He spent the rest of the day contacting senior NCOs throughout the wing, being selective about whom he approached, aware of the favors he would owe if he found something useful. Twice he checked on the clerk who was typing the report for Blevins and collected a back-door copy of what had been completed. He didn’t much like what he read but conceded the report was accurate and even fair. Colonel Waters was a hard man, and it was the loyal sergeant’s wing he was talking about. Pullman filed the pages away in his secret Pearl Harbor file. By late afternoon, the chief had found much more than expected. He sat in his office trying to decide on what to do next. He could suppress the information but doubted if that was smart. He glanced into Shaw’s outer office and saw his door was open, reluctantly walked into the commander’s office.
Shaw looked up as he did so. “Mort. Sit down. Something bothering you?”
“The report Colonel Waters is writing lays it all out—”
“Is it accurate? I can live with the truth.”
“It tells what you know. We should have gotten missiles on the birds, the aircrews could have been trained better and the command post did great. We do get high marks for what we’ve done in activating the base.”
“What about the crash site?”
“We were in hot pursuit. The Libyans still think the crash site is in Egypt. We’re the only ones who know where the real border is.”
“Anything else?”
Pullman stood and threw a small blackened metal object on the wing commander’s desk. “This was found in the MiG wreckage. It’s a Russian dog tag.”
Anticipation hung in the room like a thick, heavy fog. Each man had a copy of the message from Alexandria South, and each understood why he was in an emergency conference at four in the morning. The six generals and four colonels from Intelligence were organizing their defenses. Cunningham quietly entered the room as the ten men and stenographer stood to attention.
“Please be seated,” he began. “Linda Jean, I want to apologize for your being called in so early. We won’t be needing your magic fingers this morning.” The stenographer reluctantly stood and left the room. This was going to be a bloodletting, she decided, and quietly closed the door.
“All right, you pig-fuckers. I do not like surprises. You know that. Now, clear your shit-for-brains heads and tell me why I’m learning about the crash site and that Russians are flying for the Libyans from a wing in Egypt with presumably minimal intelligence capabilities? I thought it was your job to find out such things and tell the wing, not the other way ’round.” The general poked a finger at the three-star general sitting closest to him. “Beller, I believe you’re chief of Intelligence, how did the 45th find out it was a Russian pilot?”
“Sir, I called the wing on the secure channel in the Watch—”
“Beller, I don’t give a rat’s ass how you did it. Tell me how they did it.”
“One of the sergeants at the crash site was poking through the wreckage and found the dog tag. He didn’t know what it was and kept it as a souvenir. The wing’s first sergeant, a Mortimer Pullman, saw the dog tag and recognized it.”
“So by dumb luck we find out the Russians are flying for the Libyans after the Libyans get the body back. Did any of you dickheads think of sending the wing support, like a pathologist? He might have discovered it. And why was a photo-interpreter in a wing Intelligence unit the first to discover the MiG crashed in Libya? All those high-priced reccy-tech surveillance and geodetic systems I bought for you should have discovered that.”
“Sir, it was Colonel Blevins who discovered the exact location of the crash site.” Lieutenant General Beller had been in Intelligence for over fourteen years. He was a professional. He knew his answer wouldn’t appease Cunningham. Okay, his sophisticated reconnaissance systems hadn’t lived up to their billing. What it needed was a chance to demonstrate that the systems were worth every cent the Air Force had spent on them. He had to produce results. He also wanted a fourth star. “General, I don’t yet know what went wrong, but I will within hours. We’ve taken enough pictures of the crash site from all types of platforms. I’ll rip apart Intel to be sure we’re supporting the units in the field. If necessary I’ll have every one of my officers back in operational units to relearn what the Air Force is about.”
Cunningham looked at him, letting the place resonate with silence, then said, “Pass along this information about the Russian pilot to the Secretary of Defense and the Joint Chiefs. Recommend telling the President. Coordinate with NSA to confirm the crash site. I want to see Waters and Blevins when they get back. Understand?”
The room emptied rapidly. On the way out Beller told his aide, “Send a message to Alexandria South. Get Waters and Blevins back here.”
The driver of the Air Force staff car halted automatically for the guards at the east gate of the White House. Cunningham endured the routine security check as the driver eased the car over the detection and scanner plates recessed in the driveway. The summons from the Oval Office had come as soon as the President had been told about the Russian pilot.
A young Air Force lieutenant colonel assigned as a White House aide escorted him to the Situation Room in the basement. Michael Cagliari, the President’s National Security Adviser, was sitting at the conference table in the middle of the fifteen-by-twenty-foot room, studying a wall map of North Africa. “The President and his aides will be here in a few minutes,” he said. “We’re waiting for Cy to arrive.” Cyrus J. Piccard was the courtly Secretary of State whose statesmanlike image provided the perfect cover for his rapacious nature.
Twelve minutes later an aide held the door open for the President, who entered briskly and sat down. “General, thanks for coming over so quickly, although I can’t say I’m especially happy to see you. Your news about the Russians flying missions for the Libyans caught too many of us by surprise.” The President glanced at the director of the CIA, the last of the six men following him to enter the room, then settled into his chair. “To be perfectly frank, General, a few of my advisers are questioning the validity of your evidence — the dog tag.”
“It’s valid,” Cunningham said. “It will be confirmed once the spooks… Intelligence… start looking in the right direction.”
The director of the CIA tried not to show his irritation. “General, we realize that if the Russians have a significant military presence in Libya the whole balance of power in North Africa changes. Which can mean trouble for Egypt, Tunisia and Algeria. It also represents a potential threat on the flank of the oil-shipping lanes to Europe. I’d say, however, that that’s making some pretty big jumps based on a little square piece of metal.”
“But we can’t ignore it,” the National Security Adviser cut in. It was a rehash of the argument that had started in the Oval Office. “Give the crazy-like-a-fox Libyan the capability to make trouble and who knows or can predict what his intentions will be—”
The President held up his hand. “How do you interpret the evidence, General?”
Cunningham knew it would come back to him. “Well, Mr. President, the Soviets are doing more than just advising the Libyans. They have enough people there so that a combat-ready pilot was available to sit alert or man a MiG on short notice. You don’t do that with a few ‘advisers.’”