VIRULENT WINDS Flying advanced MiG-41s from a forgotten airfield a covert strike team of hotshot US and Russian pilots wreak havoc throughout the Middle East. With Islamic unity broken and the region gearing up for war, the Russians have one last surprise, a stolen SS-20 nuclear warhead in Sandori hands. The team must fly one last mission to destroy this warhead before it can be moved, but a lone US intelligence officer accidentally discovers the awful truth and the Russians' terrible secret.

WHEN PENGUINS FLEW AND WATER BURNED
by Jim Clonts, 2006

An Excerpt

Excerpt #1:

Bruce switched his radar to target direct and the ammo dump appeared amidst the blackness of the desert on his scope. He dropped the antenna tilt to put more energy on the target and cracked the beam width to sharpen the image. There it was, nicely outlined by a fenceline on all sides. It was considerate of the Iraqis to use such radar reflective fencing material. Within the one-mile by one-mile area lay about two-dozen small structures, weapons storage bunkers. Our crosshairs cut through the center of the dump. Missing was impossible with a target this large. Bruce aimed a little to the left of center and our wingman aimed a little to the right, to spread the wealth over this soon-to-be-hell-on-earth.

“Sixty TG, RCD connected, lights on, checklist complete,” I called.

I hit a switch on the EVS control panel and slewed the FLIR to the radar crosshairs, aimed right at the target. I hit Narrow Field of View and suddenly my right MFD glowed with the last few minutes of the intact ammo dump. Heat was coming from several of the structures, as well as several vehicles inside the fence line. I sketched a quick drawing of what I saw on the MFD, not difficult since most of it consisted of fuzzy blobs.

“SA-3 is up again, six o’clock,” Calvin said. “Chaff’s coming out.”

“Thirty TG, Pilot,” I called. “Doors.”

The bomb doors opened. Normally we’d wait until fifteen seconds to open the doors, but we deemed it an acceptable risk to open them early. If we had a problem with the automatic systems, it gave the radar nav longer to override and open them manually. Unfortunately, opening them also increased our radar signature tremendously.

“SA-3 is locked on,” Calvin said, his voice rising slightly. “Jamming. Chaff still coming out. Pilot, can you maneuver right?”

“Negative, committed to bomb run, EW,” Michael said. “I can move in about thirty seconds.”

“Roger, understood,” EW said.

The TG counted down. The radar picture cleared. Bruce continued dropping the antenna tilt and the radar energy was concentrated right on the target. His cross-hair placement was perfect. I watched the FCI. Michael was off a hair.

“Pilot, come left .5 degrees for FCI-centered,” I called. “Ten—nine—eight—seven—six—five—four—three—two—one—hack—bombs away.”

The bomb indicator lights winked out. The aircraft pitched up and we climbed five-hundred feet before Michael nosed back over. The sudden loss of 37,000 pounds of bombs caused the lift generated by the wings to momentarily exceed the weight of the aircraft and we shot upward. Michael later mastered the technique of rolling in nose down trim at release and maintaining altitude.

“SA-3 down,” Calvin said calmly.

“Roger, EW,” Michael said.

“I see ’em. I see ’em,” Gordon said excitedly. “That’s so cool.”

“What do you see, Guns?” Michael asked.

“The bombs,” he said with enthusiasm. “I can see our bombs on my radar.”

The falling stick of bombs was returning enough radar energy to appear as a solid object on his radar. Interesting.

At release I started a stopwatch. The time of fall for the M117 General Purpose Bomb from 35,000 feet is fifty-four seconds. I couldn’t help but stare at the stopwatch as it counted down the last seconds of the lives of those men inside the ammo dump. It was surreal—more so than the Coke can. They didn’t even know they had twenty-four seconds to live. They were going about their duties, assembling bombs, loading trucks, complaining about the food, and wishing they were home with their families, maybe praising Saddam, maybe cursing him. They had not one faint notion they were a blip on a radarscope sitting under Bruce’s crosshairs a moment before. Now they were sentenced to death, a death which was arriving in fifteen seconds.

Excerpt #2: On War

I remember watching CNN one lazy afternoon with a buddy of mine. There was a debate raging over the reasons for going to war. One of the guest “experts” suggested the war was all about oil, about keeping the price of oil low. He argued we were trading blood for oil, a common poster theme at anti-war rallies going on around the United States at the time.

“So you buy that?” I asked my friend.

“Buy what?” he said, poking through a care package sent from home.

“That it’s all about oil,” I said.

“Don’t be naive,” he said. “Of course it’s about oil.”

I frowned. “That’s the only reason we’re here? To get more oil?”

He shook his head. “Not to get more,” he corrected. “To keep Saddam from getting his hands on it.” He smiled as he found a box of Oreos in the bottom of the big box.

“He’s already got oil, right?”

