The last two men out were carrying a wounded comrade and rushed up to Zakia as the truck’s starter motor ground, the engine finally coughing to life. Damn it, Carroll thought, the driver should have never turned it off. Zakia examined the Kurd lying on the ground while the wounded man spoke to her. She nodded and reached into a pouch on her belt, shaking free a syringe in a black plastic tube. The man spoke again and she gave him a swift injection in his left arm. He pushed his right hand into his coat and rolled over onto his stomach. She stood and ran for the cab of the truck, jumping in and telling the driver to move, and they drove out of the square, leaving the wounded man in the dust behind them.
“Dammit,” Carroll shouted, jumping from the truck, running for the man.
The truck skidded to a halt and Zakia jumped out. “No!” she shouted at his back. “He’s dead.”
Carroll hesitated, then ran back to the truck, the men pulling him into the back as they accelerated away.
“He’s booby-trapped,” a voice said. “If you had moved him, a grenade would have blown your head off.”
Carroll did not look at Zakia as he reminded himself that these people had been fighting for their existence long before the brave American came aboard. Their whole nation was a POW.
Chapter 23: D Minus 12
Nellis AFB, Nevada
“Was this ever meant as an exercise?” the leader of the Romeo Team, Captain Trimler asked. He was pacing the floor in Dewa’s office, obviously upset after spending an hour going over Romeo Team’s objective—taking a prison that held a large number of hostages. He had seen through to the truth.
“Nope,” Stansell told him. “Good chance we might do it.”
“It won’t work,” the captain said, studying the model of the prison. “On any airdrop we’re at most risk when we land. We need an objective rally point to form up, break out our weapons, get organized…takes time. Here”—he pointed at the model—“we’ve got maybe a minute to be inside, knocking the defenders down after the F-111s blow the walls. Any longer than that and they’ll have time to react. Probably start killing the hostages. To get inside fast we’ve got to be on the ground, locked and loaded, ready to go through that wall before the dust of the last bomb settles.”
“Colonel Gregory has seen this,” Dewa said. “Why didn’t he say something?”
Trimler only shook his head.
Stansell knew the reason. Gregory was too gung ho—show him what to do and get out of the way. It was Gregory’s chance, his only chance, to lead a daring history-making operation, and after his shaky start with Stansell he wanted to leave no doubts about who should be the ground commander. Brigadier General “Messy” Eichler’s words about finding an expert on special operations and listening to him came back. Stansell hoped it wasn’t too late. What else had Eichler said that he had forgotten?…“Get Locke and Bryant in here,” Stansell ordered. “Time for a head-knocking session. Captain Trimler, you’re going to be my Siamese twin for the next couple of days.”
*
Northeastern Iraq
Mulla Haqui was pleased. The wizened man who led the Pesh Merga kept walking around the fourteen ZIL-157 trucks they had taken, waving his arms and talking. A tired Bill Carroll sat on the tailgate of a truck—everyone seemed to talk nonstop at the same time—and watched the Kurds sort and stack the supplies, weapons and ammunition they had captured from the Iraqis.
One of Haqui’s bodyguards came over and said the old man wanted to speak to him. The guards surrounding Haqui split apart, letting Carroll approach, still carefully watching him. “Undamaged,” Haqui said, sweeping the trucks with his hand. “We are moving tonight, these trucks will help. The village must be empty by morning. The Iraqis will search for us with aircraft but we will hide in Iran.” Haqui moved closer and slapped Carroll on the shoulder, “You have helped us.” Carroll was aware of the guard standing close behind him but didn’t see the knife only inches away from his right kidney. When Haqui moved back, the guard relaxed.
“And the way the Iraqis reacted after we attacked the relief column…smart, how did you know they would destroy their own village in retaliation?”
“Insh’ Allah,” Carroll said, hoping he had it right.
Haqui looked at him. “Are you…?”
Carroll shook his head. “I’m of a different faith, the people of the Book.” The tone of Carroll’s voice carried conviction, but doubt lingered in the old man.
