Flash Point

by James W. Huston

  “How?”

  “Our LANTIRN may be able to do it. But the best way is to have somebody on the ground.”

  “I’ll bet you have a plan.”

  Woods lowered his voice and glanced over his shoulder. “I figure somebody’s already on the ground.”

  “Where do you get that?”

  “Reading between the lines on the message we got, watching Pritch’s face when I asked her—”

  “Good—”

  “The only way anyone could really know the Sheikh is there is if they had seen him. There’s no way a satellite is going to tell us that that one person is there.” His eyes grew darker as he moved closer to Bark. “Someone’s looking at him. Either one of ours, or someone friendly. Either way, he may have the ability to lase the target for us.”

  “Dare I ask,” Bark said, with deep annoyance, “what you have in mind this time?”

  “I asked Pritch to push the question uphill. Find out if what I suspect is true.”

  “Damn it!” Bark exclaimed. “You don’t screw with intelligence, Trey! They don’t even like people to ask whether they have someone on the ground. They don’t want anyone to know if they do.”

  “That’s what she said. But I thought this might be the one time where intelligence is actually good for something.”

  “Don’t hold your breath.”

  Woods nodded. He could feel his Commanding Officer relax. Bark was on his side again.

  The SDO interrupted them from the front. “Skipper, Commander Chase is on the phone for you.”

  Chase was the Strike Ops Officer, the one in charge of final strike planning and targeting. He was also in charge of the ATO, the Air Tasking Order that designated when and where everything that flew went. It had airplanes, ordnance, fuel, and target information included on one document. When the Air Force arrived to join the fight, they would be on the ATO and would probably control it.

  Bark stood and stepped toward the front of the ready room, then turned back. “Anything else I should know?”

  Woods hated the timing. “I stopped to see him to ask him the feasibility of a two-plane strike on the flight plan tomorrow night.”

  “Tomorrow?” Bark asked, shocked. He walked toward the SDO’s desk muttering under his breath. He stopped again and spoke to Woods. “Don’t do anything, or talk to anybody about this, until you talk to me about it.” Bark hesitated as something occurred to him. He looked at Woods, his eyes brighter than they had been one minute before. “I want you and Big to plan on going. If it’s going forward, I want to see the final planning before we approach anybody. And I want Wink doing the planning. At least I can trust him not to fake the gas figures.”

  Woods watched Bark walk away. He had gone from being furious with Woods to handing him the biggest, most important mission the squadron had ever flown without any explanation. Woods pondered what it meant, but finally quit, accepting the gift horse for what it was.

  35

  The image of laptops next to candles was startling, but not to the Assassins. They had long ago learned that their leader, the one who called himself the Old Man of the Mountains, believed that the future of Islam lay in the combination of old and new, of historic traditions and the use of technology. They knew how to live in the desert like Bedouins, and in the cities like the cosmopolitan Arabs they could become. Their dedication to their cause was complete. They were able to travel through the world with whatever appearance best suited them. They were Assassins, but much of what made them so deadly was being chameleons of the desert.

  The Sheikh sat in the chair he preferred near the large table on which he liked to work. It was lit by candles that flickered against the uneven stone ceiling carved into the hill above. He looked at his lieutenants, gathered in front. The Sheikh wanted to speak to them as a group. He didn’t do it often, but when he did, everything else stopped. He stood and walked slowly back and forth behind his chair on the dark, worn Persian rug. His beard was oiled with a substance that remained a mystery to those with whom he spent every day. The Sheikh was a strong, energetic man who demanded absolute obedience and received it. He could also be warm and engaging, but rarely smiled.

  The Sheikh waited until he was finally satisfied his men had not only given him their faces but their minds. “The Americans continue to bomb in Syria and in Lebanon. They try hard, but do not know what they are doing.”

  Farouk, his brightest lieutenant and recognized by all as a future leader in whatever they became, spoke quickly. “Do you think they know we are here?” He was permitted to raise questions that none of the others would have been allowed to ask.

