No Return: Part 2

• Part 1

Part 2

"King" Cooper, the Chief pilot and Commander of the Air Group--CAG for short--greeted Sandy with a question when she entered the briefing room. "Do you mind flying another sortie?"

Sandra "Sandy" Appleton had been on the carrier for six months now. The only thing she hated more than the landing was the cramped quarters she had to share with two other men The tiny cockpit of her F-14 Tomcat was a better refuge than her claustrophobic bunk. Placing her sweat-soaked helmet on the desk, Sandy replied without hesitation. "Not one bit, CAG. I'd rather be up there in my bird than down here watching CNN in the gym." This time, she meant to get closer to the barge where she spotted the silhouette of a Silkworm missile.

About the author

Nishith Vasvada migrated to the United States in 1985 and attended Texas A&M University. He currently lives in Texas and works with a multinational chemical company as an environmental engineer. When not working, and when not busy raising his two children, and not chasing the hone do errands for his wife, he sits at his Mac Performa 630 and dreams up stories. Contact Nishith Vasavada at vnish@worldnet.att.net with your comments.

"Thanks. Buster has come down with a raging fever this morning. We will launch you again at oh-nine-fifteen." King Cooper flicked his thumb at her.

Sandy had finished months of hectic naval fighter pilot training at the top of her class. When the training was over, one thing was clear: no one in her class flew an aircraft as well as Sandy. In the world of Navy fighter-gods, Sandy was "Shit Hot." She also got her call sign "Sandy" before she went off for one more year of training at the Naval Air Station in Pensacola, Florida. At the end of a dream-like year in the jetland, as the base in Pensacola is lovingly referred to, she was assigned her first duty in the Persian Gulf.

She took off again, less than an hour after the previous landing, flying, not west to the Iranian coast as she had wished to, but to east this time, off the southern coast of Pakistan, heading for a straight run up to the West Coast of India and back, feeling sorry she had accepted to fill in for sick Buster.

Sandy had done this eastward run a dozen times now. For some odd reason, pilots on her carrier, at random, were dispatched to watch Pakistan's southern coast. One of the crews of the E-2C Hawkeye AWACS had told Sandy that the Hawkeyes now looked for Pakistani Air force fighters on a suspicious flight pattern. What harm was expected from the friendly nation of Pakistan? Sandy wondered as her Tomcat leveled at cruise altitude of fourteenthousand feet. But it wasn't her place to question orders, just follow them. She remembered her flight instructor's edict: "We're here to preserve democracy, not practice it."

Trivial as the blunder appeared at first, in retrospect, however, it was anything but. When the four PAF Falcons loaded with nuclear bombs and fuel took off, one of the pilots, an inexperienced colt, overcome with emotion and wished good luck to his mates over the Falcon's Have Quick I secure UHF radio. "Happy hunting, and strike hard," he screamed.

This prompted an impetuous reply from another pilot. "Khuda hafiz, shahid." May God be with you, martyrs.

Within the first minute of the mission, the cardinal rule of engagement was broken: the PAF Falcons were supposed to observe strict radio silence. Masood was inflamed. He had no choice but to break the rule himself. From his desk in the control tower he reprimanded the pilots: "No radio communication, officers. This is an order. Repeat, this is an order."

But it was too late.

The antenna of a hovering spy satellite picked off the radio communication over West Pakistan and beamed it back to an earth based 30-meter-diameter satellite dish at a secret listening post on an island off the coast of North Africa. There the signal was processed and uplinked via another satellite to the National Security Agency headquarters in Fort Mead, Maryland.

The National Security Agency, formed in 1952 under shrouds of secrecy, eavesdrops on the military and political communications of foreign governments friendly and enemy. The sheer volume of the intercepted information is so astounding that NSA relies on super computers and an army of mathematicians and cryptanalysts to decipher the grotesquely encrypted intelligence information from the trash of electronic traffic.

Conversation between the pilots of a developing nation's air force would not breed much interest at NSA, although such conversations are always intercepted as a matter of routine. But the computer that processed the signal from West Pakistan latched onto the word "strike hard" in the PAF pilots communication. The Americans were aware of Masood's "hypothetical" mission code named Operation Strike Hard. The NSA computers were programmed to "listen" for such key words in the electronic signals intercepted from the Indian subcontinent. And that's precisely what happened: The computer assigned the intercepted signal with strings "Strike Hard" the Red Alert.

President Don Preston and First Lady had just retired for the night. After a hectic State dinner for the visiting Japanese Prime Minister, Betty Preston fell asleep in moments, but the President lay awake wondering about the latest world events. When the bedside phone rang, he slinked on his belly like a cat and pounced on the receiver. The National Security Advisor was at the other end. The President listened patiently.

