Firebreak (12 page)

The delegation’s worst fears were confirmed and they demanded to know what the President was going to do about it. Pontowski assured them that the State Department was talking to the Israeli government but that the Israeli prime minister was not overly concerned at this time.

“Mr. President”—it was the junior member of the delegation—“we are also concerned about Iraq. We have learned that they are once again purchasing equipment from a German firm, WisserChemFabrik, that could be used in the manufacture of nuclear arms.”

Fraser grabbed the Iraqi notebook and flipped to the armed forces section. He handed it to the President. “That machinery is earmarked for a petrochemical plant outside Kirkuk,” he said, sotto voce, loud enough for the delegation to hear. “The embargo against anything that could be used for nuclear weapons or any significant weapon system is still in force.” Pontowski adjusted his reading glasses and scanned the notebook. When he was certain that the notebook contained no references to CIA activities in Iraq, he handed it to the junior congressman.

“Worrisome,” Pontowski agreed, “but not critical at this time. We are certain that Iraq is being denied anything that could be used to make an atomic bomb. Besides, Iraq has received stern warnings not to even think about nuclear weapons. We don’t believe this equipment can be used for nerve gas production. We’re watching it.”

“Mr. President”—the young congressman was relentless—“nerve gas is the poor man’s nuclear bomb—”

“Which neither we nor the Israelis,” Pontowski interrupted, “believe the Arabs will use against Israel.”

“May I ask why?” The junior delegate wouldn’t let it go.

“Because that could invite the Israelis to respond in kind or even go nuclear,” Pontowski said. Loud protestations broke out from the delegation declaring that the Israelis only had protective equipment for nerve gas and that it was unfounded speculation about them having a nuclear capability and that, even if they did, they would never use it.

Pontowski waited patiently until the hubbub subsided. “Gentlemen, can I interest you in an intelligence briefing on the current situation? I’ll send General Cox from the DIA with a team of briefers over to you for an update.”

Fraser almost interrupted and recommended the CIA give the briefing, but that would have overstepped his bounds and upset Pontowski. He kept quiet and calculated his next move. Why did the President specifically say Cox? After the congressional delegation had left, the President sat thoughtfully. “Tom, what do you think?”

Now Fraser had to play it absolutely straight and give him the best advice he could. “I don’t think the Iraqis are a factor at this time. But we need to watch the entire situation and start considering alternate scenarios.” Fraser was suggesting that the President assemble a task force of his people to start playing what-if games and come up with suggested positions for the United States. “Also, we need to hear from the other side.”

“Who did you have in mind?”

“Some CEOs from oil corporations have asked to see you. I’ve been stalling them. Talking to them might be a good way to show that you’re striving to maintain the status quo in the Middle East.”

“Oil. It always comes down to that.” Pontowski didn’t expect an answer. Even now, the United States was importing over half of its oil supply and much of that came from the Middle East. He knew that the oil industry simply wanted to keep it flowing and avoid another Arab oil embargo like that of 1974. “Okay, arrange it.” Fraser felt a surge of triumph; he was still getting what he wanted.

“I suppose”—the President smiled—“that Mrs. Allison is among the group.”

“She’s heading the delegation.”

“Please tell B.J. not to be late.”

After a month, Shoshana considered herself a fixture of the Baghdad Hotel. She had settled into a comfortable routine and while Mana’s family did not label her his mistress, neither was she seen as his fiancée. Little by little, Mana loosened the reins and she was allowed more freedom to move about on her own. She was careful never to break her established pattern because when she went out alone one of the family chauffeurs always drove her. At least she had met his older brother, a brigadier general who was rebuilding the Iraqi Air Force, so there was some progress toward meeting his father. She was willing to wait. She sighed out of boredom and called the desk, summoning the chauffeur. The highlight of the day’s activities was her language lesson. She sighed again.

