The Warbirds (32 page)

The shadow materialized into the shape of a young man dressed in camouflage fatigues. He was not devout. That was apparent in his athletic gait as he crossed the tiled floor.

“The Ayatollah no longer lives?” But Araki knew the answer even as he asked.

The man said nothing as he strode up to the rigid Ayatollah Araki, raised a pistol in his right hand, pulled the trigger, blowing the old man’s brains out.

25 June: 0245 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 0615 hours, Kerman, Iran

The room in the Citadel of Kerman was silent as the radio operator worked the deciphering mode of the Russian-made Urgo S-21 transmitter. The Russian adviser was proud of his student for mastering the complexities of the field radio. The young Iranian had no trouble programming the radio for optimum contact with six different lo
cations throughout Iran. His fingers had moved swiftly over the control pad, punching in the right numbers when he needed to shift frequencies to establish contact with Ashkhabad. “The Urgo is a masterpiece,” the adviser told the operator, “but it takes an artist to make it work.”

An occasional gust of wind came roaring off the central plateau of Iran to batter at the windows of the room, sending swirls of dust across the floor. The adviser hoped the weather stripping on the Urgo’s case had not cracked. Poor quality control was a problem with the radio.

“Araki is dead,” the radio operator finally announced.

Every head in the room turned toward the man sitting in the corner, waiting for his next command. Apparently, he was asleep.

“The cell leader in Qom reports that Araki died quickly,” the radio operator said, continuing to decode the latest transmission.

The sleeping man’s eyes snapped open. “Then it was merciful.” The commander’s gaze took in the room. “Is the list complete?”

One of the standing men nodded in answer.

“Then the Guardianship Council exists no more. There is no one for the masses to follow. Iran is without leadership. We will fill that void.” He motioned to the Russian adviser. “In a few hours we will control the roads, and the convoys you have promised can move without interference. Send the messages to start them south.”

The Russian tapped the radio operator on the shoulder and moved into his chair. He typed a short message on the keyboard and pressed the encryption button. When a blue light came on he keyed up the Ashkhabad frequency and hit the transmit button. “Done,” he told the commander.

The commander of the People’s Soldiers of Islam (PSI), the name the Tudeh had given to their army, stood and walked out into the Citadel’s quadrangle. He stared at the clouds scudding across the early morning sky and climbed the stone stairs of the wall. His aide hurried after him with a great coat and threw it over his shoulders as he continued up the steps. At the top, the commander surveyed the small city spread out before him. “We will use the Russians,’
he said. “And in the end, we will be the masters of our country. We will be the servant of no man. It is the time of our jihad.”

25 June: 0440 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 0740 hours, Moscow, USSR

The black Mercedes sedan hurtled down the center of Granovsky Street less than four blocks away from the Kremlin. A policeman had not gotten the word over his radio that a VIP was inbound to Borovitsky Gate and frantically waved traffic and pedestrians to the curb when he caught sight of the speeding car. He breathed a sigh of relief when the car shot past him and he saw the license plate with its distinctive MOC number. Someone very big was in a hurry. The foreign chauffeured car and license plates were a warning that he would not have enjoyed another Moscow night if an accident had happened at his corner. Since the gray curtains of the limousine were drawn, he had no idea who was in the car.

The barrier at Borovitsky Gate was up and the guard waved the Mercedes into the Kremlin. Comrade Viktor Rokossovsky had made the four-hundred-mile flight from Leningrad and the long drive from Vnukovo II airport in time for the unscheduled Politburo meeting called by the General Secretary.

The Tartar who served as the General Secretary’s bodyguard told the General Secretary when the Mercedes arrived so that he could time the walk from his office and enter the conference room immediately after Rokossovsky, denying Ulyanoff the opportunity to speak to the late arrival. The General Secretary stood behind his chair at the head of the table. “Thank you, Comrade Rokossovsky, for making such a quick return. Your presence is always to our advantage.”

You fox, Ulyanoff thought. Rokossovsky makes it back in time from visiting his blonde mistress and you try to turn it to your advantage with a compliment. It puzzled Ulyanoff how Rokossovsky had gotten the word about the meeting. The Politburo’s staff had not been able to locate his errant supporter. Lately, wisps of doubt about Viktor
had been bothering Ulyanoff. Still, it made no difference. With Rokossovsky present, he could force a showdown with the General Secretary over Iran. He calculated he would be sitting at the head of the table in less than three days.

