The Warbirds

by Richard Herman

  “It’s a setup,” Pullman snapped. The chief was fully aware of how the IG system worked and the way personalities at the command level could predetermine the result of an ORI. “We’ve sure as hell pissed someone off at Ramstein,” he declared as he headed out the door to find Chief Walt Chambers.

  “Walt,” Pullman said, catching up with the IG NCO, “why rate the command post’s performance as unsatisfactory?”

  Chambers stared at the ground, would not answer.

  “A no-win game,” Pullman snapped. “They were meant to bust no matter what they did. You call that integrity? What gives?”

  “Look, Pullman, I play with the big boys and I do what I’m told—”

  “Yeah, well, you produce evidence that the controller committed a security breach, or change the rating.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Then you can be sure of three things the next time you see me: in thirty seconds I’ll rip your heart out, kill your dog and rape your wife. Bet on it, sweetheart.”

  The next day as the IG team initiated a second mass-casualty exercise, Waters sat in the Command Post monitoring the radios as the exercise went down. Barely controlling his temper, he walked out, asking Gomez and Pullman to join him. Outside, he made sure no inspectors were around, then: “Chief, you’re right. This is a setup. Any ideas why?”

  Pullman and Gomez shook their heads.

  “Cover for me. I’m going to play their game,” Waters said, and walked off to his staff car.

  Colonel Gertino was puzzled by the message requesting he see the RAF post commander and decided to ignore it. An hour later he received a phone call asking when he would be in Sir David’s office. Again, he chose to ignore it. Ten minutes later a British NCO approached him, quietly spoke a few words and escorted Gertino to RAF base commander Childs’ office.

  “What’s this crap about arresting me?”

  Childs tossed a thin document at the American colonel. “It is obvious that you have not read the Technical Agreement on RAF Stonewood. Please do so now.”

  “This doesn’t apply to an IG team—”

  “Wrong. Read page twelve.” Gertino found the passage, which stated that all wartime and inspection exercises would be in accordance with British and NATO rules and coordinated through the RAF. “You will conduct the remainder of this exercise under the rules of a NATO Tactical Evaluation and not those of your ORI or I will have you and your entire team declared persona non grata in the United Kingdom.”

  “But you and NATO are only concerned with flying and base defense. We measure other items, like munitions safety and use of checklists—”

  “I won’t repeat myself. Of course, you may launch all the sorties you wish and you may measure the wing’s reaction to an air attack or intruders as often as you wish.”

  “An air attack is planned for this afternoon,” Gertino mumbled.

  “And how many aircraft can I expect to overfly my base?”

  “None,” the colonel replied. “We simulate it.”

  “Interesting, Colonel…no aircraft, no air attack. Well, then, please finish your inspection by Wednesday.” Gertino was dismissed and left. Childs dialed Waters’ number. “Muddy, I think you can expect a rather more fair evaluation now.”

  He was wrong…

  Actually, Gertino had been in a near panic when he first tried to figure out just what Blevins really wanted. The general had not openly tied the 45th’s failing an ORI to his silence about his girlfriend, still…the colonel cursed himself for ever becoming involved with the girl in the first place. He shook his head, still not able to believe she was only sixteen—or a foreign agent. The girl looked at least twenty and didn’t seem to have a brain. But Blevins had promised him the affair would be handled very discreetly if he “acted responsibly” when he conducted Stonewood’s ORI. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together, especially after Blevins went on openly to knock Waters. The problem, though, was the wing was in good shape. In fact, when the inspection was completed Wednesday, by every measure that NATO used to evaluate exercises, the wing had passed. Gertino solved his problem of needing to fail the wing by directing his team to write two reports, one using NATO’s standards, one using the IG’s.

  That night the team put a message on the wires announcing the 45th had failed their ORI and that a full IG report with supporting details would be published in a week. The message did not mention that there was a NATO Tac Eval report with different results.

