AllFreeNovel
Share Us
[SEVEN]
Office of the Assistant Chief of Staff, J-3 United States Central Command Ministry of Defense and Aviation Air Force Base Riyadh, Saudi Arabia 0720 16 January 1991
Major General Allan Naylor had the giggles. And he thought he knew why: He’d had about six hours’ sleep—in segments of not longer than ninety minutes—in the last forty-eight hours. And in the forty-eight hours before that, he’d had no more than eight or ten hours on his back, again for never much over an hour at a time.
There was chemical assistance available to deal with the problem, but Naylor was both afraid of taking a couple of the pink pills and philosophically opposed to the idea. He had instead consumed vast amounts of coffee, which had worked at first, but only at first.
He was exhausted. The air phase of the war against Saddam Hussein had kicked off about four hours ago. It had been decided that Iraqi radar positions had to be taken out before a massive bombing and interdiction campaign began. And it had been further decided that the Army would take them out using Boeing AH-64B attack helicopters.
The idea was that the Iraqi radar would be on the alert for Air Force and Navy bombers, fighter-bombers, and other high-flying, high-speed aircraft, and that the Apaches, flying “nap of the earth”—a few feet off the ground, “under the radar”—could sneak in and destroy the radar installations before the Iraqis knew they were there.
It was the first time—except for the invasion of Grenada, which had been a command and control disaster—that really close coordination between what really were three air forces—Air Force, Navy, and Army—would be required, and this time there could be no foul-up.
The air commander, General Chuck Horner, USAF, had the responsibility for the mission. But he would be using the Army’s Apaches, so Naylor had been taking, so to speak, his operational orders from him. That had gone well. Naylor liked the former fighter pilot much more than other senior Air Force officers he had come to know, and they had worked well together.
The thirty-six hours leading up to 0238 local time had been a period of intense activity in the two-floors-below-ground command center, and Naylor, as the J-3 (J meaning “Joint Command,” -3 meaning “Plans and Training”) had been at the center of that activity, which meant not only overseeing the final preparations but also being in close proximity to General Horner’s boss, General H. Norman Schwarzkopf, USA, the overall commander.
“Stormin’ Norman” had a legendary temper and it had erupted a half dozen times. Naylor considered it among his other obligations the soothing of battered senior officer egos after they had been the target of a Schwarzkopfian tirade, and there had been three of these.
Naylor and General Horner, who was subordinate only to Schwarzkopf, had already talked—circuitously, it was true—about the absolute necessity of keeping General Freddy Franks, who would command the ground war when that started, and Schwarzkopf as far apart as possible. Freddy was a mild-mannered man who didn’t even cuss, but he had a temper, too, and he would neither take—nor forgive later—the kind of abuse Stormin’ Norman was liable to send his way if displeased.
And it seemed inevitable to both Chuck Horner and Allan Naylor that Freddy sooner or later would do something to displease Stormin’ Norman. Yet, in the opinion of both, Desert Storm needed both Freddy Franks and Stormin’ Norman Schwarzkopf.
The giggles that General Naylor was unable to shake had to deal with General Schwarzkopf and a hapless, just-arrived light colonel attached to J-2 (Intelligence). There were some classified documents in the safe to which the light colonel would need access. However, access to the documents was really restricted, and Schwarzkopf himself had to sign the authorization.
The light colonel had been told of the procedure. He was familiar with others like it, in other headquarters. And so he had sat before a computer terminal and typed up the access document for Schwarzkopf’s signature and then taken his place in line of those who wanted a minute of Schwarzkopf’s time.
His turn finally came. He marched into Schwarzkopf’s office, saluted, identified himself, said he needed the general ’s signature on the access document, and offered it to the general.
The general glanced at it, glowered at the light colonel, and announced, “I’m only going to tell you this once, Colonel. I’m not normal.”
“Sir?”
“Goddammit, are you deaf? I said I’m not normal.”
He had then tossed—possibly threw—the access document across his desk in the general direction of the light colonel, who had then, understandably confused and shaken, picked the access document from the floor and fled.
Only several minutes later, when the light colonel had reported the incident to the J-2, and the J-2 had pointed it out to him, did the lieutenant colonel realize that when he had typed the signature block for Schwarzkopf’s signature he’d made a typo. What he had laid before Stormin’ Norman had read, “H. Normal Schwarzkopf, General, U.S. Army, Commanding. ”
Naylor had been giggling uncontrollably since hearing the story, which was bad for three reasons: He was laughing at the behavior of his immediate superior. He was laughing at a mishap of a junior officer, which was worse. And it meant that he was pushing his physical envelope to the breaking point and that was worse than anything. He would need, if an
ything came up—and something inevitably would—not only all the brains God had given him but those brains in perfect working order.
With that it mind, he had gone to his small but comfortable office and told Master Sergeant Jack Dunham, his senior noncom, to see that he wasn’t bothered unless it was really important. He closed the door and lay down on a folding cot. And giggled.
He had been in his office not quite ten minutes and was seriously debating with himself the possible merits of taking a medicinal drink when the door opened.
Colonel J. Brewster Wallace from Public Relations came into the room. As a general rule of thumb, General Naylor did not like public relations officers, and he specifically disliked Colonel J. Brewster Wallace.
“Sorry to bother you, General,” Colonel Wallace began.
If you’re sorry, you pasty-faced sonofabitch, why did you bull your way past my sergeant? That took some doing.
“Not a problem. What have you got, Colonel?”
“First one, General.”
“First one what?”
