Brown, Dale - Independent 01 (40 page)

           
“Yes."

           
“And that
was
... ?”

           
"H-model Bear bombers.”

           
Sahl took a
closer look at the photo. “Well, that
is
interesting. They're a long way from home.”

           
“I haven't
found exactly where they're from—I think Vinnica Airbase southwest of
Kiev
is missing a half-dozen at least—but I’ve been checking on something even more
interesting.” Collins pulled up a chair in front of Sahl’s desk. “
Tashkent
has been the major staging area for most of the strategic aircraft—bombers and
large transports —involved with Operation Feather, right?”

           
“Go ahead.”

           
“I think
the Russians are putting AS-6 cruise missiles on those Bears parked at
Tashkent
.”

           
Sahl
frowned as he picked up the digital photographs of the large “satellite bluff’
hangars. “Now how the hell can you tell that from these photos?”

           
“By this.”
Collins retrieved another photo from his carrying
case. This one was a more conventional optical satellite photograph taken
several months earlier of a completely different, much larger military airbase.
“While I was checking on things, trying to score a few points with the boss, I
did some note taking on strategic cruise missiles. I wrote down every detail I
could find on AS-6 and AS-4 cruise-missile operations. Of course, one of the
biggest Bear bomber bases is
Murmansk
,
so I concentrated my search there, took a lot of notes on the cruise missiles
based with the Bear Gs and Hs, with particular emphasis on the support
vehicles.”

           
“This
story, I know, must have a point. Please get to it.”

           
“I’m
getting there, sir. Here’s the scoop. The AS-6 missile uses kerosene
liquid-fueled rocket engines, with nitric acid as the catalyst. Dangerous
stuff. What’s more, the stuff has got to be pumped into the missile’s tanks
under pressure to facilitate airborne ignition. They’ve built a special truck
to do this. Here’s a picture of one of those trucks.”

           
Sahl,
looking at it under a pair of stereo magnifiers, thought it resembled a huge
square-nosed firetruck with a distinctive set of sil- verized tanks on either
side. The photo even showed a crew of four men in silver-colored fire suits
working around the truck. Sahl checked the date-time stamp on the photo—it was
recent. “Now if you could only find one of those trucks in
Tashkent
....”

           
“Ask and ye
shall receive.” Collins pulled the last photo out of his case. “Taken
yesterday.”

           
It was one
of the most unusual photos Sahl had ever seen. It showed, quite clearly, one of
the cruise-missile fuel trucks being towed by a large tractor-trailer truck
after it had apparently struck an aircraft tow-bar on a flight-line access
road. Sahl thought of the luck element that was required in this business of
reconnaissance photography: a few seconds more or less and the accident never
would have occured or the KH-14 satellite never would have spotted the truck. A
few more minutes and the wreck would have been towed away without a trace and
they might never have known for sure about the cruise missiles.

           
“Impressive, Collins.
They’ve got AS-6 or AS-4 cruise
missiles in
Tashkent
.”

           
“Probably AS-6s.
They stopped production on AS-4s back in
1989 in favor of the AS-6.”

           
“Those
things could be real trouble—correct me if I’m wrong. The AS-6 has both a
ground and ship attack version. Either a three-thousand-pound high-explosive
warhead—”

           
“Or a
two-hundred-kiloton nuclear warhead,” Collins said. “Fairly long range on a
normal launch profile—they could probably launch at high altitude as far north
as
Shiraz
in central
Iran
,
well out of range of our Patriot, Hawk and RAM surface-to-air missile sites,
and hit the strait. If they overwhelm our perimeter defense they could launch
attacks against the fleet in the
Gulf
of
Oman
.”

           
Sahl did
not have to think very long to reach a decision. “I need an analysis brief by
one o’clock
for the afternoon meeting....” But
Collins was already opening his photo case again, and a red-covered folder with
a security strip-seal dropped onto Sahl’s desk.

           
“Jesus,
Collins,
am
I going to have to spend the rest of my
four years to retirement looking over my shoulder to see when you’re going to
bury me, like you did Barnes?”

           
“Nah,”
Collins said “I got faith, sir.... I figure a smart man like you is going to
help
me move on up.”

           
Sahl
smiled, opening the intelligence brief. “If you can’t beat ’em, help ’em beat
up on someone else.”

 
          
BETHESDA
NAVAL HOSPITAL

 
          
It was a sight Ann Page had never
wanted to see.

