The Warbirds

by Richard Herman

  Cunningham’s relentless mind continued, pressing for the truth…Had their actions been timely or were they only lucky? Should he rack Waters for breaking radio silence and possibly compromising the capabilities of the RC-135 or give him a medal for saving the C-130? Why had the F-4s launched without missiles? He made a mental promise to correct that particular problem. Someone had made a very bad decision. What was that damn C-130 doing in Libyan airspace in the first place? The general decided he wanted to see a detailed afteraction report. He’d have to talk to Waters…

  Every man and woman in the Watch Center knew the way the short, feisty general reacted, and not one was about to break into his brooding solitude. Blevins continued to search for a way to make himself look good. Relief washed over him and his sweating subsided when he saw the latest message traffic coming over the repeater on his console, and his confidence surged as he decided how to use the new information to his advantage.

  “Excuse me, sir”—Blevins earned an admiring glance from General Stanglay for approaching Cunningham—“the C-130 landed safely at Alexandria South and ran out of fuel taxiing in. Also, we have received queries from the State Department and the National Security Council…” Blevins hesitated for effect, implying he fully understood the power the NSC wielded and the special relationship its chief had with the President. “They are requesting answers to what appears to be precipitate action on our part without advising them or the President.” Blevins’ self-assurance soared. He had an answer to each of those questions, by God, and he could make the Air Force look good in front of any group of policy makers.

  “Tough,” Cunningham spat, eyes sparkling at the challenge. “I’ve got questions, too. The most important is why in hell we only got one MiG.” He stood, lit up a fresh cigar, and turned to Blevins. “Sort it all out, pronto. I want Waters here tomorrow and a briefing on this incident Sunday.” Before leaving, he paused at Master Sergeant Nesbit’s console. “Nesbit, you made your point.” The sergeant wasn’t sure if the general had given him a rare accolade or a reprimand.

  Whatever, a collective sigh of relief went around the cab as the general left to prepare to fight another, even more difficult battle with the NSC.

  16 July: 1845 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 2045 hours, Athens, Greece

  The crew of the RC-135 was on the patio of the resort hotel in Glifada, a beach town near Athens the reccy crews had adopted while they were on TDY in Greece. The fatigue of the long mission was on each of their faces as they sat quietly drinking beer, waiting for Waters and Carroll to arrive from the post-mission debrief with Intelligence and the new crew that would soon launch the RC-135 on another mission.

  Finally, the two officers walked in, equally tired.

  Magically, a beer appeared in Waters’ hand as he grinned at the waiting men. “You did good,” he announced. “The C-130 made it.” A ripple of applause and whistles spread around the patio. Because the details were highly classified, the crew would have to wait until they were back on the reccy bird to learn exactly how the cargo plane was saved. But for now, the knowledge that it had safely landed was enough.

  Pride in what his crew had accomplished washed Waters’ fatigue away. Hell, maybe it’s too soon to retire, he thought.

  The desk clerk came out of the hotel and stood at the gate leading to the patio. “Colonel Waters,” he called, “there’s an urgent message for you.”

  Then again, maybe not.

  2

  THE WING

  16 July: 1845 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 2045 hours, Alexandria, Egypt

  After landing from their scramble, Jack and Thunder had gone through the mandatory debrief with Intelligence, expecting to spend hours with the Intel debriefer. Instead, the sergeant had produced a checklist and run through it, asking canned questions. They were through within twenty minutes and the initial report was sent out five minutes later, up-channeled to higher headquarters where it was eagerly awaited. Maintenance was next, where they quickly went over the condition of their bird. After that, Fairly had told them to report the next morning at 0800 hours for the flight debrief.

  They had made a headlong rush for the officers’ club, and Jack wore his hat into the bar—a signal that he was buying. But Toni D’Angelo and Dave Belfort had beat them there, also wearing their hats. Then the serious drinking began, celebrating Jack and Thunder’s victory. Colonel Shaw told his security police to be “helpful” with the drunks, and they were put at a polite distance.

