The Eighty-eighth Key Ch. 52

"Intel reports Saddam is deploying his Scuds out west," an Air Force major told the assembled helicopter pilots, "but nothing is showing up in any of our satellite imagery..."

Callahan looked at the current photograph on the screen and held up his hand.

"Go ahead," the major said.

"Are the launchers small enough to fit under a highway overpass?"

"Yes, and that's going to be your biggest concern. These missiles aren't heavy, relatively speaking, and so the damn things are really easy to move around. There are literally hundreds of small metal buildings along highways 1, 10, and 22, and these routes place Scuds close enough to targets in both Saudi Arabia and Israel to put both coalition troops and large civilian population center in harm's way, particularly in Israel. Word is Patriot batteries will be deployed around major airbases in Saudi Arabia well before the outbreak of hostilities. I don't have word on placement of batteries in Israel at this time, but we have to assume that Saddam is going to go after Israel from Day One..."

"Why?" Rooney asked.

"To rupture the integrity of the coalition," the major replied. "If Israel is pulled into the conflict our Arab partners will likely either refuse to participate in the liberation of Kuwait or, worst case, they may use that as a pretext to move against Israel. At that point, we'd have..."

"A clusterfuck," Callahan sighed.

"Exactly. Now, Captain Callahan has trained this team to go after possible nuclear warheads, and as I understand the way he's structured you guys, we'll have two specially modified Hueys as the basic maneuvering unit, followed by four Blackhawks carrying elements of Army Rangers and British SAS, and six Hellfire armed Apache helicopters riding the perimeter. So, two eleven unit teams - is that about right, Callahan?"

"Yessir."

"What's the outline of your plan? The basic plan?"

"We operate at night, first of all. We assume they're going to hide out in the shadows during daylight, then move at night - especially if they launch. Basic operational characteristics of these mobile launchers is to launch one missile and move to the next pre-arranged hiding place, usually not too far away. That way they keep their exposure to a minimum and avoid discovery by back-tracing trajectories."

"So, how do you go about detection?"

"The first assumption we're making is that there are Scuds with nuclear warheads out there. Even shielded warheads emit particle trails, both alpha rays and gamma rays, but we won't run into alpha particles unless we happen to fly right over a warhead at very low altitude. Gamma-ray particles are another matter, as you know. Still, we can't detect by simple observation. We have to fly through a trail of particles left by a warhead as it's being moved from place to place..."

"Or accidentally fly over a launcher, I assume."

"Correct. And then we have to hope their escorts maintain discipline and don't open up on us."

"So," the major asked, "what's the best-case scenario?"

"Best case?" Callahan mused. "We run across a trail and follow it, and we run up on them from the rear before they can launch. Other than that, it's going to come down to simple luck, preferably finding a mobile unit moving between locations - and before a launch. I'd assume if they go nuclear all bets are off and Israel will hit back with nukes?"

"If Saddam decides to go nuclear, Captain, you'd better pray you get to that launcher before anything heads out. Saddam can hit Istanbul from these locations, not just Tel Aviv or Riyadh. And once that genie is out of the bottle there'll be no easy way to wind things down again."

"Major," Rooney asked, "is it confirmed Saddam has nukes?"

"Look, you guys have all seen the same shit on CNN that I have. Cheney and Powell are convinced, so POTUS is on board. That makes this operation a policy level decision, so that means you guys are going to be the tip of the spear. The number one operational priority right now - before hostilities commence, it to track down any nuclear-tipped Scuds and take 'em out. That means if you run across any, I repeat any Scuds without nuclear warheads you get the word back to SoComm and let them deal with it. We can't lose these two Hueys in some sort of spurious, feather-legged fire-fight. Got it? Is everyone clear on that? If someone starts shooting at you your response is simple. Call the CAP, let the Strike Eagles handle the threat. Cover the Hueys and get out of the line of fire, then start hunting again."

Everyone nodded.

"Again, men, your mission is simple. Find any nukes - on launchers or otherwise - and let either the Rangers or the Apaches take 'em out. We're looking at three to four weeks before hostilities commence, but you guys go to work tonight. If you succeed, the war will be over in a matter of weeks, not months, and the world stays a little safer for the time being. Now, we'll have a briefing by the lead Eagle driver on your CAP, and he'll go over frequencies and call-outs for the night's hop..."

