Authors: Richard Herman
“Probably. Human beings need to share each other’s burdens. That’s what those girls are doing, sharing their loneliness and sense of dislocation with someone else. And I don’t think you were hallucinating; your sense of reality is intact and you knew it wasn’t real. Your subconscious was simply sending you a strong visual image. It’s the price a sane man pays when he fights a war.”
The doctor believed he had said enough and guided the conversation away from Waters and onto their current operations. When he left Waters’ office he was reasonably sure that Waters was in control of himself and the wing. Not every commander was a Colonel Morris. Waters was made of sterner stuff.
Stansell finally located Jack on the beach hidden between two low dunes, sitting under a canvas canopy he had rigged, pulling on a beer and staring out to sea.
“You spend a lot of time here?” Stansell asked.
Jack handed him a cold beer from the cooler and mo
tioned him into the shade of the canvas canopy. Stansell accepted it as a peace offering and sat down. “It’s a good place to think. Not too many people swim out here even though the water is crystal clear. Doc Landis says there’s some pollution and I guess the shark net is out there for a reason, but I haven’t seen one yet.” Jack continued to look out to sea, not wanting to tell the man that he felt better when he could concentrate without distractions on the men who had killed his friends.
“Colonel Waters asked me to get with you and work out some tactics,” Stansell said, waiting for the reaction. He was uncomfortable in the heat and crawled out of his Nomex flight suit, sitting in his shorts.
“I’ve been thinking on it, Colonel. The main problem is that damn trawler. It’s giving the Gomers our launch times and their reaction time keeps getting shorter and shorter. Hell, they were scrambled and jumped you before you coasted in. That’s why Colonel Waters canceled tonight’s missions. He figures we’d be jumped too.”
Jack was somewhat mistaken about the significance of the trawler; actually it only provided confirmation to the PSI that the frag order they had received from Mashur was being implemented. Without knowing the time and targets that were going to be attacked in advance, the PSI could not react in time to intercept them.
“It’s no big deal on changing tactics,” Jack went on. “I think your idea of blowing through the Gomers is a good one, but I also think you got it back-asswards.”
Stansell wanted to point out that an F-4 mud-mover couldn’t have a clue about how to employ an F-15, then remembered Waters’ words about listening to the pilot and strangled his reply.
“The MiGs come at us in waves,” Jack said, “and I want to use that against them. Break your Eagles into three flights, about like you did last time. When your first flight of Eagles encounters MiGs, shoot them in the face with missiles just like last time.
But
instead of blowing on through and leaving the fight, stick around and fight. The F-15 can out-turn any Flogger built, it should be a turkey-shoot for you. Then the second flight of Eagles should blow on through, stuffing any bandit they can in the face.
It’s the second flight’s contract to meet the second wave, the third flight’s to meet the third wave.”
“What if there’s a fourth wave?”
“We should be off-target by then and headed home. There’ll be enough F-15s in the area to confuse them and we can defend ourselves at that point.”
Stansell thought it over. His inclination was to change things, make it more complicated, vary the way they would engage the MiGs. It upset him that he couldn’t think of anything better under the circumstances. Like most officers, especially action-oriented ones, he wasn’t an introspective person, rarely bothered to look at himself. Now for the first time in his career he realized someone else’s way of thinking was very probably better than his own…and it had taken a lieutenant to make him face up to it. Well, a lieutenant going on captain, he reminded himself, trying to find some consolation.
No denying it, this Jack Locke had the potential to be a first-rate leader, maybe even a combat commander. “Jack, I’d be glad to be your sponsor if you want to transition to F-15s.”
“Thanks, I appreciate your offer, but I’ll stick with Big Ugly for a while longer. At least until this is over.” And added quickly, “Besides, I’ve got to get Thunder home and married. It’s something Colonel Fairly trusted me to do.” Jack’s voice quieted. “He was my squadron commander and flight lead when Thunder and I got a Libyan MiG. He bought it on our second mission here.”
Stansell heard him loud and clear—and the underlying need for revenge.
Waters sat and listened to Jack’s proposed change in tactics for the Eagles and agreed with him about the early warning the trawler was giving the PSI. “We’ve got to slow down the reaction time of the Floggers or we’re dead in the water, pun intended.”
“Let’s get the Navy to come in and blow it away,” Stansell suggested.
