Firebreak (15 page)

“There he is.” Shoshana had turned around and picked him out behind them in the stopped traffic. She jumped out and ran back to his car and piled into the backseat just as the cars started to move. By the time they reached the entrance to SwissAir, she had changed clothes and scanned the new documents. She was now Abigail Peterson.

“Peterson entered the country three days ago,” Avidar explained, “and Passport Control might have your old name and orders to stop you.”

Avidar carried her bags as they hurried toward the immigration counters. Three other late arrivals for the SwissAir flight were still in line and she caught her breath as Avidar dropped her bags and disappeared. When the last person in front of her moved away from the counter, she bent down to pick up her bags. She looked up into the deadpan face of the same immigration official who had cleared her into Iraq.

“Miss Temple,” he said, recognizing her immediately, “we’ve been waiting for you. Your passport and exit visa please.” He held out his hand, enjoying his power over her now that there was no Is’al Mana to intimidate him and Al Mukhabaret had issued orders to detain her.

“Of course,” Shoshana replied. She reached into her handbag and touched the Walther. Then her mind was made up. She clenched the pistol and glanced at the exit to her left. Just maybe she could avoid capture long enough to pass the combo pen off to Avidar. She would have to be the decoy to let Avidar escape. This was not the way she had planned to die.

“Passport!” the man demanded. He was staring at her handbag. Suddenly his head snapped up and he came to attention. “Sir!” Habish was standing directly behind Shoshana wearing his dark suit coat and sunglasses. He looked exactly like an Iraqi ape from the secret police and he was waving an identification card that established him as an inspector. Avidar had done his work well and the ID card was a perfect copy. The Iraqi was trembling.

Habish grabbed Shoshana by the arm and jerked her toward the exit. The force pulled Shoshana’s hand free of her handbag and the contents spilled on the floor. Habish kicked the Walther toward the counter. “You’re a fool,” he snarled. “She would have shot you and I should have let her. Now, pick everything up.” The man hurried to do as he was told. “Give it to me.” He took the handbag and rushed Shoshana through the exit leading to the street.

Avidar was right behind them with Shoshana’s suitcases. “Hurry,” he urged, “two real agents are at the counter.”

The Safety Investigation Board was convened at RAF Stone-wood in less than twenty-four hours after the crash. Matt was amazed at the efficiency of the base and the board in starting the investigation. The wing’s Safety Officer had guided him through the first hectic hours. Sensing trouble, Matt had asked for a lawyer, but the Safety Officer explained that the Safety Board took no disciplinary action and none of its findings could be used in a court-martial. The board simply wanted to determine the cause of the accident to prevent it from happening again. If the Air Force wanted to hammer Matt, it would convene and Accident Investigation Board to conduct an investigation and gather evidence independently of the Safety Board.

Seventy-two hours after the accident, the Safety Board had issued a preliminary report on the accident. While the report said the cause of the accident had yet to be determined, every experienced fighter jock knew what the final verdict would be—pilot error. And all eyes were looking directly at Matt. He gave up going to the casual bar in the officers’ club when he overheard a pilot and wizzo talking about the accident.

“You think Locke screwed up?” the wizzo asked.

“No way,” the pilot answered, “Locke was too good for that.”

The memorial service in the base chapel for the three men was a gut-wrenching experience for Matt. He sat alone at the end of one pew, avoided by the men of his squadron, and concentrated on what the chaplain had to say. Then a two-star general, Rupert Stansell, stood in front of them and delivered the eulogy. The general asked them to look at Locke’s life and draw lessons from his example. Stansell’s final words rang true when he offered a prayer: “Please take this man and judge him fairly, for he was among the best we have.”

The mourners gathered outside the chapel and waited. The roar of distant jets could be heard and three F-15s overflew the chapel in a missing man formation. Then three RAF F-4s passed over in the same formation, their roundels catching the setting sun. Matt had heard that a British air marshal, a Sir David Childs, had ordered the flyby. He looked at die high clouds that were turning from hues of pink to blood-red and knew that Locke’s influenced had reached deep. Not knowing what to do, he followed a basic instinct and sought out Locke’s British wife. He found her standing with friends, holding the hands of her two small children.

“Mrs. Locke, please accept my condolences …"He felt like a rigid fool.

