The Warbirds
Page 14
Cunningham shrugged. “Okay, okay, let’s go to it. Find a place to put the 45th’s seventy-two F-4s. I’ll try to convince the NATO members that having those F-4s in their countries helps them. After all, any commitment we make to shore up stability in the Middle East, especially the Gulf, helps keep the oil flowing their way. You can never predict the exact time or place for the next explosion in the Middle East, but it’s on our heads to be ready when it comes.”
“General, we’re seeing some indications that things are sort of quieting down in the Eastern Med,” General Beller said carefully. “Our allies are seeing the same thing. They might not buy your argument…”
Sims shook his head. “Doesn’t apply to the Gulf. Too many factions to stay quiet for very long…Iran and Iraq, Sunni and Shiite, it’s a real shatter zone. Like the general says, it may be quiet there today, but next week?”
“General Sims,” Waters said, “I’ve got a Middle East expert who has a worked-out scenario. He’s waiting outside.”
“He’s got five minutes,” Cunningham said.
Waters went to the door and motioned to Carroll to come in, told the lieutenant sotto voce that he was to brief Cunningham.
Carroll felt his stomach hit the floor, he’d heard about the way Cunningham devoured briefers…He noticed a bank of maps rolled up on the wall opposite the general, pulled down the one labeled “Mid East” and was relieved to see it was the standard briefing map he had used before. “The scenario, sir, is based on two assumptions. First: the Iranians will not quickly be able to solve the problem of political succession when the Ayatollah dies or falls from power. Second: the Soviet Union will continue to support the Tudeh, the Iranian communist party…”
“We know who the Tudeh are,” Cunningham broke in.
“Yes, sir, sorry…The Tudeh will make a power play for control. They’ll ask their Islamic brothers in communism from the Soviet Union and Afghanistan for help. Well-organized and well-equipped so-called volunteers will stream into Iran in support of the Tudeh. It will be a two-pronged thrust”—Carroll was pointing at the map—“toward the head of the Persian Gulf, right at Kuwait and toward the strait of Hormuz. That will give the communists the strategic locations necessary to control the Gulf.”
“And how do we forestall that, Carroll?”
“I suggest that our best alternative is to give military support to Saudi Arabia, Kuwait and Iraq. They must hold a line roughly along the Shatt-al-Arab at the head of the Gulf where the Iran-Iraq war stalemated. Also, we need a creditable military presence in Muscat and Oman, at the strait. If the communists have the strength, they’ll simultaneously press at both points, exploiting their advantage. There will be fighting. We can’t afford to let them succeed.”
Cunningham squinted at the lieutenant. “What else can we do, Carroll?” Cunningham knew his questions were unfair, demanding too much of the young man.
“There are things we can do, but I doubt we can stop it from happening. We can encourage Saudi Arabia and Iraq to form a stronger alliance. We can encourage some European countries to actively support such an alliance; it’s to their advantage—”
“And which of our dedicated allies would be most likely to do that?” The general was leaning forward over his desk.
“Only Britain, sir. They’ve probably already worked out a scenario like this one.”
“Lieutenant,” Beller said, “your scenario strikes me as simplistic, leaves out too many factors. You overlooked, for example, the Soviet Union’s concern with increasing its ties with the West. If they supported the Tudeh like you said, it would ruin that and close a lot of doors to them for years. It’s called linkage—”
“Not if the Soviets do it right, sir,” Carroll said. “They’ll be the friendliest you’ve ever seen them. Glasnost will be alive and well. They’ll take the pressure off everywhere else and might even disown Castro for a while. All the time they’ll maintain that it’s a regional matter and they are not more directly involved than the United States. They will do everything possible to avoid linkage.”
Waters picked pretty damn good subordinates, Cunningham thought, and knew how to use them…“Thank you, Lieutenant Carroll. You’ve made your point. That’s it for now,” he said, dismissing them.