Gad Habish had become a regular at the café off Rashid Street and the waiter automatically brought him a cup of coffee and a newspaper. Habish made no pretense at being an Iraqi but used the cover of a German businessman in the café. Since he tipped well and insisted on speaking Arabic, he was readily accepted and welcomed. This morning, the agent who posed as an artist was waiting for him with news. They chatted for a few minutes before the agent mentioned the chemical factory located near Kirkuk.

“It’s complete,” the agent said. Habish talked about the weather. “A technician from WisserChemFabrik says they will be testing a new insecticide in the next week or two,” the agent added as Habish talked about the unusually cool weather for September.

Habish left the café first and strolled back to his car. He drove to the safe house Avidar worked out of and changed his identity cards, becoming a substitute teacher. He left the car behind and rode the dilapidated bus system to the language school. Substitute teachers did not drive cars in Iraq. He was waiting for Shoshana when she arrived for her lesson.

“When did you last see Mana?” he asked.

“Last week. He spends a lot of his time in Kirkuk where the chemical factory is being built. He should be back today or tomorrow.”

“Does he still talk about his work?”

“That’s all he talks about now,” Shoshana told him. “He tries so hard to impress me.”

“Why?” Habish demanded.

For a moment, Shoshana hesitated, not wanting to confide in her case officer the nature of their sexual relationship and Mana’s total subservience to her. “He needs to prove his worth to me,” she said. Then she slowly told him how she dominated him in bed. Habish wanted to know every detail and questioned her relentlessly.

When Habish was certain he knew everything, he carefully weighed Shoshana’s position. “If he starts to talk about the new plant at Kirkuk the next time you see him, become very interested.”

“Why? It would be a change in our relationship.”

“Because the plant is finished and they are testing a new nerve gas next week. Find out as much as you can.”

“He’ll become suspicious if I press too hard.”

“I don’t think so. Given a chance, he’ll talk endlessly. Just listen.”

“Then what do you want me to do?” she asked.

Habish looked straight at her. “The next time he goes to Kirkuk, go with him, learn all you can.” He stood up and left. Outside the building, he lost himself in the crowd and worked his way back to the safe house, making sure he wasn’t being followed.

Shoshana returned directly to her hotel room and drew a bath. She felt dirty for the way she was using Mana. She turned her feelings for him over and over, examining them. She smiled when she thought of his boyish eagerness to please her. Reluctantly, she admitted that she was fond of the Iraqi engineer and didn’t want to see him hurt. The smile faded when an image of Habish threatening Mana materialized. Because of their intensely intimate relationship, she had unwittingly developed strong protective feelings for the Iraqi and she feared what Habish might do.

The phone rang. She grabbed a towel and hurried to answer it. It was Mana. He had just returned from Kirkuk, was still at the airport, and wanted to see her immediately. She told him to hurry for she did miss him.

She hung up, sat down, and cried, hating what she had become.

The squadron self-help project was finished and Matt was basking in compliments from his fellow pilots and wizzos. Even Locke seemed pleased. Charlie Ferguson, being a grizzled old master sergeant, took it all in stride and only saw it as business as usual. For Matt, it had been a lesson in accomplishment and he took pride in what he had done. Then his name appeared on the schedule for a “ride” in the simulator to refresh his emergency procedures. He was going back on the flying schedule and he saw an end to his troubles.

Afraid he had grown rusty, Matt hit the books, reviewing every procedure, rule, and regulation that applied to F-15s. Then he turned to weapons employment, refreshing his memory on delivery parameters and techniques. Contrary to popular opinion, flying fighters is more than strapping on a jet and taking off for a few fun-filled minutes roaring around the sky. It takes hours of constant study, review, and planning on the ground, and as long as Matt flew high-performance fighters, it would never stop.

After the session in the simulator, he flew a requalification flight with Locke in the backseat before he was teamed with his old WSO, Mike Haney. Locke noted with satisfaction that Matt had his attitude on straight, was going by the rules, and had all the promise of being an outstanding fighter jock. He decided that Matt had finally earned his captain’s bars.