           
A whole
section of the hospital’s intensive-care ward had been occupied by a portable
hyperbaric “altitude” chamber. Jason Saint-Michael lay inside the chamber on a
hard plastic table. Ann winced as she looked at his inert form—he looked even
more emaciated, more drawn. Electrocardiogram and electroencephalogram leads
were attached to his body, running to terminals outside the chamber, where
technicians and doctors studied the sensor readouts.

           
“His heart
seems normal,” Doctor Matsui said as he rechecked the EKG paper strip. “Strong
as a horse, as a matter of fact. He’s in excellent condition.” He shook his
head. “Except for the... other thing.”

           
“What
happened?” Ann asked.

           
“The same
thing he’s been experiencing during his comatose state. His body is still
throwing off the nitrogen. Nitrogen is absorbed easily in the soft tissues of
the body—that’s why it accumulates in the joints, causing the bends. The
general’s case is more serious. The nitrogen accumulated in his brain, causing
his blackouts, seizures and the pain. He probably absorbed a lot into his brain
tissue, and in normal atmospheric pressure the nitrogen bubbles slowly work
their way out of the tissue and into his bloodstream, in his nerve centers.” “But
all this happened a month ago,” Ann said. “He came out of the coma. Why is he
still having these seizures?”

           
“I don’t
know.... Obviously his body is still being affected by the nitrogen bubbles in
his system, or perhaps there was some sort of neural, vascular or chemical
damage. I’m afraid we don’t know very much about cerebral dysbarism—fact is, we
don’t know much about anything when it comes to the brain or the nervous
system. But there are a few things I do know. First, General Saint-Michael is no
longer • on flight status. His condition is obviously disqualifying. I’ll also
have to recommend that he be relieved of duties as commander of Armstrong Space
Station, or what’s left of it.”

           
Ann had to
turn away. What she was hearing, whether Matsui knew it or not, was in effect a
death sentence.
No,
damn it. That
wasn’t going to happen. To hell with the doctors. Matsui said he didn’t know
much. Good, that put them all even—starting from scratch. She’d take those
odds.

 
          
August 1992

 
          
ROBAT,
MASHIZ
PROVINCE
,
SOUTH-CENTRAL
IRAN

 
          
Topography and climatology tactical
situation briefings said it was a region with a dry, subtropical climate, but
no one could convince First Lieutenant Jeremy Ledbetter of that. The
twenty-two-year-old army officer, fresh out of ROTC at Penn State University
and specialty training at Fort Devins, Massachusetts, was packed in a layer of
“Chinese underwear” thermal-quilted underclothes beneath his desert gray
fatigues, which themselves were covered by a reinforced plastic poncho. In the
predawn hours in central
Iran
,
even in mid-August, he was freezing his butt off. On top of that,
Iran
,
which rarely got any rain during the summer, was experiencing a real
Kansas-style gully- washer.

           
As
Ledbetter surveyed his encampment he felt as if he was in charge of the entire
defense of
Iran
.
In fact he was in command of a combined air defense battery, a CAB: a MIM-104
Patriot and an MIM-23 I-Hawk missile battery just outside the sleepy little
peatfarming town of
Robat
in the
Meydan Valley of Iran. He commanded an eighty-man detachment of U.S. Rapid
Deployment Force soldiers and at least ten million dollars worth of high-tech
surface-to-air missiles. His third Patriot high-altitude missiles and eighteen
I-Hawk low-to-medium-altitude missiles virtually sealed off the entire
Mey-
dan
Valley
to unidentified aircraft for one hundred miles in any direction.

           
Ledbetter’s
CAB was also the “snare,” the choke-point between two other Patriot sites on
either side of the
Meydan
Valley
.
Enemy aircraft would circumnavigate the Patriot missile batteries at Anar and
Arsenjan. That would force them down the
Meydan
Valley
and right into Ledbetter’s
all-altitude-capable missiles. Once enemy aircraft were caught in the narrow
valley, there was no escape for them except to try to outrun or outmaneuver the
oncoming missiles—both hugely difficult feats.

           
The proof
was there for all to see: a Soviet Backfire-B supersonic bomber had been caught
in the “snare” and had tried to use its speed to outrun one of the I-Hawk
missiles. Unfortunately for the Backfire’s pilot, in his hurry to escape attack
he had been diverted from his job as a pilot. His Backfire had splattered all
up and across the western wall of the
Jebal
Barez
Mountains
to the east of Robat, traveling at least at Mach one at three hundred feet off
the valley floor. Ledbetter’s Patriot and Hawk missile radars could still pick
up the wreckage of the crash on the mountainside. No doubt other Soviet
bombers’ radar could detect it too.

