The Warbirds (31 page)

Doc Landis’ cadence was perfect as he called off the decreasing altitude coming down the chute. The sight picture was also perfect as Doc sang out “Pickle.” Jack instantly flicked the pickle button, releasing a practice bomb onto the target, then honked back on the stick, loading the F-4 with four G’s in two seconds for a smooth pullout. He was looking for the other Phantom when the first blink of the master caution light caught his attention. He promptly broke out of the pattern, checking his warning lights, keyed his radio and told the range controller and wingman about his problem: “Holbeach Range, Toddy Four-One. My Utility Hydraulic System has failed. RTB at this time. Toddy Four-Two, join up and let’s go home.” The range controller and wingman, Toddy Four-Two, acknowledged his call as Jack headed for Stonewood.

The wingy slid into position on Jack’s left side as they passed by Blankeney Point, scanned his underside and told Jack that he could see hydraulic fluid streaming down the belly of the Phantom.

“Roger,” Jack acknowledged, “we’ll take the barrier.” Doc Landis started to read the emergency checklist for hydraulic failure when the low oil pressure light came on for number two engine. Before Jack could shut the engine down the oil pressure had fallen to zero, indicating an internal failure in his right engine.

Landis continued to read the checklist as Jack reviewed each step. “Isn’t this the emergency the flight manual says to consider ejection for?” Landis asked, trying to keep his voice calm; this was no damn appendectomy.

“It is,” Jack answered. “We’ve lost most of our control surfaces. The right wing is dead. It’s easy to run out of lateral control authority. If that happens the only choice we’ve got is to lower the nose and reduce power to re
cover. That can be hard cheese close to the ground. How do you feel about it? Want to try an approach?”

“One ejection per lifetime is more than enough,” the doctor muttered. “Let’s do it.”

Jack radioed the tower and declared an emergency as he positioned the Phantom to the west of the base for a straight-in approach.

“Toddy Four-One, Tower,” Stonewood tower radioed the wingman. “The DO says to consider ejection. He says he’s got lots of Phantoms, only one you.”

“Tell him thanks but I think that I’ll give this bird back to him.”

Waters had joined Tom Gomez in the DO’s pickup truck and they now followed the crash trucks out to the approach end of the runway, listening to the radio calls on the truck’s UHF radio. They watched in silence as the disabled Phantom intercepted the glide slope and started to descend. “I think I’d rather eject,” Waters said. “But it’s Jack’s decision.”

Gomez nodded, well aware that neither he nor Waters would stay in command if the 45th lost another bird.

As the Phantom passed through two hundred feet they saw it begin to yaw to the right, but Jack brought the nose down and gained enough control to continue the approach. “He won’t have enough altitude to do that again,” Waters said, trying to sound calmer than he felt.

Gradually Jack reduced power to 200 knots, then touched down four hundred feet short of the barrier. The Phantom’s hook caught the cable and snatched the big bird to a halt in the middle of the runway.

Waters grinned. “He makes it look routine. Your boy did good, Tom.”

“Good enough. He survived. Name of the game, I guess.”

Doc Landis’ wife pressed against his shoulder and glanced at the clock on the night stand. He started to caress her. His wife had never stopped being a sex object to him, thank God, and the feeling was mutual. “Doctor Landis,” she murmured, “you better stop that or we won’t
get any sleep and you’ve had a rough day…you’re a real goat, you know that?…”

He ignored her and kissed her neck, causing her breath to come faster.

“Jeff, stop it or I’ll be as pregnant as Sara Waters. No wonder this place has such a booming birthrate, it over-stimulates you men. No more flying for you on Mondays.” And so saying, she returned his kisses, thankful to have her husband safely home, and more than willing to show it.

A team from the Inspector General’s office at Ramstein, Germany, had managed to hit the 45th with a surprise Operational Readiness Inspection, totally disrupting the base. Every one of Chief Pullman’s contacts had fallen through and all the markers he had called in as due had misfired. The entire network of first shirts had let Pullman down. He would even some scores in the future. But in the meantime…

Five staff cars had driven on base and dispersed to predetermined locations, one group to the command post as a simulated terrorist bomb exploded in a maintenance shop, creating a mass-casualty exercise. The inspectors at the hospital, in Maintenance and Security Police, all tight-faced, noted the reaction of the participants, taking endless notes and photographs. The order directing the wing to load its aircraft for wartime missions came at 1:00
P.M.
and the wing had to load live ordnance on its F-4s. Munitions safety was of paramount concern for the inspectors as the wing entered into its next major event. The inspectors noted a munitions NCO had to borrow a checklist.