The woman raised her chin and looked at him. Her eyes were dry and clear. She had done her crying in private. “Yes, thank you.” He knew he was dismissed and walked away.

Matt did not escape without hearing a muttered “He’s such an asshole,” when he crossed the street, heading for his BOQ room.

“Yeah, and his family will bail him out,” another voice said. “You won’t see an Accident Board on this one.” He recognized both voices and knew they meant him to hear.

A week later, the accident board finished their investigation and issued an interim report: Nothing new had been discovered and the cause of the accident would have to wait further analysis of the wreckage. Matt found that no one in the squadron would talk to him. He was in limbo. That afternoon he went to the Class VI store and bought a bottle of Scotch, determined to hang on a colossal drunk in the privacy of his BOQ room.

The next morning he walked into the squadron building, still feeling the aftereffects of the Scotch he had swizzled the night before. That’s not the answer, he told himself. He tried to sneak by the scheduling counter when he recognized the pudgy major talking to the sergeant on duty.

“Captain Pontowski,” the sergeant called. “Major Furry here wants to talk to you.”

Matt stifled a groan. Major Ambler Furry was the wing’s weapons officer, a distinguished graduate of the Air Force’s Fighter Weapons School, and Locke’s old backseater. Furry’s career stretched back to F-4s and he was one of the original cadre of the 45th who had served under Colonel Muddy Waters. Matt cursed his luck for being associated with legends of the Air Force. In any other unit, he could have sunk into welcome anonymity.

Furry pointed to an empty office and left the counter. Matt followed him. Normally, men built like Furry tended to waddle, but Matt noticed the wizzo had a rolling gait that shouted self-confidence. Furry closed the door behind them and motioned for Matt to sit down. “How’s it going?” Furry asked.

“Not good. You’d think I had a case of the plague that could be caught by standing inside fifty feet.”

“Sounds more like you’re still feeling sorry for yourself.” Furry didn’t wait for an answer. “Look, it’s always hard getting over an accident.”

Matt turned away and looked at the white wall board that still had the sketch of an air-to-air engagement on it. “I’m not sure I can fly anymore … I haven’t flown since the accident. I don’t even want to. I look at an F-Fifteen and I see trouble.… Hell, I’m not even sure what caused the accident.”

“I doubt if it’s a permanent condition,” Furry said. The wizzo had seen it before—matt was suffering a massive case of self-doubt. If he was to have a future flying fighters, Matt would have to find his self-confidence; the belief that he was the meanest, toughest, best fighter pilot on the block and any comers had best know it.

The pilot said nothing.

“I understand you haven’t been matched with a new wizzo. You want me in your pit?”

Matt couldn’t believe it. Locke’s old wizzo, one of his best friends and probably the best backseater in the wing, was now volunteering to be his wizzo. What was going on? then it came to him—his grandfather’s influence. Matt wasn’t going to have it. “Why?” he challenged. “A phone call from some general in the Pentagon?”

“You think I work that way?” Furry shot back. “Then fuck off.” He started to leave.

“Why?” Matt was confused. “I’ve got to know.”

Furry stopped. “I was talking to Jack the day before the accident. He said you were one damn good stick.” Furry paused, recalling the conversation, controlling the emotion he felt. “He claimed you’re a rerun of him and living proof of what the Tactical Air Force is all about.”

“And what’s that?” Matt asked.

“Fighting and fucking, everything else is a surrogate.”

“Colonel Locke said that?” Matt was incredulous.

“It’s not original but yeah, he said that.” A rueful look played across Furry’s round face as he thought about his old friend. “There’s one other thing I can’t get past—Jack wouldn’t have picked you to fly as number two with Ramjet Raider along if he had any doubts about your ability.”

“But why take a chance on me? Hell, like I said, I don’t know what happened up there and everyone is saying I caused the midair.”

Furry’s face was impassive. “I don’t think you did.”

“Mr. Fraser,” Melissa called, stopping the President’s chief of staff as he hurried past her desk. “B. J. Allison called ten minutes ago and asked for you to call her immediately.”

A worried look flicked across Fraser’s face and he glanced at his watch. It was 6:32 in the morning. “What does she want so early in the morning?” he grumbled to himself and scurried into his office. Barbara Jo Allison was well known to be a night person, often working till four in the morning and then sleeping until noon. She would be at her bitchiest if she had been working all night.

