by Tom Clancy
★ 1300 Up with cold water in the face and a toothbrushing to remove the remainders of the owl who slept in my mouth. I head downstairs to the Saudi cafeteria. The cook is an American Muslim who now lives in Riyadh after retiring from the USAF. Guess what fills my plate? You got it — grilled chicken, steamed rice with gravy, and boiled vegetables. It is tasty, but always the same. There is a salad of finely chopped, dark green lettuce mixed with finely chopped vegetables that might be green and red peppers, or might be stems of some exotic plant. Not so good, but keeps you regular. Dessert is usually a cake with crushed pistachio nuts on top. Water and a Diet Coke on the side.
I walk past the cash registers. The food’s on the house, thanks to the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. Now I search for a place to sit. I’ve got two criteria: (1) an empty chair, and (2) the people around it still have lots of food on their plates. Otherwise, when the general sits down, they will blush and mutter, “Got to go now.” No one wants to sit with me.
I like to hit different groups — sometimes lower-grade airmen; sometimes Saudis (they freak out when I sit down, but then get over their fear because they are curious); sometimes foreign officers or enlisted men; and sometimes my own longtime Ninth Air Force staff. I will get different information from each group. The longtime companions are the most open. They tell me what they really like and don’t like. They are my “emperor has no clothes” meter, and I try to hit them whenever possible for a reality check. The foreign officers and men tend to give me different angles on what we are doing and why we are doing it. Sometimes they give me information that can be useful in planning future operations, but often they are so indirect that I miss what they are trying to tell me. The GIs are full of questions and are an excellent source of the rumors that fill the air, most of which they believe. In some ways they represent all of America — filled with wonder about what we are doing and certain that very simple answers will handle the complex problems we face. Though most of them seem amazed that the general is sitting with them, after they get over their initial shyness, they open up in a hurry. Like all Americans, they stand in awe of no one for any length of time. I love their self-assurance, the absence of fear — they’ll ask me anything that’s on their minds. I love it that they think they are as good as I am. These qualities are perhaps our greatest strength as a nation. We really believe in ourselves — not in the sense that we arrogantly think we know everything, but that we are as good as the next person, and if we don’t know the answer to a problem that plagues us, we are capable of understanding a good one when we get it.
★ 1345 Lunch is over, and I go back downstairs to the TACC, stopping by the computer room to check how the ATO is coming. I always have one question: “Are we going to get it to the units on time?” The answer is always “yes”; the reality is usually no. Colonel Rich Bennet, the one responsible for getting the ATO published after the Black Hole guys give him the master target list and packages, is pulling his hair out, because Buster wants to make last-minute changes that will screw the whole thing up. People are busy fat-fingering in the 100,000 details that go into any ATO — takeoff time, tanker orbit points, munitions, call signs, code words, IFF squawks, no-fly zones, fly zones, coordinating points, lines on the ground, air routes in the air. I get out of there quickly, as people are very busy and working at a frantic pace, and I hate computers.
★ 1400 I sag back into my chair in the Current Operations section of the TACC, watching the AWACS picture — yellow icons streaming into and out of Iraq. One of our aircraft has been lost, and Jim Crigger has just filled me in on what they appeared to be doing and what caused the shoot-down. As always, I hate these moments.
As I sit there, weary, I let the noise and chaos of the TACC voices, announcements, reports wash over me — the sights and sounds of my war, not the war I experienced in Vietnam. There the action was intense — sweat running into your eyes from under your helmet, your head twisting and turning, trying to see everything, from the MiG closing on your rear to the SAM trying to hit you in the face. But there you were better-rested than here, and when you got down from your mission, you were through for the day. You could go to the bar and get mindlessly drunk and fall asleep, until the next morning’s briefing started you on another day of boredom punctuated by an hour or so of sheer-ass terror. In this war, there is little boredom and almost no terror, except maybe the fear of screwing up and getting someone killed.
