The Warbirds (45 page)

The tall crew chief stood beside the crash truck, watching his Phantom, 512, come down final. His hand was on the collar of the crash team’s leader. “I’m going with you,” he told the man. “I’ll pop the canopies open for you—”

“Get your hands off me, and you ain’t coming with us; you’ll get in the way…”

“You hurt my bird and I’ll squash your head, shithead. Personally, you hear?” The crew chief threw the man back into the truck…

Doc Landis sat in the ambulance, waiting. If anybody could pull this off, Locke could…

Unconsciousness was starting to swirl around Jack again as he fought for control of the wounded F-4. The airspeed needle hovered around 280 knots, over fifty knots above the recommended airspeed for final approach. But when
ever he inched off the power he could feel a loss of control and had to inch the power back in. It was going to be high-speed approach and touchdown. As he brought the Phantom over the approach lights he carefully bled the power off, inching down to 240 knots, on the very edge of controlled flight. He ripped the throttle of his good engine aft as the gear slammed onto the runway. The F-4 bounced back into the air, its hook missing the arresting cable, but the big rudder exerted enough authority to steer as Jack fought to stay on the runway, and the hook snagged the second cable two thousand feet further down the runway, jerking the Phantom to an abrupt halt.

The ambulance reached the Phantom seconds after the crash truck, and Doc Landis held his breath as he received the unconscious pilot and wizzo that the rescue crew handed down to him.

12 August: 1300 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 1400 hours, Stonewood, England

The shop buzzed with its normal Friday afternoon gossip as the wives from Stonewood streamed in, getting their hair coiffed for the weekend. The wives had an excursion on for Stratford-on-Avon Saturday and Sunday, so Gillian and her people were busier than usual. From the comments, some less subtle than others, it seemed a number of the ladies were using the trip as cover for a weekend with someone other than the husband. Gillian was glad when Beth Shaw arrived. She liked the older woman, a straight-on set who disdained gossip and obviously cared about her husband and his cadre.

“Is something wrong, Gillian? You seem upset…”

“No…I guess it’s because we’re so busy.” And changing the subject, “What’s a stand-down, Mrs. Shaw? Everyone keeps talking about it.”

“Well, it seems the wing has stopped flying combat missions, at least for the time being,” Beth told her. “Everyone is hoping that it will become permanent and the men will be coming home. Haven’t you heard about it?”

“The shop keeps me so busy I don’t have much spare time,” she said, deciding not to tell Beth Shaw she delib
erately ignored the newspapers, TV and any talk of the war, afraid they would remind her too much of Jack.

“Yes, well, the wing has been so successful in its last few missions. Thankfully, no one was lost. One crew was wounded but they landed safely. There are rumors that feelers have been extended on both sides to stop the fighting. It’s in the morning papers.” Beth knew a good deal more, thanks to her husband’s recital of the 45th’s proud record, but she also knew that a general’s wife had to button up, as he put it. Still, no harm in talking some about what was in the papers. “The two wounded men were a Captain Locke and a Captain Bryant, I believe. Did you know them? I understand Captain Jack Locke is considered quite a catch…”

Gillian stood back, the comb trembling in her hand. Jack and Thunder? She didn’t even know. What a damn fool she was. She wanted to ask Beth Shaw to tell her
everything
she knew…and yet…did she really want to know? Wounded, she’d said. Thank God, Jack was still alive. And Thunder. Damn it, why did she care so much? It was one sided; he didn’t even care enough to write.
Stop it
, she ordered herself. Stop pretending. You damn well do care…

Beth Shaw didn’t miss the expression on Gillian’s face, or the moisture in her eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry, you did know them…”

“Yes,” Gillian said, fighting for composure. “And now, Mrs. Shaw, I think we’re just about done.”