Melissa saw the telelight for one of Fraser’s private lines flash on her com panel. Fraser had left strict instructions not to interrupt him when that light was on. The light was still flashing six minutes later when the President called. “Melissa, don’t you ever go home?” Pontowski asked. The warm humor that always floated underneath the surface whenever he talked to her was still there, enchanting her.

“I just got here, sir.” It was a lie. She had been at work for over an hour. For her troubles, she was paid $53,000 a year, had no private life, and never had time for a vacation. She could feel the first twinges of cynicism sour her personality as menopause approached, and she realized she would never have a family. Yet, when she was honest with herself, she admitted she would have it no other way. Melissa Courtney-Smith loved Zack Pontowski and had long ago given him her loyalty, willingly devoting her life to his career. When she was younger, she often indulged in a fantasy that included her body in that devotion. But that fantasy had been laid to rest years ago. Part of Zack Pontowski’s appeal was his faithful loyalty to his wife.

“Is Tom around?” Pontowski asked. “He’s not answering his line.”

“He’s in his office, sir. He often turns the bell off when he’s working. He probably didn’t see the light. I’ll get him.” It was a minor snafu, the kind that Melissa often handled—smoothing out communications in a busy office. She didn’t hesitate and walked directly into Fraser’s office to tell him that the President was calling him on the direct line to his office. She deliberately did not knock, curious to see what was distracting Fraser.

“Damn it, B.J., I’m doing what I can …” He was still talking on the phone, his back to the desk.

“Excuse me, sir.”

Fraser whirled around in his chair, furious at the interruption. Melissa pointed at his intercom panel. The light for the direct line to the President’s quarters was flashing. “The President.”

“I’ll call you right back,” he said and cut off B. J. Allison. Melissa closed the door as he glared at her.

Now what was that all about? Melissa thought. That’s the third time this week Allison has called him.

Ambler Furry was not impressed with Matt’s mission brief for their first single-ship, low-level mission. “Is that all you’ve got?” he asked.

“Yep, let’s go do it,” Matt answered, glad to see they had plenty of time for him to get a cup of coffee and relax in the crew lounge before the flight. He also wanted some time to screw up his courage and drive his self-doubts back into the shadows.

“Let’s get a cup of coffee and then let me show you how I’d brief the mission,” Furry said. It was not a request.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit stupid to go through the entire briefing guide just for a single-shipper? We both know what we’ve got to do and can talk about it in the air.”

Furry grinned at him. “If it’s stupid but works, it ain’t stupid.” Matt started to protest, but Furry just grinned. “That’s one of ‘Furry’s Rules for Survival.’ ”

“‘Furry’s Rules for Survival’?” The pilot was intrigued.

“I’ve got a whole list of ‘em.”

“What’s the first rule?” Matt asked. He liked the wizzo’s way of thinking.

“Never forget your jet was made by the lowest bidder.”

“Okay, forget the coffee. You brief.”

For the next twenty minutes, Furry machine-gunned Matt with procedures, techniques, options and what ifs. When they walked out of the briefing room. Matt knew that he had a hard-nosed professional flying in his pit who probably knew more about how to handle the sophisticated, multilayered systems in the Eagle than anyone he had ever met. “You make it sound so simple,” Matt told him.

“The important things are always simple.”

“Is that another one of your rules?”

“Yep. But it’s got a tough partner—the simple things are always hard.”

From the moment Furry stepped off the crew van that delivered them to the hardened concrete bunker that sheltered their aircraft, Matt could sense a change in the wizzo as he neared the F-15—his easygoing demeanor disappeared, his step quickened. Then Matt realized he was teamed with a professional killer, a man more than willing to enter the combat arena, risk his own life, and purposefully bring death and destruction on an enemy. Matt felt a sense of purpose settle over him as he started his preflight. He wanted to do it right.

“This is one healthy jet,” Matt said. They had just come off a tanker after an air-to-air refueling and were letting down for a second low-level run. On this run, they would head south, working their way through the hills of northern England and onto an RAF range that sported a host of simulated Soviet air defenses. Their job was to get through a ring of simulated antiaircraft artillery (AAA, or triple A) and surface-to-air missiles (SAMs) that were backed up by very real radars and electronic jamming. Once through the defenses, they were to drop an inert laser-guided bomb on a mock-up of a Soviet command bunker.

