Cunningham was experiencing a rare feeling: contentment. It had started with a phone call from the National Security Adviser telling him the President was favorably considering his request for deploying a squadron of F-15s to Ras Assanya and wanted to discuss it with the general. The colonel conducting the early morning command briefing did not recognize the look on Sundown’s face as the results of the first Wolf mission were flashed on the screen. The man thought he was in serious trouble and was dismayed when Cunningham only grunted a curt, “Thank you.”
The next briefer was a colonel that Cunningham did not recognize. “Good morning, sir. I’m Colonel Charles Bradford, Office of International Affairs. The government of Iran has filed a complaint with the International Red Cross. They claim that we employed a secret terrorist weapon on civilians in violation of the Geneva Convention. At this point it appears that two of the Wolf Flight overflew an Iranian village at an extremely high rate of speed and very low. The location and time of the complaint match up with the egress of Wolf Zero-Nine and Wolf One-One. Reliable sources report the jet-wash damaged some structures, collapsed a radio tower and thoroughly roused the local population. There were also some minor injuries.” The colonel seemed to be enjoying the briefing.
“What’s so goddamn funny, Colonel?”
“This is the first known classification of jet fuel as a secret terrorist weapon, sir. We think it’s in line with all Air Force policies on cost effectiveness,” Bradford said with a straight face.
Cunningham, not especially amused, dismissed him and got to business. “Okay. I want max publicity on Wolf Flight, get the press looking at them while I try to get the President to come on line with a squadron of F-15s to fly CAP for the 45th. Emphasize the losses we’ve taken and make the Wolves look like heroes. The valiant band of brothers and so forth. Tell the JUSMAG to concentrate on selecting targets for the Wolves and keep them flying every night. And get an F-15 squadron at Langley ready to deploy.” The general left then, optimistic about his chances of getting F-15s into Ras Assanya within a few days. Of course he was also running the risk of escalating the war, but you always did that when you started shooting.
He motioned for his aide to join him. “Stevens, send a ‘well done’ to the 45th. Also check out a Colonel Charles Bradford of International Affairs. Tell him I want a briefing on the international reaction to our involvement in the Persian Gulf this afternoon.” Another candidate for Cunningham’s inner circle was about to be tested by the general.
The “well done” letter reached Waters’ desk one week later. The wing commander carried it into the Wolves nightly mission briefing and read it to the assembled crews. “Not bad. You’re starting to get people’s attention. But don’t let down, don’t get complacent. Tonight is your ninth mission and we’re hurting them. Keep at it.” Waters sat down to listen to the briefing. The familiar routine washed over him and he missed the details, thinking of how he was starting to sound like a football coach, pumping his men up at half time. He supposed it was necessary, but he’d damn sight rather be flying than sitting on the sidelines.
Five more to go, Mashur thought as he passed the three-hundred-kilometer marker on the highway leading deep into the desert south of Dhahran. Even in the air-conditioned comfort of his BMW, sweat laced his back and the palms of his hands. The same silver Mercedes was waiting for him at the kilometer mark, and the rear door swung open as soon as he stopped. With a supreme effort he covered his fears with a characteristic put-on of bravado.
“We want the daily frag order for Wolf Flight,” the man demanded, not hiding his meaning behind the intricate grammar of the Arabic language. “They have flown nine times against us and are like pinpricks that go deeper with every thrust.” The man did not reveal the full impact of the 45th’s Wolf operations. At first the PSI had discounted the attacks. But night after night they came back, never at the same time, always hitting a significant target. The total effect of the raids was cutting into the muscle of the PSI. “You will give us what we need to destroy them.”
“There is no daily frag order for Wolf Flight, only a long list of targets. I have not seen the list; to ask for it would be dangerous,” Mashur told him, hoping for a reprieve. “I am useful to you only as long as I am trusted—”
“Get it.” The man turned his head and looked straight ahead, his eyes invisible behind dark sunglasses. Mashur’s panic swelled, almost choking him as he moved slowly back to his car, his strutting gone.
The excitement Bill Carroll felt was contagious. “This is the best target the spooks have found. My God, it’s a targets officer’s dream come true.” He kept pointing to a building on one of the reccy photos that had been delivered that afternoon. “It’s a major headquarters near Basra. It’s the best target we’ve run against. Everything correlates, communications, location, personnel, the works. Hitting a headquarters is like ripping their brain out.”
Carroll would never learn the source of his intelligence or the complex Stealth reconnaissance program that had been ranging with growing confidence over the entire Middle East… A reccy flight would recover at al-Ubaylah in the early afternoon from a mission over Iran and taxi into an underground hangar. The entire camera package would be removed from an equipment bay and rushed to an underground Intelligence complex where its film would be removed and processed for evaluation by a team of photo interpreters. At Cunningham’s direction the same RC-135 that Waters had commanded would land at al-Ubaylah for a crew change. The latest intelligence from the RC-135 would be rushed to the Intelligence complex and correlated with what the photo interpreters were discovering. Another team would sanitize the information and photos by removing any hint of sources and by deliberately degrading the quality of the photos. By late afternoon, an unmarked courier, a small business jet, would land at Ras Assanya delivering the latest information in time for Wolf Flight to select its targets…
Waters studied the target now, trying to solve his dilemma. A message had come in the day before giving him permission to fly on combat missions and he wanted to do it before some general changed his mind again. But he did not want to preempt one of the crews and possibly damage the skyrocketing morale of Wolf Flight. Wolf Flight was proving so successful that Weasels would only fly as a wingman when a target was heavily defended. The E-model’s own RHAW gear was more than adequate to warn a Wolf to abort a mission, jettison his load and return to base. Of the thirty-six sorties launched over a period of nine nights only three had been aborted. The trawler was broadcasting attack warnings when the Wolves launched, and MiG-23 Floggers had been scrambled. But the PSI did not have the GCI coverage or a ground observer tracking net that could react in time to direct the Floggers onto the Wolves. Not too shabby, Waters thought.
“If any of you troops want a night off,” Waters said, “I know of an old man that would like to go along as a wingy.” Cheers greeted his announcement; they had all heard about the message.
“Whoever heard of a Wolf-Zero-One being a wingman?” one irreverent voice asked.
“Some people will do anything to fly,” another put in.
Waters bent his head in mock shame.
Thunder whispered to Jack. “He wants to go bad but he’s leaving it up to you.”