by Dale Brown
“As far as the attack on Bukhara itself—it’s still a mystery, sir,” Patrick admitted. “Observers near the impact points there, including a couple surviving CIA operatives, reported the explosions were tremendous, perhaps five-hundred-pound high-explosive warheads.”
“You have nothing?” Samson asked. “No leads at all?”
“We’re investigating a few uncorrelated bits of data, sir,” Patrick replied. “Greatly increased air traffic in eastern Siberia and a few rocket launches from test-launch sites in Siberia detected by DSP satellites apparently shot into the Kazakh missile-test ranges. So far nothing that could give us any clues on the attack all the way west in Uzbekistan.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t be wasting your time on these other ‘uncorrelated bits of data,’ as you call them,” Samson said. “Any conclusions at all to report to us?”
“Sir, it appears that the missiles shot from the Backfire were intended to screen the real attack on the CIA headquarters in Uzbekistan,” Patrick went on. “The AS-17 is designed to be launched from tactical fighter-bombers, so the existence of these weapons on large bombers is a new development for the Russians: using tactical precision-guided weapons on strategic bombers instead of just long-range subsonic cruise missiles. It appears that the Russians had excellent intel and acted on it remarkably quickly. They knew exactly when and where to hit. They probably loaded those bombers within hours of the mission to exfiltrate Turabi and launched the attack immediately.
“I feel that this indicates a substantial increase in the capabilities and effectiveness of the Russian heavy-bomber forces. Wherever these bombers came from, they were highly modified and their crews trained to levels of proficiency and tactical coordination that rival our own. They obviously used sophisticated covert bases, perhaps underground or well-camouflaged facilities, and a supply system that is many times faster and more efficient than—”
“General McLanahan, I know you’re new to the Air Intelligence Agency and the Nine-sixty-sixth Wing, so I’ll give you a pass on this one,” Gary Houser said. “But in the future when you brief the command or battle staffs, we expect facts, not interpretation. And the facts are that you still don’t know where those bombers came from or where they went. That’s what we need to know. Is that clear, General?”
“Yes, sir,” Patrick responded. Houser looked at the darkened glassed-in booth where the communications officers sat and drew a finger across his throat. Moments later the link between Barksdale and Lackland was terminated.
“Let’s go on with the status of forces,” Samson said, giving the screen on which McLanahan had appeared one last disgusted glance that was very apparent, even across the secure videoconference network. “General?”
Conducting his briefing from his seat, in Samson’s preferred style, the Eighth Air Force deputy commander for operations and the acting vice commander, Brigadier General Charles C. Zoltrane, pressed a button on his console to call up his first PowerPoint slide. “Yes, sir. Currently all wings are reporting one hundred percent conventional-combat-ready.”
“Conventional only? What’s the nuclear side looking like?”
“Due to our conventional mission commitments, the lack of airframes and crews, and lower funding levels, we can meet approximately sixty percent taskings for Single Integrated Operations Plan missions, sir,” Zoltrane said. “The crews and the planes are simply not available for certification. The B-2 stealth bombers are in the best shape at seventy percent, but the B-52s are at only fifty percent—and I think that’s being generous.”
Samson thought about the news for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, if STRATCOM wants more planes ready for SIOP missions, they’re going to have to send me more money and more airframes,” he said. STRATCOM, or U.S. Strategic Command, was the unified military command in charge of planning and fighting a nuclear conflict. STRATCOM did not “own” any aircraft—like every unified command, STRATCOM “gained” aircraft from other major commands, such as nuclear bombers, intelligence-gathering aircraft, and strategic command-and-control planes, from Eighth Air Force.
“We can bring some planes out of flyable storage to have available for SIOP planning if necessary,” Zoltrane said. The fly-stores, or “flyable storage,” were the planes held in a sort of maintenance limbo—it was a way to save costs while maintaining a large fleet capable of fighting with minimal preparation. Two-thirds of the long-range bombers allocated to both Eighth and Twelfth Air Forces were in flyable storage at any one time.
