Force of Eagles

by Richard Herman

  “Baulck says he’s receiving the beacon on his set and thanks,” Petrovich told her.

  “One minute warning,” Zack said. They waited. “Thirty seconds.” Then it came. “Ready, ready, ready, Green Light.”

  At the rear of the aircraft Sergeant Andy Baulck simply walked off the end of the ramp into the night, and twenty-four men shuffled out after him in a long line, one second apart. The last one out was Kamigami, who turned and gave a thumbs up sign as he stepped off the ramp.

  *

  Eastern Turkey

  The return on the green radar scope that marked the progress of Scamp One-One and the Iranian airliner had mesmerized the controllers aboard the AWACS. The tactical director, Lieutenant Colonel Leon Nelson, who commanded the mission crew in the rear of the E-3C, tried to maintain a more detached attitude and attend to other duties. But when the intercom panel at his multiple purpose console shorted out, he bumped a master sergeant out of his seat. He wanted to stay with the action while a technician repaired his panel. The sergeant stood behind the heavy set black man who was now occupying his seat. He had learned the hard way that Nelson was a no-nonsense type who didn’t like long discussions. The sergeant plugged his headset into a long extension cord that led to another intercom station, equally drawn to the radar scope.

  “Target separation,” a controller reported. “Scamp One-One appears to be moving away from the target aircraft and turning southwest.” The men were careful in what they said over the intercom, since all talk was recorded and synchronized with the radar tapes that recorded the mission.

  “Scamp One-One must have an emergency of some kind to be diverting from their planned route,” Nelson said. “Stay with it.” He was an old F-4 driver out of Tactical Air Command and had ended up in AWACS as TAC phased the aging fighters out. His flying experience had proved invaluable as an AWACS controller. He thought about the last radio calls from Scamp and called the navigator who monitored the on-board electronic countermeasures equipment. “Any change in the Iranian air defense posture?”

  “Negative. Maragheh is still off the air.”

  The lieutenant colonel called the radio technicians monitoring the Iranian’s air defense radio net. Again, the response was negative.

  “Colonel Nelson,” the controller said. “Scamp One-One has slowed to one hundred-thirty knots and is now heading due west, directly towards Iraq. Oh, looks like Scamp is descending and picking up speed.”

  Nelson hit the conference switch on his intercom panel. “All stations, listen up. Scamp will penetrate Iraqi airspace on the heading they’re flying. I want complete coverage of both the Iraqi and Iranian air defense net.” He toggled the conference switch to “off.” “Oh, lord, you are in trouble.” He knew the Iraqis were awake.

  *

  Western Iran

  The snap and sharp jerk of the parachute canopy opening was re-assuring. The oxygen mask Trimler was wearing had twisted slightly in the C-130’s wash and he had to straighten it out before he could check his canopy. The heavy gloves he was wearing to protect him from the cold caused him to fumble for a moment. The canopy was good. Then he checked his oxygen connection. Good. He could see the two small position lights on the top of Baulck’s canopy, green on the right, red on the left, to his front left and below him. He grabbed the riser extensions that allowed him to maneuver and still keep his hands and arms below his heart. Circulation was going to be critical in the cold air. It looked like he was pulling on puppet strings hanging down from above him as he moved into formation with Baulck, who would lead and navigate the descent. Trimler pulled on his risers, braking and maneuvering until he was lined up above and behind Baulck.

  “Radio check,” Baulck radioed. Each Ranger had a MX-360 radio strapped to his left shoulder.

  Again, Trimler fumbled as he groped for the switch. He wasn’t about to risk taking a glove off and dropping it. Trimler checked in with his number in the team. “Romeo One’s okay.” There was no answer for Romeo Two. “Romeo Three, radio check,” Trimler barked. “Have you got Lieutenant Jamison in sight?” The captain reprimanded himself for the breech in radio discipline. He should have never used Jamison’s name.

