The sergeant drove directly to the ramp, up to a two-place F-15D. Buzz Rutherford was sitting in the back seat. Jenkins dropped Stansell off and headed back for the condominium, for what he suspected would be a warm reception. Rank might have its privileges, but when rank was away …
“It’s preflighted and ready to go,” Rutherford said. “We’re filed and the tower is holding the Active open for us. You want the stick?” He knew the answer. He had flown with Stansell the day before and had seen a marked improvement in Stansell’s confidence and the way he was fighting the bird in air-combat tactics. Even Snake Houserman had commented on it.
Stansell’s G-suit and parachute harness were hanging on a missile rail under the left wing. He zipped on his go-faster-chaps, buckled the harness into place and clambered up the boarding ladder. His helmet was on the right canopy rail waiting for him, its oxygen hose and comm cord connected. The cockpit was ready for him. All the switches were set and the straps laid neatly open. “This must be a big deal,” he told Rutherford.
“The wing commander thinks so. He took the call. Came right from Cunningham’s office. I was working in the squadron and got tapped for the flight. Got to bring the jet back today.”
Stansell hit the jet fuel starter, cranked the right engine as he finished strapping in. Four minutes later they were airborne.
“I filed us for.95 mach,” Rutherford told him. “Should rendezvous with a tanker over St. Louis for an inflight refueling. Otherwise we land and refuel at Scott.”
“How in the hell did you get a KC-135 laid on so fast?”
“What Cunningham wants, Cunningham gets.”
The waiting staff car at Andrews AFB had driven Stansell directly from the F-15 to the Pentagon’s River Entrance. Another sergeant was waiting and escorted him to Mado’s office.
“Rupe, good to see you again.” Mado stood, extended his hand, studied Stansell and decided that he looked healthy enough after his ordeal at the hands of the Iranians. “God, I keep hoping you’ll grow up someday.” It was a standing joke between the two men left over from when they had been assigned to the Pentagon as majors. Mado had stayed when Stansell returned to operations and flying the F-15.
“Hell, General, I’m five inches taller than Napoleon,” Stansell said. Mado towered over the five foot seven colonel and did a quick assessment of Stansell as they talked. He had to make a decision — could Stansell take the stress that would build as they went through the drill? Stansell’s hazel eyes were clear and he did look fit and trim. No nervous ticks or mannerisms to indicate instability. The colonel wore a regulation haircut and did not brush his sideburns over his ears in an attempt to hide his missing ear. He looked his age, forty-two, but not worn or haggard.
“How’s Linda and the girls?” Mado asked.
“They’re fine. We’ve separated, the divorce was final three months ago.”
“Sorry to hear that. How’s the refresher course going?”
“I’ve had problems in ACT. I was screwing up by the numbers and didn’t figure out what the problem was until last Thursday. To put it simply, lack of confidence. My flight yesterday was much better. I’ll be okay now.”
Mado nodded. Stansell’s blunt revelation of his marital difficulties and the problems he was having becoming current in the F-15 were good signs that he had it together. And it tracked with what Buzz Rutherford had told him over the phone. Stansell would do. He should be credible for the cover operation.
“General, what the hell is this all about?”
“How would you like a chance to do something about the POWs?”
Stansell sucked his breath in. Mado wouldn’t tell him any more until he bought in, committed to what was going down. The possibilities raced through his mind. It could be anything from a simple intelligence gathering exercise or operation to … His mind faltered at that end of the scale. Were the heavies making contingency plans? Or better yet, was the President thinking of going after the POWs? Rescuing them? For a moment, Stansell did not realize he had stood up. This was his chance to make it all right.
“Yes, sir, I want part of that. I’ll do whatever …”
“Okay, we’re going to see Cunningham. He wants to lay it out for you. This is a big one.”
They had to wait in Cunningham’s outer office. At first it amused Stansell that Cunningham would keep a two-star general like Mado cooling his heels, then it started to worry him. Cunningham had earned the nickname “Sundown” from his habit of relieving officers on the spot and ordering them to be cleared out of the Pentagon by sundown. Thule, Greenland, was considered a good follow-on assignment for those unfortunates.
What went on behind Sundown’s exterior was a mystery, except to a very few who knew him well. And to those he was a man who not only gave a damn, he couldn’t stand bureaucrats, assholes and anybody who gave less than everything they had — plus.
“The General must be busy,” Stansell ventured, surprised that Mado seemed unconcerned by the delay.
“That’s the way he works,” Mado said, closed his eyes and leaned back.
Mado had called it right. Cunningham had used most of the morning and early afternoon framing his own version of the plan and what he would have to do. He had filled two sheets of a yellow legal pad with notes. A special fire was burning in him — he wanted the Air Force to rescue the POWs. He had to prove, to himself above all the rest, that he did take care of his people. So it had to be his show. Finally he called his aide to show Mado and Stansell in.
The general motioned the two men to seats while he lit the cigar he had been rolling in his mouth and paced the floor. It was the first time Stansell had met Cunningham and was surprised that the man was so short. The general’s silver gray hair, portly build and pale complexion seemed not to go with the nervous energy that obviously drove him.
“Stansell, the President has ordered us to rescue the POWs.” Cunningham paused to watch the colonel’s reaction — a sharp nod and compressed lips.
“You’re here because General Mado thinks you can help us do that. General Mado is the joint task force commander and you’re his mission commander. Your job is to work out a detailed operations plan and put the task force together. You pick the training site and work out of there. Mado will stay here, line up the resources you need, run interference and fight off the sharks. Quite a few generals and colonels will want a piece of the action. They’ll go into a feeding frenzy if they think it’s good for a promotion.
“The President has approved our basic plan. Mado will fill you in later. But you need some guidelines to work with for your ops plan. First, keep the mission simple as you can. Second, expect to take losses — try to come up with a good estimate. Third, you need good intelligence. We’ll put you in contact with the CIA and open up the DIA for you. Fourth, you’ll get the best people and resources we’ve got. If what we send you isn’t working out, make it Mado’s problem. But keep working with what you’ve got. My aide, Dick Stevens, will get you set up. I’d suggest you start by paying a visit to Brigadier General Eichler.” The general punched his intercom. “Dick, take care of Stansell. Put him in contact with Eichler and Camm at CIA … Colonel”—Cunningham stopped Stansell before he cleared the door—“you were the last person to see Muddy Waters alive. Pay your respects to Mrs. Waters, she lives near Eichler. And get the hell out of that green bag. People around here get upset when they see a flight suit. It reminds them of what their job is.”