The Fourth War (15 page)

“Are there any friendlies in the area?”

“The few U.S. assets are being moved out. You will be cleared hot upon entering the target area.”

“And the ROE for target identification?”

“You need two forms of positive ID. Radar or IR in the aircraft. In addition, we'll have a team on the ground to designate the target with a laser. But the timing is going to be a struggle, it won't be easy getting the team there. They have to move covertly and through extremely hostile terrain, so don't withhold releasing your weapons if it turns out the team can't get there in time.”

Bradley shot a quick look toward Doctor Washington. “Peter Zembeic?” he asked.

Washington paused. “Maybe, maybe not, we haven't assigned a team yet, but if it isn't Peter it will be some of his men. Either way, a team should be in place to laser designate the target, acting as a backup to your internal targeting systems. In addition, they will act as your eyes and ears on the ground.”

“How close will they be?”

“Close enough to help. Far enough to be protected. They will be shielded from the target by terrain.”

Bradley shifted uncomfortably.

Washington saw the concern on his face. “Those guys know what they're doing,” he said. “They'll be okay.”

Bradley nodded reluctantly, then turned back to the military liaison. “What about combat search and rescue?”

“There are no combat search and rescue assets in-country,” Washington explained reluctantly. “All of our SAR forces were pulled out of the theater when we ceased combat operations in Afghanistan. It would take us seventy-two hours, minimum, absolute minimum, to get rescue helicopter assets in place.”

“Don't you have a stolen Russian chopper operating in that area somewhere?” Bradley asked. “Peter showed me some pictures of him sitting in a Hind.”

“That!” Washington scoffed. “You've got to be kidding me. What a piece of garbage that Russian Hind is! Half the time it's broken. We can't keep it in the air. And it's so power-limited it can't climb above nine thousand feet, which pretty much makes it worthless in that part of the world.”

Bradley shook his head slowly. “So we're on our own.”

Strausenberg cleared his throat. “Yeah. I'm afraid that you are.”

“And if we go down?”

“Don't get captured. Please, don't do that. The political and emotional value of an American prisoner, the psychological value—well, you know the score. Absolutely don't let that occur.”

Bradley pressed his lips in frustration. As if it were as easy as just saying the words. “And the air defenses?” he asked. “What can we expect?”

The liaison referred to the map the aid had placed on the table. “Minimal, if not completely nonexistent. The targets are located on the side of a barren mountain in a valley so narrow a truck can hardly drive through. So far as we can tell, the nearest surface-to-air defenses are almost forty miles away, located here…” the agent pointed with his pencil at the small map, “in the Khyber Pass, which lies to the south.”

“How much time do we have then?”

“The al Qaeda forces have been joined by local warlords and various rebel groups,” Washington broke in. “Donner speculates his men might have been observed, since they've concentrated their efforts in the general area in which the warheads are hidden. The enemy has organized search teams and is sweeping north, moving into the mountains. We estimate that we have thirty-six hours before the weapons are found.”

The room fell silent. No one spoke as each of them wrestled with their own fears. Then Washington pushed back from the table. “The president is placing the full trust and confidence of the American people into your hands,” he said. “He expects, Colonel Bradley, to have complete and absolute mission success. You have twelve hours to plan the mission and be in the air. Takeoff is scheduled for 1800 tonight. It's a twenty-hour flight, give or take, which will put you over Syria about dark, and the target around 2400 local.

“So, get some pilots into crew rest and your flight planners on the job. I expect to be briefed on the flight plan by ten o'clock this morning, after which I will fly back to D.C. to brief the president.”

Bradley stared out the window. Sunrise was soon coming and the sky had turned from darkness to pink hues. A bank of low clouds hung on the western horizon, bringing the promise of rain later on in the day. The clouds drooped dark and heavy, with black, bulging cores. Bradley felt tired and overwhelmed. It all was coming so fast.

Washington leaned toward him. “Are you going to fly this mission?” he asked.

“Tom, do you think I would even consider sending anyone else?” he replied. “Unless you want to go back and tell the president that we're sending a couple lieutenants to Pakistan?”

Washington nodded to concede, trying to suppress a smile. The truth was he was relieved Bradley would be commanding the mission. “And the other member of your crew?”

