The Fourth War (13 page)

Shin Bet Auxiliary Outpost
Twelve Miles South of Tel Aviv

General Petate got the call at a little after four in the morning. He was already up, neatly shaved, dressed in a white shirt and tie, his daily security brief in one hand, a stained coffee mug in the other. After lifting the phone to his ear he listened, asked two questions, then hung up without saying good-bye. He then called his staff, some of whom, to his displeasure, were still in their beds. “Get in here!” he told them. It was all he needed to say.

Forty minutes later, his senior staff assembled in his private office, a small and simply appointed, wood-paneled room down the hall from the main work area. Petate watched his men assemble, his deputy, military advisor, and Arab specialist. These were good men, good as any his nation had ever produced; all of them in their fifties and at the peak of their game.

The men gathered around a small table. “We have the warheads,” General Petate announced.

His deputy's eyes widened. “Where are they?” he asked.

“Extreme northern Pakistan. Tirich Mir. At the base of the mountain.”

“Tirich Mir!” The deputy whistled. “And you are certain we have them?”

“Not a doubt in the world.” Petate took a sheet of paper and handed it to his deputy. “The Geiger counter readings,” he explained.

The deputy glanced at the readings. “The warheads are—,” he started to ask.

“Unguarded, yes. And the enemy is close.” Petate sat back and ran his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair. “The United States has located the warheads,” he mused, the wheels beginning to churn. He lifted his eyes past the men, staring over their heads as he thought to himself. “Washington, Washington,” he mumbled, “what is your boss going to do?”

“Group 21,” his deputy answered in an assuring tone. “Bombers or cruise missiles. Give them thirty hours, and the warheads will be destroyed.”

Petate nodded. “You're right, of course, I've already talked to Washington. They are going to use the B-2s. He is setting it up as we speak. But, I've been thinking…” His voice trailed off again.

His deputy leaned to the edge of his chair and took a deep breath. His stomach tightened up. He had seen the look before. He glanced nervously at the others as the general sunk into deep thought.

The three men had been bowled over by the general's plans before, plans that had been conceived in the distance of that faraway look; the security wall around Israel, isolating Arafat in his bombed-out compound, the assassination of Sheik Al Muhammad, all were ideas born in Petate's unfocused eyes.

The deputy watched him, growing more anxious with each passing second.

“Yes, yes, the United States will destroy the warheads,” Petate mumbled to himself. “Unless—I've been thinking—might there be a better way?”

His deputy scowled. “Sir?” he asked skeptically.

Petate focused on him. “There
is
another way. Something we could consider, something that might buy us time. A few months. A few years. This could be the break that we need.”

The deputy shook his head. “What are you talking about, Blackbird! The United States has located the weapons. In a day and a half they will no longer exist. That is the best outcome we could hope for. I see absolutely no downside to this situation.”

Petate leaned forward, excited, and began to explain.

 

His three lieutenants listened intently. Petate spoke in even and well-measured words, considering every option as he thought his plan through. He finished speaking and the room fell so silent you could almost hear the men's hearts. “Bloody, eh!” his deputy whispered. His face had grown pale and his eyes burned with sudden fright.

It was a brilliant idea, dangerous and desperate. Terrifying if they failed.

But it might work.

The deputy began to make a mental list of the pitfalls and dangers, the reasons they should not even consider the plan; but, looking at Petate, he could see he was wasting his time. It no longer mattered. Petate had made up his mind.

“Do we have the equipment?” the general asked as he sat back in his chair. Lighting a cigarette, he pulled in a lungful of smoke.

“I don't know,” the deputy answered truthfully. “Nothing like this has ever been tried before.”

The general unconsciously rapped his knuckles on the table. “We couldn't use our own air assets—too easily recognized. But we have other options.”

The deputy scowled. “Are you talking about our Aggressor birds?”

General Petate smoked again and then nodded, and the deputy gritted his teeth. “There are significant considerations with the Aggressors,” he said.

“I understand that, but could we get them up?”

“Maybe—I don't know. It will take us some time.”