Meanwhile, it is important for me to sit and listen when the troops talk at me about what they are doing and what is important to them. Moreover, their energy is contagious, their intelligence brilliant. It’s exciting to listen to them when they come up to Crigger or Volmer with suggestions about making this or that mission more effective or making up for the bad weather over target XYZ by going to target ABC. (Colonel Al Volmer was one of the four colonels who ran the war from the TACC.) Crigger or Volmer listen to what they have to say, then tell them how to implement their brainchild without screwing up the bigger picture.
People visiting the TACC stop by, and we chat. Later, the BCE team chief and some of his people gather around the table behind my chair and they talk about the ground war, which is bound to unfold soon. Joe Bob Phillips has come in early, and I give him a task to solve, usually about finding Scuds or avoiding friendly casualties.
It’s hard to describe the tension, boredom, highs and lows that occurred in that room. When CNN went off the air on the first night, we were sky-high. The tension of anticipating everything that could have gone wrong that night was erased. But then there were the moments when someone was shot down, and we watched the futile efforts to pick up the survivor. There were also the long hours of routine, coffee breath, and sand in the eyes. I often pressed a can of cold Diet Coke into my eyes to make the swelling go down. Sometimes the pain and irritation would make me tear up so much that I couldn’t read reports or pay attention to the unfolding battle. There was also the anxious excitement when “Scud ALERT” was screamed out, especially during the first few days of missile attack, before we became overconfident that they wouldn’t hit us. Blind trust. There was the preparation, about 2100 or 2200 each night, when we tried to anticipate what was going to happen that evening — usually Scuds or Al-Khafji type things. There were good times, stopping by the coffeepots to tell war stories about the good old days. There were times when you wanted to cry, as when Lieutenant Colonel Donnie Holland was shot down at Basra and there were no beacons, meaning that in all likelihood he was dead. Holland had been my executive officer when I was the two-star planner at headquarters Tactical Air Command. When he wanted to get into the F-15E, I arranged it; and he was a first-rate weapons system officer. That night he was flying with a flight surgeon who was dual-rated as a pilot, and they flew into the ground. Though we gave the Iraqis credit for shooting them down, Donnie was in the rear cockpit because the doctor’s work in the hospital kept him from getting as much flying time as the other pilots. So Holland, the old head WSO, was crewed with the doctor/pilot who was low on flying time.
There was lots of shared joy and shared pain, often with people who’d been strangers until we came together for the war. There was lots of serious talk and some joking around, especially with the guys who were old Ninth Air Force friends or other longtime acquaintances like John Corder. It really was a living organism; it reacted to stimuli — pain, joy, and loneliness. Too often, we in the military draw our little boxes that explain how we are organized, who commands whom, who stands where on the command food chain. That’s all fine and rational and necessary, but in reality, while we try to create these hierarchies with the power to command others to go out and risk their lives in battle, we are actually a team of fallible humans who do our best to find the best course of action. But then people have to put on G suits and try. If they succeed, we all bask in the glory. If they fail, we try to learn why and perhaps have another collective go at it again. If they are wounded, captured, or killed, then the guy in the G suit suddenly gets the whole enchilad
a, and those of us who are ancillary to that event are left with feelings of pain and sorrow, and a somewhat guilty sense of relief that it wasn’t us who paid that price. Fortunately, I had been shot at and had taken pretty extreme risks, which gave me a fairly good understanding of the folks who strapped on the jets and headed for danger. In my view, anyone who sends others off, perhaps to die, needs that kind of understanding. As much as this thing we call command and control is about modern computers, communications, planning tools, and satellite photography, it is also about people wandering around in partial ignorance, trying to do good by doing evil, and feeling — sometimes all at once — joy-pain-fear-uncertainty-fatigue-love-and-grief.
★ 1600 I have appointments with the press — first with a newspaper writer, and then with TV people. The newswoman meets me in a trailer in the parking lot out back; the air conditioner hum keeps out the noise of planes and people. As she takes out her tape recorder, I sneak a peek at her legs. It’s been over six months, and I am no priest. She asks me about how the war is going, what is the matter with BDA, and when the ground war will start. I want to answer “Good,” “Nothing,” and “You have me confused with somebody who gives a shit”; but instead I try to be as open as I can.
