Shadows of steel pm-5 Read online

  “We will need the reserves, sir,” army commander, Brigadier General Mohammed Sohrabi, said.

  “Then order a full reserve mobilization,” Buzhazi said. “Use the Basij to fill in as necessary, but I want the sea lanes full of Iranian patrol vessels immediately—not six or twelve months from now—shadowing every tanker and every cargo ship that moves through the strait. And I want full air patrols as well—around-the-clock, low-altitude, sustained combat air patrols. I want our forces to be visible to anyone within two hundred kilometers of our shores. Test the GCC and American air forces. How do the Americans put it? Play ‘Red Rover’ with them, probe their weaknesses.”

  “I may have found one, sir,” air forces commander Brigadier General Mansour Sattari interjected. “We saw the American’s stealth bomber last night.”

  “You what?” Buzhazi dismissed his other staff members, and sat down with Sattari, his handpicked man, hopefully soon to be his chief of staff when he became President. “How was this done?”

  “Sir, stealth works because of two things: the stealth aircraft absorbs some radar energy and redirects the rest into thin lobes that point in directions other than back at the transmitter—the net result is that the transmitting radar antenna gets very little of its signal returned, so it fails to correlate the data and form a radar return,” Sattari explained. “The energy absorbed by the skin of the plane and other systems—the so-called cloaking device these aircraft are rumored to employ—is relatively small, perhaps ten to twenty percent. The rest of the energy is still out there, but it is simply not returned to the radar system that it should.”

  “Get on with it, Mansour.”

  “Sir, the problem is not that we cannot receive the signals, or that the signals are not strong enough—the problem is that the antenna that must receive the signal is in the wrong place. If it were possible to move the receiving antenna and synchronize it with the transmitting antenna, or use several different antennas so synchronized, the redirected radar energy would be detected and the plane would appear on radar.

  “For very brief moments, this occurred last night. Purely by chance, we had two radar facilities in perfect synchronization, an A-10 Mainstay radar plane over the strait and a radar facility at Bandar Abbas; both stations were electronically linked with each other, sharing radar data. When the radar aircraft transmitted, the ground station received, and the stealth bomber appeared on Bandar Abbas’s radar screen. It was lost a second later, not enough time to track it or even reacquire it, but it did appear.”

  “So if we synchronize two radars deliberately,” Buzhazi said, “or even more than two, we could spot the aircraft long enough to track it.”

  “Yes, very possible,” Sattari said. “I have my best engineers on the problem right now. I assumed that you wanted to protect the Khomeini carrier group as best as possible, so I am setting up the system using the Khomeini’s long-range radar as the master, with Chah Babar’s long-range radar and with an A-10 Mainstay radar plane’s radar as the slaves. We must precisely match their frequencies and timing so that when the master transmits, the slaves receive, and vice versa. The slaves then report their findings back to the master by datalink, which assembles the data and puts it together into an image. The best part, sir,” Sattari went on, smiling a satisfied, evil smile, “is that the stealth aircraft may not even know it is being tracked!”

  “How is that possible, Mansour?”

  “Because we will be vectoring fighters in on the aircraft using long-range search radars only,” Sattari explained. “The stealth aircraft believes it is invulnerable to these radars. The radar of the fighters that will have the honor of shooting down the stealth bomber will not be locked on to the aircraft until very close in, and they may be able to lock a heat-seeking missile on long before the stealth bomber’s crew suspects that we see them!”

  “Excellent, Mansour, excellent,” Buzhazi said excitedly. “You will receive a promotion to deputy chief of staff if this works.

  Implement the system immediately. Then see to it that we have massive fighter formations in the air. If the Americans launch four fighters, I want eight to counter them.”

  “Sir, it may be unwise to begin such a mobilization so suddenly.

  It will inflame the entire world against us!” Sattari protested.

  “The world, and especially the Americans and the Gulf Cooperative Council, will soon learn how dangerous it is to provoke us!”

  Buzhazi said. “I want the Strait of Hormuz sealed tight, and I want the Khomeini battle group to spearhead it, supported by fighters and bombers from Chah Bahar. The Persian Gulf will be ours now!”

