The Art of War c-17

by Keith Douglass

  Sarah Wexler’s Farsi language skills were minimal at best, but she possessed sufficient command of the language to reply, “Your mother fucks camels.” Switching back to English, she continued, “The next words out of your mouth better explain exactly what your position is or I will do my utmost to ensure that the president obliterates your nation from the face of the earth.” Her tone of voice left no doubt that she meant it.

  “I assume you are referring to a matter of internal dissension,” he answered, his voice colder than it had been before. Evidently the remark about his mother had struck home. “If the United States had not interfered, the matter would have been easily settled within our own borders.”

  “Interfered?” She pointed an accusing finger at him. “Your people just executed an attack on an American cruiser. Fortunately,” she lied, “the vessel was not damaged. But there was absolutely no provocation for the attack. Now explain exactly why you thought it necessary to offend us in this matter.”

  “Even in an Allah-fearing country such as ours, we have dissident elements,” he murmured. “One of the hard-line factions, so at odds with our current peaceful government, took control of the self-defense station. It had been all but abandoned, converted purely to research use. Evidently they obtained funding from some enemy of the United States — it is difficult to tell which one, there are so many of them — adequate to supply it with antisurface missiles. As my people were attempting to regain control of the station, the United States provoked them into attack. I cannot, of course, speculate on their motives. But I can assure you their actions in no way reflect upon my government.”

  “Bullshit,” Wexler said flatly. “I don’t buy it, and no one else will, either.” Just for a moment, her face softened as she focused on what was to come. There would be another Gulf War, and this time she feared the casualties would be much greater. They had been so lucky last time, so well-prepared. But Desert Storm concerned even their allies within the region, and she had been warned more than once privately that such action would not be tolerated again. Any discipline of the rogue Iranian state would come from her neighbors, not from a nation halfway across the world interfering in regional affairs.

  No, if war broke out again there, it would be far more costly. Under the guise of assisting the United Nations in enforcing sanctions on Iraq, Iran had secretly countered by building up both her biochemical and nuclear arsenals. Wexler was quite certain that if war came again, countless families across the United States would mourn the loss of sons and daughters.

  And for what? Oil? Yes, that, and more. The growth of the fundamentalist religious movement across the region hit her on a personal level as she read about the treatment of women within both Iran and Iraq. Garbed always from head to foot in black garments, sequestered behind walls to their houses, not permitted to own property and forbidden to speak in public, they were truly slaves in every sense of the word.

  The Iranian ambassador turned away from her, as though dismissing a subordinate, not his equal. She moved to face him again. He looked down on the her, disgust evident in his face. “If not provoked, we would have settled matters. As it is, our own attack on the station was already under way when your fighters breached our airspace. I understand the guidance of U.N. sanctions, but it also provides that there will be no unprovoked attacks upon any nation without consultation. In this instance, the United States acted unilaterally. He paused for moment, his face impassive. “And if you had information on the attack — and by the way, you might wish to caution your intelligence officers to be more thorough, as I understand the cruiser was heavily damaged — then you will know that the site was obliterated by our own missiles falling shortly after your attack. There was no threat to your battle group — not from Iran.” He smiled, and she felt her stomach turn at expression of sheer malice. “Iran is a peace-loving nation.”

  EIGHTEEN

  USS Jefferson

  1500 local (GMT +3)

  In the hours immediately after the Iranian attack on their own installation, no one knew exactly what was going on. Lab Rat’s assessment, that the Iranians were readying their cover story, was the only plausible explanation advanced, although at least one staff member insisted that they were intent on eradicating biological warfare weapons stored there.

  Admiral Wayne roamed the 03 level of the carrier, unable to settle down in any one spot. It was a growing conviction in his gut that things were about to break loose, and no radar evidence to the contrary could reassure him. Additionally, he was concerned about the odd call they’d received from the Seawolf. He was certain they’d followed his orders to clear the area, but he had no way of knowing if they’d found a place of safety. He could have transmitted a message to them by ELF — extremely low frequency — and asked them to come shallow and communicate, but after some debate, he decided that would be interfering with the captain’s judgment. He was the one who best knew what situation his ship was in. Batman had told him to get to safety, let things cool down, then try again. He would have to trust the judgment and experience of the captain on Seawolf.