           
Well, let
it be a warning, Ledbetter thought, as he sipped coffee from a metal cup. The
message: don’t mess with the Three-Thirty- Fifth.

           
He had
gotten up early this morning to check on his perimeter security units. His
rapid deployment force unit had been supplemented with Iranian Revolutionary
Guard regulars, some of the toughest and meanest men he had ever met up with.
The problem was that the Iranians had no idea how to fire a Patriot or Hawk
missile, even though
Iran
had had Hawk missiles for years, so Ledbetter used the Iranians as security
guards. But being a mere watchdog was way beneath a Muslim revolutionary
guard—in centuries past, guard duties had always been left to slaves, peasants,
conquered heathens or eunuchs—and so arguments would often break out between
Ledbetter’s people and Iranians. Ledbetter’s surprise inspections would usually
help keep conflicts down and morale and watchfulness high, but he couldn’t
really blame the eager Iranian soldiers for grabbing an American rifle and
charging Soviet-occupied
Shiraz
or
Tehran
.
Even so, he tried to convince them that their responsibility was here.

           
Ledbetter
cruised by the first sergeant’s tent just as his unit’s senior NCO, Sergeant
Plutarsky, was emerging from his tent. “Good timing, Sergeant.”

           
“Heard you
coming, sir.” Plutarsky threw his young commander a salute. The two men, the
veteran NCO and the green officer, had somehow become friends after arriving at
one of the hottest hot-spots in the
Iran
conflict. They complemented each other well: Ledbetter knew surface-to-air
missiles and electronics; Plutarsky knew his men. Seldom did the two cross,
which seemed to make the unit hum along. Ledbetter didn’t mess with the men;
Plutarsky didn’t mess with the missiles.

           
Ledbetter
nodded in return at Plutarsky; neither stood for much formality. “I want to
take a look at Whiskey Three first.” Whiskey Three, or West Three, was one of
the posts guarding the main long- range search radar.

           
“You mean
you want to take a look at Shurab,” Plutarsky said. “Me too. Mister Shurab has
had a stick up his rear ever since he’s been here. He’s got all the rest of the
Iranians kowtowing to him.”

           
“He says
he’s from the family of one of the religious members of Alientar’s government,
or something like that,” Ledbetter said. “But you’re right. He acts as if this
whole war is being fought for his benefit.”

           
Along the
way, they stopped and inspected several of the other components of the CAB. To
reduce the risk of one bomb taking out the entire missile system, the
individual units of each missile system were widely separated. The control
center for the whole CAB was in a trailer that had been buried underground to
protect it from attack; that was where Ledbetter slept. To help secure the
site, most of the men slept at their posts. The main Patriot phased-array radar
was on a hill overlooking the valley about five miles away.

           
In the
center of the encampment Ledbetter’s CAB had a standard search-radar system that
provided long-range surveillance of the area. Although the search-radar was not
tied into any of the surface-to-air missiles, the radar could detect aircraft
approaching the area up to two hundred miles away, from ground level to well
above fifty thousand feet, and the search radar could “slave” the other
acquisition, tracking and uplink radars with it to help the smaller radars find
targets for their missiles.

           
The search
radar had been hoisted on top of an old rusted oil derrick about thirty feet above
ground, along with a satellite communications dish and other shorter-range
radio antennas. Nearby was a circular sandbag bunker with another set of
acquisition radars inside, and a hundred feet beyond was the first of eight
four-missile Patriot missile launchers, also in a sandbag bunker. Ledbetter
could just barely make out the outline of the derrick on the horizon as he blew
warm air onto this hands while they approached the derrick.

           
“Cold,
Sarge?”

           
“I’m from
Florida
,
sir,” Plutarsky said. “Anything below sixty degrees is the next Ice Age to me.”

           
At the
derrick a few minutes later, they heard a rustle of footsteps and the
unmistakable sound of an M-16 rifle on its web sling. “Stop,” a voice called
out, except the heavy
Maine
accent sounded more like, “Stawp.
Who gowahs theah?”

           
Plutarsky
was chuckling. “These Iranians speak better English than you do, Cooper.”

           
They heard
the rifle clattering back onto the technician’s shoulder. “Good moawin’, First
Sahgeant. Up early, ayuh?”

           
“
Me
and the lieutenant are touring the grounds. We’re
thinking of building a Hilton here.”

           
“A Hilton.
That’s a
good
one.”