  ANDERSEN AIR FORCE BASE, YIGO, GUAM 24 APRIL, 1997, 1838 HOURS LOCAL

  The dream was so real, he could feel it, hear it as clearly as if he were there with the doomed plane—the screams of the KC-10 cockpit crew as their tanker began spiraling in its death dive into the Gulf of Oman; the horrible crushing impact as the plane hit the water at terminal velocity; the feel of the cold sea, as hard and unyielding as rock, as it crushed their bodies, then dissolved them into the brine. They were shouting, screaming his name, cursing it, cursing him, cursing his parents, cursing his stupidity Dammit, he had killed them, Patrick McLanahan thought. He never should have requested that tanker to come anywhere near Iran after the attacks on Bandar Abbas, the Khomeini carrier group, and Chah Bahar. He knew the Iranian air force would be on high alert, knew they’d be patrolling the skies looking for revenge He could feel the ocean swallow them up, feel the salt water carry them out, away from help, away from home It was salt water, yes, but not from the Gulf of Oman—they were tears. Patrick found himself crying in his sleep, mourning the loss of the KC-10 Extender crew. But as he awoke, he found they were not only his own tears, but from …

  “Wendyl” Patrick exclaimed. “My God, it’s you.” He embraced his wife warmly, and they held each other tightly for several long moments. The bandages were off her neck now, and a bit of hypoallergenic makeup covered the wounds. Her hair was longer, tied in a complex-looking weave on the back of her head.

  “I came in and I saw you crying in your sleep,” Wendy said to her husband. “It hurt me so much to see you like that. I didn’t want to wake you, but I didn’t want you to be in such pain.”

  “Wendy, what are you doing here?”

  “When you radioed NSA to tell them you got a tanker and that you were going to land on Guam, Jon Masters loaded up his DC-10 launch aircraft, chartered about a half dozen other cargo planes himself, and we hurried out here,” Wendy said. “He’s got every NIRT-Sat and PACER SKY satellite, every ALARM booster, every Disruptor-class weapon in his inventory out here, and he’s after blood for what the Iranians did to the Valley Mistress and its crew.”

  “You’re with Sky Masters now?”

  “I signed up shortly after you left with General Freeman,” Wendy said. “I’m his new vice president in charge of development. Jon got us a condo in San Diego, a car, a plane to take us to his plant in Tonopah, the works.”

  “The tavern …?”

  “I leased it out to that development group,” Wendy replied. “I’m sorry I didn’t ask you first, Patrick, but we both know you weren’t happy there. This way you still keep ownership of the place, we have a little positive cash flow coming in, and you’re free to save the world instead of busing tables. You can have it back next year, or you can sell it to the group at any time. I hope you don’t mind, but …”

  Patrick took her hand, squeezed it reassuringly, then kissed her fingers. “You did the right thing, Wendy,” Patrick said.

  You’re right: I wasn’t happy there. But I didn’t have the courage to say so.” His eyes drifted away for a moment, staring at some scene replaying in his mind’s eye.

  But Wendy took his face in her hands and said sternly, “Stop that right now, Mr. McLanahan. I know what you’re doing: you’re imagining those KC-10 crew members dying after being shot down.”

  “You heard about that?”
r />   “Not officially … but yes, Jon Masters monitors everything,” Wendy said. “We heard what you did with his Disruptors over Bandar Abbas, over the Khomeini carrier group. But we found out that you weren’t tasked to go in and launch ‘screamers’ against Chah Bahar. Hal Briggs put that rescue mission together himself, then called you, in the blind, asking for your help. Patrick, that strike was a complete success! I heard Briggs found many of the survivors, got them out. Why are you so unhappy?”

  “Wendy, that KC-10 crew, they’d still be alive if I hadn’t told them to come get us all the way into the Gulf of Oman,” Patrick said. “I wanted to get a refueling so I could continue back to Whiteman instead of having to abort to Diego, so I practically ordered those guys to come in and get me. They died because of my stupidity.”

  “Those guys died doing something they loved to do,” Wendy said.

