Firebreak (45 page)

“Goddamn flak trap!” Furry shouted, venting the intense pressure of the short engagement. “No radar warning on that bastard. Probably an SA-Nine.”

Great, Matt thought, they’re backing up Gadflies and the ZSUs with SA-9s. The SA-9 was a short-range SAM that used passive infrared guidance and was reported to be effective below a hundred feet. He keyed his radio, “Viper flight, secondary targets are flak traps. RTB. Repeat, RTB.”

“Border in nine minutes,” Furry said, getting back to business.

When they crossed into Turkey, the tension from the mission started to shred. Both men could feel it wash off them as they climbed to twelve thousand feet for the last sixty miles to Diyarbakir. Matt jotted a few notes down on his knee pad as he thought of them. “Hey, Amb, what was all this shit over Kirkuk about it being a piece of cake?”

“I lied,” Furry answered.

Johar and Samir were standing outside the entrance to the squadron watching the remnants of their squadron recover.
“I
can’t believe it,” Samir said, his eyes glued to the
wall
of flames and smoke on the runway. “One bomb
did all
that.”

The lone GBU-24 had hit the runway at the halfway mark, blasting a deep crater thirty feet across. Frag from the bomb had reached out over a half mile, killing people and destroying trucks caught in the open. Two Flankers had also died in the blast. One was rolling out after touching down and its tail had been blown off before it exploded. The other Flanker had been on short final and had taken the full force of the blast head-on and had pitched into the ground, spreading wreckage and burning fuel along two thousand feet of runway.

The two Iraqi pilots were silent as a Flanker touched down on the unpaved surface that paralleled the main runway. They dissected the landing with a professional eye, appreciating the Soviets’ near-fanatical obsession with designing aircraft that could take off and land from poor surfaces. “That’s the last one,” Johar said. “I didn’t see Mana land. Think he bought it?” Samir shrugged. Neither felt any great sense of loss.

Samir couldn’t take his eyes off the flaming runway and the wreckage of the two Flankers. “You think they’ve got some new type of smart bomb?”

“Maybe,” Johar allowed. “Or it was a golden BB.” A hard edge clipped his words. The two pilots incinerated on the runway had been his friends. “Only two made it back,” he said. His eyes squinted and his jaw hardened as a burning desire for revenge consumed him. He wanted to even the score.

When the crews had finished debriefing intelligence, they straggled into the office at the back of the hangar at Diyarbakir that had been turned into a makeshift command post. Most of them sat on the floor against the wall and drank Cokes or coffee while Martin paced the floor like a caged tiger. One of the radio operators in the next room looked around the corner and told him that Duster, the RC-135, was coming in to land. “It must be important if it’s landing here,” the colonel mumbled. He ordered the security team that had deployed with them out of Stonewood to establish a perimeter guard around the highly classified aircraft when it parked.

“What the hell is going on?” Martin barked. “That was a fuckin’ milk run.” Matt shot Furry a look, wondering how the veteran wizzo would react to that pronouncement. Furry’s face was impassive.

“If that was a milk run,” one of the pilots mumbled, “I don’t want to see the real thing.” Matt agreed with him. The mission had been much tougher than the attack he and Furry had flown against the Syrian First Army in Lebanon. The Iraqis had learned much from the Kuwait war.

“Okay,” Martin said, “let’s get to it.” For the next few minutes, they recaptured the mission, discussing results and what had gone wrong. It looked like they had hit and destroyed the nerve gas facility as planned. “Let’s hope the recce pukes confirm the BDA you’re claiming,” Martin said. He knew how overenthusiastic crews could be in reporting bomb damage assessment. “Fumble Nuts”—he turned to Matt—“did you get a bomb on Mosul?” Matt told him yes, but that the results were unknown. Then he described the flak trap he and Furry had run into as they approached the base. Martin was nodding his head.

“Calling Off the secondary attacks was a good decision,” he said. “Obviously, they’ve got a damn good ground observer net around their air bases. SA-Nines are a perfect complement to the Gadfly—gives them low-altitude coverage. They’ve got their act together.”

A very confident Sean Leary related how his Have Quick radio went “tits up” in the middle of an engagement at the exact moment he hosed down a Flanker. For a moment, he thought he had taken battle damage but it was a system malfunction. His crew chief had cannibalized a good black box out of Skid’s badly damaged F-15 and Leary was ready to go again. Skid’s F-15 wasn’t going to be flying for a long time.

The major running the maintenance team came into the command post. He told them that two other jets had taken battle damage and would be out of commission for a few days. The remaining nine aircraft were turned and ready for the hop back to Stonewood. “Who told you we were finished here?” Martin barked. “Find out what type of ordnance is available here.” The crews sat in shocked silence as the major beat a hasty retreat.

