The commander of the PSI had ordered his aides to lift him from his hospital bed in Teheran and helicopter him to his headquarters when he received the news of the latest attacks by the 45th. The military situation his generals were now laying out on the big chart table enraged him. He motioned an aide to wheel him away, his good eye blazing with hatred. He was not going to accept the stalemate his enemies had created.
Two doctors proceeded to lift the frail little man into a hospital bed that had been rushed to the headquarters and tried to monitor his vital signs, but he waved them away and motioned to an aide, speaking in a barely audible voice. Within minutes a group of men were gathered around the bed in a council of war. “The Americans have blocked our jihad,” he told them. “But our holy war must go on. For now we must try to negotiate an end to the fighting — but only until we can resume the jihad. Our Soviet allies” — he spoke the word like a curse — “ask too much for the supplies we need to continue. We will not be their lackeys. We will not allow them to build bases in our country. But we must negotiate from strength. Remember, we still have the means to punish our enemies. We will not be treated as powerless children at the negotiating table but as equals. And we will have our revenge.”
He lay back in his bed, trying to gather his strength. Finally, he motioned to his valued agent and courier, the man from the silver Mercedes. “Why weren’t we warned of these latest attacks?”
“Our spy Mashur al-Darhali was ordered to England to attend the Farnborough Air Show. We did not know of the attack,” the man answered, handing the commander a thin folder. “Darhali will live only as long as he is useful. I do not trust Saudi princes who claim to support us.” The bedridden man studied the photo in the folder.
“Is this the one that leads the 45th?”
“Yes. His name is Anthony Waters. He is only a colonel.”
The commander’s eyes squinted as he brought the photo into focus. Every feature of Waters’ face stood in sharp relief as hate flowed through the old man. His voice took on strength. “Begin the game of negotiations, but delay. Gather our forces at Bushehr and wait for the weather conditions to favor us. We will demonstrate our strength by destroying Ras Assanya. And with it the presumptuous colonel… ”
Sara was waiting with John and Beth Shaw when the C-141 bringing Waters to the commanders’ conference taxied up to the terminal at Mildenhall. Beth marveled at the grace of the young woman in her eighth month of pregnancy, remembering wryly how her own pregnancies had blown her up. As she watched Sara rush into Muddy Waters’ arms, she also noted the lines around the colonel’s eyes that hardened into deep furrows. Muddy had changed, been changed by command… Similar things were going through her husband’s mind as he observed his old friend, understanding now what he had only seen on his visit to Ras Assanya. Anthony Waters had found himself in the lives of the men and women who served under him.
The conference Cunningham had called opened with Colonel Charles Bradford, Cunningham’s latest protégé, giving a quick update on the situation in the Gulf. He pointed out a military buildup around Bushehr, the Iranian air base located on a bay one hundred forty-five miles due east of Ras Assanya across the Persian Gulf. “Fighting has stopped. But negotiations with the PSI are stalled as the buildup at Bushehr gains momentum. I believe the PSI will strike out of Bushehr at the UAC, perhaps at Ras Assanya, in order to strengthen their position at the negotiating table.”
Cunningham leaned over the table, coming to the reason for the conference. “The President is personally calling the shots on this one. It’s his call if the 45th will be used again in combat, if it will be reinforced or withdrawn. Our job here is to figure out what the Air Force can do to protect Ras Assanya while the President negotiates us out of the Gulf.”
For the next two hours the men assembled faced up to how they were to accomplish that job. Not with mirrors or rah-rah but with tactics that would put the 45th on the line as never before. As Captain Bryant would say, “So what else is new…?”
That night Sara cradled into her husband’s arms, making sure he could feel their child growing inside her. The deep pleasure she felt was conditioned by the knowledge that she would only have him for this night, after which he would return to his wing. It was only a fantasy, and so impossible, but she wanted to run away with him, escape to a place they could never be found. And then reality crowded in, and she returned to the reality of this man who had changed her life, fulfilled it. Be grateful for the moment, Sara, and show it. And she forced her fears into the shadows and gently caressed her husband.
The next morning Sara rode with her husband to Mildenhall, determined to stay in control of herself. She had a bad moment when Waters’ flight was announced over the PA system and felt the too familiar panic that she was losing her husband. Together they walked to the waiting C-141, and after he kissed her good-bye she stood for a moment, waved as he entered the open hatch, then turned quickly. At least he deserved not to see her tears.
The physical therapist ran her fingers lightly over the freshly healed wound and down the pilot’s leg. “Roll over,” she commanded. Her fingers moved gently down his back, tracing an old scar on his right side. She slipped her fingers under the elastic of his shorts and pulled them down, inspecting his buttocks.
“Didn’t know I was wounded there,” Jack said, not exactly suffering from the inspection that was interrupted as Thunder walked into the room and, overhearing the remark, told him, “She’s checking out your brains, hero.”
The girl recovered by bustling around, full of professional advice. “You’re not ready to start exercising yet, maybe in another two days; we mustn’t open the wound… ” She handed him his robe and crutches, wishing his buddy would drop dead. This one was a live one, but like most of them, he got away…
In the solarium Jack said, “As soon as they let us out on convalescent leave I’m going to Stonewood and try to find out why Gillian never wrote. I might not like the answer but at least I’ll know.”
“Like I told you, maybe she never got your letters.” Thunder didn’t know that Jack had only written once. “Why don’t you phone her while you’re here?”
“I can’t chance that. Something went wrong. I’ve got to try to straighten it out face to face. If I’m lucky… ” “What?” “I want to marry her. Can you believe it?”
Thunder shook his head. “I’ll try, old buddy. But what about the therapist with wandering hands?”
Before Jack could try an answer an orderly ran up and handed him a shred of yellow paper, saying, “I’ve never seen a flash message before.”
Jack scanned the short message and handed it to Thunder. “Well, at least it’s nice to know we’re needed at Rats Ass,” he said, at the same time irritated that once again his so-called personal life was on hold.
“They’re holding a C-5 at Rhein-Main for you,” the orderly said.
“It’s got to be important if the Boss wants us back this fast,” Thunder said. “Waters doesn’t usually hit the panic button.”
Jack limped down the hall after Thunder, forcing thoughts of Gillian to the back of his mind, wondering about the summons from Waters.
The big transport plane’s lower deck was loaded with cargo and two batteries of SAMs that Jack had never seen before. Each battery consisted of three small trailers: one had a turret that held four short missiles; the second, an optical tracker; the third, a compact radar that resembled a cone-shaped hat sitting on top of a square box.