  “If you hadn’t asked them to come get you, they would’ve come in anyway. They accepted the risks because they wanted to fight, wanted to make a difference, wanted to be part of this operation as much as you did. It’s a shitty job and a shitty way to die—you said so yourself. You know about it as much or better than anyone. But I know you, Patrick: the second you step onto that ramp, you’ll want to be back up there. Wait until you see the stuff Masters brought with him—you won’t be able to wait to shoot a few of those things off.”

  Sure enough, his eyes began to glisten with anticipation as she mentioned Jon Masters and his new missiles. He started to sit up in bed, but Wendy placed a hand against his chest and pushed him back down.

  “If you get up, if you go out there, you do it with no regrets,” Wendy said. “You can’t have it both ways. The things you will say and do once you go out there will set other lives, other futures in motion, do you understand, Patrick? It will cut some of those futures off, and it will affect them all—some good, some bad. If you say yes to the next mission, you put other lives in jeopardy again. Can you live with that?”

  “I want revenge, Wendy,” Patrick said, sitting up in bed, his eyes blazing into hers. “I want to make the Iranians pay for what they did to the Valley Mistress, what they did to that KC-10 crew. Is that okay with you?”

  “What you’ll get is more killing, Patrick,” Wendy said. “It won’t stop until someone calls for peace instead of war. You’re a war maker, not a peacemaker, Patrick. Is that okay with you?”

  “You’re damned right it’s okay with me!”

  “Then stop giving me that thousand-yard stare,” Wendy said angrily. “Stop crying in your sleep mourning other warriors who only want what you yourself want! If you’re going to go out there and kill, do it well and get it over with and come home and be a husband and father. Don’t feel guilty because you’re doing something you believe in. Do it and let’s go home—together.”

  In reply he drew her to him and hugged her as if he would never let go.

  DUBAI, UNITED ARAB EMERATES THAT SAME DAY

  The pallbearers were all in uniform, and they carried the wooden coffin with military precision down the street about a mile to the military cemetery.

  The coffin was open, the body of the UAE commando in full dress uniform, draped with the flag of both the UAE and of the emirate of Dubai, and piled high with flowers atop the flags. Along the way, mourners stopped and bowed their heads. Some touched their fingers to their lips and held them up to the passing coffin;

  a few even touched the coffin itself, or the shoulder of one of the bearers.

  The procession was led by Riza Behrouzi, acting as representative of the Emir himself, but custom dictated that she walk behind the air forces commander, the highest-ranking military man in the procession, and be with the commando’s wife and family. The commando’s wife walked straight, her head uplifted, her chin strong, as did her three children; again, per custom, the commando’s mother cried openly and loudly, announcing the heroic death of her son to every stranger she encountered on her way to the grave site.

  Behrouzi didn’t notice at first, but soon she realized that the air forces commander was whispering excitedly to one of his aides.

  Riza looked up and, to her astonishment, saw two rows of U.S. Marines on the side of the road leading into the cemetery—and there, standing in the center of the road in front of the cemetery gates, was Hal Briggs himself, dressed in his Air Force class-A uniform, wearing his Rangers beret. He and his Marines wore side arms in ceremonial white web belts—it was highly illegal for foreigners to carry weapons in the emirate of Dubai, even U.S. soldiers—and the Marines also carried ceremonial swords at carry-arms. Riza immediately realized that the eight Marines present were the ones that had been rescued from the Iranian prison in Chah Bahar!

  The procession stopped several yards from Briggs, unsure whether or not to continue, not knowing if these armed Americans might be a threat. The air forces commander looked as if he were going to explode with indignation and anger for interrupting their procession in this manner, but before he could do or say anything, Briggs commanded, “Detail, render arms”—the Marines lowered their swords, spinning the hilts so they gleamed in the sunlight—”hu!”

  and the Marines raised their sword hilts to their chins, the blades angled above them toward the casket. Briggs saluted the coffin, held it for a long moment, lowered it, then ordered, “Detail, ready”—they lowered their swords again, spinning them as they extended them again—”hu!” and they placed them again pointing up in front of their shoulders at carry-arms position. On a final command from Briggs, the detail sheathed their swords and returned to attention.

