Later, he planned strikes into Iraq. His target was an airfield, and his sortie on the war’s first night would be part of a major effort involving RSAF Tornadoes, U.S. Navy F-14s, and USAF Wild Weasels.

Early in January, with things heating up, the overall mission commander for the target Sultan had called a meeting of all the flight leaders aboard the aircraft carrier USS Kennedy. The mission commander was responsible for making sure all the planning bugs were worked out and that everyone understood what needed to be done for a successful strike. Once the mission was initiated, the mission commander could call a change or abort—depending on weather, enemy defenses, or the condition of the target.

The meeting went well; the U.S. Navy F-14 WSO mission commander and the Saudi Tornado pilot strike leader were on the same wavelength. Because the plans had meshed so quickly, Sultan was able to slip out to take care of the real reason he’d wanted to visit the carrier: to watch takeoffs and landings—among the most difficult operations performed by any fighter pilot. Though he’d love the challenge of trying that himself, he knew he’d never have the chance. His country didn’t have a carrier.

On January 16, with no inkling yet that war was only moments away, Lieutenant Colonel Sultan put in a long day at work, mostly going over maps and tactics the squadron aircrews would use to attack a variety of targets in Iraq. He worked well past midnight and then headed for home, a lonely place now, as his wife and children had gone to Jeddah to escape the threat of Iraqi Scuds.

On the way home, he stopped at a small restaurant in El-Kobar, a nearby town, for a bite to eat. At home, he called his wife to reassure her that all was well, turned on CNN, and slipped off his flying boots.

The phone rang. It was his squadron commander. “Sultan?”

“Yes,” he answered. (Who else would be here? he asked himself.)

“I want you to come back here,” the squadron commander said.

“Why?” Lieutenant Colonel Sultan asked. “Is there anything wrong?”

“You need to come back. Something has come up.”

“What kind of thing?”

“Maybe we are going to war.”

“Are you serious? You’re not joking?”

“No, come to the squadron.”

The young pilot quickly put his boots back on, turned off the television, and ran to his car. On the way to the base, he drove slowly, thinking about what might be ahead, and as a devout Muslim, his thoughts soon turned to prayer—a prayer shared by all the aircrews that night . . . not for the protection of his life or forgiveness for the horrible acts he was about to do. It was the universal fighter-pilot prayer: “Please God, don’t let me make a mistake.”