"The reporter thinks otherwise, General Patton. He intends to keep digging."
"He can dig all the way to China, for all I care."
"I doubt that he will need to dig any further than the courthouse records and the people at Western Aircraft."
"Senator, I'd love to chat with you on my own time, like after eleven p.m. But I need to get back to business. This is a very crucial operation I'm running." His pencil savagely blackened the insides of the stars and boxes on his pad.
"Well, you had better give some serious thought to the need for your beloved B-2," said Thrailkill. "I can still call off the dogs on this newspaper investigation. But if you insist on pushing this bomber project, I'll tell them—"
"If I see anything in the newspapers on this, you and they will face a major libel suit. I have to go now. Good day!"
His teeth clenched, Wing slammed the telephone onto its cradle, ripped the virtually blackened sheet of shaded doodles from his pad, crumpled it angrily in his fist and flung it into a wastebasket. The information he had previously written on it, no longer visible, was the farthest thing from his mind.
He looked up to see Henry Thatcher standing nearby, his forehead as rumpled as his assistant's ill-fitting suit.
"Who the hell was that?" Thatcher asked. "You looked like you were chewing a mouthful of chili peppers."
"Senator Thrailkill. The bastard was trying to get me riled up over the B-2."
"Looks like he succeeded."
Just then Dr. Reiner called out, "Major Bolivar on line two, General."
Wing jerked up the phone, punched the blinking button and listened to the voice on the secure circuit. "General Patton, this is Major Bolivar. I've completed the briefing and the crew is ready to board the aircraft. Is everything still a go, sir?"
Patton saw General Thatcher and Vic Reiner watching and listening intently, along with the CIA liaison from Langley, an Undersecretary of State and a deputy to the Secretary of Defense. The anger Senator Thrailkill stirred in him had his mind reeling, but he pulled himself together enough to say, "Major, tell the crew everybody in the White House Situation Room wishes them good luck and good hunting. The President is counting on them to get the job done. How does it look from that end?"
"Colonel Rodman is about as confident a pilot as I've ever run into, sir. He's ready to go."
Wing forced a smile, put his thumb and forefinger together and gave the okay sign to his colleagues in the Situation Room. They, too, smiled and returned to their own thoughts. Acutely aware of his own jumbled emotions, Patton was thankful that he had Roddy Rodman in the cockpit for this mission. "Give him my personal regards, Major," he said. "As soon as they're airborne, you head on over to Dhahran. I'll contact you there if we need anything further."
"Yes, sir."
"Oh, one other thing." He was beginning to get his thoughts back in order. "Remind Colonel Rodman that his first duty is to get those people out. If there's any trouble on the ground, the troops will try to hold off any interference with his takeoff. He's to get the hell out of there pronto. If necessary, the troops will make their way out to another area, where we can lay on a recovery mission."
6
Shortly before five p.m., when the MH-53J was scheduled to reach the commit point, the White House Situation Room was patched into the satellite. If the chopper did not receive a positive commit thirty minutes prior to its ETA on target, Colonel Rodman would automatically abort the mission. General Philip Patton sat at the desk and spoke into a hand mike. "Red Fox Three-Six, this is Watchman. You have Moonbeam. Repeat, you have Moonbeam. Acknowledge."
As everyone waited in hushed silence, a distinctive "click-click" sound came through the speakers on the wall. Thousands of miles away over the Iranian mountains, Colonel Rodman had keyed his microphone twice, creating the double-click that signaled "message received."
Patton looked across at General Thatcher. "That does it, Henry. We're committed. That's one relief. Now I need to take care of another." All the iced tea at lunch on The Hill and cups of coffee since arriving at the White House were taking a toll on his bladder.
Patton was hardly out of the room when General Sturdivant called. He left a message with Dr. Reiner for relay to the Chief of Staff. "Tell Wing the satellite with his primary presidential command channel just went haywire. It will take awhile to get it back on line. But the alternate is working fine."