The office started to empty when Cunningham called his aide back. Stevens automatically shut the door and returned to stand in front of the general. “Dick, the situation in Egypt is much more fragile than I let on. It can go either way right now. Too bad, but I’m going to have to use Shaw, even make him into a fall guy. He’s due for reassignment anyway. Have the colonel in charge of assignments find him a better job, one that can help get him promoted, while I make unpleasant noises about him to the Egyptian air attaché.”
After listening to Waters and Blevins argue about the 45th, Cunningham had decided Shaw had done a creditable job as wing commander and certainly did not want to block his path to promotion when he played political games.
“Has Third Air Force come up with names for a new commander?” Stevens nodded. “Who’s at the top of the list?”
“J. Stanley Morris,” Stevens told him.
“What do you know about him?”
“Well, sir, the men don’t much love him, but he did some very good work activating the cruise-missile weapons storage-sites in England and Belgium, dealt with some pretty touchy political and public relations issues.”
“Sounds okay…what does J stand for?”
“It’s only the letter, no name. I believe he had it legally changed from Jesus before he entered the Air Force Academy.”
“What some parents do to their kids,” Cunningham muttered.
“Bill, you did a fine job with the general,” Waters said as he retreated down the long halls of the Pentagon with Bill Carroll and Sara. “How would you two like to work for me for a while? Finding a new home for the 45th.”
Both officers quickly accepted, one for professional reasons only, one for personal and professional.
6 August: 0640 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 0840 hours, Alexandria, Egypt
Chief Pullman stood beside his colonel at parade rest, holding the wing’s fanion as the C-141 carrying the new wing commander taxied in. The chief held the staff of the small pendant carrying the wing’s number and logo with pride. His stomach hurt like hell…medicine couldn’t help…but he wouldn’t give in to it as he kept his face as motionless as the fanion. The pain had started as his sources filled in the details on J. Stanley Morris, better known as “Mad Stanley.”
He had passed on his information to every chief master sergeant on base, preparing them for the new commander. Everything he had learned spelled trouble. He watched Colonel Shaw greet the new commander. Morris was rugged, trim and athletic looking. There was no gray in his dark hair but the lines around his eyes and mouth spoke tension, worry and pressure. The colonel’s voice, however, was calm, tightly controlled.
After a few minutes Shaw told Pullman to have a staff car brought around and the chief volunteered to drive them. Colonel Morris, it seemed, was not much interested in the flight line, maintenance or the general security of the wing. Instead he ordered Pullman to drive around the base while he made comments into a small cassette recorder on cleanup and beautification. Twice he had Pullman stop the car and get the name and the unit of an airman whose appearance he judged below military standards. The last stop was on the ramp in front of base Ops, where the change-of-command ceremony would be held the next morning.
“Chief, this is not acceptable. I want the time changed to fifteen hundred hours and I want a pass-in-review. It will be my first chance to meet the wing.”
“Stanley,” Shaw said, “we planned this for the morning, before the heat of the day. It will be a hundred and twenty degrees on the ramp at three o’clock—”
“I said fifteen hundred hours, and by the way, three P.M. is civilian talk, Colonel. That’s what’s wrong with this place…” He returned to the car, cutting off any response.
The next morning he called the hospital and spoke to Colonel Douglas Goldman, the hospital commander, telling him what Morris had done.
Goldman, a veteran of Alexandria South, knew how dangerous the heat could be. “I’ve already heard,” he said. “We’ll have ambulances and medics out there. We’ll pass out water and salt tablets as they form up. The salt tablets don’t really do much good, but the troops think they do. Have your NCOs watch their people. Carry anyone looking flushed and not sweating to one of the aid stations set up by the ambulances. I’ve got a new doctor who will organize the show on the ramp—Lieutenant Colonel Landis.”
At 2:30 Goldman walked around the ramp with Landis and was impressed with the way Landis had organized the aid stations. He also enjoyed the man’s dry sense of humor. Both men were drenched with sweat by 2:40 when the squadrons formed up.
