“In one hour,” Wadi said calmly, “I will return. The first phase should begin two hours after that, unless I am mistaken.” He glanced around the room, as though inviting comment. “I am not mistaken, am I?”
“No, of course not. All will go as scheduled,” Jemal replied.
Wadi crossed the room in a few strides to reach his cousin’s side. He clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Excellent. And just to make sure, I will assign you to the missile station itself to look after the details. After all, who can I trust more with the sensitive assignment than my own blood?”
His cousin turned pale. “I am of more use here.”
Wadi leaned forward, and dropped his voice to a whisper. “You are of
His cousin trembled visibly, although no trace of discomfort showed on his face. Wadi silently gave him credit for that. “But the Americans — they will retaliate immediately,” he stuttered. “If I’m there…”
“If you are there, you’ll take the same chances as your men. You’ll be by their side, and Allah willing, you will be spared. Then again, if you were to perish today, you would take your rightful place in paradise. I can only envy you the opportunity.”
Wadi turned to his chief of staff. “My cousin is leaving.” His voice was pleasant. “Arrange the transportation immediately. I am depending on you to make sure my orders are carried out.” With that, Wadi turned and left the room. It remained silent behind him.
He walked out of the compound, past the armed guards standing duty at the fence, and headed for the desert. He was aware that he was not yet fully acclimated, yet he found himself with an overwhelming desire to test himself against the desert, to feel it suck the water from him.
He walked out into the desert until the station was just a blurred smudge on the horizon. He felt every care in the world sloughing off him as it receded, felt his soul peel down to its essence until he stood naked before Allah. He fell to the ground, prostrated himself on the hard-packed sand and dirt, and prayed.
Wadi lay facedown on the desert until he felt the still, cool peace descend over him. Then he rose, renewed, and headed back to the compound. He had work to do.
SIX
Lieutenant Brad “Fastball” Morrow slid the dual throttles of his F-14D back into idle, allowing his bird to slow as he turned into the northeastern leg of his combat air patrol (CAP). Morrow and his lead, Bird Dog, were flying a counter-rotating CAP along the northeastern threat axis toward Iran. Four such CAPs were stationed around
Fastball had joined the squadron just a few weeks prior to cruise and was still a “nugget.” The first thing anyone had learned about him was that he was a San Diego Padres fan — in fact, fan was too mild a word. If ever the beleagured team from southern California had had the perfect fan, it was in him. Fastball had a baseball shirt with Tony Gwinn’s number on it, and he could cite statistics and details of every game for the last ten years. He had compared flying the Tomcat to throwing the perfect fastball and the name had stuck. It was only with great difficulty that his squadron mates convinced him that playing baseball on the flight deck would not only result in a dinged aircraft and dangerous conditions, but that they would lose more balls over the side than could easily be replaced.
Fastball had been crushed. Somehow, he had gotten it in his head that it would be possible to form a battle group league and have teams from each ship ferried over to the carrier for games. No one had been able to convince him that as impossible as it was to play baseball on the flight deck, the smaller ships faced even more serious limitations.
Morrow checked the radar picture on his Tactical Situation Display (TSD), then clicked his mike. “What do you make of this, Rat?” he asked his RIO over the ICS.
Lieutenant Johnnie Davis had been watching several groups of aircraft forming up just about ten miles off the coast of Iran. The E-2C had told her of three separate groups: one group of four MiG-29 Fulcrums from Bandar Lengeh, and eight Su-24 Fencer-Ds from Chah Bahar. Four F-5E Tiger IIs were also airborne near Kish Island and circling. Two Iranian F-14As were circling far to the east, over Iran, probably providing AEW for the pending strike with their AWG-9 radar, she thought. The Iranian F-14s were already registering a feint return on her Radar Warning Receiver (RWR).
“I don’t know, Fastball. They did the same thing this morning, too, but then broke off at the last minute. It may be a feint to draw us in closer to their SAM range. They’ve got SA-2s all along the coast.” Rat focused on her Tactical Information Display, also called TIDs. She had selected the Link-16 data link, which fed radar information directly to her display from the E-2C via the JTIDS. The link tracks appeared as a small upside-down “Us” for friendlies and a upside-down “Vs” for hostile.
She then noticed the group had joined and had turned toward the picket destroyer,
CAP station two miles west of Tomcat 109
“Hammer, King, picture. Two groups, southeast Chicago, twenty miles,” came a monotone voice over the tactical comm. “Suspect second group are strikers. Both groups hostile, repeat, both groups hostile. Recommend commit.” The call was from the E-2C Hawkeye II airborne early warning aircraft circling near
“Hammer One, contact, your call,” Music responded. “Hammers committing.” Music checked his scope. “That’s it, Bird Dog. Let’s get ’em.”
“Hammers, committing bandits, southeast Chicago thirty miles. I’ve got four MiGs in-bound leading the strikers.” Music quickly sorted through the contacts with his powerful APG-71 radar confirming their formation, then called out a short target modification to the preflight brief. “Hammer Two, target trail group.”
“Don’t worry, Rat. I’ve got it under control.” Fastball jammed his throttles into full burner. The kick of the mighty F110s bumped her in the butt. She looked up from her TIDs for a moment considering Fastball’s comment. This new pilot’s arrogance was getting old fast. And Johnnie, as a rather diminutive female in what was still a man’s career, knew all too well what it was like to be on the receiving end of an attitude. But her demeanor usually kept her from acting on it. She didn’t expect to be treated special, but she was his senior, and she had two cruises under her belt. Plus, she was fresh from TOPGUN, which meant she knew a hell of a lot more of tactics than some “fresh-from-the-RAG” nugget. “Just watch the gas. Rats don’t swim well,” she finally replied.