  Breakfast had consisted of a beer and two cigarettes. Fortunately the crew chief who owned Locke’s jet, tail number 512, had made it to work on time. Should have known the bastards would have a work-call after yesterday, the crew chief thought. At least the line chief had let him and his assistant off last night after a quick post-flight of the Phantom. By the time they had made it to the Service Club the place was jumping. Everyone was celebrating the wing’s victory. The crew chief’s hangover was monumental. Now if the chief would only leave him alone—and if his partner would drag his ass to work—six hours might do the trick.

  The maintenance forms were lying in the gun bay, right where the crew chief expected them. He thumbed through the write-ups from yesterday’s flight, deciding half the problems the pilot had written up couldn’t be duplicated or fixed. Then he noticed two entries: “One star missing from left side of fuselage,” signed off with the corrective action by corrosion control, “One star painted on left side of fuselage.” Looking up, he could see the freshly painted light brown star on the variable ramp that led into the intake duct, signifying that his bird had shot down an enemy aircraft.

  Suddenly everything felt better. He was so proud of his only child. Then he saw the second write-up: “Gun jammed on high rate of fire on third burst. Total rounds fired: 508. Altitude 185 feet, airspeed 620 knots at time of jam.” The write-up was still open, meaning that he would have to get the gatling gun fixed this day.

  He walked around his bird, a little more in awe of the machine than before yesterday’s scramble. He doubted he would ever understand everything that this baby could do. But…something was wrong, he could feel it. He tried to clear the fog of his hangover…Finally his eyes found it…his bird had, in effect, tried to commit suicide. Rushing up to the nose, he gently stroked the gun port beneath the long radar cone. The opening was about four inches bigger than normal. He had never seen or heard of that before, yet instinct told him what had caused it. The gatling gun had malfunctioned. One of the six rapidly rotating barrels had fired prematurely before it was aligned with the gun port. 512 had blown away part of its face. The crew chief’s nausea swept back over him, only this time it was not caused by his hangover. He was sick near to death that his baby had so badly hurt itself.

  Jack and Thunder arrived at the squadron as the crew chief reported for duty. Jack was in the same condition as the chief and doubted if he could afford to pay his bar bill from the night before, whatever it might be. He hated to admit it, but the trash hauler, Dave Belfort, had set a tough example to match.

  “Thunder,” he groaned, “who won last night?”

  “Not you,” his backseater said. Thunder had closed Jack’s bar bill and carried the happily inebriated pilot back to the BOQ early in the morning.

  The duty officer directed them now into the main briefing room.

  Shaw and his deputy for Operations, Hawkins, were there along with the chief of Intelligence, the C-130 crew, and a female captain neither of them recognized. A sergeant was setting up a videotape recorder and camera.

  “This is going to be a big deal,” Jack said, under his breath, appraising the newcomer. She was a plain woman, very thin, and possessed the hardest blue eyes he had ever seen.

  Colonel Shaw stood. “Okay, let’s get this underway. The Pentagon wants the debrief on videotape. They’ve already received our initial reports and are more than passing interested in what went down yesterday—so interested that they’ve got a C-141 on the ramp to fly the tape to Washington as soon as
you finish.

  “Before we start the tape let me introduce Captain Mary Hauser. She is the controller from Outpost who worked you and will explain what her organization is all about. From now on everything you hear is classified top secret. It’s all yours, Mary.” The colonel sank into his chair. He had not slept the previous night and had been answering a series of messages and phone calls from headquarters since early morning.

  The captain unfolded from her seat, astonishing Jack with her height. “Thank you, Colonel Shaw. Outpost is a covert surveillance site for monitoring the Libyans. Our parent organization is in Germany and we rotate every six weeks. Our cover is that we’re a training detachment teaching the Egyptians ground control intercept procedures. The GCI cover has worked well and we’d like to keep it intact. I’m also a master controller and fully current, which adds authenticity to our story. The recordings of our radio transmissions and radar tapes are here for this debrief. I’ll be taking them to D.C. with the tape of this debrief and your gun-camera film.”