D. T. thumped his chest. Bradley studied him with a sorry expression. “Sorry D. T., but you are out of the running. Air force ROE forbid the two of us flying combat sorties in the same aircraft. Besides, you need to remain here to head up the mission command center.” Bradley thought for a moment. “I'll take Captain Lei,” he said.

“Good pilot?” Washington pressed him, an anxious look on his face.

“Most experienced in the wing. You can tell the president that I trust Captain Lei with my life.”

“Okay. Good enough. Let's get going then.” Washington pushed himself up, anxious to quit talking and get down to work.

Bradley also stood and turned to Colonel Kier. “Contact Captain Lei,” he said. “Tell her we've got a Group 21 and we need her here.”

Whiteman Air Force Base
Missouri

The colonel's office was cast in a deep yellow glow from the early morning light. The air was cool, not warm. It wouldn't get warm today. Already the smell of rain was in the air, and the atmosphere seemed charged. Outside, the wind calmed, then suddenly shifted direction. Hearing the rustle of leaves, Bradley paused from his work, looking out on the day. His mood, like the western sky, was unsettled and dark. Inside, he felt drained and he didn't know why. He thought back on other mornings he had prepared himself for combat sorties, reflecting on the emotions that beset him those days. Always he was eager, perhaps edgy, but also confident. There was a job to do, he would do it, it wasn't much more complicated than that.

But he felt different this morning, uncertain and apprehensive.

He had had premonitions before; every good commander did, every good officer had a feel, a gut instinct for the future, an instinct born of experience and practice and bone-crunching preparation. Those who didn't foster this sense either quit or were killed. Still, Bradley had never had such a powerful feeling before.

For the second time in a day he thought of his father, and of a story he had heard while hiding at the top of the stairs.

His father was a young lieutenant on a combat patrol. It was raining. No—pouring—the chilling rain coming in torrents that soaked to the bone and stung the face with each windblown drop. It was night, and the platoon was moving through the heavy forest, away from base camp, scared and alone. As the lightning crashed, the forest suddenly came alive. The first sound to be heard was a terrifying
thwaat,
as a VC bullet winged past his father's head to impact the chest of his radioman. The platoon was surrounded. It was fight, flee, or die. Proud, tall, and defiant, Bradley's father stood in front of his men, commanding them, jeering at them, coaxing them on, poking them, prodding them, demanding more than they had, holding them, pushing them, the blood of his brothers soaking his skin. For the next eleven hours, the young lieutenant led his men on, until, too late for many, reinforcements were finally choppered in. Twice he carried fallen soldiers through the thick firefight, draping the wounded men over his shoulders as bullets whizzed overhead, struggling to keep what remained of his unit alive.

The platoon lost seven of twelve soldiers that night. They were lucky, blessed, that they didn't lose every man, for they remained disciplined and together under Lieutenant Bradley's command. Shane's father was credited with personally saving two men that night, while performing in a way that would lead him to the Silver Star. But he never spoke of it, and as far as Shane could remember, he had never seen the small medal on his father's chest.

Sitting in his office on that cold Missouri morning, Colonel Bradley had no idea why this memory came to mind.

But the memory and premonition did not go away. He shook his head to clear it, then heard a knock and looked up to see Colonel Kier standing in the doorway. “Captain Lei is here,” he announced.

At five-six, Tia Lei weighed in at a whopping 112 pounds, and that was after drinking half a gallon of water to ensure she made the minimum weight requirement in order to pass her flight physical. Beautiful, Asian, a refugee from the Cambodian killing fields, her face was a perfect oval rimmed by dark hair and narrow eyes, and despite her light stature she walked fearlessly. The nights as a child in Cambodia had sucked up her life's allocation of fear, leaving her determined and strong as a scrub oak in the wind. A slender figure among burly men, she had proven herself so many times that no one doubted her anymore. Her dark eyes said it all. This was a woman of strong nerves and steel. She walked to Colonel Bradley and extended her hand in a no-nonsense grip. “Sir,” she said simply.

Bradley gestured toward a large leather couch and Captain Lei sat down. She was wearing her air force blues—a blue skirt and high-collared blouse under a dark cotton sweater. The skirt fit her neatly and she leaned back, at ease. If being in her wing commander's office was intimidating to her, she gave no indication.