Bill Carroll shook his head. “Maintaining the alleged neutrality of the Gulf is one of our major political objectives. The U.S. isn’t about to provoke a neutral, including
the Soviet Union—at least they’re officially neutral so far. We need to jam the hell out of that trawler.”
Jack was on his feet. “Okay…what if a big, unidentified neutral ship with one hell of a jammer happened to show up when we launch and parked next to it?”
“Could work, but where are we going to find one of those puppies?” Waters asked.
“I know where, but I’ll need to go to Riyadh and talk to an old…acquaintance.”
Waters rocked back on the hindlegs of his chair, quickly running through what Jack had said, not wanting to delay his answer too long before the rivulets of doubt would form. “Why do I get the feeling that I don’t want to know any more?” he said, and smiled. “Take three days and see if you can get what you want. After that, get back here and lay it all out. You’ll probably scare the hell out of me but that’s what I get paid for.”
Jack thought for a moment, then: “Can I take Carroll here with me? Might get some use out of his subtle tongue.”
“Might as well. Bill needs a break. Now get going.”
Waters waited until Jack and Carroll had left the room. “Well?” he said to Stansell.
“You’re right. He is good. But aren’t you worried about what he’s trying to arrange in Riyadh?”
“A lot,” Waters told him. “But…” He wanted to demonstrate to Stansell how he worked, believing the man could add more to the wing’s operation if he accepted his way of ordering and leading. “But I’ve got to take the calculated risk and trust him or word will get out that I’ve got the ‘disease of the colonels.’”
“The disease of what?”
“The main symptom of it is when you tell your troops to do something and then reject it after they’ve done it because it’s not what you wanted. Great for buying shoes but a lousy way to inspire trust and confidence.”
Stansell was beginning to understand why the morale of the 45th, in spite of its losses, was so high, and why young and promising pilots like Locke were more than willing to stay with the wing…Waters was one hell of an officer.
6 August: 1415 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 1715 hours, Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
Jack and Carroll were shocked at the prices of the modest hotel they had found in Riyadh. After a hurried consultation they decided they could afford the cheapest double room for one night; then they’d have to find another, much less expensive hotel if they had to stay a second. Once in the room, Bill flopped onto one of the narrow, hard beds and dialed the number Jack had given him. His fluent Arabic proved to be the key, and Jack soon found himself listening to the cultured Oxford accent of Prince Reza Ibn Abdul Turika. Within an hour they had checked out of the hotel, been driven to the prince’s residence and ushered into separate, wondrously plush bedrooms.
A discreet knock on the door announced the prince. “Jack, my friend, I am pleased to see you.” Reza extended his hand. His soft leather loafers, slacks, and open-necked silk shirt were Côte d’Azure and not Arabian. “Please introduce me to your friend. My servants are impressed by his Arabic. It is rare for an American to have such mastery of our language as your Captain Carroll.” He led the two men into a large well-appointed lounge and indicated seats for them on divans around an ornate coffee table.
A servant wheeled out a covered trolley that proved to be a portable bar and proceeded to mix a dry martini for Reza. “You Americans have developed a most civilized drink with good English gin. It may be one of your more important contributions to the world’s culture.”
Carroll understood what the prince’s martini implied—he was Arab. Outside his residence Reza would act like a Saudi; only in the privacy of his home or abroad would he be the modern man. A slim, remarkably beautiful woman in tight jeans and a tailored shirt joined them and was introduced by Reza as his wife. Carroll wondered how in hell Jack had met this Saudi prince.
“You no longer, how do you say, have your hair on fire?” Reza said, smiling at Jack. His wife had asked to be excused, aware that her husband was turning to the purpose of the men’s visit.
“I guess the war can make even a flyboy grow up fast,” Jack said.
“And how is your black friend…Thunder?”
“Well, matter of fact, he’s busy planning our next mission. Otherwise he would have come along with us.”
“Ah, yes, your Wolf Flight is famous. Your American newspapers seem to believe you to be a new Lawrence of Arabia while they condemn our small war of survival. I suspected Thunder was a force behind your successful night missions. It’s too bad that all the resources of the 45th can’t be used against the People’s Soldiers.”
“Well, we figure we could do more if a Soviet trawler monitoring our launches was somehow stopped from warning the PSI that we’re coming. The trawler gives them time to scramble against us before we hit our targets.”
Okay, there it was…out on the table.
