*
When the first radio call reached the airfield that the trucks were moving, Stansell keyed his UHF radio. “Scamp One-Six and Scamp One-Seven, engine start. Repeat, start your engines. Scamp One-Four and Scamp One-Five, standby for engine start.” The dull roar of two turboprop engines coming to life swept the airfield.
*
The illuminator operator in the back of the AC-130, studied the barracks compound as Beasely took one last orbit. This time the guns were silent as the crew did their own damage assessment. The 1O didn’t see the movement at first, then he saw the tracked, four-barreled anti-aircraft ZSU-23-4, the Shilka, break into the open from its protective shed. The four barrels of its turret-mounted-twenty-three-millimeter guns were swinging on to the gunship as the tanklike, extremely dangerous anti-aircraft package clanked through the compound. “Break left! Poppin’ flares and chaff!” the IO shouted, mashing buttons on the remote control in his left hand, sending flares and chaff cascading out behind the AC-130.
The Beezer wrenched the gunship to the left as commanded and jerked back on the yoke. Immediately he pushed it forward, driving the nose up and down as he pumped the rudder pedals, skidding and jerking the big Hercules—anything to break a tracking solution.
But it was too late. The ZSU-23-4 had Spectre dead to rights and sent a stream of 23mm bullets into the belly of the gunship. The bullets ripped the underside, tearing it apart. But the ceramic armor plating under the flight deck and cargo compartment held and the gunship was still flying. Two 23mm bullets hit the right wing, behind the number three inboard engine. Flames flickered behind the trailing edge of the wing and pieces of the center-section flap tore off in the windstream. Beasely slammed the big plane down onto the deck and managed to escape over the town’s roof tops, but trailing smoke behind him…
*
The enemy ZSU-23-4 spun on its track and headed for the right side of the prison wall, into the same spot where the M-60 team had gunned down the Iranian moments before. The ZSU depressed its four guns as low as they would go. Because each gun had an automatic feed and was liquid cooled, it could sustain a rate of fire of a thousand rounds a minute. The commander inside the PT-76 tank chassis fired as he turned the corner, but the barrels were depressed too low and the bullets struck the ground in front, kicking up a cloud of dirt and gravel. The M-60 team returned fire and some of their 7.62mm rounds punctured the thin skin of the turret. But it was no contest. The ZSU’s 23mm, high-explosive bullets dug a trench leading to the ditch as the ZSU commander lifted his sight and kept firing.
The ZSU-23-4 then backed around the corner and rumbled through the destroyed barracks compound, abandoning their wounded in the burning barracks.
*
The Pentagon
The announcement that Scamp 15 and 16 were airborne out of Kermanshah with 191 POWs aboard sent a round of clapping and an occasional whistle through the command center. Even the President was standing, a smile on his face, his right fist clenched in front of him. Only Cunningham did not respond. He sat quietly scanning the status boards.
Leachmeyer was on the stage holding his microphone, also smiling. When order settled over the crowd, he directed: “Send four of the F-15s orbiting on the tanker to intercept and escort the C-130s to safety.”
“Sir”—it was Dewa—“that’s a bad move. The radar at Maragheh is up and it might follow the F-15s into Iran. The C-130s have good terrain-masking and should be able to sneak out undetected. The Iranians must know we are on the ground at Kermanshah, but thanks to the Ayatollahs their command-and-control net is a shambles. They won’t have their act together for another thirty, forty minutes.”
“Charlie”—Cunningham hit his mike button, he wanted the President to hear what he had to say—“let the tactical director in the AWACS make that decision. He’s in a much better position to evaluate the threat. That’s what he’s there for.” He glanced at the President. There was no sign of disagreement so he went on. “Relay what you just said as an option for him to consider. But don’t get in the way. Our troops seem to have their act together so far.” Leachmeyer grumbled something he couldn’t hear and the major relayed Leachmeyer’s “suggestion” to Nelson aboard the AWACS.
