The broken cloud deck at five thousand feet bothered C.J.: it provided a perspective he did not want, with the clearly etched horizon and soft bed of clouds forming sky boundaries. A pilot would not have to rely on his altimeter to warn him if he was too low. The single-seat MiG Flogger profited from it more than the two-place Phantom because the backseater in the F-4 could act as a verbal altimeter calling out low altitudes. C.J. relayed the cloud conditions to the GCI site and split his flight up, sending four Phantoms below the cloud deck while he climbed with seven and maneuvered to the south, not wanting to look into the sun, which favored the MiGs.
Mary’s voice was crisp as she now directed the Phantom F-4s into the merge, engaging them in the largest single aerial battle the U.S. Air Force had fought since Korea.
C.J.’s wingman maneuvered into a following position before they slashed down onto the MiGs. The flight caught the Floggers in a pincers as the Phantoms converged on them from above and below, both sides wanting to reduce the number of opponents before the second waves arrived. The Phantoms then launched six radar missiles from head-on, downing one MiG, and destroyed flight integrity for the MiGs as they broke apart to avoid the missiles. The F-4s were still operating in pairs as they turned onto the Floggers. C.J. launched one of the radar missiles before he buried the nose of his bird and rolled to counterturn on the Floggers. From a distance it looked like he was tracing a downward S with the maneuver. Stan calmly told him where his wingman was and that his six o’clock was clear. After that the fight was one on one. Every man for himself. Radio commands blended into a babble of confusion as different pilots shouted warnings or asked for help.
A Phantom fell apart as gunfire from a Flogger raked its fuselage, and C.J. had to watch as the two crewmen ejected, the wizzo colliding with the MiG that had shot him down. Another MiG from the second oncoming wave rolled in on the pilot as he hung from his chute and squeezed off a short burst of twenty-three-millimeter cannon fire. The MiG pilot, concentrating on the kill, did not see C.J. fall in behind him and launch a Sidewinder. The MiG exploded before the pilot’s parachute was hit. The man waved that he was okay.
A low growl-like sound came from the pit. “Got to fight fair, select guns and come hard left, bury your nose and you’ll have another bandit.” The captain could have been on a picnic for all the concern in his voice.
C.J. wrenched the big fighter around and saw another Flogger below him in a turning engagement with a Phantom. He flashed past, squeezing off a long burst, destroying the MiG.
“That’s three,” Stan announced. The growl turned into elation, and C.J. thought he had a madman in his pit. “Burners now, go for the moon. Let’s come back in from the top.” A Flogger shot by under them as they reached toward the sky…
For the next two minutes they twisted and turned, unable to take the offensive or shake off MiGs and head home. They heard three bingo calls announcing low fuel levels as Phantoms started to disengage and head home. The third wave of Floggers entered the fight as the eight fresh birds from the 377th cut through, closely followed by the eight planes from the 378th. C.J. rolled in behind a Flogger that started to jink and dive for the cloud deck, trying to shake off C.J.
“I’ve got a Master Caution Light, probably for fuel-low level,” Stan said, apparently not bothered that they didn’t have enough fuel to recover.
“Goddamn…” C.J. was angry at himself for not monitoring his bingo fuel more closely.
“Press it,” Stan yelled at him. “We can get one more before we flame out and eject.” C.J. stroked his afterburners, chasing the Flogger in a seventy-degree dive through the cloud deck…
Jack was pacing the Command Post as the first fighters recovered. Most of the Floggers had also broken out of the battle, forced to return home by low fuel. But six birds from the 378th were still engaged, making the MiG pilots continue the fight. The young woman posting the board checked off the recovering birds as they called in and circled the gap beside C.J.’s name when his wingman landed. Waters stood by silently, his attention drawn to the board as his right eyelid lightly twitched. “Colonel,” Jack said, “we’ve got to launch against the hovercraft now if we’re going to catch them when they hit the fifty-nine perimeter.”
