Finally, he could no longer endure the waiting and called his control center to explain the developing situation. After acknowledging the call, there was silence from his superior, a sure sign that the officer did not want to hear about it. Then the four returns materialized on the scope as the aircraft turned on their IFFs and climbed to altitude, still inside Turkey. Reluctantly, he reported the latest developments. “You are deaf,” the officer finally said, “and cannot learn. Forty-eight hours on duty should teach you something. You will be replaced Thursday at noon.” He broke the connection.
The operator swore at his own rashness in calling the control center, turned the receiver-gain to a lower setting, raised the antenna tilt to sweep the far horizon, and walked to a bunk in the far corner to find some warmth and sleep. He glanced at his watch and calculated he had another forty-two hours before he would be relieved.
CHAPTER 35
Colonel Richard Stevens glanced at one of the master clocks above the main situation board in the command center—0012—twelve minutes after midnight local time. He had been on duty since six o’clock the previous morning and was dog-tired. He tried to shrug off his fatigue and finish setting up the Military Command Center for the coming operation. Normally the Joint Special Operations Agency would have handled the drill since JSOA commanded all special operations. But Cunningham had asked him to oversee it and try to make sure nothing fell through the cracks.
Stevens had to admit that General Mado seemed to have thought of everything. The thick briefing books that detailed Operation WARLORD were ready, one for each position in the command center. Every relevant fact, including the names of the raiders, was listed in the books. Mado added a question-and-answer section to the back of each book, trying to anticipate questions the President or another heavy might ask. Mado had even developed the checklist he was using for setting up the command center.
It was going to be a long day.
“When was the master clock last set?” Stevens asked the sergeant trailing around after him.
“I hacked it with WWV at Fort Collins at twenty hundred hours last night. It was right on, Colonel. Keeps damn good time. Almost as accurate as the cesium clock WWV uses.”
“What about the mission clock?” Stevens pointed at the digital clock underneath the master clock labeled “H-hour Plus.”
“I ran it for an hour when I checked the master. Perfect.”
A major interrupted them and handed Stevens a folder. “Two messages from Task Force Alpha,” he said.
Stevens signed for the messages and sat down to read them while the sergeant went off to get some coffee. “God,” Stevens muttered, “what the hell is going on?” The first message was from Mado explaining that the wrong munitions had been shipped to Incirlik and that an emergency shipment of the GBU-12s needed for the mission would have to be cleared through the Turkish government. Such hasty action would likely draw attention, might compromise the mission and could possibly jeopardize the status of the base with the Turks. Mado was putting the whole problem right in the lap of the command center.
Which, Stevens thought, meant Task Force Alpha was on a hold status as far as the mission was concerned. He turned to the second message from Stansell, which asked twelve GBU-12s at RAF Stone-wood be released to Lieutenant Colonel Doucette for immediate upload on an F-111. The bombs would be ferried to Incirlik as part of Task Force Alpha’s deployment package. There was no mention of coordination with the Turks.
The colonel glanced at the master clock, then back to the messages. They were running out of time. The weapons had to be ready for immediate upload when the F-111 landed. He didn’t have time to go to Cunningham’s quarters, wake the general, explain the situation, get an okay and a message sent to Stonewood in time to make it all happen. He decided he would respond to Stansell’s request and show the messages to Cunningham when he came in. Maybe the bombs would be in Turkey by then …
Stevens drafted a flash message to Stonewood, in Cunningham’s name releasing the munitions being built up for immediate upload. “Loose cannons get their peckers smashed for making decisions like this without authorization,” he muttered, telling himself that his wife could see him any time she wanted when he was in Leavenworth prison.
The radar operator kicked off his blanket and stretched, feeling rested after sleeping. He ambled over to his station to check the scope, and was startled to see it was blank. He looked over his shoulder … were the other men aware of the problem? No, they were asleep. He sat down, and put on his headset while he checked the voltage. Another power surge had kicked in the automatic protection circuits and had shut the set down.
It was easily fixed and no one was the wiser, he decided as he ran through the restart procedure. Only this time, the circuits would not reset. He was going through his checklist when the control center called. “Radio check,” his superior’s voice ordered.
“Acknowledged,” the operator promptly answered.
“Any questions on reporting procedures?” the officer asked.
“None, sir.” The officer broke the connection. So, you’re going to disappear for a while, the operator thought, probably to be with your mistress. All the men knew about the ugly woman the officer kept near the control center and often joked about it since he had a beautiful wife. No accounting for taste. He closed his checklist, made sure the antenna was still rotating in case anyone should scan the radar site with binoculars, and turned off the set. “Let it cool down,” he grumbled as he picked up a newspaper he had not yet read.
Cunningham’s fingers beat a tattoo as he read the two messages from Task Force Alpha. “Current status?” he asked, looking directly at his aide. The inner tension that had been twisting Stevens’ stomach eased a bit. He had been fairly certain that Cunningham would approve of his releasing the bombs for movement to Turkey, but like the rest of the staff at the Pentagon, he was never certain about the general, who liked to keep people off balance.
“The GBU-12s are enroute to Incirlik and should arrive there in four hours.”
“Good enough. Put these in the message file. Make sure Leachmeyer sees them about the time the GBUs arrive. Overtaken by events.” Both men were playing the time-honored games the Pentagon’s bureaucracy engaged in. Cunningham was pleased with the way his aide had not hesitated and had done what was necessary. Too many of his officers would have started asking irrelevant questions, trying to fix blame, telling everyone that the snafu was not their fault. He would worry whose fault it was later. “What’s on the agenda for today?”
“Battle Staff briefing at 0800 hours. Kicks off with an intelligence update.”
“Who’s running the show?”
“JOSA. General Leachmeyer has command.” The aide regretted adding the last as he said it. Cunningham hated being told the obvious.
“Dick, I’m not senile yet,” the general said, going easy on the colonel, who had been on duty for over twenty-four hours. “I’ve got a problem, though. Leachmeyer is still chomping at the old bit and wants Delta Force to take the mission. He’s a good man but suffers from tunnel vision. I’ve got to convince him we’ve run out of time and need to act now.