Hypersonic Thunder: A Novel of the Jet Age (15 page)

June 9, 1981

The Pentagon, Washington, D.C.

S
weat stained the back of O’Malley’s shirt as he hurtled down the hallways, elbowing past idling three-stars and jumping over a long low trailer hauling stacks of unread computer printouts. It was sort of funny—everybody else ran—two-stars, one-stars, and below—but the three-stars just ignored everybody as they strolled along, their major and lieutenant colonel worker-bees awkwardly following behind, unable to run because their bosses walked. You rarely saw a four-star in the hallways.

Puffing, he thought to himself,
Here I am, not gray yet, but an old colonel running down the corridors, just like I said I would never do
.

He pulled up short outside “the Tank,” the classified briefing room in the basement of the Pentagon, to check that his ID was hung around his neck, reflecting with pleasure as he always did,
But at least I’m the richest son of a bitch of a colonel running around here!

O’Malley, as usual, arrived ten minutes too early for the meeting. He could have sauntered down, maybe had a cup of coffee, for meetings here in the bowels of the Pentagon always started late. But he ran for the sheer joy of being back in the Air Force and away from the bitter infighting between Bob Rodriquez and the Shannons over control of Vance Shannon, Incorporated.

His mind flashed back to the previous September. Bob Rodriquez had not yet made a formal offer to buy him out, but O’Malley knew that his partner was neglecting ActOn business to fly around the country, gathering support for his planned takeover raid on the huge business Vance Shannon had founded. Then, early one Saturday morning, Rodriquez turned up at his little two-story house in Manhattan Beach. Steve’s wife Sally (the bane of her life were the inevitable bad jokes about Sally O’Malley—she was born Sally Brennan) was at church, and he wished he’d gone with her.

Rodriquez didn’t fool around, going straight to the point, refusing an invitation to come in—he just stood on the little porch, feet spread in a pugilist’s stance, face intent with barely suppressed emotion.

“Steve, I’ve gathered support all around the country from enough shareholders to have ActOn make a buyout bid to take over Vance Shannon, Incorporated. Are you with me?”

“You know how I feel about that, Bob. You are going to force me out of our company. I won’t participate in a hostile bid on a friend’s firm.”

“They are not my friends, and if they are your friends, you are no longer my friend. It’s just as well that you get out now. Can I assume that you will abide by our verbal agreement about a buyout?”

O’Malley was tired. He knew this was coming, and resented it.

“Of course, Bob, I’m offended that you would even ask. What is your offer?”

“Fourteen million cash. For every share you own. That’s about twenty percent over the market value, if you figure it out.”

O’Malley had already figured it out; now he tried to figure out how he could get out of the situation. He stalled, trying to see if there was any way he could come up with enough cash for a counteroffer.
According to the terms of their agreement, if he could raise fourteen million, beg borrow or steal, he could buy ActOn out from under Rodriquez. And he could do that by selling his own shares. It would depress the market, but not by twenty percent. So he could sell his own shares to generate the money to buy Rodriquez out.

But there was a fundamental problem. ActOn without O’Malley would prosper; ActOn without Rodriquez would probably curl up and die. Even running around the country, fighting to get control of Vance Shannon, Incorporated, Bob was getting more business for ActOn than anyone else could.

“Do Tom and Harry know what you are trying to do?”

“Yes, I kept it secret for a while, but there was no way I could get the support I needed without them knowing. They know.”

“Well, I accept your offer, but I’m telling you now that I oppose what you are doing, and I’ll support Harry and Tom to the end. You are making a big mistake, and worse, an unnecessary mistake, for all the wrong reasons.”

“Spare me your philosophy, Steve. You’ve been a big help in getting ActOn running, but now it’s time for you to go. Help them if you want, I don’t give a damn.”

Rodriquez, always the soul of courtesy in the past, didn’t even nod good-bye, spinning on his heel to sprint down the curved concrete path to his rental beater.

Steve walked back into his house and made two phone calls. Harry Shannon answered the first one.

“Harry, if Tom’s there can you get him on an extension?”

“Steve, good to hear from you. Tom’s out with Nancy at church. He hasn’t missed Mass since he’s been back from the Hanoi Hilton; says he owes a lot to the Lord.”