  The “Flash” message reached Stonewood late Thursday night, six minutes after it was given to the Pentagon’s communication center for transmission. The message consisted of one line: Colonel Anthony Waters was to report to Colonel Richard Stevens in the Pentagon no later than 0800 hours local time Saturday.

  Sara had wanted to come with him, but Waters told her he had to do this one alone. Friday morning she helped him pack and rode with him in Tom Gomez’s car to Mildenhall. Gomez could not hide his concern. “There’s no way Cunningham is going to buy the IG’s report,” he predicted, “not after he sees the NATO report.”

  “He’s got to reconcile two different sets of standards,” Waters said gloomily. “The IG’s and NATO’s.”

  “Muddy, the IG was on a damn witch-hunt—”

  “Sure, but Cunningham doesn’t know that. And that’s what I’ve got to convince him of…”

  When it was time to board the waiting C-5B, Sara placed her husband’s hand on her stomach and looked seriously at him. “Remember that old one about keeping your priorities straight. This here is numero uno.” She kissed him quickly and walked off, hoping he’d gotten the message.

  After takeoff, Waters opened his briefcase and reread the two reports that Pullman had back-doored for him. He tried to look at them from Cunningham’s perspective, gave up and tried to sleep.

  Memories kept stirring within him…of his first wife and his daughter Jennifer…hurt and loneliness…More images…He tried to pinpoint when his desire to become a wing commander had crystallized but couldn’t…Other images raced through his consciousness leading him to Sara, and then when he assumed command of the 45th. A new awareness enveloped—this was what he was supposed to be, to do. But he could not do it alone. Sara made it possible, with her love, and understanding. And his allies—Childs, Gomez, Bull, C.J., Pullman…He also had a legacy to leave—Bill Carroll and Jack Locke. Damn it, he would make Cunningham understand. Or literally go down trying.

  25 June: 0140 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 0510 hours, Qom, Iran

  The old man shuffled slowly through the seminary’s main gate. His two bodyguards followed him, sleepy from being roused before five o’clock in the morning. The streets of Qom, the religious center of the Islamic faith in Iran, were deserted and poorly lit, not like the bustling thoroughfares of Tehran seventy-five miles to the northeast. The two young bodyguards became alert as the old Ayatollah made his way to the central mosque less than a hundred yards from the gate.

  “Have you heard anything?” the taller of the two asked.

  “Nothing. But his Holiness”—he nodded toward the Ayatollah Araki in front of them—“is very worried. That is why he is going to the mosque for the first prayers of the morning. Perhaps his devotion will move Allah to be compassionate.”

  Normally Araki made the first prayer of the day in the privacy of his room. But the two men did not complain and pulled their robes tightly around them to fend off the cold of the early morning. The mullah who would call the faithful to prayer that morning opened the huge door of the mosque for the Ayatollah and bowed his head as the old man entered. The two bodyguards stopped at the back of the deserted open area in the heart of the mosque and knelt.

  Araki followed the mullah to the front and knelt on a worn prayer rug that had been laid out for him. Slowly and with a conviction that had not grown dull from years of repetition, he repeated the Shahada. “God is most great. God is most great. I testify here there is no other God than Allah, and Muhammad is his prophet.” The
words were to purify his soul and renew his hope that the most holy of men, the Ayatollah Khomeini, still lived.

  In less than five minutes he was finished and slowly rose from the prayer rug. He could see his two guards on the floor but there was something wrong—they were not praying, but were sprawled out, dead still…Vague shadows moved around the walls of the mosque. He knew what was coming and stood as straight as his arthritis would allow. The years of teaching students erfan would serve him well. He watched one of the restless shadows detach itself from the wall and walk briskly toward him. Erfan, the trait of having character and courage in adversity, and knowing that emancipation came only from spiritual truth. He believed what he had taught his students.

  The shadow materialized into the shape of a young man dressed in camouflage fatigues. He was not devout. That was apparent in his athletic gait as he crossed the tiled floor.

  “The Ayatollah no longer lives?” But Araki knew the answer even as he asked.

