Force of Eagles

by Richard Herman

  “Our information indicates that the Albanian Embassy in Washington has been supporting the Islamic Jihad’s operations in the United States,” Camm said as he flipped to the last chart, “and the Jihad is reporting through the Albanians. Of course the domestic side of this is in the jurisdiction of the FBI, and I don’t believe the Bureau has cracked the Jihad’s operations yet. So, bottom line, we don’t know how the Jihad learned about Delta Force.” Camm was scoring bureaucratic points by pinging the FBI and covering his own sources.

  The last of Camm’s charts was a map with the launch base and Kermanshah highlighted. “Since my office is not privy to the current plans to rescue the POWs, we cannot evaluate the accuracy of the warning passed to the Iranians. But they have been warned and we are monitoring their reaction.”

  Camm scanned the men’s faces in the stunned silence that hung in the room. Burke gave him a slight nod of approval.

  “How many sources confirm what you’ve told us?” Leachmeyer asked. “The information the Albanians passed is our original plan. We now launch out of Saudi Arabia and refuel in Turkey on the way out.”

  “Only the one agent in Tehran,” Camm said. “But this agent has a proven track record.” It was necessary to claim a CIA agent in Tehran had discovered that Delta Force had been compromised. Director Burke would be most unhappy if he suspected Camm was running a counterespionage operation inside the U.S.

  “Ironic,” the President said. “We originally set up a cover for Delta Force to prevent this from happening. Now our first team is compromised while—what are you calling the cover operation?—is secure.”

  “Task Force Alpha, sir.” This from Mado. “And we can’t be totally sure we are free from compromise.”

  Cunningham snapped an iron will over his reactions, insuring his face revealed nothing. That bastard Mado. He watched Leachmeyer for his reaction. The relief on Charlie’s face was obvious. No wonder the President likes playing poker with you, he thought. “Mr. President,” Cunningham said, “my Office of Special Investigations is watching over Task Force Alpha. So far, sir, they have reported nothing.”

  The President pulled a cigar out of his shirt pocket. “CIA?”

  “We have nothing to indicate a compromise of Task Force Alpha,” Camm said. For once being totally honest.

  “Simon,” the President said, “I appreciate that you are the cornmander in the field and see things we don’t. You qualified your statement about Alpha not being compromised. Why?” He lit the cigar. No one else in the room would smoke.

  “Sir, our intelligence specialist is an Iranian-American. She is fluent in Farsi and an accomplished analyst. But lately I’ve had doubts I can’t pinpoint. I consider that at least a warning not to be ignored—”

  “Mr. President,” Stansell put in, “the analyst’s name is Dewa Rahimi. She has been thoroughly checked out and worked for the Air Force Special Activities Center. She was born and raised in the U.S. and has never even been to Iran. Her family there has been nearly wiped out by the Ayatollahs. I’ve never had any doubts about her…”

  “Gentlemen,” the President said, his voice a flat monotone as he stubbed out the cigar, cutting off further discussion, “get your act together. Is Delta Force ready?”

  “Yes, sir,” Leachmeyer said.

  “And Task Force Alpha?”

  “We’re very close,” Cunningham said. “The Rangers are ready. We’re arranging ground transportation for the POWs and getting a portable tacan beacon in place—”

  “Who’s providing your ground support inside Iran?” Burke asked.

  “We have established contact with Captain William Carroll. He’s with the Pesh Merga, the Kurdish liberation movement,” Cunningham said quickly.

  “How did you find him?”—Burke was astonished—“establish contact?”

  “Through the Israelis.” Cunningham stared at Burke. “We were the only ones to ask them for information,” he said, adding a mental “you asshole.”

  “Gentlemen”—the President leaned forward, hands clasped together on the table in front of him—“does the word fubar mean anything to you? I’ll help you—fucked up beyond all recognition. Why do I get the feeling that word is becoming operative here? It means neither operation is secure, neither is compromised. I want the POWs rescued.” He turned to Leachmeyer. “Charlie, move Delta out, since it’s ready. Hide them, move them around, get them into place unobserved…General Cunningham, I want Task Force Alpha brought on line as fast as possible so it is a viable option. Tell me the moment they’re ready. Everyone—no more leaks. I don’t care if you have to lock up every swingin’—” he caught himself—“that knows about this.”