“Sir”—it was the command post controller—“Duster is landing now.” Martin gestured at Matt and Furry to follow him and stomped out of the room.

“Shit-oh-dear,” Furry said, sotto voce for the crews to hear, “his fangs are still out.”

Bill Carroll was standing in the open crew entrance of the RC-135 when the three officers reached the ramp. He yelled at one of the security guards who always flew on the aircraft to let them board. The guard checked their line badges and escorted them past the rope that had been strung around the recce bird. Carroll led them back through the maze of equipment racks and stations to a small open area near a buffet where meals could be heated. The mission commander, the colonel in charge of the technicians, joined them.

“Bad news,” Carroll said. “A truck convoy escaped before you hit the arsenal.”

“Why didn’t the AWACS detect the traffic like they did when the trucks went into the arsenal?” Matt asked. “We could have gone after them.”

The mission commander shook his head. “They had optimized their radar to detect aircraft and had turned the moving target indicator up to sixty miles an hour to reject any stationary or slow-moving returns. They’re painting the traffic now.” He produced a map that showed the convoy’s location on a highway ninety miles southwest of Kirkuk. “At least twenty-five trucks, all westbound. Be sure they’re hauling nerve gas.” The colonel couldn’t tell them that the RC-135 had monitored ground communications that reported the nerve gas was on the way.

The pieces started to fit for Matt. “So that’s why the bandits out of Kirkuk were holding thirty-five miles southwest of Kirkuk—they were in a CAP to protect the convoy.”

“That fits with the radio traffic we monitored,” Carroll added.

Martin grabbed the mission commander’s map and stared at it. “What’s this?” He poked at a spot on the map sixty miles in front of the convoy.

“A ferry crossing over the Euphrates River,” Carroll explained. “The convoy should reach there in about an hour and forty-five minutes.”

Martin erupted with orders. “Matt, you and Furry work out an attack on that convoy, try to take out the ferry and back ‘em up on the eastern side of the river. Make it look like we’re going back after the arsenal. But that’s a feint to open up the corridor. Use some of the jets strictly for air-to-air and nail any raghead that takes off from Mosul or Kirkuk. Colonel, you and Carroll are going to have to work wonders and convince the clueless wonders in the Puzzle Palace thatwe need a go for a reattack. We ain’t got a hell of a lota time.”

“I’ll try, Mike, I’ll try.” Both colonels knew how slow the wheels of command could turn.

Martin stared at them for a moment, “Give it your best shot. We’ve got to be airborne in seventy-five minutes to catch ‘em before they cross the river. I’ve got to find us some bombs and kick Maintenance’s ass to get ‘em uploaded.” Then he was out of the aircraft, running.

“Time is of the essence,” National Security Adviser Cagliari was saying, pointing out the obvious to the men in the White House’s Situation Room. “We must destroy that convoy before it crosses the Euphrates River.”

Only Bobby Burke, the DCI, was not convinced. “Mr. President, we’ve taken out the nerve gas facility. Now is the time to wait for Iraq’s reaction. We may have well accomplished our objective. And we can’t be sure that those trucks are transporting nerve gas.”

Pontowski leaned back in his chair, thinking. Burke was always the cautious one. Time to listen to the other side. “General Cox, your views.”

The general rose and walked to the map on the wall in front of the President. He pointed to the ferry crossing. “Once across the Euphrates, they are still four hundred miles away from the fighting. It doesn’t make sense for them to convoy. They should be using airlift.” Then the general’s eyes fixed on A1 Sahra Air Base located twenty miles south of where the Iraqis had established their CAP to protect the escaping trucks. “Oh my God,” he whispered. “Sir, there’s a damn good chance some of those trucks may have gone here,” he jabbed at A1 Sahra, “for airlift. Maybe the AWACS has monitored something. Let me get in contact with them.”

“Go ahead,” Pontowski said. Cox hurried into the communications room next door to talk directly to Aldo via satellite communications.

“Sir”—it was Burke—“we’re starting to chase ghosts here. We need to wait for hard intelligence. Also, we must take the Soviets’ reaction into account. I’m certain that the hardliners inside the Kremlin are going to come out on top. It’s going to be the cold war all over again if Marshal Stenilov and his thugs win.”

“Do you think so?” Pontowski said. “I wonder …”

The light on the telepanel in front of Cagliari blinked. He picked up the phone and listened before handing it to Pontowski. “Sir, it’s Melissa, from the hospital …” The President took the phone and listened. He thanked the woman and handed the phone back to Cagliari as Cox returned.

