Every Man a Tiger: The Gulf War Air Campaign

by Tom Clancy

  Behery is extremely shy, but not because other people frighten him. He is just reluctant to meet and greet. We made small talk for a while, until Mary Jo, in her blunt Iowa manner, broke in with some gripes against Arab men that had long rankled her. A particular incident still burned: During the days I was the wing commander at Williams AFB, we used to go to the graduation dinners for the foreign military sales training classes in the F-5E. At one of these, Mary Jo tried to strike up a conversation with an Arab student, either Saudi or Jordanian. Mary Jo is so open and friendly, it’s hard for her to grasp how anyone can fail to respond to her overtures. So when this one did—he was off-puttingly distant, stiff, and unfriendly—she took that as a characteristic of the people. I suspect the man was more concerned that she was the wing commander’s wife than that he was talking to a woman without a veil. Nonetheless, she came away with the idea that Arab men patronize women.

  When Mary Jo concluded, “So you see, General Behery, Arab men are stuck up and snooty when they talk to me, and that’s why I don’t like to talk to them,” he actually beamed with amusement. And his good humor remained as he explained to both of us why Arab men are somewhat aloof when dealing with Western women (they are not used to the aggressive behavior of strangers, especially women). Then, becoming quite serious, he gave us a nutshell lecture about the differences between the Arab and the Western view of women.

  What he had to say was no surprise—the usual line that in his culture women are held in high esteem, much as they were in our South before the Civil War. For that reason, it is considered important to protect the sanctity of women, and ill-mannered for a man to talk directly to another man’s wife. That is the reason for the veils and flowing garments. They protect women, he told us, much as one protects honey from flies by placing a cloth over the bowl. And yet he didn’t stop there. The time he had spent in the United States had made him familiar enough with our culture to be aware that our women resented the kind of protection Arab men and women take for granted. He knew that what was protection for an Arab woman was suppression for an American. And he had no problems with that. In fact, Behery saw both cultures for what there were: both had good and bad elements. Good people in each culture who did the right thing for the right reasons would make each culture work, while bad people would screw things up, no matter where they were.

  The conversation, which went on for hours, was a little revelation—not because he’d told us anything new, but because he was truthful, open, sensitive, and fair. I loved his honesty, insight, and understanding. Or as Bill Creech used to say, “You only get one chance to make a first impression.” In this case, the impression Behery made was decidedly favorable.

  Break Break. It was now seven years later. I had been told I was going to replace Bill Kirk as Ninth Air Force commander, but it had not been announced. Bill Kirk was about to take our boss, Bob Russ, around the Middle East, so Bob could see how the TAC men and women were living and serving in those countries: Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Bahrain, Oman, and Pakistan. Since this would become my beat, Bob took me along. While I was in Saudi, I met Behery again, and was even more impressed when I saw him on his own turf.

  Americans have a tendency to look down on other people (I’ve done that myself). But when we meet foreigners who exceed our rather low opinion of what they should be, we tend to go too far in the other direction and get overawed by them. Let me tell you, all the Arab leaders that I met, colonel and above, were very impressive, and not because I was overawed—Turki at Dhahran, Sudairy in Riyadh, Henadi at RSAF, on and on. These men are truly exceptional individuals, regardless of where they are from.

  In my journeys around Saudi Arabia, I found a far different country from ours. It’s quiet, for one thing—a quiet that comes from the isolation; there aren’t many people there; so for a New Yorker it must be hell on earth, but for an Iowan it is natural. The food is strange but good. And I love the exotic customs and traditions, the extremely handsome architecture, the smells of spice. The weather is hot and dry, to be sure, but I can take that. You don’t miss our television; and besides, you get to hear prayer call now and then during the day, especially before sunup and at sunset. This is beautiful, even though you don’t understand the words. And finally, the tradition of the desert demands that hosts honor guests; there is nothing that competes with the welcome provided by an Arab host; he is delighted to honor his guest. Truly all that he has is at your disposal. Your home is his home.

  Saudi Arabia is not my land or my home, but I have loved it more than I could love many of the places where I’ve visited or lived in my own country. A binding and genuine friendship with the Saudi land and people has grown steadily over the years and has touched me deeply.