Landis fumbled with the switch on the small radio he was carrying. “Check out the groups nearest you,” he told his medics. “Pass the word to bend their knees and wiggle their toes. Watch for signs of vertigo. Sweating is okay but get anyone to an aid station if they look dry and flushed; that’s heat stroke.” He walked around the block of men and women nearest him, chanting, “Bend them knees, wiggle them toes.”
When the order was given for the wing to pass in review, Landis keyed his radio, “We should be okay when they start moving.”
One by one the squadrons marched out in order, struggling through the first three turns. By the time they passed the reviewing stand most had managed to align their ranks, but it was still a pathetic demonstration. Morris’ temper built. After the last squadron had marched by, the new commander turned to the officers on the reviewing stand and ordered them to report to the O’ Club at 1800 hours.
Doc Landis keyed his radio, telling Goldman the parade was over. “Our troops did good. Only six casualties and not one case of heat stroke. Keep the faith; Colonel Shaw may be in luck. He won’t have to put up with Morris.”
Later that day slightly more than four hundred officers crowded into the Officers’ Club, answering the summons of their new commander. Doc Landis found a seat at the front of the room next to Mike Fairly and Jack Locke and introduced himself.
“Arrived two days ago,” Landis said. “I think I’m the flight surgeon for the 379th. Isn’t that your squadron?” Fairly nodded. “I’m looking forward to flying with you. I’ve never flown in a fighter before.”
Jack studied the flight surgeon, noting his new uniform and rank. An odd-looking duck, he thought. The doctor’s body was almost pear-shaped. His soft face, large brown eyes and gently curling brown hair made him look like a misshapen doll. The lieutenant doubted Landis would fly much beyond the minimum flight surgeons were required to fly.
“Seats, please, ladies and gentlemen,” Colonel Morris commanded as he entered and mounted the stage. “I’ve called you together so there will be no misunderstandings about my policies. As your new commander I’m going to require that each of you lives up to the standards of professionalism the Air Force expects of its officers. What I saw yesterday and today does not impress me. We’ve got a long way to go. The 45th Tactical Fighter Wing may be basically sound, but it is unpolished. We are going to change that, starting now. For example, the standards of military dress and bearing on this base are the pits. You’ve all read Air Force Manual 35-10 on dress and appearance. Make your troops conform. I know tomorrow is Sunday, but I want this base to shine when we come to work on Monday. This base will be a home we can be proud of. The march-by this afternoon was the sloppiest I’ve ever seen. We are going to practice marching. Every Friday evening we’ll have a retreat ceremony in front of wing headquarters. The hospital tells me six airmen passed out on the ramp during the parade. That was due to poor physical conditioning. Get your people in shape. Questions?”
Landis looked around, decided to speak up. “Excuse me, sir, I’m Doc Landis, one of your flight surgeons. The reason those six airmen passed out on the ramp was heat prostration, not poor physical conditioning. Five of them are new to the base and not used to the heat, the other one has high blood pressure.”
Morris looked at the doctor, voice tight. “First, you are Lieutenant Colonel Landis, not ‘Doc’ You are not in a MASH outfit. Let’s cut the bullshit camaraderie. Second, I don’t argue with my officers.”
Landis kept his voice under control. “Sir, the sun and heat would argue with you,” and sat down. Jack decided that he’d misjudged the new doctor.
“Doctor,” Morris said, “I admire your concern for the men and women of this base. I share that concern. I also have a long memory.” He signaled his protocol officer to call the room to attention as he exited.
Fairly held out his hand to Landis. “Welcome to Alex South, Doc. I hope we can get a chance to see you around the squadron and get you hooked up on some flights.” They shook hands. “What do you think of our new commander?”
“Mike,” the doctor said, “if I were a shrink I’d say he is scary, egotistical and ambitious. To use military jargon, I think you’d call him a ‘they.’ First one I’ve met…”
The next day Fairly and Locke were ordered to report to the wing commander’s office at 1400 hours. When they arrived they found a line waiting to see Morris, including Colonel Hawkins, the deputy for Operations and their immediate superior, who joined them as they entered Morris’s office.
