by Dale Brown
“What horseshit,” Colonel Daren Mace muttered under his breath. He was watching a group of photographers being chased away from the outer gate of the alert-facility ramp as they tried to photograph the six nuclear-loaded RF-111G Vampire bombers and six KC-135E tankers inside. They were flashing authorization badges, but nothing they had allowed them to photograph the alert birds. “Just shoot ’em, sky cops,” Mace said. “Don’t send them away or arrest them, shoot ’em.”
“Pipe down, Colonel,” Colonel McGwire hissed at him. “They’re coming.”
As the Secret Service detail and Air Force security police surrounded the area, the First Lady stepped out of the first limousine, waving to the crowd. She was wearing a blue flight suit, given to her when she made a flight with the Air Force Thunderbirds the year before, under a winter-weight Arctic flying jacket with a fur hood. In the car with her was Major General Tyler Layton, commander of Fifth Air Battle Force, plus several Secret Service agents. In the second car was General Philip Freeman, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, along with Governor Samuel Bellingham of New York. The two senior officers joined in the applause of the crowd of guests observing this gathering as the First Lady and the Governor began to work the crowds.
The First Lady shook hands with a number of the dignitaries and friends arranged in front of the podium, then she stepped up to the podium and had General Freeman stand on one side and Governor Bellingham on the other. “Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen,” the First Lady began. “It’s very kind of you to come out on this beautiful but very cold morning to help me, General Freeman, and Governor Bellingham wish Godspeed and good luck to this exceptional group of airmen—and, not to be outdone or forgotten, airwomen—here this morning.”
She spoke in a cold, crisp tone for about five minutes, then got to the heart of the matter.
“I wanted to recognize one more extraordinary group here, and that’s the women of the 394th Air Battle Wing. It was just twenty years ago that the first woman pilot in the modern U.S. Air Force graduated from flight training, and only fifteen years ago when the first woman joined a Strategic Air Command combat crew, and only three years since all aviation positions were open to women. You are all witnesses to history in the making again, ladies and gentlemen, because this is the first overseas deployment of a combat-capable crew with women aviators in it, including America’s first woman combat pilot, Major Rebecca C. Furness, of the 715th Tactical Squadron ‘Eagles.’ “ The First Lady stopped to initiate the applause, then waved over to the RF-111G side. “Becky, where are you?” As scripted, Rebecca stepped forward onto the red carpet and waved to the crowd. The photographers went crazy trying to get a good shot of her.
The First Lady blew her a kiss and gave her a thumbs-up, then turned to the audience. “There are some who say that women aren’t good enough, that they can’t handle the pressure, that they don’t have the right stuff. Well, my friends, take a look at that woman, and her war machine. That’s an American pilot, the best of the best. Rebecca, Eagle Squadron, Griffin Squadron—good luck and Godspeed. God bless you all, and God bless the United States of America. Let’s all help get these professionals on their way, shall we?”
The First Lady accepted the loud applause with a wave and a mind-blowing smile for the cameras, shook hands with the Governor and with Freeman, then made her way down the line along the red carpet, shaking hands with members of both squadrons. She spent extra time with all the female crewmembers, making sure lots of pictures were taken with them, and also spent a few moments with movie star Ted Little, who was back after his sick leave. She did a fast tour of the left wing and underside of the KC-135 tanker, then went over to Furness’ plane.
Rebecca Furness and Lieutenant Colonel Hembree led the First Lady and several Secret Service agents on a walkaround tour of the RF-111G bomber. “These aren’t bombs, are they?” the First Lady asked, her eyes wide, pointing to the objects on the wing pylons.
“No, ma’am … we’ve planned this deployment to be ready for action as soon as we reach our theater of action. So my flight, the first six planes, are loaded with a ready tactical load. The outer pods are radar reconnaissance or electronic photography pods. The middle and inner pylons on each side carries an AGM-88C supersonic antiradar missile, which seeks out and destroys enemy radars, and we also carry a self-protection AIM-9 Sidewinder heat-seeking missile on the side of each middle pylon.”