  Jack had recognized her voice right away. She wasn’t someone he wanted to mess with.

  Because Fairly had been the flight lead for Stinger flight, he had the responsibility for conducting the debrief. He had been preparing for over an hour, and for the next hour he reconstructed the mission in chronological sequence, critiqued every action, sparing no one, including himself.

  Mary Hauser brought up two new aspects of the mission. She asked if they had heard her warning call about approaching the border. All four said they did not. Careful reconstruction revealed the call came at the time they dropped off her radar scope, chasing the MiG. She then brought up the subject of the tanker. The SAC crew had kept pushing her to get as close to the engagement as possible, more than willing to jeopardize their bird to be in position to refuel the F-4s.

  Hearing this, Jack decided he’d never criticize SAC again.

  Fairly turned to Jack: “After downing the MiG, you were still flight-lead and should have immediately performed a fuel check, joined up the flight into a tactical formation and requested clearance to the tanker. Jack, you did not attend to business after the engagement. Further, you let your fuel state degenerate to a dangerously low level during the flight. The only thing that saved you from a flameout and fuel starvation was the tanker’s early departure out of orbit toward us. That call by Captain Hauser saved you. You owe her. And that’s all I have.”

  After the videotape was shut off, Shaw again stood. “I know having an audience for a debrief is highly unusual. But I felt it would be appropriate to have a live audience to serve as a constant reminder that a good many people are going to be seeing this tape. I think it’s worked. Thank you and again, congratulations.” The room was called to attention as the wing commander left.

  Jack walked out of the room, steaming. “Fairly crucified us—and on tape.” Nothing, it seemed to him, was ever good enough for the Air Force.

  “We deserved what we got,” Thunder told him. And we also got respect in there, Thunder decided, even if you didn’t see it. That’s all right. He’d mention it to Jack later. And also the fact that the squadron commander had seemed fairly proud of them.

  17 July: 1315 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 0915 hours, Washington, D.C.

  Sara Marshall stood beside Tom Gomez on the ramp at Andrews Air Force Base, waiting for the KC-135 to taxi in, drawing attention from the others on the ramp, not that it was unexpected. Sara would draw attention wherever she went. He admired her cool composure and apparent disregard of the interest in her. Gomez was sure a lot of people only saw a pretty face framed by deep golden hair and highlighted by luminous brown eyes. He saw a lot more, but unfortunately—or fortunately—was a happily married man. The third person out of the KC-135 was a rangy colonel, over six feet tall. In spite of his fatigue he walked with the springy grace of an athlete. Halfway down the steps he shoved a battered flight cap over his dark hair, pushing it forward on his forehead and denting it in the back. Gomez liked him right away—he knew another fighter pilot when he saw one. His optimism did not fade when he could read the name tag over the colonel’s right pocket: Anthony J. Waters.

  Sara stepped forward, saluting the colonel. “Colonel Waters, welcome to Washington.”

  Waters returned her salute with an easy motion, pleased, and impressed, with the Pentagon’s welcoming committee.

  “May I introduce Colonel Gomez?” she said.

  “Quit being so formal, Sara,” Gomez said. “Welcome to the Puzzle Palace, Colonel. Name’s Tom and I’ll be your guide dog for the next few fun-filled days.”

  Waters’ handshake was firm. “Thanks, I go by Muddy, and I’m glad someone’s in charge, because I haven’t a clue about what’s going on.” They collected Waters’ bag and walked to Gomez’s car. Sara enjoyed the easy camaraderie that flowed between the two colonels and felt as though she was part of a real team.

  In the privacy of Gomez’s car Gomez turned to Waters. “There’s bad news. Sundown wants a brief tomorrow on the Libyan incident. As usual, no one’s really sure what he wants, but the spotlight is right on us.”