           
“Where’s
the ragheads?” Plutarsky got a disapproving look from Ledbetter.

           
“Around
heah somewheahs, Sahge,” Cooper replied. “They’s quiet like mice, don’t ya
know.”

           
“Shurab too?”

           
“King
Shurab says he switched shifts with some of his pals.”

           
“Again?”
Ledbetter said. “I don’t think he pulls any guard
duty.”

           
“I know
damned well he don’t,” Plutarsky agreed. “When I find him I’m going to
straighten his ass out.”

           
“Better
take it easy, Sarge,” Ledbetter said. “The Iranians are at least technically
our allies, and Shurab is an allied officer. Let them run their detachment the
way they want it. If he’s doing something that affects security, then I will
put the hammer down. Emphasis on the ‘I.’”

           
“Yes, sir.”

           
They left
Cooper to guard the oil derrick and continued on. After a few moments they came
across a circle of five Iranian guards armed with M-16 rifles. All five came to
attention, and one saluted Ledbetter.

           
“Good
morning to you, Commander,” he said. Ledbetter returned his salute.

           
“Where’s
First Captain Shurab?” Ledbetter asked.

 
         
“He is at guard house, Commander.”

           
“He’s supposed
to be on patrol.”

           
The
Iranians looked puzzled, as if they didn’t understand. Plutarsky then stepped
forward. “Shurab, dammit. Patrol. He has patrol.”

           
“No
patrol,” one of the other revolutionary guards said. “I take patrol. I patrol.”

           
“You’re Khaleir,
aren’t you? Khaleir?” The soldier nodded.

           
“You had
the morning patrol. Shurab has the night patrol.”

           
“No. I
take.” He bent to listen to one of his comrades, then said in carefully
accented English, “I switch.”

           
“Get Shurab.
Bring him here,” Plutarsky said. The soldiers
stood around, only superficially trying to act as if they didn’t understand but
obviously trying to decide what to do.

           
“I want
Shurab here,” Ledbetter said.

           
“Yes, sir,”
a voice said. Out of the darkness walked a tall, mustachioed man, unshaven,
dressed in a clean desert gray combat jacket and immaculately spit-shined
boots, and smoking a cigarette. He was easily the best-groomed man in camp—even
the mud seemed to refuse to stick to his boots. His well-tended veneer only
served to increase Plutarsky’s foul mood.

           
“First
Captain Shurab, sir, you are supposed to be leading the western guard patrol,”
Plutarsky said. “Why aren’t you at your post?”

           
“I switch
with Abdul, sir,” Shurab said to Ledbetter, pointedly ignoring Plutarsky.

           
“You can’t
switch with a man who has already pulled
one
twelve-
hour patrol,” Ledbetter told him. “I won’t have tired
guards on duty, especially at night. We’re only a few miles from Soviet-held
territory—”

           
“I spit on
the Soviets, sir.”

           
“Good for
you.” Ledbetter turned to Plutarsky. “First Captain Shurab will lead the
remainder of the night patrol and the whole morning patrol. He is not
authorized a replacement under any circumstances. If he is not at his post as
ordered he will be reported to the revolutionary guard commandent at
Bandar-Abbas for dereliction of duty. See to it, Sergeant.”

           
“Yes, sir.”
Ledbetter walked off toward the oil derrick.
Plutarsky moved forward toward Shurab. “Do you understand your orders, sir?”

           
“I will
not be addressed by a subordinate—”

           
“I don’t
give a flying—” But Shurab had turned his back on Plutarsky and was walking
toward the guard house. At which point Plutarsky blew a fuse. He reached out,
grabbed Shurab by the collar from behind and yanked him up and back so that he
landed on his rear end. This time, the mud was sticking—all over Shurab’s
starched fatigues.

           
Shurab,
appropriately enough, swore loudly in Arabic and shouted an order. All five of
the Iranian guards moved toward Plutarsky, but before they could take two steps
toward him Plutarsky’s nine-millimeter Beretta service pistol appeared in hand.

           
“One more
step and fancypants gets a hole in his starched shirt.” Everyone then froze...
until abruptly Shurab laughed, stood up and brushed himself off.

           
“My
apology, Sergeant,” Shurab said, smiling. “I will go.” He ordered his men to
back away, and Shurab headed toward the western guard post. With Plutarsky still
watching him, pistol drawn, Shurab suddenly stopped and turned. “Touching a
superior is a capital offense in my country, Sergeant. And you are in my
country.”