“Yes, Jack, I understand your problem. But as long as the trawler stays in international waters there is little that can be done about it. You understand we cannot compromise the status of the Gulf…it must not become a battleground. It has been an old problem with the Iranians and Iraqis, we dare not enlarge it…”
“Maybe if we could borrow an oil tanker to act like an iron curtain around the trawler, something might be done about it,” Jack said, and then, speaking quietly, he laid out what he had in mind.
When he had finished, Reza nodded. “I believe I can arrange that. Jack, our way is different than yours and what you are asking for involves political exchanges. It is Byzantine politics. Think of it as a labyrinth with many passages we must go down at the same time.”
Reza could not, of course, tell them about his cousin who was passing on the frag order to the People’s Soldiers of Islam. The Americans could not be expected to comprehend the power struggles that went on in the Saudi royal family, requiring that Mashur be protected. At least, he thought, Mashur will be in England attending the Farnborough air show for the next few days. The Americans would also find it confusing that religious leaders in his country were crying for the Americans to be expelled…and under other circumstances he would also like to see
them go…but he and those of more practical bent appreciated how much his country needed the 45th…
8 August: 1200 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 1500 hours. Ras Assanya, Saudi Arabia
Two days later Reza’s small Gates Learjet deposited Jack and Carroll at Ras Assanya. Thunder was waiting with a pickup and drove them to the COIC, where Waters was anxious to hear about their trip.
“Reza has some Japanese friends who will be happy to even a few old scores. An oil tanker will be available when we get our next frag order,” Jack told Waters.
“Can we trust him?” Waters asked.
“Can we afford not to, sir?…There’s something else, Colonel. Something there’s no question about. We need to change the way we get out of bad-guy land and work on bagging a few MiGs. We figure it’s time to even the score.”
The first shrill whines of the starting engines jarred Jack out of his sleep. It would be the first strike since they had aborted with the F-15s. At first he had felt relief when the frag order came in two days after he and Carroll had returned from Riyadh. The targets indicated the PSI was again pushing at Basra, trying to break it open. But the United Arab Command was tenaciously holding, taking heavy casualties. This time the 45th was fragged against the transportation net in an attempt to freeze movement of men and supplies away from the FEBA, The Forward Edge of Battle Area—the front. But doubts were starting to build—was his plan too ambitious, was he relying too much on Reza? And if it was, and if he was…well, the thought of dying in a grubby little war helping the Arabs—as a group, people he didn’t particularly like—wasn’t one he relished. Still, he did like Reza, the only Arab he knew personally. Whatever, it bothered him sometimes that he was fighting for political goals old men in comfortable rooms had chosen for him. But then he remembered Doc Landis’ words at Mike Fairly’s memorial service: ending a small war before it became a larger, uncontainable war
was what it was all about. And there was another thing, something very simple and deep: he wanted to hurt the enemy that had killed his friends. He wanted his revenge. But were the sacrifices worth the results? Only when he snapped the gear and flaps up on takeoff could he stop brooding and find his answer dropping bombs on a hostile target. It was simple then: them or us, kill or be killed.
The trawler’s radar operator studied his scope, watching the big blip move toward them. He had noticed it thirty minutes earlier but had decided it was one of the rare ships that still chanced the run into Kuwait. He carefully plotted the new position of the ship, confirming its course. “Konstantine,” he called out the open door of the stifling hot cabin that served as the radar shack on the trawler, “there is a large ship bearing down on us. Have the lookouts check on it and tell the captain. It is not in the shipping channels.”
“Impossible,” the mate said. “It would have to be out of ballast to be in these shallow waters. They don’t do that.” One of the lookouts solved the argument by calling in and reporting that an oil tanker riding high in the water was bearing down on them but should pass to their left, between them and Ras Assanya. Konstantine ran out to the bridge’s wing and focused his binoculars on the ship. “Get the captain,” he snapped. Every eye on the trawler studied the tanker.
The captain came onto the bridge, still half-asleep and rubbing his chin. “Identify him,” he said, focusing his binoculars on the ship. “We will report him to the International Maritime Commission. At least his insurance rates will rocket for being out of the shipping channels—” He froze as he saw the bow of the tanker start a swing toward his trawler, putting them on a collision course. “Hard to starboard,” he ordered the helmsman, turning his much smaller craft away from the looming mass of the tanker brushing past them. Well, at least the idiot must realize where he is and return to the proper channel—
“Fighters!” the aft lookout reported in. “I count over thirty headed north, are launching…”
“Why didn’t you report them sooner?” the captain barked into his headset.
