Authors: Richard Herman
“Jack, care to take a walk?” Waters unlimbered from his chair and headed for the door. The colonel walked slowly. “We’ve got to defend this base until they tell us otherwise. Give me a plan for a spoiling raid against Bush
ehr. I want to discourage them, but we’ll need the President’s okay to launch this one. I got the message loud and clear from Reza; our so-called ally, the UAC, wants to use us as a sacrificial goat. No goddamn way.”
“And I get your message, sir,” Jack said, and took off.
4 September: 1220 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 0820 hours, Washington, D.C.
The main floor of the Watch Center was crowded with observers as the proposed spoiling raid against Bushehr unfolded on the center board. It was the first time that the analysts and technicians had seen the detailed exposition of the planning that went into an attack, and the numbers, timing, tactics and weaponeering held their attention as they saw the end result of much of their work.
Captain Don Williamson sat on a table, knuckles white as he clasped the edge and watched the computer analysis of the attack flash on the boards: probability of arrival over target, probability of damage to target, probability of recovery, expected losses-aircraft, expected losses-air-crews, expected battle damage, expected time to reconstitute, expected dollar cost. Williamson was a staff officer and would never experience the reality of combat, but unlike so many of his fellow ground pounders the numbers had a personal meaning for him ever since they had lost Tom Gomez.
The generals on the battle staff of the Watch Center saw a new dimension to their commander. Cunningham’s carefully cultivated coarse image was gone and his keen intellect was in charge as he directed the watch commander to feed different commands into the computer. “Whoever planned this is no idiot. Name?”
The duty NCO activated his communications link with Ras Assanya and queried Sergeant Nesbit about the identity of the tactician who formulated the plan. “Sergeant Nesbit is manning the console at Ras Assanya, sir. He’s asking Colonel Waters now.” After a brief pause the sergeant gave him the name of Captain Jackson D. Locke.
Cunningham looked at the generals. “Consider what Locke has done…minimum time over target, minimum
time in hostile territory, smart use of deception, and all worked into a tight package that only tasks the aircrews to do what they’ve been trained to do.” For the first time in days Cunningham felt a sense of relief. Waters had trained his people well. Given a chance they should be able to fight and survive. He rolled an unlit cigar in his mouth as the old veneer fell into place along with his determination to execute the attack. “Dick, get me an appointment with the President.”
The President’s National Security Adviser gave a slight shake of his head to the notion of launching a preemptive attack on the buildup at Bushehr.
“I’m sorry, Lawrence,” the President said, “but I can’t let you attack with the 45th, not now. We’re at a very sensitive point in negotiations; the 45th is good—too good for the moment.”
Cunningham didn’t take it as a compliment. “Mr. President, the PSI has the capability to wipe Ras Assanya off the map. We’ve received a warning signal from a reliable source that that is also their intention.”
“
We
haven’t received anything from other sources to confirm that,” the Security Adviser said. “Maybe a minor attack to harass the base, nothing more—”
“A face-saving device by the PSI for negotiations, sir?” Cunningham shot back. “Don’t bet on it—”
“Lawrence,” the President intervened. “Those people at Ras Assanya are as important to me as they are to you. I am not going to sacrifice them in the name of political expediency.”
Bullshit, was Cunningham’s unspoken thought. The President was avoiding the issue, talking in generalities. “Mr. President, I ask you—please return the fleet to the Gulf. At least that will discourage an attack on the base.”
The President shook his head.
“Then give me permission to let them defend against any attacking force heading their way—”
“What did you have in mind?” the Security Adviser challenged.
“I have in
mind
to launch a counter-attack against any
hostile force that enters a hundred-mile defensive perimeter around the base.”
“Out of the question.
That’s almost in their own territorial waters…”
The President took over. “Lawrence, my policies in the Persian Gulf are coming under
severe
scrutiny and even attack in the press and in Congress, as you well know. Too many people are willing to see the area go under out of fear of being caught in another Vietnam. Congress, as you also know, is demanding the War Powers Act be implemented. They
love
that act. That’s the first step, as I see it, in a unilateral
complete
withdrawal from the Gulf. How would our allies in the Middle East react to
that
? Especially with negotiations underway?”