  But what could have convinced the captain that he needed to come shallow and communicate? A serious engineering casualty of some sort? Intelligence data? Batman wondered if he’d been too abrupt with the man, ordering him out of area, then decided he would have to trust the captain. If it was too urgent to delay, Bellisanus would insisted on briefing him.

  That was the problem with being in command rather than on a flight fighting platform by himself. It was one thing to make your own decisions about targets, in-flight safety, that sort of thing. You trained as hard as you could, tried to think everything through, and when it came down to it, you either survived or you didn’t. But in command, he had to depend on the men and women below him, trust that they were just as thorough — if not more so — than he would have been in preparing for the same situations.

  The radar and intelligence picture for the area was particularly disturbing. There was no indication of any unusual activity; the troop movements, and even the routine patrol flights of the area had stopped. Iran seemed to have suspended most of her normal activities. The smaller states in the Middle East were also quiet, and Batman pictured military staffs in each country trying to figure out what the hell had just happened. So he paced, moving restlessly between the carrier’s combat direction center, intelligence center, TFCC, SCIF, and his own stateroom. He felt the compulsion to be everywhere at once, as though something would happen that only he would have the key to. As always, the worst part of any conflict was the waiting.

  USS Seawolf

  1510 local (GMT +3)

  Bellisanus studied the navigational chart, then double-checked their position against the bottom contour map. After twenty minutes at top speed, the Seawolf had gone to a slow patrol speed, dropping all of her machinery noises well below the detection threshold of any known sonar. Since they already had hard proof that this area of water was inadequately charted, the captain was particular concerned about another collision with a pipeline or the remnants of the drilling structure, But there was nothing he could do about that, short of turning on his active sonar, and that would be a homing signal to every enemy platform in the area. So he settled for proceeding slowly, making sure he knew exactly where he was, and retracing his path back to the broken pipeline.

  According to the chart in front him, they should be within 1000 yards of where they had run into it. Data processors on the submarine all confirmed that. Engineering was reporting that the water flowing through the sea chest looked unusually nasty, contaminated with oil.

  One more issue they would have to contend with — at extremely slow speeds, the Seawolf could rely on natural water circulation to provide cooling through scoop injectors, but not so in this water. He would have to use the reactor circulating pumps, and every additional bit of equipment brought online increased the chances of being detected. But the captain thought the risk might be minimal, given the extremely poor sonar conditio
ns in this fouled water.

  “We’ll give it an hour,” Bellisanus said. “Make sure there’s no one in the area, and come shallow for a comm break.” Once he relayed the details of the man’s injury to the admiral, the decision would be the admiral’s, not his. He felt a sense of relief, coupled with guilt.

  And how long was an hour to a critically injured patients in pain? He turned to his XO. “How is he?”

  “Holding his own. Doc says he’s still stable, but the odds are that he’ll go downhill fast today. We got a little time, but not much.”

  Not much, indeed. They had to allow time to clear the area and exit the Gulf, then arrange the rendezvous with the carrier. All that assuming that the tactical situation had calmed down enough to allow a medical evacuation. And the odds of that happening, Bellisanus thought, were not too almighty good.

  Iranian Shore Station

  1530 local (GMT +3)

  From his position in the control tower, Wadi stared down at the swarms of technicians around the aircraft. The work was progressing much more quickly than anticipated. There had proved to be far fewer corrosion and structural problems than he had thought, and the primary focus had been on updating avionics and replacing dried-out seals.

  Even the Russians were surprised at the condition of the aircraft. Ilya Gromko, their leader, had come to him earlier that day with good news. “Three more days — yes, perhaps four. We will be completely finished.” He gestured at the aircraft. “Every one of them will be able to fly. As long as you have the pilots…” He didn’t finish the sentence.