“The tanker was in the way. I cannot see through steel, Captain. Ask the radar operators why they have not reported it.”
The captain knew the 45th maintained strict radio silence and his operators had to rely on radar to pick up launching aircraft out of Ras Assanya. But why hadn’t they reported anything? “Captain, we’re being jammed,” the chief radar operator told him, answering his unspoken question.
All doubts he had about the tanker vanished. It was a trick of the Americans. But whose tanker was it? They had not been able to identify it. “Radio a warning,” the captain told his operators, hoping the air-defense net would receive the message in time to react.
“Captain,” the mate told him, “all our radio frequencies are being jammed. The jamming is very close to us. It must be from the tanker.” The two men ran back out onto the open wing of the bridge. The tanker was slowly turning, staying close to the trawler. Until they could stand well clear of the tanker, they could not overcome its jamming.
“We’ve got to outrun the tanker. Turn to the north; find another frequency. They can’t jam everything we have…” The mate could hear the building panic in the captain’s orders. Soon he would be in command of the trawler and not the old fool who swilled cheap vodka and slept past six in the morning. The radio operators rapidly cycled to new frequencies as they searched for an open channel to transmit a warning message. But as soon as they found one the automatic frequency sweep on the tanker’s jammer would lock on them and override their signal. As the trawler tried to draw abeam of the tanker the huge ship again turned into the trawler, forcing it to turn eastward and continuing to cast its shadow over the trawler’s radio frequencies.
After seventeen minutes, the jamming ceased and the tanker stood clear of the trawler, signaling, “Can we be of any assistance?”
The captain swore and beat on the railing, fully aware the Phantoms were reaching into Iran.
The captain of the oil tanker
Tokara Maru
stood on the starboard wing of the bridge, concentrating on the Russian trawler as his ship turned south, his weather-beaten face impassive while the trawler disappeared behind him. The captain stood almost five feet ten inches, tall for a Japanese of his generation, and at sixty-three years of age, his rigid discipline and self-control masked the satisfaction he felt. He turned now and walked into the spotless, air-conditioned bridge.
The officer of the watch saw him turn and warned the helmsman that the captain was coming. The old man was a perfectionist.
The navigation officer was still awed by the captain’s piloting of the 150,000-ton ship—small by supertanker standards—around the trawler. Only the officer of the watch acknowledged the captain’s entrance with a crisp bow. The captain glanced at the radar, fixing the location of the trawler and his ship, and walked out onto the port wing.
“He hates the Russians,” the helmsman said
sotto voce
.
“Most Kuril islanders do,” the navigation officer put in. “He was forced to leave with his family in 1945 when the Russians took over their island, Kunashir.”
The bridge became silent when the captain reentered and stood beside his chair—he seldom sat down. “How long to the rendezvous with our escort?”
“Forty-six minutes,” the navigation officer told him. “We are in radio contact with the British frigate and Dutch minesweeper the United Arab Command has arranged to escort us through the Strait of Hormuz. The frigate sends a ‘well done.’”
The old man focused on the horizon. “Please relay the message to the crew and tell them I am most satisfied with their performance. Now we must return the
Tokara Maru
safely to the open sea. She is my last command.” He silently reprimanded himself for saying so much, but he was pleased with his crew. He had not been allowed to tell them about the coded radio message from the company’s headquarters in Yokohama that asked him to take his ship into the Persian Gulf as a jamming platform for
the Americans. He had only told them that the next voyage would be dangerous. They had volunteered to the man. The captain’s face relaxed. The men on the bridge exchanged furtive glances. Their captain was very pleased.
This time, without warnings from either Mashur or the trawler, the strike force was able to reach its targets unopposed, hugging the deck and trying to avoid early-warning air-defense radar. Without MiGs to contend with they were able to fly around the last known positions of SAM and Triple A sites. And their intelligence was current, courtesy of the Stealths.
It was, of course, impossible to avoid all the defense sites, and they deliberately challenged a few emplacements, relying on surprise and hoping to catch the PSI at their early-morning prayers. Waters was leading the first attack flight and was nearing his IP. Sweat poured off his face as he concentrated on picking up the small cluster of buildings located at the junction of two dirt roads that his wizzo had selected as their Initial Point. It flashed into his front left-quarter panel, exactly where it was supposed to be. As his flight flew over the buildings he could see six figures still kneeling on the ground next to their trucks, looking at the fighters turning above them. They would soon be on their radios, warning the railroad marshaling junction an attack was imminent and fighters were inbound. Well, they would have to be damn quick; he was less than a minute out.