Early one morning, when Matt was sleeping in after a night flight with Haney, an Inspector General team hit the base for an unannounced Operational Readiness Inspection—an ORI—the make-or-break test of a peacetime unit. For four days, the IG team would throw a series of wartime tasks at the wing, demanding they demonstrate their proficiency in everything from mass casualty exercises to emergency buildup of weapons to flying planned wartime sortie rates and simulated combat missions.

Matt’s first indication that the ORI was under way came when a pounding on his BOQ door woke him. A voice told him to report to the squadron ASAP, that an IG team was on base, and that a “recall” was under way. Like everyone else, he did not shave, brush his teeth, or wash because the IG team would want to see a “sense of urgency.” A freshly shaved face during a recall said somebody did not have the proper sense of urgency. But the team that had hit Stonewood liked to play catch-22 games and zinged the wing for lacking in military appearance.

Less than an hour after the start of the recall, the squadron was fully manned and configured for its wartime mission. The crews waited patiently in the squadron as Maintenance finished uploading live ordnance on their aircraft. Then a crew would run out to its assigned aircraft, perform a preflight, and check in on status with the command post, ready to launch. However, no aircraft would actually takeoff loaded with live ordnance. Matt and Haney were not assigned an aircraft and had to wait in the squadron building while the frenzied activity went on around them. Neither liked being a spectator. Because they were in the squadron and not in a bunker manning a jet, they were among the first to hear the rumor—the wing had already failed the inspection.

Slowly, fact replaced the rumors. One of the inspectors had noted a mistake in the command post when the on-duty controller decoded the first alert message. The controller had sent the wing into a more advanced stage of readiness than the message called for. The IG team claimed the wing had automatically failed the ORI. The wing commander was arguing that merely jumping to a higher state of alert only meant the wing would be ready sooner to meet its wartime mission. A general from headquarters was called in to render a decision and the ORI was put on hold.

Charlie Ferguson explained it all to Matt. “It was a legit hit,” the grizzled old sergeant said, “but not worth busting an ORI. Looks like we got a chickenshit team doing the inspection.”

Later on, Matt complained to Locke about it, sensing a gross injustice. “What the hell does this have to do with hosing the bad guys down?”

The squadron commander looked Matt square in the eye. “Not a thing, Captain. Not a single goddamn thing.” He handed Matt his captain’s bars, turned, and walked away.

Headquarters United States Air Force in Europe sent Brigadier General Donald ‘Bull” Heath to RAF Stonewood to determine if Matt’s wing had indeed failed its Operational Readiness Inspection. General Heath was scathing in his rebuke of the Inspector General team chief when he reviewed the technicality the IG team had based its decision on. He lived up to his reputation and nickname when he told the unfortunate colonel heading the team that he had his head so far up his ass that he needed a Plexiglas window in his stomach to see where he was going. By the time Heath left the base five minutes later, a case of Plexiglas cleaner, commonly known as “whale sperm,” had magically appeared in the offices the IG team was occupying during the inspection. Master Sergeant Charlie Ferguson claimed to be totally innocent and that he had been in the area on legitimate business.

The morale of the wing skyrocketed and the inspection was back in full swing. No matter where an inspector went, he or she was bound to see a bottle of “whale sperm.” On the last day of the inspection, the weather deteriorated and all of the low-level and gunnery-range missions had to be canceled. The IG team was still smarting from the constant sight of Plexiglas cleaner bottles and wanted to find a reason to bust the wing. Frustrated, they tasked the wing to fly an excessive number of high-altitude missions, hoping that Maintenance or Operations would screw up. But the wing met the challenge as the inspection ran out. Finally, the last mission was laid on Matt’s squadron. Jack Locke shook his head when he saw the last mission being grease-penciled up on the scheduling board. His squadron was tasked to fly a one-versus-one, basic fighter maneuvers (BFM) mission. He called his superior, the wing’s deputy for operations, to confirm what he saw. “Boss, is that chicken Colonel Roger ‘Ramjet’ Raider, the IG’s gift to the tactical fighter community, who’s going along for a ride in the backseat of number one?” he asked.

