Stansell heard him loud and clear — and the underlying need for revenge.
Waters sat and listened to Jack’s proposed change in tactics for the Eagles and agreed with him about the early warning the trawler was giving the PSI. “We’ve got to slow down the reaction time of the Floggers or we’re dead in the water, pun intended.”
“Let’s get the Navy to come in and blow it away,” Stansell suggested.
Bill Carroll shook his head. “Maintaining the alleged neutrality of the Gulf is one of our major political objectives. The U.S. isn’t about to provoke a neutral, including the Soviet Union — at least they’re officially neutral so far. We need to jam the hell out of that trawler.”
Jack was on his feet. “Okay… what if a big, unidentified neutral ship with one hell of a jammer happened to show up when we launch and parked next to it?”
“Could work, but where are we going to find one of those puppies?” Waters asked.
“I know where, but I’ll need to go to Riyadh and talk to an old… acquaintance.”
Waters rocked back on the hindlegs of his chair, quickly running through what Jack had said, not wanting to delay his answer too long before the rivulets of doubt would form. “Why do I get the feeling that I don’t want to know any more?” he said, and smiled. “Take three days and see if you can get what you want. After that, get back here and lay it all out. You’ll probably scare the hell out of me but that’s what I get paid for.”
Jack thought for a moment, then: “Can I take Carroll here with me? Might get some use out of his subtle tongue.”
“Might as well. Bill needs a break. Now get going.”
Waters waited until Jack and Carroll had left the room. “Well?” he said to Stansell.
“You’re right. He is good. But aren’t you worried about what he’s trying to arrange in Riyadh?”
“A lot,” Waters told him. “But… ” He wanted to demonstrate to Stansell how he worked, believing the man could add more to the wing’s operation if he accepted his way of ordering and leading. “But I’ve got to take the calculated risk and trust him or word will get out that I’ve got the ‘disease of the colonels.’”
“The disease of what?”
“The main symptom of it is when you tell your troops to do something and then reject it after they’ve done it because it’s not what you wanted. Great for buying shoes but a lousy way to inspire trust and confidence.”
Stansell was beginning to understand why the morale of the 45th, in spite of its losses, was so high, and why young and promising pilots like Locke were more than willing to stay with the wing… Waters was one hell of an officer.
Jack and Carroll were shocked at the prices of the modest hotel they had found in Riyadh. After a hurried consultation they decided they could afford the cheapest double room for one night; then they’d have to find another, much less expensive hotel if they had to stay a second. Once in the room, Bill flopped onto one of the narrow, hard beds and dialed the number Jack had given him. His fluent Arabic proved to be the key, and Jack soon found himself listening to the cultured Oxford accent of Prince Reza Ibn Abdul Turika. Within an hour they had checked out of the hotel, been driven to the prince’s residence and ushered into separate, wondrously plush bedrooms.
A discreet knock on the door announced the prince. “Jack, my friend, I am pleased to see you.” Reza extended his hand. His soft leather loafers, slacks, and open-necked silk shirt were Côte d’Azure and not Arabian. “Please introduce me to your friend. My servants are impressed by his Arabic. It is rare for an American to have such mastery of our language as your Captain Carroll.” He led the two men into a large well-appointed lounge and indicated seats for them on divans around an ornate coffee table.
A servant wheeled out a covered trolley that proved to be a portable bar and proceeded to mix a dry martini for Reza. “You Americans have developed a most civilized drink with good English gin. It may be one of your more important contributions to the world’s culture.”
Carroll understood what the prince’s martini implied — he was Arab. Outside his residence Reza would act like a Saudi; only in the privacy of his home or abroad would he be the modern man. A slim, remarkably beautiful woman in tight jeans and a tailored shirt joined them and was introduced by Reza as his wife. Carroll wondered how in hell Jack had met this Saudi prince.
“You no longer, how do you say, have your hair on fire?” Reza said, smiling at Jack. His wife had asked to be excused, aware that her husband was turning to the purpose of the men’s visit.
“I guess the war can make even a flyboy grow up fast,” Jack said.
“And how is your black friend… Thunder?”
“Well, matter of fact, he’s busy planning our next mission. Otherwise he would have come along with us.”
“Ah, yes, your Wolf Flight is famous. Your American newspapers seem to believe you to be a new Lawrence of Arabia while they condemn our small war of survival. I suspected Thunder was a force behind your successful night missions. It’s too bad that all the resources of the 45th can’t be used against the People’s Soldiers.”
“Well, we figure we could do more if a Soviet trawler monitoring our launches was somehow stopped from warning the PSI that we’re coming. The trawler gives them time to scramble against us before we hit our targets.”
Okay, there it was… out on the table.
“Yes, Jack, I understand your problem. But as long as the trawler stays in international waters there is little that can be done about it. You understand we cannot compromise the status of the Gulf… it must not become a battleground. It has been an old problem with the Iranians and Iraqis, we dare not enlarge it… ”
“Maybe if we could borrow an oil tanker to act like an iron curtain around the trawler, something might be done about it,” Jack said, and then, speaking quietly, he laid out what he had in mind.
When he had finished, Reza nodded. “I believe I can arrange that. Jack, our way is different than yours and what you are asking for involves political exchanges. It is Byzantine politics. Think of it as a labyrinth with many passages we must go down at the same time.”
Reza could not, of course, tell them about his cousin who was passing on the frag order to the People’s Soldiers of Islam. The Americans could not be expected to comprehend the power struggles that went on in the Saudi royal family, requiring that Mashur be protected. At least, he thought, Mashur will be in England attending the Farnborough air show for the next few days. The Americans would also find it confusing that religious leaders in his country were crying for the Americans to be expelled… and under other circumstances he would also like to see them go… but he and those of more practical bent appreciated how much his country needed the 45th…
Two days later Reza’s small Gates Learjet deposited Jack and Carroll at Ras Assanya. Thunder was waiting with a pickup and drove them to the COIC, where Waters was anxious to hear about their trip.
“Reza has some Japanese friends who will be happy to even a few old scores. An oil tanker will be available when we get our next frag order,” Jack told Waters.
“Can we trust him?” Waters asked.
“Can we afford not to, sir?… There’s something else, Colonel. Something there’s no question about. We need to change the way we get out of bad-guy land and work on bagging a few MiGs. We figure it’s time to even the score.”
The first shrill whines of the starting engines jarred Jack out of his sleep. It would be the first strike since they had aborted with the F-15s. At first he had felt relief when the frag order came in two days after he and Carroll had returned from Riyadh. The targets indicated the PSI was again pushing at Basra, trying to break it open. But the United Arab Command was tenaciously holding, taking heavy casualties. This time the 45th was fragged against the transportation net in an attempt to freeze movement of men and supplies away from the FEBA, The Forward Edge of Battle Area — the front. But doubts were starting to build — was his plan too ambitious, was he relying too much on Reza? And if it was, and if he was… well, the thought of dying in a grubby little war helping the Arabs — as a group, people he didn’t particularly like — wasn’t one he relished. Still, he did like Reza, the only Arab he knew personally. Whatever, it bothered him sometimes that he was fighting for political goals old men in comfortable rooms had chosen for him. But then he remembered Doc Landis’ words at Mike Fairly’s memorial service: ending a small war before it became a larger, uncontainable war was what it was all about. And there was another thing, something very simple and deep: he wanted to hurt the enemy that had killed his friends. He wanted his revenge. But were the sacrifices worth the results? Only when he snapped the gear and flaps up on takeoff could he stop brooding and find his answer dropping bombs on a hostile target. It was simple then: them or us, kill or be killed.