  Wadi felt rage building. Who was this Slavic fool to imply such a thing? Oh, yes, their turn would come. With the aircraft repaired, and when the American presence was eliminated in the Gulf, Iran would buy her own aircraft technology. Anything was available for the right amount of money, and as long as Allah provided the oil in the ground, everything was possible.

  But that day of glory had not yet arrived, and for now, he must rely on these sodden oafs to do his work. He forced a smile on his face, and clapped the man on the back in a show of good humor. “Excellent, excellent. I shall have a nice surprise prepared for you when you are finished. A bonus, sorts.” He held up one hand to forestall comment. “It is not in the contract, of course. But when a group of men produces such results, it is only proper that it be recognized.” He winked, trying to indicate the conspiracy between the two of them. “And for you, perhaps something special. There will be no need to tell the others about it, yes?”

  “That is very kind of you,” the Russian murmured. Wadi saw his broad, high-cheeked face split into a grin in anticipation of his wealth. “Yes, very generous of you. As much as we admire your lovely land, we will be glad to go home.”

  Of course you will. To the land of unlimited vodka, to long, dark nights lived in a drunken stupor. And your women, fah — they can be no better.

  Yes, I shall have a very special prize waiting for you, my friend. Very special indeed.

  “I must get back,” the Russian said. “It goes well, but one can never be too careful in looking out for one’s people, can one?”

  “I appreciate your taking the time to keep me informed. I will not forget it.”

  Gromko reflected on the conversation as he made his way back down to the air-conditioned revetments. Had his family not been in such desperate circumstances, he never would have agreed to come to this desolate land of infidels. But the lack of hard cash, and government support for the program — which meant more amenities for his family — had proved irresistible. Now, as his heart sank, he knew that the decision had been his final and most fatal mistake.

  He knew he was not alone in his concerns. The rumors had circulated among his people since the day they’d set foot on this accursed sand. He tried to reassure them, pointing out that any harm to them would be a direct affront to Mother Russia, but to no avail. And now, he unwillingly came to the conclusion that their collective wisdom had been right.

  He gazed around the harsh desert, the sand that blasted them so frequently and crept into every moving part. Even the food tasted of sand. And the vodka, the little of it that there was, had a grainy, unsavory aftertaste.

  He would die here.

  He headed back down to join his men. The Iranians might kill them, but they would leave them a little surprise as well.

  NINETEEN

  USS Jefferson

  Sick Bay

  Wednesday, May 5

  1600 local (GMT +3)

  Bird Dog pushed open the swinging double doors to Medical. Immediately inside was a receptionist at a desk. Beyond that was a row of hospital beds with the blue curtains separating them pulled back. Off to the left was another set of swinging doors that led to the surgical suite and intensive care.

  “Can I help you, sir?” the corpsman asked.

  “The two aviators that were brought in — how are they?”

  “Hold on — I’ll get the doctor to come out and talk to you, sir.” The corpsman picked up the phone and spoke softly for a moment.

  A few moments later, Dr. Bernie Green came out of the surgical suite. Bird Dog felt relieved. At least he knew Bernie, and could count on him for the straight scoop.

  The rangy Texas native looked like he would be more at home riding a mustang across open fields than in a hospital ward. But Bernie had grown up on the Gulf Coast of Texas, and had a deep and abiding love for the sea. He had attended the Naval Academy, followed by medical school, and Jefferson was his second tour of duty. Bird Dog had been trying to find a way to get Bernie up in a Tomcat with him, since Bernie wanted to qualify as a flight surgeon after this tour. The two had become good friends over several lunches in the dirty shirt mess.

  “Hey, Bernie. How are Fastball and Rat?”

  “Holding their own. Fastball is better off than Rat — he thought he had a broken leg, but it turned out to be a cramp.” Bernie chuckled slightly “Pilots. You’re all wimps.”

  “And Rat?”

