Jack found an empty seat on the upper passenger deck next to the Army lieutenant in charge of the new SAMs, and during the flight into Ras Assanya the lieutenant told how he had been selected to field-test the latest version of the British-made Firefly Rapier. He seemed to delight in describing how the system’s radar could simultaneously scan for aircraft and track a target. The high probability of a kill that the lieutenant claimed for his SAMs made Jack hope the PSI never got hold of any of them.
The ramp was full of equipment and people waiting to onload when the C-5B taxied to a halt at Ras Assanya. By the time they deplaned most of the cargo was out of the back and two loadmasters were motioning equipment into line and up the forward ramp. Jack scanned the bunkers in the rapidly fading light. “The F-15s are gone…?”
Their confusion increased when Stansell stopped his pickup truck and motioned for them to hop in. “Appreciate the lift, Colonel,” Jack said, “but what in the hell is going on?”
“We’re digging in. That group on the ramp is the last of my squadron and equipment. The President ordered us to withdraw two days ago. You’ll hear all about it, but first you’ve got to see Doc Landis for a clearance to go back to work.”
Doc Landis was the only person in the clinic and was sorting out equipment and packing it into small boxes designed for use in the field. “We’re dispersing the clinic into four bunkers around the base,” he said. “That’s where everyone is.” He led them to a wall map of the base and pointed out where they could find the temporary aid stations. “If you haven’t got the picture yet, we’re preparing for an attack.” He lifted Thunder’s flight cap and examined the WSO’s head, checking his eye movement and reflexes. “You’ll be ready to fly in a few more days.” He motioned for Jack to drop his flight suit and sit on the examination table, gently probed the new flesh on Jack’s thigh, concerned over the depth of the scar. “The quack who patched you up knew what he was doing. You’re only a few weeks away from flying. Start some leg-lifts tomorrow. About five, twice a day to start with.”
They found their wing commander in the command post section of the COIC talking to a sergeant they did not recognize. Waters introduced Master Sergeant John Nesbit, telling them that the sergeant was detached from the Pentagon to set up and run a direct communications link with the Watch Center. “He worked for Tom Gomez,” he added, giving Nesbit instant acceptance. “Rup, if you’re going to catch that C-5, you’d better shake it.”
“Sorry, boss, I’m not going. My wing wants me to write up an after-action report, have it ready when and if Cunningham asks for it.”
“Your wing needs—”
“Shee it,” he drew the obscenity out into two words. “My wing’s got more colonels than it knows what to do with. The way I see it, we’ll be back when the fighting starts back up, and I’ll need to be here to get the F-15s in action. In the meantime I can help you out.”
Waters nodded. “I need all the help I can get. Our Rapiers came in on the C-5. Get them sited and camouflaged before morning. I want them to be a big surprise for the Floggers. Then chase over to the Security Police and find out how Chief Hartley is doing training his latest batch of volunteers and reinforcing the perimeter.”
Stansell found that Hartley had done everything but dig a moat and said so.
“Right, sir. We dig a ditch and turn this place into an island.”
“Chief, do you have any idea what you’re saying? The narrowest part of the isthmus is almost two thousand feet wide. And what happens if it floods before we finish? What about the road to the mainland? We can’t cut that.”
“Colonel, we’ve got three bulldozers on this base. Let’s use them.” Stansell keyed his brick and relayed the chief’s request to the command post. An hour later, a NCO arrived with the first bulldozer and listened in shock to the chief’s directions.
“We start bulldozing from both sides of the road toward the water. We turn the road into a causeway and bury demolitions under it. Make the cut at least thirty feet wide with steep sides. Push the dirt into an embankment on the base side. That will give us ridge to fight from. I want ten feet of water in it.” The sergeant tried to argue with the chief, telling him it would take days to move that much earth. “Sarge,” the chief said wearily, “am I speaking in a language you don’t understand? Don’t tell me why you can’t do it; I only want to hear how you’re going to do it.”
The sergeant shut up and went to put his bulldozers to work.
When Stansell asked the chief what else he wanted he was not surprised by his request: “Mines,” and he gestured toward the water surrounding the base, “plus some boats to lay them with.” Stansell headed back to the command post to see what he could find.
Waters put Jack to work helping move the command post into a new concrete bunker, and Carroll kept trying to explain why the wing was not being withdrawn while negotiations were underway and that Waters was driving the wing into a deep defensive crouch, as Cunningham had ordered at the conference at Third Air Force. “We’re getting reports of increased terrorist activity between us and Kuwait,” Carroll told him. “Only armed convoys are moving down the coast road and they’re coming under heavy attack. The last two have been turned back.”
“That’s our only land link,” Jack said. “Sounds like we’re being cut off.”
“Looks that way. Waters figures we’ll be getting some attention pretty soon. He’s using everyone and everything to hunker down and prepare for attack. What a pisser to be the last man killed in this shitty little war,” Carroll said. And Jack thought, Who could argue with that?
The third day after returning from the hospital, Jack was asked by Waters to take care of a Saudi F-15 that had just declared an emergency for fuel and was in the landing position. Jack borrowed one of the few pickups on base and was waiting on the ramp when the F-15 taxied in. The canopy raised while the engines spun down. The pilot took his helmet off — it was Reza. He climbed down the boarding ladder a crew chief had hooked over the canopy rails, looking very much the fighter pilot, and shook Jack’s hand. “I can only stay long enough to refuel, but I must speak to your Colonel Waters.”
“Byzantine politics again?” Jack ventured.
“I’m afraid so. And this is quite serious.”
At headquarters Reza came directly to the purpose of his visit. “We have information that you will be attacked the day after tomorrow. It will come from Bushehr, before early morning prayers… ”
As he said it Reza hoped the Americans would accept his warning and not press him for more information. He could not reveal that he had learned of the attack from the PSI agent who had been running his cousin Mashur, or how the agent had decided to switch sides. For a substantial price, of course. It had been decided by the UAC not to warn JUSMAG or the 45th. The UAC in their peculiar wisdom believed the PSI would only negotiate when it appeared they were winning and an attack on Ras Assanya would presumably create that illusion. The Arabs calculated that the attack would further weaken the PSI and make them less of a threat. So it had been decided to let the Americans serve as a pawn to be traded off for negotiations with the PSI. The prince did not agree. Sacrificing good allies did not match his own well-bred sense of honor, Byzantine or otherwise.
Waters thanked Reza for his warning, and Reza said he had to leave, since he had used the fuel emergency as a cover for his visit and his F-15 would by now be refueled and ready to go.
Reza had proved he could be trusted, but how big an attack was coming? In any case, Waters could see the political jigsaw puzzle was finally fitting together. And seeing it, bitterness took over. The 45th, it seemed, was nothing but a political pawn, at the expense of his people. Well, this pawn had teeth and could… would… sure as hell defend itself.