“Time is of the essence,” National Security Adviser Cagliari was saying, pointing out the obvious to the men in the White House’s Situation Room. “We must destroy that convoy before it crosses the Euphrates River.”
Only Bobby Burke, the DCI, was not convinced. “Mr. President, we’ve taken out the nerve gas facility. Now is the time to wait for Iraq’s reaction. We may have well accomplished our objective. And we can’t be sure that those trucks are transporting nerve gas.”
Pontowski leaned back in his chair, thinking. Burke was always the cautious one. Time to listen to the other side. “General Cox, your views.”
The general rose and walked to the map on the wall in front of the President. He pointed to the ferry crossing. “Once across the Euphrates, they are still four hundred miles away from the fighting. It doesn’t make sense for them to convoy. They should be using airlift.” Then the general’s eyes fixed on A1 Sahra Air Base located twenty miles south of where the Iraqis had established their CAP to protect the escaping trucks. “Oh my God,” he whispered. “Sir, there’s a damn good chance some of those trucks may have gone here,” he jabbed at A1 Sahra, “for airlift. Maybe the AWACS has monitored something. Let me get in contact with them.”
“Go ahead,” Pontowski said. Cox hurried into the communications room next door to talk directly to Aldo via satellite communications.
“Sir”—it was Burke—“we’re starting to chase ghosts here. We need to wait for hard intelligence. Also, we must take the Soviets’ reaction into account. I’m certain that the hardliners inside the Kremlin are going to come out on top. It’s going to be the cold war all over again if Marshal Stenilov and his thugs win.”
“Do you think so?” Pontowski said. “I wonder …”
The light on the telepanel in front of Cagliari blinked. He picked up the phone and listened before handing it to Pontowski. “Sir, it’s Melissa, from the hospital …” The President took the phone and listened. He thanked the woman and handed the phone back to Cagliari as Cox returned.
“The AWACS has been monitoring a great deal of activity around Al Sahra,” Cox told them. “Two aircraft landed a few minutes ago. Trucks are still on the highway headed for the ferry.”
Pontowski stared at the wall map and then slowly pushed himself to his feet. “Order the Forty-fifth to attack the convoy and the air base. Please tell my helicopter to stand by, I’m returning to the hospital.” He walked out of the room.
Bobby Burke slammed his fists on the table in frustration and glared at Cox. A week ago, Cox had been subordinate to him in the intelligence chain, and now the President was listening to Cox and not him. He didn’t like the invasion of his bureaucratic turf.
The Turkish colonel in command of Diyarbakir was standing nose to nose with Martin outside the only weapons storage igloo on the base. “Colonel Martin,” the Turkish colonel said, “I cannot release our weapons to you without an order from my general.”
“Then wake him and get it,” Martin said.
“But then he would have to call his general.” The Turk smiled. Over his shoulder, Martin could see activity going on inside the igloo. Turkish soldiers were doing a quick inventory to make sure all the weapons were accounted for. “As I said before, I cannot help you.” He barked some commands in Turkish and the lights went out in the igloo and the soldiers came out, locking the heavy double doors behind them. More shouting and orders and the Turks were gone in a cloud of dust.
“Damn,” Martin raged to himself, “I should have thought to ferry in more weapons on the C-One-forty-ones.” Martin’s concept of operations had been to go in lean and mean and let the F-15s ferry in the weapons that they would use on the raid.
“Colonel,” the major from Maintenance said, pointing to the side of the igloo, “in the shadows.”
“I’ll be damned.” Martin grinned. Sitting beside the igloo were six weapons trailers, each holding four 500-pound bombs.
The major ran over to the trailers and examined the bombs with a flashlight. “Snakeyes,” he announced. “Complete with fuses.” He pointed to the small boxes sitting on each trailer. He spoke into his hand-held radio, calling for vehicles to come and tow the trailers to the flight line. “We can pull one ourselves,” he yelled, jumping into his pickup truck and starting the engine.
“Snakeyes are better than nothing,” Martin allowed, making a mental promise to return the favor if he could. The Turkish colonel had indeed helped them. But he had to do it the Turkish way.
Matt and Carroll were waiting for Martin when he pulled up in front of the hangar with his load of bombs. “We got a go,” Matt said.
“Shit hot!” Martin shouted.
“There’s more,” Matt explained. “They want us to hit the airfield at Al Sahra.” The colonel huddled with the two men while they explained the order that had been relayed to the RC-135.
Martin checked his watch. “Get everyone in here,” he yelled. “We got to start launching in forty minutes.” He paced up and down for a few moments. “Matt, figure out how to hit Al Sahra with two jets, one with six Snakeyes.” The colonel paced back and forth. “Maintenance,” he barked. “Upload the Snakeyes on four birds, six each, instantaneous fusing. I want the first two ready to launch in thirty minutes, the second two in forty.”
“Colonel,” Matt interrupted. “Three of our jets recovered with six GBU-Twenty-fours. Can I use them?”
“You got one bird with two GBUs,” Martin answered. “Leary’s on your wing.” The crews were all assembled now. “Okay, Meatheads,” Martin began. “We’re going back in, so listen up …” For the next twenty minutes, he and Matt laid out the attack. No one asked questions, but they all understood exactly what was expected of them when they broke and ran for their jets. Martin checked his watch; it was 0509 hours. They were going to make it.
“Shoshana, wake up,” Hanni whispered, shaking the sleeping woman. Shoshana shook her head and sat up, stiff from sleeping on the cold floor of the APC they were hiding in. A sickly-sweet odor assaulted her from the two bodies still lying outside on their grotesque deathbeds. “Shush,” Hanni cautioned. “I hear movement.”
The faint sounds of tracked vehicles moving in the valley drifted over the night air. “We’re still okay,” Shoshana said. “Time to check in.” She worked her way forward to the driver’s compartment and fumbled at the switches in the dark. The radio came to life with a faint hum. She listened for a few minutes, changing frequencies, not hearing a thing. “Must be maintaining radio silence,” she said and selected an emergency frequency. “This is Band-Aid with a radio check,” she transmitted. Two distinct clicks answered her. “Standing by for instructions,” she radioed. Two more clicks. “They don’t want to talk to us,” she told Hanni. “Maybe it’s time we try to make it back on our own.” She checked her watch. “We’ve still got thirty more minutes of dark.”
“Levy said he would come and get us,” Hanni reminded her. They could now hear the clanking of tanks moving toward them, much closer. Hanni froze in terror, her mouth open.
The shrill whistle of friendly artillery passing overhead shattered the fear that bound Hanni and she threw herself onto the floor next to Shoshana, clasping her helmet to her head. The barrage increased its tempo and the APC shook as round after round reached over them, pounding at the advancing Iraqi tanks. “They must know we’re here,” Shoshana shouted.
The shelling halted as abruptly as it had started and they could hear the loud rumble of jets. Shoshana stood and looked out the periscope mounted in the top hatch. “They’re ours,” she announced. She scanned the valley and watched the second phase of a coordinated counterattack. Israeli jets were popping over the southern and eastern ridge for quick runs on the tanks. At the same time, TOW missiles were picking off the lead tanks. Still, the Iraqis came at them. The fires billowing from destroyed tanks and BMPs cast an eerie glow, illuminating the fresh carnage.