“How many planes were we budgeting to come out of fly-store this year?”
“Through the normal rotation? Thirty-six B-52s and—”
“No, I meant planes coming out of fly-store to augment the fleet. How many?”
“Well…none, sir,” Zoltrane responded. “But we’re technically non-mission-ready if STRATCOM wants to put any bombers on alert. We’d have to—”
“That’s STRATCOM’s problem, not mine,” Samson said. “They know hour by hour how many planes we have available. If they notice our shortage, they’re not saying anything, which means they don’t want to deal with the budget crunch either.”
“Sir, we have to do something—at least notify the Pentagon that we’re low,” Zoltrane said. “It’ll take weeks, maybe months, for some of those bombers to be mission-ready out of flyable storage. If we start now, maybe we can stop the process before we break the bank, or maybe we’ll get interim funding later on. But we can’t just—”
“Okay, okay, Charlie, I get the picture,” General Samson said irritably. “Have the wings start pulling fly-stores out right away—see if they can put it under an exercise budget, or if they’re close enough to their cycle periods anyway, have them pull their allotments early.” Planes in flyable storage had to be rotated out every six months, brought back up to full combat readiness, and flown for a specified number of hours before being put back in fly-store. Because of arms-control limitations and other political considerations, there was usually no rush to do this, and in fact many planes in flyable storage went over their six-month time limit or were never brought back up to full combat-ready status. In effect they became “hangar queens,” a source of cannibalized parts. It was an unfortunate fact of life for the Air Force’s bomber fleet. “I want it done quietly. I don’t want it to appear like we’re mobilizing any long-range strategic forces.”
“Yes, sir,” Zoltrane said.
“This really sucks,” Samson said. “We’re forced to spend money on spinning up the fly-stores, while McLanahan and Luger get their pick of the best airframes to do their Q-conversion—and then we can’t even use the damned things because no one except the weenies at Battle Mountain knows how they work.” The Q-conversion was the outrageous plan recently approved by the Pentagon to modify a number of B-1 and B-52 bombers to unmanned combat-strike missions, reconnaissance, and suppression of enemy air defense. The 111th Bomb Wing at Battle Mountain had developed the capability to control a number of bombers for global-combat sorties without putting one human being in harm’s way. “They have code-one airframes and crews out there in Battle Mountain just twiddling their thumbs while the rest of the command has to bust our butts just to get to minimum force levels.
“And even if we had them, we don’t even know how to employ robot planes,” Samson went on. “It’s just like the Turkmenistan UN Security Council surveillance mission all over again—if we want to use them, we have to put one of their Trekkies in charge. I think we could stand David Luger or Rebecca Furness in our headquarters for a short period of time, but if they have to start bringing guys like Daren Mace or their civilian contractors Masters or Duffield in here, they’d drive us crazy in no time. No thanks. I’d rather spend the money and bring some of our fly-stores online before I bring in anyone from Battle Mountain.” He turned to the next officer at the conference table. “Gary, I hope you have better news for me.”
“Yes, sir, I do,” Major General Gary Houser said. “The good news is, one hundred percent of our sp
acecraft are operational, and we have complete overhead coverage of Central Asia and southwestern Russia; all reconnaissance and surveillance air wings are fully combat-ready, and sortie completion rates are over ninety percent. True, we didn’t see the air raid on Bukhara coming, and I will personally find out where the deficiency is and fix it. But now we have almost constant electronic surveillance on the entire region, and if the Russians try to make another move, we’ll know about it.”
“Good work,” Samson said. “I’m going to be relying on you for the best and latest intel, Gary. I expect to be called to the Pentagon soon, maybe even the White House, and I need a constant stream of updates.”
“You should let me handle the heat from Washington, sir,” Houser said. “You’ll have enough on your plate here organizing the force. Leave the intel mumbo jumbo to me.”
