“Right.” He picked up the phone, calling the trailers. “Thunder, we start the clock for the exercise tonight. H-hour is twenty-three hundred local time. As planned all the way. No options.” Stansell dropped the phone into its cradle. By H plus ten, ten hours into the operation, at nine o’clock Sunday morning, the Rangers would be in place and the F-111s would be knocking holes in the “prison’s” walls. With the President watching.
Stansell picked up the phone again. “Gillian? Jack there? Good. Tell him to have his body out here by four tomorrow morning.”
He frankly envied Jack, having a wife like Gillian—right there when he needed her most.
Chapter 32: D Minus 3
Kermanshah, Iran
Mokhtari stood back while the guard unlocked the first door in the main cell block. A powerful odor assaulted him; it was worse on the third floor. He told the waiting doctor to examine the prisoners.
The Iranian doctor reached into his bag, took out a face mask and adjusted it in place before he entered the cell. In a few minutes he was out and reporting to the commandant that all three were very sick. “That one”—he pointed to the master sergeant trying to sit at attention as the rules required—“is near death. Unless he receives medical attention within the week he’ll die.”
“Then we’ll send him to the IPRP,” Mokhtari said, remembering the hawk-eyed general’s instructions. “His number?”
“One-eighty-nine,” the guard said.
“Mark it,” Mokhtari ordered. The guard banged the cell door shut and chalked the number on the outside before they moved to the next cell.
*
Tikaboo Valley, Nevada
The President was standing next to the jeep with the communications gear and talking to the sergeant. “Chief Pullman, I understand you’re the one who got this built…He waved his hand at the odd-shaped structure a mile away that consisted of the front wall, four guard towers that marked the corners of the real compound, a set of stakes that marked the administration building and a facade for the main building. Stairs ran up the left side of the facade to the long balcony that represented each floor. On the left side of each balcony was the guards’ office and a string of cells stretched to the right, thirteen to a side.
“I just got the right people involved, sir.”
“Like at Ras Assanya when you shanghaied a C-130 for the evacuation?” The President’s staff had briefed him early that morning on the people he would be meeting during the day.
“Sir, how did you…?”
“Chief, you’re a bit of a legend in the Air Force, and I’m your commander-in-chief. I appreciate what you did.”
“But…but…”
“Why all the buts?”
“Sir, I got a confession. I voted for the other guy.”
The President’s roar of laughter echoed over the worried generals who were standing nearby. “Chief, who should I be listening to during this dog and pony show?”
“Colonel Stansell, sir. He’s the only one with a clue.”
The President beckoned to his chief of staff, drawing him over, and told him to get Stansell and keep the others away.
*
“Romeo Team under Captain Bob Trimler and First Lieutenant George Jamison will free the POWs,” Stansell told the President. “They were parachuted in last night and if you’ll look there”—he pointed to a ditch three hundred yards in front of the prison wall—“you should be able to see them.”
The President swept his binoculars over the area. “That’s damn close for live bombs.”
“If we can’t do it here we won’t be able to do it in Iran. There…” He pointed to the first F-111 streaking up the valley, running past Beasely’s in-bound AC-130. “The Rangers will lase the spots where they want the bombs to breach the walls.” The President watched the F-111 pull up and toss a five-hundred-pound smart bomb. He could see another F-111 one minute in trail. “The second F-111 is going to ripple off two bombs. One into the wall and the other into the administration building right outside. Romeo Team can only illuminate the wall so they’ve got to be good to get the second one into the administration building. We use five-hundred-pounders to limit collateral damage. A two-thousand pounder might take out the POWs.”
“Who’s delivering the mail,” the President asked, surprising both Stansell and Pullman with his knowledge of F-111 operations.
“Captain Ramon Contreraz.” They watched the attack develop through their binoculars. Von Drexler tossed the first bomb and turned away to the left while Doucette came in behind him. The AC-130 was right behind them. All three bombs exploded. “Three bulls,” Stansell said.
