Authors: Richard Herman
The conference Cunningham had called opened with Colonel Charles Bradford, Cunningham’s latest protégé, giving a quick update on the situation in the Gulf. He pointed out a military buildup around Bushehr, the Iranian air base located on a bay one hundred forty-five miles due east of Ras Assanya across the Persian Gulf. “Fighting has stopped. But negotiations with the PSI are stalled as the buildup at Bushehr gains momentum. I believe the PSI will strike out of Bushehr at the UAC, perhaps at Ras Assanya, in order to strengthen their position at the negotiating table.”
Cunningham leaned over the table, coming to the reason for the conference. “The President is personally calling the shots on this one. It’s his call if the 45th will be used again in combat, if it will be reinforced or withdrawn. Our job here is to figure out what the Air Force can do to protect Ras Assanya while the President negotiates us out of the Gulf.”
For the next two hours the men assembled faced up to how they were to accomplish that job. Not with mirrors or rah-rah but with tactics that would put the 45th on the line as never before. As Captain Bryant would say, “So what else is new…?”
That night Sara cradled into her husband’s arms, making sure he could feel their child growing inside her. The deep pleasure she felt was conditioned by the knowledge that she would only have him for this night, after which he would return to his wing. It was only a fantasy, and so impossible, but she wanted to run away with him, escape to a place they could never be found. And then reality crowded in, and she returned to the reality of this man who had changed her life, fulfilled it. Be grateful for the moment, Sara, and show it. And she forced her fears into the shadows and gently caressed her husband.
The next morning Sara rode with her husband to Mildenhall, determined to stay in control of herself. She had a bad moment when Waters’ flight was announced over the PA system and felt the too familiar panic that she was losing her husband. Together they walked to the waiting C-141, and after he kissed her good-bye she stood for a moment, waved as he entered the open hatch, then turned quickly. At least he deserved not to see her tears.
31 August: 0725 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 0925 hours, Wiesbaden, West Germany
The physical therapist ran her fingers lightly over the freshly healed wound and down the pilot’s leg. “Roll over,” she commanded. Her fingers moved gently down
his back, tracing an old scar on his right side. She slipped her fingers under the elastic of his shorts and pulled them down, inspecting his buttocks.
“Didn’t know I was wounded there,” Jack said, not exactly suffering from the inspection that was interrupted as Thunder walked into the room and, overhearing the remark, told him, “She’s checking out your brains, hero.”
The girl recovered by bustling around, full of professional advice. “You’re not ready to start exercising yet, maybe in another two days; we mustn’t open the wound…” She handed him his robe and crutches, wishing his buddy would drop dead. This one was a live one, but like most of them, he got away…
In the solarium Jack said, “As soon as they let us out on convalescent leave I’m going to Stonewood and try to find out why Gillian never wrote. I might not like the answer but at least I’ll know.”
“Like I told you, maybe she never got your letters.” Thunder didn’t know that Jack had only written once. “Why don’t you phone her while you’re here?”
“I can’t chance that. Something went wrong. I’ve got to try to straighten it out face to face. If I’m lucky…” “What?” “I want to marry her. Can you believe it?”
Thunder shook his head. “I’ll try, old buddy. But what about the therapist with wandering hands?”
Before Jack could try an answer an orderly ran up and handed him a shred of yellow paper, saying, “I’ve never seen a flash message before.”
Jack scanned the short message and handed it to Thunder. “Well, at least it’s nice to know we’re needed at Rats Ass,” he said, at the same time irritated that once again his so-called personal life was on hold.
“They’re holding a C-5 at Rhein-Main for you,” the orderly said.
“It’s got to be important if the Boss wants us back this fast,” Thunder said. “Waters doesn’t usually hit the panic button.”
Jack limped down the hall after Thunder, forcing thoughts of Gillian to the back of his mind, wondering about the summons from Waters.
The big transport plane’s lower deck was loaded with cargo and two batteries of SAMs that Jack had never seen before. Each battery consisted of three small trailers: one had a turret that held four short missiles; the second, an optical tracker; the third, a compact radar that resembled a cone-shaped hat sitting on top of a square box.
