by Dale Brown
case my identification has been confirmed by some other source. "
Sahl looked at Collins. "With any other interpreter I'd say get out of my office until you have something concrete. But I know better now. I suppose you've measured these tracks, measured the tires and fit them to a particular aircraft?', "Yes.,, "And that was . "H-model Bear bombers."
Sahl took a closer look at the photo. "Well, that is interesting. They're a long way from home." "I haven't found exactly where they're ftoni--l think Vinnica Airbase southwest of Kiev is missing a half-dozen at leastbut I've been checking on something even more interesting." Collins pulled up a chair in front of Sahl's desk. "Tashkent has been the major staging area for most of the strategic aircraft--bombers and large transports--involved with Operation Feather, right?" "Go ahead." "I think the Russians are putting AS-6 cruise missiles on those Bears parked at Tashkent."
Sahl frowned as he picked up the digital photographs of the large "satellite bluff " hangars. "Now how the hell can you tell that from these photos?" "By this. " Collins retrieved another photo from his carrying case. This one was a more conventional optical satellite photograph taken several months earlier of a completely different, much larger military airbase. "While I was checking on things, trying to score a few points with the boss, I did some note taking on strategic cruise missiles. I wrote down every detail I could find on AS-6 and AS-4 cruise-missile operations. Of course, one of the biggest Bear bomber bases is Murmansk, so I concentrated my search there, took a lot of notes on the cruise missiles based with the Bear Gs and Hs, with particular emphasis on the support vehicles." "This story, I know, must have a point. Please get to it." "I'm getting there, sir. Here's the scoop. The AS-6 missile uses kerosene liquid-fueled rocket engines, with nitric acid as the catalyst. Dangerous stuff. What's more, the stuff has got to be pumped into the missile's tanks under pressure to facili-
tate airborne ignition. They've built a special truck to do this. Here's a picture of one of those trucks."
Sahl, looking at it under a pair of stereo magnifiers, thought it resembled a huge square-nosed firetruck with a distinctive set of silverized tanks on either side. The photo even showed a crew of four men in silver-colored fire suits working around the truck. Sahl checked the date-time stamp on the photo-it was recent. "Now if you could only find one of those trucks
in Tashkent. . . ." "Ask and ye shall receive." Collins pulled the last photo out of his case. "Taken yesterday."
It was one of the most unusual photos Sahl had ever seen.
It showed, quite clearly, one of the cruise-missile fuel trucks being towed by a large tractor-trailer truck after it had apparently struck an aircraft tow-bar on a flight-line access road. Sahl thought of the luck element that was required in this business of reconnaissance photography: a few seconds more or less and the accident never would have occurred or the KH-14 satellite never would have spotted the truck. A few more minutes and the wreck would have been towed away without a trace and they might never have known for sure
about the cruise missiles.
Itimpressi ve, Collins. They've got AS76 or AS-4 cruise missiles in Tashkent." "Probably AS-6s. They stopped production on AS-4s back in 1989, in favor of the AS-6. " "Those things could be real trouble--correct me if I'm wrong. The AS-6 has both a ground and ship attack version. Either a three-thousand-pound high-explosive warhead-" "Or a two-hundred-kiloton nuclear warhead," Collins said. "Fairly long range on a normal launch profile-ffiey could probably launch at high altitude as far north as Shiraz in central Iran, well out of range of our Patriot, Hawk and RAM surface-to-air missile sites, and hit the strait. If they overwhelm our perimeter defense they could launch attacks against the fleet in the Gulf of Oman. " . Sahl did not have to think very long to reach a decision. "I need an analysis brief by one o'clock for the afternoon meeting. . . . " But Collins was already opening his photo case
again, arid a red-covered folder with a security strip-seal dropped onto Sahl's desk.
I 'Jesus, Collins, am I going to have to spend the rest of my four years to retirement looking over my shoulder to see when you're going to bury me, like you did Barnes?" "Nah," Collins said, "I got faith, sir. . . . I figure a smart man like you is going to help me move on up."
Sahl smiled, opening the intelligence brief. "If you can't beat 'em, help 'em beat up on someone else."
BETHESDA NAVAL HOSPITAL
It was a sight Ann Page had never wanted to see.