_______________________________

"Jesus, Callahan, what the hell did you get me mixed up in?" Rooney said, grinning.

"Shit, this is gonna be a turkey shoot," Callahan said. "Line 'em up and knock 'em down."

"Yeah? And what if we screw the pooch? Then what, Smart Guy?"

"World War Three," Deke Slater, the lead Blackhawk pilot said. "And we'll be right in the bulls-eye when the word goes out to turn western Iraq into a glassed-over parking lot."

"Thanks, Harry," Rooney sighed.

"Stop worrying about it," Callahan grinned. "This Saddam character doesn't have any nukes. If he did we wouldn't be over here right now."

"How do you figure that?" Slater said.

"Seriously? Well, we got half the air force holed up on a couple of air bases in Saudi Arabia, and the other half on Diego Garcia. Two or three well-aimed missiles and there goes the Air Force. So...no way do we take that kind of risk..."

"So then Cheney and Powell are..."

"Garden variety politicians, Deke. Doing what they do best. We had to act when this jack-ass moved on Kuwait, and we had to intervene with some kind of global coalition or public opinion in Ames, Iowa would have skewed negative. Without public support, no war. If no war, then Raytheon and all the other toy-makers don't get in on another half a billion in procurements..."

"I keep forgetting you're one of those 'peace-love-dope smokers' from San Francisco," Slater added. "That's the same shit y'all were spouting back in '68."

"Slater," Callahan quipped, "you were still in diapers back in '68."

"True. But the premise stands."

"Fuck, it's gonna be Christmas in like a week," Rooney snarled, "and here we are stuck in some desert that thinks it's an icebox. I don't know about you guys, but I miss San Fran. Shit, there aren't even any trees out here..."

The two specially equipped Hueys were in their makeshift hangers, both fueled and ready to go. Their special antennas and probes were deployed and looked like the skeletal structure of a bat's wing, and they'd both been repainted from flat black to a kind of putrid looking gray-green that was supposed to be harder to see at night. Both were very lightly armed with just two HVAR pods with Willy-Pete loadouts, and they weren't carrying door guns - or gunners - so were, for all practical purposes, unarmed.

Located northeast of Turaif, Saudi Arabia, this special facility had been carved out of thin air in a matter of days and sat on the map near where Saudi Arabia, Jordan, and Iraq came to a point. The main highway from Baghdad to Jordan, Highway 10, lay just across the Iraqi border, but several Iraqi airbases lined that highway, as well. Smaller highways and roads crossed over Highway 10, and these overpasses provided endless opportunities for cover that mobile Scud launchers could utilize anytime reconnaissance satellites flew overhead. There was an almost endless supply of small buildings, too - most belonging to national mining concerns - where these launchers could hide.

Tonight's mission - the groups first - would take them between two small Iraqi air bases to the highway, and Callahan's Huey would fly along just above the highway for about 20 miles - his team's Blackhawks and Apaches flying on either side the main roadway. F-15 Strike Eagle fighter bombers would fly overhead in the "No Fly Zone" established during the initial phases of Operation Desert Shield, waiting for any signs of response from the badly organized Iraqi Air Force. Rooney and his team would wait, then fly along the same route twenty minutes later, hoping to catch anyone that decided to run once Callahan's team passed.

Callahan had trained for just this scenario, only in Germany in the sixties, in what would have been the opening phases of the Third World War. Still, the mission in Iraq was the same: find nuclear warheads typically used in tactical operations, those used in either short-range missiles or in artillery shells.

Callahan's team took off at zero-dark-thirty and crossed into Iraq; almost instantly radar alarms sounded so he dropped lower and assumed a hover, then he crept along at about thirty knots until he came to the highway. There was hardly any traffic on the road these days, but what traffic there was had to be considered hostile...

"Cat 1 this is Eagle 3, looks like a Mig taking off from H3, cold and dark, turning north your direction. Suggest you go quiet."

"Cat 1 roger." Callahan simply flared and landed in the middle of the highway about twenty meters from an overpass and waited for the Mig to vacate the area...

"Cat 1 Eagle 3, I think they must have painted you, he's coming low to make a run down the highway."

"Eagle 3, you'd better engage."

"Already on him."

Callahan saw the Eagle maybe ten miles ahead and coming down fast from forty thousand feet, and a second later he saw an air-to-air missile leap from the Eagle and streak down towards the Mig. Another Eagle fired an anti-radiation missile at an unseen Iraqi radar installation, and literally within seconds, all known threats had been eliminated.