Waters shook his head, tried to force himself to concentrate. How many more open squares would appear on the board…? He played out the options he had to defend his wing. “Scramble the 379th onto the boats. Hold the last five of the 378th in reserve in case more MiGs are launched. Turn the recovering birds around quick as possible and put them on cockpit alert.” He turned to Jack. “Go to the COIC and find out what happened to C.J.”
Jack sat beside Carroll in the COIC and listened as the Intel debriefers talked to the recovered aircrews over the telephone hot lines to each bunker. The contractors had created a spiderweb of hardened underground telephone lines around the bunkers that could be repeatedly cut and still function. The aircrews would not leave the bunkers as the crew chiefs worked with the munitions loaders and fuel specialists to turn the birds for their next sortie. Slowly, the debriefers were able to patch together what had happened. It seemed the defense of the base had been successful, and twelve Floggers had been shot down. No one reported seeing C.J. go down, so Carroll reluctantly listed him as MIA for the initial Situation Report. “Only two against their twelve. That’s a pretty good exchange rate,” Carroll said to Jack. “Do you want me to tell the boss about C.J.?”
“I’ll do it. You get in touch with the GCI site and find out what they know.”
It was a triumphant Bull Morgan, with Thunder in his pit, that led the 379th down the final thirty minutes after scrambling on the attacking boats. After coming off target he had formed his twenty planes into flights of four and brought them home together, treating the base to an impromptu air show. After landing he headed for the COIC, bursting through the door of the COIC looking for Jack. He picked the captain up in a bear hug and threw him around in a circle. “Hey, you were right-on about using air-to-air missiles against them. Worked like a charm on the hovercraft. They couldn’t beat feet back home quick enough after we hosed down the leaders. Hell, we must’ve sunk half a dozen, set four on fire and scared them shitless…”
“Where’s Thunder?” Jack finally managed to ask after getting his breath back.
“Still out at the bird trying to appease the crew chief. We picked up a few holes and the chief is pissed. You can’t have him back, he’s the best damn wizzo in the Air Force.”
When he returned to the command post Jack found Waters and Bill Carroll in intense conversation. “Jack,” Waters said, “according to Bill we’ve got ourselves a problem. He thinks the attack wasn’t big enough or pressed the way it should have been. He figures there’ll be a second attack…”
5 September: 0630 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 0230 hours, Washington, D.C.
The new display on the center board in the Watch Center told its own story and dominated Cunningham’s attention as he sat in his chair, chomped on his cigar and listened to Don Williamson outline the developing situation. Every word the captain uttered was an unwelcome testimonial to the perseverance of the enemy. A searing pain in Cunningham’s chest momentarily made him think he might be having a heart attack. But the pain was beyond physical…it came from the general’s realizing he had underestimated the will of the PSI. “How long before the next attack?” he asked.
“The communications traffic the RC-135 is monitoring indicates they’ll sortie from behind Khark Island within a few hours, around noon their time,” Williamson said, trying to keep his voice even.
“When and where you figure they’ll come ashore?”
“Well, the crossing will take about twelve hours. And I expect them to come ashore…here,” the captain said, and pointed to a spot on the coast eleven miles north of Ras Assanya. “That’s the only place where the channel is deep enough for their ships. They’ll have to move down the coast and attack the base from the land side, forcing their way across the
isthmus to capture the main runway.”
Cunningham punched the transmit button, relaying the intelligence to the War Room. He calculated how long it would take the President and his advisers to react to this latest information. He wanted to start an immediate evacuation, but that decision belonged to the President and without his permission Cunningham couldn’t even position a goddamned MAC aircraft for an emergency airlift. He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, hunched forward, scribbled out a message for John Shaw, who was responsible for managing Third Air Force’s people and supplies, and gave it to the watch commander for transmission as he left for the War Room.