A whole section of the hospital's intensive-care ward had been occupied by a portable hyperbaric "altitude" chamber. Jason Saint-Michael lay inside the chamber on a hard plastic table. Ann winced as she looked at his inert form-he looked even more emaciated, more drawn. Electrocardiogram and electroencephalogram leads were attached to his body, running to terminals outside the chamber, where technicians and doctors studied the sensor readouts. "His heart seems normal," Doctor Matsui said as he rechecked the EKG paper strip. "Strong as a horse, as a matter of fact. He's in excellent condition." He shook his head. "Except for the ... other thing, " "What happened?" Ann asked. "The same thing he's been experiencing during his comatose state. His body is still throwing off the nitrogen. Nitrogen is absorbed easily in the soft tissues of the body-4hat's why it accumulates in the joints, causing the bends. 'Me general's case is more serious. The nitrogen accumulated in his brain, causing his blackouts, seizures and the pain. He probably absorbed a lot into his brain tissue, and in normal atmospheric pressure the nitrogen bubbles slowly work their'
way out of the tissue and into his bloodstream, in his nerve centers. " "But all this happened a month ago," Ann said. "He came out of the coma. Why is he still having these seizures?" "I don't know.... Obviously his body is still being affected by the nitrogen bubbles in his system, or perhaps there was some sort of neural, vascular or chemical damage. I'm afraid we don't know very much about cerebral dysbarism -fact is, we don't know much about anything when it comes to the brain or the nervous system. But there are a few things I do know. First, General Saint-Michael is no longer on flight status. His condition is obviously disqualifying. IT also have to recomme
at re iev o as co an er of Armstrong Space Station, or what's left of it."
Ann had to turn away. What she was hearing, whether Matsui knew it or not, was in effect a death sentence. No, damn it. That wasn't going to happen. To hell with the doctors. Matsui said he didn't know much. Good, that put them all even--starting from scratch. She'd take those odds.
August 1992 ROBAT, MASHIZ PROVINCE, SOUTH-CENTRAL IRAN
Topography and climatology tactical situation briefings said it was a region with a dry, subtropical climate, but no one could convince First Lieutenant Jeremy Ledbetter of that. The twentytwo-year-old army officer, fresh out of ROTC at Penn State University and specialty training at Fort Devins, Massachusetts, was packed in a layer of "Chinese underwear" thermalquilted underclothes beneath his desert gray fatigues, which themselves were covered by a reinforced plastic poncho. In the predawn hours in central Iran, even in mid-August, he was freezing his butt off. On top of that, Iran, which rarely got any rain during the summer, was experiencing a real Kansas-style gullywasher.
As Ledbetter surveyed his encampment he felt as if he was in charge of the entire defense of Iran. In fact he was in command of a combined air defense battery, a CAB: a MIM-104 Patriot and an MIM-23 I-Hawk missile battery just outside the sleepy little peat-farming town of Robat in the Meydan Valley of Iran. He commanded an eighty-man detachment of U.S. Rapid Deployment Force soldiers and at
least ten million dollars worth of high-tech surface-to-air missiles. His third Patriot high-altitude missiles and eighteen I-Hawk low-to-medium-altitude missiles virtually sealed off the entire Meydan Valley to unidentified aircraft for one hundred miles in any direction.
Ledbetter's CAB was also the "snare," the choke-point between two other Patriot sites on either side of the Meydan Valley. Enemy aircraft would circumnavigate the Patriot missile batteries at Anar and Arsenjan.
That would force them down the Meydan Valley and right into Ledbetter's all-altitudecapable missiles. Once enemy aircraft were caught in the narrow valley, there was no escape for them except to try to outrun or outmaneuver the oncoming missiles--both hugely difficult feats.
The proof was there for all to see: a Soviet Backfire-B supersonic bomber had been caught in the "snare" and had tried to use its speed to outrun one of the I-Hawk ' missiles. Unfortunately for the Backfire's pilot, in his hurry to escape attack he had been diverted from his job as a pilot. His Backfire had splattered all up and across the western wall of the Jebal Barez Mountains to the east of Robat, traveling at least at Mach one at three hundred feet off the valley floor. Ledbetter's Patriot and Hawk missile radars could still pick up the wreckage of the crash on the mountainside. No doubt
other Soviet bombers' radar could detect it too. . Well, let it be a warning, Ledbetter thought, as he sipped coffee from a metal cup. The message: don't mess with the Three-Thirty-Fifth.