“We still need to defend Ras Assanya,” Cunningham said, refusing to let the issue go down.
“A defensive perimeter of, say, fifty miles is justifiable,” the President said, offering the general a compromise.
“That’s less than six minutes flying time from the base.
We need a hundred.” Actually the general was willing to settle for fifty under certain conditions, and wanted to shift the discussion away from the details of any rules of engagement. As long as the 45th could meet attacking aircraft as soon as they broke the fifty-mile perimeter, the wing still had a chance. If the 45th had to wait until enemy aircraft penetrated to within fifty miles to
launch
, then the advantage shifted to the attackers. It was a case of not addressing the question and diverting their attention to another subject.
“It’s fifty,” the adviser told him.
“Will the fleet return if we come under heavy attack?”
“The fleet will support you but must remain outside the theater for now. It’s one of our bargaining chips,” the President said.
“Allow me to position MAC for a quick evacuation—”
“Can’t do that, Lawrence. The PSI would interpret it as a signal of our intentions to withdraw unilaterally in the near future. As I’ve tried to make clear, negotiations are too delicate to send a signal like that at this time. I assure you I’ll withdraw the 45th at the proper time but I will
make the decision when to do that. Lawrence, don’t overreact to this situation.”
“I may have to consider other options,” was Cunningham’s reply, placing the possibility of his resignation in front of them.
The President had an answer to that ploy. “I’ll only accept your resignation after this is successfully concluded. You will remain subject to my command until then.”
Without another word Cunningham left the Oval Office reasonably satisfied that he had enough leverage to protect the wing. Did the President realize he’d given him that much? He suspected the smart bastard damn well did.
4 September: 1625 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 1925 hours. Ras Assanya, Saudi Arabia
Sergeant Nesbit’s hands trembled slightly as he handed Waters the message off the high-speed printer. “Sundown is talking directly to the operator at the Watch Center,” he told the colonel. “It’s almost like being in the same room.”
“Why doesn’t he use the voice feature of the net?” Waters asked.
“Mostly because encryption and decryption is much faster and more accurate. We spend a lot of time synchronizing the voice scramblers when you transmit over long distances and some of it still comes through garbled,” the sergeant told him.
“Okay, acknowledge that I’m here.” Nesbit’s fingers flew over the keyboard, then punched the transmit key. Moments later the printer spit out the message it had been holding for his eyes only. “Get Stansell and Locke in here,” he ordered.
Jack couldn’t believe the message. They were denied permission to strike at Bushehr? And had to establish a defensive ring around the base at only fifty miles? “Don’t they know the basic correlation between time and distance? We’ve got to press this fight on
our
terms—”
“Calm down,” Waters told him. “The President has made his decision and we’ve got to live with it. No one ever said you had to like it. Now get back to the drawing board. See what you can come up with to defend this base.”
Waters proceeded to bring the base up to a pre-attack status. No sirens went off, no one ran to shelters. Instead, a last-minute positioning of equipment and personnel took place. Under the cover of darkness a convoy of trucks moved onto the narrow isthmus road that connected the base to the mainland and erected a series of radar reflectors intended to create a confusing pattern of returns on the radar scope of an attacking aircraft. A team planted anti-personnel mines and strung barbed wire on the beaches while two boats dropped mines into the shallow waters, forming a series of expanding rings seaward that any landing force would have to penetrate.
Meanwhile Jack and his people had come up with enough of a plan to present it to Waters, who nodded in agreement and told his Maintenance chief to download all bombs from the Phantoms and upload with air-to-air missiles.
Farrell could scarcely contain his elation as he brought his aircrews in for a new briefing.
Waters had sent most of the pilots and wizzos back to their quarters, telling them that they would have plenty of warning when the attackers sortied from across the Gulf.
Jack dragged a lounge outside and stretched out near the Intelligence chief, Carroll. Neither man said a word as they stared across the taxiway that ran past the COIC, sharing the tension of waiting. Carroll, assuming the pilot had fallen asleep in the long silence, was surprised to hear: “Intelligence is really the key, right?”