Callahan got his Huey back in the air and proceeded east down the motorway - but when it was time to turn south and bug out he couldn't - because the downed Mig was a flaming wreck lighting up the entire area. He decided to turn north and then backtrack about ten miles before heading back to Turaif. He called Rooney and told him what had happened, then gave him the abort code. An hour later he was back at the base.

"What happened?" Rooney asked as Callahan climbed out of his Huey.

"That downed Mig must've been loaded with external fuel tanks. It was burning like a sum-bitch; even the snakes were casting shadows out there. When we backtracked we made your mission redundant, so why take the chance?"

"You want to go out again?"

"Tonight?"

"Sure, why not?"

Callahan looked at his watch. "Sure, let's refuel and go west this time. You call the CAP and let 'em know."

"Right. One thing's for sure. I bet the Migs stay in their hangers from now on."

"I wouldn't count on it," Callahan said.

"Anything on your readouts?" Rooney asked, meaning the particle monitors.

"Nothing. Just cold air."

_________________________________

And night after night it was the same. Fly down low and scope out the main highways. Then the secondary highways. Then roads that seemed just large enough to handle a jeep.

And always, nothing. No radiation signatures - at all.

Night after night, flight after flight. Nothing. Not even congenitally armed Scuds.

The Air Force major returned.

"We think all the Scuds are simply warehoused right now. We've identified and command and control radio net and all the chatter indicates they aren't to expose them until they absolutely need to."

"So, what do you want us to do?"

"You won't have long to wait now, Captain. Take a few days off; be ready to roll on Wednesday."

He and Rooney flew down to one of the big US facilities in S.A. and he waited until evening then called the Cathouse.

"Callahan Air," the receptionist said, "how may I direct your call?"

"DD, please."

"Yes, who's calling?"

"Uh, Callahan."

"Excuse me?"

"This is Harry Callahan, now please connect me with DD!"

"Yessir...!"

"Harry? Where are you?"

"The dark side of the moon."

"Oh. Looks like all the diplomatic initiatives have fizzled out. What are you up to?"

"Oh, I got a hot date with a camel in about a half-hour. What's going on there?"

"Nothing much to report. We just took delivery of our first D-model 1900. It starts on the Santa Barbara to Mammoth run next week, and the flights are booked solid through March. Same with the Eureka to SFO run, beating all our projections right now."

"Well, that sounds like good news. How's the doc?"

"Real good. Taking piano lessons from Nils. He's the one that comes out to the house to tune yours, and he comes by for dinner out here after he finishes up. Nice kid."

"Seemed that way to me, too."

"I'm not sure how well those guys are running the shop though, Harry."

"Oh?"

"Seems pretty fast and loose to me."

"Got time to take it on? See what's what?"

"Maybe. Frank was telling us about your assistant over in Switzerland. Think she could come over and give us a hand?"

"I don't see why not." He gave her Didi's direct line and told DD to give her a call. "Anything else I need to know about?"

"I don't think so?"

"Okay. My camel is waiting for me. Wish me luck..."

He went back to the bar in the O-club and found Rooney nursing a rum and Coke, looking glum.

"What's wrong?" Harry asked.

"CNN. Looks like war after all."

"Yeah. Seems unavoidable at this point."

"You have any property in Israel?"

"Me? Nope. All that stuff wound up in either Denmark or Switzerland."

"Where in Switzerland?"

"Davos. Heard of it?"

"Any skiing there?"

"Yes, decent too."

"Man, I wanted to spend time at Tahoe this winter, maybe even Mammoth. I started learning two winters ago and now I can't get enough of it."

"Yeah, I know the feeling. I'd like to hit Davos again, so maybe we could stop by on the way home?"

"Man, that would be the best. I mean it, Harry. That would be the bee's knees."

"Yeah? Well then, let's count on it. A week or two in the mountains will probably take care of whatever ails us by that point."

"Did you get through to DD?"

"Yeah. Nothing major going on. Starting the Santa Barbara to mammoth run soon."

"Maybe I should go for a fixed-wing, ya know?"

"You're young enough. No reason not to, and you'll have increased benefits when you get back."

"When we get back. Man, does that sound good right now."

"I bet this thing is over before it starts. Worst case, we're out of here by the end of February."

"I sure hope you're right, Harry."