5 September: 0715 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 0815 hours, Mildenhall, England
Mort Pullman’s stomach knotted as he read the message Brigadier General Shaw had handed him. Outwardly the message from Cunningham seemed almost routine: a cautionary statement from a commander to a subordinate about the protection of supplies and resources. “So Sundown thinks Rats Ass is going to get plastered by a bunch of ragheads…So what does himself want us to do about it?”
“I don’t know, Mort,” Shaw said. “I hope to God he’s trying to tell us something we’ve missed.”
Pullman reread the message and handed it back to the general. “This is no way to do business, General. If he wants us to do something, then tell us. We don’t need to be playing guessing games—”
“Except Cunningham has to play politics with the big shots. The President’s probably calling the moves and the general’s hands are tied…” Shaw read the message again. “He says we can ‘increase logistical support with the resources at our disposal to protect critical resources.’” Then it hit him…“Mort, what’s our most important resource?”
“Man, I’m slow,” Pullman said. “People.”
“Right. We’ve got over twenty-three hundred of our people there. I don’t know what it’ll take or whose ass I’m going to have to kick, but I am going to get them out. I’m going to go down there. You in, Mort?”
“Count on it, sir. Half the goddamn Air Force owes me favors and I’ll call in every one of them.”
“Mort, your markers can’t go that high. Who owes you?”
“The worker bees, General, the people that make things happen.”
The general liked Pullman’s style but wondered if he was mostly bragging. “To get down there it’s a ten-hour flight in a C-130. We’ve got one Hercules at Dhahran now for logistical support into Ras Assanya. We’ll use it. Send a message to the 45th and get it started on a shuttle into Dhahran. I’ll see if General Percival can get us airlift from MAC.”
Chief Pullman started calling in his markers the minute he sent the message to the 45th. The NCO in charge of Communications told him all circuits to the Persian Gulf were logjammed with heavy traffic and that even flash priority messages were running six hours late. “Sarge,” Pullman replied politely, “how would you like your wife to learn about your girlfriend who told the Air Force you were not providing child support for your kid—the illegitimate one, that is.”
“Chief, hey, give me a break…” Pause. “Well, I’d have to call a buddy at Chicksands and have him dump the circuits and restart the system with your message plugged into the flow—”
“Just make sure it’s plugged in at the top. Sam, those are our people we need to get out—”
“And I’ll probably get me a court-martial—”
“That’s nothing compared to what your wife will get you. I’d appreciate that message going through in thirty minutes.”
And the sergeant did it. Pullman next headed for MAC’s Airlift Command Post to collar the NCO in charge of scheduling the movement of MAC’s aircraft.
Shaw’s problem was proving more difficult to resolve. General Percival wanted to support the 45th but Third Air Force did not have or schedule cargo aircraft. “John, you know how slow MAC works,” Percival told him. “Unless airlift is specifically requested through channels they won’t turn their aircraft loose—”
“True, very true,” Shaw said. “But you can redirect airlift once it is on the schedule, just like I did with the C-130 at Dhahran.”
“But only in my theater of operations, which happens to be northern Europe,” Percival said quickly. At which point the phone rang. Percival answered, listened intently and gave his best imitation of Cunningham’s “yes” grunt before hanging up. “Well, well, a lot of Third Air Force’s scheduled airlift missions have been suddenly canceled and MAC’s got a free C-130 ready to go and sitting on the ramp. It seems Third Air has had a long-standing request for a haul to Ras Assanya that’s now magically at the top of the heap. The request was lacking my signature…merely an oversight.” The general paused. “Good luck, John.”
Shaw thanked Percival and was out of his office. Pullman met him with a staff car at the front door. “Got to hurry, General. The Herky bird is waiting for us, engines running.”
“We make a country-fair team, Mort.”
“I’d say, General.”
5 September: 0900 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 0500 hours, Washington, D.C.
The men huddled behind the President were reluctant to admit to themselves or to him the significance of the information displayed in front of them. At any other time Cunningham would have been amused by the sight of the President’s advisers literally hiding behind the man they were supposed to counsel and support. At least there was no doubt in Cunningham’s mind now that he had the undivided attention of his commander-in-chief. He waited impatiently, concentrating on the growing activity in the War Room.
