The Warbirds (11 page)

Whenever Cunningham detected an “uneducated officer,” he personally completed the man’s schooling, and being an egoist he believed he could do it with the force of his personality and well-tested bag of tricks. Valuing efficiency, he always did it quickly. For those who got the message, no harm was done to their career. For the slow learners, civilian life was the only refuge. The back of Lawrence Cunningham’s mind was not a pretty place, but it was an extremely efficient locale, and filled with a blood lust toward the enemy that he fought to control.

The general drew on his cigar, wishing the flight surgeon would let him smoke more of them, and considered the two problems before him: why were the Egyptians so upset, and was the 45th ready for a combat role in the Middle East? Normally he could have found an answer to the second problem by sending in an Inspector General team to conduct an Operational Readiness Inspection. But the cantankerous Egyptians would not give an IG team diplomatic permission to enter their country. He hoped Waters, the latest candidate for his inner circle, would find some answers to both questions.

“Dick, I’m sending a team to Alexandria South to write an after-action report. Am I getting too involved with the nuts and bolts of the Air Force again?” Cunningham was
aware of his difficulty in controlling his urge to tinker with small details and relied on his aide to keep him on track, dealing with policy.

“Don’t think so, sir. An after-action report should furnish some answers.”

“I’m taking a good look at Waters. Make sure word gets out that I’m doing detailed after-action reports now. Should liven up a few dead asses…How long has Shaw been at Alexandria South?”

“Fifteen months, sir.”

“That’s about the average tour of duty for a wing commander. Maybe a new wing commander would be a bone to the Egyptians. Let’s be ready to try that. Tell General Percival at Third Air Force to start looking for a replacement for Shaw. Get a list of possibilities from him.”

The 45th fell under the operational command of Third Air Force, headquartered at RAF Mildenhall in England. Cunningham wanted to keep the 45th in the Middle East as a counterforce to the increasing destabilization he saw developing in that area, especially in the Persian Gulf. Too many hotheads were trying to increase their power base at the expense of their neighbors and by controlling the flow of oil out of the Gulf. Experience had made clear that any disruption in that flow was a threat to the U.S. and its NATO allies.

“I need a memo for Waters to take to the 45th. I want Shaw’s wing to put together a plan for sending one, two or all three of his squadrons into the Persian Gulf area on twelve-hour notice. I don’t want the usual deployment plan where they take everything they own. I need something that will get a small force package into the area. They’ve got to go in lean and mean, ready to fight and get out quick. We can’t do that with the Rapid Deployment Force. It takes too much support to defend that large a force. Figure one week autonomous operations before resupply. Fuel, munitions and billeting already in place.”

Cunningham stopped for a moment. He was deeply frustrated by his planners, who seemed incapable of thinking of force packages less than a full-scale commitment of the RDF. Common sense told him the Air Force had to offer the President a smaller-force option for operations in
that troubled part of the world. It was a much different matter to commit a squadron or wing of aging F-4s, and much easier to withdraw them than a prestigious commitment of F-15s or F-16s.

Cunningham leaned back in his armchair, his stout body sinking into the soft leather, a signal to Stevens that he was dismissed to go forward and execute the general’s orders.

The two captains had been waiting for the colonels to return from the briefing with Cunningham. Relief and confusion spread across their faces when they saw the three men walk in. Waters and Gomez were obviously in a good mood, Blevins in a sour funk. “I thought Colonel Waters was giving the briefing, not Blevins,” Williamson said. “It looks like the horse’s ass was nailed to the floor.”

“I don’t think they would change briefers this late,” Sara said. “I bet it went well and Blevins is feeling left out.”

Gomez motioned for the two analysts to join them in the battle cab. Blevins, however, stalked off to his office at the back of the main floor. Sara and Don hurried up the stairs after Waters and Gomez, ignoring the petulant colonel.

Gomez quickly related what happened, telling them how Waters had to take Blevins along with him to Egypt. “He’s such an—”

“Asshole,” the two captains chorused.

Gomez should have reprimanded them for their disrespect but found it impossible to censure them for saying exactly what he had been thinking. “One more thing. Another officer is to go on the team. Which one of you wants it?”