  *

  “Dammit, Mado. What in the hell were you thinking of in there?” Mado and Stansell were standing in front of Cunningham’s desk, and the general’s cigar was smoking. “The only reason we’re still in business is because Stansell here managed to spread a little dust over your gut feelings. Is your head up your ass and locked?”

  “You want me to lie to the President?” Mado shot back.

  “No. But I don’t want unsubstantiated doubts surfaced either.” At any other time he would have fired Mado on the spot. But time did not permit him that luxury now. “We hash out our doubts and differences in here—among ourselves. We present a united front to the President. He’s got enough on his mind without having to referee our differences. That’s my job. Stansell, get the hell back to Nellis. Mado, I want you here.” The two men left.

  Cunningham’s aide appeared at the door. “Meeting with the Joint Chiefs in five minutes, General. In the tank.”

  “Dick, keep an eye on Mado. I don’t trust that son of a bitch.”

  *

  Nellis AFB, Nevada

  The six men sat in the small briefing room in Red Flag’s building watching the TV. Torch Doucette hit the rewind button when the VCR tape was finished. “Let’s look at it again,” he told the other five F-111 crew members. Doucette’s WSO, Ramon Contreraz, wanted to escape from the room. He had caught the embarrassment of Von Drexler’s WSO when they ran the Audio Visual Tracking Record of Von Drexler’s last mission. The other F-111 crew tried to fade into the woodwork.

  Doucette started the tape and let it run a few moments before he hit the pause button. “Right here, Colonel,” he told Von Drexler, “when the two F-16s jumped you and came to your six o’clock, you should have milked it a little lower and simulated pickling off a single high-drag bomb.”

  “And what good would that have done?” Von Drexler rasped. “We’re supposed to put those bombs on a target.”

  “In the real world,” Doucette told him, “it would explode behind you. Because it’s retarded you would escape the frag pattern but the bandits might fly right through it—nailing ’em. If nothing else, it does tend to break the bad guy’s concentration when he’s rooting around in the rocks working on a low-level intercept and a bomb explodes in his face.”

  Von Drexler shook his head. “Too much seat of the pants…”

  Contreraz could hear the patronizing tone in Doucette’s voice. It was going to be a classic face-off between the best pilot in an Air Force wing who only knew how to fly the jet and the worst pilot who only knew how to get promoted.

  The tape was rolling again. “You flew down this canyon at almost eight hundred feet,” Doucette said. The sarcasm in his voice left no doubt about what he thought of flying that high above the ground.

  “I don’t trust the TFR in 399,” Von Drexler tried. The other pilot stifled his reply in time. He had flown the same aircraft, tail number 399, the day before and the APQ-146 Terrain Following Radar had worked perfectly.

  “Colonel Von Drexler,” Doucette said, sweetness dripping from every word, “the terrain-following radar is our raison d’etre. Either use the damn feature or get used to hand flying the jet down in the rocks.”

  “If I experience a malfunction at the altitude you’re suggesting I won’t have time to take corrective action—”


  “Then it’s not your day. Flying low and TFing is what we get paid for.”

  “Too many birds migrate through here this time of year,” Von Drexler complained. “I don’t need a damn bird strike.”

  “The birds have all been briefed to break down when they see an F-111,” Doucette said with a straight face but also reminding the lieutenant colonel that the natural tendency of any bird was to drop downward. “You pull up, that’s your part of the contract with birds.”

  The wall of the prison mock-up that Chief Pullman had built in the desert appeared on the TV screen. “You had an early acquisition of the target because of your altitude. In the real world, you wouldn’t get a video through the Pave Tack until you’re inside six miles…”

  “Damnit, Doucette, quit talking about the real world. This is the real world—”

  “Then after you tossed the bomb and pulled off to downwind, you broke off too fast. The bomb’s time of flight is approximately thirty seconds and you’ve got to gauge your turnaway so your wizzo can lase the target during the last eight or ten seconds. Also, you need to do your own bomb-damage assessment to see if you need to reattack.”

