Firebreak

by Richard Herman

  “You two were observed yesterday engaged in a dogfight with each other when you should have been on a routine patrol along the “Turkish border.” He rolled the handle of the letter opener between his fingers, studying the blade, finding it more interesting than Johar and Samir. “Apparently, you were doing this quite low.” Now the general was staring at them, his eyes cold and hard. “What altitude were you at when you engaged in this reckless activity?”

  Johar saw an opening. Whoever had seen them was not a flier, otherwise Mana would have known they were flying two hundred meters above the ground. “Sir, permission tospeak?” he barked. Mana nodded, still twiddling the opener. “Lieutenant Samir and I were on patrol yesterday when a bright flash on the ground caught our attention. Our ground controller did not respond to our request to investigate.” So far, so good, Johar thought. Once established on a patrol, the Iraqi radar ground controllers often ignored them since nothing had happened along the Turkish border since the war with Kuwait. Mana said nothing.

  “Sir,” Johar continued, “I took it on my own initiative to descend to six hundred meters above the area.” Now he waited. Six hundred meters, just under two thousand feet, was still too low for the general but it explained why they were below radar coverage. “We then set up a weave pattern to perform a visual reconnaissance of the road.” That explained what could have been mistaken for a dogfight. No sign from Mana.

  Johar gave an inward shudder as he thought what Mana would do if he knew the truth. The two pilots had been practicing low-level engagements at five hundred feet, less than two hundred meters, above the ground. Johar had rolled in on Samir and closed to a guns tracking solution. Samir had then tried to jink out and reverse onto Johar.

  “Weave pattern?” Mana finally said. It wasn’t a question. “Visual reconnaissance? These are not authorized. Your sole function on patrol is to follow the directions from your ground controller. You are airborne only to shorten the response time from when the controller detects an intruder until when he can direct you into an engagement.”

  The two pilots looked straight ahead. “This,” Mana continued, “is the second time you have acted irresponsibly and it will not be repeated.” The general drove the tip of the letter opener into the desktop. “To make my point, you will be on standby alert until further notice. Dismissed.” Johar and Samir clicked their heels, gave short bows from the waist, turned, and marched out of the room.

  Outside the building, they breathed easier. “Standby alert,” Johar said. “It could have been worse.”

  “So we sit in our rooms or in the squadron,” Samir complained, “just in case they want someone to fly. When did anyone on standby alert ever fly?”

  “Never.”

  “Why’d you tell him we had set up a weave at six hundredmeters?” Samir groused. “He almost wet his pants. The only time Mana sees six hundred meters is during takeoffs and approaches.”

  “I had to tell him something he’d believe,” Johar explained.

  “You got that from a CHECO report,” Samir said.

  The two pilots had recently discovered a complete set of United States Air Force Contemporary Historical Evaluation of Combat Operations (CHECO) reports an agent had stolen from a base in Germany years before. Johar and Samir had pored over the reports that U.S. Air Force historians had compiled during the course of the war in Vietnam. The reports had started out based on interviews with the pilots and aircrews who actually engaged in combat. The men had told it like it really was and the reports had been most revealing. After the first year, a pattern emerged in the reports: The targets and Rules of Engagement coming down from higher headquarters had little to do with the air war, what it took to survive over North Vietnam and, most important, to deliver effective ordnance on target. Like most sane men, the pilots did what was necessary to stay alive and generally kept their mouths shut. The CHECO reports got to the truth.

  Unfortunately for history, certain generals in the Air Force read the reports, tried to have them burned, and, failing that, classified them secret. Then the same generals disciplined a few pilots and crunched at least one historian. The historians, also being sane and rational, took their cues from the pilots and started telling the generals what they’d believe.

  The two Iraqi pilots walked slowly toward their squadron building. They had lots of time to kill. Then what started as a low chuckle in both men grew to a guffaw. Johar looked at Samir and roared with laughter. “It worked, didn’t it?” That was life in an air force.