“Tia,” Bradley asked, “I need to talk to you.”

Tia leaned forward and asked, “What's going on, sir?”

He explained very quickly. As Tia listened, her hands started trembling and her eyes grew wide. “You're kidding!” she kept repeating.

Bradley only wished that he was.

Camp Cowboy
Northern Afghanistan

Peter Zembeic had a thing for poker—not just a thing. Like beer to an alcoholic, it was an obsession to him. He could cut the cards with two fingers, then deal them with one hand, tossing the cards around the table with a flip of his thumb across the top of the deck. There wasn't a poker game invented that he hadn't mastered, and he would rustle up a game every chance he could get.

“Remember Wake Island,” he'd say as he rallied his troops for a hand.

So far as it could be determined, the world's longest running continuous poker game was started on the tiny Pacific military outpost of Wake Island some time in May of 1962, just as the United States was beginning to send military advisors to Vietnam, and continued without breaking until June of 1973, when the U.S. forces in the region were drastically and suddenly reduced. The card game ran without interruption, twenty-four hours a day, with men dropping in and out as their schedules allowed. Most of the players were transient aircrew members—pilots, navigators, loadmasters, and such—who were on their way in or out of the Vietnam theatre and had laid over at Wake for crew rest, fuel, or repair. Wake had become one of the primary stopover destinations for air force transports and fighters, and at any given time there were sixty or seventy transient aircrew on the island. Thousands of aircrew members played in the game at one time or another, and as the game grew in reputation, it wasn't unheard of for aircrews to fly a thousand miles out of their way just to get in on the game.

Peter was inspired by the Wake Island poker record. It had become his model, his example, the Holy Grail of poker games, and he was always pushing the soldiers at Camp Cowboy to get a game going with him. It didn't matter what time—early morning, late at night—if there was lull in the action he would gather the troops and insist on a game. After four or five hours of play the other guys would start dropping out and he would hassle them mercilessly.

“Come on Peter, some of us have to sleep,” they'd say. “We can't live on adrenaline and donuts like you do.”

“But guys, we're just getting started.”

“No Peter, we're done.”

“You call that a poker game! Weak sisters,” he'd cry. “Haven't you heard of Wake Island! Eleven years, man! That's a hundred thousand hours of poker. We've been playing for five, now come on, sit down! I don't care what time it is, there's cash on the table and this game isn't through.”

But the other guys would wearily shake their heads and head off to their tents, and after cursing a couple times Peter would follow after them.

It was in the middle of one of these games, a little after one in the morning, when Peter glanced at his watch and announced, “Happy Birthday to me.”

The man to Peter's left, one of Camp Cowboy's helicopter pilots, paused and looked up. “Your birthday?” he asked.

Peter nodded with satisfaction. Living another year was no small accomplishment in this part of the world. “Yessiree, baby, another big one for me.”

“Congratulations,” the chopper pilot said as he dropped his cards on the table. “Now give me two.”

Peter dealt around the table and none of the other players said anymore. Birthdays in Camp Cowboy were like bowel movements; everyone was glad they had them, but you didn't announce it to the world.

Peter dealt himself three cards, a wild one-eyed jack and two hearts, which gave him a flush—with twenty bucks in the pile!—then eyed his buddy, the pilot. “You know what I want for my birthday?” he said.

The pilot grunted as he stared at his cards. “A girlfriend,” he muttered. It was pretty obvious that he didn't care.

“No,” Peter answered as he slowly dropped a two-dollar chip on the pile. Play them slow, play them easy or they'd drop out too soon.

The bet went around and a couple players tossed their cards on the pile. Peter flipped another chip and sat back, relaxed. The chopper pilot watched him, then matched him. “Okay, Peter, we give up, what do you want for your birthday?” he asked.

Peter smiled and leaned forward. “A good steak,” he said lustily. “That's what I've been dreaming of. A hunk of meat. Grilled. With lemon pepper and beer.”

The chopper pilot grunted and watched the bet move around again. “That's great, Peter. Only problem is, we don't have any steaks up here. I haven't had fresh meat since I left the States.”

“Yeah, and I think it's disgraceful! We can land a man on Mars, but we can't develop a good combat-ready freezer.”