He had gotten up early this morning to check on his perimeter security units. His rapid deployment force unit had been supplemented with Iranian Revolutionary Guard regulars, some of the toughest and meanest men he had ever met up with. The problem was that the Iranians had no idea how to fire a Patriot or Hawk missile, even though Iran had had Hawk missiles for years, so Ledbetter used the Iranians as security guards. But being a mere watchdog was way beneath a Muslim revolutionary guard-in centuries past, guard duties had always been left to slaves, peasants, conquered heathens or eunuchs---and so arguments would often break out between Ledbetter's people and Iranians. Ledbetter's surprise inspec-
tions would usually help keep conflicts down and morale and watchfulness high, but he couldn't really blame the eager Iranian soldiers for grabbing an American rifle and charging Soviet-occupied Shiraz or Tehran. Even so, he tried to convince them that their responsibility was here.
Ledbetter cruised by the first sergeant's tent just as his unit's senior NCO, Sergeant Plutarsky, was emerging from his tent. "Good timing, Sergeant." "Heard you coming, sir." Plutarsky threw his young commander a salute. The two men, the veteran NCO and the green officer, had somehow become friends after arriving at one of the hottest hot-spots in the Iran conflict. They complemented each other well: Ledbetter knew surface-to-air missiles and electronics; Plutarsky knew his men. Seldom did the two cross, which seemed to make the unit hum along. Ledbetterr didn't mess with the men; Plutarsky didn't mess with the missiles.
Ledbetter nodded in return at Plutarsky; neither stood for much formality. "I want to take a look at Whiskey Three first." Whiskey Three, or West Three, was one of the posts guarding the main long-range search radar. "You mean you want to take a look at Shurab," Plutarsky said. "Me too. Mister Shurab has had a stick up his rear ever since he's been here. He's got all the rest of the Iranians kowtowing to him. " "He says he's from the family of one of the religious members of Alientar's government, or something like that," Ledbetter said. "But you're right. He acts as if this whole war is being fought for his benefit."
Along the way, they stopped and inspected several of the other components of the CAB. To reduce the risk of one bomb taking out the entire missile system, the individual units of each missile system were widely separated. The control center for the whole CAB was in a trailer that had been buried underground to protect it from attack; that was where Ledbetter slept. To help secure the site, most of the men slept at their posts. The main Patriot phased-array radar was on a hill overlooking the valley about five miles away.
In the center of the encampment Ledbetter's CAB had a standard search-radar system that provided long-range surveil-
lance of the area. Although the search-radar was not tied into any of the surface-to-air missiles, the radar could detect aircraft approaching the area up to two hundred miles away, fi-om. ground level to well above fifty
thousand feet, and the search radar could "slave" the other acquisition tracking and uplink radars with it to help the smaller radars find targets for their missiles.
The search radar had been hoisted on top of an old rusted oil derrick about thirty feet above ground, along with a satellite communications dish and other shorter-range radio antennas. Nearby was a circular sandbag bunker with another set of acquisition radars inside, and a hundred feet beyond was the first of eight four-missile Patriot missile launchers, also in a sandbag bunker. Ledbetter could just barely make out the outline of the derrick on the horizon as he blew warm air onto this hands while they approached the derrick. "Cold, Sarge?" "I'm from Florida, sir," Plutarsky said. "Anything below sixty degrees is the next Ice Age to me."
At the derrick a few minutes later, they heard a rustle of footsteps and the unmistakable sound of an M-16 rifle on its web sling. "Stop," a voice called out, except the heavy Maine accent sounded more like, "Stawp. Who gowahs theah?"
Plutarsky was chuckling. "These Iranians speak better English than you do, Cooper."
They heard the rifle clattering back onto the technician's shoulder. "Good moawin', First Sahgeant. Up early, ayuh?" "Me and the lieutenant are touring the grounds. We're thinking of building a Hilton here." "A Hilton. That's a good one. " "Where's the ragheads?" Plutarsky got a disapproving look from Ledbetter. "Around heah somewheahs, Sahge," Cooper replied. "They's quiet like mice, don't ya know." "Shurab too?" "King Shurab says he switched shifts with some of his pas. I I
"Again?" Ledbetter said. ',I don't think he pulls any guard duty."
"I know. damned well he don't," Plutersky agreed. "When I fine him. going -to " ban his ass out.
