The Warbirds

by Richard Herman

  “And how reliable is this information?”

  “Mrs. Crawley works for us,” Cagliari said, deadpan.

  The President tapped the ashes of his cigar into an ash tray. He was not happy with the situation or the performance of his staff. He did not like being in a reactive position. So, it was his move…“Very well, let’s send a few signals to our Soviet friends. Cy, call in the Soviet ambassador, today, to discuss the conduct of the inspectors. He’ll know from the short notice that we’re serious. Make it a friendly meeting, though—concerned administrators—that sort of approach. At the end of the meeting give him the dog tag. Ask him to be so kind as to return it to the proper individuals. I want them to get the message that we’ll link the continued observance of the INF treaty to their conduct in the Med.

  “Second”—he jabbed his cigar at the Director of the CIA—“get your people looking for hard confirmation of the advisers. I want it to be obvious. I hope that won’t be too tasking for your people.”

  The President turned to Cagliari and Piccard. “You two gents were supposed to watch for this sort of development. I don’t like surprises. Any surprises. And Lawrence,” looking directly at Cunningham, “your C-130 should not have been in Libyan airspace in the first place. Keep your people out of trouble, or I’ll just have to get someone who can. Gentlemen…” The President stubbed out his cigar and left the room, trailed by his chief of staff.

  27 July: 0220 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 0520 hours, Moscow, USSR

  The General Secretary made the short walk from his office in the Kremlin to the lavishly appointed room where the Politburo held its meetings. In spite of the early hour the army guard at the door was fully alert and clicked together the heels of his polished boots as the General Secretary approached.

  There was nothing in this room the General Secretary entered that spoke of a spartan communist ethic. Indeed, a czar would have felt comfortable surrounded by the priceless paintings and furniture of Imperial Russia. Contrary to popular myth, the room was not lit by only the green-shaded desk lamps on the table in front of each Politburo member. When turned on, soft, comforting indirect lighting filled the room with warmth.

  Four of the twelve chairs surrounding the table were vacant.

  No doubt the Defense Council is trying to firm up its position, the General Secretary thought. Give them all the time they need. At this point it will only work to my advantage. He sat down and reread the ambassador’s message from Washington. The General Secretary had known from the first what the Defense Council was doing but had pretended ignorance or indifference…let them guess. If the gambit in Libya started to pay off, he would support the four men and direct appropriate praise toward them, implying, of course, that he had been giving his consent by silence. Then they would owe him. On the other hand, if it backfired, as it appeared to have done, then he could remove one or maybe all of them from the Politburo and replace them with his supporters. Either way, he would benefit. At the same time, the maneuvering on the shores of North Africa kept the United States and Western Europe from looking at his two most important objectives. How near-sighted they are, he thought. Our foreign-policy goals have always been the same: break up NATO and expand into the Persian Gulf. NATO and oil were the keys to Europe. We’ll keep them looking at Libya while the situation in the Gulf develops. The plan was so wonderfully simple—always an asset.

  The door swung open now, and the four missing Politburo members walked in, only nodding at the General Secretary as they sat down. It was going to be a stormy meeting, he realized.

  “Comrades,” the General Secretary began, “it seems your adventure in Libya has gone a bit sour. It would have been better if we had all known the full extent of our involvement before something like this happened…”

  Rafik Ulyanoff, the chairman of the Defense Council, spoke for the group. “Comrade General Secretary, there is nothing gone sour here. We were only executing our agreed-on plan. Perhaps you recall—”

  “Was stupidity our agreed-on plan? We agreed to sell the Libyans the necessary equipment to build a defense force and to train them in its use. The goal was to encourage the Libyans to use it, create an unstable situation for the United States and Europe to content with, for the Soviet Union not to be directly involved. Is your memory becoming a problem?”

  “A matter of interpretation,” Ulyanoff said quietly. “Surely the Defense Council has that prerogative—”

  “Is it a matter of interpretation that our pilots fly with their identification plates?”

