Pontowski deliberately glanced at his watch — another signal. “We are running out of time to stop this war before it escalates.”
“The war is not of our making, Mr. President.”
“Then why do you refuse to stand down your forces from your military exercise in the Sinai? Why are you moving up reinforcements as the Israelis withdraw their forces to meet the new threat from Iraq?”
“Mr. President, you must remember the troubled history of our two countries. While we remain committed to the peace treaty with Israel, there are many political factions in my country that demand we maintain a strong defensive posture at this time.”
Pontowski decided it was time to pull off the velvet gloves of diplomacy. “Mr. Ambassador, my analysts tell me that Egypt is preparing to attack Israel.”
“Your analysts are mistaken.”
“I hope so, because if they are correct, I will consider our relationship with Egypt in a totally different light. I will embargo your country and close the Suez Canal. All foreign trade with your country will cease until the status quo is reestablished.”
Dasud’s face paled. In diplomatic terms, Pontowski had told the ambassador that if Egypt entered the war, he would seal Egypt off from the outside world, forcing her to survive on her own resources until the fighting had stopped and Israel’s borders were secure. In practical terms, he was saying that Egypt would not be able to import the food it needed. The ambassador immediately understood all that. It was his job to inform his government that the United States was playing hardball and start immediate damage control.
“Surely, Mr. President, you realize such action would mean an oil embargo and worldwide condemnation in the United Nations.” No response from Pontowski. He tried another tack. “If there were other options open to my government that the United States could support …” Pontowski nodded and Dasud relaxed. There was room for accommodation.
“The role of Egypt as a peacemaker is well known,” Pontowski said. Now they were back to polite diplomatic exchanges.
“It would be helpful if I had something positive to cable my superiors,” Dasud ventured.
“Rather than see Egyptian military maneuvers in the Suez,” Pontowski replied, “I would like to see discussions on increased agricultural aid and more trade credits.” No response from Dasud. Pontowski upped the ante. “And if Egypt was to present a cease-fire initiative to the United Nations, my ambassador would back Egypt’s claim to the Gaza Strip.”
The ambassador understood-perfectly; Egypt gets its forces out of die Sinai, starts taking an active role in stopping the fighting, and in return gets the Gaza Strip and more foreign aid. It was doable. Besides, his air attaché had received an intelligence report from a source in the DIA on Israeli nuclear capabilities and intentions minutes before he had left his embassy. The source was, he knew, unimpeachable.
“Mr. President, please let me relay your comments to my government. I know they will be carefully studied.”
Pontowski stood. The diplomatic formalities were over. “Matsom, again thanks for coming so quickly.” He shook the man’s hand warmly; they were old friends. “I need action quick. Otherwise all hell is going to break loose.”
“I know, Zack. I’ll do what I can.”
As usual, Colonel “Mad” Mike Martin, the deputy for operations of the 45th Tactical Fighter Wing, felt an overpowering urge to get involved, get to the bottom of the problem, and crunch a few heads. But this particular dilemma did not call for such a violent reaction. Mike Martin was a contained and highly directed individual who controlled his natural combative urges and found acceptable channels for his energies. Martin shambled around his office at RAF Stonewood, his six-foot bulk shaking the floor, his round face brooding. His massive head of black hair and hairy arms made the man sitting in his office think of a gorilla or a Mafia hit man. But he knew what was beneath the surface — a consummate fighter pilot and brilliant combat leader, not happy in peacetime operations.
“Carroll,” Martin growled, “you got your ass kicked off the National Security Council and you ask to be reassigned here. Why?”
“The Forty-fifth is my old unit, sir,” Bill Carroll answered. “I thought I could do some good as your chief of intelligence.”
The answer satisfied Martin. “Have you read Pontowski and Furry’s report on how the Israelis are getting their heads kicked up their collective asshole?” Martin never spent much time on any one subject.
“Yes, sir. Other intelligence supports what they saw.”
Martin grunted something unintelligible and jabbed at the buttons on his intercom with a stubby finger. “Get Furry and Pontowski in here,” he barked. Seven minutes later, the two men were walking through the door of his office.
Furry ignored his DO and shook Carroll’s hand. “Good to see you, Bill. Been a long time.”
“Not since Operation Warlord.” Carroll smiled.
Martin did not interrupt the reunion between the two old friends. He knew he had two of the veterans of the 45th under his command. Two men who went back to the legendary Muddy Waters. “You two done kissing?” he said, his voice warm and friendly. “Good. Let’s get down to business. I want to kill some ragheads.”
“Sir,” Matt said, “That’s not going to be easy.”
“I know that, Fumble Nuts,” Martin snapped, reverting to type. “That’s why you three are in here. I want to know if there’s any way, time, or place we might get involved in that pissing contest you got to play in?”
Matt’s face turned hard. For the first time, he fully understood what it meant to have your “fangs out.” “Kirkuk.”
“Thanks for the clue, Meathead,” Martin growled.
“Charming fellow,” Carroll mumbled under his breath for Furry to hear.
“He calls everybody that,” the wizzo said.
“Captain Pontowski, are you talking about the nerve gas plant and storage bunkers outside of Kirkuk?” Carroll asked. Matt nodded.
“Mind talking to me?” Martin barked.
“Sir,” Carroll said, “the Iraqis have built a large new nerve gas plant and arsenal twenty miles west of Kirkuk replacing the one we destroyed during the Kuwait war. The Israelis tried to hit it but couldn’t fight their way through Iraq’s air defenses. Your ‘ragheads’ learned some valuable lessons in ‘91. It’s a mission the F-Fifteen E was made for.”
“That’s a good starting place,” Martin said. “Work up a target briefing for me in, say”—he looked at his watch—“an hour. I want to be impressed. Carroll, get with Plans and put together an ops plan for striking that target. Call it Operations Plan Trinity. I want it at headquarters in two days. Go. Kill.” There was no doubt they were dismissed.
Out in the hall, Matt pulled Furry aside. “Is that the same Carroll you told me about?”
“Yeah,” Furry answered. “Just the best damn intelligence puke in the Air Force.”
21
The prime minister of Israel took his place in the command room of the bunker. He was freshly showered and wearing clean clothes, refreshed after a six-hour sleep. His eyes scanned the situation boards, and for the first time, a feeling of success warmed Yair Ben David’s resolve. Don’t get overly confident yet, he warned himself, we’ve got a long way to go.
A cup of hot tea appeared at his elbow and he took a sip. He glanced around the room. The men and women manning the bunker were weary to the point of exhaustion, the emotional strain telling, and the stale stench of unwashed bodies filled his nostrils. Still, he could sense a change — optimism had replaced the sense of foreboding doom that had hung there like a dark fog only twenty-four hours before.