If he had gotten Patton on the phone instead of Reiner, Sturdivant would have reminded him of his earlier warning about the advisability of shifting the alternate to another satellite. Now he was damned happy that he had.
On Wing's return from the men's room, Dr. Reiner passed along the message. "General Sturdivant called. He said there's a problem with the primary channel but the alternate is working fine."
Patton nodded with a nonchalant shrug. It was no major concern. With everything going smoothly, he went back to reading some reports.
What happened at 5:08 p.m. Washington time, however, exactly one hour and thirty-eight minutes into the flight, was a totally different matter. It was a mission planners' nightmare. A call to General Patton from a senior staffer at the National Security Agency advised that NSA's electronic snoopers had picked up clear indications of a compromise. The intercepted radio message reported that a unit of Iranian soldiers had been dispatched to a small mountain village near Kangavar to thwart the landing of an American helicopter. According to NSA, the Iranians had no idea which direction the aircraft would fly in from, making air intercept unlikely. But they knew to look for a clandestinely lit landing zone on the edge of the small town.
Everyone in the room gathered around Patton, faces grave, as he explained the situation. "Somehow they've managed to breach our security," he concluded.
"Too damn many people in that town knew what was going on," said the CIA liaison, a veteran spook with bristly, iron-gray hair. "Some bastard talked where he should have kept his mouth shut."
General Thatcher glanced up at the clock. "The chopper is only twenty minutes from target. I think we have to assume the Iranians have zeroed in on the LZ."
He had bought in on the plan, as Wing Patton had reminded him earlier, but it had always struck him as having a bit of a surreal quality about it, like a watch dial appearing to melt over the edge of a table in a Dali painting. In real life, solid objects didn't bend that way. But people could bend in unexpected directions.
"Better get the President," General Patton said grimly. The odds had looked good to start with, but now all bets were off. "I recommend we abort."
With its auxiliary fuel tanks, the Pave Low could make it out of Iran by flying a direct route to Kuwait. It would take them near more populated areas, but flying just over the treetops made the chopper a difficult target to locate. The lower altitude in that part of Iran would also improve their airspeed. The MH-53J's turbine engines ran more efficiently at higher altitudes, but the big rotor powered by those engines did not. The higher the helicopter went, the slower it flew due to compressibility.
Two minutes later President Thornton Giles strode into the tension-filled room, accompanied by an ever-present pair of Secret Service agents, one a young black man whose probing eyes made it clear he trusted no one. The President's tall frame towered over his National Security Adviser. He looked down, his sensitive face drawn by a troubled frown. "What's the problem, Henry?"
"NSA reports the Iranians are onto us. They've sent a contingent of troops to ambush our chopper."
"Damn!" was the Chief Executive's one-word reply. He had counted heavily on this operation. He was aware of all the risks, but after the military's almost flawless performance in the Gulf War, he had considered the possibilities for failure as minimal. Easy Street would add another proud notch to the stock of America's musket.
"Sir, I recommend we give the order to abort," said Patton.
The President looked thoughtful, his heavy brows knitted. He wasn't inclined to give up so easily. After all, with Desert Storm he had fought
both a recalcitrant Congress and an Iraqi dictator and won. "Isn't that chopper equipped with machineguns, General?"
"Yes, sir," Patton acknowledged. "She has three 7.62mm miniguns, six-barrel gatling guns that can pour out an unbelievable stream of fire."
"What are the chances they could shoot their way in and still pick up those passengers?"
"If we had some idea of the size of the threat, it might be possible. But without any hard intelligence, it would be risky as hell. We don't know for sure now that the passengers will even be there. We also have to consider that the Iranians could have access to Stinger-type missiles. The Pave Low has sophisticated countermeasures, but they aren't foolproof. Sir, I was a hundred percent for this operation when we knew exactly what we faced, and had surprise on our side. That's no longer the case."