  “Colonel Martin, what we’re dealing with here is a classic case of ‘you tell me what the threat is and I’ll tell you what my tactics are,’ “ Matt said. He and Furry were closeted with the DO, Bill Carroll, and the Gruesome Twosome going over their plans and training for an attack on Kirkuk. “We’re going to have to take on die same defense array that Amb and I encountered when we hit the Syrian headquarters in Lebanon.”

  “Gadflies and ZSUs?” Dennis Leander, the junior, very short, overfed elf half of the Twosome, asked.

  “Right,” Furry answered. “We were okay ingressing to the target,” the wizzo explained, recalling the attack, “until we had to pop above a hundred feet to acquire the target while we were still outside the range of the ZSU-Twenty-threes that were surrounding the place. That’s when the Gadflies became a problem. We popped to designate the target, dropped back down to get below the Gadflies, but then had to pop back up to get an upward vector so our smart bomb could get a release signal from the weapons computer. I want to tell you, things got hairier than hell.”

  “But,” Matt interrupted, “we’ve got just the weapon and tactics to counter that threat.”

  Martin was way ahead of them. “So we use GBU-Twenty-fours and Israeli B’nai tactics.”

  “Sorry,” Larry Stigler, the stork half of the Twosome said, “you’ve lost us.”

  “Explain it to the Meatheads,” Martin grumbled, “and work out a low-level attack. Tell me when you’ve got the simulator ready and I’ll fly the first mission profile.” He heaved his bulk to a standing position and stomped out the door.

  “He likes you,” Furry told the Twosome.

  Martin stuck his head back inside the room. “I want the sim ready by tomorrow morning, Meatheads.” Then he was gone.

  “He doesn’t like us,” Leander corrected. “No way we can do that. It’ll take us five days to reprogram your simulator.”

  “You want to tell him that?” Carroll asked.

  “We’ll try to have something by tomorrow,” Stigler moaned. “You better tell us about GBU-Twenty-fours and B’nai tactics.”

  Furry explained that the GBU-24 was a two-thousand-pound bomb with a guidance control unit on its nose and folding wings on its tail. The weapon could be released in level flight very low to the ground and “tossed” onto the target when the aircraft was still over five miles away. The wings on the GBU-24 would snap open and the guidance control unit would “fly” the bomb onto the target. The bomb would actually climb in-flight and the control unit would dotrajectory shaping to optimize the impact angle. The bomb could penetrate fifteen feet of earth or three feet of concrete and, according to Furry, “not even scratch the paint.”

  But for pinpoint accuracy, the target had to be lased during the final seconds of the bomb’s flight. The guidance control unit would sense the reflected energy and fly the bomb to within inches of the “usable laser spot.” The GBU-24 was a very smart bomb with infinite courage.

  Then Matt took over and covered B ‘nai tactics. In order to lase the target, two F-15Es would fly a coordinated attack in what could best be described as a pincers movement. The aircraft tossing the bomb would ingress slightly ahead of the other. It would toss the bomb while still well clear of the ZSU-23s used for close-in defense and under the minimum guidance altitude of the Gadfly SAM. The second jet would come in on the other arm of the pincers and would close to within eight thousand feet of the nearest ZSU-23, which was outside the ZSU’s range but still close enou
gh to see and lase the target without popping into the Gadfly’s envelope.

  Stigler stood up, ready to go to work. But something in him had changed; instead of looking like a stork, he resembled a lean and hungry hawk. “How soon,” he said to Carroll, “can you get us the exact location of every SAM site and ZSU gun emplacement that’s a player?”

  “In thirty minutes,” Carroll answered.

  Leander’s elfin grin changed to one of pure mean gremlin. “Martin’s gonna find out who the meatheads are tomorrow morning.”

  The activity swirling around the Ganef in the command and control bunker was brisk and efficient. The officers were showered and rested as they hurried about their business directing the war effort, and the halls and command room had been recently cleaned. The chief of Mossad noted with grim satisfaction that the change in morale was driven by the status boards and that there was no doubt that Israel was now pushing the Syrians and Iraqis back on two of the three fronts. The Golan Heights had been cleared and Northern Command was massing for a push toward Damascus, eighty kilometers, or forty-three miles, away. On the front opposite Jerusalem, the Syrians and Iraqis had been pushed back across the Jordan River and Jerusalem was no longer being shelled by artillery. But the Israelis’ last attack as they tried to force the Jordan River had stalled.