After listening to reports from his team that night, the IG’s team chief, Colonel Peter Gertino, placed a call to Waters, telling the wing commander only that he would like to meet with him. He found Pullman in the office with Waters and Gomez and quickly proceeded to summarize the inspection. “Your Security Police were rated unsatisfactory. The command post was rated unsatisfactory. Your load-out would have been outstanding except for the improper use of checklists; consequently my inspectors rated that event as marginal. The mass-casualty exercise was
satisfactory. In sum, not a good beginning, Colonel Waters. Your people can still salvage this inspection, but they are going to have to work for it.” He picked up his notes and left the office.

“It’s a setup,” Pullman snapped. The chief was fully aware of how the IG system worked and the way personalities at the command level could predetermine the result of an ORI. “We’ve sure as hell pissed someone off at Ramstein,” he declared as he headed out the door to find Chief Walt Chambers.

“Walt,” Pullman said, catching up with the IG NCO, “why rate the command post’s performance as unsatisfactory?”

Chambers stared at the ground, would not answer.

“A no-win game,” Pullman snapped. “They were meant to bust no matter what they did. You call that integrity? What gives?”

“Look, Pullman, I play with the big boys and I do what I’m told—”

“Yeah, well, you produce evidence that the controller committed a security breach, or change the rating.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then you can be sure of three things the next time you see me: in thirty seconds I’ll rip your heart out, kill your dog and rape your wife. Bet on it, sweetheart.”

The next day as the IG team initiated a second mass-casualty exercise, Waters sat in the Command Post monitoring the radios as the exercise went down. Barely controlling his temper, he walked out, asking Gomez and Pullman to join him. Outside, he made sure no inspectors were around, then: “Chief, you’re right. This
is
a setup. Any ideas why?”

Pullman and Gomez shook their heads.

“Cover for me. I’m going to play their game,” Waters said, and walked off to his staff car.

Colonel Gertino was puzzled by the message requesting he see the RAF post commander and decided to ignore it. An hour later he received a phone call asking when he would be in Sir David’s office. Again, he chose to ignore
it. Ten minutes later a British NCO approached him, quietly spoke a few words and escorted Gertino to RAF base commander Childs’ office.

“What’s this crap about
arresting
me?”

Childs tossed a thin document at the American colonel. “It is obvious that you have not read the Technical Agreement on RAF Stonewood. Please do so now.”

“This doesn’t apply to an IG team—”

“Wrong. Read page twelve.” Gertino found the passage, which stated that all wartime and inspection exercises would be in accordance with British and NATO rules and coordinated through the RAF. “You will conduct the remainder of this exercise under the rules of a NATO Tactical Evaluation and not those of your ORI or I will have you and your entire team declared
persona non grata
in the United Kingdom.”

“But you and NATO are only concerned with flying and base defense. We measure other items, like munitions safety and use of checklists—”

“I won’t repeat myself. Of course, you may launch all the sorties you wish and you may measure the wing’s reaction to an air attack or intruders as often as you wish.”

“An air attack is planned for this afternoon,” Gertino mumbled.

“And how many aircraft can I expect to overfly my base?”

“None,” the colonel replied. “We simulate it.”

“Interesting, Colonel…no aircraft, no air attack. Well, then, please finish your inspection by Wednesday.” Gertino was dismissed and left. Childs dialed Waters’ number. “Muddy, I think you can expect a rather more fair evaluation now.”

He was wrong…

Actually, Gertino had been in a near panic when he first tried to figure out just what Blevins really wanted. The general had not openly tied the 45th’s failing an ORI to his silence about his girlfriend, still…the colonel cursed himself for ever becoming involved with the girl in the first place. He shook his head, still not able to believe she was only sixteen—or a foreign agent. The girl looked at least twenty and didn’t seem to have a brain. But Blevins
had promised him the affair would be handled very discreetly if he “acted responsibly” when he conducted Stonewood’s ORI. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together, especially after Blevins went on openly to knock Waters. The problem, though, was the wing was in good shape. In fact, when the inspection was completed Wednesday, by every measure that NATO used to evaluate exercises, the wing had passed. Gertino solved his problem of needing to fail the wing by directing his team to write
two
reports, one using NATO’s standards, one using the IG’s.