  “They try to photograph our mountain with their satellites,” the Sheikh said. “But the satellite cannot tell one black robe from another. They know that some of us are here, or were here when the photographs were taken, but they don’t know whether I’m here now.” He thought about the difficulty America had caused herself by going after him by name. “It is me they want. They took my bait. And now we are in Iran, the country which cares as deeply as any other to protect Islam. They don’t agree with us, and wish we would not cause trouble. But if it is necessary, Iran will protect us from an attack. So the Americans may come, but it will be costly.”

  Farouk continued to ask questions in spite of the clear desire of the Sheikh to speak uninterruptedly. “But they must come. They will look weak if they even think we are here and don’t pursue us. They have declared war.”

  “Perhaps. But they do not have the ability to get us where we sit. Their bombs will be as useless here as in Lebanon and Syria. Allah has created strongholds which can absorb all of America’s bombs without endangering us. These are strong mountains.”

  Farouk knew the answer to the next question, but couldn’t help himself. “Do you want us to continue with the plan?”

  “Yes, it is time to execute the next phase. We have let the world know who we are and what we require. We have made the most powerful country in the history of the world turn its entire power against one man. They are afraid for every person who works for their government. We have succeeded beyond where we could have hoped. And they haven’t injured even one of our people.”

  His lieutenants were pleased. They too wanted to continue. They had feared he would back away from full execution when the United States became so deeply involved. They now realized it had been the Sheikh’s plan all along—a plan designed to entrap the Americans.

  The declaration of war had troubled the Sheikh initially, but he came to see it as recognition that he was as powerful as any country. It was intoxicating to the Assassins, who now had the worldwide stature they had wanted.

  “We must also, of course, be ready for men on the ground to come here,” the Sheikh continued.

  Two of his lieutenants looked at each other. They had considered this possibility in the initial planning. The Sheikh had dismissed it as so remote as not to be worthy of discussion. The one who had brought it up then had been given a look of pure scorn. One of them spoke, trying to disguise his surprise. “Army forces? Paratroopers?”

  The Sheikh shook his head slightly. “Possibly. But unlikely. I think Special Forces. Remain alert.”

  “We are ready for them.”

  “Do not underestimate the enemy. The largest mistake all people in history have made in fighting America is that they underestimate them. People assume the Americans are soft because they smile too much, and because their culture is corrupt.” He breathed deeply, as if considering something slightly unpleasant. “Their military has always demonstrated more courage than almost any other and to my knowledge has never lost a battle against a force of equal size. They are not to be taken lightly.”

  Farouk replied automatically, “Allah will be with us.”

  “Allah is always with us. But that does not give us a guarantee of immortality on earth. He does not say we will not be killed. We must all be prepared to go to Paradise.”

  Farouk looked down. “It would be an honor to di
e for our cause.”

  “Such an honor is not something to be sought. It may come, and is accepted with gratitude. But to behave in such a way that ensures your death shows you do not trust Allah to take care of you as he wills. It is not for us to say when we die. It is for him alone. We conduct ourselves with the belief,” the Sheikh said, raising his voice just enough to emphasize his point, “that everything we do will be met with the success our planning shows we should have. We expect to go on forever. And so we shall.” The Sheikh looked for another man. “Salim, is the radio ready?”

  Salim nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, sir. I checked it just one hour ago.”

  “Very well,” the Sheikh said. He had developed a way of communicating that made it almost impossible to track him. His men had found a new laser telephone under development in Israel. The designers were Palestinian, and even though the phone was only in research and not yet near production, they had allowed the Sheikh to have four of them. It worked with laser energy that was able to change amplitude much like an AM radio.

  The Sheikh and Salim walked up the dark circular stairway, lit only by burning candles. Their black robes brushed against the khaki-colored dirt and sandstone that the stairway had been cut through. They climbed until they were finally in the fortress proper, the sunlight filtering through the openings in the walls as they headed toward the westernmost part of Alamut. There were five or six other Assassins waiting for the Sheikh on the top of the highest level of Alamut, standing next to the laser phone.