"Relax, Mickey. Too many negative vibes and you'll kill my buzz."

"The buzz? What the hell are you talkin' about, Harry?"

"Rum and Coke, Amigo. Settle in and mellow out, think about something else. The bottom line, Ace, is that sitting around worrying about getting killed ain't gonna change a damn thing. If it happens it happens, so you might as well enjoy yourself while you're still around and the rum is reasonably priced."

"That's right. I keep forgetting you did a year in 'Nam."

"That was mean bush, Mickey. But this ain't gonna be like 'Nam. Just take it easy - everything is gonna work out just fine."

"Man, you say so, but I sure wouldn't mind some tail tonight."

"Not here, Mick. This ain't the place and don't you forget it. You don't want to buy into this kind of pain, believe me."

"Well, the least the Army could do is bring some hookers over here, ya know?"

"Last time I looked, Ace, Pimp wasn't a recognized operational specialty...but I could be wrong about that."

"Man, I know you've been through the wringer and all, but you've become like, I don't know, some kind of monk. Don't you ever, like, you know, ever get horny?"

"About 23 hours a day."

"What? You? Saint Harry?"

"I ain't a saint, Mickey. Never was, never will be."

"Bullshit. What you're doing with CAT...that alone ought to qualify."

"CAT...that wasn't for me, Mickey. It was for y'all."

"That's my point, man. You get all this money and you coulda just disappeared to Switzerland. But no, what do you do?"

"You know, when all that happened we were balls deep in the Escobar-mercenary cop shit, then Sara happened and it was like some sort of cosmic tumblers rolled and rolled and then slipped into place. I went on this, well, kind of walk. Ran into this girl in New Orleans. One wrong step away from bein' homeless, ya know? Nothing going her way but a good-hearted soul, and then it clicked. Mickey, this is for real - something just clicked in my head. When I started walking I kind of had it in my mind that I'd just give it all away. Just hand it out, dollar by dollar."

"I don't think I've heard about this girl before. What happened?"

"Coffee, donuts, a scholarship at Tulane she was about to lose, nothing happened - and then everything did. I got her settled in school and put money aside for her in case she made it into medical school."

"What happened to her?"

"She settled down, got her feet under her, graduated top of her class - pre-med - and she got into a med school in Chicago. In her second year now, and every time I get a letter from her it's like getting a letter from my daughter, ya know? I love her like that, Mickey."

"Whoa..."

"Once upon a time I saw girls like her as victims. Never strong enough to make their way in the world, ya know? Then a little truth hit me. Sometimes what they needed was kind of like a father, some guy in their life who was interested in more than just their vagina. Her father had roughed her up, basically abandoned her, and by that point, she saw men as nothing more than predatory creatures - to be avoided at all cost. A real father wouldn't have done that, Mickey. A real father wouldn't have taken his daughter's life and snapped it in two. What she needed was a real father, and to me, it looked like I had been nominated. And the thing is, Mickey, I had the means to make it work - so I did. And I'll get down off my soapbox in a minute, but hear me out, okay?"

"Yeah?"

"So, the cosmic tumblers, right? Call it destiny, call it fate - but what I think really guided me to that moment was my mother. My mother's last composition, to be more specific."

"Composition? Your mother was a musician?"

"Yeah. You could call it that."

"And so, you're saying that..."

"Her last piece was...is...laid out kind of like a roadmap. It took me a while to find the bread-crumbs, for the path through the history she was building..."

"Where does it lead?"

"I haven't found that out yet. There's a problem, too. A big one. From what I've been able to piece together she was working on the closing movements when she passed away. Now, the thing is, I can tell that she didn't write those last notes. They don't follow the sequence. The passage kind of dissolves in a way it, well, it couldn't have - not following the same structure she'd been using up to that point. So someone changed it, someone has the notes she wrote, and inside those notes - and I mean buried within the structure of the movement's conclusion - everything she laid out comes to a conclusion. A logically derived structural conclusion within the music itself. And I have to assume the secret she'd discovered was in those notes. The secret she was trying to get to me."

"Man, I'm sorry, but Jerry Lee Lewis is about as far as I got in the whole music thing. You know, like Good Golly Miss Molly?"

"Yeah? You ever get into Live at the Star Club?"

"What's that?"

Callahan smiled. "Oh, nothin' much, Amigo. Nothin' much at all, but I do see you need another rum and Coke..."