Turner sat down and stared at him. He’s been up all night, she thought. “My primary concern,” she said, “is to stop this aggression and defend our allies.”
“Madam President, just tell me what you want to do. Set the general guidelines, but, please, let your commanders in the field handle operations.” He bowed his head, fully ready to resign if she didn’t understand.
Her reply surprised everyone in the room. “How do I know if you’re doing it right?”
Wilding’s face turned to granite. “When they’re bleeding so hard they have to stop advancing and we can stabilize the situation and go on the offensive.”
“What will that take?”
“A lot of hard fighting and sacrifice.”
“Is that a euphemism for heavy casualties?” she asked.
“We are going to take casualties,” Wilding said. “But so will they. If we do it right, it will be forty to one in our favor.”
“I hope I’ve made this clear: I am not going to sacrifice our men and women. Nor, for that matter, am I going to kill innocent civilians.”
“Neither am I.” How could he make her understand? “Madam President, my oldest son is at King Khalid leading a tank battalion.”
His son is in harm’s way, she thought. The reality of modern warfare beat at her, threatening her humanity and all that she believed in. She looked at her advisers, carefully shielding her own doubts and fears.
“Madam President,” the DCI said, “a more complete brief is ready in the Situation Room.”
Turner nodded. “I’ll meet you there in fifteen minutes.” The meeting was over, and all but the vice president filed out of the Oval Office.
“General Wilding’s a good man,” Kennett said.
“Is he going to resign?” Turner asked.
“Only if you don’t let him do his job,” he replied.
Chief of Staff Parrish and the president’s personal assistant were standing in the door waiting to escort her to the Situation Room. “Nancy,” Maddy said, “please call Brian.”
Nancy understood. “He should be up by now.” She hurried out to make the call.
Maggot was waiting when Pontowski taxied his T-34 Mentor up to the fuel pumps at Skyhaven Airport. As usual, he was wearing a flight suit, but this time brand-new eagles were sewn on its shoulders. He waved a salute at Pontowski, not expecting one in return, and set the wheel chocks. Physically, it was impossible to distinguish Dwight “Maggot” Stuart from the average middle-aged male citizen of Missouri. He stood five feet ten inches tall and had close-set gray-green eyes and graying red hair. He was on the lanky side and hadn’t put on a pound of weight in ten years. There was nothing in his friendly manner or easy way of speaking to indicate that he was, without doubt, the best A-10 Warthog pilot in the United States Air Force.
The Mentor’s canopy slid back, and Pontowski stood up. “Maggot, good to see you. Congrats on the eagles. Much deserved.” He climbed onto the wing and stretched before removing his earplugs. He loved the old Mentor, but it was a noisy bird. “Thanks for coming.”
“Nothing else to do,” Maggot groused. He studied the pristine aircraft for a moment, appreciating what he was seeing. “She is a pretty thing,” he said. Pontowski climbed down, and they shook hands.
“What are you up to these days?” Pontowski asked.
“Nothing since I pinned on eagles,” Maggot answered. He had been the commander of an Air Force Reserve squadron of A-10 Warthogs at the nearby Air Force base but had been promoted out of a job when he assumed his new rank. “I’ve been cooling my heels waiting for an assignment to come down. I was hoping to get the Wing, but everything is on hold now.”
“Shooting matches do that,” Pontowski said. He told the ramp rat to top up the Mentor’s fuel tanks and check the oil as they walked into the fixed base operations building. “What’s happening at the squadron?” he asked.
“We’re getting ready to deploy,” Maggot replied. He shook his head. “Problems.”
“Such as?”
Maggot frowned. “We’re undermanned, especially in maintenance, and half the women are bailing out. Also very short on spare parts. Forty percent of our aircraft are down.”
“Ouch,” Pontowski said. “Pilots?”
“Young. All the old heads have left for the airlines. We’re basically okay but low on experience.”
“The first ten days are going to be hell,” Pontowski said ruefully. Combat had taught both men a hard lesson: the highest attrition rates occurred in the first ten days, and the lower the experience levels, the higher the attrition. “I remember when I had the squadron,” Pontowski said. “Just hint at a shooting match and the old heads couldn’t get here fast enough.”
“Things change,” Maggot said. “The damnedest thing, Waldo showed up.”
Pontowski laughed. “George Walderman? The last I heard he was flying C-130s for the CIA out of South Africa.”
“He was, but he quit. Claims it was too boring. For a while I thought he wanted back in. But he took a look around, talked to the training folks, and voted with his feet. We could use a stick like him.” Maggot thought for a moment. “I’ve got the feeling we’re going to need every pilot we can get.”
“Is the squadron in bad shape?” Pontowski asked.
Maggot thought for a moment. “Just low on experience. Compared to the rest of the Reserves, the squadron’s in great shape. But the tactical air force is living with the sins of the past ten years and rebuilding. We needed another two or three years to rebuild. Given enough flying time…” He shook his head in resignation. “This hit us too damn soon.”
“I take it you’re not deploying to the Middle East.”
A pained look crossed Maggot’s face. “I’m not on the roster.” Pontowski felt sorry for Maggot, but there wasn’t a place for an extra full colonel when a squadron went to war. That was when lieutenants and captains counted. Inside the building they walked up to the counter. Maggot glanced at the TV mounted in the corner. “There’s your old friend.” Elizabeth Gordon, CNC-TV’s star reporter, was on the screen, her mouth moving in silence. “Nice teeth,” Maggot said. “I bet she gives one hell of a blow job with that overbite.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Pontowski replied. Maggot gave him a look that said “Really.” A map of the Middle East flashed on the screen with the words SPECIAL REPORT FROM BAGHDAD in prominent letters. Pontowski turned up the volume.
“The following scenes,” Gordon was saying, “document graphic brutality and definitely should not be seen by children or those upset by violence.”
“Which guarantees everyone will watch,” Pontowski muttered.
Maggot couldn’t resist the chance to rag his old commander. “But I thought you really liked her.”
“Yeah, right,” Pontowski said.
Gordon’s voice was louder. “Again, I must warn you not to watch if children are present or if you are upset by violence. The videotape you are about to see was recorded from Baghdad TV earlier this morning. We have superimposed an English translation over the narrator’s voice.”
The scene in the news studio dissolved to one of tanks driving across an open desert, their cannons firing on the move. The excited narrator’s voice speaking in Arabic faded out and was replaced by a matter-of-fact voice speaking English. “This is not the mother of all battles but the mother of all victories. Our forces are sweeping with deadly force through the ranks of the demoralized and worthless American soldiers.”