The man across the table looked up. “Peter, we've never sent a man to Mars,” he said.

“Minor point,” Peter replied. “But either way, my statement stands. No freezers, no meat. And I want something to chew.”

None of the men answered. Peter stared at his cards, hesitated, then increased the bet again. They all saw his indecision, but they didn't buy his bluff. “Really wish I had a good steak,” Peter repeated again.

The chopper pilot sat back. Peter was working on something, that was perfectly clear. “Call,” he said, stopping the bet.

The players showed their hands one by one until Peter dropped his cards on the table and smiled. “Happy birthday to Peter,” he said as he scooped the chips and moved them to his pile.

A couple guys swore. “You're cheating!” one said.

“Of course I am,” Peter answered, “but until you can prove it, there's not a thing you can do.” He smiled evilly, then passed the deck of cards to his right.

The chopper pilot watched the new dealer shuffle. “Okay, Peter, what are you thinking?” he asked.

Peter picked up his first card. “You ever seen any of the Gads that live in the mountains around us?” he asked.

“Gads?” the pilot wondered, still only half interested.

“Gads, you know, Gads. Big, fat, white mountain sheep.”

The chopper pilot nodded. “Yeah, okay, I've seen a couple in the early mornings on those lucky days when I can get that worthless Hind I fly to get up high enough.”

Peter whistled at his cards, which meant nothing, then said, “I've seen a couple north of us, high on those cliffs just under the Cryb Pass.”

The pilot hesitated. “Don't know where you mean.”

“Don't worry about it. I'll show you.”

The pilot laid down his cards. “Are you suggesting…”

“Well, duh! How else am I going to bag one of those things? Think I'm going to climb that mountain? It'd take me a week. We'll hunt from the back of your chopper and have us fresh meat for lunch.”

“I don't think so,” the pilot answered.

“Okay, I know mutton isn't steak, but it's the best we can do. And wait till you taste it. A little oil, some pepper and chives.” Peter almost started drooling as he pictured the meat on the grill.

“Peter,” the pilot said as he leaned toward him. “Do you have any idea how many regulations I'd be breaking if we were to do that—hunt from the back of a military chopper!? And from a stolen Russian Hind no less.”

“Come on, Mike. Ain't no big deal.”

“Let me count the ways it's a big deal,” the pilot shot back. “Unauthorized use of a military aerial vehicle. Shooting of indigenous species. Unauthorized use of military weapons for nonmilitary use. Creating or facilitating in a potentially embarrassing situation for the host nation. Harassing of wildlife. The list goes on and on.”

“Come on, Mike! Don't talk to me about harassing the wildlife or embarrassing the host government. Having Pakistani rebels dropping artillery shells on our heads every other night, now that's what I call harassing. But the Pakistanis don't seem to care a whole lot about that! Half the country is illiterate and starving—now that's an embarrassment to the host country. But shooting a mountain sheep, that's no big deal, Mike.”

“It's a big deal to me, Peter. It's my wings. And that's my chopper, not some custom ‘cruisemobile' for your hunting pleasure. I'm sorry Peter, but it isn't going to happen. And a Gad, for heaven sakes! We'll probably find out the stupid thing is endangered and have the Sierra Club raid our camp.”

“Nope, not endangered, I've already checked. Now they used to be, yes, but they aren't anymore. And you know what else I found out? Some big shots in Europe pay as much as twenty thousand dollars for guided Gad hunts. Now, here we are, gentlemen, in this veritable Garden of Eden of mountains and rocks. It's a cold and miserable place, but the Gads seem to like it, so I say we take advantage of the opportunity and go get us one. And besides, its my birthday and I want some meat.”

“No,” the pilot answered. “You're not going to hunt Gad, at least not from my chopper.”

“I'll share the meat,” the CIA agent offered.

“I'm okay with canned sausage.”

“You haven't tasted
my
barbecue.”

“No, Peter, no way.”

“You'll be the only guy in camp with a Gad head mounted on his tent wall.”

The pilot hesitated. “We really shouldn't,” he replied.

Peter only smiled. He had touched the right nerve.