“Time is the one thing we don't have, my friend.”

“Sir, it isn't that easy—it's not like pulling your grandfather's old Chevrolet out of the garage.”

The general leaned forward. “I need a yes-or-no answer,” he pressed.

The deputy thought, then tightened his lips. “We could do it,” he concluded. “But we will have to push hard.”

Petate leaned back and smiled.

“And there are other matters we have yet to consider,” his deputy continued.

The general nodded. “Do we have the technicians and experience to complete the technical task?”

“I just don't know, sir.” The deputy thought, then reluctantly added, “But I promise you this, if we put the word out to our teams, we would have a hundred volunteers.”

Petate took another drag. “Think of the payoff,” he dreamed, soliciting the support of his men.

Some of his lieutenants frowned, but some smiled as they stared in silence at him.

They actually believed they could do it.

But there was one critical question that had not been addressed, and no one dared say it until the deputy leaned forward in his seat.

“Are we going to tell the Americans?” he asked slowly while staring at his boss.

“Of course not!” Petate snorted as he smashed out the glow on the end of his cigarette. “That's why we can't use our own assets. Otherwise they would know.”

The room seemed to grow warm from the heat of the men. It smelled tangy and musty as they sweated with concern.

“But sir—,” the deputy muttered darkly.

Petate lifted a hand. “Let me take care of the United States,” he answered in a calm voice. “It's my job to worry about them, and our other allies as well. You concentrate on completing the mission. Let me worry about what happens then.”

Al Ram
Extreme Northern Pakistan

We have him,” the lieutenant whispered in the Great Leader's ear.

The Great One looked up. “Who was it?” he asked dryly, no surprise in his voice. There wasn't a doubt in his mind they would find who the traitor was. The right questions, enough pain, it was simple enough.

“Major General Ghaith,” his young lieutenant answered.

The Great One's head moved in an almost imperceptible nod. Yes, that made sense. General Ghaith. Security, political operations, was one of the few who would have known of their plans. He was old school. And soft. And apparently unable to catch the vision, unable to see this wasn't about politics, religion, or God; this wasn't about building Pan-Arabia, cultural power, or pride. This was about killing Jews and Americans. Nothing less, nothing more.

The commander thought of the general, his eyes burning from the rage in his heart. He waved off the three young women who surrounded him. “Get out,” he commanded, and they scampered through a side door. The master pushed himself up from the cushions that had been spread on the floor. “How did you find out it was General Ghaith?” he demanded.

“One of his housemaids,” the lieutenant replied.

The leader of al Qaeda almost smiled. Such a stupid mistake. “Take him,” he said. “And bring in Angra. But tell him to be careful. General Ghaith doesn't matter. It's the warheads we want.”

The lieutenant nodded and bowed to dismiss himself, backing away slowly while remaining bent at the waist. Passing through the doorway, he straightened up and began to turn around. “Abulda,” the commander called out and the lieutenant froze. “General Ghaith is no fool,” he warned. “He will try to kill himself. I want him alive. Is that understood?”

“We have already taken action,” the lieutenant replied.

Whiteman Air Force Base
Missouri

Colonel Bradley was alone inside his wing commander's quarters. It was late, and he had just arrived back at Whiteman Air Force Base. He glanced around the house, thankful to be back on his home turf again after eight weeks.

The wing commander's house was a large and well-maintained rancher with four bedrooms, two fireplaces, three living areas, and an enormous screened patio. It was built to accommodate a general officer with a wife, four kids, three dogs, and a cat. Shane Bradley had none of those things, though he was considering a dog. Being single, he had furnished the house with a wild and eccentric mix of furniture, turning one bedroom into an exercise area, another into a home theater with a massive HDTV filling an entire wall. His toys lay everywhere—skis, a pool table, mountain bikes, guitars, and amps. The entry housed a grand piano, and there was television in almost every room. But still the enormous house seemed empty with just one man living there.