The President sat down and turned to Bobby Burke, his CIA director. “Bobby, we walked right into an ambush…” He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a cigar. Andy Wollard, the President’s chief of staff, recognized the signs and motioned the others in the Command and Authority Room to leave. He closed the door on the two men, leaving them alone. “We’re not out of this yet, but after the dust settles I want to know why Intelligence missed it and I want the problem fixed.”
Burke nodded. He knew better than to argue with the truth. He made a mental promise that he would, indeed, “fix” the problem. And if heads had to roll…
“Sir, let me get Camm over here for an update on the situation.”
“Do that.”
*
Kermanshah, Iran
The flight engineer and the copilot went through the drill of shutting down number-three engine. Beasely pulled the engine condition lever for three to the feather position and the copilot continued with the checklist. The right scanner in the rear reported flames were still coming from the engine and the prop had feathered. The engineer double-checked the fuel-shunt valves and pulled the tee-handle that activated the fire bottle. The scanner reported the fire had gone out. Beasely established an orbit ten miles north of town and ran a crew check. Other than flying on three engines and the flaps being sticky, the AC-130 seemed to be in pretty fair shape.
“Captain Beasely,” Mado said, “when you have it under control, land at the airfield and drop me off.” It was the general’s first time being shot at and hit. His stomach was around his eyeballs.
“General, no way I can land this beast and get it airborne with only three engines on that short of a runway. These puppies are heavy. If you want on the ground, you’re going to have to make a nylon approach and landing. Got lots of extra chutes.” There was no answer. A few moments later Mado was back on the SatCom, talking to the command center in the Pentagon.
*
“Sergeant Major,” Jamison called from under the boxes in the rear of the dilapidated Japanese mini truck, “what’s happening? Where are we?”
“Quiet,” Kamigami commanded. They were parked on a side street leading to the back of the prison. It had taken them almost two hours to work their way unobserved down the hill and into the edge of town. There, Kamigami had hot-wired an old pickup truck that was parked next to a building. He was working under the dash when the owner found them. The Iranian still had a look of confusion on his face when Jamison shot him in the head. It was the first time the lieutenant had ever seen a dead man, much less one that he had made that way.
Kamigami had bundled the stunned Jamison into the rear of the truck and buried him under a pile of boxes. He sat behind the steering wheel and had wrapped himself in a blanket, his pistol and helmet on the seat beside him, and driven through town. He had decided that his oriental face would draw less attention than, say, a black one. As he suspected, in the confusion following the attack on the prison, no one seemed to notice. Ten minutes later he had found the spot on the side street near the prison, and was in time to watch the AC-130 lay a cloud of fire-suppression on the barracks and the six loaded trucks escape.
“Someone’s coming,” he told the lieutenant as he gunned the engine and threw a U-turn.
The ZSU-23-4 was moving down the street toward them and he did not want the enemy troops he could see running behind it to commandeer their truck. He turned down a dirt alley as the Iranians ran by. When the last of the men had passed, he followed them. This time he explained what he was doing. “Lieutenant, we’re following some unfriendlies that came out of the barracks behind the prison. They look pissed and dangerous. I want to check ’em out.”
“Shouldn’t we rejoin Romeo Team or check in on the radio?”
&nbs
p; “Not yet. Want to maintain radio silence. I’ve got my whisper mike plugged in and have been listening to the chatter on the MX-360. Romeo Team is still blowing doors down on the third floor. They’ll be at that for at least another thirty minutes before all the POWs are free. We got time to join up.” He didn’t tell the lieutenant that the ZSU-23-4 was headed north. But then, that was in the general direction of the airfield where they wanted to go anyway…
*
Near Shahabad, Iran
The F-15’s TEWS painted overlapping hostile radar threats on the road leading from Shahabad to Kermanshah, and Jack’s wizzo was worried. “There’s at least one SA-8 and ZSU-23-4 moving down the road,” Furry told him. “There’s got to be more.”
“About what you’d expect with an armored battalion,” Jack said. “But we’re going to take a look anyhow. Let’s circle to the south and sneak up behind them.” He dropped his F-15 down onto the deck and headed south away from the highway and paralleled the mountains on the west side of the valley. He rolled into a 135-degree bank and turned up a shallow canyon that crossed the mountains and led into the next valley. When they crested the ridge, Furry hit the EMIS LIMIT switch and activated their radar. Then they were back to silent running as Jack headed north toward the highway.