“Wouldn’t be offering just so you can get more face time with the honchos in Washington, would you, Gary?”
Houser smiled conspiratorially. “Never crossed my mind, sir. I’ll play it any way you’d like.”
“For now I’ll take the meetings in Washington or Offutt or wherever they send me, Gary,” Samson said. “If we start sending strikers overseas, and they deploy me as part of the air staff, you may have to stand in during the intel briefs. That’s your area of expertise.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, here’s my take on the attack, based on what we know, folks,” Samson said, addressing everyone in the room. “I believe that this attack on Bukhara was an isolated reaction by General Gryzlov. He got his butt kicked by us at Engels and twice in Turkmenistan, and he lashed out. We’ve seen this kind of massive aerial assault recently in Chechnya—he does it for show, then backs off.
“But I believe that Gryzlov is under a lot of pressure from his military to retaliate against us, so he won’t stand for any more attacks against Russian military forces, but the size and scope of this attack leads me to believe that this is not a prelude to a wider confrontation. Does anyone see any indication that he wants a war with us?” No response from the staff members.
“Then I think we concur. The CIA operation in Turkmenistan was discovered, they had to fight their way out, they killed some Russians, and the Russians retaliated by bombing their field-operations base. I’ll recommend to Air Combat Command and the Air Force that we step up monitoring and surveillance, but we feel that the Russians have shot their wad.
“What I need is a profile of Russian forces in Central Asia and the Persian Gulf and a look at other potential targets,” Samson ordered. “If you think a fight is possible anywhere in the region, I want analysis on where, when, and how, and I want a plan of action on what we should do about it. Naturally, the plan of action should place Eighth Air Force commanders in charge and assets at the pointy end of the spear, especially intelligence, reconnaissance, and information-warfare activities. Yes, make sure you emphasize joint warfighting—that’s the important buzzword these days, and if you use it in your planning, you’re likely to get your plan noticed. But the lead agency and the first units in combat should be the Mighty Eighth in every way possible.
“Next I want to make sure that every man and woman in this command—and every piece of hardware from the biggest bomber to the smallest microchip—is one hundred and ten percent ready to deploy and fight on a moment’s notice. I want to be able to tell the Pentagon and the White House that we can send any unit, any weapon system, and every airman under my command anywhere on the globe just by picking up a telephone.
“However, it is essential to remember that, until ordered to do so, we must not appear as if we are stepping up our posture or readiness for a shooting war,” Samson went on. “This means you cannot step up orders for weapons, fuel, and supplies or increase your normal air order of battle. Your units need to prepare as much as possible within the current posture, but no one receives any more planes, weapons, supplies, or fuel than they’re currently allotted.
“Finally, I want problems handled in-house, and I want strict, tight control on information and intelligence,” Samson said, his voice low and menacing. “Every piece of data that we collect stays in this command unless I authorize its release. If your staffs find a problem or think they find something important, it doesn’t leave the command unless this battle staff sees it, deals with the problem, and releases the information with a solution attached. No one, and I mean no one, breaks the chain of command. The buck will stop right here, and I will destroy the airman and his supervisor if I find out that he or she takes key information and upchannels it outside the command without my signature. If we generate it, it stays with us. Is that perfectly clear?” Heads nodded all around. “Anything else for me?” The battle staff knew better than to speak—they knew that the boss was done with the meeting. Any other questions were expected to go to the deputy commanders. “Good. Dismissed.”
As usual, Gary Houser and Charles Zoltrane stayed behind with Terrill Samson after the others had departed. “I apologize for McLanahan’s performance today, sir,” Houser said. “He’s new to the post, and he obviously thinks he can run things like he did at Battle Mountain and Dreamland. It won’t happen again.”
“You know McLanahan as well as I do, Gary,” Samson said. “He’s a smart and dedicated young officer who was detoured away from a successful career by some bad influences. He gets the job done by skirting the rules, just as Brad Elliott used to do. It’s too bad.”
