Wake waved a placating hand. "Yes, yes. I note that feature in the second paragraph. But as I said before, we can't simply wander into this thing with optimism and good intentions. We have ships in the Mediterranean and North Arabian Sea. We have Air Force units flying in and out of many of these places. And, I hasten to add, we have some U. S. citizens still under contract to the Saudi government in what amounts to a combat role. Now, I recognize the benefits of maintaining a regional presence and of keeping communications open through all possible avenues. But do we really want our people in a position to get shot at? Another Stark or Vincennes incident is a very real possibility. The domestic reaction alone could be… well, decisive."
Everyone knew what the Secretary of Defense meant. The election was a month off.
"All right," the president responded. "Ben's framed the big question. Do we pull our forces out of the region in deference to the political situation here? Or do we stay put, maintain a presence, and risk the possibility of getting involved in the shooting? It's no easy choice, and there are advantages and disadvantages to each in this evaluation." He flipped the paper.
"Mr. President." Secretary of Commerce Lawrence Janowitz spoke up. He was a short, stocky financier in his mid-fifties, an old political crony of Arnold's who could be counted upon to speak his mind.
"Yes, Larry."
"I don't like the idea of being seen as running for cover when trouble brews up. We might invite problems for ourselves by pulling out as well as by staying in the Middle East."
"That's exactly my point, Larry." Wake' voice was slightly higher than normal, his words nearly colliding with each other. "We need a clear-cut policy stated up front, before we have to choose from any number of possible actions. We need a starting point, that's all I'm saying."
"Well, how about a compromise starting point?" Janowitz replied. "Reduce our naval and air forces in the area to those levels. necessary to remind the locals that we can get involved if necessary-even though we don't plan to. At the same time we would be limiting the possible exposure of American servicemen to hostile action, but we're close enough to meet the evacuation criteria listed in the paper."
The president suppressed a smile. Trust Larry to find a bargaining stance that would appeal to both sides. Arnold glanced around. "Comments, anyone?" He looked directly at Wake.
"Yes, that's all right with me. But with reduced force levels in-theater our mutual support will be degraded. I would urge that we pull our people well back, beyond the likely range of hostile action-even by accident. At least that way we'll avoid most chances for mishap. As Larry says, we can jump in with strategic airlift or carrier aviation on very short notice, if need be."
"Sounds good." Arnold was pleased that a consensus was emerging.
"One other thing, though," Wake interjected. "We can't pull back our people in the Saudi F-20 squadrons like we can move our own ships and aircraft. Has there been any idea of what to do about those fliers still under contract?"
Arnold and Wilson exchanged a quick look. The president said, "Thurmon and I have discussed this matter. It's a ticklish point. The Saudi foreign minister has made it plain to State that he wants the U. S. and British advisers in this capacity to remain. Thurmon and I agree that to withdraw them would risk our current relationship with Riyadh, which remains fairly good. At least, it's the best contact we have with any Arab nation right now.
"Very well," the president continued. "We'll discuss particulars about ship and aircraft dispositions tomorrow with the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Let's move on to the next item…. "
PART IV
And the stern joy that warriors feel in foemen worthy of their steel.
Chapter 13
The jihad against Israel began in the predawn. And it was led not by Soviet T-72 tanks or supersonic MiGs, but by a twenty-three-year-old Iranian zealot named Omar Razlavi.
Omar was legendary to the crusaders engaged in the holy war.
He had come to prominence midway through the hard-fought bitter war with Iraq when, as a teenager recruited to fill the Ayatollah's ranks, he found his niche in life. At five feet five and 118 pounds, the boy was ideally suited to wriggling through barbed-wire entanglements, probing for enemy mines. The life expectancy of sappers often was measured in hours-sometimes in minutes-but Omar Razlavi thrived. He outlived his comrades by orders of magnitude until finally his division, which suffered 120 percent casualties in his first eight months-was renamed in his honor.
Moving out from his sandbagged trench south of Mount Hermon, Razlavi was armed with a plastic knife to probe for mines and a knapsack of fifty white-flagged stakes to mark them. Scrambling across the ground on all fours, ferretlike in his agility, the youngster felt completely at home. He had been doing this work for years and accepted as an article of faith that he was immortal. A grimy headband with a religious slogan testified to his devotion.
The Razlavi Division had moved into place east of Al-Kuneitra during darkness over the previous several nights, relieving the Syrian unit which usually held that portion of the front. It was considered a signal honor to lead the assault on the Golan, but the Razlavi Division expected no less. Most of the Iranian soldiers awaiting the jump-off signal fully expected to die in the next several hours; their imams had told them as much. But the Muslim priests also had promised that paradise awaited.
With infinite calm, Omar Razlavi probed the earth before him.
His plastic knife, unable to detonate a magnetic mine, struck something solid. The metal outline of instant death. It was a sensation Razlavi had experienced thousands of times. He had long since lost count of how many Soviet, French, American, and Israeli-manufactured mines he had located. He inserted a wooden stake with its white cloth next to the mine and continued forward, probing as he crept along. Behind him, his platoon leader watched through night-vision glasses, noting the path to follow as the hour of attack approached.
Nearly 500 meters to the west, another set of night goggles was in use. The Israeli sergeant carefully scanned left and right, taking in the green-tinted imagery of the Litton glasses. Catching a movement, he swung on the location and stabilized the device. After what seemed an interminable wait, the motion repeated itself. There… emerging from behind a discarded spool of barbed wire. The human form edged along the ground with surprising economy of motion.
Picking up his field phone, the sergeant called his command post. The sleepy young lieutenant who answered was mildly upset at being disturbed. He listened to the NCO's professionally terse report and consulted the area's topographical chart on the wall. With a routine phrase, the officer ordered the sergeant to take routine measures. These probes had gone on before, but now there was a way to halt them.
In eight minutes Omar Razlavi had reached the position shown on the lieutenant's map. The noncom opened the access to an electrical panel, flipped a switch, and the circuit closed.
Omar Razlavi's frail body was hurled into the air by the force of the explosion. The garish splotch of light ripped the night air and the Iranian platoon leader instinctively reeled away from his glass. The white light of the explosion strobed in the scope, temporarily ruining his night vision.
He knew that, at long last, Omar sat at the right hand of Allah. From the Al Biqa-the Bekaa Valley-which runs a hundred miles along the Syrian-Lebanese border-south to Mt. Hebron in the Golan, and on to Jordan, Araby massed its legions. Some thirty divisions of infantry, mechanized, and armored formations-plus supporting air, artillery, and special forces-were poised to strike. Including logistics troops, nearly two million men were engaged in the enterprise which began with crushing, single-minded violence.