stationary Scud (using its synthetic aperture radar mode, SAR) or a transporter erector launcher (TEL) in transit (using its moving target indicator mode, MTI), the computer would recognize the target as a Scud or a TEL and alert the controller, who would then arrange for the target to be entered into the command-and-control system, and struck.
Between 1000 and 1100, I come out of the Black Hole and stick my head in the weather shop across the hall to get a detailed feeling about the weather over Iraq and our bases over the next few days. When you have a good sense of what might happen, then you better understand what people are telling you about what is happening. That is why you want to be close to the action, listen to what Intel and weather and logistics all tell you, and get a broad idea of how they reached their current solutions. So, for example, I would give the weather guys points of interest to look out for, as I described for them what I thought we would be doing the next few days. That way, they knew where to concentrate their attention when they looked over meteorological events.
After the weather shop, I hit the Marines and Navy rooms. These are built out of plywood and located in a dead-end hall next to the weather shop and across from the Black Hole. Now I am hungry and in a cookie hunt, and these guys always have some really good ones squirreled away. The Marines and Navy guys feel like part of the team and understand airpower, since most are pilots or weapons systems officers (or Naval flight officers, as the Navy calls them). I don’t spend long there, because I want to get upstairs, either to clean up my desk or get a nap.
? 1100 In my office three people are waiting to see me — Colonel Randy Randolph, my chief medical officer; Colonel Chaplain Hanson; and Colonel George Giddens, the “Mayor” of Riyadh for U.S. forces.
The doctor, Randy Randolph, wants to talk about inoculations for anthrax and botulism. He tells me what he thinks we should do with our limited number of injections and what the CENTCOM SG has put out for guidance. I go along with his advice, because he has his head on straight about everything else (from where to locate hospitals to which doctors and nurses to put in charge).
Colonel Chaplain Hanson, a Mormon, wants to know how I’m holding up, but I would rather learn his views about how everyone else is holding up. There are no surprises: we are pleased with the success we’ve had, but we are sick and tired of killing and having our guys shot down, and are all very tired and want to go home. It is good to meet with him, and he knows that I appreciate just talking about how God might be looking at what we are doing and about what he might want us to do — not that I believed we were any more important in God’s eyes than a sparrow. Nonetheless, these higher-level questions do rumble around in your mind, and this guy gets training, time, and money to think about such things.
Last is George Giddens. Schwarzkopf instituted a “Mayor” wherever Americans were stationed, so the locals could have a single contact point where they could address concerns and get problems solved. When Schwarzkopf asked the Air Force to appoint the Mayor of Riyadh, George got the job. He is responsible for the care and feeding of U.S. residents in his city, and he works with the local Saudi civil and military chiefs; he has done a wonderful job.
George is here today because he is having a problem with some of the residents at Eskan Village and is going to take action. (I don’t remember what the problem was — probably something like our guys were giving the Saudi guards on the gate a hard time, or else our guards were giving the Saudis delivering food and water a hard time, since anybody in Arab dress was looked on as a terrorist.) Since some of the troublemakers are Army guys, he wants me to know what he’s doing in case I want him to back off. As usual, he is thoroughly on top of things and will get the problem solved. It is a great comfort to have such a mature, thoughtful, yet disciplined Mayor running things in my name. If he were less capable, I might find myself caught up in his job. Even though it is important to the war effort that the various staffs and troops about town have hot food to eat and a decent place to stay, I really shouldn’t have to get into the hows and whens of any of that.
? 1145 In the small dressing room next to the bathroom Tom Olsen and I share behind our office, there is a stuffed couch that looks like the finest king-size bed right about now. I sneak in for a quick nap, while George Gitchell sits outside the door and screens calls and callers. In seconds I’m into a deep sleep, but I will wake up according to an internal alarm clock in my brain. I have always been able to wake up after whatever time I choose — fifteen minutes, thirty minutes, an hour, or 6:00 A.M. the next day. As it is, I will sleep between half an hour and an hour. After I wake up, I will go downstairs to lunch with the troops — another chance to find out what is going on and what they are thinking or worrying about.
? 1300 Up with cold water in the face and a toothbrushing to remove the remainders of the owl who slept in my mouth. I head downstairs to the Saudi cafeteria. The cook is an American Muslim who now lives in Riyadh after retiring from the USAF. Guess what fills my plate? You got it — grilled chicken, steamed rice with gravy, and boiled vegetables. It is tasty, but always the same. There is a salad of finely chopped, dark green lettuce mixed with finely chopped vegetables that might be green and red peppers, or might be stems of some exotic plant. Not so good, but keeps you regular. Dessert is usually a cake with crushed pistachio nuts on top. Water and a Diet Coke on the side.
I walk past the cash registers. The food’s on the house, thanks to the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. Now I search for a place to sit. I’ve got two criteria: (1) an empty chair, and (2) the people around it still have lots of food on their plates. Otherwise, when the general sits down, they will blush and mutter, “Got to go now.” No one wants to sit with me.
I like to hit different groups — sometimes lower-grade airmen; sometimes Saudis (they freak out when I sit down, but then get over their fear because they are curious); sometimes foreign officers or enlisted men; and sometimes my own longtime Ninth Air Force staff. I will get different information from each group. The longtime companions are the most open. They tell me what they
? 1345 Lunch is over, and I go back downstairs to the TACC, stopping by the computer room to check how the ATO is coming. I always have one question: “Are we going to get it to the units on time?” The answer is always “yes”; the reality is usually no. Colonel Rich Bennet, the one responsible for getting the ATO published after the Black Hole guys give him the master target list and packages, is pulling his hair out, because Buster wants to make last-minute changes that will screw the whole thing up. People are busy fat-fingering in the 100,000 details that go into any ATO — takeoff time, tanker orbit points, munitions, call signs, code words, IFF squawks, no-fly zones, fly zones, coordinating points, lines on the ground, air routes in the air. I get out of there quickly, as people are very busy and working at a frantic pace, and I hate computers.
? 1400 I sag back into my chair in the Current Operations section of the TACC, watching the AWACS picture — yellow icons streaming into and out of Iraq. One of our aircraft has been lost, and Jim Crigger has just filled me in on what they appeared to be doing and what caused the shoot-down. As always, I hate these moments.
As I sit there, weary, I let the noise and chaos of the TACC voices, announcements, reports wash over me — the sights and sounds of my war, not the war I experienced in Vietnam. There the action was intense — sweat running into your eyes from under your helmet, your head twisting and turning, trying to see everything, from the
