The four hundred soldiers in his battalion had more morale, more esprit de corps, than could be found in the balance of the Libyan armed forces. Of that, al-Qati was certain. He knew that other commanders were jealous of him, and though he offered advice when asked, it was never acted upon. Ahmed al-Qati considered most of his brothers in the officer corps to be elitist and lazy, and that kind of leadership manifested itself in sloppy, mistake-prone combat units.
The Leader, naturally, recognized al-Qati’s abilities, for al-Qati was often called upon to deliver lectures at various military workshops.
Which was why, he assumed, he was now at the Tripoli barracks, ordered away from his battalion which was garrisoned at El Bardi, adjacent to the Egyptian border on the Mediterranean Sea.
Though he was irritated at his sudden recall, al-Qati did not reveal it as he attended the briefing on the morning after his return to Tripoli. The briefing was held in a cramped conference room on the first floor of the wood-sheathed and air-conditioned administration building and was attended by only al-Qati and a uniformed air force lieutenant. The lieutenant did not provide his name, and al-Qati did not ask for it.
“I am to give you an overview of an aircraft, Major.”
Al-Qati did not know why, but he said, “Then let us get on with it, Lieutenant.”
The lieutenant turned down the lights in the room and switched on a projector. On the large wall screen appeared the silver and grey form of a late-model airplane that had been built in the former Soviet Union. “This is the Sukhoi Su-24 fighter bomber.”
Al-Qati had seen it before.
Another slide flashed on the screen. It was a drawing of the airplane with cutaway sections allowing internal views. Lines and arrows and crisp Arabic lettering identified various parts of the anatomy. In many cases, where the Arabic was insufficient for the technology involved, the original Russian words were utilized.
“The NATO forces have given the Su-24 the name Fencer.”
Al-Qati knew that also. He was already bored.
“The aircraft matches the American FB-111A in capability. It is a two-seat, all-weather craft that can fly at speeds of Mach 1.2. It is extremely accurate, Major, delivering its ordnance within fifty-five meters of the target. The D model, with which I understand you will be concerned, was put into production in 1983.”
The lieutenant seemed to know more about al-Qati’s assignment status than he did, and that irritated him further.
“The D model has been enhanced with an in-flight refuelling system obtained from the French. It carries one thirty-millimetre, six-barrel cannon and up to eleven thousand kilograms of ground attack weapons. These can range from heavy, free-dropped ordnance to air-to-ground AS-7 high-explosive missiles, laser-guided AS-10 missiles, and AS-14 missiles. The most advanced electronics are used for navigation and attack radar. There is also terrain avoidance radar employed. Targeting methods can be either laser rangefinder or marked target seeker.”
Most of it was gibberish to al-Qati. He was more concerned with motorized infantry tactics and the capabilities of his armoured cars and personnel carriers.
The lieutenant moved to the front of the room, next to the screen, and with a long metal pointer, began to take al-Qati on a sight-seeing trip of the cutaway drawing. To familiarize al-Qati with the nomenclature, he identified everything in the drawing, from flaps to sensors to chaff dispensers.
“Do you have any questions at this point?”
“No, Lieutenant. I have no questions.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Do I have to fly in this bloody thing?”
“I do not believe so.”
“Then I know all that I have ever wanted to know.”
With a sceptical look on his face, the lieutenant said, “Then you are to report to Colonel Ghazi.”
Al-Qati did not bother thanking his instructor. He got up, left the conference room, and went to wait in the anteroom to Ghazi’s office. After twenty minutes, a man al-Qati did not know emerged from the office, and the male secretary told al-Qati that he could enter.
For the man who commanded Libyan ground forces, the colonel did not possess a large office. He had made it comfortable, though, with wool carpeting, several antique office furnishings reupholstered in new grey leather, and pastoral paintings hung on the panelled walls. The paintings focused on Neva River scenes outside of Leningrad where Ghazi had once been trained by the Soviets.
Ghazi got up and came around the desk to give al-Qati a hug. He was bearish in appearance, a typical Arab prototype stuffed with Western foods, which he adored. His body was square and broad, his face the same. He had heavy dark eyebrows shading dark caverns for eyes.
“Ahmed al-Qati, you appear fit.”
“Thank you, Colonel. I have been active. And you are well?”
Ghazi smiled, “Very well. How is El Bardi?”
“It still awaits me. I have an important exercise under way.”
The colonel circled the big desk back to his chair. “I know. I am afraid, however, that it must fall to your deputy. Please, Ahmed, sit.”
Al-Qati sat in one of the two leather straight chairs. This meeting with his superior was not starting well. Al-Qati had never left any operation incomplete before.
Ghazi was, however, his superior, and al-Qati would not be allowed many negotiating points.
“You have had the briefing on the Sukhoi bomber?”
“Yes. It seems to me to be well within the province of the air force.”
The colonel was not interested in al-Qati’s opinion. “Until a few years ago, the Su-24 was not deployed outside the Soviet Union. The powers-that-be, or were, at Red Army headquarters did not want to risk making the secret electronics accessible to outsiders.”
Al-Qati nodded. He knew what was coming.
“You know, of course, that twelve of these fine fighter bombers have been provided to our air force?” “I know this, Colonel.”
“And with the demise of the Soviet Union, the bombers have become a permanent part of our inventory?”
He nodded again.
“And do you also know that the bombers are assigned to Colonel Ibrahim Ramad?”
“That I did not know,” al-Qati said.
“Do you know Ramad?”
“I know him, Colonel.”
“He is a worthless bastard.”
Al-Qati smiled for the first time in two days. “That is an optimistic assessment of his character.”
Ghazi inclined his head in agreement. “The Leader felt it imperative that we monitor Ramad’s program, as well as integrate it with current ground forces strategies. You are to be the liaison between Ramad’s project and my office.”
This was not likely to be a fruitful assignment.
“What is the nature of this project?” al-Qati asked.
“It is, of course, a bombing program. What we want, what Ramad suggests, is that his bombers could be utilized in close infantry support. You are to evaluate the methodology, make any suggestions you like, and report the results to me.”
“And I am to watch Ramad?”
“Of course, but that is between you and me.”
There was something to be gained here, al-Qati thought. “It would be quite difficult, Colonel.”
The commander frowned. “Why is that?”
“Ramad outranks me. I should have more stature.” The frown evolved into a lopsided grin. “You are blackmailing me, Ahmed al-Qati.”
“Not at all, Colonel. Certainly, I am due.”
The colonel nodded slowly. “Very well. I will talk to the Leader about it.”
Despite the promise of a long-delayed promotion, al-Qati was still extremely disappointed. He did not want to be stuck in the middle of some hot, barren airfield with an aggressive and ambitious bomber commander. He wanted to be back on the beaches of the Mediterranean, where he had established his headquarters. He wanted to be involved in the action and movement of his BMPs and BMVDs as they wheeled across the desert, securing the border from Egyptian invasion. Which was not going to happen, anyway.