  “Satellites?” the Sheikh asked one of them, a dark dour man.

  “Clear for another hour.”

  The Sheikh picked up the handset. It was impossible to intercept the signal unless you were standing between the sender and the receiver, and even then, only if you had the correct logarithm could you make any sense of it. It was as secure a means of communication as existed. His assistant aimed his laser phone at the receiver’s post, ten miles away, where it was copied and relayed to another laser receiver ten miles farther away. When the signal reached its final destination, it was passed to the Sheikh’s brother in the code in which it had originated. The only three people who had the code were the Sheikh, Salim, and the Sheikh’s brother. Once it was decoded, the Sheikh’s brother would walk across town and have a private conversation with the person to whom the communication was directed.

  The Sheikh began speaking softly in quick, short sentences.

  They stood in CVIC around a square chart table. Six aviators in their long, green Nomex fire-resistant flight suits and scuffed, black leather flight boots. They all had looks of intense concentration and excitement. Other aviators from other squadrons walked across CVIC looking at the charts, the latest information on SAM sights, and other strike planning information. Pritch stood behind the six Jolly Roger fliers.

  Bark was clearly in charge of the group. He looked at their bright, eager faces then said, “If we’re going into Iran, the plan has to be perfect.” He stared at the chart that covered the table. It was an ONC, an Operational Navigational Chart, that when folded out was four feet square. It showed the area from the eastern Mediterranean to the Black Sea to western Iran where it met Syria and Turkey. Pritch had placed the most recent information on Syrian and Lebanese SAMs directly on the chart. The red circles, representing ranges of SAMs in question, overlapped in many areas. AAA sites were noted by large red dots and Syrian Army positions were done in the traditional infantry notation understood by very few on the ship. Bark spoke again. “Trey set up the plan, along with Wink. They think it will work. I think they’re right. You are the best flight planners in the squadron. I want us to give this plan a murder board. Shoot it full of holes. Tear it apart. Ask every question that comes to your mind. I want it to be the best possible plan.”

  “Sir, do we have any indication that we can get the 28s in time for them to make a difference?” Blankenship, the Machine, asked.

  “They’re already on their way,” Wink said excitedly. “The Gunner reached deep. Or someone did. It’s like someone from Washington picked up the phone and told them to make this happen. Either that, or the Gunner must have incriminating photos of the Air Force pukes at Eglin. They couldn’t get them to us fast enough. They’re in the air on a C-17 right now. Two of them. There’s a COD waiting for them in Signonella after the ordies in Signonella build the bombs. They’ll come to us as all up rounds. The COD OIC has stripped the inside of the COD of the seats. ETA is 2200 tonight.”

  “Shit hot,” one of the officers said, smiling.

  “The Gunner also said that Eglin is shipping five of them to the Air Force B-2 base in Missouri,” Bark added. “If we don’t smoke this guy the Joint Chiefs are going to let the batmobile carry the bomb. Let the big boys take care of the problem, after the good little Navy boys have had their fun. But someone has told them to let us go first.” Bark had an idea suddenly. He looked at Woods. “You e-mail anybody else today? Anybody in Washington?”

  Woods made a face, as if it was a silly idea, and said nothing.

  “Air Force,” Blankenship said. “Always got to stick their nose in everything. This is our fight. They went after our officer.”

  “Frankly,” Bark said, “I think that’s why we’re going to get a shot at it. The Air Force would never let us do it without elbowing us out of their way if it was up to them.”

  Wink replied. “Right—until the B-2 dropped its highly accurate laser-guided bombs on the Chinese embassy in Belgrade, it had never seen combat. And that was with all those hot Air Force targeteers working the problem.”

  “Trey,” Bark said, “run through the plan.”