"Better take ifeisy, Sarge, " Ledbetter said. "The Iranians are at least technically our allies, and Shurab is an allied officer. Let them run their detachment the way they want it. If he's doing something that affects security, then I will put the haminer down. Emphasis on the 'I.' "Yes, Sir.
They left Cooper to guard the oil derrick and continued on. After a few moments they came across a circle of five Iranian guards armed with M- 16 rifles. All five came to attention, and one saluted Ledbetter. "Good morning to you, Commander," he said. Ledbetter returned his salute. :'Where's First Captain Shurab?" Ledbetter asked. 'He is at guard house, Commander." "He's supposed to be on patrol."
The Iranians looked puzzled, as if they didn't understand. Plutarsky then stepped forward. "Shurab, dammit. Patrol. He has patrol." "No patrol," one of the other revolutionary guards said. "I take patrol, I patrol." :'You're Khaleir, aren't you? Khaleii?" The soldier nodded. 'You had the morning patrol. Shurab has the night patrol. " "No. I take. " He bent to listen to one of his comrades, then said in carefully accented English, "I switch." "Get Shurab. Bring him here," Plutarsky said. The soldiers stood around, only superficially trying to act as if they didn't understand but obviously trying to decide what to do. :7 want Shurab here," Ledbetter said. 'Yes, Sir," a voice said. Out of the darkness walked a tall, mustachioed man, unshaven, dressed in a clean desert gray combat jacket and immaculately spit-shined boots, and smoking a cigarette. He was easily the best-groomed man in camp--even the mud seemed to refuse to stick to his boots. His well-tended veneer only served to increase Plutarsky's foul mood. "First Captain Shurab, Sir, you are supposed to be leading the western guard patrol," Plutarsky said. "Why aren't you at your post?"
"I Switch with Abdul, Sir," Shurab said to Ledbetter, pointedly ignoring Plutarsky. "You can't switch with a man who has already pulled one twelve-hour patrol," Ledbetter told him. "I won't have tired guards on duty, especiaily at night. We're only a few miles from Soviet-held territory-" "I spit on the Soviets, Sir. "Good for you." Ledbetter turned to Plutarsky. "First Captain Shurab will lead the remainder of the night patrol and the whole morning patrol. He is not authorized a replacement under any circumstances. If he
is not at his post as ordered he will be reported to the revolutionary guard commandant at Bandar-Abbas for dereliction of duty. See to it, Sergeant. 'I
"Yes, Sir.,, Ledbetter walked off toward the oil derrick, Plutarsky moved forward toward S
hurab. "Do you understand your orders, Sir?" "I will not be addressed by a subordinate-" "I don't give a flying-" But Shurab had turned his back on Plutarsky and was walking toward the guard house. At which point Plutarsky blew a fuse. He reached out, grabbed Shurab by the collar from behind and yanked him up and back so that he landed on his rear end. This time, the mud was sticking-all over Shurab's starched fatigues.
Shurab, appropriately enough, swore loudly in Arabic and shouted an order. All five of the Iranian guards moved toward Plutarsky, but before they could take two steps toward him Plutarsky's nine-millimeter Beretta service pistol appeared in hand. "One more step and fancypants gets a hole in his starched shirt. " Everyone then froze ... until abruptly Shurab laughed, stood up and brushed himself off. "My apology, Sergeant," Shurab said, smiling. "I will go." He ordered his men to back away, and Shurab headed toward the western guard post. With Plutarsky still watching him, pistol drawn, Shurab suddenly stopped and turned. "Touching a superior is a capital offense in my country, Sergeant. And you are in my country." "I'm not impressed by you or your damned country.
Shurab waved gaily at Plutarsky, turned and left. Plutarsky
hold the pistcd in his direction until he was well out of sight, then bolstered it and trotted back to the oil derrick, feeling he had lost for winning.
"I heard some shouts back there," Ledbetter told Plutarsky when they met a few minutes later. The lieutenant was absently staring up at the revolving antenna belonging to the main search radar. "Problems?" "Nothing I can't handle, sir. " Plutarsky followed his young commander's gaze up to the top of the derrick then to the L-band radar bunker nearby, but all he noted was a slight squeak in the massive bearings supporting the search antenna every time the green mesh dish swung toward the north. "I'll get someone on those bearings, too. . . . "