  The other members of the Politburo kept silent, in the best tradition of skilled bureaucrats waiting and watching to see which way the wind blew. Now the General Secretary had to find out if they supported him. “And how do we recover from this situation? The United States is linking our presence in Libya to the INF treaty, and the conduct of our inspectors has been called into question.”

  Fydor Kalin-Tegov, the party’s theoretician, the keeper of the true faith, spoke up. “It is sometimes necessary, sir, to take three steps forward and two steps back. Now is—”

  “Why should we retreat at this point?” Defense Council Chairman Ulyanoff broke in.

  “Because we can always return to Libya at a more opportune time. Be patient,” Kalin-Tegov told him. “You have laid the ground work for us, for the future. But now, we should withdraw most of our military advisers while expanding the staff of our embassy in Tripoli. Be proud of what you have accomplished.”

  A murmur of agreement went around the table.

  The General Secretary knew he had won, temporarily, but that Kalin-Tegov was still supporting Ulyanoff. “We will direct our ambassador to advise the Libyan government that we shall withdraw our advisers beginning in sixty days. If the Libyans object, we’ll tell them that we have no intention of cutting off the flow of new equipment and spare parts. They will understand. Sixty days gives them time to reestablish their position with their neighbors, and they will do it if they are as smart as I think they are, regardless of the posturing of their leader.”

  The General Secretary stood and nodded his head at the group. The meeting was over. Rafik Ulyanoff had survived another round, he thought. Which was more than the commander of the inspection team in the U.S. would enjoy. After all, somebody’s head had to roll.

  27 July: 1003 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 1203 hours, Tripoli, Libya

  The Soviet ambassador to Libya, al-Jamahiriyah al-Arabiya al-Libya al-Shabiya al-Ishtirakiya, to use its proper name, waited patiently in the reception room of the huge tent. He could hear the ritual chant of the Shahada coming through the canvas walls.

  “Allah-u Akbar, Allah-u Akbar. La illah ilia Allah…”

  The Libyan leader would soon be finished with the second prayer of the day. Thankfully, prayers did not take long. The veil that served as a door was pulled aside by an unseen hand and the Libyan colonel entered the room. His hands were clasped together as he gave the customary greetings the occasion required. With a sweeping gesture he then motioned outside and the ambassador followed him onto the ramp of the airbase, where the tent was pitched. The heat was building. Twelve new MiG-23 Floggers were lined up, a guard of honor. “Your government has been most generous. For this we pledge our friendship.”

  The translator relayed the words in Russian, a formality, since the ambassador spoke Arabic.

  “Always in the past our visits have been the touchstone of my day,” the ambassador said in Arabic, the signal for the translator to disappear. “Today this is not a pleasant occasion for me.” He waited for the Libyan’s reaction. The man could switch from reasoned calm to apparent irrationality in seconds.

  “There are many problems we can solve together,” the colonel said.

  “The problem is Comrade Vitali Morgun”—both men knew Morgun was the pilot Jack Locke had shot down. “The Americans know…”

  “But we have the body.”

  The ambassador shook his head. “They know and are pressuring my government. It is a
delicate situation for us—”

  “How delicate?” An undercurrent of anger caught at the Libyan’s words. “He was flying at your insistence.”

  The ambassador wanted to avoid that subject. He had, indeed, been directed to “persuade” the Libyans to accept a Russian pilot on every flight, the theory being that the Libyan pilots would thereby improve their shoddy flying skills. “We need to send the Americans a signal that our advisers have completed their work here. Of course…whatever we do will only be temporary.”

  “I understand Russian ‘temporary,’” the colonel said.

  “I assure your excellency that everything else will be the same as before between us. But for now we must start to remove our advisers in sixty days.”

  The colonel said nothing for a few minutes—silence was a sign, the ambassador knew, that the colonel’s temper was building.

  “Go,” he finally said. “And take your advisers with you.”