Suddenly Furry called out. “Someone’s got us with a ZSU-23-4. Jamming now.” Furry hit the buttons that brought the electronic-counter-measures part of the TEWS alive. He watched his video monitor to be sure it was working. “Got ’em. They won’t have the foggiest where we are.”
“Yeah, but they know we’re out here.” Jack dropped lower and pushed the throttles up, touching six hundred knots. He was doing easy jinks two hundred feet above the ground. “Look at that!” Furry, looking over Jack’s right shoulder, saw a convoy stretched out on the road in front of them. “Amb, check the left, I’ll check right. We’re going to cross right over and get the hell out of Dodge. None of this parallel-road reccy shit.” He dropped the jet even lower and flew around a low knoll, taking what terrain-masking he could. They flashed out from behind the knoll and bore down on the highway and crossed it at ninety degrees. Then they were clear and Jack was twisting and turning up another mountain valley.
“I counted eight T-72 tanks and at least six armored personnel carriers,” Furry said. “Maybe a dozen trucks.”
“Yeah. I got six tanks, four BTR-60s, Two SA-8s, and a ZSU-23-4 in the lead.” Jack’s eyes were better than his backseater’s. “They’re moving at about thirty miles an hour. Should reach the bridge in twenty to twenty-five minutes. Good thing Doucette and Ramon got it…” But he wasn’t thinking about the bridge. In his mind was the smoking wreckage that was their ejection module.
“It’s a shallow stream bed and the water’s low,” Furry told him. “It should be an easy crossing.”
“We better tell Lifter. Time they got out of there. Us too, almost bingo.” Bingo—the low fuel level that would force them to return to the KC-135 for an inflight refueling…
*
Kermanshah, Iran
Carroll and Mustapha pulled the last of the rubble away and crawled through the low opening, wiggled under a reinforced concrete beam that had fallen into the basement and were at the door to Mary’s cell. “Mary,” he called, testing the door. It was locked.
“In here.”
He jerked at the handle. Nothing. Mustapha pushed him aside and slapped a chunk of C4 explosive on the lock. He quickly wired the blast cap to the timing fuse and attached the fuse igniter. “Take cover,” Carroll warned her, “we’re blowing the lock.” She told them she was under the bunk. Mustapha pulled the ring and they stepped back. The small charge blew the lock out of the heavy wooden door.
Carroll helped Mary out from under the bunk and to her feet. For a moment, they stood there, not touching, just looking at each other.
“Why did I know you’d come?”
“Because you were here. Where’s doc?”
She motioned at the wall. “Next cell, he’s in bad shape.”
They rushed out of her cell and found Mustapha testing the door to Landis’ cell. “The wall has shifted here.” Mustapha pointed to the left side of the door. “I think the door is supporting the roof.”
“We’re going to need help,” Carroll said. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.”
“Bill, I’m not leaving without doc. You go get help. Oh, there’s a prison guard here named Amini. I think he’s a CIA agent and I want to make sure he’s okay. See if you can find him.” Carroll didn’t argue, he knew Mary Hauser too well.
*
“Lifter, Stormy,” Jack radioed, still twenty miles away from the airfield. Stansell acknowledged. “Roger, Lifter,” Jack continued, “the armored column moving up the highway is approximately ten miles short of the highway bridge at Mahidashi. At current rate of travel will reach the bridge in twenty minutes. We count fourteen T-72 tanks, ten BTR-60s, twelve trucks, two SA-8s and a single ZSU-23-4. I am bingo minus one.”
Stansell understood that Jack was getting dangerously short on recovery fuel and was already a thousand pounds low. “Say status of bridge,” he radioed, “and Mover Two-Three.”
“Bridge destroyed, Mover Two-Three splashed. No survivors.” Jack’s voice was dead flat.