“Let’s make this quick,” Morris said. “I’ve read the after-action report on the Grain King incident. It is not my intention to discuss the wisdom of engaging the MiGs. Too late for that. But one thing stands out. Stinger flight penetrated the Libyan border, which means one thing: you were lost. That is unacceptable and we are going to take corrective action. Lieutenant Locke, you were flight lead at the time of the penetration, so the responsibility falls on you and your WSO. Colonel Hawkins, what is the current flying status of Lieutenant Locke and Captain Bryant?” Spoken as if Jack wasn’t in the room.
“Locke has been checked out as a flight lead, and Bryant is an instructor WSO and the chief of the life-support section,” the DO answered, his lined and weathered face not revealing his inner rage at what Morris was doing.
“I see. For corrective action Lieutenant Locke is reduced to wingman status and is not a flight lead. He will reenter the checkout program to be upgraded to lead status,” Morris said, still ignoring Jack’s presence in the room. “Remove Bryant from instructor status and as chief of life support. Replace him with an officer capable of being both a WSO and in charge of a section.”
“Excuse me, sir,” Jack said. “Thunder…Captain Bryant…is an outstanding wizzo. The best I’ve ever flown with. He doesn’t deserve that. He was doing other things besides navigating during the engagement with the MiG—”
“Lieutenant Locke, I’ll excuse your lack of courtesy because of your rank. I will not excuse Captain Bryant’s poor airmanship. He was lost. I want pros on my team.”
“Sir, where I came from a pro is a whore.”
Morris looked directly at Jack, then dismissed him. After Jack had gone, Morris leaned back in his chair and stared at the two standing men. “I would suggest you instill more respect in your men. You get my meaning.”
Fairly said, “Sir, may I ask you to reconsider your corrective actions?”
“Why?”
“Because it sends the message to every pilot and wizzo in the wing that the fight is not the most important thing, even after they’ve been cleared to engage. Sir, they’ve got to want to tangle, to meet the threat head-on. True, they’ve got to worry about fuel, navigation and survival. But most important, they’ve got to want to blow the other guy away. Otherwise they’re not fighter pilots—”
“Colonel Fairly, what you do not understand is that an aircrew is responsible for all its actions. Everything they do must be deliberate and considered. My decision stands.”
Hawkins stopped Fairly in the hall just outside
his own offices. “Tell your troops to go low profile. I’ll run cover as much as I can but I can’t do a damn thing for them if they’re setting off fireworks. I’ll tell the other two squadrons.”
“I guess I didn’t handle that very well,” Fairly said. “I feel like I let Jack and Thunder down. My job is training my pilots and wizzos to be tigers, willing to take on all comers. Now I’ve got to teach them to turn it off.”
“You’ve got that right,” Hawkins said. “You’ve also got to teach them one more thing: survival.” He turned and entered his office.
Lieutenant Colonel Fairly walked back to his squadron, trying to decide what to say to Jack and Thunder. He hoped the two would understand his position, their position, and go low profile the way Hawkins had advised. He decided to speak to them together and be as open and honest as he could. At least Thunder would understand, he thought, as he entered the squadron, glad to escape the heat after the long walk. The duty officer handed him a note, asking him to call Chief Pullman ASAP. What now? The chief answered on the first ring.
“Brace yourself, Colonel,” Pullman said. “Colonel Morris has just finished talking to the Judge Advocate. He wants to court-martial Lieutenant Locke for insubordination and disrespect toward a superior officer. At least the lawyers want to look into it before they commit. But that still means an Article Thirty-two pre-trial investigation. My best guess is they’d rather represent Locke. But they can do just so much…”
“Chief, I appreciate the call. I owe you.” Fairly paused before committing himself. Goddamn, it was time to choose up sides. “It seems it’s going to be us against him. Thanks again, Chief.”