The Warbirds (14 page)

Again the planes jerked onto a new heading, but now Jack descended to one hundred feet, the ground rush starting, the noise scary.

“You’re cleared in hot,” the range controller acknowledged, barely audible over the noise.

At their altitude Blevins could not see the range, but he did notice the two F-4s were moving further apart, both on different headings. Then the nose of Fairly’s plane came up as he pulled into a sharp climb.

Fifteen seconds later Jack pulled his Phantom up and at
sixteen hundred feet rolled the F-4 onto its back and pulled the nose toward the ground. The range filled the forward windscreen, and the noise increased with their airspeed climb to 450 knots as they rolled out and dove toward the range. Blevins could see the wisps of marking smoke blowing away from where lead’s small bomb had impacted. Then they were off, pulling four Gs as they pointed skyward. Again Jack rolled the F-4 and pulled toward the ground, then rolled out and leveled off at one hundred feet, following Poppa Two-One in a racecourse pattern around the range.

Now the range controller called out the scores for their first bombs. “Two-One, eighty feet at seven o’clock. Two-Two, bull.”

Five more times they repeated the maneuver, pulling up, rolling and diving toward the ground. Their escape maneuver was the same, and not once did their airspeed drop below 420 knots. Jack’s scores for the first two bombs were better than Fairly’s.

“Did you copy the scores down?” Jack asked after their last pass.

“Didn’t have time,” Blevins said.

Right, Jack thought. You get the message.

They came off the range, climbing lazily to twelve thousand feet, and headed for the base. Blevins was drenched with sweat in spite of the cool blast of air. Unexpectedly he felt nauseous and began gagging.

“You okay?” The pilot’s query was greeted by retching sounds and heavy breathing. Jack keyed his radio transmit button, sending the sounds on the intercom out to the world.

Fifty-five minutes after takeoff the two F-4s made a near-perfect formation landing, with one sick colonel in the pit of number two still trying with diminishing success to keep his cookies down.

Sara had gone with Waters and Mort Pullman to the hangar where the crash-recovery team had collected and spread out the parts of the Flogger retrieved from the crash site. After poking through the wreckage and taking a few pictures for the report, Waters said, “Sara, you don’t have
to do this. We’re going to the morgue and talk to the Mortuary Affairs Officer. The Egyptians are picking up the remains of the Libyan pilot today. The Libyans are asking that the body and its personal effects be returned immediately, and the Egyptians are going along with their request.”

“I’d like to stick with you,” Sara said. What else could she say?

The base veterinarian, who doubled as the Mortuary Affairs Officer, met them at the door to the small building behind the hospital. “You’re just in time,” he told them. “An Egyptian army officer arrived to pick up the body about five minutes ago.” The vet introduced them to Captain Khalid Shakir, who was poking through a cardboard box holding the pilot’s personal effects. Most of the items were fragmented and charred beyond recognition. Shakir held up a large piece of a uniform and pointed out the Libyan insignia on the shoulder. He shrugged and held up part of a helmet, then threw all the pieces back into the box and closed it. “May I see the body? This business is sickening.” He spoke with an English accent.

The vet pulled open a small door in the refrigerated cabinet that could hold six bodies and rolled out the long drawer. Sara gasped when she saw the three-foot lump in the middle of the green rubber body-bag.

“Yes, I did not expect much,” Shakir said. “I understand I must sign some paperwork.”

The vet introduced a thin stack of papers and handed them over to Shakir. The captain dashed his signature across the top sheet and ripped it off, handing it to the vet, snapped his fingers and two sergeants collected the box and body-bag and they all left.

Sara picked up a copy of the crash report and thumbed through it, hesitating when she reached the death certificate. “Cause of death: blunt massive trauma followed by immediate dismemberment and incineration.” She paused. “Does that mean he was still alive when…”

Waters shrugged, not telling her the pilot was probably still conscious when his aircraft hit the ground.

Waters was beginning to accept that Blevins was at least an excellent staff officer. His analysis of the crash site was right on. He had torn apart the Command Post’s response to the scramble on Grain King, finding nothing wrong and praising them in some specifics. And he admitted things happened very fast during a flight. That, Waters thought, was a good sign. They could maybe forget about a critique that said aircrews weren’t “evaluating the situation.”