Sara Marshall looked to her junior partner, Don Williamson. Their working relationship was a finely balanced blend of intellect and personality and she did not want to upset it. While she badly wanted to go, she was reluctant to preempt the offer.

Williamson rocked back in his chair, arms and legs flopping down like a rag doll. “Sara, why don’t you go? I’ve got a heavy date this Saturday, and if I miss it, she’ll start
without me.” The lie was easy for Williamson, who loved Sara with every hungry bone in his body.

20 July: 1505 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 1705 hours, Alexandria, Egypt

The walk across the ramp had caused all the passengers deplaning at Alexandria South to break out in perspiration. Colonel Shaw recognized Muddy Waters long before they entered the air-conditioned small passenger lounge. Time had been kind to Waters, and although they were the same age, he looked fifteen years younger than the heavy-set wing commander.

“Welcome to Alex South, Muddy. It’s been a long time.”

Waters introduced Blevins and Sara. Blevins shook Shaw’s hand and nodded, saying nothing.

The wing commander was perplexed by Blevins’ withdrawn, cautious response. “The Puzzle Palace sent word you were coming but we expected you sooner,” Shaw said, trying to break through the colonel’s reserve.

“We broke down in Spain and had a twelve-hour layover,” Waters said, annoyed by Blevins’ behavior. “Actually I needed the chance to sack out. Never could sleep on an airplane, especially when someone else is driving.”

Shaw nodded. “We can check you into your quarters and go right to work if you want.”

“Thanks, John,” Waters said, “but I’d rather get a good meal and night’s rest. We can start to work in the morning when we’re all fresh. Okay with you, Gene? Sara?”

Sara was grateful. Blevins went along. The heat had made him especially irritable, but he was dreading the coming week in any case. Never mind Shaw’s welcome, he still felt excluded, which he blamed on his being non-rated, a ground-pounder.

As they settled into the air-conditioned car the driver had left running to keep cool, Shaw leaned back over the front seat. “I know you don’t want to get involved tonight, but the message didn’t say why you were coming here. Can you give me a clue?”

“We’re tasked with writing up an after-action report on
Grain King, John,” Waters told him. “Sundown wants it circulated through Intel, Command and Control, and Ops—”

“Colonel Shaw,” Blevins broke in, “I would prefer discussing this in the privacy of your office tomorrow.
Not
here.” Blevins punctuated his statement with a curt nod in the driver’s direction.

Shaw smiled to himself, deposited the group in their respective VIP suites and invited them to join him and his wife Beth for dinner.

As he did, a rush of emotions went through Waters, remembering well Shaw’s attractive wife. Long dormant memories had surfaced in bits and pieces during the flight from the States, and now they had all coalesced and focused. The acute pain of his loss had died away long ago for Waters, but the recollection carried a life of its own. “I’d like that, John. How about you, Gene? Sara?”

Blevins declined, wanting to maintain a personal distance from Shaw. Sara readily accepted, glad to escape the irritating colonel.

The reason behind the arrival of the three officers had not bothered Shaw nearly as much as the attitude of Eugene S. Blevins, and after dropping them off at the VOQ he pulled his first sergeant aside. “Mort, spend some of your Green Stamps and find out about Colonel Eugene Blevins ASAP. I don’t need to be blind-sided.”

Back in his office, the first sergeant checked the Air Force register, digging out details on Blevins and duly noting the colonel’s current assignment to the Pentagon’s Watch Center. Although his marching orders had only covered Blevins, the NCO also checked on Waters and Marshall. Chief Master Sergeant Mortimer M. Pullman, loyal to the colonel, wasn’t about to let his wing commander be gunned down from any quarter.

Now he went into the command post, collared one of the sergeants on duty and explained what he wanted, collecting a long-overdue marker. While the younger NCO had never been stationed at the Watch Center, he had a friend who was.

Forty minutes later the chief paged Shaw, who was on his way to the Officers Club.