  After I took over Ninth Air Force, I made regular visits to the Middle East to visit my troops and see to their needs, to work issues associated with the prepositioned materials in the region, and to forge relationships with the leaders of the various nations’ air forces. Sometimes these negotiations were very difficult, yet they were always carried on with mutual respect. Each side knew the other was only trying to do the best for his country—certainly an honorable motive.

  I sensed, too, that they held (and still hold) the USAF in high respect, and I made sure we did nothing to weaken that esteem. So when one of our people committed an unlawful act, I took quick action—not primarily to come down hard on whoever was responsible, but to make sure that the countries involved know that Americans respect their national sovereignty.

  In time I began to read all I could about the region and came to appreciate the long and rich history that goes back well before Europeans were still clubbing supper and living in skin shelters. I studied Islam and discovered its similarities with Judaism and Christianity. There is a common heritage that is lost when the doctrinaire types feud over ideas that are human interpretations of what God is all about, not what God thinks he is all about. Most significantly, I discovered that Arabs respect Americans because we work hard, we honor our own religion (or at least most of us do), and because we have for the most part dealt with them honorably.

  On numerous occasions in those years, I negotiated with the various nations in the region about cooperation in the event of a crisis there. And we were involved in a number of major operations, such as protection of the oil fields and refineries during the Iran-Iraq War and the tanker reflagging and escort of Kuwaiti tankers down the Arabian Gulf and through the Strait of Hormuz during the time when the Iranian Revolutionary Guard were attacking them. I also helped out where I could: I spoke in their war colleges, I attended joint and combined exercises in the region, and I visited their people in the United States . . . little things and big things, because it was my job and because it was the right thing to do.

  I soon became sensitive to the way Arabs have been presented to the American people. Not well. It’s another zero-sum game. Because we’re pro-Israel (and I have no quarrel with that), we look down on the Arabs. When was the last time Chuck Norris fought a terrorist who wasn’t Asian or Arab? Ignorant terms like “Islamic fundamentalist terrorist” fill our newspapers—as though all Muslims were fundamentalists and terrorists. Sure, I have met Arabs I don’t like or trust. And there are as many dumb son-of-a-bitch Arabs as there are in any culture, but the Arab military officers I have worked with have earned my respect, and I hope they hold me in the same regard.

  Trust takes time, but when you have it, you have a wonderful gift. I cannot tell you how binding the emotions are between me and my close Saudi and other Arab friends; it is genuine and deep.

  ★ Jeddah is located on the Red Sea about midway down the Saudi coast. It is a large city, the capital of the westernmost province of the kingdom, and the port of entry for pilgrims to the holy city of Mecca. The airport is vast, and during the hajj, millions of travelers pass through it from all over the world to travel to Mecca. It is a beautiful, majestic city, old and new, with blue sky, blue water, and blue hazy mountains to the east. Its mosques are
lovely, quiet, and splendid. There are grand parks along the waterfront, palm trees, and old buildings built out of huge blocks of coral cut from the sea, their balconies decorated with delicate carved wooden screens. A giant water fountain shoots water high into the air. The same sailing ships Arab seamen have used for centuries fill the harbor.

  Because of its long history as a port, codes aren’t enforced as strictly in Jeddah (or in Dhahran, on the Gulf) as in the interior. For example, foreign women are not harassed when their hair is uncovered as much as they are in Riyadh. And because of its proximity to the sea and to more moderate weather, the summer palace is located there—actually beside the sea, in a grove of date palms.

  The American party descended the aircraft ramp past the Saudi honor guard and the ever-present television cameras with their satellite hookups. As always, CNN was there, which got a laugh from Horner. He couldn’t tell his wife where he was going, yet when she turned on the morning news, there’d be her husband in Jeddah walking down the steps behind Secretary Cheney.

  Soon they were in the Saudi VOQ, which was inland about ten blocks from the palace. Like the palace, the VOQ was surrounded by date palms, which provided much-needed shade from the glaring sun and gave cool relief from the hot ride in from the airport. Hot gaua followed by hot sweet tea was offered. Chuck Horner was home.