“All systems are go,” Furry told him. “Couple the TFR to the autopilot.” Matt did as the wizzo suggested and set the clearance limit for five hundred feet for the low-level run. Deep inside, he did not trust the Terrain-Following Radar. Gingerly, he relaxed his hold on the stick, ready to “paddle” the autopilot off and hand-fly the jet. “Come on,” Furry groaned, “five hundred feet ain’t low. Take it down to at least three hundred. Nice picture on the Navigation FLIR.”

Matt chanced a glance at his left Multi-Purpose Display (MPD) video screen where he had called up the Navigation Forward Looking Infrared picture coming from the LANTIRN (Low-Altitude Navigation and Targeting Infrared System for Night) pod slung under the right intake. The same pod also held the Terrain-Following Radar (TFR). The pod under the left intake carried a laser and a FLIR for targeting. Together, the two pods made the F-15E into the true all-weather, nighttime, dual-role fighter that had ruled the skies over Iraq. The infrared picture coming through the nav pod was almost as sharp as the visual picture he was seeing through the HUD (Head Up Display). It was very reassuring.

Then Matt looked at the right-hand MPD, where he had called up the TFR. The E scope presentation checked perfectly with what he was seeing on the Nav FLIR and through the HUD. Furry was trying to remind Matt of what the F-15 could do and rebuild his confidence after the crash. “Come on,” Furry urged, “take her down. We got to get into the weeds if we’re going to get onto the range undetected.” The TEWS, or Tactical Electronic Warfare System, started to chirp, warning them that an acquisition radar was sweeping the area.

“Amb, I don’t know about the TFR down this low. If it fails …”

“Then we’ve had a very bad day,” the wizzo growled, “use the goddamn feature or someone
will
guarantee we get our asses hosed down.”

“Jesus H. Christ, Amb!” Matt protested. “This is only a training mission.”

“Train like you’re going to fight,” Furry snapped.

“Real original. Is that one of your ‘rules'?”

“Damn right” was the only reply from the rear cockpit.

Matt set the clearance limit to three hundred feet and let the autopilot take them down. After a few minutes, he started to relax and concentrate on other tasks. His trust in the F-15 was coming back. The TEWS was doing its job and they were getting early warnings of the hostile radars ahead of them.

At one point, Furry reevaluated the threats in front of them and reprogrammed their route, bypassing a heavily defended point and flying down a low valley. The Tactical Situation Display (TSD) that Matt had on his Multi-Purpose Color Display screen blinked and the new route came up on it. The TSD was a constantly moving electronic map that was synced with the laser ring gyro inertial navigation system and nav computer. The TSD showed them their current position and was overlaid with a wealth of navigation info. “We’ve got to get lower in this valley,” Matt said and lowered their clearance limit on the TFR to two hundred feet. Furry only grunted in satisfaction. Matt was amazed how fast Furry could bring the APG-70 radar to life by hitting the EMIS Limit switch, sweep the area in a mapping mode to update their position, and then tell him to take command of the radar for an air-to-air sweep. Within seconds, Furry would hit the EMIS Limit switch again and they would be back to silent running, their powerful radar in standby.

“I wish we could use the jamming feature of our TEWS,” Furry said. “That would water their eyeballs.” In peacetime the crews were only allowed to use the detection part of the TEWS and not activate the system’s jamming and deception circuits.

The chirping warning sound on the TEWS changed, becoming more insistent. “Airborne interceptors,” Furry muttered. “I’Ve got our position wired down to a gnat’s ass so when I hit the EMIS Limit, do an air-to-air search for bogies.” It was a crew coordination procedure the wizzo had talked about in the mission briefing. It went off without a hitch.

“Right on,” Matt rasped. “Two hits, on the nose, forty-two miles.”

“Probably RAF Tornados out of Five Squadron at Coningsby,” Furry told him. “I heard they were using the range.” A low laugh came from the back. “I know those toads. They’re good but the Fox-hunter radar on the Tornado ain’t worth shit. Try to sneak by ‘em.”