“Yeah,” Carroll replied. “It’s an enemy and a friend. An enemy when it takes the form of that trawler out there that haunts every move we make, a friend when it tells us when the Gomers are going to attack.”
Carroll started to doze off…only to see a big warbird that moved silently down the taxiway, towed by a small tug. The soft red glow of the cockpit’s lights lit the crew
chief’s face as he hunched forward in the front seat, arms dangling over the sides of the canopy rails. Only the subdued hum of the tag’s engine broke the silence as the F-4 filled Carroll’s vision, its angular lines giving meaning to the name “Big Ugly.” Then another image came to Carroll: the Phantom was totally functional, an instrument of caged power, lethal. But it was also a symbol of the system that made it work, a complicated organization that ranged from mechanics to the pilots that flew it. And like the system, it was incredibly complex, a machine designed to carry destructive power into a wide variety of hostile environments, from the air-to-air arena to attacking ground targets.
Its stark functional grace made it a beautiful machine, but only because of the way it fulfilled its purpose. A shudder ran through him as he realized that here, in the still of a desert night, he was mulling over such heady staff as function, utility, purpose—and death. And coming to a conclusion about
beauty
? Maybe he’d been in the desert, and at war, too long, he decided…
“Okay, warbird,” Jack said, shaking him. “You’re in it now, just like the rest of us suckers.” But, Carroll noted, he was smiling when he said it.
Waters and Farrell sat at the back of the room while board plotters behind Plexiglas sheets posted incoming information in grease pencil. C.J.’s squadron checked in first as each flight of four ships came on status. Waters cracked a smile when the commander of the 378th checked in. “Rup wanted to lead them,” Waters said. “He claimed that they would shape up if someone kicked their butts out of the starting blocks. I reminded him that he wasn’t current in Big Ugly but he could fly in the pit of the squadron commander’s bird. You should have seen his face.”
“He’s Jenkins’
wizzo
,” Jack said, surprised that the egotistical little lieutenant colonel would submit to being number two in a fighter.
“Right, and he ran out of words when Jenkins told him that he would rather have Doc in his pit.”
“Some people will do anything to fly,” Jack said, wishing he could find a fast way for himself.
An announcement drew their attention to the situation board as the first plot of the incoming wave of ships was marked up. Their speed identified them as hovercraft and fast patrol-boat escorts, and the doubts that had been building in Jack’s mind quieted some when the lack of enemy aircraft was confirmed. He had assumed the enemy CAP would hold their launch until the 45th launched its Phantoms. He nodded to Waters, his heart beating fast. “Now.”
“Scramble twelve aircraft from the 377th,” Waters ordered the controller.
C.J.’s twelve Phantoms were airborne six minutes after they were scrambled, each bird loaded with two external fuel tanks and eight air-to-air missiles.
“Do your thing,” Jack said quietly, counting on the trawler to warn the PSI of the launch. The Floggers had to be coaxed into scrambling early if they were to separate the attacking boats from their air cover when they were inside the fifty-mile perimeter.
C.J. was the bait.
Waters selected the GCI frequency on the radio and turned up the volume. Jack studied the older man with envy. He had so much self-control. Seven minutes later they heard Mary’s voice as she called out ten approaching bandits, sounding just as she had when she directed Jack and Fairly against the Libyan MiGs.
The even tone in C.J.’s voice shifted to rapid staccato as he ordered his flight to jettison their external tanks.
“They’re still going to be heavy with internal fuel if the Floggers come straight at them,” Jack said, unable to hide his worry.
Almost on cue C.J. ordered his flight to jettison a thousand pounds of fuel, configuring his birds to a better weight for the coming engagement.
Jack’s visible relief brought a smile to Waters’ face.
“You’ve got to trust them to think,” he told Jack. “Plus, have a little faith.”
Mary’s calm voice jolted them when she announced a second wave of Floggers approaching, bringing the total to twenty MiGs against C.J.’s twelve Phantoms.