  Only on the Lebanon front had all progress ground to a halt. The Iraqis had tried to push down a long valley just as Ben David had transferred forces from Lebanon to the Golan to exploit the breakthrough there. The battle in Lebanon had turned into a bloody slugfest and only the timely withdrawal of the Iraqis had saved the situation.

  Now Ben David was pressing for a counterattack in Lebanon, claiming that the Iraqis had withdrawn because they were hurt. The Ganef shook his head because he would have to tell Ben David that he was wrong. All his latest intelligence said the Iraqis were re-forming for another attack.

  The air attack warning lights on the panel above the main boards started to flash, capturing everyone’s attention in the bunker. The sophisticated warning system had detected numerous incoming missiles and was analyzing their trajectories. Now the panel’s readouts lit up, identifying the type of missiles and their targets. Sixteen Scud Bs and Scaleboards were headed for targets where Israel’s Jericho missiles were bunkered. Then another warning flashed as twelve more missiles were detected headed for the same type of targets. The panel illuminated with a third warning as nineteen more missiles were detected. The Patriot batteries were saturated.

  Ben David was on his feet, shouting. “So they want to escalate!”

  The Ganef studied Ben David, more concerned about the prime minister’s reaction than the attack. A new worry claimed the Ganef’s thoughts. Everything about Ben David pointed to a man on the edge of physical and mental exhaustion. The minister of defense, Benjamin Yuriden, was calming him, urging him to wait for the results of the attack before acting.

  “If this is a chemical attack inside Israel …"Ben David was shouting, clenching and relaxing his right fist, his face flushed.

  “I don’t think so,” Yuriden counseled. “We’ve told them if they use gas on our people, we’ll use nuclear weapons. It’s logical for them to strike at our nuclear delivery systems, our Jericho missiles.”

  The damage reports started to filter in. The incoming missiles had all been armed with conventional warheads and thetargets had been known Jericho missile sites. The Ganef was surprised at the accuracy of the Arabs’ targeting and immediately wondered if the Soviets had used their satellite reconnaissance to help locate the Jerichos for the Arabs.

  Ben David was settling down until the final results were tallied: The rocket attack had knocked out 28 percent of Israel’s Jericho missiles. “Upload our warheads!” he shouted. Again, Yuriden calmed him, telling him that it was far too early to upload their nuclear warheads. Ben David smashed his fists down onto his console, hard, fighting for self-control. For a few moments he stared at his fists; then he jerked his head yes, agreeing with his minister of defense.

  The Ganef decided it would be better if he waited a few minutes before he told Ben David about the Iraqi preparations for a new attack in Lebanon and slipped out of the room, into the corridor. His experience warned him not to overburden the prime minister and to be careful how he presented bad news. The man needed rest and was not in full command of his emotions. Besides, the ground commanders in Lebanon were aware of the impending attack.

  A heavyset figure was lumbering down the passageway: Avi Tamir. The Ganef stopped him. “We need to talk,” he said and motioned toward an empty part of the corridor. “Is it ready yet?” he asked.

  Tamir’s head snapped up. Of course, he had seen the old man with Ben David when they had last discussed the progress he was making, but he didn’t know who the man was or what he did. “I’m the chief of Mossad,” the Ganef told him, establishing his authority.

  “We all need to talk,” a voice behind them said. It was Benjamin Yuriden. He led the two men down the hall and into an office. He chased the occupants out and closed the door. “What’s the status of the ‘weapon'?” he asked.

  “It’s finished and is being moved right now,” Tamir answered. “Once in place, it can be uploaded on a missile in about three hours.”

  “If the Arabs hit Israel with gas,” Yuriden said, “he’ll use it.” The “he” was Yair Ben David.

  “I thought the Iraqis had already used nerve gas,” Tamir said, puzzled.

  “That was in Lebanon,” Yuriden explained, “not in Israel and in a limited tactical situation. Our intelligence from thefield indicates it hurt them more than it did us. In fact, I think that’s why they broke off the attack when they did. Levy’s Luck again.”