Looking very much like a politician on the stump, the First Lady climbed up the ladder of the maintenance platform and peeked into the cockpit. About a half-dozen photographers and Secret Service agents were on that platform with her, another half-dozen were on another platform on the other side, and more were on “cherry picker” cranes overhead. It was quite a media circus.
What a fucking joke, Daren Mace thought as he glanced at his watch and frowned. It was only ten minutes to their planned engine-start time, but it would take at least fifteen minutes just to get the fucking VIPs out of here, the maintenance stands and cranes moved out of the way, and the crews back in their places. He saw a person come up beside him and said, “Lieutenant Barnes, get Lieutenant Benedict from the Security Police squadron and ask her if she can help get the guests moving toward base operations. The faster we get these rubberneckers out of here, the faster we can get this show on the road.”
“It usually doesn’t work that way, Colonel,” Mace heard a voice beside him say. Mace turned and saw none other than General Philip Freeman, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, an aide, and General Cole standing beside him. He snapped to attention and rendered a salute, which Freeman returned.
“General Freeman,” Cole said, “allow me to introduce my new MG and the architect of my wing’s readiness plan, Lieutenant Colonel. Daren Mace. Daren, General Freeman, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.”
They shook hands and Freeman said, “I’ve followed your career, Colonel, ever since the Persian Gulf War. I was given your wing-readiness report unaltered from General Layton, and frankly I was very worried when the best you could give your unit was marginal readiness. I was glad to see this wing came through when the President asked for you.”
“I take none of the credit for this wing’s success, sir,” Mace said. “We’ve got the best in the business hard at work here.”
“You were saying about all the rubberneckers?”
Mace looked at Cole for a brief instant, received a slight nod, then replied, “Sir, why are all these people here? We’re supposed to be conducting a tactical deployment. Normally these deployments are classified secret up to one hour before departure.”
“The simple answer is, Colonel, that the President and the First Lady wanted it,” Freeman replied with clear resignation. “The more politic answer is that our president wants to avert a major conflict and doesn’t care too much about sneaking up on an adversary—he believes that being upfront about things like troop movements and public policy is a better deterrent to aggression. Your task is to deliver combat-ready aircraft to Turkey despite any political or publicity drills imposed on you. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now there’s something else I want from you. I want to send you to Turkey—but not to Incirlik with the rest of the wing. I’m sending you to Kayseri Air Base. We have a … special aircraft-maintenance task for you. You’ve got a C-17 at your disposal, and I want you to use it.” The C-17 Globemaster, popularly called Mighty Mouse or The Mouse because it was smaller than other Air Force heavy transports but had a larger payload, was the Air Force’s newest heavy transport—there were only twenty in the entire inventory—and because of its special unimproved-field and heavy load-carrying capabilities, it was in heavy demand. It was certainly a very special mission if he had one of these behemoths at his disposal. “We’ve made up a list of the people we want you to bring with you, and you’ll need to bring along as much equipment as you can stuff into a Mouse. You’ll fly back to Cannon Air Force Base to pick up some personnel and equipment
there, then head on out to Kayseri ASAP. Any questions?”
Jesus, Mace thought. Kayseri Air Base … He had been there a lot after the Persian Gulf War and during the Middle East War of 1993, mostly recovering bombers that had diverted there after accomplishing bombing raids in Syria and Jordan. He had been stationed at Incirlik Air Base, about 120 miles to the south, but Kayseri, a Turkish training base, was an old hangout …
… as was its sister base, Batman Air Base. The place where they flew the abortive Operation Desert Fire. Just four years after that horrible day, he was on his way back again.…
“Yes, sir. Just one question,” Mace finally replied. “Why me?”
“I’ll give you the usual answer, then,” Freeman replied with a smile, his first, Mace saw, on the entire junket. “You’re the best. I need multitalented troops on this mission, men and women experienced in many types of airframes, troops with both maintenance and aircrew experience, troops who get the job done and who tell the brass to go to hell if it can’t be done. You also know Turkey and Kayseri.”
“I’d just as soon forget,” Mace said with a grimace.