  “Romeo Three’s okay. Negative sighting on Romeo Two.” There was nothing wrong with Romeo Three’s radio discipline. The radio checks continued as each man reported in…

  Since Kamigami was the last man out, he was highest in the stream. He could see a long line of lights stretched out in front and below him, a lighted path descending toward the ground. Baulck curved to the left and the string obediently followed in a synchronized routine. Further below, he could see a broken cloud deck lighted by a quarter-moon lacing the sky. He felt like an eagle soaring through the sky. Off to the right and below he caught a glimpse of two lights. The missing Jamison. He pulled on his risers, braking and slowing his rate of descent. The string snaked away.

  “Romeo Two-Five’s got Two in sight.” Everyone recognized his voice.

  “Keep him in sight,” Trimler ordered over the radio.

  “Probably a bad oxygen connection,” Kamigami told them.

  The sergeant major had identified the problem. The opening shock of Jamison’s parachute had popped the connection between his oxygen hose and the twin green airox bottles he carried. Before he could reconnect the hose he had become hypoxic, starved for oxygen. Jamison was not unconscious but groggy and irrational. He wanted to go to sleep, was drifting.

  “He’ll come around when we get lower,” Kamigami radioed. “I’ll bring him back in when he’s conscious.”

  “We’ll be goin’ through this cloud deck in a few minutes,” Baulck told the team. “Maintain a heading of one-six-five degrees until you break out. Fifty percent brakes while you’re in the clouds.”

  “We’ll lose Romeo Two in the clouds,” Kamigami said. “Bearing and distance to the DZ?” He pulled out his compass but dropped it when he tried to flip its cover open. He fumbled with the cord that tied the compass to his pocket and finally got it open. There was enough moonlight for him to read the luminous dial.

  “Bearing one-seven-five degrees, forty-two miles.” Baulck’s tacan receiver was locked on and giving good readings.

  Kamigami made his decision. “I’ll stay with Two and rejoin you on the ground. He shouldn’t drift too far off course.”

  “We’ll wait as long as we can,” Trimler told him. “If we’re gone, head for the airfield. Maintain radio contact.”

  “Entering clouds now,” Baulck radioed.

  Kamigami headed for Jamison. He could see the string of canopy lights below him disappear one by one into the cloud deck. Some eagle, he thought, if I get lost.

  *

  Eastern Turkey

  “Colonel Nelson,” a radio technician called over the AWACS intercom, “the Iraqi air defense net is tracking Scamp One-One and have alerted two SAM sites. No traffic on the fighter loop yet, just surface-to-air missiles.”

  “I’ve got search-radar activity inside Iraq,” the navigator monitoring the electronic warfare equipment reported.

  “Any activity inside Iran?” Nelson asked. All replies were negative. The lieutenant colonel watched the radar blip that was Scamp One-One move toward the Iraqi border. “You ain’t gonna live long inside Iraq,” he thought. “Sarge,” he barked at the man standing behind him, “bring up an overlay of the Iran-Iraq border on the scope.” The sergeant leaned around Nelson and pounded a command on the keyboard in front of him. A lighted map of the border etched itself on the screen. Nelson checked the digital readout showing Scamp’s groundspeed. “Fourteen miles to go, three minutes to live…”

  “The heavies are going to have my ass for this If I’m screwing up whatever they’ve got planned.” Nelson keyed the radio. “Scamp One-One, Delray Five-One.” He was acting like a controller. “We have trade for you.”

  “Roger, Delray.” It was Kowalski’s voice and he could hear the doubt.

  “Please trust me,” he muttered before transmitting. “
Rog, Scamp, come right to a new heading of zero-three-zero. Target is on your nose at thirty miles.” He was giving the C-130 vectors to fly northeast along the border just inside Iran. His tension eased a notch when he saw the blip turn toward the northeast less than a mile from the border.

  “Delray, Scamp. Authenticate alpha lima.”

  Good girl, Nelson thought, follow the vectors first, then verify. He checked the current authentication table and found the proper two-letter response to the letters A and L.