A wing commander who was single was unusual in many ways. As the wing commander, it was expected that Bradley entertain; Christmas parties for his staff, Easter-egg hunts for the kids. The fact he didn't have a wife to assist him in these social events ran directly against many long-held traditions. His staff had once asked him who would host the weekly coffees for the officer's spouses? Bradley had laughed as he answered. He didn't care, so long as it wasn't him.

Walking through the house, he thought of the nearly bare condo in Georgetown he had rented when working for the CIA, with its cinder block bookshelves and his father's old leather couch. He remembered Washington's first visit. His boss had looked around incredulously, struggling to hold his criticism in, Bradley following his eyes as he took in the cheap wooden furniture, rough bookcases, and old beanbag chairs. A couple F-16 pictures were the only things on the wall. The townhouse was expensive and in an exclusive neighborhood, but inside it had a frat house atmosphere.

“Jeez, Shane, you live like a friggin' monk,” Washington had exclaimed. “I grew up in the ghetto, and we had more furniture than this. Have you taken a secret vow of poverty that I don't know about?”

Bradley had smiled and looked around sheepishly.

“Man, I'm sorry,” Washington had exclaimed, “but I have to ask. What in the world do you
do
with your money!”

“Penny stocks and the Nasdaq,” Bradley answered. “And you know, Dr. Washington, I'm only here three or four nights a month. I spend more time in Europe than I do in the States. I'm always on the road; you're the one who sends me out there, so, though it's nothing special, this place is all that I need.”

Washington nudged a green beanbag chair. “I don't think cinder block bookcases and beanbags will cut it when you take over the commander's house in Missouri,” he said.

“Guess I'll have to get some furniture.”

“What you need is a wife.”

Bradley didn't answer. He'd been told that before.

 

Bradley smiled as he wandered through his house. Truth was, he wanted to get married, and almost had a couple of times. But it just didn't seem fair, as much as he was away. But one day—one day things would settle down a bit.

He made a cup of lukewarm coffee, using hot water from the tap, then sat down on the back porch. The sun settled below the horizon and the prairie wind blew. Fireflies danced through the sprinklers that chattered in his backyard.

As the evening deepened around him, Bradley couldn't help but think of his father. Maybe it was Peter's situation, maybe it was because he was feeling melancholy, alone.

Would his father have been proud of him? If he could see him as the commander of the world's only B-2 Stealth Bomber wing, would he have been satisfied?

Shane's father, Brig. Gen. Jeremiah F. Bradley, West Point, '52, had been a harsh man, a black-and-white warrior who derived his identity from the rank that he wore, and was the last in a long line of army officers. Bradley's grandfather (West Point, '27, distant cousin through marriage to none other than Omar Bradley) had been given a battlefield promotion to colonel along with orders to hold the crumbling line in the Battle of the Bulge. A tank commander and twice-captured POW in the century's most honorable war, his blood had been spilt crossing the Rhine to take German soil. Bradley's great-grandfather (West Point, '05) had spent his time in the stink-filled trenches that lined the Chemin des Dames Ridge, fighting point-blank in the century's most pointless war. This man's father, the first Bradley to serve in the United States Army, was a young cavalry officer during the Indian Wars. It was suspected that there might have been one more Bradley soldier, a kid who had enlisted in the Confederate army, though the genealogy was unclear.

When it came to serving their country, the men in Colonel Bradley's family had been provided opportunity to rise up and soldier as the good Lord had intended them do, and each had risen to a rank above the generation before. They all had served in the army, becoming leaders of men, willing to die for the country they held so dear.

Shane knew from the time he was young he would one day walk the gray line. But his plans took a sudden, sharp turn when he turned seventeen. His sideburns and goatee drove his father up the wall, which was pretty much the point, and it was one of the few times he had ever communicated effectively with his dad. His rebellion had been subtle, always unspoken, and he harbored a far-reaching doubt. Could he equal his father? His grandfather as well? He didn't know. He really didn't. And he hated the doubt.