The AC-130 moving over the settling debris of the bombs set up a left-hand-pylon turn over the prison and a torrent of gunfire erupted from its left side. The four towers disappeared in a hail from the gunship’s two 40mm Bofors guns. “Captain Beasely, the AC-130 aircraft commander, is only using two 40 millimeter guns on this pass, not the 20 millimeter Galling guns or the 105 millimeter cannon,” Stansell told him.
“I understand they call the pilot the Beezer. Unusual nickname,” the President said. By now, Stansell was not surprised by what he knew.
“The AC-130 and other aircraft will orbit clear of the prison,” Stansell continued, “while Romeo Team rushes the walls.” The President watched the Rangers run for the two holes in the walls. “The gunship is also our airborne command-and-control platform with General Mado and Captain James Bryant on board. They will coordinate the attack and establish communications with the Command Center in the Pentagon. When the airfield is secure they will land and operate from there.”
He pointed to a C-130 flying over a drop zone two-and-a-half miles to the east. Parachutes blossomed behind the C-130. “We’ll drop a runway-clearing team from Bravo Company to secure the airfield. Two combat controllers will go in with them. Once the airfield is secure they’ll clear the C-130s to land. I’ll be on board the first C-130 with Lieutenant Colonel Gregory, the ground commander. When we’re on the ground, jeep teams will secure the road to the prison. It’s Colonel Gregory’s job to get Romeo Team and the POWs aboard the C-130s.”
They watched while trucks drove toward the prison. Shortly after, three jeeps and a motorcycle came down the road from the airfield. “Two of those jeep teams have to keep moving, they’ve got to block a key highway intersection—Objective Red—a mile down the road that controls the western approach to the prison,” Stansell said.
“Who makes the decision to take off?”
“General Mado.”
“Why aren’t you there now?”
“If things go right I won’t be needed. We’ve done this six times. Also General Cunningham wanted General Mado to participate this time. “There are trucks moving into position now.” The President watched Rangers running out through the wall carrying dummies. “We train under the assumption that we’ll have to carry many of the POWs.” In the distance they could see the last C-130 landing, and the trucks starting to move out down the road.
“The single F-15E you see orbiting above the AC-130 is Captain Jack Locke. The E model has the fuel to orbit and the ordnance to discourage unwelcome guests like tanks, armored cars, bandits…He’s our ace in the hole, a Jack of all trades, you might say.”
The President generously let that one go and watched the small convoy move down the road. “I suppose the road pattern you’ve marked-out matches the actual route they’ll follow.”
“Yes, sir,” Pullman answered, “and alternate routes if they have to make any detours.”
“Now I suppose it’s just a matter of calling in the jeep teams, loading the C-130s, and taking off?”
“That’s correct, sir.”
“Can you delay the takeoff and get all the Rangers back here? I want to meet the men who will have to do it, and take a close look at the mock-up.” Both Stansell and Pullman could hear the reservation, at least concern, in the President’s voice. Pullman was quickly on the radio relaying the President’
s request.
*
“Mr. President,” Leachmeyer said, “this is Lieutenant Colonel Gregory, who commands the Rangers.”
The President shook Gregory’s big hand and talked to some of the Rangers as they piled out of the trucks and formed up by platoons. “Colonel, I’d like to walk through the mock-up with some of Romeo Team.” Gregory called out for Trimler, Jamison, Kamigami and the four squad leaders to join them.
The President led the way through the breach in the wall. A target dummy lay crumpled on the ground. Trimler examined ft. “Two holes in the head. We reposition the targets every time we practice, and some of them are marked to look like POWs. We train to knock the guards down with the first burst, then to shoot them in the head.”
The President took in the small group surrounding him. They were not the normal staff officers he was used to seeing. They were dirty, lean, streaked with sweat, camouflage paint on their faces. But it was their attitude that made the real difference…These were warriors, not the uniformed, polished bureaucrats who lined the halls of the Pentagon. A half-formed image of the stir Command Sergeant Major Kamigami would leave in his wake if he walked through E Ring in the Pentagon looking as he did now chased through his mind. He liked it.