The President's face and shoulders sagged with the strain of the burden that accompanied the ability to make God-like life and death decisions. The press chose to call him the world's most powerful leader. At times like this he felt virtually helpless. Easy Street had looked so promising. The first real breakthrough in a nightmare that had haunted every President since Jimmy Carter. He could order the mission to continue, of course, but that might well result in the deaths of a dozen American servicemen, a weighty encumbrance to inflict on an already overburdened conscience.
"Call it off, General Patton," he said sadly, then turned and left the room.
The clock showed only fifteen minutes to arrival at the LZ. Wing Patton's voice was terse. "Patch me into the satellite, Vic. Put it on the speaker."
After a few moments, he lifted the mike and pressed the transmit button. He spoke urgently, distinctly. "Red Fox Three-Six, this is Watchman. Sunset. Repeat, Sunset." It was the code word for "abort."
The room was deathly silent as everyone cocked his ears toward the speaker on the wall, straining to hear the double click of Colonel Rodman's microphone. But the signal from the FLTSATCOM electronic bird traveling in a geosynchronous orbit at a point 22,300 miles above the Indian Ocean brought nothing but an ominous void.
General Patton's frown deepened. He pressed the button again. "Red Fox Three-Six, this is Watchman. Sunset. Repeat, Sunset. Acknowledge."
Nothing.
What the hell was wrong, he wondered? He called a third time. Still nothing.
Then a phone rang and Reiner nodded at him. "Line one, General."
"Patton," he said in a hesitant, troubled voice.
"Wing, this is Bob Sturdivant." The deputy was grave but businesslike. "I've been monitoring your transmissions. Do you think it's possible the aircrew could have neglected to switch to the new alternate channel?"
It struck him like a fist in the stomach, almost a dazing blow.
The crew hadn't forgotten!
How could he...then he remembered the infuriating sound of Senator Thrailkill's damnably goading voice, how the man had irritated him unmercifully just after he had taken Sturdivant's earlier call. He blinked his eyes slowly, as though awakening from a horrible dream. He glanced down at the fateful note still lying crumpled in the wastebasket, a veritable ticking time bomb. Forcing himself to remain calm, he replied in a dubious tone, "Surely not, Bob. It must be an equipment malfunction." Then a hopeful thought struck him. "Say, is the other satellite working now? We could give the primary channel a try, couldn't we?"
"Sorry, Wing. They're working on a software solution. It may be several hours before the bird gets back on line."
General Patton slumped disconsolately in his chair. He no longer had any doubts about the ultimate fate of the mission. The helicopter and everyone aboard were doomed. He could already picture in his mind the line of flag-draped caskets on the ramp at Andrews Air Force Base.
And it was all his fault.
What could he do? If word of his failure were to leak out, the media would nail his ass to a cross. It wouldn't matter about Western Aircraft. The long, illustrious career of General Philip Ross Patton would be over. Ended. Dead as that satellite floating uselessly in the void of space.
As he began to collect his thoughts, he reminded himself there was much more here to consider than merely one man's career. Sometime back his father-in-law had initiated him into an organization called the Foreign Affairs Roundtable. Its membership included many of the top thinkers and doers in the fields of finance, government, business, labor, communications and education, plus the well-heeled foundations. Although few Americans were aware of its existence, the FAR had provided the key leadership in foreign relations for every President for more than half a century. Some would even contend that it set the national agenda.
As a top military official, Patton knew his was a vital role. With the U.S. now the dominant power on the globe, the one that would be called upon to extinguish "brush fires" and keep third world upstarts under control, it was his responsibility to maintain the nation's military strength. With America firmly in control, she could lead the rest of the world into a massive alliance in which the various states would subordinate their individual whims to the good of mankind. Never mind who would determine just what that "good" might be. It was a lofty goal, one to which Frederick Parker Strong was unalterably committed. He had passed the torch on to his son-in-law. Patton was aware that the average citizen knew nothing of this grand design being drawn for his or her future, but that was nothing new. The masses were never privy to all the information available at the top. They had to be led in the right direction. He saw himself as part of the collective solution to the ultimate fate of the world. It was imperative that nothing diminish his ability to act.