“Yeah, and what’s he done with it?” he asked rhetorically, ripping open the plastic-wrapped cylinder of cookies. “He’s converted those oil sales into weapons ...”

“And palaces,” I added.

“Whatever. I don’t care if he shits in solid gold commodes. Elvis did. The gold shitters don’t shoot at nobody,” he said, biting down on an Oreo. “Iraq ought to be one of the richest countries in the world with their oil supply; instead, he’s bought weapons from the Soviets, the French, even us, once upon a time. Now he’s got a modern air defense system, the fourth largest air force in the world and enough tanks to fill an interstate highway coast to coast.”

“So?” I asked. “Lots of countries have large militaries.”

“Yeah, but he’s invaded two of his neighbors in the last ten years,” he said. “He’s aggressive and thinks he’s some kind of Arab Napoleon. If this guy gets Kuwait’s oil he’ll be able to buy enough arms to control the whole Persian Gulf.”

“Again. So what?” I said. “Iran’s no better and we’re not going to war with them.”

“Not yet,” he said, starting his second cookie. This time he opened the Oreo and ate the crème-filling out of the center first, like in the commercials. “Keep in mind it ain’t more tanks he wants, man. He needs the cash for the big guns. He wants to go nuclear. If he gets nukes, we won’t be able to stop him like we can now. Hell, this guy has chemical weapons already and has used them against the Kurds and the Iranians. You think he’ll hesitate to nuke Tehran or Israel?”

“Nuking Tehran’s not a bad idea, but I don’t think Israel would allow it to happen to them,” I said, remembering the Israeli attack on the Iraqi nuclear reactor at Osirak in the early 1980s.

“Yeah, and why do you think we’re having such trouble keeping a muzzle on Israel now? They know what this guy is capable of. He’s pure evil, man.”

“There are a lot of evil dictators out there...”

“Yeah,” he interrupted. “And when did it go out of fashion to kill the bad guys? It’s almost the 21st Century, man, and look how the United Nations coddles dictators: Saddam, Quadaffi, Khomeini, Castro, that crazy asshole in North Korea, all those African warlords, not to mention f__king China. The only reason the UN’s onboard now is Saudi Arabia and Turkey are scared. You think they want to do the right thing? You think they are worried about the Kuwaitis Saddam’s raping and killing? They know where their bread is buttered. It’s buttered with oil and that’s what they’re protecting.”

“So if Saddam is so bad we should—what? —kick him out of Kuwait then go on to Baghdad and get him?” I asked.

“We should,” he said, “but we won’t. These Arab allies are more than happy to have us protect their asses when the monster’s knocking on their door, but in the end, he’s one of them. We kick his ass back into Iraq and knock his nuclear program back ten years the Saudis will be happy. We say, “Let’s depose the bastard,” and they’ll start that Muslim brotherhood crap. You watch.”

“So you think we’re doing the right thing?” I asked.

“Of course we are,” he said, “but it’s no better than kicking Hitler out of France and stopping at the German border. You can’t negotiate with guys like Saddam. Even the most liberal assholes in Congress won’t be able to “enlighten” him. We’ll have to deal with him someday.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

“History, man,” he said. “It’s all ancient f__king history. It’s all been done before, countless times. It’s the way human history goes. We never learn from history.”

“Napolean, Hitler, Hirohito, Stalin,” I said. “Those guys?”

“Damn right, and those are the recent examples. It’s human nature. Ruthless bastards like those guys rise to the top. And you know why? Because those cold-blooded, power-hungry types will do whatever it takes, man. They go the whole nine yards. Whatever it takes.”

“We didn’t go to war with Stalin?” I countered.

“The hell we didn’t,” he snorted, popping the top off a can of Diet Pepsi. “Korea, Viet Nam, the Cold War? All of those were results of our standing up to Stalin and the mess he left behind. Stalin killed thirty million Russians during his reign, man. Thirty million. Five times more than the Holocaust and some socialists in our own country believe we should hold the Soviet Union up as a model society? Something we should aspire to? There are some dangerous people out there and if we ignore them, it’ll be our Holocaust.”

I had to agree human history was full of conquerors, emperors and dictators and they all were dealt with at some point. Now we lived in a world with nuclear and biological weapons. Could we expect these types to be rational with these weapons? History was not on our side.

“So we go after every one of them?” I asked. “That’ll be a hard sell.”

My friend smiled thinly. “We won’t have to sell anyone. When it’s our blood flowing in the streets of New York or Los Angeles at the hands of these bastards, that’ll be convincing enough.”

“So we have to wait until each of these guys attacks us or an ally we care about, like Kuwait?” I asked.

“History says yes.”

“What if we wait too long and when the attack comes it’s nuclear or biological?” I asked.

Again the grim, tight-lipped smile. “Then that will be another history lesson our grandchildren can ignore.”

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