  Waters smiled slightly and shook his head. “Friday I was the honcho of an RC-135 over the Med. Hell, I was even minding my own business. Isn’t Sunday a bit soon?” Sara appreciated his easy acceptance of what they had to do and also noted he was not wearing a wedding ring.

  “For Cunningham? He works seven days a week,” Gomez said. “We’re already at work on the briefing and need to finish it today. Hope you don’t mind going right to it. Briefing Cunningham is always a problem.”

  Once they were at the Pentagon, they went to one of the back offices of the Watch Center and interrupted a heated discussion between Blevins and Williamson. Waters could feel the animosity between the colonel and young captain as Blevins outlined the briefing they were preparing and how he wanted it presented on thirty-five-millimeter slides for the general.

  “Obviously,” Blevins said pompously, “General Cunningham will only be interested in addressing the questions raised by the State Department and the National Security Council on this unfortunate incident.”

  The grim set of Williamson’s mouth and his silence made clear he did not agree.

  Waters found a chair and sat down, listening to Blevins and Tom Gomez discuss what to tell the general. He noticed that Sara and Williamson did not say a word. The two colonels could not agree and kept circling around the subject. Finally they both gave up and the whole room was silent. This is no way to get anything done, Waters thought; someone needs to take charge of this headless committee.

  “What do you think, Captain Williamson?” Waters asked.

  “What the captain thinks is irrelevant at this point,” Blevins snapped.

  Waters looked to the colonel, trying to fathom what was bothering the man.

  Blevins turned away from his gaze and started to ruffle through a stack of notes. “We informed the War Room and they notified the White House. I called State’s situation officer myself and he stated, ‘Call us when someone gets shot down.’ Those are the points we should be concerned with, hammer home.”

  “What do you think, Don?” Waters repeated.

  Blevins shot Waters a look.

  “I think General Cunningham wants to see the total incident, all the facts we can present and how they tie together,” Williamson replied.

  “I think you’re both right,” Waters said. “Let me kick it around a bit while you take a break.”

  Sara removed the jacket of her uniform while Williamson scampered out of the room ahead of Blevins and Gomez. She studied the new colonel who was doodling on a yellow legal pad. She liked the way he had taken charge without pushing.

  Finally Waters wrote three words on the pad, threw down his pencil and leaned back in his chair. “Lousy way to ruin Saturday.”

  “We’re used to it.”

  “Who was the on-duty watch commander during this flap?”

  “Colonel Blevins,” she said, wondering if she
should confide in the colonel and tell him how Gomez had really made the critical decisions and forced Blevins into acting. While she wanted to trust this man, he was still of an unknown quantity and she had learned from experience how most colonels were only interested in advancing their own careers.

  After the three men returned, Waters outlined his proposal. “Break the facts into three groups for the general: Intelligence, Command and Control, Operations. Do it in that order. Finish the brief on the points Colonel Blevins has made. Condense everything into less than fifteen minutes. Put all the information on slides. Cunningham can read faster than any of us can talk—”

  “Colonel,” Blevins broke in. “General Cunningham is a well-studied commodity at the Pentagon. I know what will work and, more importantly, what won’t work when we brief him. I’m telling you, my approach will work.”

  “Does that mean you want to present the briefing?” Waters asked.

  Sara noted a glint of amusement in his brown eyes. Waters had touched on the one point Blevins had wanted to avoid. The maulings that Cunningham handed out to briefers were well known, and Blevins didn’t want to step into that line of fire. He stared at Waters.

  Tom Gomez shrugged. “I can do it. But I’m not a golden orator. Sundown would have a field day on me.”

  “I’ll do it,” Waters told them.

  Relief crept into the room as they settled down to work. Blevins relaxed, now that he was safe. “I think I’ve done all I can for you. Why don’t I let you complete this and I’ll be back tomorrow morning for the final run-through?”