During that mission he had worked with several outstanding troopers, including a Green Beret Captain named Hawkins, who encouraged him to believe that occasionally the army bureaucracy lucked into choosing the right men for the right job. But in general, Wong held almost as low an opinion of the Special Ops bureaucracy as he held of the rest of the defense establishment, Air Force partly excepted. Major Wilson’s droning on about “clandestine implants” was doing nothing to disabuse him of his opinion. The man’s knowledge of enemy weaponry and the role of air support were rudimentary, in Wong’s opinion, although he at least recognized that the Hogs would be operating beyond their preferred parameters. Wong was about to second the point when his nose tickled again; he barely managed to pull a fresh handkerchief from his pocket and cover his face in time.
“You wanted to say something, Captain?” asked Colonel Klee, who was in charge of supplying Apache and the infiltration teams associated with it.
Wong nodded as he finished blowing his nose. He had reserved judgment on Colonel Klee; his khakis were fairly crisp, no small accomplishment in this wilderness.
He was also admirably short on patience.
“Well?” asked the colonel. “What is it?”
“I was going to suggest that if we want the Apache Forces to work in conjunction with our attack planes, we institute combat-area refueling procedures. A pair of C-130s flying over Iraqi territory—”
“That’s on hold,” snapped the colonel. “Go on, Major. And skip the history bullshit, will you? These people can get to the library themselves.”
The major unfolded a large map across three easels at the front of the room. Fort Apache had been sketched in about a third of the way from the top left corner; various Iraqi air defenses and other installations were diagrammed in below.
“We want to add a lifeboat contingency,” said the major. “As well as local firepower.”
Between sneezes, Wong listened as Wilson updated the plan to base a pair of “sterile” Little Bird McDonnell Douglas AH-6Gs at Fort Apache. Descendants of Vietnam War-era Loach, the Defenders were special “black” versions of the versatile helo known in official circles as the Cayuse. The small, light choppers were equipped with machine guns and rocket packs. They were excellent support aircraft, could greatly extend Fort Apache’s operating area, and— this is where “lifeboat” came in— could possibly be used to evacuate teams and even the base if necessary.
There was only one problem: the choppers’ loaded range was barely over two hundred miles, and the plan called for them to be loaded to the gills when they went north. Even with a stop to refuel right at the border, that was a stretch. Not even the Special Ops people thought they could make it in a straight line.
A big PAVE-Low could make it, of course. But no way anyone in their right mind would authorize flying an aircraft that valuable that far north. In fact, nothing valuable could go up there.
Which was why the Hogs had been assigned the support mission, obviously.
Finally, thought Wong, the reason I am here. He raised his hand, sneezed, stood, blew his nose and then cleared his throat.
“You want a safe route to Fort Apache, I assume,” he said.
“I have a route to the airfield,” bristled the major, pointing to the line.
Wong took Wilson’s pen and began drawing parabolas around some of the defenses.
“Besides sneezing, what are you doing?” asked the colonel.
“The different performance envelopes of these defenses have not been adequately charted,” he explained. “And I notice that several of these sites are misidentified. This here is an SA-2 battery, a problem for an older support aircraft flying at medium altitude and above, but it should be essentially oblivious to a helicopter running at night, which I assume is how penetration is planned. Additionally, some of your information is incomplete and/or out of date. You have not noted the defenses in this sector. This GCI site was listed as only thirty percent destroyed in the latest assessment. Experience shows that it is best to assume that is optimistic.”
“Meaning?”
“A halfway competent operator would have no trouble frying your helicopters,” said Wong. “Approached from this angle, however, the detectable envelope shrinks dramatically.”
“Are you sure?” asked the major.
Wong sighed. “I assume I was asked to come to this sand trap because I am the world’s expert on Russian defense systems. If you are willing to take great risks, fly in a straight line. I haven’t done the math, but it undoubtedly offers no lower a coefficient of probable success than your course does. And with wing tanks—”
“We don’t have wing tanks, and even if we did, there’s not enough weight left for them,” said one of the helo pilots, a warrant officer named Gerry Fernandez. “We were supposed to be refueled.”
“I did not see that contingency outlined on the map,” said Wong.
“That’s on hold as well,” said the colonel without further explanation.
“We’ve already dropped fuel at Apache,” said Major Wilson. “There’s plenty of fuel for you, once you get there.”
“We’re going to have to lighten the load to get there,” said Fernandez. “A hell of a lot. And carry fuel with us besides. With all due respect to the Major, I’d like to hear what course this captain recommends.”
“Go ahead, Wong,” said the colonel.
Wong went back to sketching a safer course. Wilson started to object again, but this time was stifled by an impromptu dissertation on the effective range of the pulse band radars emitted by the Roland mobile batteries.
The secrecy of the mission imposed a further constraint on Wong’s planning. It was necessary for the helicopters to avoid not only know anti-air defenses, but places where any sizable number of troops might congregate. Wong’s final route, to be flown about six feet off the ground, minimized the helicopter’s exposure to everything but sand mites.
It also totaled close to four hundred miles and was more convoluted than a drunk’s stagger.
Which the pilots promptly pointed out.
“It is necessarily intricate,” said Wong, intending to suggest that if the pilots couldn’t follow it, he knew several who could. But he was cut off by a stout sneeze.
“We can follow it,” said Fernandez. “The question is range.”
The colonel leaned over to hear some advice from one of his lieutenants. Major Wilson whispered on the other side. Finally, the colonel shook his head reluctantly.
“There’s no sense taking this kind of risk if we’re not going to deliver usable supplies,” said the major, straightening. “It makes no sense to fly them all the way to Fort Apache without enough bullets and rockets to fend off an attack. We won’t be able to arrange for a new drop until tomorrow night. By then, we ought to have a new C-130 cleared as a tanker. And if not, we’ll rig something similar to what we did to get the fuel down at Apache. The prudent thing is to wait.”
“What if they need us before then?” said Fernandez.
“I’m not going to send you up there empty,” said Klee.
Wong sighed. He glanced at the colonel, who could only be waiting for him to point out the obvious. Surely both he and the major had realized the solution by now. This charade could only be meant to make him feel more comfortable and withdraw his transfer request. A worthy gesture on the colonel’s part. Perhaps there was hope yet.