  “I was simulating a high-threat environment—”

  “That’s what we’ve got electronic countermeasures for,” Von Drexler’s WSO said, “to take care of those threats.” He felt he had to speak up. “Colonel, you’re job is to drive the truck, mine is to deliver the mail. We’ve got to stick around the target long enough for me to do that.”

  “I think that about says it all,” Doucette said.

  Chapter 29: D Minus 6

  The Pentagon

  The section of E Ring near the Secretary of Defense’s office was a highly restricted and well-guarded stretch of corridor. Cunningham normally barreled through the security post expecting the guards to recognize him and not challenge him. But on this day a new corporal was on duty, a nineteen-year-old who did not recognize the Air Force Chief of Staff. “Sir, may I please see your restricted area badge?”

  Cunningham looked at him. “Your name?”

  “Corporal Thomas Naylor, sir.”

  “First day on the job, Naylor?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Son, there are a few of us you’re supposed to recognize on sight. I’m one of that crowd.” He glanced down the hall, making sure no one other than his aide could hear. “I’m supposed to do animal acts on troops who screwed up.” He produced his badge for inspection.

  “Thank you, sir,” Naylor said, passing Cunningham through.

  “Dick, am I getting soft in my old age?”

  “Probably.” Stevens had given his total loyalty to Cunningham when he discovered the general’s ego had not swelled with self-importance when he pinned stars on his shoulders. It was a rare condition in E Ring. Stevens held the door open to the tank, the conference room where the Joint Chiefs had at each other. The general gave a grump, snapping his mask into place as he entered.

  Admiral Scovill entered the room behind him and took his place at the head of the table. “Charlie, Lawrence,” he nodded at Leachmeyer and Cunningham. “The President wants a daily update on the status of the POWs and how we’re progressing. I don’t want a repeat of yesterday so I’ll be doing the briefing. We’ll meet here before I go across the river. So, what do I tell him today?”

  “We’re moving Delta Force to Howard Air Force Base in the Canal Zone tonight,” Leachmeyer said. “We’ll keep Delta there for a week and make it look like they’re exercising with Southern Command. We’ll have the sixty helicopters in place next week and move Delta once more before we position them in Saudi Arabia. We’ll be ready for a Go in ten to fourteen days.”

  “Sixty helicopters, Charlie?” Scovill looked worried. “That’s one hell of an insertion.”

  “We need that many to transport the POWs and position a blocking force in case that armored regiment forty miles southwest of Kermanshah responds and moves on us.”

  “It will look like an invasion,” Cunningham said. “Quantity, not quality—”

  “Quantity has a quality all its own,” Leachmeyer shot back. “We’re ready to go.”

  “And compromised in two weeks.”

  “When will Task Force Alpha be ready?” Scovill asked.

  “Ground transportation should be available Saturday. We still need to get a portable tacan station in place near Kermanshah for our paratroops to home on. That should happen Sunday. We’re having a final mission rehearsal the same day.”

  “You’re relying on the Israelis and betting on the come,” Leachmeyer grumbled. “You’re not close to being ready, and the President ought to be told that.”

  “Deal with facts,” Cunningham said.

  “I am.”

  Cunningham chewed on that. Why is he so confident? Who’s he been talking to? Mado? “Well,” he finally said, “who was it that said a good plan violently executed now is better than a perfect plan next week.”

  “Patton,” Leachmeyer said.

  “Right. And I think the President ought to be told that. Task Force Alpha will be ready to go after Sunday.”

  *

  Saqqez, Iran

  The garage-warehouse compound was a noisy place as the Kurds loaded the trucks. The Iraqi insignias and sand-colored paint had been artfully painted over and the ZIL-l57 trucks already had that dilapidated look characteristic of the overworked vehicles driven by farmers in the Middle East.

  “Where to now?” Carroll asked Mustapha.

  “Kermanshah.” A hard look spread across the young Kurd’s face. “To repay some outstanding debts.”