“The prisoner,” he abruptly ordered. Two guards disappeared into a mud hut and dragged out Ghalib al-Otaybi. “We will leave him behind,” Haqui said. The Iraqi lieutenant colonel was the same age as Carroll, twenty-seven.
Haqui stared at Carroll, eyes unblinking. “Kill him.” Otaybi’s knees buckled. The two men at his side jerked the Iraqi to his feet and stood back. The constant talking that marked Kurdish tribal life was silenced. It was Carroll’s final testing.
Hesitation was out of the question, Carroll knew. He walked straight toward Otaybi, then walked past. Otaybi turned his head, looking at the American. A guard slapped him—making him look straight ahead. In one swift move Carroll drew his pistol, thumbed the safety off, cocked the hammer, turned and fired one shot into the back of Otaybi’s head.
A guard spat. “You were too merciful. He would have tortured you like Shaban before he killed you.”
“He”—Carroll pointed his toe at Otaybi—“is not my teacher.” He walked off quickly then, not wanting the Kurds to see him shaking.
Zakia found him huddled against the back wall of a hut, shivering. She sat down next to him, put her arm around his neck and drew his head onto her shoulder.
“A foolish greedy man on a bus”—Carroll voice was shaky—“a bitter woman who lost her family in a war and only lived with hate, a teenage boy wearing a uniform because he found a job guarding prisoners, and now…damn it, I’m not a murderer…”
“Shush, we are all soldiers here. Old and young, woman and child. We do things no civilized human being should have to live with. I killed that man we left behind in the square when I could not save him.” She pulled Carroll’s head against her breasts.
After a while she stood and led him to her bed. A sharing of renewal they both needed.
*
Nellis AFB, Las Vegas
A message arrived. “That’s all we need,” Stansell grumbled after he read it. “General Mado gets here late this evening. Cunningham has ordered him to move out here with us. I want to have an answer before we tell him about getting the Rangers in place ahead of the F-11l’s attack on the prison. Chief, you’re going to have to find him an office and we’ve got to keep him busy until we get this hashed out. Stansell’s gut warned him to handle the general with care…he just didn’t fully trust the man who was the Joint Task Force Commander. Was it because of the last meeting he had with Cunningham?
“We’ve got the football game tomorrow,” Pullman said.
“Need more than that.”
“Barbara Lyon,” Dewa said. “Our apartment owner likes playing the officer’s lady. I’ll talk to her and see if she’ll plan a dinner party for Saturday night.”
“Still leaves Sunday. We need time to get this change sorted out.”
“If I know Barbara,” Dewa said, “Sunday will take care of itself.” Which takes care of two problems, she thought. We need to keep Mado preoccupied, and I need to get hot lips away from you, Colonel.
Dewa Rahimi had decided to start her own operation for this lonely man she had decided was worth fighting for.
Chapter 24: D Minus 11
Texas Lake, Nevada
General Mado looked irritated as he watched the teams lining up for the kickoff on the makeshift field Pullman had chalked out on the hard desert pan of Texas Lake. “The Rangers outweigh us and we sure don’t need anyone hurt right now. And who in hell decided to let women play?”
“That’s Captain Kowalski, a C-130 pilot,” Stansell told him un-easily. “It’s flag football, sir. No tackling, and they can
’t leave their feet to block. May get a few bruises but no one is going to get hurt.”
Mado looked skeptical.
The whistle sounded and the Army kicked off. Lieutenant Don Larson, Duck Mallard’s co-pilot, caught the ball just short of the ten-yard line and started up-field. He fell in behind Torch Doucette, who cleared a path of would-be tacklers trying to snatch one of the two-foot streamers snapped to each side of Larson’s belt, thereby signifying a tackle. They made it to their own forty-five.
“The black kid can run,” Gregory told Kamigami on the sidelines. “Let’s see how they pass.”
Lydia Kowalski came out of the huddle first and took her position at right end. “I heard you think I go cheap,” she said to the Ranger opposite her.