  Now Yuriden was pacing the floor. “We’re pushing the Arabs back and they’re showing signs of aligning their political posture to support the Egyptian cease-fire proposal in the UN. But Ben David wants a military solution first. He wants territory to justify the sacrifices we’ve made. But I’m worried that the Arabs will resort to widespread chemical warfare if they think they are going to lose too much of their land.”

  “They know we’d go nuclear if they did that,” the Ganef said.

  “Who said the actors in this war were rational?” Yuriden snapped. “Not only that, since the VR Fifty-five they used in Lebanon was ineffective, I’m certain the Iraqis will use their newest nerve gas now.” Yuriden paused. “And we don’t have a defense against it. Thank God they haven’t deployed it into the field yet.”

  “Then why don’t we destroy the nerve gas before they move it?” the Ganef asked. “Jericho missiles with conventional warheads should do the job.”

  “Believe me, we thought about it,” Yuriden said. “The only warhead we have that can penetrate the arsenal’s hardened walls at Kirkuk is too heavy and reduces the range of the Jericho. Kirkuk is simply out of range with a conventional warhead that can do the job.”

  “Has somebody been working the problem?” Tamir asked. “Trying to develop a conventional warhead that matches throw weight with range?”

  “Of course,” Yuriden answered. “Israeli Military Industries. But they haven’t come up with …” Tamir spun around, cutting him off, and ran out of the room, heading for his next challenge.

  Yuriden studied the open door in the silence. “I’m going to have to order another air strike against the arsenal,” he said. “It’s suicide.” The man drew himself up. He had been a fighter pilot, had flown Israel’s first F-16s, and was still current in the aircraft. “Damn, I’m going to lead the attack myself.”

  “That would win an award for stupidity,” the Ganef grunted, but he sympathized with Yuriden’s yearning to takean active part in the war. “I think I know how to destroy the Iraqis’ nerve gas before they deploy it.”

  “It’s got to happen soon,” Yuriden said. “I’m not sure how much longer we can contain this war.”

  The Ganef closed the door and stood close to Yuriden, his voice low and almost inaudible.…r />
  Dennis Leander was sitting at the simulator’s control console, working furiously, trying to nail Mad Mike Martin who was in the simulator. His partner, Larry Stigler, was asleep on the floor, totally exhausted from the forty-eight straight hours they had spent programming the sim’s computer. They had missed their first deadline and drawn the full force of Martin’s large and obscene vocabulary. Now the simulator was ready and Leander wanted revenge. “Oh, shit!” he roared when Martin skillfully avoided the latest combination of SA-6 and SA-11 SAMs Leander had engaged him with. “Damn it, Stig! Get your ass up here and help me.”

  Stigler staggered to his feet and scanned the color monitors that repeated the scene Martin was seeing inside the cockpit. Martin’s wizzo had the nerve gas plant and arsenal on the Target FLIR and they were on a bomb run, doing their own lasing. “I thought they were using B’nai tactics and Martin’s wingman was going to do the lasing,” Stigler observed.

  “I shot his wingman down,” Leander said, his teeth grinding.

  For a fraction of a moment, Stigler considered sandbagging the colonel inside the sim, but discarded the urge immediately. Too much was at stake here and this was not the time for games. “Don’t cut him any slack, but make it realistic.”

  “How about him cutting me some slack?” Leander yelled. Then he relaxed and laughed. “This guy is tough.” They watched the color monitor as Martin’s first bomb exploded on target.

  Thirty-five minutes later, Martin safely landed at Diyarbakir, Turkey, the launch and recovery base for the attack 240 miles away. The canopy that covered the cockpit swung up and Martin crawled out, his flight suit wringing wet and his face glistening with sweat. For a moment he stared at the Gruesome Twosome. “That was a neat twist, moving SA-Sixes in like that,” he said. “Totally unexpected but realistic. I liked it. Get every swingin’ dick through here today.” The Gruesome Twosome exchanged tired looks as Martin barreled out the door. The colonel stuck his massive head back in. “You did good. Thanks.” Then he was gone.