“Tell me about Childs.”
“Don’t let his squeaky voice mislead you, sir. He’s competent as hell. Oh, I’d like his escort officer, Lieutenant Carroll, to come along. He’s been involved in this from the get-go. He’s my expert. He also keeps his mouth shut and can think.”
The general nodded. Waters’ style of leadership, he realized, was different than his, but the results were in front of him — a well-executed Technical Agreement.
Group Captain Childs’ entrance into Cunningham’s office combined convention and showmanship. He had deliberately selected an old but well-tailored uniform that he wore with dignity and authority. It represented the traditions and lineage of the Royal Air Force. His hat was tucked under his left elbow as he walked quickly up to Cunningham’s desk and snapped a British palm-forward, open-handed salute.
The general was not fooled. He knew what Sir David was up to, had half been expecting it. He returned the salute, stood up and shook hands with Childs. Cunningham knew the force disposition of the RAF to the last man. He also appreciated how the tightly knit organization could fight and how little short of decimation could take an RAF squadron out of action. Training, tight organization and a tradition of professionalism did much to offset its small size. Childs had managed to remind the general of all that by simply wearing the right uniform, and wearing it the right way.
Both men played their roles, understanding that they were committing their governments to a mutual endeavor that could take them both into war in the Middle East. Childs had a sense of history that few U.S. officers or politicians could equal or appreciate. The lessons of two world wars were not lost on him, and he had negotiated his government into a position based entirely on implied agreements. Her Majesty’s government was under no obligation other than allowing the Americans the use of Stonewood. The British still had the flexibility to apply pressure on the Americans, increase their own involvement or withdraw.
During the casual conversations and low-keyed meetings Childs had in the Ministry of Defense before coming to Washington he had been shown a scenario remarkably similar to Carroll’s. The British politicians appreciated the financial and political implications of that scenario and were aligning their slender resources to maintain a semblance of stability in the Persian Gulf. But they needed help from the United States. They also had no illusions about the U.S. developing a decisive foreign policy for that part of the world that would be certain to last through successive political administrations. Among other things, they understood the trade-offs each U.S. President had to make between Israel and Saudi Arabia.
Cunningham was aware of the same problem and wished the U.S. would develop a consistent course of action in the Middle East. But experience had taught him that hope for a coherent strategy was a pipe dream. His solution in the face of that reality was to create a wide range of military options for the President and have them available if the need arose to use them. He saw the 45th as a small, quick-reaction force for rapid insertion into the Persian Gulf.
As for the British, they were more than willing to bring the Americans into an active and decisive role in the Middle East, and David Childs knew he had an ally in Lawrence Cunningham.
After the formalities of initialing the agreement were over, the two agreed that the public announcement should be made at the earliest possible moment. Childs quietly mentioned that he would be the RAF base commander. Cunningham responded by naming a colonel from Third Air Force to be the interim wing commander until Morris could get in place. “He’ll be responsible for implementing our side of the agreement and can negotiate any problems through your team. I’ll send an advance party to back up our man. I assume your team will be in place when they arrive?”
“I’ll be at Stonewood within a week, sir.”
Sara had been at the Watch Center less than a week when she called Bill Carroll to ask if he had news of the brigadier general’s list, which had been released that morning. She could hear the anger in Bill’s voice when he said he would be right over with a bootlegged copy of the list. Muddy had already told Sara he wasn’t on the list, but the analysts were curious about who had been promoted. Expectations were running high for Tom Gomez. Don Williamson looked at her expectantly when she hung up and told him Bill Carroll was bringing over the list.
Carroll stormed into the Watch Center. “Let’s go into your office.”
“Bill, I know Anthony wasn’t going to be promoted; he told me last night. Sundown told him several weeks ago.”
He threw the list on a desk. “Look at what those shit-heads did.”
Williamson sat down on the floor when he saw the underlined name and Sara looked into a corner… Eugene S. Blevins had made his first star. Tom Gomez didn’t make it either.
“What’s surprising?” Sara said. “I’ve seen the Air Force promote men like Blevins before. He looks like a general and goes by the book, never makes waves, gets along by going along. Plays it safe, lets other people take the heat.”
A loud cheer from the main floor. Sergeant Nesbit stuck his head in the door. “Blevins got his star but there are no jobs open at the Pentagon that require a BG. He’s been reassigned to a general’s slot at Third Air Force in England, heading up Plans and Intelligence. By God, that’s an intelligent plan if ever I heard one. Is the U.K. far enough away? Hell, be thankful for small favors.”
Much lower on the list was a name they had missed — John Shaw.
On a map the distance from the ferry at Felixstowe to RAF Stonewood appeared to be about seventy miles, not so far, Jack thought. It also looked simple enough to find — go through Ipswich and Norwich, head west toward East Durham, then turn north. The base was located at the village of Stonewood just outside the larger town of Fakenham.
At the first traffic circle Jack took the wrong exit and headed toward London. After getting traffic circles and driving on the left sorted out, he finally found Fakenham. When he asked for directions he discovered he was not the first Yank that had been through the town looking for Stonewood. He was also at the wrong Fakenham and wanted the other one, forty miles to the south. He turned his old Dino Ferrari around and headed deeper into the East Anglia countryside.
After driving some thirty minutes along the narrow twisty roads, he was, he realized, hopelessly lost, which didn’t surprise him. His escape from Egypt had been nothing but trouble — two flat tires, a loose muffler and then a sheared gear in his Ferrari’s transaxle. Why should this be any different? After waiting twenty-four hours at Zee-brugge for a ferry to cross the channel, he decided his luck had to change. And after he got used to driving on the left he found his little car was perfect for the narrow, twisting lanes of East Anglia… He was lost, but didn’t care. The lush green of the countryside was a welcome change from the dryness of Egypt, not to mention the other problems he’d left behind.
His last weeks at Alexandria South had turned into hell as he waited for the court-martial that Morris had promised him. The lawyer the Air Force provided to defend him kept making reassuring noises that all charges would shortly be dropped. The cherubic-faced lawyer had beamed when he said the most Morris could hit Jack with was a letter of reprimand, nothing else, and that the wing commander was drawing out the pre-trial investigation just to punish Jack. After being grounded Jack had served as the squadron’s permanent duty officer and watched as Morris drove the wing’s flying program into a repetitious and dull pattern that stressed flying safety. He could only watch as the pilots and wizzos became like robots going through the motions of flying, not able to keep their fighting skills honed to anything like a combat-ready edge. He had left Egypt in a state of limbo, sweating out the looming possibility of a court-martial.