The General Secretary sat down and looked directly at Kalin-Tegov. “Developments in Iran are swinging in our favor. The Ayatollah is dead and the Guardianship Council has been eliminated. Our brothers in the Tudeh Party have taken control of the governing structure in Tehran but their political position is far from secure. The Tudeh are also moving their forces into position to block any renewed military adventurism by Iraq across the Shatt-al-Arab. Needless to say, the situation is very fragile. The Tudeh has asked for our help.”

“We don’t need to get involved in another Afghanistan,” Ulyanoff grumbled. “But that was before your time, you wouldn’t know.”

“But a different situation,” Kalin-Tegov said. “Perhaps if we are not directly involved…” He deliberately let his words trail off.

Ulyanoff’s heavy eyebrows knitted together as he tried to judge the direction Kalin-Tegov was taking. His support was critical if the General Secretary was to be removed.

“Exploit the situation now,” Rokossovsky said.

Ulyanoff almost twisted out of his chair. All doubt about Rokossovsky evaporated—he had joined the General Secretary. Only Kalin-Tegov stood between him and defeat. “We must proceed on the course we have taken,” Ulyanoff urged. “The revitalization of our economy is most urgent and our armed forces need to be restructured. The damages of Afghanistan must be corrected—”

“We are not talking about a major deviation from our policies, Comrade Ulyanoff,” the General Secretary said, “only how to turn this situation to our advantage.”

“Is it to our advantage to engage in a misguided venture that could ignite World War Three?” Ulyanoff said.

“As Comrade Kalin-Tegov says, if we are not directly involved,” the General Secretary pressed.

“But you have involved us,” Ulyanoff shouted. “The buildup of material at Ashkhabad, the shipment of sup
plies into Iran, and now you have ordered trucks to start moving out of Ashkhabad. That is direct involvement without the consent of the Politburo—”

“The trucks have not yet crossed the border,” the General Secretary said, acknowledging the accuracy of Ulyanoff’s intelligence. “They can be recalled…And they only carry what has been promised the Tudeh. The question before us is, should we honor the request of the Tudeh for more aid? I believe we should.”

A murmur of assent went around the table. Kalin-Tegov nodded in agreement. The lack of further discussion was the Politburo’s way of voting on the issue. The General Secretary’s position had been approved.

“I believe my office should direct the aid into Iran,” the General Secretary said.

Ulyanoff started to protest that as head of the Defense Council he had that responsibility, but another round of agreement swept the table.

“Comrade Rokossovsky,” the General Secretary said, “as a member of the Defense Council, I want you to work on this problem.”

The young man quickly nodded as the General Secretary stood, thanked the group and left the room.

Ulyanoff sat in his chair, sick at the rapid, unwelcome turn of events. He had suffered a major policy defeat. Too many members of the Politburo had deserted him. His maneuvering for ultimate power was stopped dead. He had been displaced by a younger generation. He glared at Rokossovsky. “Who told you about this meeting?”

“The Comrade General Secretary, of course.”

He got to his feet and walked slowly to the door. Kalin-Tegov joined him in the corridor and gently placed his hand on Ulyanoff’s shoulder. “Your dacha is a fine home for raising great-grandchildren,” he said.

And the Tartar was standing in the hall, smiling at him.

25 June: 1155 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 0755 hours, Washington, D. C.

Stevens nodded at Waters and motioned him to a chair in Cunningham’s outer office. Muddy fought to control his emotions, found some comfort by calculating how many colonels had sat in the same office cooling their heels, waiting for bad news. I’ll probably be here most of the morning, he thought, while Sundown lets the tension build…Two minutes later Stevens escorted him to the general and remained standing near the door.

Cunningham looked up from his desk.
“Why?”

“The IG team concentrated on procedures and not results, sir.”

“And what were the results?”