He recalled Senator Weesner's silky smooth, almost playful comment that morning. "You're the key. Without you, the B-2 is dead, Philip. Don't do anything to stub your toe before that hearing."
The conclusion appeared obvious. It was imperative that he erase all evidence of the stubbed toe. He had the solemn duty to save the B-2, even if it meant sacrificing Warren Rodman, or whatever might remain of his reputation. Of course, he felt no less sorrow, no less regret than any commander would experience at the loss of those who served under him. But wish...hope...pray...other than that, he knew of nothing more he could do for them. Lamentably, he was forced to conclude that Colonel Rodman and his crew were as good as dead.
Only Major Juan Bolivar would be left with knowledge that the alternate channel change had not been passed on to the aircraft commander. Bolivar was an ambitious young officer. He was a Hispanic with a bright future, if he was smart enough to support the proper cause. Bolivar would have to understand that the success of his career depended upon his ability to make a few allowances with the facts, all for the good of the service.
And Wing Patton knew just the man who could help convince him.
Iranian Airspace
7
It was a moonless night. If practically brushing the treetops halfway across the obscured landscape of a rugged mountain range could be thought of as routine, it had been a routine flight. The GPS system worked flawlessly. By simultaneously receiving signals from four different satellites, the copilot was able to plot their position in three dimensions—longitude, latitude and altitude—at any given point along the flight path. They had easily navigated around inhabited areas. Without lights, the big, dark green chopper appeared black in the inky darkness. The Sikorsky's two T64-GE-100 turboshaft engines made it sound more like a normal turbojet airplane, since the six blades of the huge seventy-two-foot rotor did not produce the distinctive popping noise of smaller choppers. Anyone on the ground who might have heard it would have had no idea just what it was or where it might be headed.
The mission had gone so smoothly that Roddy had about forgotten the bad vibes he had felt earlier. They had monitored both primary and alternate national command channels continuously, receiving the commit message right on time. Everything was still "go." But there was one troubling aspect. For some reason, the commit signal came through only on the primary channel, not the alternate. But since the pri
mary had operated normally, this did not appear to be a real problem.
Major Hardin had come up to the cockpit to chat over coffee while his heavily-armed commandos napped in the rear.
"If you ever get around Fort Bragg, Colonel, look me up and I'll buy you a drink," Hardin said.
"I may take you up on that," Roddy replied. "We'll be traveling around East Tennessee and North Carolina next time we're back in the States. Retirement is still a long way off, but Karen has been bugging me to buy a piece of property."
"You thinking about the Smoky Mountains?" asked Hardin.
"Right. My wife is from Tennessee. We love the mountains. I'd like to find something near the park, either in Tennessee or Carolina."
"Ever been to Beech Mountain?"
"Driven around there. Pretty scenery."
"I do some skiing over there occasionally. One of those chalets would make a great place to retire."
"I agree. But Karen's always had this ambition to open a dress shop. She'll probably want a little more populated area."
It was 12:55 a.m. local time as Roddy watched the moving green map-like display of the terrain-following radar. The small mountain village lay quietly in the darkness up ahead. Captain Schuler worked on a final fix from the GPS.
"Target fifteen miles at three-two-zero," Schuler called over the intercom.
"Roger," Rodman replied. He made a slight course adjustment. "Better alert your troops, Major Hardin. Four minutes to LZ, Nickens. Get your gunners ready."
"Will do, Colonel," said the flight engineer. He pushed up from his position between the pilots and moved back through the near darkness.
"Think we'll need those guns?" the copilot asked warily.
"I hope to hell not," Roddy said, eyes darting between the instruments and the navigation display. Recalling his earlier apprehension, he added, "We aren't taking any chances. The ECM should let us know if we've got any real nasty problems."
The chopper's sophisticated electronics countermeasures system could detect SAMs and warn of active radars or infrared devices. The plane was equipped with chaff dispensers, infrared jammers and other high-tech protective measures.
Overture to Disaster (Post Cold War Political Thriller Trilogy Book 3) Page 4