Jack found an empty seat on the upper passenger deck next to the Army lieutenant in charge of the new SAMs, and during the flight into Ras Assanya the lieutenant told how he had been selected to field-test the latest version of the British-made Firefly Rapier. He seemed to delight in describing how the system’s radar could simultaneously scan for aircraft and track a target. The high probability of a kill that the lieutenant claimed for his SAMs made Jack hope the PSI never got hold of any of them.
31 August: 1555 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 1855 hours. Ras Assanya, Saudi Arabia
The ramp was full of equipment and people waiting to onload when the C-5B taxied to a halt at Ras Assanya. By the time they deplaned most of the cargo was out of the back and two loadmasters were motioning equipment into line and up the forward ramp. Jack scanned the bunkers in the rapidly fading light. “The F-15s are gone…?”
Their confusion increased when Stansell stopped his pickup truck and motioned for them to hop in. “Appreciate the lift, Colonel,” Jack said, “but what in the hell is going on?”
“We’re digging in. That group on the ramp is the last of my squadron and equipment. The President ordered us to withdraw two days ago. You’ll hear all about it, but first you’ve got to see Doc Landis for a clearance to go back to work.”
Doc Landis was the only person in the clinic and was sorting out equipment and packing it into small boxes designed for use in the field. “We’re dispersing the clinic into four bunkers around the base,” he said. “That’s where everyone is.” He led them to a wall map of the base and
pointed out where they could find the temporary aid stations. “If you haven’t got the picture yet, we’re preparing for an attack.” He lifted Thunder’s flight cap and examined the WSO’s head, checking his eye movement and reflexes. “You’ll be ready to fly in a few more days.” He motioned for Jack to drop his flight suit and sit on the examination table, gently probed the new flesh on Jack’s thigh, concerned over the depth of the scar. “The quack who patched you up knew what he was doing. You’re only a few weeks away from flying. Start some leg-lifts tomorrow. About five, twice a day to start with.”
They found their wing commander in the command post section of the COIC talking to a sergeant they did not recognize. Waters introduced Master Sergeant John Nesbit, telling them that the sergeant was detached from the Pentagon to set up and run a direct communications link with the Watch Center. “He worked for Tom Gomez,” he added, giving Nesbit instant acceptance. “Rup, if you’re going to catch that C-5, you’d better shake it.”
“Sorry, boss, I’m not going. My wing wants me to write up an after-action report, have it ready when and if Cunningham asks for it.”
“Your wing needs—”
“Shee it,” he drew the obscenity out into two words. “My wing’s got more colonels than it knows what to do with. The way I see it, we’ll be back when the fighting starts back up, and I’ll need to be here to get the F-15s in action. In the meantime I can help you out.”
Waters nodded. “I need all the help I can get. Our Rapiers came in on the C-5. Get them sited and camouflaged before morning. I want them to be a big surprise for the Floggers. Then chase over to the Security Police and find out how Chief Hartley is doing training his latest batch of volunteers and reinforcing the perimeter.”
Stansell found that Hartley had done everything but dig a moat and said so.
“Right, sir. We dig a ditch and turn this place into an island.”
“Chief, do you have any idea what you’re saying? The narrowest part of the isthmus is almost two thousand feet
wide. And what happens if it floods before we finish? What about the road to the mainland? We can’t cut that.”
“Colonel, we’ve got three bulldozers on this base. Let’s use them.” Stansell keyed his brick and relayed the chief’s request to the command post. An hour later, a NCO arrived with the first bulldozer and listened in shock to the chief’s directions.
“We start bulldozing from both sides of the road toward the water. We turn the road into a causeway and bury demolitions under it. Make the cut at least thirty feet wide with steep sides. Push the dirt into an embankment on the base side. That will give us ridge to fight from. I want ten feet of water in it.” The sergeant tried to argue with the chief, telling him it would take days to move that much earth. “Sarge,” the chief said wearily, “am I speaking in a language you don’t understand? Don’t tell me why you can’t do it; I only want to hear how you’re going to do it.”
The sergeant shut up and went to put his bulldozers to work.
When Stansell asked the chief what else he wanted he was not surprised by his request: “Mines,” and he gestured toward the water surrounding the base, “plus some boats to lay them with.” Stansell headed back to the command post to see what he could find.