My PA, Major Oscar Seara, is with me. At 1645, he steers the lady to the gate and me to the Airlift TACC tent, closer to the building. Here the camera and mikes are set up, and I meet ABC’s Sam Donaldson (or someone of that ilk). This is a love-in. The war is going well, and they need about three minutes with me on camera so they can give their audience an orgasm. The lady reporter had asked some difficult questions because she had done her homework and wanted to write an insightful piece. How can you get real information from two-minute TV slices? On the other hand, the TV reporter is real good at stroking people’s egos, and I like having mine stroked in front of millions of people.
★ 1730 I finally get out of there and reenter the RSAF headquarters at the door near the mosque. The turnout is better than it had been this morning. The wail of the prayers and the sun dropping low in the horizon put me in an oriental mood, so I guess it’s time to drop in on Behery. I visit him at his office because this honors him, it’s a nicer place than mine, and his staff will serve gaua and tea.
Anytime we are together, I do my best to pick his brain about today’s problems and crises. I want to know his thoughts about how things are going and what we ought to do. But he is operating on a very different plane. He wants to give me instruction about his land, his culture, his religion, and his people. His words are often about the tenth century, and I am thinking in the twentieth. And yet this is not wasted time.
Even though our backgrounds are vastly different, we have a real and very deep friendship. It’s hard to find words to describe it. In many ways, I guess, I look up to him much like an older brother. He is always courteous, always thoughtful, yet sometimes he is wary of Americans, especially of our willingness to move mountains no matter who lives in their shadow. He is thoughtful, where I am anxious to get going. He weighs risks, where I look for opportunities. He thinks about consequences, where I don’t often give a damn.
I can tell you this. With Westerners, I have friends — good friends — people I like to sit and talk with, people I like to fly with and drink with; but they are just that, friends. When an Arab allows you to be his friend, your heart leaps against your breastbone and you feel a rush of joy. This is not corny; it’s true. I guess we in the West give our friendship so freely that it has little value. An Arab gives his friendship so warily that once you are accepted, you realize how deeply you have to appreciate it. I am poor at describing this, but good at feeling it.
★ 1800 I’m back in my office, boning up for the coming staff meetings, shift change, and the follies at MODA with Schwarzkopf. After that I read the “Read File” (even though George Gitchell and Tom Olsen have taken care of all the routine stuff that I would normally have to bother with in peacetime). I also read the Army and Navy messages, so I know what they are thinking and are worried about. I can read very quickly; I go through a three-inch-thick folder in twenty minutes.
Then it’s time to write Mary Jo, which I do in about ten minutes. Not much I can tell her, except how much I truly miss her and that I will be a much better husband when I come home (this will last about a month).
By 1855, I’m finished with the paperwork and have had some private time to sit and think. Do not discount the value of calm private reflection as you prepare for a frenzied evening of meetings and Iraqi tricks.
★ 1900 I’m back in the TACC and all are assembled for the changeover meeting. We start on time. (It’s important to start meetings promptly. That way, people will make every effort to be on time; and anyhow, it’s the polite thing to do.)
Except that the briefers are different, this changeover is not much different from the one in the morning. This time, the Intel people discuss the Iraqi transportation system and which bridges we should strike. The BCE briefs the Army situation. Not much there except for complaints from a corps commander that we are not hitting his nominated targets and therefore he will lose the war. YGBSM.[68] Chris Christon gives his spiel, and there is more discussion with the national leaders around the table. I end the meeting with as much guidance as I feel safe to give. Most of it is very general, as I am looking for what they think, not what I think. I want people offering up their own insights, not guessing at mine, and then offering that up as their own.
The day shift clears out by 2000, and the night shift moves into action; Reavy and Harr get spun up; Crigger and Volmer get ready to take off. Joe Bob Phillips has his tactics team formed and around the map table behind my chair. They are talking about what-ifs we may face tonight, primarily Scuds.