As Blevins gathered up his papers to return to his own office, Waters asked if he’d seen Sara that morning.

Blevins fairly licked his chops. “I haven’t seen her, but you might check with Lieutenant Locke.” Actually Blevins had only seen Sara with Locke when they returned from the marketplace and knew she had gone back to her own room in the VOQ early in the evening. Well, the price of playing poker with Eugene Blevins had gone up. He tried not to smile as he walked out of Waters’ office.

Taking the bait, Waters stood there, feeling hurt and angry and foolish. He’d been a presumptuous middle-aged jerk. He didn’t have any claim on Sara. Hell, he thought, one look at those two together…what did he expect…? He jammed a new tape into the small cassette recorder he always carried, hoping the Prelude from Verdi’s
La Traviata
would help. It didn’t.

Chief Pullman had seen Blevins leave Waters’ office with a shit-eating grin and didn’t like it. Pullman had heard about the colonel’s flight at the NCO Club, even heard the control tower recording of the colonel being sick. Now why would a humiliated man be smiling? Time to put out some feelers.

He spent the rest of the day contacting senior NCOs throughout the wing, being selective about whom he approached, aware of the favors he would owe if he found something useful. Twice he checked on the clerk who was typing the report for Blevins and collected a back-door copy of what had been completed. He didn’t much like what he read but conceded the report was accurate and even fair. Colonel Waters was a hard man, and it was the loyal sergeant’s wing he was talking about. Pullman filed the pages away in his secret Pearl Harbor file. By late
afternoon, the chief had found much more than expected. He sat in his office trying to decide on what to do next. He could suppress the information but doubted if that was smart. He glanced into Shaw’s outer office and saw his door was open, reluctantly walked into the commander’s office.

Shaw looked up as he did so. “Mort. Sit down. Something bothering you?”

“The report Colonel Waters is writing lays it all out—”

“Is it accurate? I can live with the truth.”

“It tells what you know. We should have gotten missiles on the birds, the aircrews could have been trained better and the command post did great. We do get high marks for what we’ve done in activating the base.”

“What about the crash site?”

“We were in hot pursuit. The Libyans still think the crash site is in Egypt. We’re the only ones who know where the real border is.”

“Anything else?”

Pullman stood and threw a small blackened metal object on the wing commander’s desk. “This was found in the MiG wreckage. It’s a Russian dog tag.”

26 July: 0810 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 0410 hours, Washington, D.C.

Anticipation hung in the room like a thick, heavy fog. Each man had a copy of the message from Alexandria South, and each understood why he was in an emergency conference at four in the morning. The six generals and four colonels from Intelligence were organizing their defenses. Cunningham quietly entered the room as the ten men and stenographer stood to attention.

“Please be seated,” he began. “Linda Jean, I want to apologize for your being called in so early. We won’t be needing your magic fingers this morning.” The stenographer reluctantly stood and left the room. This was going to be a bloodletting, she decided, and quietly closed the door.

“All
right,
you pig-fuckers. I do
not
like surprises. You know that. Now, clear your shit-for-brains heads and tell
me why I’m learning about the crash site and that Russians are flying for the Libyans from a wing in Egypt with presumably minimal intelligence capabilities? I thought it was your job to find out such things and tell the wing, not the other way ’round.” The general poked a finger at the three-star general sitting closest to him. “Beller, I believe you’re chief of Intelligence, how did the 45th find out it was a Russian pilot?”

“Sir, I called the wing on the secure channel in the Watch—”

“Beller, I don’t give a rat’s ass how you did it. Tell me how
they
did it.”

“One of the sergeants at the crash site was poking through the wreckage and found the dog tag. He didn’t know what it was and kept it as a souvenir. The wing’s first sergeant, a Mortimer Pullman, saw the dog tag and recognized it.”

“So by dumb luck we find out the Russians are flying for the Libyans after the Libyans get the body back. Did any of you dickheads think of sending the wing support, like a pathologist? He might have discovered it. And why was a photo-interpreter in a wing Intelligence unit the first to discover the MiG crashed in Libya? All those high-priced reccy-tech surveillance and geodetic systems I bought for you should have discovered that.”