The group walked into the main cell block, and the President looked into the guard’s office on the first floor. Three dummies lay riddled on the floor, two were standing untouched. “Who cleared this room?” he asked.
“I did, sir.” It was Kamigami.
“These two dummies—how do you tell they’re POWs?”
“We check hands first,” Kamigami answered. “They hold anything, we shoot. Then we look for uniforms and shoes. POWS don’t wear shoes.” The sergeant major wasn’t used to talking so much.
On the next floor the President examined six cell doors that had been blown open. He walked back down the makeshift stairs, back out into the quadrangle and looked around. “Colonel Gregory,” he said, “what I’ve seen is impressive, but I’ve some questions. Your people ready?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Captain Trimler, any misgivings about the mission?”
“None, sir.”
“Sergeant Major Kamigami, are the men up for it?” Kamigami jerked his head yes. The President waited, wanting to hear what the sergeant had to say. When the big man said nothing, he asked, “What makes you so sure?”
A flustered look crossed the sergeant’s face as he tried to find the words. “Sir, it’s like sitting on two hundred Doberman pinschers in your backyard with their pricks all tied to the same tree.”
Chapter 33: D Minus 2
The Pentagon
“I appreciate your taking time out of your busy schedules to do this every day,” the President told the men in the Oval Office. Admiral Scovill and Michael Cagliari relaxed some. “Mr. Camm, good to see you again,” he said, puzzled why Director Burke had brought his Deputy for Intelligence to the meeting. “Charlie, we’ve got to get together for a game of poker.” Leachmeyer returned his brief smile and sat down.
“Well, gentlemen, what’s the status of the POWs?”
Burke started first. “We’re getting some disturbing intelligence out of Iran. Indications are that the POWs are going to be split up soon. There’re other developments Mr. Camm and his people have discovered…”
Camm stepped in smoothly. “Mr. President, we are convinced the POWs will be split up this week. We don’t have the day exact. Also, we are getting reports that dissident elements in the Islamic Republican Party object to giving half the POWs to the LPRP and are causing trouble. Bottom line…The POWs are at risk.”
“Your sources?”
“Contacts and operatives in Algiers supporting the dissidents inside the Islamic Republican Party,” Carom answered. It was going better than he had hoped. He had now established “an Algerian connection.” If his Deep Furrow operatives, as planned, got the hijacked airliner to Algiers with half the POWs, all the credit would go to the CIA, and especially his operatives, for surgically exploiting a situation only they—not the military—could analyze and swiftly move to resolve.
The President’s fingers drummed on his desk. For reasons he couldn’t pinpoint, Camm bothered him. Too smooth? Too ready with his answers? Or was it just the contrast between the facade of east coast establishment that Camm presented and the rough asses-on-the-line men he had met yesterday? He thought of Stansell’s quiet confidence, found it reassuring. “Yesterday when I was watching Task Force Alpha, Colonel Stansell made reference to that armored regiment forty miles away. Is that going to be a problem? Is that the only threat? Is there something hiding in the bushes here?”
It was Leachmeyer’s turn. “Delta Force has taken that into consideration, sir. There’s a bridge at the halfway point. We position a blocking force there and blow the bridge. Should that armored regiment move, we will only need to delay them long enough to extract the POWs. Then we fall back and get the hell out of there.”
“We have no indications of other threats,” Camm said. Not the whole truth, but he rationalized that the reports of activity in the barracks behind the prison were not, after all, substantiated by a second source.
“We’ve seen photography that indicates the old barracks behind the prison are occupied,” Cagliari said.
“My people have looked into that,” Burke replied. “They’re Kurds—squatters looking for a place to spend the winter.”
