Suddenly, without knowing it, Anthony Waters was in a personal war with a fanatic whose new mission was the death of an aging, well-married American colonel.
The phone call from the dispatcher woke Dave Belfort first. The C-130 navigator stared at his watch, noting that they had been in crew rest ten hours, the minimum the regulations allowed. He staggered to the window and twisted open the wooden shutters, marveling at the beauty of the first touches of sunrise across the Aegean. The busy street below them that led into the heart of Athens was quiet in the early morning dawn, a rare condition. “Come on, Sid.” He shook his pilot, Sid Luna, awake. “A C-141 diverted into Athens for engine problems. We’ve got to pick up their passengers and get them down to Ras Assanya. I’ll shake out Toni and the others.”
An hour later the sleepy C-130 crew met the commander of the advanced party for the F-15 squadron going into Ras Assanya. “Where in the hell have you been?” the lieutenant colonel demanded. “We’ve got to get to Ras Assanya to receive and bed down twenty-four F-15s that are going to be landing there in eight hours.”
The C-130 crew was started by the short man’s barrage.
“Excuse me, Colonel,” Belfort said, “it’s a five-hour flight. We’ll get you there with over two hours to spare.”
“That’s not enough. It’s time you trash haulers earned your keep. Unplug your asses and get us in the air.” The lieutenant colonel then stormed out to the waiting C-130.
“I’d say that Lieutenant Colonel Rupert Stansell has more than a touch of the Napoleon complex,” Dave Belfort said, taking the man’s name from the passenger list.
“More like an Adolf, if you ask me,” Toni D’Angelo put in…
Five-and-one-half hours later the C-130 taxied off the runway at Ras Assanya. Much to the relief of the crew, the lieutenant colonel ignored them and stalked out of the Hercules toward the tall colonel wearing a flight suit waiting by a pickup truck.
Dave and Toni made the walk to Base Ops to file a new flight plan back to Athens while the C-130 offloaded. The dispatcher told them to expect at least an hour delay in getting the flight plan cleared. “The Arabs have been replacing foreign ATC controllers with Saudi nationals. The system is starting to bog down.” Toni shrugged her shoulders. C-130 crews were used to delays for many reasons. They returned to the Hercules and were sitting on the ramp in the shade under the wing when the first F-15 touched down after making a radar-controlled approach. “I thought fighters did overhead recoveries,” Toni said. An hour later the C-130 taxied out to take off as the last of the F-15s landed. They waited for a C-141 on final to land before they took the Active…
Captain Mary Hauser looked out of one of the small windows of the C-141 as the cargo plane taxied in, catching a glimpse of the C-130 taking off. The GCI controller from Outpost had been assigned to a new radar control post, Caravan, to furnish ground control to the F-15s. The Air Force also wanted her to determine if Caravan could be used as a cover for an intelligence-gathering operation. For Captain Mary Hauser — The times they were a-changin’.
The order lifting the stand-down from daytime missions came in that morning. A frag order detailing three targets for the 45th arrived by courier two hours later. General Mashur al-Darhali had also seen and copied the frag order that directed the 45th to bomb the railroad-and-road complex leading to the Strait of Hormuz. Intelligence confirmed the People’s Soldiers of Islam was shifting some men and supplies toward the south.
Carroll pointed out to Waters the PSI’s growing number of amphibious and assault landing craft. “This could mean a military buildup that will allow the PSI to use those ships to strike across the Strait of Hormuz right into Oman. Not only will that give them control of both sides of the Strait and the ability to seal it off, but they’ll have a beachhead on the Saudi Arabian peninsula.”
The frag order made overwhelming sense.
Stansell had insisted that his pilots be thoroughly briefed on the entire operation before they flew CAP for the 45th and the main briefing room in the COIC was filled to overflowing as the F-15 pilots settled in for their orientation briefing, eager to start flying combat. Jack and Thunder stood in the back of the room, listening to a fresh echo of their own words when they had first arrived. Now the refrain… “It’s the only war we got”… didn’t seem so funny to the two veterans.
The room was called to attention when Waters and Stansell entered and took their seats in the front row. But when Captain Mary Hauser stood to outline local Ground Control Intercept procedures and capabilities Stansell interrupted her. “Captain, are you to be in charge of controlling F-15s? We had expected someone more senior to be in charge—”
“I am a fully qualified master controller and have commanded units in the past, Colonel” — Mary wasn’t too surprised by this boring outbreak of old-fashioned sexism. “If my rank is bothering you, captains normally run radar posts—”
“I was thinking of someone with more experience.” Stansell’s face was going to red. “We’re the premier F-15 squadron in the Air Force. That’s why we’re here. Don’t you forget it.”
Jack couldn’t take any more of it, and Waters was about to bust. “Colonel Stansell, excuse me.” Jack spoke just loud enough to catch Stansell’s attention. “I’ve worked with Captain Hauser before. She’s the best GCI controller I’ve run across.”
“And what in the hell would an F-4 driver know about what makes a good GCI controller?” Stansell shot back. Heads pivoted toward Jack. Stansell now smiled indulgently and decided to administer the coup de grace: “Fighter aircraft don’t need a backseater.”
Jack returned the smile and lowered his voice, making everyone strain to hear what he was saying. “We” — he nodded toward his wizzo — “were being controlled by Captain Hauser when we got a MiG. I believe that’s one more than anyone else in this room can claim. I believe that’s testimony to her ability as a controller.”
A round of approval via applause and even whistles from the middle of Stansell’s own F-15 pilots broke the heavy tension.
“Off-hand,” Thunder said to Locke, “I’d say Colonel Stansell isn’t the most popular fellow with his own troops.”
The shrill siren-like sounds of cranking F-15 engines blended with the blunt roar of the F-4s. Crew chiefs hurried to button up the panels on the F-4s and marshal their birds into the taxi flow of the combined mission as the first eight F-15 Eagles taxied rapidly out of their bunkers, bringing their canopies down in a synchronized routine. Twelve of C.J.’s squadron followed, loaded out for SAMs and Triple A suppression. Another eight F-15s fell into place followed by thirty-six lumbering, bomb-laden attack F-4s. The last eight F-15s then taxied out, completing the strike force.