  The gaua service followed ancient Bedouin custom. In the past, the desert dweller would roast green coffee beans over a camel-dung fire, and then grind the roasted beans with cardamom seeds and brew a greenish, sweetish, heavily flavored coffee in a distinctive long-spouted brass pot. Since water is so scarce, the coffee is served in tiny cups without handles, small enough to hide in the palm of one’s hand. Maybe two tablespoons of coffee are drained with great flourish down the twelve-inch-long spout into a cup. This is offered first to the senior personage, then other cups are offered to each guest according to rank and status. He downs the boiling hot fluid in one or two gulps and holds the cup out again for seconds or to be collected. Normally, he takes only one or two cups, signaling the server that he’s had enough by tipping the cup slightly. After the coffee, the server will return with a silver tray filled with small mugs of steaming hot tea, sweetened with two or more lumps of sugar. The taste of the tea will vary from area to area, depending on the local custom. But invariably, it is flavored with spearmint.

  No matter how long a man has traveled, no matter how mysterious or strange the desert nation may seem, this simple ceremony, repeated every time he meets his Arab host at the airport, in his home, or even in his office, becomes the familiar opening that lets him know he is a welcome and honored guest. He is truly home.

  When you are hosted by the king, you never go hungry. Sodas, juice, and dates and nuts were available in the VOQ rooms; dinner was served about eight; and Horner could call room service at any hour for anything else he wanted.

  Sometime toward midnight—for that’s when business in Saudi Arabia normally takes place—the U.S. delegation made the short trip over to King Fahd’s palace. During the day, just as in the West, a visitor meets with his Saudi counterpart and talks over whatever subject is on his agenda. After nightfall, when things have had a chance to cool off, he gets together late and drinks tea and juice, and sometimes has dinner. Then, around midnight, he gets down to serious business and decisions are reached.

  The trip to the Palace of the Defender of the Two Holy Mosques was a first for Horner. He’d heard it was splendid, and he was eager to check it out.

  It turned out to be every bit as lovely as its reputation—with the usual Arab features: curving arches; brown, tan, or reddish-brown adobe; earth tones that blended in with the color of the surrounding desert; brick stairs; flowered tiles; fountains; and a glorious profusion of roses. The Saudis are especially astute at creating serenity and comfort in the midst of the beautiful but harsh desert in which they live.

  While Horner and John Yeosock waited in an outer room, General Schwarzkopf and Secretary Cheney met with the King, joined by Chas Freeman, the U.S. Ambassador to Saudi Arabia, and Major General Don Kaufman,27 the top U.S. military officer residing in the kingdom.

  During that session, King Fahd made one of the most courageous, farsighted decisions ever made by an Arab leader. The situation was clear. Iraq was in Kuwait, and much of the Kuwaiti population was in various Saudi Arabian hotels. The Iraqi army was on the border, and while it had not threatened to attack, no one could forget that Saddam had promised not to attack Kuwait either. All of this was a good argument to invite the help of the Americans and other friends.

  On the other hand, asking in the Americans presented the Saudis with serious problems—not, as some people think, because the Saudis feared and rejected America and the West. That wasn’t true. The Saudis admired and respected the West. Inviting in the Americans was problematic because Saudi Arabia was the most deeply fundamental Islamic nation. To the Saudis, fundamental Islam required them to stay as close to the teaching of the Holy Prophet and the Holy Koran as possible, and this required them to reject the aspects of our culture that, in their view, were offensive to God, such as pornography, drunkenness, and the like. They had no wish to encourage the spread of these vices inside their country. Like it or not, many Arabs viewed the people of the United States (including the U.S. military) as drunken, pot-smoking skirt-chasers. The ghost of Vietnam haunting us again.

  So here was the King of Saudi Arabia trying to work out what to do after an army of brother Arabs had successfully invaded a neighboring brother country. As he gazed upon that ghastly situation, he couldn’t help but ask himself, “Will my Arab brother attack me?” even as the ruler of the attacking country assured him that his armies meant no harm. So should he trust the good intentions of his admittedly treacherous brother, or should he invite a foreign legion of godless drunks and rapists to defend his people? It was one hell of a choice!

