Carroll poured over the latest Stealth reccy photos, which supported the warning Reza had passed to the wing: the PSI was mustering a waterborne invasion force one hundred forty-five miles to the east in the bay of Bushehr. The large number of operational hovercraft surprised Carroll. He calculated that the PSI could land a sizable force on the western edge of the Gulf two hours and fifty minutes after departing their launch ramps. “Not good,” he told Waters when the colonel walked into Intel. “Look at the MiG-23s they’ve deployed to give them air cover.” He flipped a series of photos of the air base at Bushehr less than six hours old. “They have the capability of launching an attack anytime they want. If Turika’s intelligence is good, that’s their intention. And look at the ships they’ve got around Khark Island to protect the oil terminal. They can easily move them along with the invasion fleet, more than doubling the number of surface combatants they can throw at us.”
Twenty minutes later, sixty-four officers and NCOs who commanded the units and sections that made up Waters’ wing crowded into Intel.
“We’re getting intelligence warnings of an attack in the next day, two max. Pass it on to your people. I’ve requested airlift to evacuate all non-essential personnel. Let’s get as many of our troops out of here as we can. Get back here with names and numbers ASAP.”
Waters motioned for Carroll to join him. “Bill, somehow we’ve got to bypass the UAC. They’re playing fiddle-fuck with us. Get an update message to the Watch Center.” He paused for a moment. “And transmit a copy to Shaw at Third Air Force.
“Jack, care to take a walk?” Waters unlimbered from his chair and headed for the door. The colonel walked slowly. “We’ve got to defend this base until they tell us otherwise. Give me a plan for a spoiling raid against Bushehr. I want to discourage them, but we’ll need the President’s okay to launch this one. I got the message loud and clear from Reza; our so-called ally, the UAC, wants to use us as a sacrificial goat. No goddamn way.”
“And I get your message, sir,” Jack said, and took off.
The main floor of the Watch Center was crowded with observers as the proposed spoiling raid against Bushehr unfolded on the center board. It was the first time that the analysts and technicians had seen the detailed exposition of the planning that went into an attack, and the numbers, timing, tactics and weaponeering held their attention as they saw the end result of much of their work.
Captain Don Williamson sat on a table, knuckles white as he clasped the edge and watched the computer analysis of the attack flash on the boards: probability of arrival over target, probability of damage to target, probability of recovery, expected losses-aircraft, expected losses-air-crews, expected battle damage, expected time to reconstitute, expected dollar cost. Williamson was a staff officer and would never experience the reality of combat, but unlike so many of his fellow ground pounders the numbers had a personal meaning for him ever since they had lost Tom Gomez.
The generals on the battle staff of the Watch Center saw a new dimension to their commander. Cunningham’s carefully cultivated coarse image was gone and his keen intellect was in charge as he directed the watch commander to feed different commands into the computer. “Whoever planned this is no idiot. Name?”
The duty NCO activated his communications link with Ras Assanya and queried Sergeant Nesbit about the identity of the tactician who formulated the plan. “Sergeant Nesbit is manning the console at Ras Assanya, sir. He’s asking Colonel Waters now.” After a brief pause the sergeant gave him the name of Captain Jackson D. Locke.
Cunningham looked at the generals. “Consider what Locke has done… minimum time over target, minimum time in hostile territory, smart use of deception, and all worked into a tight package that only tasks the aircrews to do what they’ve been trained to do.” For the first time in days Cunningham felt a sense of relief. Waters had trained his people well. Given a chance they should be able to fight and survive. He rolled an unlit cigar in his mouth as the old veneer fell into place along with his determination to execute the attack. “Dick, get me an appointment with the President.”
The President’s National Security Adviser gave a slight shake of his head to the notion of launching a preemptive attack on the buildup at Bushehr.
“I’m sorry, Lawrence,” the President said, “but I can’t let you attack with the 45th, not now. We’re at a very sensitive point in negotiations; the 45th is good — too good for the moment.”
Cunningham didn’t take it as a compliment. “Mr. President, the PSI has the capability to wipe Ras Assanya off the map. We’ve received a warning signal from a reliable source that that is also their intention.”
“We haven’t received anything from other sources to confirm that,” the Security Adviser said. “Maybe a minor attack to harass the base, nothing more—”
“A face-saving device by the PSI for negotiations, sir?” Cunningham shot back. “Don’t bet on it—”
“Lawrence,” the President intervened. “Those people at Ras Assanya are as important to me as they are to you. I am not going to sacrifice them in the name of political expediency.”
Bullshit, was Cunningham’s unspoken thought. The President was avoiding the issue, talking in generalities. “Mr. President, I ask you — please return the fleet to the Gulf. At least that will discourage an attack on the base.”
The President shook his head.
“Then give me permission to let them defend against any attacking force heading their way—”
“What did you have in mind?” the Security Adviser challenged.
“I have in mind to launch a counter-attack against any hostile force that enters a hundred-mile defensive perimeter around the base.”
“Out of the question. That’s almost in their own territorial waters… ”
The President took over. “Lawrence, my policies in the Persian Gulf are coming under severe scrutiny and even attack in the press and in Congress, as you well know. Too many people are willing to see the area go under out of fear of being caught in another Vietnam. Congress, as you also know, is demanding the War Powers Act be implemented. They love that act. That’s the first step, as I see it, in a unilateral complete withdrawal from the Gulf. How would our allies in the Middle East react to that? Especially with negotiations underway?”
“We still need to defend Ras Assanya,” Cunningham said, refusing to let the issue go down.
“A defensive perimeter of, say, fifty miles is justifiable,” the President said, offering the general a compromise.
“That’s less than six minutes flying time from the base. We need a hundred.” Actually the general was willing to settle for fifty under certain conditions, and wanted to shift the discussion away from the details of any rules of engagement. As long as the 45th could meet attacking aircraft as soon as they broke the fifty-mile perimeter, the wing still had a chance. If the 45th had to wait until enemy aircraft penetrated to within fifty miles to launch, then the advantage shifted to the attackers. It was a case of not addressing the question and diverting their attention to another subject.