Tosh looked at him, a deep concern in her eyes. “How unfortunate, the poor man.” Her voice was barely audible. She was thinking how unfortunate for her husband to lose a key man in the midst of the current crisis. “This couldn’t happen at a worse time.”
“We’ll survive,” Pontowski said. “But I’ve got to find a replacement. Someone good at crisis management, with credibility.” He paced the floor thinking. This should be the end of the illegal campaign funds affair, he decided. If I know Fraser, it died with him. But what message do I need to send now?
Then he remembered the report of the investigation on Bill Carroll that Fraser had ordered the head of the Secret Service, Stan Abbott, to carry out. The Secret Service’s investigation had included Carroll’s boss. “Tosh, what do youthink of Brigadier General Leo Cox as Fraser’s replacement?”
There was no answer for a moment as his wife mulled the name over. “I think that might be a very good choice. Why don’t you have him checked out?”
“He has been — thanks to Fraser.”
The APC jerked to a halt and Hanni dropped the rear ramp, kicking up a small cloud of dust. Two medics clambered on board and removed their last load of wounded Iraqi soldiers. Then the after-battle routine kicked in and Shoshana and Hanni went through the motions like robots, thankful they did not have to think. Shoshana drove to a service point and refueled the vehicle while mechanics checked the engine and tensioned the tracks. Hanni hosed out the crew compartment and the M113 smelled fresh and clean. Then they restocked their medical supplies and found a place to park.
They were eating their-first hot meal in twenty-four hours and thinking about a long sleep when the radio squawked and ordered them to the command post. Shoshana drove the APC while Hanni finished stowing the gear. Levy was waiting for them when they pulled into line.
Shoshana introduced Hanni and noticed that she was the same height as Levy. “I saw you take out the BMP,” he said. Hanni only nodded, too tired to think. “Thai was a brave thing to do.” While they stood there, Shoshana told him about the lieutenant. The same sad look she had seen in his eyes before was back. “How much longer can I sacrifice them,” he said, dropping his head and staring at his feet.
The major who served as Levy’s second-in-command and had led the attack on the Iraqis’ flank came up and handed him a message form. “A message from headquarters North-em Command,” he grumbled. “They want an immediate reply.”
Levy scanned the long message twice and Shoshana could see his jaw turn to marble. “Did you read it?” Levy asked. The major nodded an answer. “What do you think?”
“Not much,” the major allowed.
“Those idiots want to know why we didn’t counterattack and want us to renew operations immediately,” Levy told the two women.
“What are you going to tell them?” the major asked.
“I’m going to ask them, ‘What do you expect me to attack with?’ before I tell them to go to hell. Then I’m going to dig in and hold this position. From now on, the war comes to me.
“That won’t be long,” the major said. “Intelligence says the Iraqis are moving more tanks and troops into position.”
23
The two lieutenants were standing at attention in General Mana’s office. Johar Adwan chanced a quick glance at his wingman, but Samir Hamshari’s eyes were routed on a spot on the wall above the general’s empty chair. Johar did the same. Thirty-four minutes later, they heard the sound of hard heels in the outer office and the shuffle of chairs as Mana’s aides and secretaries came to attention. The two men could hear Mana’s distinctive voice. “Are they here?”
“As you ordered, General,” came the reply. The two lieutenants stiffened even more, if that were possible, as Mana entered. He walked around them and laid his swagger stick and ornate peaked hat on his desk. The general concentrated on pulling off his thin leather gloves, ignoring the lieutenants. He sat down and picked up the letter opener on his desk, finally raising his eyes to focus on the two pilots.
“You two were observed yesterday engaged in a dogfight with each other when you should have been on a routine patrol along the “Turkish border.” He rolled the handle of the letter opener between his fingers, studying the blade, finding it more interesting than Johar and Samir. “Apparently, you were doing this quite low.” Now the general was staring at them, his eyes cold and hard. “What altitude were you at when you engaged in this reckless activity?”
Johar saw an opening. Whoever had seen them was not a flier, otherwise Mana would have known they were flying two hundred meters above the ground. “Sir, permission tospeak?” he barked. Mana nodded, still twiddling the opener. “Lieutenant Samir and I were on patrol yesterday when a bright flash on the ground caught our attention. Our ground controller did not respond to our request to investigate.” So far, so good, Johar thought. Once established on a patrol, the Iraqi radar ground controllers often ignored them since nothing had happened along the Turkish border since the war with Kuwait. Mana said nothing.
“Sir,” Johar continued, “I took it on my own initiative to descend to six hundred meters above the area.” Now he waited. Six hundred meters, just under two thousand feet, was still too low for the general but it explained why they were below radar coverage. “We then set up a weave pattern to perform a visual reconnaissance of the road.” That explained what could have been mistaken for a dogfight. No sign from Mana.
Johar gave an inward shudder as he thought what Mana would do if he knew the truth. The two pilots had been practicing low-level engagements at five hundred feet, less than two hundred meters, above the ground. Johar had rolled in on Samir and closed to a guns tracking solution. Samir had then tried to jink out and reverse onto Johar.
“Weave pattern?” Mana finally said. It wasn’t a question. “Visual reconnaissance? These are not authorized. Your sole function on patrol is to follow the directions from your ground controller. You are airborne only to shorten the response time from when the controller detects an intruder until when he can direct you into an engagement.”
The two pilots looked straight ahead. “This,” Mana continued, “is the second time you have acted irresponsibly and it will not be repeated.” The general drove the tip of the letter opener into the desktop. “To make my point, you will be on standby alert until further notice. Dismissed.” Johar and Samir clicked their heels, gave short bows from the waist, turned, and marched out of the room.
Outside the building, they breathed easier. “Standby alert,” Johar said. “It could have been worse.”
“So we sit in our rooms or in the squadron,” Samir complained, “just in case they want someone to fly. When did anyone on standby alert ever fly?”
“Never.”
“Why’d you tell him we had set up a weave at six hundredmeters?” Samir groused. “He almost wet his pants. The only time Mana sees six hundred meters is during takeoffs and approaches.”
“I had to tell him something he’d believe,” Johar explained.
“You got that from a CHECO report,” Samir said.
The two pilots had recently discovered a complete set of United States Air Force Contemporary Historical Evaluation of Combat Operations (CHECO) reports an agent had stolen from a base in Germany years before. Johar and Samir had pored over the reports that U.S. Air Force historians had compiled during the course of the war in Vietnam. The reports had started out based on interviews with the pilots and aircrews who actually engaged in combat. The men had told it like it really was and the reports had been most revealing. After the first year, a pattern emerged in the reports: The targets and Rules of Engagement coming down from higher headquarters had little to do with the air war, what it took to survive over North Vietnam and, most important, to deliver effective ordnance on target. Like most sane men, the pilots did what was necessary to stay alive and generally kept their mouths shut. The CHECO reports got to the truth.