They were not alone in their vigil. Word that one of the wing’s fighters had downed a MiG had gone around the base. The report the radar post had called in was classified Secret, but it was a secret the close-knit community could not keep, at least not from themselves.
The base had first stirred when a buzz went around that two Phantoms had been brought up to cockpit alert. The buzz didn’t die down and kept growing until the entire base knew something big was going down. As facts changed the buzz to confirmed truth, a change came over the men and women who made the system work. The incessant complaining and grumbling — an everyday part of duty in the Air Force — died away. There was no rush to end the duty day. Wives were wondering why their husbands had not come home, and bars at the various clubs on base were empty. Instead, there was a migration toward the flight line. After the two Phantoms had launched, the command post filled with all who could think of a reason for being there.
Then the words that gave meaning to the long months of work, training and frustration that marked their existence were being passed: “Our birds got a MiG… It wasn’t a squadron’s, or the wing’s, but ours.” The feeling was older than the Air Force and probably had its roots in the First World War when air combat was still in its infancy.
Not everyone reacted with jubilation. The four crew chiefs who were really the two birds’ parents were waiting on the flight line for their charges to come home. No one intruded on their solitude. Each knew in his heart that it had been his bird that had downed the MiG, and each wanted his Phantom to be safe. Later on, after uncounted beers, the hard veneer of the professional crew chief would be back in place. He’d claim that the heavy-handed “assholes” that flew his air machine had abused it unnecessarily. They should be permanently grounded for being such “dumb shits,” he’d say, and it was pure luck and the fine condition of his warbird that made the kill possible. But that would come later. For the moment, the crew chiefs were four very worried young men.
Shaw watched the two Phantoms touch down two thousand feet in trail and pop their drag chutes. “Nice recoveries,” he said under his breath. “Thank God, Locke didn’t do a victory roll.” Turning to his deputy for Operations, he rubbed the sweat off his bald head and relaxed for the first time since responding to the call from the command post. “Your boys did good, Sam.”
“Good enough,” was the only answer Hawkins would allow.
The atmosphere in the Pentagon’s battle cab was blue with cigar haze. Colonel Blevins’ face was flushed and his shirt was mottled with sweat. He knew his performance in front of General Cunningham didn’t look good and he had to recover his standing. All messages were now coming in over the normal circuits and the RC-135 had been silent since its third transmission. Slowly, the situation reports were filtering in, giving a more detailed account of the engagement.
Cunningham was his usual brooding self, deep into what the incident had revealed. The general understood the way of combat and how Intelligence, Command and Control, and operations had to work together for the effective management of violence. All three had been players in the Grain King incident and he wanted to use the experience to improve his Air Force, to get his people more ready to fight.
The general focused on the men who had made the decisions. He sized up Blevins: a standard bureaucratic approach to business. If nothing else, the Blevinses of the Air Force would never act in haste. Still, he had placed the F-4s on cockpit alert and had recommended their scramble. Those were excellent, timely decisions, especially since Blevins was a ground-pounder. A three-star general on the battle staff, Hiram Stanglay, had also been impressed with Blevins’ performance. Stanglay had been picked to serve on the promotion board that would soon be selecting new brigadier generals for the Air Force.
Cunningham’s relentless mind continued, pressing for the truth… Had their actions been timely or were they only lucky? Should he rack Waters for breaking radio silence and possibly compromising the capabilities of the RC-135 or give him a medal for saving the C-130? Why had the F-4s launched without missiles? He made a mental promise to correct that particular problem. Someone had made a very bad decision. What was that damn C-130 doing in Libyan airspace in the first place? The general decided he wanted to see a detailed afteraction report. He’d have to talk to Waters…
Every man and woman in the Watch Center knew the way the short, feisty general reacted, and not one was about to break into his brooding solitude. Blevins continued to search for a way to make himself look good. Relief washed over him and his sweating subsided when he saw the latest message traffic coming over the repeater on his console, and his confidence surged as he decided how to use the new information to his advantage.
“Excuse me, sir” — Blevins earned an admiring glance from General Stanglay for approaching Cunningham — “the C-130 landed safely at Alexandria South and ran out of fuel taxiing in. Also, we have received queries from the State Department and the National Security Council… ” Blevins hesitated for effect, implying he fully understood the power the NSC wielded and the special relationship its chief had with the President. “They are requesting answers to what appears to be precipitate action on our part without advising them or the President.” Blevins’ self-assurance soared. He had an answer to each of those questions, by God, and he could make the Air Force look good in front of any group of policy makers.
“Tough,” Cunningham spat, eyes sparkling at the challenge. “I’ve got questions, too. The most important is why in hell we only got one MiG.” He stood, lit up a fresh cigar, and turned to Blevins. “Sort it all out, pronto. I want Waters here tomorrow and a briefing on this incident Sunday.” Before leaving, he paused at Master Sergeant Nesbit’s console. “Nesbit, you made your point.” The sergeant wasn’t sure if the general had given him a rare accolade or a reprimand.
Whatever, a collective sigh of relief went around the cab as the general left to prepare to fight another, even more difficult battle with the NSC.
The crew of the RC-135 was on the patio of the resort hotel in Glifada, a beach town near Athens the reccy crews had adopted while they were on TDY in Greece. The fatigue of the long mission was on each of their faces as they sat quietly drinking beer, waiting for Waters and Carroll to arrive from the post-mission debrief with Intelligence and the new crew that would soon launch the RC-135 on another mission.
Finally, the two officers walked in, equally tired.
Magically, a beer appeared in Waters’ hand as he grinned at the waiting men. “You did good,” he announced. “The C-130 made it.” A ripple of applause and whistles spread around the patio. Because the details were highly classified, the crew would have to wait until they were back on the reccy bird to learn exactly how the cargo plane was saved. But for now, the knowledge that it had safely landed was enough.
Pride in what his crew had accomplished washed Waters’ fatigue away. Hell, maybe it’s too soon to retire, he thought.
The desk clerk came out of the hotel and stood at the gate leading to the patio. “Colonel Waters,” he called, “there’s an urgent message for you.”
Then again, maybe not.
2
THE WING