“The AWACS has been monitoring a great deal of activity around Al Sahra,” Cox told them. “Two aircraft landed a few minutes ago. Trucks are still on the highway headed for the ferry.”

Pontowski stared at the wall map and then slowly pushed himself to his feet. “Order the Forty-fifth to attack the convoy and the air base. Please tell my helicopter to stand by, I’m returning to the hospital.” He walked out of the room.

Bobby Burke slammed his fists on the table in frustration and glared at Cox. A week ago, Cox had been subordinate to him in the intelligence chain, and now the President was listening to Cox and not him. He didn’t like the invasion of his bureaucratic turf.

The Turkish colonel in command of Diyarbakir was standing nose to nose with Martin outside the only weapons storage igloo on the base. “Colonel Martin,” the Turkish colonel said, “I cannot release our weapons to you without an order from my general.”

“Then wake him and get it,” Martin said.

“But then he would have to call his general.” The Turk smiled. Over his shoulder, Martin could see activity going on inside the igloo. Turkish soldiers were doing a quick inventory to make sure all the weapons were accounted for. “As I said before, I cannot help you.” He barked some commands in Turkish and the lights went out in the igloo and the soldiers came out, locking the heavy double doors behind them. More shouting and orders and the Turks were gone in a cloud of dust.

“Damn,” Martin raged to himself, “I should have thought to ferry in more weapons on the C-One-forty-ones.” Martin’s concept of operations had been to go in lean and mean and let the F-15s ferry in the weapons that they would use on the raid.

“Colonel,” the major from Maintenance said, pointing to the side of the igloo, “in the shadows.”

“I’ll be damned.” Martin grinned. Sitting beside the igloo were six weapons trailers, each holding four 500-pound bombs.

The major ran over to the trailers and examined the bombs with a flashlight. “Snakeyes,” he announced. “Complete with fuses.” He pointed to the small boxes sitting on each trailer. He spoke into his hand-held radio, calling for vehicles to come and tow the trailers to the flight line. “We can pull one ourselves,” he yelled, jumping into his pickup truck and starting the engine.

“Snakeyes are better than nothing,” Martin allowed, making a mental promise to return the favor if he could. The Turkish colonel had indeed helped them. But he had to do it the Turkish way.

Matt and Carroll were waiting for Martin when he pulled up in front of the hangar with his load of bombs. “We got a go,” Matt said.

“Shit hot!” Martin shouted.

“There’s more,” Matt explained. “They want us to hit the airfield at Al Sahra.” The colonel huddled with the two men while they explained the order that had been relayed to the RC-135.

Martin checked his watch. “Get everyone in here,” he yelled. “We got to start launching in forty minutes.” He paced up and down for a few moments. “Matt, figure out how to hit Al Sahra with two jets, one with six Snakeyes.” The colonel paced back and forth. “Maintenance,” he barked. “Upload the Snakeyes on four birds, six each, instantaneous fusing. I want the first two ready to launch in thirty minutes, the second two in forty.”

“Colonel,” Matt interrupted. “Three of our jets recovered with six GBU-Twenty-fours. Can I use them?”

“You got one bird with two GBUs,” Martin answered. “Leary’s on your wing.” The crews were all assembled now. “Okay, Meatheads,” Martin began. “We’re going back in, so listen up …” For the next twenty minutes, he and Matt laid out the attack. No one asked questions, but they all understood exactly what was expected of them when they broke and ran for their jets. Martin checked his watch; it was 0509 hours. They were going to make it.

“Shoshana, wake up,” Hanni whispered, shaking the sleeping woman. Shoshana shook her head and sat up, stiff from sleeping on the cold floor of the APC they were hiding in. A sickly-sweet odor assaulted her from the two bodies still lying outside on their grotesque deathbeds. “Shush,” Hanni cautioned. “I hear movement.”

The faint sounds of tracked vehicles moving in the valley drifted over the night air. “We’re still okay,” Shoshana said. “Time to check in.” She worked her way forward to the driver’s compartment and fumbled at the switches in the dark. The radio came to life with a faint hum. She listened for a few minutes, changing frequencies, not hearing a thing. “Must be maintaining radio silence,” she said and selected an emergency frequency. “This is Band-Aid with a radio check,” she transmitted. Two distinct clicks answered her. “Standing by for instructions,” she radioed. Two more clicks. “They don’t want to talk to us,” she told Hanni. “Maybe it’s time we try to make it back on our own.” She checked her watch. “We’ve still got thirty more minutes of dark.”

“Levy said he would come and get us,” Hanni reminded her. They could now hear the clanking of tanks moving toward them, much closer. Hanni froze in terror, her mouth open.