A murmur of agreement went around the table.
The General Secretary knew he had won, temporarily, but that Kalin-Tegov was still supporting Ulyanoff. “We will direct our ambassador to advise the Libyan government that we shall withdraw our advisers beginning in sixty days. If the Libyans object, we’ll tell them that we have no intention of cutting off the flow of new equipment and spare parts. They will understand. Sixty days gives them time to reestablish their position with their neighbors, and they will do it if they are as smart as I think they are, regardless of the posturing of their leader.”
The General Secretary stood and nodded his head at the group. The meeting was over. Rafik Ulyanoff had survived another round, he thought. Which was more than the commander of the inspection team in the U.S. would enjoy. After all, somebody’s head had to roll.
The Soviet ambassador to Libya, al-Jamahiriyah al-Arabiya al-Libya al-Shabiya al-Ishtirakiya, to use its proper name, waited patiently in the reception room of the huge tent. He could hear the ritual chant of the Shahada coming through the canvas walls.
“Allah-u Akbar, Allah-u Akbar. La illah ilia Allah… ”
The Libyan leader would soon be finished with the second prayer of the day. Thankfully, prayers did not take long. The veil that served as a door was pulled aside by an unseen hand and the Libyan colonel entered the room. His hands were clasped together as he gave the customary greetings the occasion required. With a sweeping gesture he then motioned outside and the ambassador followed him onto the ramp of the airbase, where the tent was pitched. The heat was building. Twelve new MiG-23 Floggers were lined up, a guard of honor. “Your government has been most generous. For this we pledge our friendship.”
The translator relayed the words in Russian, a formality, since the ambassador spoke Arabic.
“Always in the past our visits have been the touchstone of my day,” the ambassador said in Arabic, the signal for the translator to disappear. “Today this is not a pleasant occasion for me.” He waited for the Libyan’s reaction. The man could switch from reasoned calm to apparent irrationality in seconds.
“There are many problems we can solve together,” the colonel said.
“The problem is Comrade Vitali Morgun” — both men knew Morgun was the pilot Jack Locke had shot down. “The Americans know… ”
“But we have the body.”
The ambassador shook his head. “They know and are pressuring my government. It is a delicate situation for us—”
“How delicate?” An undercurrent of anger caught at the Libyan’s words. “He was flying at your insistence.”
The ambassador wanted to avoid that subject. He had, indeed, been directed to “persuade” the Libyans to accept a Russian pilot on every flight, the theory being that the Libyan pilots would thereby improve their shoddy flying skills. “We need to send the Americans a signal that our advisers have completed their work here. Of course… whatever we do will only be temporary.”
“I understand Russian ‘temporary,’” the colonel said.
“I assure your excellency that everything else will be the same as before between us. But for now we must start to remove our advisers in sixty days.”
The colonel said nothing for a few minutes — silence was a sign, the ambassador knew, that the colonel’s temper was building.
“Go,” he finally said. “And take your advisers with you.”
As the ambassador’s limousine drove off, the colonel waved his hand at it, as if ridding himself of one more infidel who one day, along with the U.S., would be very sorry. For the moment he might be delayed in mounting his vengeance against the Americans for bombing his country, but he would still retaliate if they should send F-111s against him. He would use the ordnance the Russians had given him… and his own people would just have to do without the Russian “adviser… pilots. No question, time was running out for both of them. Meanwhile, he would use them in every way he could, especially the Russians, who were so anxious to control his country. He would play one giant against the other, just as he had already done, and watch them move to their well-deserved destruction. And he would wave their bloody flag to win sympathy with the Egyptians and the Arab nations.
Thirty-two hours after the Pentagon had received the message telling of the Russian pilot, Waters and Blevins were in Cunningham’s office. The general glanced at the two colonels. Waters, he noted, seemed relaxed.
“I need your help,… Cunningham began. “I’m getting signals that the political situation in North Africa is heating up thanks to Grain King and that Russian pilot. I need to reassure the Egyptians that the 45th is there for their benefit and do all possible to calm the situation. You were there. Ideas?…
Blevins ran through his mental organization chart of the Pentagon to locate the office that should come up with an answer for the general. He himself damn well was not going to touch the thing.
“General Cunningham,… Waters said, “I dealt with the Egyptians when we transferred the 31st’s F-4s to them in 1980. Pride is a very big thing with them. They probably believe they should have flown the scramble, not us. I suggest you have our air attaché approach his counterpart in Egypt with apologies and try to work out a way to integrate our alert birds into their air defense system for the western half of Egypt….
“You’re suggesting we put our birds under the operational control of a foreign command?”
“We do it for NATO now, sir. We’ll be facing the Libyans, not the Israelis. And… if the Egyptians have found out about the Russian pilot, they’ll read a Soviet presence as a Libyan reaction to our base in Alexandria South, which it probably is.”
Cunningham was impressed with Waters’ thinking. Okay, Muddy Waters, he decided, you’re on the team… “When will you be finished with the report?”
“I’ll have the RC-135 section done in three days,” Waters told him. “I need to talk to the lieutenant that did the translating and is a Middle East expert to fill in some blanks.”
The general nodded and looked to Blevins, who was seething. It was going to take him two weeks to write the part on the Watch Center and coordinate it through the staff. He didn’t like Waters’ driving his schedule. He remembered General Beller’s words: “Keep Cunningham off Intel’s back on this one… ”
“Sir,” Blevins hedged, “it’ll take me longer than that. The situation in the Watch Center was more complicated than at the 45th or in the RC-135.” Cunningham was drumming on the desk with one finger. “By the end of the week, no later… ”
Cunningham stopped drumming. “Just get the report to me,” he said, dismissing the colonels.
After they had gone he sat behind his desk brooding over another problem that was troubling him — shoving the Egyptians and the 45th onto a back burner for the moment. He buzzed for his aide. “Dick, I was looking at the Combat Status Reports last night. I think some of our wing commanders are inflating their combat capability. Have the Inspector General start looking for that. The first one that gets caught rating his wing a one when they’re not gets the can. All right, Dick, get it into the mill.” And he told himself, I’ve got to know the real combat capability of my wings. Goddamn, a one tells me you can go to war and take on the enemy — if you can’t do that, tell me so I can fix it.