  The man said nothing as he strode up to the rigid Ayatollah Araki, raised a pistol in his right hand, pulled the trigger, blowing the old man’s brains out.

  25 June: 0245 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 0615 hours, Kerman, Iran

  The room in the Citadel of Kerman was silent as the radio operator worked the deciphering mode of the Russian-made Urgo S-21 transmitter. The Russian adviser was proud of his student for mastering the complexities of the field radio. The young Iranian had no trouble programming the radio for optimum contact with six different locations throughout Iran. His fingers had moved swiftly over the control pad, punching in the right numbers when he needed to shift frequencies to establish contact with Ashkhabad. “The Urgo is a masterpiece,” the adviser told the operator, “but it takes an artist to make it work.”

  An occasional gust of wind came roaring off the central plateau of Iran to batter at the windows of the room, sending swirls of dust across the floor. The adviser hoped the weather stripping on the Urgo’s case had not cracked. Poor quality control was a problem with the radio.

  “Araki is dead,” the radio operator finally announced.

  Every head in the room turned toward the man sitting in the corner, waiting for his next command. Apparently, he was asleep.

  “The cell leader in Qom reports that Araki died quickly,” the radio operator said, continuing to decode the latest transmission.

  The sleeping man’s eyes snapped open. “Then it was merciful.” The commander’s gaze took in the room. “Is the list complete?”

  One of the standing men nodded in answer.

  “Then the Guardianship Council exists no more. There is no one for the masses to follow. Iran is without leadership. We will fill that void.” He motioned to the Russian adviser. “In a few hours we will control the roads, and the convoys you have promised can move without interference. Send the messages to start them south.”

  The Russian tapped the radio operator on the shoulder and moved into his chair. He typed a short message on the keyboard and pressed the encryption button. When a blue light came on he keyed up the Ashkhabad frequency and hit the transmit button. “Done,” he told the commander.

  The commander of the People’s Soldiers of Islam (PSI), the name the Tudeh had given to their army, stood and walked out into the Citadel’s quadrangle. He stared at the clouds scudding across the early morning sky and climbed the stone stairs of the wall. His aide hurried after him with a great coat and threw it over his shoulders as he continued up the steps. At the top, the commander surveyed the small city spread out before him. “We will use the Russians,’ he said. “And in the end, we will be the masters of our country. We will be the servant of no man. It is the time of our jihad.”

  25 June: 0440 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 0740 hours, Moscow, USSR

  The black Mercedes sedan hurtled down the center of Granovsky Street less than four blocks away from the Kremlin. A policeman had not gotten the word over his radio that a VIP was inbound to Borovitsky Gate and frantically waved traffic and pedestrians to the curb when he caught sight of the speeding car. He breathed a sigh of relief when the car shot past him and he saw the license plate with its distinctive MOC number. Someone very big was in a hurry. The foreign chauffeured car and license plates were a warning that he would not have enjoyed another Moscow night if an accident had happened at his corner. Since the gray curtains of the limousine were drawn, he had no idea who was in the car.

  The barrier at Borovitsky Gate was up and the guard waved the Mercedes into the Kremlin. Comrade Viktor Rokossovsky had made the four-hundred-mile flight from Leningrad and the long drive from Vnukovo II airport in time for the unscheduled Politburo meeting called by the General Secretary.

  The Tartar who served as the General Secretary’s bodyguard told the General Secretary when the Mercedes arrived so that he could time the walk from his office and enter the conference room immediately after Rokossovsky, denying Ulyanoff the opportunity to speak to the late arrival. The General Secretary stood behind his chair at the head of the table. “Thank you, Comrade Rokossovsky, for making such a quick return. Your presence is always to our advantage.”

  You fox, Ulyanoff thought. Rokossovsky makes it back in time from visiting his blonde mistress and you try to turn it to your advantage with a compliment. It puzzled Ulyanoff how Rokossovsky had gotten the word about the meeting. The Politburo’s staff had not been able to locate his errant supporter. Lately, wisps of doubt about Viktor had been bothering Ulyanoff. Still, it made no difference. With Rokossovsky present, he could force a showdown with the General Secretary over Iran. He calculated he would be sitting at the head of the table in less than three days.