As Waters changed for dinner, images of the long-ago pain came surging back with renewed intensity. He and Shaw had been lieutenants learning to fly the new F-4 at Luke Air Force Base in Arizona. It was Shaw’s wife Beth who had driven Waters to the hospital, where his wife and infant daughter had been taken after a serious car accident. Beth had stayed there helping Waters endure the ordeal of waiting. And when a young doctor told Waters that his daughter, Jennifer, had died, Beth had joined in his grief. Four hours later she again shared his despair when the same doctor, too old for his age, told them that his wife had died without regaining consciousness. It was Beth who had brought the young pilot back to some form of sanity and after that neither was ever quite the same.

The Shaws and Waters had parted when Waters was assigned to a different wing in Florida, but they had run into each other from time to time and had never lost contact. Still, it had been over six years since he had last seen Beth…

An hour later Waters and Sara walked into the officers club bar. A group of young officers and their wives standing at the bar quieted when the newcomers entered. Waters was learning what it meant to be seen with Sara. The attention she drew hardly bothered him, and he liked being with her. Why not? She was young, bright, witty and a looker.

Now a long-remembered voice took Waters’ attention away from Sara. “You haven’t changed a bit, Muddy.”

Turning, Waters saw a plump, matronly woman smiling at him. Her short black hair was streaked with gray, although the large dark eyes and wide, full mouth were exactly as he remembered them. He quickly collected Beth Shaw into his arms. “Beth, it’s good to see you—”

“Easy, Muddy,” she said, not breaking the embrace, then drew back and studied his face. “It’s not fair.”

“What’s not?”

“Men get better looking; women get fatter with double chins.”

The two stood back, still holding onto each other. Memories of when they were all newly married came flooding back…images of floating down the Salt River on inner-tubes dragging six-packs of beer behind them, of sitting around the officers club drinking beer and singing lewd, crude drinking songs, of learning with John to fly the F-4…

Beth Shaw knew all about memories and was more of a realist than Waters in putting them into perspective. She knew what time did to memories, how it could turn them into the unexpected. She knew they had all changed, and with a sure instinct she sensed that Muddy Waters’ visit to Alexandria South could mean trouble for her husband, for his career, which had also become hers…“Muddy, I’m afraid at least one of us is getting old, like the F-4…Well, who else do we have here?”

Waters introduced her to Captain Sara Marshall. Beth had not really noticed Sara until now. She saw the absence of an engagement or wedding ring and felt her age even more. She had seen too many middle-aged colonels change their wives for a younger model and did not exactly look forward to any temptations coming her husband’s way. Still, she continued to play the perfect hostess as they sat down and ordered drinks. “Himself will be along in a few minutes. That damn telephone just won’t leave him alone. He was paged on the way over.”

The telephone page for Shaw was from Chief Mort Pullman. “Sir, we’ve got a real winner on our hands. According to some people who work for him, Blevins is a scumbag. Smart, but when it comes to common sense, he hasn’t the brains God gave a fence post. The word is he’d sell his daughter into white slavery to make general, and not a single NCO in the Watch Center would follow him to the latrine. He never makes a decision and always passes the buck. There is some good news, though. Captain Sara Marshall gets a grade-A endorsement from the NCO. Apparently she can’t stand Blevins but keeps quiet about it. Rumor at the Big P has it that Waters had a bad briefing with Sundown, stood up to him and walked out alive. Something else you ought to know—Waters was the guy who started the ball rolling on protecting Grain King.”

Shaw understood that the sergeant could not say any more over the phone, but it was enough. It never ceased to amaze him, the inside knowledge NCOs had about what went on in the Pentagon, even right into Sundown’s office. The chief had confirmed Shaw’s impression of Blevins. The guy could be dangerous…At least Waters still had his head screwed on straight, and Sara Marshall wasn’t a problem. You won some, you lost some…

He joined the three in the bar, offered his apologies and led them in to dinner, during which Beth’s early worries about Sara faded some when she observed an attraction between the young woman and Waters. Good…about time Muddy found someone to share his life with again. Good for all concerned…

The next morning the two colonels made the short walk to wing headquarters. Sara would join them an hour later; the captain understood the unspoken protocol dictating that the first and last meeting between a wing commander and a team should be private.

Blevins immediately criticized Waters for having dinner with the Shaws, implying it compromised the objectivity of their report.