Camm almost did interrupt to tell about the one report he had to the contrary, that soldiers had been seen occupying the barracks. But he hesitated…he did not want to risk American lives unnecessarily, he told himself, but nevertheless he decided not to mention it. After all, it would add confusion; the report was unsubstantiated, wasn’t it? Camm found strength, and self-justification, in believing that what he was doing was right, and that in the long run the best interests of the U.S. would be served if covert operations like his Deep Furrow were restored to a place of preeminence. For the sake of everything else…
“Is Delta Force ready?” the President asked.
“Yes, sir,” Leachmeyer replied. “As soon as we can position them free of surveillance.”
The President believed that Delta Force was the best-trained force he had at his disposal, but the attack needed surprise on its side. Scovill’s point about a good plan violently executed now being better than a perfect plan next week came back to him. And he had seen the violence Task Force Alpha was capable of…
A replica of Harry Truman’s famous “The Buck Stops Here” plaque was on the table underneath the windows of the Oval Office. The President was staring at it now—it was decision-making time.
He punched the intercom button to his chief of staff. “Andy, I need to see the Secretary of Defense. Now.” He folded his hands and looked at the men. “Deploy Task Force Alpha.”
Leaduneyer was stunned. “May I ask why, Mr. President?”
“Certainly, Charlie.” He liked Leachmeyer and had plans for him in the future when he reorganized the DOD. “We’ve got to get them in place if we decide to use them. Right now they offer us speed and surprise. And I don’t think we can wait much longer.” He didn’t mention his gut feelings were mostly based on impressions—Stansell’s confidence, the sight of two F-111s punching holes in the prison’s walls, riddled target dummies, and Doberman pinschers…
*
Nellis AFB, Nevada
The words FLASH SECRET were stamped at the top and bottom of the message that Stansell read to the group.
THIS IS A DEPLOYMENT ORDER BY AUTHORITY
OF SECRETARY OF DEFENSE.
UNIT: TASK FORCE ALPHA
DEPLOY: IN ACCORDANCE WITH OPORD WARLORD
LAUNCH: WITHIN TWELVE (12) HOURS OF MSG DTG
OPTIONS: NONE
SPECIAL INSTRUCTIONS: NONE.
“My God,” Pullman said, “we’re goin’ to do it. I knew it, dammit, I knew it…”
Stansell handed the message to Mado, who read it and shook his head. He
checked the message’s date/time group printed under the list of addresses. “We’ve got to be out of here in just over eleven hours. Any problems?”
A ragged chorus of “no’s” and “none” went around the room. Gregory read the message twice, not believing his luck, before he handed it to Dewa. She read the message without comment. The room rapidly emptied, leaving Stansell, Pullman, and Dewa alone.
“Dewa, Chief, you both know…you won’t be going with us. I need you to stay behind and sweep up the place.”
Pullman went back to his trailer, looked around, made a quick decision, locked the door and headed for his quarters to pack. “Colonel,” he muttered under his breath, “I didn’t come to this party to be left behind when the music started.”
Dewa worked in her office, taking the wall maps down and going through the routine of preparing classified material for destruction. When she had finished she stood in the middle of a large pile of sealed burn bags surveying her handiwork. She crossed her arms and hugged herself. “Damn, damn, damn.” She walked over to a bookcase and pulled out an unclassified manual on the law of armed conflict. Sitting on the couch, she drew her feet up and searched through the section on POWs, finding what she wanted.
She stared at the blank wall across the room trying to decide what to do. The manual was very clear on the status of escaped POWs as opposed to a combatant who was trying to evade capture. Once a combatant was captured, he became a POW and could not kill anyone in an escape. That was murder and a POW could actually be tried and executed for it. No, she was no clubhouse lawyer, but Rupert Stansell was an escaped POW, not an evader, and two guards had been killed during his escape. She knew the Iranians too well—she was one. If they recaptured Rupe Stansell they would execute him…
The choice was hers. All she had to do was tell General Simon Mado and the man she had decided she wanted to marry would be left behind. Except, of course, he would never forgive her. Still…she reached for the phone, started to dial, then shook her head and slammed the phone down. She made no attempt to stop the damage to her makeup as she stared at the wall…
Force of Eagles Page 25