“Don’t be sorry for him, sir,” Houser said. “I knew him before he joined up with Elliott, and he was an attitude case then, too. But back then the brass was letting guys slide if they made the wing king look good—and McLanahan was good, no doubt about that. He still thinks his shit doesn’t stink.”
“He’s probably better off retiring—in fact, that’s what I thought happened with him after I got him bounced out of Dreamland,” Samson said. “But he’s got balls of steel, loads of brain power, talented friends, and a real lock-and-load attitude that politicians like. He’s a survivor. Unfortunately, he’s your problem now, Gary.”
“We’ve had a heart-to-heart already, sir,” Houser said. “He won’t be a hassle for you.”
“After today’s performance I’d say you still have some work to do,” Samson said. “Just keep him in line and out of my face, all right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who’s your deputy, sir?” Zoltrane asked. “Have him give the Nine-sixty-sixth’s briefings from now on.”
“That’s Trevor Griffin.”
Zoltrane nodded, but Samson chimed in derisively, “You mean ’Howdy Doody’ on steroids? Shit, last time he gave the staff a briefing, all I could think of was Opie Taylor giving a book report in front of the Mayberry schoolmarm. Christ, where do we find these characters anyway?” Houser did not respond. “Just do what you need to do to keep your folks in line and functioning, Gary,” Samson went on. “We don’t need smart-asses like McLanahan giving us attitude in my battle-staff room. Clear?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll take care of it.”
“See that you do.”
“One more matter for you, sir,” Houser said. “I wanted to ask you about the vice commander’s vacancy here at headquarters. We talked about moving me here to get some combat command time before we—”
“Everything’s on schedule, Gary,” Samson said. “The vacancy is still there. I need a firm commitment from the Pentagon about my fourth star and taking over Air Combat Command or STRATCOM. Once I hear for sure, I’ll install you here as the vice, so you’ll automatically take command when I leave. Don’t worry about it. It’s in the bag.”
“Yes, sir.” Houser didn’t sound convinced.
“I don’t think this recent flap with McLanahan will spoil things,” Samson added. “To the command, I jump in McLanahan’s shit; to Washington, I tone it down a little. A lot of folks like the son of a bitch. He’s still being considered for national security adviser, for Christ’s sake. The politicians like getting their pictures taken with a rea
l-life aerial assassin. We’re below their radar screen, and we need to stay that way.
“Just keep McLanahan on a short leash. This nonsense about the Russians gearing up their bomber fleet has got to stay in this command, understand me? If word gets out, the politicians will wonder why we’re not doing something about it, and then we’ll look like jerks. If we play it cool, eventually McLanahan will resign to go work for Thorn, or he’ll resign to be with his family on the coast, or he’ll be shipped off to Dreamland and put back in his genie’s bottle until the next war, like his mentor, Elliott.”
“Yes, sir. I agree. You won’t have to worry about McLanahan, sir.”
Samson pulled out a cigar, lit it, then waved it at the door to dismiss Houser. The Air Intelligence Agency commander practically bowed before he headed out.
“I’ll get that order to gin up the fly-stores going right now, sir,” Zoltrane said, picking up a phone to his office.
Samson nodded as he puffed away. “It’s bad enough dealing with the Russians, Offutt, and Washington,” Samson muttered. “Now I have to deal with my own subordinate officers who might be ready to start rolling around on the deck during the storm, knocking guys into the ocean and wrecking my ship.”
“Sir, to be perfectly honest with you, I give McLanahan kudos for giving us that analysis so quick,” Zoltrane admitted as he waited for the secure connection to go through. “Part of the problem is that our guys are hesitant to upchannel their reports for fear of being labeled a crackpot or a nuisance. We want guys to give us educated opinions, and we want them soonest. McLanahan’s only been on the job a short time, but he put together a pretty good analysis of Russian bomber capabilities and potential.