15 August: 2215 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 1815 hours, Washington, D.C.

The National Security Adviser preferred meeting in the Oval Office, the nation’s pinnacle of power and authority. He also hoped the President was not recording their conversation. Ever since Nixon…

The agenda was the status of the Gulf war, and what both he and the chief executive tended to consider a fortunate turn of events. The last two raids by the 45th had been successful, more so than they had any right to expect, and the supply buildup by the PSI had been set back
by at least two months. The main strike had caused most of the damage but the follow-up night missions by Wolf Flight had made a significant contribution. Neither of the men knew why the one target had been selected for the lone attack by an F-4 at night, but they were quite willing to accept the results since the 45th had managed to locate and destroy a huge petroleum dump. After all, fuel-storage areas were on the approved targets list, so the wing did not need specific permission to attack it. And since no aircraft had been lost, the war had suddenly taken on a much more positive coloration.

“We’re getting positive noises the PSI wants to stop fighting and talk,” the adviser said. “Our intermediary is, of all people, North Korea. Makes sense in a way, though. They’re all more or less in the Soviet orbit.”

“And what are the Soviets doing?”

“So far, little. Reports indicate that they are disenchanted with their allies. No wonder…the leadership of the People’s Soldiers of Islam is prickly as hell, tough to influence, not to mention control, politically. We figure part of this is because the PSI is searching for a face-saving device to stop the fighting. Maybe, sir, we should give it to them. Saudi Arabia is interested in negotiations. The royal family is coming under a lot of pressure by various religious factions to throw
all
foreigners out of the country. A sort of Middle East Boxer’s Rebellion may be brewing.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“Perhaps if we withdraw the F-15s and most or all of the fleet out of the Gulf of Oman, they might interpret that as a de-escalation.”

“Look, I need action on the diplomatic front,” the President said. “My people are taking major hits from the press and in Congress on this. They won’t take such attacks forever and stick by me. They may not be Sunshine Patriots but they sure as hell aren’t about to play Valley Forge.”

“I understand…but they should at least give us some time to maneuver. We can send confirming signals back to the PSI. I suggest through Algeria as well as North
Korea. Withdraw the fleet now and pull the F-15s later, when we need to sweeten the pot.”

The President nodded. “It’s all in the timing; it’s got to be right. Send the signals and watch for a reaction. Like you say, we’ll withdraw the F-15s later…You know, I hate all this pussyfooting. We’re involved in a war…short and long term. My damn blood pressure is off the charts.”

As for the future of the 45th Tactical Fighter Wing, it was never mentioned.

The photos of the petroleum dump burning in the night were the capstone of the morning’s situation briefing. General Cunningham joined in the general enthusiasm. The results of the two raids by the 45th had exceeded his planners’ expectations. The recovery of all his aircrews made him think momentarily about firing a couple of the planners for being too damn cautious. The two wounded men were safe in the hospital at Wiesbaden, where their condition was reported as stable and improving.

Cunningham was pleased when Locke was identified as the pilot who had volunteered to create a diversion for the rest of his flight and in so doing hit a secondary target that turned out to be a major petroleum-storage area. And this was the man some people wanted to court-martial. Fortunes of war? Good planning? Dumb luck? Whatever, there was no denying Locke’s and his wizzo’s tenacity in attacking the target after their wingman had aborted. And they had paid the price, taking a hit by a SA-9 SAM, being wounded, and still landing. Locke, it turned out, had been more severely wounded than Bryant, but hadn’t lost consciousness until he managed a remarkable landing with one engine out and no utility hydraulic pressure. The general decided he would sign an order awarding both Locke and Bryant the Air Force Cross, the decoration second only to the Congressional Medal of Honor. It was up to Waters and Third Air Force to recommend them, but that should be no problem…

Cunningham had a tougher decision to make about the KC-135 tanker pilot. Or rather about the tanker pilot’s wing commander, one Colonel Simmons. The idiot had rec
ommended a court-martial for the pilot after he had flown his tanker into Iran to rendezvous with a Wolf that had been hit by a Triple A and was leaking fuel like a sieve. The KC-135 pilot had taken a chance but knew in advance there was not likely to be much Iranian air defense in the area. He’d maneuvered his tanker into position and made a hookup after the Phantom flamed out—a terrific performance. The tanker had dragged the F-4 home, pouring more fuel into the sky than into its engines. It was the sort of action Cunningham applauded and wanted his pilots to be capable of when necessary. What the hell was the matter with his commander’s…did they have something against smarts and guts?

