“The risks are too high,” the minister counseled.
“I know about risks,” Ben David snapped. He slapped his hands down on the table. “We continue the war for now.” The meeting was over and the men filed out. Only the Ganef and Yuriden stayed behind.
“Then you think that Pontowski is bluffing,” the Ganef said.
“I’ve heard it before,” Ben David replied. “He thinks his air force can destroy Iraq’s chemical arsenal when our air force has failed? What a fool. We have the best pilots in the world.”
“You’re believing our own propaganda,” Yuriden said. “That’s a mistake.”
“I don’t make mistakes!” Ben David shouted. “And what does he mean when he says, ‘I will consider active measures against Israel'? Tell me, what does that mean?”
“Don’t use nuclear weapons,” the Ganef replied. “The consequences are too high.”
“I will use everything in my power to protect my people. No man will take that away from me.” Ben David fell silent and he paced the floor. “Two can play this game. We have friends in the United States Congress.”
“Listen to yourself,” the Ganef said. “Listen to your words. You are sounding like an egomaniac.”
“I will protect my people.”
“Perhaps,” Yuriden said, trying to calm the man, “you can best do that by waiting. Waiting to see if the U.S. can destroy Iraq’s chemical arsenal, waiting to see how muchfarther back we can push the Arabs, waiting to see if we can improve our position.”
The prime minister seemed to accept what Yuriden was saying.
“Sooner or later,” the Ganef added, “we will have to accept a cease-fire and negotiate.”
Now Ben David sat down, much calmer. “Yes, that’s true. I can afford to wait a little longer.” As long as the Arabs do not escalate, he thought.
Neither the Ganef nor Yuriden pressed him further on the subject of cease-fires. But both were thinking how desperately they needed one.
The pilots were lined up on both sides of the ready room’s center aisle in their proper places when Brigadier General Hussan Mana arrived. He walked down the aisle ignoring the bows of the men and stepped onto the low dais in the front of the room. “Please take your seats,” he said. The pilots were more worried than reassured by this kindness. Normally, Mana kept them standing at attention when he spoke to them.
“We have received a communication from Al Mukhabaret,” Mana began, as every pilot stiffened at the name of Iraq’s Department of General Intelligence, “that the Americans have secretly deployed twelve F-Fifteen Es here.” He pointed to a map on the wall behind him and jabbed at the Turkish base at Diyarbakir. “The communication states that the American Eagles will be launched against a target here.” He pointed to the nerve gas plant and arsenal outside of Kirkuk. “As you can see, we”—now he pointed to their base at Mosul located between Diyarbakir and Kirkuk—“are in a perfect position to intercept them. Further, Al Mukhabaret is certain that the Americans will launch within the hour and has placed two agents to report their exact takeoff time.”
“I didn’t know Al Mukhabaret used its spies in foreign countries,” Johar Adwan mumbled loud enough for Samir Hamshari to hear.
“There’s a first time for everything,” Samir mumbled back.
“It is my intention to intercept and destroy them,” Mana announced. He stepped aside and let the squadron’s first officer go over the plan. It was the same “bearing of aircraft” formation they had flown in the past. Again, Mana would be in the lead. There was nothing in it for Johar and Samir and they were to continue to sit standby alert in the squadron.
The two pilots remained in the ready room while the remainder of their squadron rushed out to man their Su-27s and await the scramble order from ground control. “Can you believe it?” Johar grumbled. “A bearing of aircraft? Has Mana learned nothing?”
“I wouldn’t want to take on an Eagle from that formation,” Samir replied. “Our aircraft are every bit the equal to the F-Fifteen. Why don’t we use them right?”
“I don’t know,” Johar sighed. “But I am certain about one item; Mana may be many things, but he’s no coward.”
The air base at Diyarbakir was little more than three hangars and a few low buildings off to one side of the commercial airport. The Turks used it for a forward operating location and to support the nearby American compound. No one knew what the Americans did there, but the massive arrays of antennas, satellite dishes, and radomes indicated it was a communications monitoring site. The only sign of any unusual activity were the twelve F-15Es that had recently landed with their support crews. Four of the dark gray jets were parked between the hangars, almost totally hidden in the heavy shadows, two were parked in the revetted shelter that was originally intended to house alert aircraft, and the other six were inside the hangars.
A sharp-eyed observer outside the perimeter fence scanned the F-15s with high-powered binoculars and noted that each of the jets was loaded with two GBU-24s, one on each wing pylon, four Sidewinder missiles on the shoulder stations above the GBUs, and four AMRAAMs slung under the conformal fuel tanks. The observer also noted that well-armed security teams were hidden in the shadows.
At 0215 hours local, one of the side doors of the middle hangar opened and twelve men walked out. They headed for the waiting jets. The hangar doors rolled back and at 0230 the distinctive, sirenlike wail of the F-15s’ jet fuel starters echoed across the ramp as the twelve jets started engines. The first two jets taxied out of the alert revetments at 0235 followed by pairs at thirty-second intervals. The first two jetstook the runway and a green light flashed from the tower, clearing them for takeoff. The two jets roared down the runway for a formation takeoff at exactly 0240 as the second set of two taxied into position and held, waiting for the green light that would come thirty seconds later.
The sequence repeated itself until all twelve F-15s had launched. By 0243 the base had reverted to its usual sleepy quiet. Colonel “Mad” Mike Martin, call sign Viper 01, had led the eleven other Vipers of the 45th Tactical Fighter Wing in a “com out” launch and was streaking toward Kirkuk at 540 knots, four hundred feet off the deck. ETA Kirkuk: 0310.
The observer who had been watching the air base started his car, drove to a nearby house, and made a phone call.
The shrill wail of the siren reached the small room in the officers’ quarters where Johar was sleeping. He was fully awake when he heard the first bypass turbofan engine of a Su-27 crank, splitting the night air. Johar glanced at his watch; 0251 local time. He sighed, got out of bed, pulled on his flight suit, and walked over to the officers’ mess for breakfast. Samir was already there, waiting for him.
The AWACS orbiting ninety nautical miles north of Mosul in the tri-border region of Turkey, Iraq, and Iran monitored the takeoff of eight Su-27s being led by Mana. The tactical controller punched the button that selected the Have Quick radio and tromped on his foot pedal to transmit, warning the in-gressing F-15s that interceptors were airborne out of Mosul and moving into a formation. It worried him that the Iraqis had responded so quickly.
Matt’s Tactical Electronic Warfare System came alive just as they copied the AWACS warning on the bandits coming at them from Mosul. “I’ll be damned,” Furry mumbled from the rear. “That’s an SA-Three.” The chirping on the TEWS audio shifted to a higher beat as the surface-to-air missile went into a launch mode. The SA-3 Goa was an old Soviet-built weapon with a range of eighteen miles. Its radar could track up to six aircraft and launch two missiles at a single target. Neither Matt nor Furry was overly worried about that missile since they were well below its minimum guidancealtitude. But like Mad Mike had repeatedly yelled at them, “Always honor the fuckin’ threat!”