General Freeman nodded, then glanced around them to see where the closest reporter was—obviously too close, because he said in a low voice, “Your experience is needed there, Colonel. You’ve been through a lot—this is your opportunity to kick some ass again. Any more questions?”
“The others can wait, sir,” Mace said. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. Excuse me, but I’ve got aircraft to launch.” He crisply saluted Freeman and walked off toward the security police post himself to begin getting the ramp cleared for aircraft to taxi.
As he did, he looked at Rebecca Furness’ Vampire bomber. The First Lady had taken off her flying parka, revealing the very tightly tailored blue flight suit that showed off her magazine-model body to full advantage. She was posing with a couple of female crew chiefs and with Rebecca on the maintenance stand beside the RF-111G bomber while an army of photographers snapped away. Mace shook his head in disgust, then was furious to see reporters and photographers drifting around the bombers, opening access panels on the AGM-88C HARM missiles, looking up into wheel wells and engine intakes. Now each and every aircraft was going to have to be inspected before engine start to make sure a dumb-ass photographer didn’t leave something in an engine that would get sucked inside and FOD (Foreign Object Damage) the damn engine out.
Mace glanced to one side and saw Mark Fogelman. This kid, who was injured badly in the crash landing with Furness only a couple days ago, was up and around and was pronounced fit to deploy with the rest of his squadron. He still looked like hell, with bad bruises on his face and missing a couple of front teeth, but he was dressed and pumped and ready to go. But he had been pushed into the background by the First Lady and the White House handlers and the photographers, probably because he looked like a casualty instead of a crewman. By contrast, Ted Little, the actor, who hadn’t been hurt nearly as badly as Fogelman, wasn’t going to Turkey. The bastard got his Hollywood studio to use a little pressure and extend his convalescent leave.
Several minutes later, when the podium and grandstands and photographers were cleared out of the way, the crews climbed into their aircraft, and on a signal from the First Lady herself, the aircraft started engines and began to depart, Stratotankers first, followed by Vampires. The First Lady stood out in front of Rebecca Furness’ bomber beside a female crew chief, wearing ear protectors and holding two taxi wands, and, mimicking the crew chief’s actions, helped taxi the first RF-111G carrying the first female combat pilot to her first overseas deployment.
Mace was, by this point, ready to barf. God, how he loathed politicians—male or female.
Well, while the First Lady was putting on a show, others in Washington were fighting this war for real. He was glad someone was on the job.
THIRTY-ONE
The Black Sea, Near Eregli, Turkey, That Evening
It was the pride and joy of the Turkish Navy. Laid down on New Year’s Day, 1986, launched on 30 August 1987, Turkish Victory Day, and placed in service one year later, the guided-missile frigate F-242 Fatih was one of the most sophisticated warships in the world. Designed in Germany but license-built at the modern Golcuk naval shipyards southeast of Istanbul, the Fatih was three hundred and thirty feet long, weighed over 2,700 tons, and could reach a top speed of 27 nautical miles per hour. It was a very multinational ship as well, carrying only the best naval weapons from the Western World: an American-made AB-212 antisubmarine-warfare helicopter that could launch British-made Sea Skua antiship missiles; American-designed Harpoon antiship cruise missiles also license-built in Turkey; German Sea Zenith antiaircraft guns with optronic and track-while-scan radar fire-control directors; American Sea Sparrow antiship and antiaircraft missiles; and American-made Mark 32 torpedoes and SQS-56 sonar gear. Once deployed, it was designed to take control of the seas and skies around it for a hundred kilometers.
The Fatih was cruising the northwestern coast of Turkey in its usual circuit of the Black Sea offshore from the Bosporus Strait, along with its escorts, the guided-missile patrol boats Poyraz and Firtina and, not far away, an ex-German Type 209 diesel submarine, the Yildiray, built in Turkey with German assistance and used as an antisubmarine escort for Fatih. Also sailing along with the powerful patrol convoy was the large underway-replenishment oiler Akar, which dwarfed the frigate and its escorts; she was waiting for first dawn to begin transferring fuel and supplies. Normally the Fatih stayed on patrol only for ten to fourteen days, depending on the status of its patrol craft, but with tensions so high in the region all Turkish warships were on almost constant alert, and Turkey’s ten oilers and tenders were very busy in the Black Sea keeping Turkey’s combat fleet in action.
