"We'll have four GPS satellites available at all times?" Schuler asked.
"That's correct," Bolivar assured him. "You should be able to hit all your checkpoints right on the nose. Any problems, gentlemen?"
Roddy wanted to say, Yeah, why is this thing bugging me so? But as the aircraft commander, it was his job to appear calm and cool and inspire confidence in the crew. "Not as long as everything works as planned," he said, "and the Iranians don't have a clue that we're in their backyard. What about the decoy flight?"
Bolivar checked his watch. "They should be taking off from the carrier about now. Their mission is to test air defenses around the Straits of Hormuz. It should have the Iranians concentrating on that end of the country until you've penetrated well inside."
Roddy folded his arms and looked around at his copilot. "Any questions, Dutch?"
Schuler shrugged. "I guess not. I can think of better places I'd rather go, but… hell, this is just another mission. Right, Colonel?"
Let's hope so. Roddy grinned and gave him a thumbs up.
5
Wing Patton was a doodler. Note pads on his office desk were covered mostly with stars and boxes. Sometimes he would fill in the designs with shading, made easier by use of a lead pencil rather than a pen. It was a hangover from his Academy days, when the engineering curriculum required a mastering of mechanical drawing with a sharp-pointed pencil. His jacket pocket always held a pen for signing and a pencil for writing and drawing. The one drawback to his doodling was a tendency to cover up notes he intended to save, particularly in a meeting where things were not going the way he intended, or during a phone conversation that proved agitating.
The White House Situation Room was calm. Everything appeared to be right on schedule as the clock set to Iranian time slowly crept toward the takeoff hour. While awaiting the call from his personal emissary, Patton chatted casually with the President's National Security Adviser, Army Brig. Gen. Henry Thatcher.
"When is your major supposed to call?" Thatcher asked. He was a gruff-voiced former infantry commander who had distinguished himself in Vietnam and other combat zones before being tapped for service in the White House. He was short and sandy haired, his face creased from childhood acne into what appeared to be a permanent half-smile. If it wasn't for that, some of his acquaintances suggested, he might never smile at all.
"Major Bolivar should be on the line anytime now," said Patton. "His instructions were to check in just before takeoff."
"Bolivar?"
"Juan Bolivar, from our intelligence staff."
"Must be Hispanic."
Wing nodded. "From Texas. Sharp young officer."
"Does he have Special Operations experience?"
"That isn't required for a mission briefing," said Patton. "He worked with the crew in training. I think this operation really opened his eyes."
"I can sympathize with that." Thatcher grunted.
"Come on, Henry," Patton goaded him. "You signed off on this one like the rest of us."
"I just hope to hell it doesn't fly back in our faces. I still think we should have put more pressure on Gorbachev to intervene with the Iranians."
"I doubt he has much influence left. Anyway, so far everything has meshed like a set of finely-machined gears," Patton said.
And no sooner had he said it than the first tooth sheared off one of the critical gears.
"Call for you, General Patton," said Thatcher's assistant, Dr. Victor Reiner, an undernourished young man with a thin mustache, a professorial demeanor and a dark blue suit that looked like it had been slept in. He held up a telephone.
"Patton," the General barked into the instrument, expecting to hear Juan Bolivar on the other end of the line.
Instead, a familiar voice said, "Bob Sturdivant here." Lt. Gen. Robert Sturdivant was the Deputy Chief of Staff who handled the first three legs of the C3I concept, command, control, communications and intelligence.
"What's up, Bob?"
"AFSPACECOM reports they're having a problem with a transponder on one of the channels in your FLTSATCOM bird. I think it might be prudent to shift your alternate frequency to a different satellite. Your mission isn't off the ground yet is it?"
"Not yet," Wing Patton replied. As long as there was another satellite available, he saw no difficulty. "We've got time to make the switch. Give me the data."
He pulled a note pad and pencil from his jacket and jotted down the information, which he would relay to Major Bolivar. He hung up the phone and was about to slip the pad back into his pocket when Reiner waived again.
"Another one for you, General. Line four."
"Patton," he said again.
This time he was in for a disagreeable shock.
"I trust you had a restful night, General?" Senator Thrailkill's voice set his nerves on edge, like scraping fingernails on sandpaper.
Wing glanced furtively at those around him and fought to keep his temper under control. "I'm in the middle of a very important operation, Senator. I told my office not to forward any calls except in an emergency."
"Yes, that's what your secretary said. I assured her this was an emergency."
"So what's the emergency?" He tried to concentrate on the reassuring words of his attorney, but the senator's voice already had his blood pressure on the upswing.
"I met this morning with the source I mentioned last night, Philip."
"You mean the newspaper reporter?"
"Aha! I see you have been doing a little investigating of your own."
"My attorney, Walker Holland, told me he had a call from the newsman."
"Yes, General, Mr. Holland refused to deny that WP meant Wing Patton. To me, that's as good as an admission that you have committed the unpardonable sin."
General Patton turned his head away from the others and made a supreme effort to keep his voice low. "Wrong, Senator. Holland did not deny anything. He merely stated his policy of neither confirming nor denying questions about clients. I categorically deny your insinuation that I have done anything improper or illegal."
Unconsciously, the General had begun the furious scribbling of stars and boxes on his note pad. He used a soft No. 2 now instead of the old hard lead drafting pencils. It made much blacker lines. He breathed deeply, his face set in an exasperated scowl.
"The reporter thinks otherwise, General Patton. He intends to keep digging."
"He can dig all the way to China, for all I care."
"I doubt that he will need to dig any further than the courthouse records and the people at Western Aircraft."
"Senator, I'd love to chat with you on my own time, like after eleven p.m. But I need to get back to business. This is a very crucial operation I'm running." His pencil savagely blackened the insides of the stars and boxes on his pad.
"Well, you had better give some serious thought to the need for your beloved B-2," said Thrailkill. "I can still call off the dogs on this newspaper investigation. But if you insist on pushing this bomber project, I'll tell them—"
"If I see anything in the newspapers on this, you and they will face a major libel suit. I have to go now. Good day!"
His teeth clenched, Wing slammed the telephone onto its cradle, ripped the virtually blackened sheet of shaded doodles from his pad, crumpled it angrily in his fist and flung it into a wastebasket. The information he had previously written on it, no longer visible, was the farthest thing from his mind.
He looked up to see Henry Thatcher standing nearby, his forehead as rumpled as his assistant's ill-fitting suit.
"Who the hell was that?" Thatcher asked. "You looked like you were chewing a mouthful of chili peppers."