  Bernie’s face took on a more serious expression. “The X rays don’t show it, but I think she must have hit her head pretty hard when she punched out. I’m guessing a mild concussion, or maybe just shock. She’ll be okay in a day or so. You want to see them?”

  That was what Bird Dog had been hoping for. “Yeah. That way I can give the admiral a firsthand report.”

  Bernie led the way back into the intensive care unit. It consisted of six beds, all under the close observation of three corpsman. The array of medical monitoring equipment was slightly daunting. Bird Dog turned to Bernie. “I thought you said they were okay?”

  “Just a precaution for the first twenty-four hours. Fastball will probably be cleared to return to flight status tomorrow. Rat probably the day after.”

  Fastball was in the bed nearest to the door. He struggled up into a sitting position. “Hey. How are you?”

  Bird Dog crossed to stand next to him. “The question is, how are you?”

  Fastball slumped back down the bed. “Not bad. Considering.”

  “Yeah. Considering. You know they’re going to take the cost of that Tomcat out of your paycheck, right? A hundred bucks a payday for the next million years.”

  “Yeah, well, make Rat pay for it.”

  Bird Dog studied him for moment. Fastball looked pale, his face drained. A bruise was starting to bloom on one cheekbone, and Bird Dog figured he’d probably have a black eye as well. A few cuts, scrapes, probably from the impact of the ocean, but nothing serious. “Doc said you’ll probably be back in a flight status right away.”

  “Yeah, I hope so.” He cast a worried glanced down at the other end of the room. “What about Rat — they’re not telling me much.”

  “Concussion, they think. She should be fine.” Although Bernie hadn’t sounded all that sure, Bird Dog figured that reassuring was the way to go. “Good stick, by the way. That’s a hard one to recover from.”

  “Well, I didn’t exactly recover.” Fastball shifted slightly on the bed. “Man
, I feel like I’ve been beat up.”

  “All the same — any ejection you live through is a good one.”

  “You would know, wouldn’t you?” Bird Dog held the squadron record for most ejections over a career. He shouldn’t have been proud of it, but secretly he was. For some reason, Gator wasn’t particularly thrilled about that either.

  A good stick — it was the ultimate compliment to any pilot. It meant that the pilot had the overall skills and instincts to recover from virtually any casualty. It wasn’t an accolade awarded lightly, and usually bore no elaboration. Good stick — that said it all.

  “I’m going to head down and see Rat,” Bird Dog said. “You need anything, tell them to give me a call.”

  “See if she’s still speaking to me, will you?”

  Bird Dog nodded.

  Rat’s bed was located just ten steps away, secluded in a corner. A corpsman stood by her side, taking her vital signs. He looked up as Bird Dog approached. “She’s still pretty groggy, sir. Keep it short, please.” It wasn’t exactly a request — more like an order — but Bird Dog let it slide.

  Rat’s eyes were partially closed, and she looked like hell. But Bernie had said she would be okay. He leaned over the bed and spoke softly. “Rat? How ya doing, kid?”

  Rat’s eyes focused on him and she looked more alert. “I feel like shit,” she said, her voice alert. “What the hell happened?”

  “You lost an engine on final. Fastball punched you out.” Bernie had said it might take a while to regain her memory, if she ever did.

  Rat stirred, then let out a groan. “I hope to hell that asshole feels as bad as I do.”

  “He does,” Bird Dog lied. Maybe not physically, but Bird Dog was quite sure that Fastball wasn’t pretending to feel bad about the whole thing. Sure, there was nothing he could do about the flame-out or the engine fire, but that would not prevent him from feeling responsible. Every time a RIO climbed into the backseat with a pilot, he or she placed their life and trust in the pilot. It wasn’t often spoken about, but every pilot that Bird Dog knew took it seriously. Even if the RIO were senior, the pilots looked on them as younger brothers or sisters, someone you had to watch out for and keep out of trouble. If a RIO got hurt in flight, it wasn’t the RIO’s fault — it was the pilot’s.