  The air forces commander from Dubai could stand this interruption no longer, and he stormed over to Briggs, stood just a few inches in front of his face, and began to scream epithets at him in Arabic and English. Briggs just stood there at attention, eyes caged, face completely impassive. “I order you, whoever you are, to stand aside and let us pass!” the air forces commander spat in English, “and then I will see to it that you are removed from this country in disgrace!”

  “Yes, sir,” Briggs said. He saluted and moved to step aside …

  … but Riza Behrouzi caught his arm. “You and your men will accompany us to the grave site, Major Briggs,” she said. “It is so ordered.”

  “Briggs? This is Major Harold Briggs, the one who led the expedition into Iran, the one who got our men killed?” the colonel said in Arabic. “This incompetent ass dares bring his men to this holy place?”

  “It is a great honor to have them here, Colonel,” Behrouzi said.

  She motioned to the Marines on the side of the road. “These are the men that were rescued by our soldier’s heroism. They have come to pay their respects to their comrade.”

  “They have done so, then,” the colonel said. “Now get them out of my sight immediately!”

  “Sir, I have one last request …” Briggs said.

  “You will remain silent!”

  “I will hear it, Colonel,” Behrouzi said. “It is an order.” The dead commando’s mother had a look of sheer horror on her face at the sight of a woman, even such a high-ranking woman as Behrouzi, raising her voice to a military officer. “What is your request, Major?”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Briggs said. By way of reply, he raised his voice and said, “Detail, take positions of honor, hu.” And at that, the Marines stepped forward to the casket directly beside each pallbearer, close enough to touch the casket but not so close as to block their way.

  “What is this … no, no, I forbid it!” the air forces commander retorted.

  But at that same moment, one of the UAE pallbearers looked into the eyes of the Marine next to him, nodded, and allowed the Marine to take his position. The Marine put the casket of the dead commando on his shoulders; the UAE pallbearer touched his fingers to his lips, touched the Dubai flag, and stepped away, taking a position beside the American at attention.

  “This is strictly forbidden! This is not permitted! This is an insult!” But one by one, the Marines were al
lowed to take the pallbearers’ places, until the casket was completely borne by armed U.S. Marines.

  “It appears as if your men have decided that their dead should be carried to his final resting place on the shoulders of American Marines,” Behrouzi said in Arabic. “It is not your position or mine to argue.” The dead commando’s mother was still wailing away, more from fear, protest, and confusion now than sorrow, but a stern glance from Behrouzi and a defeated look from the colonel silenced her outrage. “Major Briggs, take your place at the head of the procession as commander of the detail of honor.”

  Briggs saluted again, then stepped over in front of Behrouzi and the dead man’s family, in a position to the left and one pace behind the air forces commander. Before he did so, he turned to the dead commando’s family, bowed his head, and rendered a salute.

  “On behalf of my men and their families, madam, thank you for your sacrifice. God bless you and your country,” Briggs said in a low voice, then once again saluted and bowed his head. His words, understood or not, were accepted by the widow, and his salute was returned proudly by the dead man’s eldest son.

  The procession continued, to the astonishment of the onlookers, into the cemetery, where no non-Muslim had ever before set foot, and the ceremony continued in peace.

  “That was a very beautiful thing you did today, Leopard,” Behrouzi said that evening. She had invited him to dinner at her quarters at Mina Jebel Ali Air Base in Dubai. “Thank you. It was a thing no Dubai soldier will soon forget.”

  “I tried to get permission to attend the funeral, but no one would return my calls,” Briggs said. “I finally decided just to do it, just show up. I’m sorry if it embarrassed the colonel.”

  “He is one of those hard-liners who believe in nothing but religious and ethnic purity,” Behrouzi said. “They are not just in places like Iran or Saudi Arabia. He may squawk to the Emir all he wants—the soldiers support what you did, and the Emir loves all his troops.” She gave him a satisfied smile, and added, “Again, you see, when you know something is right and you take the initiative, you can succeed.”