The command post was silent as Stansell drew a line through Mover 23 on his board. So easy, he raged at himself, just draw a line and they cease to exist. I ordered them against that goddamn bridge and now…He fought to contain what he felt and returned to business. “Roger, Stormy, copy all. Understand you are bingo at this time. You are cleared off to the tanker. Be advised we have three thousand feet of runway and a fuel truck available here.”
Jack did not hesitate. “Rog, Lifter. Landing now.” Thanks to the deposed Shah and the massive economic buildup under his regime, the airports used American equipment and the fuel truck was fitted with a standard single point fuel nozzle. And thanks to Zakia, it was at the airfield.
Gregory was talking to his operations officer. “Colonel,” he called to Stansell, “here, please.” Stansell turned his attention away from his small board and the black line through Doucette’s name. “Trimler reports that it’s slow going blowing all the cell doors and expects it will take another forty minutes before he has cleared the prison. That makes that armor coming at us a threat. I plan to deploy Ratso One and Two down the road toward the highway bridge. I’m going to position a blocking force there.” He pointed to the east side of the bridge. “They hold as long as they can and then withdraw back to Objective Red.” He pointed to the intersection near the prison.
“Two Jeep teams against an armored column…”
“And reinforce them with Second Platoon, Bravo Company. I want to airdrop them, Colonel. They’re ready to load. Hell, sir, I’ll get ’em out, that’s why I’m sending Ratso One and Two ahead. They’re to pick a DZ and commandeer vehicles. We only drop Second Platoon when we’ve got something to move them in and I can’t think of a faster way to get them there. Besides, quite a few of those unfriendlies got away from the barracks and are running around loose in the town. We leap frog ’em.”
Stansell nodded. “Okay, load ’em on Mallard’s plane.” The S-3 ran out of the room, calling for Bravo Company’s captain and Mallard to join him. Gregory studied the map. He was in his element, meeting the challenge he had trained so long for. There was nothing political to interpret, no deep analysis required. It was a tactical field problem that required an answer he was prepared to give. Gregory would never make a good colonel, but he was one hell of a good battalion commander. Stansell let him go, not getting in his way.
“We’re going to need to use Spectre for a radio relay,” Gregory said, “Mahidashi is beyond the range of the PRC-77.”
“Spectre can still provide fire suppression,” Stansell said.
“On three engines?”
A pained look crossed Stansell’s face. “It’s what they get paid for.” The demon was back on him. He was ordering another cr
ew into harm’s way and his stomach was twisting itself into knots. Oh Christ, Muddy, he thought, is this what you went through? But he wasn’t looking for approval from the shadowy figure from his past. Still, for the first time, he understood the agony of command, of what Muddy Waters must have known.
For the next five minutes Stansell and Gregory went over the ground situation while the RTO relayed the latest developments over the SatCom to the Pentagon’s command center. Jack Locke came into the room, then, his refueling completed. “A hell of a mess you have here, Colonel.” The two men shook hands while the sound of Mallard’s C-130 taking off filled the room.
The MX-360 radio the RTO had set up next to his PRC-77 crackled to life. “Lifter, this is Romeo Two-Five with Romeo Two.”
“About time,” Gregory yelled. “That’s Kamigami and Jamison!”
“Lifter,” Kamigami radioed, “you’ve got company coming your way. Expect incoming mortar fire in the next few minutes.”
“Say position of mortar teams,” Gregory answered. He jotted down the coordinates while he called for a sergeant to spread the word and for the men to take cover. Stansell was on the UHF ordering the three remaining C-130s to start engines and launch before the attack started. Jack sprinted for his Eagle, intending to do the same. “Colonel,” Gregory shouted, “have Spectre hose the shit out of these coordinates. We got problems.”
Chapter 49: H Plus 13
Kermanshah, Iran
Scamp 14 was the first C-130 to bring all four engines on line and was turning onto the runway when the first mortar round hit the airfield. Because of the short runway, Scamp 14 paused while the pilot ran the engines up to max power before starting his takeoff roll. The nose of the C-130 tried to dig into the concrete as the props wound up. Then the big cargo plane was rolling, but before its nose gear could come unglued from the ground, Scamp 14 disappeared in a fiery cloud. A mortar round had scored a direct hit.
Force of Eagles Page 37
