Pavlinsky quietly nodded, then looked straight into the dark, sunken eyes of the terrorist leader. “Yes, in any way we can — covertly, of course,” he quickly added. This is the opportunity we’ve been waiting for.
“At the request of your government,” Pavlinsky went on, “we are sending fighter tactics instructor pilots to enhance the skills of your pilots. Additional scientists and engineers will be arriving soon to help with the missile development program, and we’ve had a number of experts helping to train your submarine crews. If there is anything we can do to help facilitate the removal of U.S. forces from the region, we stand ready to provide assistance.”
“What about the nuclear warheads?” Shakhar abruptly asked. “Without the warheads, everything else is useless.”
In silence, the two men stared at each other.
“I have made arrangements for the nuclear warheads to be delivered to you,” Pavlinsky answered, suppressing an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Working together, we can drive the Americans from the region.”
Shakhar’s jaw clenched and the pupil of his right eye began to drift toward his nose. “It is my destiny,” he said boldly as he shifted his bovine gaze to the crowds in the street, then back to Pavlinsky. “To be subservient to the infidels is to be not a man.”
Shakhar remained impassive. “It is time to give President Macklin an ultimatum — a deadline for removing his military forces from the Islamic world. I will issue the deadline soon. If the president refuses to cooperate,” Shakhar said in a scratchy voice, “he will become my primary target. I will have him assassinated.”
Amazed at the visceral hatred in Shakhar’s voice, Yegor Pavlinsky remained expressionless.
3
After extending the Tomcat’s refueling probe, Commander Garner Stockwell inched the throttles forward as he carefully maneuvered the sinister-looking F-14 closer to the KC-10 tanker. With his eyes riveted on the refueling hose and drogue, Stockwell concentrated on flying while his radar intercept officer, Lieutenant Alan “Skeeter” Jeffcoat, scanned the skies for other traffic.
After stabilizing the airplane behind the drogue, Stockwell eased the sleek fighter toward the basket. Adding a touch of power, the commanding officer of the VF-32 “Swordsmen” gently guided the airplane forward until the probe smoothly plugged into the refueling receptacle. Once the nozzle was mated with the drogue, Stockwell carefully maintained his position directly behind the tanker.
“You’re takin’ gas,” the sergeant in the boom operator’s station radioed in his deep whiskey voice.
“That’s what we like to hear,” Stockwell drawled.
“Commander,” an urgent voice interrupted, “this is Major Labrowski.”
Instinctively, Stockwell and Jeffcoat tensed. Labrowski was the aircraft commander of the KC-10 Extender.
“What’s up, Ski?”
“Sir, the AWACS that was scheduled to rendezvous with you just had an engine problem,” Labrowski said, then paused to listen to an air traffic controller who was communicating with the Boeing E-3 AWACS crew. “They’re headed back to base, and the spare bird won’t be up for another thirty to forty-five minutes.”
Shit! Stockwell swore to himself. This mission is a White House priority — a request directly from the president. I sure as hell don’t want to be the one who scrubs it. “Stand by.”
“Roger.”
With the SR-71 Blackbird downed by a line-item veto, and the venerable U-2 “Dragon Ladies” temporarily grounded after a mysterious crash, the carrier-based F-14 Tomcat had been called on to provide war-ready strategic reconnaissance for the White House and the Pentagon.
Countering the effects of the turbulent air, Stockwell deftly worked the control stick while he quickly analyzed the situation. Although an Airborne Warning and Control aircraft wouldn’t be available to provide advance notice of hostile aircraft or missiles, Stockwell remained confident about flying over the denied area.
The sleek Tomcat carried the latest technology in Electronic Counter Measures equipment. Recently released from the secretive “black world,” the highly sophisticated defensive system could electronically jam enemy early-warning radars and missile sites, making it almost impossible to obtain a firing solution on the TARPS-equipped fighter.
The Tactical Airborne Reconnaissance Pod System with a digital imagery (DI) camera would image the targets and transmit the information to the Joint Task Force-Southwest Asia headquarters in Saudi Arabia for positive identification and analysis. Forty minutes later, the president of the United States and his secretary of defense would have the recce photographs in their hands.
The near-real-time imagery of the TARPS-equipped Tomcats expanded the reconnaissance role of the F-14 during crisis situations. The aircraft delivered aerial photos so incredibly clear you could read street signs and license plates. Although “national systems”—Pentagonese for spy satellites and intelligence-gathering aircraft such as the U-2 and Rivet Joint — were excellent platforms for gathering vital information, they occasionally malfunctioned or were not in a proper position to spy.
When time is critical, a call to an aircraft carrier in the vicinity of a potential target allows the president the luxury of assessing the threat in a matter of minutes or hours. In addition, with aerial refueling, the manned Tomcat could provide increased flexibility for the commander in chief and his military advisers.
“I appreciate the heads-up,” Stockwell said flatly. “We’re going to press on with the mission.”
“Understand you’re going to continue?”
“That’s affirm.”
A short pause followed.
“Ah… Roger.”
Skeeter Jeffcoat keyed the intercom. “Skipper, the place is crawling with missiles and fighters. Are you sure you don’t want to abort?”
Stockwell hesitated a few seconds. I don’t want to screw this up with the whole air wing watching. “Normally, I’d go home, but this mission is a White House priority. I’m goin’ for it, unless you’re uncomfortable.”
The seasoned naval flight officer faltered a few moments before he answered. “I’d be lying if I said I don’t have some reservations, but if you want to march on, I’m game.”
“Then let’s do it.”
“Yessir.”
Piece of cake, Stockwell told himself as he played the controls and watched the hose and basket. The delicate ballet continued while Jeffcoat monitored the sky. Approaching a full load of fuel, Stockwell’s throttles began creeping forward.
“Time for an adjustment,” he said to himself.
Flying as smoothly as possible, Stockwell added power to maintain the proper refueling position. He counted the seconds until the F-14 was full, then keyed his radio. “Thanks for the drink.”
“Anytime, sir.”
Darting a final look at the boom operator’s station, Stock-well disconnected the probe and eased the Tomcat aft and down from the KC-10. Clear of the tanker, he retracted the probe and pushed the throttles into minimum afterburner.
Long, white-hot flames belched from the turbofans as the multirole fighter raced away from the tanker and rapidly climbed toward the bright midday sun.
The previous day, Stockwell and Jeffcoat had flown the same route to capture their primary targets in the long shadows of early morning. Now, after another request from the president, they would be photographing the sites with the hot midday sun directly overhead.
Passing 36,000 feet, Stockwell advanced the throttles to maximum afterburner to rapidly build airspeed for the final climb.
Ascending through 43,000 feet, Jeffcoat prepared to engage the Defensive system. “Ready for the DEF gear?”