There was more. An utter fascination with anything that had wings. The first book he had ever read was
Jonathan Livingston Seagull,
which he consumed at age six, almost memorizing each word. He dreamed of perfect freedom, maneuverability, and speed. He dreamed of being upside down at forty thousand feet, looking down at the earth. He dreamed of loops, rolls, and clouds, and of seeing the curvature of the sky.

So, when it came time to apply to West Point, he announced that he had other plans. “I want to go out to Colorado Springs,” he said to his dad.

His father's face grew pale. Had his son lost his mind? He wouldn't have been any more shocked if Shane had announced he wanted to start wearing makeup and dressing up like a girl.

“The Air Force Academy,” he had hissed, as if the place were a curse.

Shane nodded slowly. “I want to learn to fly.”

“Peter Pan flies. Moths fly. Soldiers do their work in the mud and smoke and bloody debris.”

“I want to fly jets.”

“I want a full head of hair and a Porsche. I don't have either one. Sometimes we don't get what we want.”

Shane only stared at his father, who softened a moment. “You can fly the army Apache,” he offered. “It's a great helicopter! One of the most deadly fighting machines ever made.”

“I want to fly faster than that.”

“Helicopters fly fast enough to kill you. Isn't that fast enough?”

“It's much more than that. I'll see hypersonic aircraft in my career. And the air force
owns
space. Who knows what we'll see there! The air force is the tip of the technological sword. Air power is the future of battle! It's where I want to be.”

His father ignored him, returning to his original argument. “Aviation is now a strong and well-established branch in the army. It won't hurt your career to be a chopper pilot for a few years. Go and fly the Apache for a while, then get back to the fight on the ground, down where the men are, where the battle is won. I guess I could support that, since I don't seem to have any choice.”

Shane paused. “No, Dad. I'm going to the Air Force Academy.”

“You will walk the gray line!” his father bellowed as he took a step back. “Like me. Like your grandfather. Like his father did before him.”

“I'm going to fly jets!”

“What's the sudden fascination with jets? What's important here, Shane, is
a hundred years of tradition.
Can you walk away from that, just so you can go
zoom?
”

“But I want to—”

“We're talking family history. Five generations of soldiers! How can you even consider turning your back on our fathers!”

“It's just that—”

“What!? Afraid of fighting from the ground, where the real men die?”

Shane stammered, clenched his fists, then turned and walked from the room. The old man called out, “Am I therefore your enemy because I tell you the truth?”

Shane slammed the door behind him and sulked from the house. It was almost three days before he returned.

That was the last time either man discussed young Bradley's choice of career. And on that June day, hot and swollen with moisture from the California rains, when his son had gone down to the airport to get on the flight to Colorado Springs, Jeremiah Bradley IV had refused to accompany him to tell him good-bye.

“I'm leaving now, Dad,” Shane had said while standing in the doorway to his father's study.

“Enjoy hell week,” his father replied, not looking up from his book. “If you can't hack it, don't come home. I don't want a quitter living under my roof.”

The old man, the general, had been dead going on eleven years, after passing away from a massive heart attack that was fifty years in the making. One day, while reading the paper, his heart had exploded in his chest, sending him crashing to the floor, already dead. Young Bradley was but a young lieutenant when his father had died, and it was one of his great concerns that the old man hadn't lived long enough to be proud of his son.

His mother once made an effort to assure him his father would have been satisfied. “He'd be proud of you, Shane.” she offered, though she looked quickly away.

Shane pulled her face toward him, looking her square in the eyes. “He should be proud,” he had answered.

She nodded sadly, again diverted her eyes. It was the last they spoke of it. They rarely spoke of the old man.

 

He glanced at his watch. A little past ten. He had to be in the office by five, which meant it was time for bed.

Moving toward the back door, he stopped and turned, searching the night sky for hints of the next day's weather. The night was perfectly calm and the air was heavy with the scent of magnolias and honeysuckle, and, as he stared at the sky, he could see high clouds moving in, thin wisps of light gray reflecting the light of the moon. Scout clouds they looked like, high stratus and condensation from ice particles in the upper atmosphere.

Could be rain was coming. He hoped it wouldn't storm.