bahira, or her father with armed guards coming for him. This was lunacy, he thought, pure madness.
Khalil moved to the north edge of the roof. The concrete rooftop was surrounded by a shoulder-high, crenellated parapet of block and stucco. The building itself was a two-story-high structure built by the Italians when they controlled Libya. The building was then, as it was now, a storage facility for munitions, which was why it was safely removed from the center of the military compound known as Al Azziziyah. The former Italian compound was now the military headquarters and sometimes residence of the Great Leader, Colonel Moammar Gadhafi, who this very night had arrived at Al Azziziyah. Khalil and everyone else in Libya knew that the Great Leader made a habit of changing locations often, and that Gadhafi's erratic movements were a safeguard from either assassination or an American military action. But it was not a good idea to comment on either possibility.
In any case, Gadhafi's unexpected presence had caused his elite guards to be unusually alert this night, and Khalil was worried because it seemed that Allah himself was making this assignation difficult and dangerous.
Khalil knew beyond a doubt that it was Satan who had filled him with this sinful lust for Bahira, that Satan had made him dream of her walking naked across moonlit desert sands. Asad Khalil had never seen a naked woman before, but he had seen a magazine from Germany, and he knew what Bahira would look like unveiled and undressed. He pictured each curve of her body as he imagined it would be, he saw her long hair touching her bare shoulders, he recalled her nose and mouth as he'd seen them when he and she had been children, before she was veiled. He knew she looked different now, but strangely the child's face still sat on a wonderfully imagined woman's body. He pictured her curving hips, her mound of pubic hair, her naked thighs and legs . . . He felt his heart beating heavily in his chest and felt his mouth become dry.
Khalil stared out to the north. The lights of Tripoli, twenty kilometers distant, were bright enough to be visible through the blowing Ghabli. Beyond Tripoli lay the blackness of the Mediterranean. Around Al Azziziyah was rolling arid land, some olive groves, date trees, a few goatherd shelters, an occasional watering hole.
Asad Khalil peered over the parapet down into the compound. All was quiet below—there were no guards visible nor any vehicles at this hour. The only activity would be around Colonel Gadhafi's residence and around the headquarters area that housed the command, control, and communication buildings. There was no special alert tonight, but Khalil had a premonition that something was not right.
Asad Khalil looked again at his watch. It was exactly 2:00 A.M. and Bahira had not arrived. Khalil knelt down in the corner of the parapet, below the line of sight of anyone on the ground. In the corner he had unrolled his sajjdda, his prayer mat, and placed on it a copy of the Koran. If they came for him, they would find him praying and reading the K
oran. That might save him. But more likely, they would guess correctly that the Koran was a ruse and his sajjada was for the naked body of Bahira. If they suspected that, then his blasphemy would be dealt with in a way that would make him wish for beheading. And Bahira . . . They would most likely stone her to death.
And still, he did not run back to his mother's house. He was determined to meet whatever fate came up those stairs.
He thought of how he'd first noticed Bahira at her father's house. Captain Habib Nadir, like Khalil's own father, was a favorite of Colonel Gadhafi. The three families were close. Khalil's father, like Bahira's father, had been active in the resistance to the Italian occupation; Khalil's father had worked for the British during the Second World War, while Bahira's father had worked for the Germans. But what did that matter? Italians, Germans, British—they were all infidels and they were owed no loyalty. His father and Bahira's father had joked about how they had both helped the Christians kill one another.
Khalil thought a moment about his father, Captain Karim Khalil. He had been dead five years now, murdered on the street in Paris by agents of the Israeli Mossad. The Western radio broadcasts had reported that the murder was probably committed by a rival Islamic faction, or perhaps even by fellow Libyans in some sort of political power play. No arrest had been made. But Colonel Gadhafi, who was far wiser than any of his enemies, had explained to his people that Captain Karim Khalil had been murdered by the Israelis and everything else was a lie.
Asad Khalil believed this. He had to believe. He missed his father, but took comfort from the fact that his father had died a martyr's death at the hands of the Zionists. Of course, doubts did creep into his head, but the Great Man himself had spoken and that was the end of it.
Khalil nodded to himself as he knelt in the corner of the roof. He looked at his watch, then at the doorway of the tin shed ten meters away. She was late, or she had not been able to slip out of her house, or she'd overslept, or she had decided not to risk her life to be with him. Or, worst of all, she'd been caught and even now was betraying him to the military police.
Nelson Demille - [John Corey 2] Page 12