“Sir, it was Colonel Blevins who discovered the exact location of the crash site.” Lieutenant General Beller had been in Intelligence for over fourteen years. He was a professional. He knew his answer wouldn’t appease Cunningham. Okay, his sophisticated reconnaissance systems hadn’t lived up to their billing. What it needed was a chance to demonstrate that the systems were worth every cent the Air Force had spent on them. He had to produce
results.
He also wanted a fourth star. “General, I don’t yet know what went wrong, but I will within hours. We’ve taken enough pictures of the crash site from all types of platforms. I’ll rip apart Intel to be sure we’re supporting the units in the field. If necessary I’ll have every one of my officers back in operational units to relearn what the Air Force is about.”

Cunningham looked at him, letting the place resonate
with silence, then said, “Pass along this information about the Russian pilot to the Secretary of Defense and the Joint Chiefs. Recommend telling the President. Coordinate with NSA to confirm the crash site. I want to see Waters and Blevins when they get back. Understand?”

The room emptied rapidly. On the way out Beller told his aide, “Send a message to Alexandria South. Get Waters and Blevins back here.”

The driver of the Air Force staff car halted automatically for the guards at the east gate of the White House. Cunningham endured the routine security check as the driver eased the car over the detection and scanner plates recessed in the driveway. The summons from the Oval Office had come as soon as the President had been told about the Russian pilot.

A young Air Force lieutenant colonel assigned as a White House aide escorted him to the Situation Room in the basement. Michael Cagliari, the President’s National Security Adviser, was sitting at the conference table in the middle of the fifteen-by-twenty-foot room, studying a wall map of North Africa. “The President and his aides will be here in a few minutes,” he said. “We’re waiting for Cy to arrive.” Cyrus J. Piccard was the courtly Secretary of State whose statesmanlike image provided the perfect cover for his rapacious nature.

Twelve minutes later an aide held the door open for the President, who entered briskly and sat down. “General, thanks for coming over so quickly, although I can’t say I’m especially happy to see you. Your news about the Russians flying missions for the Libyans caught too many of us by surprise.” The President glanced at the director of the CIA, the last of the six men following him to enter the room, then settled into his chair. “To be perfectly frank, General, a few of my advisers are questioning the validity of your evidence—the dog tag.”

“It’s valid,” Cunningham said. “It will be confirmed once the spooks…Intelligence…start looking in the right direction.”

The director of the CIA tried not to show his irritation. “General, we realize that if the Russians have a significant
military presence in Libya the whole balance of power in North Africa changes. Which can mean trouble for Egypt, Tunisia and Algeria. It also represents a potential threat on the flank of the oil-shipping lanes to Europe. I’d say, however, that that’s making some pretty big jumps based on a little square piece of metal.”

“But we can’t ignore it,” the National Security Adviser cut in. It was a rehash of the argument that had started in the Oval Office. “Give the crazy-like-a-fox Libyan the capability to make trouble and who knows or can predict what his intentions will be—”

The President held up his hand. “How do you interpret the evidence, General?”

Cunningham knew it would come back to him. “Well, Mr. President, the Soviets are doing more than just advising the Libyans. They have enough people there so that a combat-ready pilot was available to sit alert or man a MiG on short notice. You don’t do that with a few ‘advisers.’”

“Except, why would the Russians do that now?” the Secretary of State asked. “They’re sure acting friendly and seem interested in good relations—at least for the present…”

Cunningham wanted to chew on a cigar but couldn’t. Not here. “I’d guess it’s a case of one hand not knowing what the other’s doing. It’s been known to happen even here…” He couldn’t resist the dig, then hurried on. “Maybe the General Secretary is still not in full control of the Politburo. They’ve invested in a large military establishment, and obviously someone wants to use it.”

“Well, they’re not going to use it in North Africa,” the President said. He reached into his coat and pulled out a cigar; he smoked when he was angry. “We’ve worked hard and sacrificed too much creating a favorable balance of power in the Mediterranean. The Med is in our sphere of influence and I plan to keep it that way. I’m not about to let the Libyans screw it up.” He waved his cigar at the map. “If I have to, I’ll take them off the damn map. I’d prefer to lever the Russians out of Libya without a hassle, but I want them
out
. Any suggestions?”