The general stomped out of the room. “Ask that genius Simmons what medal he’s recommending for the tanker driver,” he said to his aide, well within the hearing of everyone in the room. Even the commander of the KC-135 unit would get the implied message about the court-martial. In his office now, Cunningham told his aide Stevens, “Hold all calls for about twenty minutes. Dick, am I getting soft? Not so long ago I would have sacked Simmons.”

“Probably,” Stevens replied, keeping a straight face as he quickly departed.

Sinking into his soft leather chair, Cunningham folded his hands across his stomach, closed his eyes and attacked the problem that had kept him awake most of the night. What were those sons of Allah, the PSI, going to do next? The President’s National Security Adviser seemed to have all sorts of faith in the negotiations that were starting, but to Cunningham’s mind it looked very much like the beginning of a song-and-dance routine…or as his mother used to say, all butter and no potato. Every intelligence estimate he’d seen indicated the PSI were still a force to consider in spite of the recent beatings they’d taken. And he didn’t like the U.S. fleet being withdrawn to Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean to encourage negotiations.

Never mind…his instincts, educated instincts, told him the 45th was not done fighting. He called his aide. “Dick, arrange a commander’s conference for me at Third Air Force early next week. I want to take a hard look at
what’s going on in the Gulf. Have the commander of JUSMAG and Waters there.”

He relit his cigar. He’d decided on some action. He was feeling better.

17 August: 0630 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 1000 hours, Teheran, iran

The commander of the PSI had ordered his aides to lift him from his hospital bed in Teheran and helicopter him to his headquarters when he received the news of the latest attacks by the 45th. The military situation his generals were now laying out on the big chart table enraged him. He motioned an aide to wheel him away, his good eye blazing with hatred. He was not going to accept the stalemate his enemies had created.

Two doctors proceeded to lift the frail little man into a hospital bed that had been rushed to the headquarters and tried to monitor his vital signs, but he waved them away and motioned to an aide, speaking in a barely audible voice. Within minutes a group of men were gathered around the bed in a council of war. “The Americans have blocked our
jihad
,” he told them. “But our holy war must go on. For now we must try to negotiate an end to the fighting—but only until we can resume the
jihad
. Our Soviet allies”—he spoke the word like a curse—“ask too much for the supplies we need to continue. We will not be their lackeys. We will not allow them to build bases in our country. But we must negotiate from strength. Remember, we still have the means to punish our enemies. We will not be treated as powerless children at the negotiating table but as equals. And we
will
have our revenge.”

He lay back in his bed, trying to gather his strength. Finally, he motioned to his valued agent and courier, the man from the silver Mercedes. “Why weren’t we warned of these latest attacks?”

“Our spy Mashur al-Darhali was ordered to England to attend the Farnborough Air Show. We did not know of the attack,” the man answered, handing the commander a thin folder. “Darhali will live only as long as he is useful. I
do not trust Saudi princes who claim to support us.” The bedridden man studied the photo in the folder.

“Is this the one that leads the 45th?”

“Yes. His name is Anthony Waters. He is only a colonel.”

The commander’s eyes squinted as he brought the photo into focus. Every feature of Waters’ face stood in sharp relief as hate flowed through the old man. His voice took on strength. “Begin the game of negotiations, but delay. Gather our forces at Bushehr and wait for the weather conditions to favor us. We will demonstrate our strength by destroying Ras Assanya. And with it the presumptuous colonel…”

23 August: 1135 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 1235 hours, Mildenhall, England

Sara was waiting with John and Beth Shaw when the C-141 bringing Waters to the commanders’ conference taxied up to the terminal at Mildenhall. Beth marveled at the grace of the young woman in her eighth month of pregnancy, remembering wryly how her own pregnancies had blown her up. As she watched Sara rush into Muddy Waters’ arms, she also noted the lines around the colonel’s eyes that hardened into deep furrows. Muddy had changed, been changed by command…Similar things were going through her husband’s mind as he observed his old friend, understanding now what he had only seen on his visit to Ras Assanya. Anthony Waters had found himself in the lives of the men and women who served under him.