Waters put Jack to work helping move the command post into a new concrete bunker, and Carroll kept trying to explain why the wing was not being withdrawn while negotiations were underway and that Waters was driving the wing into a deep defensive crouch, as Cunningham had ordered at the conference at Third Air Force. “We’re getting reports of increased terrorist activity between us and Kuwait,” Carroll told him. “Only armed convoys are moving down the coast road and they’re coming under heavy attack. The last two have been turned back.”
“That’s our only land link,” Jack said. “Sounds like we’re being cut off.”
“Looks that way. Waters figures we’ll be getting some attention pretty soon. He’s using everyone and everything to hunker down and prepare for attack. What a pisser to
be the last man killed in this shitty little war,” Carroll said. And Jack thought, Who could argue with that?
The third day after returning from the hospital, Jack was asked by Waters to take care of a Saudi F-15 that had just declared an emergency for fuel and was in the landing position. Jack borrowed one of the few pickups on base and was waiting on the ramp when the F-15 taxied in. The canopy raised while the engines spun down. The pilot took his helmet off—it was Reza. He climbed down the boarding ladder a crew chief had hooked over the canopy rails, looking very much the fighter pilot, and shook Jack’s hand. “I can only stay long enough to refuel, but I must speak to your Colonel Waters.”
“Byzantine politics again?” Jack ventured.
“I’m afraid so. And this is quite serious.”
At headquarters Reza came directly to the purpose of his visit. “We have information that you will be attacked the day after tomorrow. It will come from Bushehr, before early morning prayers…”
As he said it Reza hoped the Americans would accept his warning and not press him for more information. He could not reveal that he had learned of the attack from the PSI agent who had been running his cousin Mashur, or how the agent had decided to switch sides. For a substantial price, of course. It had been decided by the UAC not to warn JUSMAG or the 45th. The UAC in their peculiar wisdom believed the PSI would only negotiate when it appeared they were winning and an attack on Ras Assanya would presumably create that illusion. The Arabs calculated that the attack would further weaken the PSI and make them less of a threat. So it had been decided to let the Americans serve as a pawn to be traded off for negotiations with the PSI. The prince did not agree. Sacrificing good allies did not match his own well-bred sense of honor, Byzantine or otherwise.
Waters thanked Reza for his warning, and Reza said he had to leave, since he had used the fuel emergency as a cover for his visit and his F-15 would by now be refueled and ready to go.
Reza had proved he could be trusted, but how big an attack was coming? In any case, Waters could see the po
litical jigsaw puzzle was finally fitting together. And seeing it, bitterness took over. The 45th, it seemed, was nothing but a political pawn, at the expense of his people. Well, this pawn had teeth and could…
would
…sure as hell defend itself.
Carroll poured over the latest Stealth reccy photos, which supported the warning Reza had passed to the wing: the PSI was mustering a waterborne invasion force one hundred forty-five miles to the east in the bay of Bushehr. The large number of operational hovercraft surprised Carroll. He calculated that the PSI could land a sizable force on the western edge of the Gulf two hours and fifty minutes after departing their launch ramps. “Not good,” he told Waters when the colonel walked into Intel. “Look at the MiG-23s they’ve deployed to give them air cover.” He flipped a series of photos of the air base at Bushehr less than six hours old. “They have the capability of launching an attack anytime they want. If Turika’s intelligence is good, that’s their intention. And look at the ships they’ve got around Khark Island to protect the oil terminal. They can easily move them along with the invasion fleet, more than doubling the number of surface combatants they can throw at us.”
Twenty minutes later, sixty-four officers and NCOs who commanded the units and sections that made up Waters’ wing crowded into Intel.
“We’re getting intelligence warnings of an attack in the next day, two max. Pass it on to your people. I’ve requested airlift to evacuate all non-essential personnel. Let’s get as many of our troops out of here as we can. Get back here with names and numbers ASAP.”
Waters motioned for Carroll to join him. “Bill, somehow we’ve got to bypass the UAC. They’re playing fiddle-fuck with us. Get an update message to the Watch Center.” He paused for a moment. “And transmit a copy to Shaw at Third Air Force.