Andy Baulck came out of his stance on the snap, blocking her back. Kowalski managed to sidestep him and ran her pattern down field, Baulck chasing her. Larson had moved through the line on a hand-off from the Air Force’s quarterback Hal Beasely and was headed for the goal line. After a speedy corporal had grabbed Larson’s flag and the referee blew his whistle ending the play, Baulck still threw a block at Kowalski’s back, sending her sprawling.
“Clip,” Kamigami said from the sidelines.
On the next play Kowalski seemed to ignore Baulck as she took her stance. A large woman, well-built, on the snap from center she threw her weight forward, blocked hard and straightened Baulck up. She then stepped into him, and kneed him in the groin, smiling innocently as she did so. Something more unpleasant might have been joined except that Kamigami hurried into the game and pointed at Baulck, who got the message.
With Kamigami anchoring his side of the line now, the Air Force drive stalled. He punched holes almost at will through the Air Force’s line and let tacklers pour through, nailing the Beezer before he could pass to Larson. The first quarter ended scoreless as Doucette was carried off the field after trying to block Kamigami. Stansell had made Thunder Bryant the coach for the Air Force, since he had been a starting guard at UCLA before dropping football and turning to academics. “You coach and I’ll play opposite Kamigami,” Bryant said, handing his clipboard to Duck Mallard.
Now the Army was marching on the Air Force’s goal line. At the snap Bryant and Kamigami blocked each other. Even without helmets and pads, everyone on the field heard it—two bulls colliding on a dry desert lake bed. On the next play Petrovich, Kowalski’s loadmaster who had fought with the Rangers, got between them and was carried off the field unconscious.
At half-time the game was still scoreless but the Army was wearing Air Force down. Mallard told Kowalski she was out of the game and received no argument. Bryant lay on the ground, trying not to moan out load. At the kickoff it was Army’s game, but Bryant and Kamigami still kept at it.
Baulck, also out of the game, carried two beers over to the Air Force side of the field and sat down beside Kowalski, offering her one as he did. She took it and popped the cap. “Hey,” he said, “I’m sorry for what I said and…did out there.” She looked at him, taking a sip. “I got a big mouth…well, hell, I’d fly on your plane anywhere.”
“Thanks, I appreciate that.” She pulled at the beer and gestured at the field. “Do we have to do that again?”
“No way,” Baulck laughed, and went after two more beers.
The game ended Army thirteen, Air Force zero. Kamigami and Bryant walked over to the beer, Kaznigami handing Bryant one. “Captain, I’m hurting,” he said, loud enough for everyone around to hear. It was one of the few times the battalion saw their Command Sergeant Major allow a smile. Bryant, however, wasn’t fooled…just grateful to have gotten out of it alive.
*
Las Vegas, Nevada
General Mado was in an expansive mood. The meal had been fine, and if the coq au vin was any indication, Barbara Lyon was a considerable cook. Mado sipped at his wine, admiring the women. Dewa Rahimi seemed to shimmer in her simple black dress, and Barbara…he’d never met anyone like her.
The general’s restless mind also poked and stirred through impressions from earlier in the day. What he had seen before the football game indicated that Stansell was making Task Force Alpha a reality. The beer bust after the game was proof that morale was now high and Alpha was a close-knit team. Leachmeyer wouldn’t much like hearing any of that. And then a thought snapped into place, developed and complete, like so much of what he did: He could use Rahimi to scatter a hint of suspicion. Hadn’t he told Stansell to get rid of her? And she was a civilian of Iranian descent—a built-in potential compromise of Task Force Alpha…
But play this one carefully, he warned himself. Cunningham was definitely watching him. Well, if anyone asked why Stansell had kept her on, he would just point out the obvious—they were attracted to each other. Even Barbara had mentioned it to him. Barbara, definite possibilities there—but not for the little colonel.
“Wine in the spa?” Barbara was asking.
His pleasure was interrupted by Gillian Locke coming through the gate, bundled against the cool night air, her pregnancy barely showing. “Jack just called,” she said. “He’s still at the office and was wondering if Dewa was available. He said something about needing her magic fingers on the computer.”