“We all do, Harry. I guess you know what Rodriquez has been doing?”

“Yeah, it looks like a proxy fight. I hate to see it, but it’s having a good effect on Tom. He’s a fighter, you know, and he’s always wanted to get Rodriquez in his sights. This thing is a tonic for him.”

O’Malley let out a sigh of relief.

“That’s great. And you tell Tom that Bob has bought me out, lock, stock, and barrel. I refused to take part in the raid.”

“Great, we’ll hire you today!”

“No thanks, Harry, and good luck. I’ve got other plans.”

And Harry had nailed it. “I’ll bet your next phone call is to Lew Allen!”

O’Malley laughed at the memory. Harry was exactly right. His next call was to the erudite Chief of Staff, General Lew Allen, begging to be recalled into the Air Force on some special assignment. Allen, after giving him a long lecture about the evils of the military industrial complex’s revolving door, had orders cut, recalling him and assigning him to his own staff in the Pentagon. And as much as Sally hated moving out of California and back to Washington, she was happy for him.

Their one point of difference was his attitude toward money. Selling his share of ActOn had not only freed him to do what he really wanted to do—get back in the Air Force—it lined his pocket with millions of dollars that he promptly invested in government bonds. Not much return, but safe so that he didn’t have to worry about it. And, to Sally’s dismay, he insisted that they live mostly on what he earned as a colonel, just to stay part of the Air Force crowd, buying a tract house in Annandale, near the beltway, rather than something more expensive close in. O’Malley wanted his decisions evaluated on their merit, not his bank account. He liked the Air Force life, and he knew that he could never get back in the swing of it if he flashed a lot of money around.

The Air Police guard outside the door to the “Tank” suddenly stood up, and O’Malley turned to watch the group of beaten-looking colonels and generals filing out—their briefing must have gone badly.

The guard smiled sympathetically and said, “Your turn in the barrel, Colonel O’Malley.”

Inside the oppressive, ill-ventilated Tank, there was a long center table, surrounded by rows of chairs that reached backward and up to the dimly lit ceiling. O’Malley put his hastily prepared briefing on the podium and checked through his vue graphs one more time. Nothing was deadlier to a briefing than an out-of-place vue graph.

It was good being tight with the Shannons again. If he hadn’t had the close connection with V. R. Shannon, he’d never have the inside information he had on these celluloid sheets, the documentation of the air drama over Iraq. He had sponsored V. R.’s early assignments, and V. R. had proved himself. Now Tom Shannon’s son was being shuttled around the Air Force from one tough job to another, alternating between the stealth programs and liaison work with the Israeli Air Force.
The latter was not a one-way street by any means. The United States was supplying the Israeli Air Force with aircraft and ordnance, but Israel was developing its own armament industry and perfecting some combat techniques for the F-16 that the USAF could use.

He smiled with pleasure at the thought that it was his airplane, the lightweight F-16, which the Israelis had used with such deadly effect against the Iraqi nuclear facility at Osirak.

The room stirred as the Chief walked in with his small staff. Unlike most previous Air Force Chiefs of Staff, Lew Allen had never seen combat or even served overseas. But he was a giant intellect, a scientist, and exactly what the Air Force needed now that President Reagan was committed to expanding the armed services. Tall, bald, wearing a heavy set of glasses, he gave a friendly professorial nod and O’Malley began his briefing with the usual courtesies before launching into the first vue graph.

“As we all know, the Iraqis used French fiscal and engineering assistance to build the Osirak nuclear facility, with the clear intent of producing nuclear weapons.”

O’Malley tapped on the image with his pointer and said, “The Iraqis planned a forty-megawatt light-water nuclear reactor in place at the Al Tuwaitha Nuclear Center. It is about eleven miles southeast of Baghdad. Construction began in the late 1970s. The initial name for the reactor was Osiris, after the Egyptian god of the dead. The French renamed it Osiraq, to combine the name of the god and the country into one.”

He called “Next” and the unflappable Master Sergeant Dave Menard flipped the chart, showing a map of the area. He had worked with Menard, an airplane history nut, in the past, and was glad to have him with him now. No incorrect charts, no upside-down tables, with Menard.