"Goddamn it." The President blurted loudly.

"What is it dear?" The profanity startled the First Lady.

She sat upright in the bed, shocked by the foul language. She could not remember the last time her husband swore.

"I'll see you in the Oval Office, Bernie." Don Preston said, turned to his wife and shushed her with a raised hand. "Yes, Bernie. I'll take care of it. See you in fifteen minutes."

"What's the matter, dear? Is everything all right?"

"No, darling. We have a problem." He replied even as he dialed the White House Situation Room

"What problem? Is someone--?"

But he was already talking with the duty officer in the White House Situation Room hidden in a basement under the East Wing.

"Call Pakistan's Prime Minister Hyder Baksh. Ask him to stand by. I'll take the call in the office. Next, call our Ambassador in New Delhi. You got that? Good. Now, call an emergency meeting. No, not the usual; I need only the following people. Yeah, write it down. Ready? Okay: I want my Chief of Staff Ned Nobles, the Sec Def, the Sec State, National Security Advisor, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and the Vice President. I'll see them in the Oval Office in fifteen minutes."

He hung up and rushed to the bathroom. When he returned he had changed into a comfortable slacks and a cardigan. The First Lady was watching CNN, hoping to catch the news her husband had not shared. She was used to having a front-row seat to the history being made; her husband was about to deny her this privilege. She would have none of it.

"Go back to sleep honey, you won't find it on CNN--ever, I hope."

"Oh! darling, just one second." Betty climbed out of the bed.

"Uh-yes, dear?" The President replied, annoyed. He turned and stood there, thinking that his wife probably wanted to kiss him good night.

"You forgot to zip your pants, dear."

"The hell with it Betty," He scowled and pulled the zipper, wondering how trivial an unzipped presidential pants was when put in the perspective of the prevailing circumstances. Millions of people would vaporize if he failed to act. If India counterattacked, millions more would perish.

"Good night, my dear," Betty said, kissing him on the cheek, unaware of the events unfolding ten thousand miles away.

The President knew he was going to tell Betty most of it, though, not everything. Eventually. But this wasn't the time. He was about to leave the bedroom when he turned abruptly as if he forgot something and said, "Betty, Pakistan has launched an attack on India; a nuclear attack. I don't know the details yet. Will you please pray to the Lord to spare the lives of millions of innocent Indians and Pakistani people?"

Betty took the news with surprising calm. When the gravity of the situation finally sank in, her feet caved under her and she sat on the bed, eyes filled with tears. She opened the top drawer of the dresser by her bed and reached for the Holy Bible.

Sandy was flying Dash Two--a wingman--with an experienced crew in the other Tomcat. Captain "Ice" Voce had flown some of the most dangerous missions on the Iraqi air bases in the Gulf War. Sandy could fly this boring mission almost blind. How exciting the missions over the Iranian coast were compared to these trip over the watery desert. Even the no-fly zone enforcement flights over southern Iraq, routine as they were, still offered some excitement over the graveyard runs to the east.

Suddenly Sandy felt tired; she wanted to turn back.

"Watchdog 14 to Watchdog 15. I'm having engine trouble." Ice declared over the radio as a matter of fact. Nothing excited Ice, not even engine trouble over the Arabian Sea two-hundred miles off the carrier. "It's just a warning light, but I got to get back to the mother ship."

"Copy that, Watchdog 14. Let's head back." Sandy replied, failing to hide her pleasure.

They had just turned around when Commander Vick Gilbert's voice burst through. "Watchdog 14, this is Basher 23. Bogey on your six, headed south. Repeat, bogey on your six."

This was a big surprise. Fighters communicated through the AWACS hovering somewhere over the Persian Gulf. A direct contact from Commander Gilbert was not just unusual. It was unheard of.

"Watchdog 14 to Basher 23," Ice said,

"Returning to base. I have engine trouble, sir."

Pause.

"Watchdog 14 to Basher 23. I have engine trouble. Repeat, I have engine trouble. . . returning to base."

Click.

A long pause.

"Roger that, Watchdog 14. Standby for instructions, standby." The Commander Gilbert replied.

Another long pause.

And a Click.

Gilbert's voice whizzed over the airwaves again. "Basher 23 to Watchdog 15."

Pause.

Click.

"Watchdog 15 to Basher 23." Sandy responded.

"Track the bogey to your six o'clock."

As a rule fighter pilots fly in pairs. But Ice had to return to the aircraft carrier, leaving Sandy on her own. She felt a sudden chill run down her spine. A bogey meant an unidentified aircraft or a potential enemy aircraft at her six o'clock position, meaning that she had to turn around and head back east. Solo.

"Happy hunting, and check six, Watchdog 15." Ice Voce bid her the fighter pilot's traditional good-bye.