“One and the same,” the deputy for operations told him.

“Why my squadron? The guy’s a clueless wonder.”

“It’s an unannounced check ride,” the DO told him. “The IG is still gunning for us and I want you to lead it. Keep it simple and put one of your best sticks in number two.” The DO) broke the connection as Roger “Ramjet” Raider walked into the squadron building. Locke puzzled for a few moments over whom he would tap to fly the second jet. A BFM mission was relatively undemanding but he wanted his best pilot. He told the scheduler to get Matt and Haney into the briefing room while he blew some hot air for Ramjet to suck on.

The mission briefing Locke conducted was a masterpiece of standardization, starting with a time hack and continuing through every required item on the briefing checklist. Matt and Haney exchanged unbelieving looks when they noticed the colonel was making too many notes on his Mission Data Card. Ramjet was writing down information that he should have automatically memorized. A fighter jock’s number one tool is his brain and Ramjet wasn’t using his.

The flight itself proved to be routine as Locke and Matt worked through a series of basic fighter maneuvers. Haney was bored silly in the pit of number two and had little to do. Matt was enjoying the mission. “Talk to me, babes,” he told Haney as they set up for their last engagement.

“We’re the defender on this one, the Old Man is the attacker. He’ll convert to our six, do a quarter plane and zoom and fall in behind us. He’ll drive to lag and try to herd us around the sky.” Haney paused. Matt could tell from the tone in his voice he didn’t like being a target. “Before he does all that to us, why don’t you reef hard into him while he’s still converting to our six and force him into a scissors. That ought to get Ramjet’s attention.”

“Aah, I don’t know,” Matt said. “Maybe we ought to keep it simple and let Locke eat our shorts.”

“A scissors is a basic fighter maneuver, the boss briefed it, and he did say to do it if the situation was right.”

“Sounds good,” Matt allowed. “Let’s do it if we can.”

“Colonel Raider,” Locke said over the intercom in his jet, “I’m going to quarter plane and zoom on this engagement. But I’m going to make a deliberate mistake and give the defender just enough room to counterturn on me and enter into a scissors. But he’s got to be damn good to see it. So don’t be surprised if you see his nose pitch back into us when we’re still ninety degrees off his heading.” Locke was worried about the heavy breathing he could hear coming over the intercom. Come on, Ramjet, he thought, this is no biggy.

As briefed on the ground, the two jets positioned and Locke slashed down onto Matt, rapidly closing to his six o’clock position and almost ninety degrees off Matt’s heading. To kill his high overtake speed, Locke pulled his nose up and traded his airspeed for altitude before rolling and pulling his nose back to Matt’s six o’clock. But Matt saw that Locke had given him enough room to counterturn and reefed his fighter into a hard upward turn, bringing his nose onto Locke. Now the two were climbing as they repeatedly turned nose-to-nose and overshot each other. Both pilots were decelerating as fast as possible, each trying to get his nose behind the other’s tail.

“Shit hot!” Locke yelled over the intercom. “He caught it!” The heavy breathing coming from his rear cockpit grew more rapid as their airspeed fell below 200 knots and Locke pulled over thirty units of angle of attack. “Now watch this,” Locke said. “We’re going to get in the phone booth with him.” The veteran pilot closed to a thousand feet. “Damn, the boy’s good,” he muttered as Matt timed a rolling reversal perfectly and gained a slight advantage.

“Too close!” Ramjet shouted.

“Still a thousand feet separation,” Locke told him, trying to calm the colonel. “The regs say we can close to five hundred before knocking it off. Pontowski can handle it.” Locke hardened up the scissors, slowing down to 160 knots and bringing his nose up, increasing the angle of attack. “Screw the phone booth, time to get into the coin return.” He closed to inside six hundred feet.