“I need a memo for Waters to take to the 45th. I want Shaw’s wing to put together a plan for sending one, two or all three of his squadrons into the Persian Gulf area on twelve-hour notice. I don’t want the usual deployment plan where they take everything they own. I need something that will get a small force package into the area. They’ve got to go in lean and mean, ready to fight and get out quick. We can’t do that with the Rapid Deployment Force. It takes too much support to defend that large a force. Figure one week autonomous operations before resupply. Fuel, munitions and billeting already in place.”
Cunningham stopped for a moment. He was deeply frustrated by his planners, who seemed incapable of thinking of force packages less than a full-scale commitment of the RDF. Common sense told him the Air Force had to offer the President a smaller-force option for operations in that troubled part of the world. It was a much different matter to commit a squadron or wing of aging F-4s, and much easier to withdraw them than a prestigious commitment of F-15s or F-16s.
Cunningham leaned back in his armchair, his stout body sinking into the soft leather, a signal to Stevens that he was dismissed to go forward and execute the general’s orders.
The two captains had been waiting for the colonels to return from the briefing with Cunningham. Relief and confusion spread across their faces when they saw the three men walk in. Waters and Gomez were obviously in a good mood, Blevins in a sour funk. “I thought Colonel Waters was giving the briefing, not Blevins,” Williamson said. “It looks like the horse’s ass was nailed to the floor.”
“I don’t think they would change briefers this late,” Sara said. “I bet it went well and Blevins is feeling left out.”
Gomez motioned for the two analysts to join them in the battle cab. Blevins, however, stalked off to his office at the back of the main floor. Sara and Don hurried up the stairs after Waters and Gomez, ignoring the petulant colonel.
Gomez quickly related what happened, telling them how Waters had to take Blevins along with him to Egypt. “He’s such an—”
“Asshole,” the two captains chorused.
Gomez should have reprimanded them for their disrespect but found it impossible to censure them for saying exactly what he had been thinking. “One more thing. Another officer is to go on the team. Which one of you wants it?”
Sara Marshall looked to her junior partner, Don Williamson. Their working relationship was a finely balanced blend of intellect and personality and she did not want to upset it. While she badly wanted to go, she was reluctant to preempt the offer.
Williamson rocked back in his chair, arms and legs flopping down like a rag doll. “Sara, why don’t you go? I’ve got a heavy date this Saturday, and if I miss it, she’ll start without me.” The lie was easy for Williamson, who loved Sara with every hungry bone in his body.
The walk across the ramp had caused all the passengers deplaning at Alexandria South to break out in perspiration. Colonel Shaw recognized Muddy Waters long before they entered the air-conditioned small passenger lounge. Time had been kind to Waters, and although they were the same age, he looked fifteen years younger than the heavy-set wing commander.
“Welcome to Alex South, Muddy. It’s been a long time.”
Waters introduced Blevins and Sara. Blevins shook Shaw’s hand and nodded, saying nothing.
The wing commander was perplexed by Blevins’ withdrawn, cautious response. “The Puzzle Palace sent word you were coming but we expected you sooner,” Shaw said, trying to break through the colonel’s reserve.
“We broke down in Spain and had a twelve-hour layover,” Waters said, annoyed by Blevins’ behavior. “Actually I needed the chance to sack out. Never could sleep on an airplane, especially when someone else is driving.”
Shaw nodded. “We can check you into your quarters and go right to work if you want.”
“Thanks, John,” Waters said, “but I’d rather get a good meal and night’s rest. We can start to work in the morning when we’re all fresh. Okay with you, Gene? Sara?”
Sara was grateful. Blevins went along. The heat had made him especially irritable, but he was dreading the coming week in any case. Never mind Shaw’s welcome, he still felt excluded, which he blamed on his being non-rated, a ground-pounder.
As they settled into the air-conditioned car the driver had left running to keep cool, Shaw leaned back over the front seat. “I know you don’t want to get involved tonight, but the message didn’t say why you were coming here. Can you give me a clue?”
“We’re tasked with writing up an after-action report on Grain King, John,” Waters told him. “Sundown wants it circulated through Intel, Command and Control, and Ops—”
“Colonel Shaw,” Blevins broke in, “I would prefer discussing this in the privacy of your office tomorrow. Not here.” Blevins punctuated his statement with a curt nod in the driver’s direction.
Shaw smiled to himself, deposited the group in their respective VIP suites and invited them to join him and his wife Beth for dinner.
As he did, a rush of emotions went through Waters, remembering well Shaw’s attractive wife. Long dormant memories had surfaced in bits and pieces during the flight from the States, and now they had all coalesced and focused. The acute pain of his loss had died away long ago for Waters, but the recollection carried a life of its own. “I’d like that, John. How about you, Gene? Sara?”
Blevins declined, wanting to maintain a personal distance from Shaw. Sara readily accepted, glad to escape the irritating colonel.
The reason behind the arrival of the three officers had not bothered Shaw nearly as much as the attitude of Eugene S. Blevins, and after dropping them off at the VOQ he pulled his first sergeant aside. “Mort, spend some of your Green Stamps and find out about Colonel Eugene Blevins ASAP. I don’t need to be blind-sided.”
Back in his office, the first sergeant checked the Air Force register, digging out details on Blevins and duly noting the colonel’s current assignment to the Pentagon’s Watch Center. Although his marching orders had only covered Blevins, the NCO also checked on Waters and Marshall. Chief Master Sergeant Mortimer M. Pullman, loyal to the colonel, wasn’t about to let his wing commander be gunned down from any quarter.
Now he went into the command post, collared one of the sergeants on duty and explained what he wanted, collecting a long-overdue marker. While the younger NCO had never been stationed at the Watch Center, he had a friend who was.
Forty minutes later the chief paged Shaw, who was on his way to the Officers Club.
As Waters changed for dinner, images of the long-ago pain came surging back with renewed intensity. He and Shaw had been lieutenants learning to fly the new F-4 at Luke Air Force Base in Arizona. It was Shaw’s wife Beth who had driven Waters to the hospital, where his wife and infant daughter had been taken after a serious car accident. Beth had stayed there helping Waters endure the ordeal of waiting. And when a young doctor told Waters that his daughter, Jennifer, had died, Beth had joined in his grief. Four hours later she again shared his despair when the same doctor, too old for his age, told them that his wife had died without regaining consciousness. It was Beth who had brought the young pilot back to some form of sanity and after that neither was ever quite the same.