Shaw thanked Percival and was out of his office. Pullman met him with a staff car at the front door. “Got to hurry, General. The Herky bird is waiting for us, engines running.”
“We make a country-fair team, Mort.”
“I’d say, General.”
The men huddled behind the President were reluctant to admit to themselves or to him the significance of the information displayed in front of them. At any other time Cunningham would have been amused by the sight of the President’s advisers literally hiding behind the man they were supposed to counsel and support. At least there was no doubt in Cunningham’s mind now that he had the undivided attention of his commander-in-chief. He waited impatiently, concentrating on the growing activity in the War Room.
The President, more hardheaded than his advisers, wasn’t afraid to hear bad news. Not that he easily accepted it. “I expected nothing on this scale; I underestimated their intentions… What’s their primary objective?”
“The capture of Ras Assanya,” Cunningham told him.
“What would that do for them?” The President did have a flaw: he believed the men that moved the world’s events were at least rational actors, and so if he knew what their goals were he could anticipate their actions.
“Get us out of the Persian Gulf, and for a long time,” Cunningham said. The silence around the table presumably confirmed his statement.
“Why are you so sure they will attack within twelve hours?”
“Because, sir, there is no naval force in place that’s strong enough to block them. By the time we can get our fleet back into the Gulf they’ll be ashore. That’s why they have to go in now, when they feel there’s little resistance… ”
One of the President’s advisers handed him a note that he scanned and held up a hand, interrupting Cunningham. “General, I have just been informed that the PSI has made a new offer for a permanent cease-fire. The United Arab Command believes it’s valid and urges us not to overreact.”
“Mr. President… I believe that’s a ploy to keep our fleet out of the Gulf. Sure, the PSI will be glad to negotiate after they’ve overrun the 45th.” The general had no illusions about his enemy; he would not underestimate their ability or resolve again… “Please don’t sacrifice the 45th.” Cunningham could hear the pleading in his voice and didn’t give a damn.
The President looked at him intently, then picked up an electronic pointer and flashed it on the screen, circling the cluster of ships poised to sortie across the Gulf. “I can’t allow the 45th to be sacrificed as a quid pro quo for a truce. As long as the PSI keeps its ships in international waters we shouldn’t attack them. But after their first attack, the intentions are obvious and nothing takes away our right to self-defense. If those ships move toward the west” — he directed the pointer on the screen towards Ras Assanya — “I will consider them a threat to the 45th. Tell the 45th to hit the S.O.B.’s the moment they head across the Gulf.”
He was warming to it now. “And order the fleet back into the Gulf and have the carrier air group ready to launch in support of the 45th when they’re in range. If that force attacks Ras Assanya, it will not return. Also, I want an orderly draw-down of Ras Assanya so it can be rapidly evacuated, but keep them fighting.”
Cunningham was forced to reevaluate this President. realizing, if belatedly, that the man was one helluva geo-politician, willing to trade measured blows with an antagonist to advance the interests of the U.S. But playing the game only so far before reacting with the forces at his disposal…
Two hours later a Navy admiral announced to the President that the force behind Khark Island had sortied and was turning to the west. He pointed to the map of the Indian Ocean. “Sir, there is one hell of a storm building down there, an early-season typhoon. Our ships will have to reduce speed and the carrier will not be able to launch aircraft until they clear the area. It makes you wonder whose side God is on.”
“Admiral, God is the all-time neutral in war, even though we’ll claim he’s in our camp. The Greeks called it hubris, pride, and you know what pride goeth before: the fall.”
Sergeant Nesbit ripped the latest transmission off the high-speed printer and handed it to Waters. The colonel scanned and added it to a growing pile of messages, then huddled with Stansell and Farrell trying to make sense out of the flood of information. “Everything,” Waters began, “points to an attack in the next few hours. We can defend ourselves and are cleared in hot against anything that moves toward us. At the same time, we start to move our people out while maintaining the wing’s combat readiness.” Waters glanced at the board on the wall that tracked arrival and departure times of transient aircraft. There was only the C-130 that had been given to them for a shuttle. Without more airlift in the next ten to twelve hours he was not optimistic about moving many of his people before the base was attacked. “Rup, get as many people onto that C-130 as you can every time it lands. I’ll holler for more aircraft… ” He did not know about Shaw’s C-130 that was seven hours away from landing.
Waters’ mouth drew into a tight, narrow line as he scanned the board that listed only fifty-one mission-capable F-4s, a reminder of the losses his wing had suffered in less than ten weeks. The wing had eight other Phantoms with severe enough combat damage to make them of doubtful use. “Steve, use the four Weasels we’ve got left for air defense against the ships; load out twenty-two planes for air-to-air. Hang AGM-65s on the other twenty-five.” He would use Mavericks against the ships.
Jack felt like a damn spectator as he watched the men go to work carrying out Waters’ orders. Waters kept staring at the big situation map board, which for now was blank. Finally the colonel pushed his chair back and headed for the coffee pot. Jack joined him. “Sir… I want to get back to the squadron—”
Waters shook his head, then added, “Jack, I’ve been so busy the last few hours trying to bring things together I’ve forgotten about the basics. I want you—”
“Throwing me a bone, sir?”
“No. And stop feeling sorry for yourself. We’ve got to keep control of the air over the base. Start working on it and get back to me and Farrell.”
In the COIC Jack realized the bone Waters had thrown him was keeping air superiority, controlling their airspace. The Air Force hadn’t done that since the early days of World War II. Some assignment…
Sergeant Nesbit ripped another message off the printer and handed it to Waters. Immediately he summoned Carroll to the Command Post and handed him the message. Carroll sat down, feeling sick. “Much worse than I thought,” he said. “They’ve got four assault landing ships and three small coastal freighters escorted by two frigates and three large Sherson-class torpedo boats coming our way. There must be another dozen or so small, fast boats they’ve mounted a machinegun or grenade-launcher on, running along with them. Colonel, that’s a good-sized fleet for this part of the world.
“And we’ve got to stop them from coming ashore… ”
The battle for Ras Assanya had begun.
The squadron commander selected to lead the first attack on Ras Assanya walked around his MiG-23, preflighting the four eleven-hundred-pound bombs hanging on the pylons under the fixed inboard wings. He patted one fondly, pleased that its target was the Americans. His plan was simple: twenty-four bomb-laden MiG-23s would take off in radio silence, fly at low level across the Gulf, avoid early detection and drop their bombs on the base. At the same time sixteen MiG-23s would launch as a CAP and escort them at high level, engaging any Phantoms that came to challenge them. The pilot commander thought it especially appropriate that they were using the Americans’ own method of attack.