  The General Secretary sat down and looked directly at Kalin-Tegov. “Developments in Iran are swinging in our favor. The Ayatollah is dead and the Guardianship Council has been eliminated. Our brothers in the Tudeh Party have taken control of the governing structure in Tehran but their political position is far from secure. The Tudeh are also moving their forces into position to block any renewed military adventurism by Iraq across the Shatt-al-Arab. Needless to say, the situation is very fragile. The Tudeh has asked for our help.”

  “We don’t need to get involved in another Afghanistan,” Ulyanoff grumbled. “But that was before your time, you wouldn’t know.”

  “But a different situation,” Kalin-Tegov said. “Perhaps if we are not directly involved…” He deliberately let his words trail off.

  Ulyanoff’s heavy eyebrows knitted together as he tried to judge the direction Kalin-Tegov was taking. His support was critical if the General Secretary was to be removed.

  “Exploit the situation now,” Rokossovsky said.

  Ulyanoff almost twisted out of his chair. All doubt about Rokossovsky evaporated—he had joined the General Secretary. Only Kalin-Tegov stood between him and defeat. “We must proceed on the course we have taken,” Ulyanoff urged. “The revitalization of our economy is most urgent and our armed forces need to be restructured. The damages of Afghanistan must be corrected—”

  “We are not talking about a major deviation from our policies, Comrade Ulyanoff,” the General Secretary said, “only how to turn this situation to our advantage.”

  “Is it to our advantage to engage in a misguided venture that could ignite World War Three?” Ulyanoff said.

  “As Comrade Kalin-Tegov says, if we are not directly involved,” the General Secretary pressed.

  “But you have involved us,” Ulyanoff shouted. “The buildup of material at Ashkhabad, the shipment of supplies into Iran, and now you have ordered trucks to start moving out of Ashkhabad. That is direct involvement without the consent of the Politburo—”

  “The trucks have not yet crossed the border,” the General Secretary said, acknowledging the accuracy of Ulyanoff’s intelligence. “They can be recalled…And they only carry what has been promised the Tudeh. The question before us is, should we honor the request of the Tudeh for more aid? I believe we should.”

  A murmur of assent went a
round the table. Kalin-Tegov nodded in agreement. The lack of further discussion was the Politburo’s way of voting on the issue. The General Secretary’s position had been approved.

  “I believe my office should direct the aid into Iran,” the General Secretary said.

  Ulyanoff started to protest that as head of the Defense Council he had that responsibility, but another round of agreement swept the table.

  “Comrade Rokossovsky,” the General Secretary said, “as a member of the Defense Council, I want you to work on this problem.”

  The young man quickly nodded as the General Secretary stood, thanked the group and left the room.

  Ulyanoff sat in his chair, sick at the rapid, unwelcome turn of events. He had suffered a major policy defeat. Too many members of the Politburo had deserted him. His maneuvering for ultimate power was stopped dead. He had been displaced by a younger generation. He glared at Rokossovsky. “Who told you about this meeting?”

  “The Comrade General Secretary, of course.”

  He got to his feet and walked slowly to the door. Kalin-Tegov joined him in the corridor and gently placed his hand on Ulyanoff’s shoulder. “Your dacha is a fine home for raising great-grandchildren,” he said.

  And the Tartar was standing in the hall, smiling at him.

  25 June: 1155 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 0755 hours, Washington, D. C.

  Stevens nodded at Waters and motioned him to a chair in Cunningham’s outer office. Muddy fought to control his emotions, found some comfort by calculating how many colonels had sat in the same office cooling their heels, waiting for bad news. I’ll probably be here most of the morning, he thought, while Sundown lets the tension build…Two minutes later Stevens escorted him to the general and remained standing near the door.

  Cunningham looked up from his desk. “Why?”

  “The IG team concentrated on procedures and not results, sir.”