broadcast to the whole world of his case, when in fact the CINC had already told him that he would give him the reserve when he wanted him to have it.
? It’s always good to talk with John, even when cigar smoke, like now, hangs from the ceiling down to maybe a foot off the floor. We don’t see everything the same way, but our perceptions and views are complementary. I have it easier than John does. My problems are shot-down planes, which targets to hit next, getting the ATO out on time, and the evening meeting with Schwarzkopf.
John’s biggest problem is the wunderkinds — people like Gus Pagonis, the Army’s logistics wizard, or Fred Franks, a genius at fighting armor (and there are others). All are superstars, the best at their professional role. Each appears to think that his is the most important role in the war, that he is the one person who’ll be responsible for winning the war, and they each play a key role. Major General Gus Pagonis was a special challenge. On the one hand, he was everywhere, solving huge problems — working miracles moving the two corps to the west, while keeping them resupplied with food, water, and fuel. On the other hand, he had an ego as large as George Patton’s. If anything he was involved with was going good, he made sure the CINC knew it; and if anything was going bad, he told John just before the CINC found out and called.
After we talk for a time, I lie on my back under the blue haze with a bowl of cold cereal on my chest. John is in a chair, and we both watch some heroic reporter on TV describe his narrow escape from last night’s Scud attack. God, what guts!
Shortly after 0600, we both leave.
? 0605 I am ashamed to admit it, but I am wearing a bulletproof vest and carry a 9 mm pistol under my fatigue jacket.
It is cold and clear as I walk the dark path from my apartment building past the small shops that had housed the barber, cleaners, and recreation services before the fighting started seemingly years ago. As I reach the hole in the ten-foot-tall cinder-block wall that divides the USMTM compound from RSAF headquarters, I speak to the guards so they won’t shoot me in the dark. By now we have an RSAF and USAF military policeman at every checkpoint. That way, each side knows what is going on. (For the most part, our two peoples have been working well together and bonding.)
A path has been worn in the desert sand from the hole in the wall to the covered car-parking area behind the RSAF headquarters. Because the dining hall vents are located nearby, you can smell the pleasant odor of food. Meanwhile, cats are busy rummaging through the dumpster for the remains of last night’s dinner. Hope they like chicken and rice. They don’t have much other choice.
? 0610 I walk upstairs. After I enter the building, the mosque is on my right. Early prayer is in session, but attendance is low, since most are at their duty stations. You can tell how many are at prayer by counting the boots and dividing by two.
I walk down the pink and green marbled hall and take the elevator up to the third floor and my office. The night clerk tells me that there is nothing hot on my desk. Whatever else is there, George Gitchell, my chief of staff, will want to see first, so he can make sure it is thoroughly staffed before I sign or okay it. I go into my office, hoping a letter from Mary Jo came in during the night. But no such luck. You live for mail from home, and sending letters without postage is truly one of the most appreciated perks in this war.
I take off the fatigue jacket, pistol, and bulletproof vest and stow them in my desk. Then I pick up the “Read File,” go to the stairwell, and descend the four flights to the basement.
? 0625 I walk down the basement corridor — bare cement with guard posts roughly every hundred yards — past the computer room. Things are quiet there for now. A few airmen are sitting at consoles typing in the routine events that appear in the ATO; technicians are working on terminals that need fixing. After that comes a room that is used in peacetime as the RSAF command post but has now become the area where they do administrative communications with their bases. Next there’s a small makeshift plywood and curtained shelter in the hall where the airlifters have a small office that’s used to coordinate the TACC with the Airlift TACC, which is still upstairs in tents on the parking lot. There just isn’t enough room to collocate them together. Upstairs, they plan and publish the ATO for airlift — primarily those C-130s that are now busy moving the XVIIIth and VIIth Corps to the west, landing on desert strips and highway — an untold story.
I enter the TACC and stop at the Air Rescue Coordination Center to check on downed pilots. No bad news. In fact, the news is almost good: an A-10 pilot previously listed as MIA has turned up in Iraq, as shown on CNN. It’s not good that he’s a POW, but it’s better than being MIA.
I stop to talk with people along the way to my place, to see how things are going. Nothing much to report.
When I reach the commander’s table at the front of the room facing the big-screen display, Tom Olsen is sitting in my chair, and Mike Reavy and Charley Harr are to his left. They are probably discussing a request to divert an F-16 package to another target.
I stop by Intel, but there is nothing exciting on their displays. I don’t stay long there, as they are working feverishly to finish some viewgraphs they will use in the changeover briefing at 0700.
Meanwhile, the room is full, because both shifts are there. People are explaining what has been going on and what needs to be taken care of as the day progresses. The night-shift people, who will be back in eleven-plus hours, are looking forward to getting out of the basement and into the open air and riding the bus back to Eskan Village and bed. They will probably stop for breakfast at either the RSAF or the village mess hall before they turn in.
Before I take my place, I look over the “doofer book”—the log — a plain notebook with a green hard cover that is always left on the commander’s table. The only thing I find is a debrief from the F-16 LANTIRN pilots who were orbiting eastern Iraq when the Scuds were shot at Riyadh last night. There had been a low overcast, and the missile came roaring up out of it about fifteen miles to their south. Though they tried to work down through the weather to look for the mobile launcher, the cloud bases were too low for them to muck around under. They never have much time, since the Iraqis pack up their launchers and get the hell out within ten minutes of their shoot. It is frustrating for all of us.
? 0700 By now all the national leaders have wandered into the TACC and are sitting around the small table behind my chair.
The U.S. Navy is represented by Rear Admiral (lower half) Connie Lautenbager and Captain Lyle Bien (called Ho Chi Minh by all), the USMC is represented by Colonel Joe Robbin, the Army BCE cell is fully manned, and of course there are too many Air Force people to name.
It is very crowded, with the generals and colonels getting seats on a first-come, first-seated basis. I face the room, and the formal briefings begin. From the get-go, I’ve tried to make sure they all feel they can speak up at any time. There is no limit to the good ideas a group harbors; the problem is to get everyone to speak up and share their views. At the same time, we don’t want rambling conversations. The briefings have to be over fast so people can get to work or go home, as the case may be.
The weather briefing is short. It’s either going to be good or not so good. But we will go regardless, changing targets based on what we can get. The weather briefer is usually a young lieutenant or captain, and he gets a lot of barbs thrown his way. If he has no sense of humor, he is dead meat. It helps to loosen up the room.
In their formal briefing, Intel gives BDA from yesterday, unusual events, thoughts about Iraqi air defenses or Scuds, or whatever is the hottest button. We might even get some news about events outside the war zone, such as peace initiatives by Iraqi foreign minister Tarik Aziz in Russia. (Question: How did he get out of Baghdad? Answer: He took a car to Iran and caught a commercial flight.) Sometimes the national leaders will ask questions, but not wishing to seem impolite or ungrateful, they leave the barbs at the briefers to me.
Next comes a run-through of logistics and communications, paying special attention to munitions and fuel reserves, aircraft status, and unusual transportation problems. Rider and Summers have done such a good job that they anticipate and fix problems before they become serious. It also sure helps to be fighting a war on top of most of the world’s oil supply and to have giant refineries operating near the bases.
Though the B-52s at Jeddah are eating munitions at a fantastic rate, Jeddah is fortunately a large port, so