  “Yes, sir.” Woods picked up the chart and crossed to the sliding corkboard. He took the left side as Big stood at the right. The two men pinned it tightly to the board. “One of the keys is to make sure Iran doesn’t know we’re coming. We recommend that we launch with a diversionary strike. We need to keep up the impression of focusing on those two targets, and keep pounding them. But on one of those sorties, two Tomcats will peel off and head east. Way east. We go down to the deck and do a Night Vision Devices low level in the weeds all the way.” He took a pointer and showed where they would peel off. “As you can see, we avoid the SAMs most of the way to Iran and back. We’ll have to go through them on initial ingress and egress, but once into Syria, it should be clear sailing.” Woods looked at the chart as if having some new thoughts. “Then we drop these five-thousand-pound hogs and egress north and west,” he said, pointing to the chart, tracing the route that had been drawn in pencil including time on target and times over each way-point.

  “Load-out?” the Maintenance Officer demanded.

  “Each Tomcat will have one GBU-28. That’s about five thousand pounds. Limit ourselves to two Sidewinders each—another four hundred pounds—download the Phoenix rails, and we’ll both carry tanks. On the way in we’ll refuel feet dry as far east as we can sell it as part of a diversionary strike, and immediately on return, once feet wet. The four-hundred-fifty-mile transit will just allow us to pop-up and drop the 28s, then return low level. There isn’t much room for error.”

  The MO scratched his chin. “That doesn’t leave you any afterburner at all.”

  “True.”

  “Fighter escort?”

  “We want to minimize our radar signature. Four or five planes are much more likely to be seen.”

  “We ought to at least think about some dedicated fighters. Never know who will show up.”

  “You think the Iranians are going to show up?” Woods asked, implying the answer with his tone. He continued, skeptical. “They’d have to know we’re coming, or be awfully quick to get someone airborne. Their closest fighter base is Isfahan, and that’s three hundred miles away. Then they’d have to find us and intercept us at two hundred feet over the desert. At night. I like those chances, especially compared to sending in four big fighters instead of two.”

  “Fair enough. We can think about it.”

  “
Anyway, there’s the route. We’ll pop up to altitude for the drop about a half-mile apart. If things go according to plan we’ll have somebody on ground lasing the target for us.” Woods glanced over his shoulder at Pritch. “Any word yet?”

  Pritch shook her head. She was extremely uncomfortable, unhappy with Woods for even bringing it up.

  Bark looked at the other officers. “Anybody see any problems with this plan?”

  “Fuel,” Blankenship said. “How can you go into a mission like this and not have fuel for any afterburner? Too tight.”

  “We’ve got to get in and out undetected.”

  “You can’t even get shot at by one SAM. You can’t touch your burners at all. I don’t like it.”

  “The only alternative is to send a tanker with them part of the way on the route—”

  “Never happen. They’d all be sitting ducks.”

  “Exactly. That’s why we ended up where we did. There’s no other choice. The plan kind of wrote itself.”

  “Anybody else?” Bark asked.

  “Who’s on the ground?”

  “We’re not going to talk about that,” Pritch interrupted.

  “Tell me how sure you are it will happen. How reliable is this . . . ground unit.”

  “Unsure, sir.”

  “Well, that doesn’t give me warm feelings. Fly a million miles in the dark on the deck with night-vision devices so someone or something that we’re ‘unsure’ about will be there to finish it for us? How much of this plan is based on the guy being there? ’Cause if it were my skin at risk, I’d be real unenthusiastic.”

  “We don’t even know if . . . someone will be there. It is a possibility. I wouldn’t count on it.”

  “So what if he isn’t? Can the LANTIRN god here,” Bark said, indicating Wink, “put it down the guy’s throat?”

  Woods and all the others looked at Wink. He was the only one who could answer the question with any confidence. Wink thought about it for what seemed to those waiting like a long time. He knew the mission hung on his answer. “We’ll hit where we’re aiming. I can guaran-damn-tee you that. The problem is knowing where to aim to put it in the Sheikh’s ready room. I’d say the chances of getting him if we do it ourselves are low.”