★ 2030 I meet Buster upstairs by the front door. He is always running late, getting the master target list built and ready for the evening briefing at MODA. And as always, he comes racing up the stairs, with maybe Tolin or Deptula chasing after him with last-minute bits of information.
Now the second most important meeting of the day occurs. I sit in the front of the car with my driver, and Buster sits in the back with his notes and charts. As we drive to MODA, we plan the strategy for the meeting. The goal is to get through it with our air campaign intact and the CINC pleased — knowing that he will change the Army-nominated targets all around. We do not wish to incur his withering temper (which we’ve managed to avoid since the war started). Though we are not trying to be cunning or manipulative, there is no reason not to make a successful sales pitch. Buster is a master at thinking on his feet, and I reserve for myself the role of peacemaker. E.g., the CINC questions some assumption or decision of Buster’s, and I jump in with, “You’re exactly right; we will take a closer look at it, and I will let you know.” We even plant a few questionable items in the briefing so other items look more acceptable. In some ways, we have it tough, because we are the only game in town. When the land forces start doing something besides moving west and talking about getting ready, then sitting in this meeting will be pure joy. We’ll be home free, knowing we’d done our job as advertised, and they will be subject to the CINC’s judgment that they are screwing up.
We arrive at MODA in time for Buster to rush downstairs to set up his charts, and I drop by to talk with some of the CENTCOM staff — sometimes with Bob Johnston, the harried chief of staff; sometimes with Cal Waller, who is full of himself; sometimes with Brigadier General Jack Leide, CENTCOM J-2 (Intelligence), who is really helping us; sometimes with the RSAF chief in the C3IC, Colonel Ayed Al-Jeaid, who is my conduit into Khaled and one of the sharpest men I have ever worked with.
Five minutes before nine, I wander into what the CINC calls the war room. It’s a conference room with maps and telephones that holds about twelve people at a table in front. For the CENTCOM staff and key onlookers, there are built-in tables, raised up amphitheater-style about the sides and back of the room. I sit to the left of the CINC. Usually Sir Peter de la Billiere or Bob Johnston
is to my left, and then Stan Arthur’s and Walt Boomer’s representatives. On my right beyond Schwarzkopf are Cal Waller, John Yeosock, and the Frenchman, Lieutenant General Michel Roquejeoffre, with his interpreter kneeling at his side. Buster Glosson sits in the back.
The CINC usually strides in on time. He may be in a good mood. He may be in a foul mood. For me it is not important what mood he is in. My job is to sell him another day of airpower the day after tomorrow, and that is what I am focused on. After the CINC sits down, the rest of us take our seats, and the usual briefings follow.
Often Jack Leide takes some hits. His job is to provide estimates of what is going on in Baghdad. But since no one knows that for sure, his opinions are always open to criticism — especially when these differ from the CINC’s reading of the tea leaves. Moreover, the CINC often wants answers that are simply not available. So when he asks, and Jack can’t answer (nobody could, except the enemy), he gets a needle from Schwarzkopf (who thinks that will make Jack work harder — an impossibility, as he is working as hard as he can). Despite the needles, he is bulletproof and barely flinches when he’s roared at. The man has style.
There also may be briefings about such things as how the Army is doing on its march to the west. Interesting, but not very important to me. I make sure I say nothing, but look intelligent, interested, and respectful. A J-3 staffer briefs the air war, and does a pretty good job at it. He should, since my people gave him everything he is briefing and made sure he didn’t say the wrong things or otherwise light a fuse under the CINC. (The good thing about his temper: people listen when you tell them how to avoid it, and they are grateful. Of course, the bad thing about it is that most will not tell him anything substantial. Why get chewed out when you’ll all be going home in a couple of months? Best to hang in there silent.) I avoid his temper because it might force him to make a bad decision that I would have to live with or somehow get changed. This is serious business — but then, it should be, and we are big boys.