So far the PSI had not reacted. Waters doubted it would be as smooth getting out. It depended on the last half of Jack’s plan. Two miles out from the junction he pulled in a pop maneuver, seeing the railroad junction with eight boxcars on sidings for the first time. He rolled in and pickled his bombs off. Before the bombs exploded he could see figures running for cover. He jinked the Phantom hard as he escaped, not taking chances, expecting to receive ground fire. His wizzo told him the other three planes in his flight were safely off target; their six o’clock was clear and no bandits were in sight. Waters was too old a hand to relax and concentrated on getting himself and his wingman out of the target area. They headed southwest, toward
the city of Basra, an escape route they had never used before.
Jack’s plan had been simple: egress over Basra, the pivot point of the whole conflict. He had maintained that the UAC would never be able to coordinate its own air-defense network sufficiently to allow the fighters through. But if the UAC ordered its own Triple A and SAMs to remain at weapons-tight, only shooting at aircraft positively identified as hostile between 8:00 at night and 7:00 each morning, the 45th could hit its targets early in the morning and sneak through before the gunners started shooting at everything in sight. The UAC had agreed and sent out the order the day before. Mashur was still in England, taking a prolonged vacation…
The last of the Phantoms exited over Basra at 6:44
A.M.
with MiGs in hot pursuit. The escorting F-15s had turned around and were sorting the MiGs out, each Eagle driver picking his target. For the next six minutes the embattled inhabitants and defenders of Basra watched as the F-15s met the MiGs over their city, engaging in classic aerial combat. Instead of zooming through the oncoming Floggers, the first flight of Eagles stayed and mixed it up, with most of the agile fighters using the vertical to turn with the slightly smaller MiG-23 Floggers. From the ground it looked as if the Eagles had hinges on their tails as they flopped over, always keeping their nose on a MiG. For the MiG pilots it was a terrifying experience, seeing the F-15s turn so quickly and not being able to disengage, to escape. The sky filled with the smoke trails of Sidewinder missiles and the falling wreckage of six MiG Floggers.
The second flight of Eagles ripped through the fight, heading for a second wave of oncoming MiGs, and the deadly ballet repeated itself as three more Floggers fell out of the sky. The third wave of MiGs opted not to engage and ran for home.
Stansell had forbidden his pilots to pursue the MiGs back into hostile territory, and so once the sky had been swept clean he ordered his birds home. His words crackled over the radio, “Recover as briefed,” which also meant no showboat victory rolls.
At the debrief in the COIC Waters saw how closely success and morale were linked. One of the F-15 pilots had produced a case of champagne and toasts were being intermingled with an occasional dousing. Stansell walked in then, looked around and made his way through the crowd to wing commander Waters. “We did good,” he said.
“
You
did good. I saw you didn’t let them do victory rolls on recovery. You’ve got a bunch of disciplined pros flying for you. Maybe next, though, you ought to let ’em. They’ve earned it. But of course it’s your decision—”
Their exchange was interrupted by an announcement over the loudspeaker, “Your attention in the COIC. All, repeat all, aircraft have safely recovered.”
Cups were refilled and the crews turned and looked to Waters. But before he could find the right words, Bull Morgan took over. “Gentlemen, to our commander, Colonel Waters.”
The reccy photos being projected on the screen of the main briefing room told a tale of destruction and success—the wing had stopped the latest flow of men and supplies before they could move into position to attack Basra. Every pilot and wizzo was there, listening to Carroll as he recounted the BDA from that morning’s mission and confirmed seven of the nine MiG kills. Two of the Flogger pilots had been captured, more or less intact, and were undergoing “interrogation” by the UAC.
After the briefing Waters told Jack and C.J. in Carroll’s small office that JUSMAG wanted them to launch Wolf Flight that same night for a cleanup on specific targets. Reports had it that the PSI was moving at night and forming convoys at transloading points. Those points were the new designated targets.
“They’ll be waiting, Colonel.” Carroll, from previous flights, was almost certain there was an intelligence leak in the UAC.
“I know, but we’ve hurt them. Now’s the time to keep punching,” Waters said.
“I think we need to go back to pairing a Weasel with an E model for this one.” Jack was already committed.