  “Authentication is poppa tango. Your target is maneuvering, expect a new heading in four minutes.” He watched the blip fly along the border. “Figure it out,” he muttered, hoping the C-130 crew would see he was keeping them out of Iraq. He hit the conference switch on his intercom. “Everyone listen up. I’m betting the Iraqis will treat Scamp as an Iranian testing their air defense net and won’t engage them unless there’s a border penetration. I plan on keeping Scamp just inside Iran. For God’s sake, don’t forget to monitor the Iranians for some sort of reaction. With luck we should get Scamp out.”

  “Colonel Nelson”—it was the radio technician—“the Iraqis are scrambling interceptors.”

  *

  Western Iran

  The voice was loud and insistent as it penetrated the fog swirling around in Jamison’s head. “Jamison, do you read me?” Something about the voice keyed a reaction, but the urge to doze was stronger. “Jamison, you black bastard, talk to me.” Anger at last gusted through the lieutenant and blew his fog away. Fully conscious now, he realized he was hanging in his parachute harness and drifting. And someone was yelling stuff at him.

  “Sergeant Major?”

  “Welcome to Iran, Lieutenant. You had me worried. Sorry about the name-calling but I had to get your attention.”

  Jamison had never heard Kamigami apologize for anything. Something had to be very wrong. “I’m sorry, my oxygen hose came loose. My face got all hot and I couldn’t think…where are you?” He twisted around looking for Kamigami.

  “Above and behind you. Hit your brakes and fall in behind me.” Jamison did, and his fear gave way to relief when the sergeant descended past him on the right and he heard Kamigami check in with the team on the radio. “I’ve got Romeo Two, say your position.”

  “North of target.” It was Baulck. “Thirty-three miles out.”

  “Sergeant Major, are we okay?” Jamison tried to control his voice.

  “Just lost. Keep looking for the team and follow me.”

  Just lost…great.

  Chapter 39: H Plus 3

  Northwestern Iran

  “Border in two minutes.” The relief in Sue Zack’s voice was felt by everyone on the C- I 30’s flight deck. “I don’t like this, skimming along just inside Iran.”

  “When they authenticated,” Kowalski told her, “I figured they had a good reason. What the hell, worked out, didn’t it?”

  The UHF radio crackled, “Scamp, Delray. Turn left to three-zero-zero.” Kowalski turned the Hercules onto the new heading to the northwest. “Scamp go gate—Now.” The crew could hear the urgency in the controller’s voice.

  “What the hell is gate?” Brenda Iverson, the copilot grumbled.

  “Afterburners.” Kowalski shook her head. “Which we ain’t got.” She shoved the throttles full forward and pushed on the yoke, nosing the plane over and picking up speed as the Hercules headed down. “But we got gravity. How much lower can we go?” she asked.

  “Another three hundred feet,” Zack replied. “If you come right five degrees, we’ll be going down a river valley and you can descend a little lower.” Their airspeed was touching 275 knots, and the moonlight was giving them enough light to make out the mountain valley they were in.

  “Scamp,” the AWACS radioed, “come right five degrees.”

  “At least we’re all playing from the same sheet,” Kowalski said. “Border in one minute,” from Zack.

  *

  Eastern Turkey

  Sweat was trickling down Leon Nelson’s face but his voice was still under control. The master sergeant was standing behind him, impressed with the way he had guided Scamp One-One along the border, changing headings to take advantage of terrain-masking and to keep the C-130 as low as possible in the mountains.

  Both men watched the two blips on the radar scope that were Iraqi MiG-23s converging on the C-130. “Damn it, I didn’t think they’d go after Scamp as long as there was no border violation,” Nelson said over the intercom, not caring if it was recorded. “Well, we’ve got another card to play. I hope you muthas are listening…”

  He flipped the toggle switch that allowed him to transmit over Guard, the international frequency reserved for emergencies: “Two fast-moving Iraqi aircraft heading zero-three-five degrees. You are approaching Turkish airspace and will be engaged if you cross the border. Repeat, you will be engaged if you cross the border.”

  “The bluff’s not working, Colonel,” the master sergeant said. His eyes did not move from the radar scope. “They’re not breaking off the attack.”

  Nelson slammed his fist down on the console as he watched the two fighters bear down on the C-130 and hit the intercom switch calling the electronic warfare officer. “Jam the shit out of everything those fighters got. Make ’em go blind and deaf.”