Fatih’s patrol area was one of the most important—control the approaches to the Bosporus Strait and the southwest Black Sea, and defend Turkish territorial waters. Refugee sea traffic from the Ukraine, Romania, and Bulgaria was extremely heavy in the past few months, especially after the Russian nuclear attack, and people were taking anything that could float into the dangerous Black Sea and trying to escape to the West and to Israel. The Navy’s job was to keep the normal shipping lanes open for international traders that still dared to risk sailing into the Black Sea, and to keep close tabs on the Russian Navy.
A major source of tension between Turkey and Russia lately was the dispersal of Ukrainian Air Force units to Turkey and the news that thousands of tons of weapons and supplies had been secretly shipped from the Ukraine to Turkey over the past few months. Russia had called for a halt to all military assistance from Turkey, and had called any continued shipments or military support “of grave concern” to Russia. They had said it was another example of Western interference in Russia’s internal affairs. The threat was clear: stop supporting the Ukraine or you’ll be considered an enemy also. But if the Russians knew nothing else about Turkish history since 1928, it was that Turkey did not respond to threats—they fought back.
Control and access to the Mediterranean from the Black Sea was the responsibility of the Republic of Turkey, and it was an awesome task. The Russian naval fleet in the Black Sea Fleet alone consisted of over two hundred vessels, including submarines and aircraft-carrying cruisers—the Russians classified its smaller aircraft carriers as cruisers because Turkey does not allow aircraft carriers of any nation to transit its waters—and if allowed to break into the Mediterranean intact, it would quickly dominate the entire region. No fewer than five major naval bases, one army base, and three air force bases were stationed in a three-hundred-mile stretch of territory from the island of Cyprus, through the Aegean and the Dardanelles, across the Sea of Marmara, past the Bosporus, and into the Black Sea—half of Turkey’s 480,000-man active-duty military, the largest in NATO except for the United States and unified Germany, was stationed in this strategic region.
However, the most important military asset to Turkey was in an oval orbit twenty-nine thousand feet over th
e Paphlagonia Mountains of northern Turkey, about sixty miles north of the capital city of Ankara—a lone E-3A AWACS (Airborne Warning and Command System) radar plane, owned and manned by multinational NATO technicians and flight crews and commanded by a Turkish colonel. The AWACS plane interfaced with every facet of the Turkish and NATO military establishment in the region.
It was almost midnight when the command radio on the bridge of the frigate Fatih crackled to life. “Serpent, this is Diamond, be advised, unidentified aircraft detected at zero-one-three degrees at one-two-zero miles bullseye, angels five, airspeed five hundred knots, heading south, number of targets four. We have scrambled Firebrand flight of eight to intercept.”
“Diamond, Serpent copies.” To Captain Turgut Inonu of the Turkish Navy, skipper of the frigate Fatih, the bridge operations chief reported, “Sir, message from the AWACS radar plane, four unidentified high-speed aircraft north of our position, heading south. Eight F-16 interceptors from Merzifon have been scrambled to intercept.”
“Very well,” Inonu replied. He rose stiffly, stretching the kinks out of his sixty-year-old sea-weary joints. “Sound general quarters. I’m going down to Combat.” As the battle stations alert and klaxon alarm sounded, he donned a helmet and life jacket as he left the bridge and headed below.
Captain Turgut Inonu and his small Bosporus task force had received four or five such alerts each and every day since the current Russian crisis began. These were Russian patrol planes, cruising along Turkey’s twelve-mile territorial limit over the Black Sea. Most times they were MiG-25R Foxbat reconnaissance planes, the fastest fighter planes in the world, which would sometimes scream past the Turkish flotilla at one and a half times the speed of sound and drop bomblike magnesium flares to take pictures at night—the flares were so bright that shore installations sixty miles away sometimes saw the flares and thought the naval task force was under attack.