That night the team put a message on the wires announcing the 45th had failed their ORI and that a full IG report with supporting details would be published in a week. The message did not mention that there was a NATO Tac Eval report with different results.

The “Flash” message reached Stonewood late Thursday night, six minutes after it was given to the Pentagon’s communication center for transmission. The message consisted of one line: Colonel Anthony Waters was to report to Colonel Richard Stevens in the Pentagon no later than 0800 hours local time Saturday.

Sara had wanted to come with him, but Waters told her he had to do this one alone. Friday morning she helped him pack and rode with him in Tom Gomez’s car to Mildenhall. Gomez could not hide his concern. “There’s no way Cunningham is going to buy the IG’s report,” he predicted, “not after he sees the NATO report.”

“He’s got to reconcile two different sets of standards,” Waters said gloomily. “The IG’s and NATO’s.”

“Muddy, the IG was on a damn witch-hunt—”

“Sure, but Cunningham doesn’t
know
that. And that’s what I’ve got to convince him of…”

When it was time to board the waiting C-5B, Sara placed her husband’s hand on her stomach and looked seriously at him. “Remember that old one about keeping your priorities straight. This here is
numero uno
.” She kissed him quickly and walked off, hoping he’d gotten the message.

After takeoff, Waters opened his briefcase and reread the two reports that Pullman had back-doored for him. He
tried to look at them from Cunningham’s perspective, gave up and tried to sleep.

Memories kept stirring within him…of his first wife and his daughter Jennifer…hurt and loneliness…More images…He tried to pinpoint when his desire to become a wing commander had crystallized but couldn’t…Other images raced through his consciousness leading him to Sara, and then when he assumed command of the 45th. A new awareness enveloped—
this
was what he was supposed to be, to do. But he could not do it alone. Sara made it possible, with her love, and understanding. And his allies—Childs, Gomez, Bull, C.J., Pullman…He also had a legacy to leave—Bill Carroll and Jack Locke. Damn it, he would make Cunningham understand. Or literally go down trying.

25 June: 0140 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 0510 hours, Qom, Iran

The old man shuffled slowly through the seminary’s main gate. His two bodyguards followed him, sleepy from being roused before five o’clock in the morning. The streets of Qom, the religious center of the Islamic faith in Iran, were deserted and poorly lit, not like the bustling thoroughfares of Tehran seventy-five miles to the northeast. The two young bodyguards became alert as the old Ayatollah made his way to the central mosque less than a hundred yards from the gate.

“Have you heard anything?” the taller of the two asked.

“Nothing. But his Holiness”—he nodded toward the Ayatollah Araki in front of them—“is very worried. That is why he is going to the mosque for the first prayers of the morning. Perhaps his devotion will move Allah to be compassionate.”

Normally Araki made the first prayer of the day in the privacy of his room. But the two men did not complain and pulled their robes tightly around them to fend off the cold of the early morning. The mullah who would call the faithful to prayer that morning opened the huge door of the mosque for the Ayatollah and bowed his head as the old man entered. The two bodyguards stopped at the back
of the deserted open area in the heart of the mosque and knelt.

Araki followed the mullah to the front and knelt on a worn prayer rug that had been laid out for him. Slowly and with a conviction that had not grown dull from years of repetition, he repeated the
Shahada
. “God is most great. God is most great. I testify here there is no other God than Allah, and Muhammad is his prophet.” The words were to purify his soul and renew his hope that the most holy of men, the Ayatollah Khomeini, still lived.

In less than five minutes he was finished and slowly rose from the prayer rug. He could see his two guards on the floor but there was something wrong—they were not praying, but were sprawled out, dead still…Vague shadows moved around the walls of the mosque. He knew what was coming and stood as straight as his arthritis would allow. The years of teaching students
erfan
would serve him well. He watched one of the restless shadows detach itself from the wall and walk briskly toward him.
Erfan
, the trait of having character and courage in adversity, and knowing that emancipation came only from spiritual truth. He believed what he had taught his students.