  “Sir,” the officer replied, “I’m not allowed to use that capability in peacetime. It’s guarded against compromise and if we use it—”

  “DO IT.”

  Every radio frequency Nelson was monitoring exploded in a rasping, screeching clash of sound. With one motion Nelson jerked his headset off and hit the toggle switches that turned his monitoring channels off. His ears hurt. The radar scope in front of him flashed as the AWACS jammed itself as well as every other radar and radio within a hundred miles. Then it stopped.

  “My God,” Nelson mumbled. The scope in front of him came back to life. The two blips had broken off to the right and were now headed to the southwest, back into Iraq and away from the C-130.

  “Well, them fuckers do bluff,” Nelson said as he leaned back into the seat. “Scamp One-One,” he transmitted over the normal frequency, “you are cleared to climb and RTB at this time. We have no more trade for you.”

  The reply was as cool as his transmission. “Thanks, Delray. I’ll be buying the bar.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.” Nelson knew the brass would not like the last transmissions when they reviewed the tapes—very unprofessional—but he didn’t give a damn.

  *

  Western Iran

  The Rangers had been hanging in their harnesses for over an hour and were numb from the cold. Some were slapping their hands or waving their arms to keep warm as they descended. “Passing over the tacan now,” Baulck radioed, still a thousand feet above the ground and headed to the south. When he judged the entire string to have passed over the beacon he would turn back to the north and start a spiraling descent onto the drop zone. “Heads up, we’re going in,” he warned, and arced gracefully back to the north. He immediately saw three blinks of a flashlight on the ground. “Land on those lights or follow me.” It was his last radio transmission.

  The string of position lights on the canopies traced a path through the night sky as the Rangers spiraled down. The men started to deploy their rucksacks and weapons containers, letting them fall away on the lowering line to dangle fifteen feet below them. The heavy rucksacks would hit the ground first and the Rangers would touch down a hundred pounds lighter.

  *

  Bill Carroll watched the silent shadows spin down out of the sky. He flashed his light again, making sure the Rangers would home on him, away from the two waiting trucks and the portable tacan station. He jumped when he heard a voice directly above him. “It’s okay, we don’t need the light.” A figure dropped down beside him, pulling on the riser extensions and stalling his chute just before he touched down, still standing. It was Trimler, and his cold feet protested when they took the landing shock. Grunts and groans echoed over the DZ
as more Rangers landed.

  For a moment Carroll did not move. The sight of the parachutists dropping out of the sky and now distinct American accents sent a warm feeling through him. The POWs had not been abandoned—they were not political pawns being cynically exchanged on some geopolitical chess board by old men sitting in comfortable leather chairs, safe in some government office. He pocketed his flashlight and walked over to the American who was busy shaking off his harness and bundling up his parachute. “Sunset Gorge,” Trimler challenged, crouching and leveling his pistol at Carroll.

  Zakia had passed the challenge and response code to Carroll. “Sweet Water,” he responded.

  Trimler holstered his weapon. “You Carroll?”

  “I’m Carroll.”

  “I’m Bob Trimler. Jack and Thunder send their greetings. They told me to tell you that they’re coming after your sweet young ass and what the hell are you doing here anyway?” It was better confirmation than any code word.

  “Form on me,” Trimler called out, his voice carrying over the open field. The Rangers quickly broke out their weapons, shouldered their rucksacks, gathered up their parachutes and hurried toward Trimler.

  “Have you got everyone?” Carroll asked.

  “Negative. We lost two on the drop.” He keyed the radio on his shoulder. “Romeo Two-Five, you up?” There was no reply. He explained the situation to Carroll. “How long can we wait here?”

  “When do you want to be in position at the prison?”

  “We hit it at first light, just before sunrise, at six twenty-five local time.”

  “We’re ten miles northwest of the prison so figure an hour to move into position. It’s almost twenty-three hundred now. We can wait six and a half hours at the most. Over there.” Carroll pointed to a clump of low farm buildings they could hide in—“It’s empty.”