Map
THE SETUP
Every man and woman was standing at attention well before the general entered the small briefing room next to his office in the Pentagon. The general’s aide still called the assembled generals and colonels to attention as General Lawrence M. Cunningham, the Air Force’s chief of staff, invaded the room and swept it with a hard gaze before sitting down. The colonel giving the briefing stood behind the narrow podium next to the screen, wishing he were anywhere else. Anxiety twisted the knot in his stomach tighter as Cunningham said, “Please be seated.” The “please” was an order.
“Good morning, sir,” the colonel began, amazed that his voice seemed under control. “I’m Colonel Fred Perkins, sir, and I’ll be giving this week’s Situation Report on the—”
“Perkins, I know who you are and that this is the SIT REP on the Middle East. We’re not all retards here. Get to it.”
The colonel pressed a button on the side of the podium three times, causing three introductory thirty-five-millimeter slides to flash in sequence on the screen in front of the general. He paused at the fourth slide. “The Grain King food relief flights in the southern Sahara are going smoothly. Our C-130s are moving in excess of one hundred fifty tons of foodstuffs daily into the drought-stricken region. Please note the exact tonnage delivered by type of food and date.”
Cunningham had started the first Grain King flights three years before when he was commander of MAC, the Military Airlift Command.
Click. The colonel keyed up the next slide of Libya. “The Libyan situation remains unchanged. We have nothing new to report.”
“Perkins, are you telling me that Libya’s nut-case colonel isn’t up to something? He’s been chewing nails since our F-111s bombed him in April of ’86. He needs to even the score.”
Perkins could feel the sweat trickling down his back. “Sir, he apparently hasn’t found an opportunity as yet. We believe he will move against us, but right now he is facing some stiff political opposition at home and is putting on a front to look like a rational leader. We are monitoring Libyan communications for any indication that something is about to go down. So far, though, the situation is normal.”
“Who’s doing the monitoring?”
“The 6096th Reconnaissance Squadron out of Bergstrom AFB has a RC-135 on station over the Mediterranean. Its crews are staging out of Athens, which allows a short turnaround time. They are backed up by Outpost, a surveillance site in Egypt. Their information is fed to the Watch Center here, where it is correlated with intelligence from the National Security Agency and the CIA. So far, the five-day rule seems to apply.” Perkins regretted mentioning that last even as he said it.
“What is the goddamn five-day rule?”
Perkins slowly answered the general, fully expecting Cunningham to live up to his nickname, “Sundown,” by relieving him of duty on the spot and ordering him to clear out of the Pentagon by sundown. “The Libyans must stay focused on a subject or idea for at least five days before we consider it a serious matter. Otherwise, we assume it is customary rhetoric. Words, not action—”
“You believe that, Perkins?” There was danger in the softly spoken words.
The colonel plunged on, feeling suicidal. “It seems to work, sir. We are dealing with Arabs. They prefer to make us act without taking action themselves… ”
Cunningham reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a cigar. He rolled it between his fingers before fitting it unlit into the left side of his mouth. “Perkins, kindly get out of here and be gone by sundown.” Cunningham turned to the three-star general sitting behind him. “Beller, get someone up here to finish this brief. Make sure he doesn’t make dumb-assed assumptions. Five minutes.” He lit the cigar and settled back into the leather armchair. His aide handed him a folder containing proposed budget figures to study while he waited.
General Beller half-ran out of the briefing room, grabbed the nearest phone and called the Watch Center, telling them to get the top Middle East analyst on duty to the briefing room in three minutes. Four minutes later Captain Sara Marshall was standing behind the podium recently vacated by Colonel Perkins. Her face was flushed from the run to the briefing room. She glanced at the slide of Libya that was still on the screen and looked at the general. “Anymore questions on Libya, sir.”
The general shrugged, a response that Sara took for “none,” and she keyed up the next series of slides on Egypt, Israel and Lebanon. With each slide she quickly summarized the current situation. She continued until the briefing’s last slide of Iran flashed onto the screen. “The Ayatollah’s power base is being parceled out among the other Ayatollahs. This is due to his advanced age and failing health, long rumored and now true. While he still has tremendous influence and prestige as the Shiites’ lawgiver, he is becoming increasingly a figurehead.”
Cunningham took the cigar out of his mouth and stared at the screen. “If fighting should break out in the Gulf again and the president wants a force projected into the region, how soon can the Air Force react?” The question was not directed at the captain; however, no one else volunteered an answer. The memory of Perkins was too fresh.
Sara pushed the button on the side of the podium and brought up the first slide of the Situation Report, a map of the entire Middle East, and broke the heavy silence. “The Rapid Deployment Force can have three squadrons of F-15s from Langley AFB in place within seventy-two hours for an active role in the air defense of Saudi Arabia and Kuwait. Two AWACS can be in place and operating out of Saudi Arabia within twenty-four hours.”
Cunningham leaned forward in his chair, impressed with the captain. “And what if the president wants to drop iron bombs on the enemy? F-15s and the AWACS can’t do that. Does the Navy get the honors — again?”
“Not this time, sir.” She tapped the map at Alexandria, Egypt, with a pointer. “The 45th Tactical Fighter Wing is now operational at Alexandria South Air Base. They report that they are capable of deploying two of their three F-4E squadrons within twelve hours. They can one-hop it into the gulf without refueling.” She paused and thought for a moment, “Approximately two hours and fifteen minutes flying time, sir.”
“When did the 45th change their combat-status rating?”
“This morning, sir,” Sara quickly replied, determined that she would answer the questions she could. “They are still reporting an overall ‘two’ because they are not current in air-to-air combat, only air-to-ground, and can only mobilize and deploy two of their three squadrons within twelve hours.”
“When will they be a ‘one’ and fully mission ready?”
“Sorry, sir. I can’t answer that. There will be an answer on your desk within the hour.”
Satisfied, the general stood up abruptly, all five feet of him, and barreled out of the room, tossing the budget folder at his aide. “The captain did good, Dick,” he muttered.
Locke’s name was right there, correctly spelled and underlined in the Security Police report. The wing commander reread it slowly, savoring what was between the lines. He could just picture the tall, ruggedly handsome pilot sowing some wild oats. But he could also picture real trouble, and that was something he didn’t need.