“The Ayatollah’s current status?” the General demanded.
“Uncertain, sir. Either very ill, dead or his power base is slipping. The Iranian Communist Party, the Tudeh, are moving to gain control of the country and have requested help from volunteers who believe in their version of Marxist Islam. We’re monitoring a massive movement of Farsi-speaking Shiite Muslims from Turkmen in the Soviet Union and Afghanistan into Iran. They’re calling themselves the People’s Soldiers of Islam, the PSI for short, sir. Radio broadcasts from Teheran indicate the Iranians see this as a chance to win out for good over Iraq.”
“Goddamn, it’s happening.” Cunningham sighed. Bill Carroll’s scenario was starting to unfold. “Shit’s going to hit the fan in the Persian Gulf, no question. The Iranians have over a hundred fighters now, mostly MiG-23s, and are moving a quarter-million men into position to attack Basra.” His electronic pointer flashed on the map around the head of the Persian Gulf, outlining the Iraqi city on the border between Iran and Iraq. His mind was racing now… “The Russians have given them enough supplies to crack Basra wide open. If that happens the Iranians will have a clear path into the oil fields of Iraq, Kuwait and the Arabian Peninsula. We damn well can’t let Basra fall.
“Also, the Soviets are stockpiling supplies in Turkmen just north of the Iranian border. If those supplies reach the Iranians it’ll double or triple their capability and give them the strength they need to exploit a breakthrough at Basra. Gentlemen, we cannot let those supplies reach them.”
The general’s pointer moved down the map to the Strait of Hormuz at the southern end of the Persian Gulf. “At least there’s no buildup at the Strait opposite Muscat and Oman. But we can’t let the Iranians position troops and amphibious forces that can cross the Strait and attack Saudi Arabia through Muscat and Oman. We’ve got to keep the Strait of Hormuz open. Okay, here are our four major objectives if we’re to win this thing. First, we provide the Arab military alliance, the—”
For a moment Cunningham drew a blank, could not remember the name of the United Arab Command; he closed his eyes, forced himself to relax, and the name flashed out of his memory banks… You’re getting old, you old fart, forgetting stuff simple as that… “The UAC, the United Arab Command, we give them the supplies they need to hold the line at Basra. Second, we get the Rapid Deployment Force or the 45th into the Gulf to hit at the troop and supply buildup in front of Basra to take the pressure off the UAC, and they’ve got to keep at it until they get the job done. If any of those supplies in Turkmen move south into Iran, we hit them. Third, we strike at any military buildup at the Strait of Hormuz, prevent a flanking attack across the Strait into the Arabian Peninsula. Fourth, the Navy keeps the Strait of Hormuz open.”
Cunningham was rolling now… “We haven’t got a bunch of time. Get all this into an intelligence summary, send it to Navy, Army, and the 45th. Activate the War Room, Nesbit. Joint Chiefs of Staff only. Order the 45th at Stonewood to go standby for deployment.”
As Cunningham stomped down the stairs, the watch commander turned to Williamson. “How did he see all that before we did?”
The analyst shrugged. “I would say it’s because he’s a general and we’re not. Truth to tell, the old son of a bitch has always acted sort of nuts to cover his smarts. I’m glad he’s on our side.”
The guards at Stonewood’s gate were carefully checking each car onto the base. Jack noticed the gate guards were doubled and armed with revolvers and M-16s. When he saw them turn two dependents away he knew that the recall was not a practice. One guard stopped him and methodically checked his ID. “The base is sealed, Lieutenant. You won’t be allowed off until everyone has reported for duty and the recall is terminated.”
The squadron was in a turmoil of organized activity. The big portable mobility bins were being packed and Bull Morgan was strangely subdued. He pulled Jack aside. “This looks like for real. The boss has been at the command post for over an hour and the base is sealed up tighter than an old maid’s snatch. Minimum communications went into effect an hour ago, no outside phone calls except through the command post. Be back here packed and ready to move at six tomorrow morning.”
Chief Pullman did not have to raise his voice as he called the auditorium to attention when Waters walked in. “Seats, please,” Waters said as he took the stage. He looked at the packed theater. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, wondering if this was the last time he’d address the 45th Tactical Fighter Wing before Cunningham relieved him, “we’re on hold, waiting for a launch order to deploy to the Middle East. We’re not the only unit on alert, and the President hasn’t yet decided who will be sent into the Persian Gulf… From here on, everything I say is classified secret. If we launch, our destination will be Ras Assanya, an air base located on the Gulf. The transports will launch two hours before the fighters and one-hop it to our destination. Their job is to get the ground crews in place to receive the fighters. We will launch the fighters in flights of twelve, twenty-minute intervals between flights. Each flight will rendezvous with two tankers and go chicks-in-trail. I will lead the first flight from the 377th.
“When we recover at Ras Assanya, expect confusion, because we’re going in there fast. But I want the birds immediately turned for combat sorties. Load out the first four birds for air-to-air and place them on air-defense alert, even if that means the crews have to sit under the wings. Load the rest out for air-to-ground. Get your squadrons organized and be ready for whatever. I’m told there are quarters and messing facilities available but have no idea as to their quality or condition. Be flexible, stay loose.”
RAF Stonewood was normally an immoderately noisy place, resounding with activity. Now an unusual calm and quiet descended on the base as the last of the transports were loaded and the last F-4 towed into the launch lineup on the ramp, a freshly painted star still moist from its latest coat of paint. Muddy Waters stood with Jack in front of the squadron after the pilot returned from pre-flighting his aircraft, tail number 512, and like the rest of the wing, he waited…
3
THE WAR
The last of Waters’ flight came off the tankers while they were still over the Gulf of Suez in route to their base at Ras Assanya. Tanker lead had wished them luck, checked out and turned his flight of two KC-135s toward their recovery base in Italy, leaving them on their own. After calling for a fuel check, Waters broke his flight of twelve Phantoms into three flights of four, ordering them to take four-minute spacing between each flight. “Make it an overhead recovery, circling to land,” he radioed to his flight leads.
He anticipated a message to be waiting when he landed, relieving him of his command. I probably just made my last decision, he thought. The colonel turned his flight eastward, heading across the Arabian Peninsula. How easy it all seemed, he thought. So simple. Twelve months ago he had been the module commander of a reccy RC-135 orbiting over the Mediterranean and contemplating retirement. Now he was married, about to become a lather and leading the last attack wing of F-4s into what looked like a real shooting match. Things happened fast, he thought. Well, at least he’d had the six months Cunningham had promised him to get his wing combat ready. And the wing was ready, damn it, regardless of what the general believed and what the ORI said…