“That’s an old map that needs updating,” Carroll told him. “The neutral zone is now part of Kuwait. They stuck our deployment base in the middle of nowhere.”
With a pair of dividers Waters measured off two hundred fifty nautical miles and swung an arc on the map using the base as the center point. “Someone had their act together when they picked Ras Assanya for our deployment base. Our effective area of operations is the head of the Persian Gulf. And that at least makes us a significant deterrent to any would-be Alexander the Greats.”
“And a significant target,” Carroll said. “Sir David, our information is that British contractors built the base. Can you get us any pictures, plans?”
The group commander nodded. “You have a problem,” he began. “Base survival will be a major factor in the success of your operations out of Ras Assanya. You need to be prepared to deal with air attacks, commando raids and naval bombardment. Fighting for your base is something you Yanks haven’t done since the early days of World War Two.”
“How in the hell do we get our troops ready for that?” Chief Pullman grumbled. “Home is supposed to be safe.”
“The first step is to get everyone’s attention,” Childs said, and outlined how they could do that by staging a training raid on Stonewood. He proposed using four F-15s from Soesterberg in the Netherlands launching out of Stonewood to defend against attacking aircraft from NATO’s Tactical Leadership Program. “Once your people have seen what a well-planned attack can do, then we can teach them how to fight for their survival while they launch and recover fighters on combat sorties.”
“Well,” Waters said, “let’s get cracking. Time’s no longer on our side.”
Jack stood on the ramp with Morgan and Conlan, watching four F-15 Eagles taxi into the hardened bunkers near the squadron and noting the big black letters painted on the tails of the taxiing aircraft. “I’ve never seen the CR tail markings before. Who are they?”
“That’s the designator for the 32nd Tac Fighter Squadron out of Soesterberg in the Netherlands. Probably the best group of air defenders in the Air Force,” C.J. said.
“If they’re so hot, how come they’re so unknown?”
C.J. shrugged. “They don’t holler about it, they just do it. They’ve won the Hughes Trophy twice in a row. For an air-defense squadron that’s the same as winning the Super Bowl. They only have eighteen birds and are tucked away on the corner of a Dutch air base. For them, small is better.”
Ten RAF umpires now walked out onto the ramp and dispersed as the four F-15s cranked their engines for a launch. Six minutes later Stonewood was attacked as four thousand awe-struck Yanks straggled outside to watch the “show.” The F-15s slashed down on eight German F-4s that led the attack and treated the spectators to a tight turning engagement over their heads. While the F-15s were occupied, the first two Tornados overflew the flight line at two hundred feet, then dropped down to one hundred to egress the target. In rapid-fire succession sixteen more Luftwaffe and RAF Tornados attacked Stonewood. While the Tornados cleared the base, a series of single U.S. and RAF F-111s attacked.
An evaluator came up to Jack, told him he was dead, then marked a big X on the squadron’s door with chalk.
Suddenly the base was deathly quiet, and the four F-15s started to recover, low on fuel. An umpire surveyed the area. “Quick way to die. Yes?”
At the debrief of the attack in the main hangar a lone RAF officer took the makeshift stage in front of a screen and introduced himself. The first photo on the screen shocked the crowd into silence: it was a picture of a dozen charred bodies in a bombed-out hangar. “This is how this hangar will look in an attack. At 1406 this afternoon this was a functioning base. By 1417 twenty-four aircraft on a mass raid attacked and destroyed Stonewood.”
Against a series of computer enhanced slides of destroyed buildings that bore an uncanny resemblance to their base and scores of dead bodies, the officer tallied their casualties. “We estimate that seventeen hundred of you are wounded, of which three hundred will later die. Eight hundred of you are unharmed, and approximately two thousand are a problem for Graves Registration. You ceased to exist as a base.”
They believed it.
General Cunningham’s aide, Colonel Dick Stevens, reread the secret intelligence report from the CIA that detailed how the French had been given an F-4 by the Iranians and how two Americans had flown it against two of France’s latest Mirages. He drafted a short one-paragraph memo summarizing the report, attached it to the cover and sent it into Sundown’s office. Later that day Cunningham called his aide in. “All right, what happened?”
“Sir, it seems two of our people flew an F-4 against two Mirage 2000s flown by the French test pilot Paul Rainey and a Saudi Prince, one Reza Ibn Abdul Turika.”
“Who were the Americans?”
“Lieutenant Jackson D. Locke, the pilot, and Captain James W. Bryant, the weapons systems officer, both assigned to the 45th Tactical Fighter Wing.” Stevens did not have to tell Cunningham they were also the crew that had shot down the Libyan MiG.
“And the results?”
“Locke chased them out of the area, they never got a shot at the F-4. It ruined a Mirage sale to the Saudis, and the French government is furious. Not much they can do about it… The prince said that the American pilot turned out to be right, although he didn’t elaborate.”
Locke and Bryant… crazy bastards. Now they’d set themselves up for a court-martial because of the unauthorized flight for a foreign government… “You say they defeated the two Mirages?”
“Ate ’em alive, sir.” The aide kept a straight face.
“I’ll be damned.”
Which ended the interview. As Stevens was closing the door he heard an unfamiliar noise in the general’s office. It sounded like a series of sharp grunts and someone pounding on a table, followed by an ungeneral-like “shit hot… ”
A copy of the message ordering an investigation into the activities of Jack and Thunder while in France reached Blevins’ desk the next day. He scrutinized the short text, ignoring the detailed intelligence references and which office was tasked with the investigation… Well, well, Muddy Waters’ boys. Got you, you son of a bitch. He hit the intercom button to his aide. “Get me a car, I’m going to Stonewood.”
Blevins ordered his driver to go directly to the 379th when they got to the main gate, then proceeded without advance warning into Fairly’s office, slamming the door behind him.
Shortly, Lieutenant Locke and Captain Bryant were paged to report to the squadron commander’s office. Thunder sensed trouble and wanted to warn Jack. He had been waiting for something like this to happen, not able to believe they were going to get away with their freelance adventure in France. He asked the Duty Officer to call wing headquarters and tell them a general was in the building before he followed Jack into Fairly’s office.
Blevins started slowly, affecting a comradely attitude when he asked for an explanation of how they had come to fly an F-4 for the French. Jack caught Fairly’s near-imperceptible headshake, warning him to remain silent. But the question was exactly the one that Thunder wanted to answer and he started to relate the entire incident in a low and unemotional voice.
“Captain Bryant… ” Fairly tried to shut Thunder up, to let him know he shouldn’t talk about an unauthorized flight involving a foreign government. Before he could warn Thunder, Blevins silenced him and told Thunder to continue. After Bryant had finished, Blevins turned to Jack and asked if what the wizzo had said was true. Jack, deciding to back up his backseater, confirmed everything the wizzo had said.