“Duty calls,” Dewa sighed but welcomed the chance to leave Barbara and Mado alone. “Colonel, I hate to ask, but my car is acting up…” There was nothing wrong with her car.
“Sure,” Stansell said, “I’ll drive.”
“And I’ll get another bottle of wine,” Barbara said, leaving with Stansell and Dewa. The wait before she came back seemed endless for Mado. Finally she came through the gate, locking it behind her. Mado had trouble controlling his breathing when she reappeared in a robe and promptly shed it.
“The only way to use a spa,” she announced, and stepped into the hot water. “Strip, general, and join me. I love massages,” she said, as he joined her. “Most of all, I love to give them…”
*
Nellis AFB, Nevada
Dewa gasped when she saw her office. Jack had tacked a new map to the wall and the floor was littered with books and crumpled paper. Cabinet drawers were pulled out and her Top Secret safe was wide open, obviously riffled through at will. She took her responsibility for safeguarding classified information very seriously. Trimler was asleep on the couch, and Jack looked haggard and needed a shave. The two had been cooped up in the office since Friday night.
“I think we got it,” Jack mumbled, heading for the coffee pot. “Bob”—he gestured at the sleeping Trimler—“says his people need to be inserted before the attack. We plan to parachute them in early—”
“Mado considered that when he originally laid the plan out,” Stansell interrupted. “He tossed it because a paradrop is too easily observed and would warn the Iranians and blow the whole operation. We need another way to get them in.”
“Not if we do it right. Bob tells me the Rangers train using MT-1X parachutes. That’s the rectangular mattresslike chute that’s really a non-rigid airfoil. Colonel, the chute has a forward speed of twenty-five miles an hour and if we drop them high enough with a good tail wind, they can stay airborne for an hour and cover some territory. If we drop ’em at night, nobody will see them and people make piss-poor radar returns.”
“Okay, so we drop them far away from the prison. But how do we get them inside Iranian airspace at altitude and undetected in the first place?”
“We piggyback on an airliner.”
“You’ve lost me.”
“Easier to show you. Dewa, we’ve got all the Iranian airways plotted on that chart. Can you tap some data-base that give us their domestic flight schedules? We need a flight that takes off out of Rezaiyeh at night—” he tapped the airport that Carroll had landed at seventeen days before—“and heads south or southeast.”
Dewa went to work and twenty minutes later had the information they wanted. “There’s an F-27 that takes off for Bandar Abbas in the late evening out of Rezaiyeh every Monday, Wednesday and Saturday.
”
“Okay. We intercept that F-27 when it climbs out of Rezaiyeh and piggyback on him. When we’re about here”—Jack pointed to a spot on the airway between Rezaiyeh and Bandar Abbas—“our team bails out. A C-130 will have no trouble matching the speed and altitude of an F-27 and then we drop off when the F-27 descends to land and low level it out of Iran. No way the Iranian radar net will be able to break us out from the airliner.”
He measured distances off the map. “Except the closest that airway comes to Kermanshah is seventy-six nautical miles to the northeast.” He woke Trimler. “Bob, take a look at this.”
The sleepy captain studied the map for a moment. “All you need is a fifty-knot wind out of the northeast.” He went back to sleep.
“Jack, the prevailing winds at altitude over Iran this time of year are mostly out of the west,” Stansell said. “Dewa, can you access the computer at the National Center for Atmospheric Research?”
“Where’s it located and what kind of computer?”
“On a mesa overlooking Boulder. They’ve got a Cray.”
She shot him a look. “The general I work for at the Special Activities Center is going to have fits when he gets the bill for this. I mean, someone has to pay for all this computer time, and I’m using the Center’s user code. Do you have any idea what it costs to use a Cray for one second? Never mind, don’t ask.
“Okay, I’m in,” she said, “I’m talking to an IBM that talks to the Cray. What do you need?”
“The NCAR models weather patterns, and their predictions are remarkably accurate, especially within twenty-four hours. See what winds they’re predicting over Iran at the five hundred millibar level, that’s roughly eighteen thousand feet, for, say, ten days from now.”
Force of Eagles Page 20