The President, more hardheaded than his advisers, wasn’t afraid to hear bad news. Not that he easily accepted it. “I expected nothing on this scale; I underestimated their intentions…What’s their primary objective?”
“The capture of Ras Assanya,” Cunningham told him.
“What would that do for them?” The President did have a flaw: he believed the men that moved the world’s events were at least rational actors, and so if he knew what their goals were he could anticipate their actions.
“Get us out of the Persian Gulf, and for a long time,” Cunningham said. The silence around the table presumably confirmed his statement.
“Why are you so sure they will attack within twelve hours?”
“Because, sir, there is no naval force in place that’s strong enough to block them. By the time we can get our fleet back into the Gulf they’ll be ashore. That’s why they have to go in now, when they feel there’s little resistance…”
One of the President’s advisers handed him a note that he scanned and held up a hand, interrupting Cunningham. “General, I have just been informed that the PSI has made a new offer for a permanent cease-fire. The United Arab Command believes it’s valid and urges us not to overreact.”
“Mr. President…I believe that’s a ploy to keep our fleet out of the Gulf. Sure, the PSI will be glad to negotiate after they’ve overrun the 45th.” The general had no illusions about his enemy; he would not underestimate their ability or resolve again…“Please don’t sacrifice the 45th.” Cunningham could hear the pleading in his voice and didn’t give a damn.
The President looked at him intently, then picked up an electronic pointer and flashed it on the screen, circling the cluster of ships poised to sortie across the Gulf. “I can’t allow the 45th to be sacrificed as a quid pro quo for a truce. As long as the PSI keeps its ships in international waters we shouldn’t attack them. But after their first attack, the intentions are obvious and nothing takes away our right to self-defense. If those ships move toward the west”—he directed the pointer on the screen towards Ras Assanya—“I will consider them a threat to the 45th. Tell the 45th to hit the S.O.B.’s the moment they head across the Gulf.”
He was warming to it now. “And order the fleet back into the Gulf and have the carrier air group ready to launch in support of the 45th when they’re in range. If that force attacks Ras Assanya, it will not return. Also, I want an orderly draw-down of Ras As
sanya so it can be rapidly evacuated, but keep them fighting.”
Cunningham was forced to reevaluate this President. realizing, if belatedly, that the man was one helluva geo-politician, willing to trade measured blows with an antagonist to advance the interests of the U.S. But playing the game only so far before reacting with the forces at his disposal…
Two hours later a Navy admiral announced to the President that the force behind Khark Island had sortied and was turning to the west. He pointed to the map of the Indian Ocean. “Sir, there is one hell of a storm building down there, an early-season typhoon. Our ships will have to reduce speed and the carrier will not be able to launch aircraft until they clear the area. It makes you wonder whose side God is on.”
“Admiral, God is the all-time neutral in war, even though we’ll claim he’s in our camp. The Greeks called it hubris, pride, and you know what pride goeth before: the fall.”
5 September: 1048 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 1348 hours. Ras Assanya, Saudi Arabia
Sergeant Nesbit ripped the latest transmission off the high-speed printer and handed it to Waters. The colonel scanned and added it to a growing pile of messages, then huddled with Stansell and Farrell trying to make sense out of the flood of information. “Everything,” Waters began, “points to an attack in the next few hours. We can defend ourselves and are cleared in hot against anything that moves toward us. At the same time, we start to move our people out while maintaining the wing’s combat readiness.” Waters glanced at the board on the wall that tracked arrival and departure times of transient aircraft. There was only the C-130 that had been given to them for a shuttle. Without more airlift in the next ten to twelve hours he was not optimistic about moving many of his people before the base was attacked. “Rup, get as many people onto that C-130 as you can every time it lands. I’ll holler for more aircraft…” He did not know about Shaw’s C-130 that was seven hours away from landing.
The Warbirds Page 40