“The Israeli government engaged in intense diplomatic activity trying to stop the Iraqis from proceeding with the development of a nuclear weapon. France declined to help; it was actively engaged in providing the Iraqis weapons in exchange for oil. Italy also refused to intervene, for much the same reason, oil.”

There was a general murmuring in the audience—O’Malley could not make out the discussion, but assumed it was comment on France’s continuing opposition to Israel.

“The Israeli Cabinet was informed that a shipment of ninety
kilograms of enriched uranium rods was being sent by France to Iraq. They knew that as soon as the rods were placed into the reactor, the danger of radioactive fallout from an attack would be unacceptable. A decision was made to attack the reactor before it went ‘hot’ to avoid excessive fallout. In consultation with his cabinet—and against some bitter internal political opposition—Israeli Prime Minister Menachem Begin ordered the Israeli Air Force to eliminate the facility. The Israelis believed that Iraqi nuclear weapons would be fatal to their existence. Begin reportedly said that ‘he will not be the man in whose time there will be a second Holocaust.’

“Next vue graph, please.

“The Israeli Air Force attacked on 7 June 1981, using six McDonnell Douglas F-15s for escort and eight General Dynamics F-16s for the attacking force.”

He called “Next,” and said, “First takeoffs were at 15:55 local time—that would be 12:55 Greenwich. They launched from Etzion Air Base in the Negev, the closest Israeli air base to Iraq. The force flew over Jordanian, Saudi Arabian, and Iraqi airspace at about 750 feet altitude to make the attack. There is unconfirmed word that Jordan’s King Hussein was vacationing in Aqaba. He reportedly saw the low-level Israeli aircraft flying over and personally tried to phone Saddam Hussein to warn him of a probable attack. Fortunately for the Israelis he could not get the call through.

“Next vue graph, please.

“Here is their route—660 miles at low level, popping up at 17:35.

“Next one, please.

“The actual attack took one minute and twenty seconds. This photo is from the last F-16 to attack, and shows that the reactor is in ruins, its concrete ceiling caved in. The Iraqis had been caught by surprise, and their antiaircraft defense was ineffective.

“Next one.

“Each F-16 carried two unguided Mark 84 two-thousand-pound bombs, with time-delay fusing. They also carried external tanks, which was a potential problem.

“Next chart.

“The external tanks were not designed to be jettisoned while the airplane was still loaded with Mark 84s; fortunately, they dropped them over the Saudi desert without incident. When they were about to
enter Iraqi airspace, they dropped down to about one hundred feet. Two F-15s stayed with them as close escort; the other four climbed in different directions in Iraqi airspace to create a diversion, and to engage any airborne Iraqi aircraft. Such an engagement would have been fatal to the Israeli planes, as they did not have enough fuel to enter combat and get home.

“At 17:35 Israeli time, about twelve miles out from the nuclear reactor, the F-16s climbed to seven thousand feet. They acquired the target, and dove at about six hundred knots indicated, releasing their weapons at thirty-five hundred feet. The airplanes had about a five-second separation between them; all bombs hit the target, but two failed to detonate. All the Israeli aircraft immediately climbed to altitude—forty thousand feet, I understand—for the trip home.”

O’Malley nodded to Menard to shut the vue-graph projector off.

“Any questions, sir?”

There was a dead silence; until Allen spoke, his staff would stay quiet. Finally Allen stood up slowly and said, “There’s been adverse political reaction to the strike all around the world. We’ve been helping Iraq in its war on Iran. I know you aren’t a political analyst, Steve, but your briefing shows you have sources. What’s your take on this?”

Caught unprepared, O’Malley hesitated, then said, “Let me comment on the technical aspects first. The mission was brilliantly executed by the top pilots in the Israeli Air Force. They pulled it off without having to use in-flight refueling. Probably no air force in the world, besides our own and the RAF, could have done it.”

He paused, still frantically gathering his thoughts.

“But politically it’s a mix. Inside Israel, everyone’s delighted with the short-term results. But some are worried that Israel is blinded by the Holocaust syndrome. Others are worried that the Iraqis will just start over, and this time bury the facility so that it cannot be attacked.”

Allen interrupted him. “I didn’t mean your take on Israel. What is your take on the effect on the United States?”