  “Where’s Zakia?”

  “She left earlier to arrange for another place like this on the north side of Kermanshah. She will be waiting.” A truck cranked to life and moved through the yard and rumbled into the wide passage leading through the building. Two boys swung open the big double-doors leading to the outside and the truck disappeared down the road. “We move separately this time and mostly at night. It’s about two-hundred-eighty kilometers. We should all be there Saturday night.” Carroll thought that it seemed a long time to cover a hundred and seventy miles and said so. “It would arouse suspicion if we all arrived on Friday,” Mustapha told him. “You know how the mullahs are about the sabbath. Besides, it will give them a chance to visit relatives along the way.”

  Carroll shook his head at the “arrangements,” shrugged and looked for a truck to hitch a ride. Go with the flow, he told himself. Besides, how else?

  Chapter 30: D Minus 5

  March AFB, California

  Jack Locke walked around the F-4E, wanting to stroke it, pat it, talk to it. It was an old friend. He ran his hand around the gunport under the long nose as memories of the time he had shot down a Libyan MiG in this very aircraft, tail number 512, came rushing back. He continued the preflight, breaking into a smile when he saw the red star painted on the left intake ramp signifying this jet had downed an enemy aircraft. “Damn, would Byers like to see you…”

  The 163rd National Guard maintenance crews had labored hard over the Phantom, returning it to almost new condition. None of its battle scars from Ras Assanya were visible, and it glistened in the early morning sunlight in its new-found glory—an old veteran ready to fight again. “Damn, damn,” was all that Jack would let himself say, not wanting to reveal what he really felt to Thunder Bryant, who was crawling into the rear cockpit.

  Both men were discovering a new emotion along with their sense of déjà vu. The machine was so much a part of them that it seemed to have a life, a magic of its own. It could offer them their past accomplishments all over again. Other veterans from other wars had experienced the same emotion when they saw an old ship or airplane they had taken into combat. Now their turn.

  “I can’t beam you up,” Thunder told him. “You still got to climb up the side and strap it on.” He was anxious to follow the other twelve F-4s that were starting their engines. “Got to hit the tanker if we’re going to jump the
C-130s.” Locke climbed up the boarding ladder and sank into the cockpit. It was a homecoming, a reunion.

  *

  The Pentagon

  “The President was impressed with the points you made about Task Force Alpha,” Admiral Scovill was saying to Cunningham. “He still has some doubts, wants to observe Sunday’s exercise in person.”

  “That’s a bit unusual…”

  “He’s going to address a convention in Las Vegas Saturday night so it fits into his schedule,” Scovill said. “There’s another problem. Camm reported that our loyal allies, the Panamanians, told the Cubans that Delta Force was down there. The CIA made two Cubans watching Delta. Not good.”

  Yes and no, Cunningham could not help thinking.

  *

  Nellis AFB, Nevada

  Staff Sergeant Raymond Byers was waiting by his F-15 when the crew van arrived. He cracked a half-smile when Stansell clambered down the steps. “Mornin’, Colonel.”

  “Byers, what the hell are you doing here?”

  “Takin’ care of my jet, Colonel. Timmy’s here too. He’s got an Eagle all his own now. ’Course ain’t as good as mine.”

  Stansell shook his head and did a quick preflight of Byers’ F-15. As expected, the aircraft was immaculately prepared and despite his misgivings about the appearance of the sergeant, he had to admit that few jets received the loving care this one did. He clambered up the boarding ladder, ran the before-entering-cockpit checks and settled into the seat. He continued to run through checklist items before he started engines. He did it all from memory, not needing the checklist he carried in the leg pocket of his G-suit. He shoved a VCR tape into its slot. Everything he heard or said and all that he saw through the HUD would be recorded.

  A few minutes later the four escort F-15s led by Snake Houser-man taxied past. He waited until they reached the hammerhead at the end of the runway before he started engines. He was going along as a chase plane to observe the flight. His right ear had been demanding a scratch all morning. “Stop that,” he commanded. “Missing ears don’t itch.”