  For a long time, the debate continued in Arabic between the King and his brothers, with Cheney, Schwarzkopf, Freeman, Wolfowitz, and a few other American representatives still in the room (since Freeman spoke Arabic, the main points of the debate were later reported to the others). On and on, with no clear answers. Then, at last, the King articulated very simply what he had probably had in mind ever since it had become clear that the United States was willing to offer military help. . . . Horner wasn’t to know what that was, however, until after the meeting broke up.

  As the American delegation left the Palace of the Defender of the Two Holy Mosques, everyone seemed unusually calm and peaceful. Cool breezes were blowing off the Red Sea, fountains sang in the courtyard. The only other sound was the chirp the tires made, like sneakers on marble, as the staff cars glided over the polished tile driveway. The delegation filed into the cars without speaking, everyone deep in thought, heavily troubled by what lay ahead.

  Horner and Paul Wolfowitz climbed into the backseat of the car they were sharing. As they drove out the massive gates of the palace grounds, Horner quietly asked him how things had gone in the inner sanctum. “The King has asked us to come in and help,” he said, with some wonder in his voice. “He said I’ve seen this nation come too far to have it destroyed.”

  It was as simple as that. Yet it meant that Chuck Horner was about to embark on nine of the most intense months of his life.

  Back at the guest quarters, Secretary Cheney held a short staff meeting to discuss what needed to be done right away. Then everyone turned in for some well-needed rest.

  Even though Horner was worried that the change in time zones and the adrenaline racing through his veins might make sleep impossible, for some reason he enjoyed one of the best nights of sleep he’d ever had. The decision had been made. Now all he had to do was execute his end of the operation.

  The following morning the Americans met with the King’s younger brother, Prince Sultan, the Minister of Defense and Aviation, the Arab equivalent of Cheney. After everyone filed into the vast, luxurious reception room (there was a light scent o
f rose water in the air), Prince Sultan took a seat in the corner in a large upholstered chair, Cheney sat to his right, while Prince Bandar stood between them to translate. (By this time, Bandar was the Saudi Ambassador to the United States; smart and devastatingly charming, he was the equal to Colin Powell at political maneuvering.) Prince Sultan, Bandar’s father, was fluent enough in English to conduct the meeting in that language, but this was not the time for misunderstandings. Each word had to be carefully weighed before it was spoken; and then it was up to the former F-15 fighter pilot, Prince Bandar bin Sultan bin Abdullah Aziz, to make sure everyone understood what each side was agreeing to. Meanwhile, various Saudi military and the rest of the U.S. delegation took other chairs. Except for Sultan, all the Saudi military chiefs were in Riyadh.

  Those in the room were tense and uncertain. They were in the first moments of a singularly important marriage, and the bride and groom were not sure they could get along . . . though they were more than willing to try. John Yeosock’s and Chuck Horner’s long experience in that part of the world—only Ambassador Chas Freeman knew the Arabs better—made them probably the most relaxed Americans there. They were familiar enough with Arabic not to totally depend on the translator; and, more important, they could read the facial expressions and body language of the Arabs, which allowed them to understand the emotions behind much of what was going on.

  This is what the two sides agreed to that morning: the Saudis would open their bases and ports to U.S. military forces, and pay for the lion’s share of the huge undertaking upon which both nations were embarking. The U.S. representatives promised that their forces would respect Saudi laws and culture, and would leave immediately when requested by their hosts. The United States had learned from Vietnam.

  Once all this was settled, another question came up: who’d be in charge while the CINC returned to the States to start the great enterprise that would become Desert Shield? Someone had to be appointed as the United States’ forward commander, to stay in the capital in Riyadh to organize and run things as the units and supplies arrived in-country—and to be in command of U.S. forces, in the CINC’s absence, in the event of an Iraqi attack. After some discussion, General Schwarzkopf, sitting next to Secretary Cheney, pointed across the room to Lieutenant General Chuck Horner, USAF.