 

The chopper took off just a few minutes before dawn. Peter hung from a canvas harness, his feet on the right skid, an army M-16 in his hand. The morning was cold and foggy, with scattered low clouds hanging on the mountains and a wet mist in the air. The pilot had told his crew chief to download most of the chopper's fuel before they took off, for they had to be light in order to climb up to the cliffs. As the two men climbed in the chopper the pilot said, “We've only got twenty minutes of fuel on board.”

“Plenty,” Peter answered. “Ten minutes to find a Gad, one minute to shoot it, two minutes to land and haul our lunch on board. That leaves us five minutes to get back and land.”

“Okay,” the pilot answered as he pulled up on the collective to increase pitch on the blades. Peter grabbed his hand-hold as the chopper lifted almost straight up.

Fifteen minutes later, the sound of the chopper echoed from the canyon as the pilot followed the descending terrain back to the camp. Flying over the compound, Peter held the white sheep's head in his lap, his feet still hanging from the open cabin door. As the chopper passed over the camp, he lifted a white hoof and waved at the men.

The BBQ was delicious. And the mounted Gad head certainly looked good on the tent wall.

Whiteman Air Force Base
Missouri

Against a backdrop of secret urgency—with little talk among peers, but some quiet speculation—the mission planning began. Air refueling coordinators, weapons specialists, targeters, airspace managers, diplomatic clearance coordinators, and flight mechanics worked feverishly to put all of the pieces in place that are required to fly a combat mission halfway around the world, drop a series of weapons exactly on target, and get safely home.

On the flight line, two B-2s were positioned in their protective hangars and the enormous doors secured. Air vehicle number 93-1086 was selected as the lead for the mission, an aircraft that was officially listed in the air force documents as the
Kitty Hawk.
Unofficially, she had been named
The Lady of the Night
by her squadron. Under the aircraft's dark cockpit window was a tactically acceptable three-inch piece of nose art, a black-and-gray depiction of a female Grim Reaper with pale eyes, flowing black hair, and skeleton teeth. Among the superstitious pilots and mechanics, the
Lady
was considered to be the wing's best aircraft, having an extraordinary reputation for getting the bombs to target. In preparation for flight, the
Lady
was towed to the center of the hangar, then hooked up to external power cables and cooling hoses. Her bomb bay doors were opened, revealing the double half-pipe cavities within. Her black boxes were electronically checked and checked once again. She was fueled and serviced, then wiped down until she was kitchen-plate clean. The last step in the preflight process was the “clover,” or Common LO Verifications System (CLOVRS), a special radar system mounted on a small track that encircled the aircraft and scanned it electronically to ensure there were no detectable blemishes on the skin, as even the tiniest imperfection might bounce back radar energy. Finally, the
Lady
was declared ready to go. At that point, a contingent of highly trained, well-armed, and very serious security forces took operational control of the hangar. Everyone but key personnel was forced to leave. A secure perimeter was formed around the outside of the hangar, with multiple layers of security created inside the building as well. Then the men waited. Authorization from the National Command Authority to load up the nuclear weapons had not yet arrived.

Two hangars down, a second B-2 was also readied to go.

At 0948, the mission planners finally completed their work. Twelve minutes later, exactly on time, the flight briefing began in the wing command post. The two crews sat together, Colonel Bradley and Captain Lei in the lead, with Lieutenant Colonels Sobrino and Goodman flying number two. The briefing was concise and to the point. Takeoff was scheduled for 1800 local time. The formation would fly a more or less direct route from Missouri to Maine, across the North Atlantic, then drop south to pass through the Straits of Gibraltar before turning northeast to Sicily, then through the center of the Med to Lebanon. By this time, the pilots would have been through a period of night, though shortened by their high-speed flight toward the oncoming sun. The day would also be short, with evening coming on very quickly. Approaching the coast of Syria, nightfall would emerge from the shadows in the east, masking the aircraft completely under the cloak of night. Upon reaching Syria, the crew would fly directly east, over Iraq and Northern Iran. It would be over the target in Northern Pakistan shortly after midnight local time.

Air refueling would take place as the bombers passed abeam the southern coast of Nova Scotia, with KC-135 air-refueling
Maniacs
from Maine, then once again after passing through the Straits of Gibraltar, with KC-10s deployed from Aviano Air Base in Italy. After being refueled by the second tankers, the bombers would be on their own until they were on the way home.