“What we did is in the NATO Tactical Evaluation report the team wrote. My wing failed the ORI based on procedural criteria the IG has developed, and that’s the basis of the message they sent out—”

“…I didn’t know the team also conducted a Tac Eval…”

Waters felt a twinge of hope. Cunningham had lived with the two-tiered inspection system in NATO for years. But he had had serious misgivings about using NATO procedures to inspect his Air Force. He found the system acceptable only as long as ORIs were conducted separately because of the different rules and procedures.

“What were the results of the Tac Eval?”

“We did well, sir. The details speak for themselves—”

“Two things confuse me. Why did the IG conduct the two inspections together, and how do you know the results and details when I don’t?”

Waters decided to be totally open with the man. “Sir, the inspection started as an ORI but the Technical Agreement with the RAF calls for a NATO Tac Eval. When it became obvious the investigation team was not aware of the agreement I requested that Group Commander Childs straighten out Colonel Gertino, the team chief. My first sergeant back-doored copies of the reports from the typists.”

“Pullman at work, I gather.”

Waters was astonished the general knew his first shirt.

“Okay, now I’ve got two sets of results. One based on my system, the other on NATO’s. That sucks, Waters. The IG team is telling me that your wing is not ready, and I have to believe them.”

The doubt that Waters had been hoping to build on was gone. “General, please read the two reports before you make up your mind. The examples the team uses are the only ones they could find. Six months ago you sent me to get the wing ready to deploy into the Gulf. We
are
ready. It’s true, we’ve done things differently. But that’s because we didn’t have time to—” Waters stopped when he heard the excuses in his own voice.

Cunningham made a short, choppy motion toward the door with his left hand, signaling the interview was at an end, and that Muddy Waters had lost his wing.

Waters fought down the bile in his throat, saluted and left. Cunningham stared at the open door, then said to Stevens, “Get a list from Third Air Force of possibles for a new wing commander for the 45th…hurry up, but no rush.”

As Stevens closed the door behind him he heard a crash from inside the office that sounded like something large being thrown across the room.

Cunningham’s unhappiness about what had happened to Waters was put in a shadow by the ominous intelligence reports out of the Persian Gulf. Long experience had taught him not to ignore his forebodings, especially those based in experience and educated speculation. He left home early Sunday morning for work, telling Ruth he wouldn’t be long. The halls of the Pentagon were their usual early Sunday morning quiet as he went directly to the Watch Center. Sergeant Nesbit saw him walk onto the main floor and warned the on-duty watch commander that he was about to have a guest.

Cunningham walked into the battle cab, disregarded the two men and sat down at the center console, staring at the big situation boards. He asked the colonel to call up the Persian Gulf display and sat puzzling out the likely intentions behind the newly emerging force dispositions.
Taken individually, they did not appear so ominous, but together…“Get some analysts up here,” he ordered.

Don Williamson was on duty, responded to the buzz from the cab and hurried up the stairs with his new assistant. The general motioned the two analysts to sit next to him and began to talk in a low voice. “What’s the Tudeh doing around the southern edge of the Plateau of Iran?”

“Our latest reports,” Williamson said, “indicate that they’re organizing around Kerman and are holding the bridges as tax collection points.”

“Which means they’re controlling the bridges.”

Williamson nodded.

“Okay, find out the latest status of the Ayatollah and update supply movements in both Iran and Russia. I want to see the latest Iranian order of battle. Include what the Russians have given the Tudeh with the Iranian armed forces.”

After the analysts left, Cunningham directed, “Get my aide up here and recall the battle staff.”

The two analysts returned to the cab forty-five minutes later. Stevens and the three generals who made up the Watch Center’s battle staff were also on hand. Williamson keyed up the center board, displaying an entirely new disposition of forces inside Iran.

“The Ayatollah’s current status?” the General demanded.

“Uncertain, sir. Either very ill, dead or his power base is slipping. The Iranian Communist Party, the Tudeh, are moving to gain control of the country and have requested help from volunteers who believe in their version of Marxist Islam. We’re monitoring a massive movement of Farsi-speaking Shiite Muslims from Turkmen in the Soviet Union and Afghanistan into Iran. They’re calling themselves the People’s Soldiers of Islam, the PSI for short, sir. Radio broadcasts from Teheran indicate the Iranians see this as a chance to win out for good over Iraq.”