“Rog,” Matt said, feeling much more confident. He made a mental note to ask Furry how he knew so much about the RAF when they debriefed. Probably another one of his damned rules, he decided, probably something about knowing the opposition better than what your wife wants in bed.

Then Furry’s fengs started to grow. “What the hell,” he said. “Even if they don’t see us, let’s engage. A kill is a kill.”

Matt was feeling better and better as his self-confidence surged. “I’ll simulate a head-on shot with an AMRAAM at the leader and after it would have gone on internal guidance, I’ll take a head-on Sidewinder shot.” Furry grunted an acknowledgment. The more they flew together as a crew, less chatter would be needed and they would become much more efficient. The AIM-120, or AMRAAM, was their mediumrange standoff missile that was launched in a semiactive mode, homing on reflected radar energy from the F-15's radar. Close in, the AMRAAM’s internal radar would become active and steer the missile to the target, allowing the F-15 to disengage. By launching a Sidewinder missile at short range, the target aircraft would have to defeat a second missile. Only this one would be guided by an infrared seeker head. Life would have been very complicated for the Tornado if the missiles had been for real.

“I’ll blow on through and turn on the trailer,” Matt said, “and Fox Two him.” Fox Two was the brevity code for a Sidewinder missile. Furry grunted again. “Then I’ll close a Fox Three.” Fox Three was the brevity code for guns, their close-in weapon.

“No can do,” Furry said. “Without a face-to-face briefing before the engagement, the ROE say one turn only on a defender and no closer than one mile.” The ROE, or Rules of Engagement, determined just what they could do when engaged in combat. The ROE for peacetime were designed to keep fighter pilots alive.

“Rog,” Matt acknowledged. “Now.”

Furry hit the EMIS Limit switch and the radar came to life. Matt locked on the lead aircraft and simulated launching an AMRAAM. He keyed the UHF radio, transmitting on the frequency all aircraft using the range had to monitor. “Fox One on the northbound Tornado at twelve thousand feet.” Fox One was the brevity code for a radar missile. He waited, watching the two aircraft split on his radar, taking evasive action. Matt pulled up and into them. The track-while-scan ability of the Hughes radar gave him an awesome capability. When the computer gave him a signal that the AMRAAM would have gone on internal guidance, he locked on with a Sidewinder and simulated launching it. “Fox Two on the same aircraft,” he transmitted.

Now Matt searched for the second aircraft. He thumbed the Weapon Select switch on the side of the right throttle full aft. Three things happened: The radar went into an air-to-air supersearch mode and locked on the nearest target; second, the 20-millimeter cannon was selected or made “hot"; and third, the sight picture in the HUD flashed to a “guns” display. Matt looked through the small target designator box on his HUD. As advertised, he could see die target and did not have to search the skies for a “tallyho,” the visual sighting of another aircraft. He broke lock and zoomed into the sun, never losing sight of the Tornado. In the mission briefing, Furry had suggested that technique as a way to find the bad guy and then confuse him. The radar warning gear in the target aircraft should have warned the pilot that he was being tracked by the F-15's radar. When the signal disappeared, the pilot would be preoccupied with a visual search while they hid in the sun.

“Tallyho on the trailer,” Matt shouted. At the same time, he moved the Weapon Select switch to the mid-detent position that called up a Sidewinder missile. Again, the system did its magic.

“Tallyho the leader,” Furry said, much calmer. “Coming to our six, disregard him, we already killed him.” The lead Tornado was converting to Matt’s six o’clock position, eager to engage. But in reality, one of the missiles would have taken him out. In this game of cowboys and Indians, Furry figured this particular cowboy was dead and was going to ignore him.

Matt was still climbing straight up. He rolled and pulled his nose down, into a forty-five-degree dive, pointed directly at the second Tornado. “That’s your one turn,” Furry cautioned. The one turn allowed by the ROE did not have to be made parallel to the ground but could be made in any plane. Matt had made his in the vertical. The distinctive growl of the Sidewinder came through their headsets. The cooled, infrared seeker head on the Sidewinder was tracking the target. The Lock/Shoot lights on the canopy bow came on. “Fox Two on the Tornado in a hard left diving turn,” Matt transmitted. He stroked the afterburners and continued his dive. The Pratt and Whitney F-100-229 engines responded crisply and they outran the Tornado that was at their six o’clock.