  As the ambassador’s limousine drove off, the colonel waved his hand at it, as if ridding himself of one more infidel who one day, along with the U.S., would be very sorry. For the moment he might be delayed in mounting his vengeance against the Americans for bombing his country, but he would still retaliate if they should send F-111s against him. He would use the ordnance the Russians had given him…and his own people would just have to do without the Russian “adviser…pilots. No question, time was running out for both of them. Meanwhile, he would use them in every way he could, especially the Russians, who were so anxious to control his country. He would play one giant against the other, just as he had already done, and watch them move to their well-deserved destruction. And he would wave their bloody flag to win sympathy with the Egyptians and the Arab nations.

  27 July: 1425 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 1025 hours, Washington, D.C.

  Thirty-two hours after the Pentagon had received the message telling of the Russian pilot, Waters and Blevins were in Cunningham’s office. The general glanced at the two colonels. Waters, he noted, seemed relaxed.

  “I need your help,…Cunningham began. “I’m getting signals that the political situation in North Africa is heating up thanks to Grain King and that Russian pilot. I need to reassure the Egyptians that the 45th is there for their benefit and do all possible to calm the situation. You were there. Ideas?…

  Blevins ran through his mental organization chart of the Pentagon to locate the office that should come up with an answer for the general. He himself damn well was not going to touch the thing.

  “General Cunningham,…Waters said, “I dealt with the Egyptians when we transferred the 31st’s F-4s to them in 1980. Pride is a very big thing with them. They probably believe they should have flown the scramble, not us. I suggest you have our air attaché approach his counterpart in Egypt with apologies and try to work out a way to integrate our alert birds into their air defense system for the western half of Egypt….

  “You’re suggesting we put our birds under the operational control of a foreign command?”

  “We do it for NATO now, sir. We’ll be facing the Libyans, not the Israelis. And…if the Egyptians have found out about the Russian pilot, they’ll read a Soviet presence as a Libyan reaction to our base in Alexandria South, which it probably is.”

  Cunningham was impressed with Waters’ thinking. Okay, Muddy Waters, he decided, you’re on the team…“When will you be finished with the report?”

  “I’ll have the RC-135 section done in three days,” Waters told him. “I need to talk to the lieutenant that did the translating and is a Middle East expert to fill in some blanks.”

  The general nodded and looked to Blevins, who was seething. It was going to take him two weeks to write the part on the Watch Center and coordinate it through the staff. He didn’t like Waters’ driving his schedule. He remembered General Beller’s words: “Keep Cunningham off Intel’s back on this one…”

  “Sir,” Blevins hedged, “it’ll take me longer than that. The situation in the Watch Center was more complicated than at the 45th or in the RC-135.” Cunningham was drumming on the desk with one finger. “By the end of the week, no later…”

  Cunningham stopped drumming. “Just get the report to me,” he said, dismissing the colonels.

  After they had gone he sat behind his desk brooding over another problem that was troubling him—shoving the Egyptians and the 45th onto a back burner for the moment. He buzzed for his aide. “Dick, I was looking at the Combat Status Reports last night. I think some of our wing commanders are inflating their combat capability. Have the Inspector General start looking for that. The first one that gets caught rating his wing a one when they’re not gets the can. All right, Dick, get it into the mill.” And he told himself, I’ve got to know the real combat capability of my wings. Goddamn, a one tells me you can go to war and take on the enemy—if you can’t do that, tell me so I can fix it.

  Sara handed a copy of the finished report to Lieutenant Bill Carroll. “I think you’ll like what it says about your translating the Libyan’s communications. I didn’t know the Air Force had officers who spoke Arabic that well.”

  “He speaks Farsi like a native Iranian,” Waters put in. “Also some Berber, and who knows what the hell else.”

  Sara smiled at Waters. She liked working for him. Be honest, she told herself, you like him. Very much. For one thing, he doesn’t have an ego that always needs massaging. He’s confident about himself and willing to accept me as I am, not on some limited basis that makes him feel safe. He’s a man, a good man…and like they say, a good man is hard to find. She had first seen him at Andrews, walking off the RC-135, tired and in need of sleep. Even then there had been something in him she found appealing. Vulnerability? Come on, Sara, you’re acting like a damn schoolgirl. Well, maybe so, but what she felt was more than girlish. Maybe some of the magic of that evening with the Shaws would come back…if necessary, she’d help it along…maybe if he didn’t ask her out, she’d just have to ask him. Jack was an attractive flyboy. Muddy Waters was a man who stirred deeper emotions…

  She forced herself back to the report and the Watch Center. Bill Carroll had arrived two days earlier and had almost wagged his tail at seeing Waters. At first she had chalked up Carroll’s reaction as being that of a young toady, but soon learned that the lieutenant was nobody’s bootlicker. He also had a first-class analytical mind.

  Blevins entered the office then. “General Cunningham has reviewed the report and wants to see us immediately.” The colonel seemed pleased to be the bearer of this important message.

  Waters pushed away from the table. “The moment of truth.”

  Outside Cunningham’s office General Beller and General Sims from Operations were waiting. Beller was not thrilled to see Sara, a junior officer, but gave in when Waters said that Captain Marshall had written part of the report and might be needed to answer Cunningham’s questions about it. Carroll was dismissed.

  They found Cunningham reading the report when they were ushered in. He laid it down and motioned them to seats. “Good report, get it distributed to the field.”

  Blevins couldn’t contain a wide smile, which Cunningham ignored and got to the point. “The President has been told about the Russian pilot. The CIA has confirmed a much larger Soviet presence in Libya than suspected. The spooks claim the Egyptians know about the Russians and are doing a lot of wheeling and dealing with the Libyans right now. The State Department sees the two of them working out a quid pro quo. That’s bullshit for cutting a deal…the Libyans get rid of the Russians, the Egyptians kick us out…Of course the idiots don’t realize the place is about to come apart. The President has already decided that if the Egyptians do shoot our base down we’ll withdraw nice as you please. We’ve got to stay friends while they kick us out of Arabland so we can return to defend them when they get their ass in a crack. Fucking camel jockeys. Anyway, the President has authorized us to start looking for another base for the 45th when and if we are kicked out. He wants to keep the wing in the
area. We’ve got a number of emergency wartime bases we’ve been maintaining in NATO for years. Maybe we can use one of them. That’s where you come in, Waters. I’m assigning you to the Operational Plans Division under General Sims to find a base where we can bed down the 45th in a hurry. I’ll open the subject with our NATO allies. You find a base.

  “Also, this report tells me the 45th is not ready to play an active combat role in the Middle East should the President decide to use them. But that’s why they’re there. So, what’s wrong with them?”

  “Sir”—Blevins fairly leaped at the opportunity to impress Cunningham, and intended to do it at Shaw’s expense—“I believe the problem is lack of leadership in the 45th. You can read it between the lines of the report—”

  “I think it’s more complicated than that,” Waters said quickly. “The wing is brand new and has a lot of problems to solve all at once. Right now they’re a hit-and-miss proposition. Their command post and Intelligence sections are very good, but their Maintenance couldn’t get missiles on the birds. The pilots are good, although they did do some dumb things—”

  “For example?”

  “They’d never heard of Outpost. They briefed for the engagement enroute, after takeoff, and were switching lead back and forth depending on who had a radar contact. Lieutenant Locke opened up with a head-on cannon attack. That’s gutsy but dangerous. Mostly what he accomplished was to let his wingman be jumped by both Floggers. Then he forgot to monitor his fuel, came close to flaming out.”

  “What did they do right?” Blevins shot at Waters.

  “Locke got a MiG,” Waters said. “That counts. I think the wing’s making progress and should be okay in a couple of months. Maintenance hasn’t gotten enough planes ready to fly to meet the daily training schedule but Shaw has that almost licked. They’ve come a very long way, considering the condition of the base they inherited. Bottom line so far, eighteen months ago the 45th only existed on paper. Now, it is a wing for real. That’s an accomplishment.”