by Oliver North
And speaking of messy complications, he thought, there is one more item I need to take care of. He knew that Newman had been ordered by Harrod to stay out of Iraq and to command his ISETs from the command center in Incirlik. Harrod wanted Newman where he could control him—or where the Marine could be the fall guy in case the mission failed and there were political repercussions. But General Komulakov knew that it would be impossible to control Newman; he was no automaton, like many in the military who blindly followed orders without questioning. Newman already knew more than Komulakov wanted him to.
Someone like Newman, after a foiled mission like this one was going to be, might raise a great many questions … unless he did not survive the mission. Yet, the general knew that Harrod had forbidden him to parachute in with his team.
Komulakov picked up his phone. “Major Ellwood, I want you to locate Lieutenant Colonel Newman for me. Try him at HQ in Incirlik first. Yes, I know there is a time difference. Just track him down and get him on the phone.”
ISEG Tactical Operations Center
________________________________________
Incirlik Air Base
Adana, Turkey
Thursday, 2 March 1995
1654 Hours, Local
“Uh, guys … take ten. I've got a call coming in from General Komulakov, our “other boss” at the UN—I'd better take it,” Newman said to the others around the folding table he had set up in the small office on the east side of the hangar. On the door he had put a handwritten sign, written in black felt-tip marker: “Ops Center.” He waited for them to leave, then checked his EL-3 to make sure it was in the “on” position.
“How are things coming together?” the general asked.
“Well, everything here is ready to go except that I don't have the insert bird yet. The UAV is ready to go. The troops are ready to go. The comms relay site is up and running at Siirt, but the MD-80 still isn't here. If it doesn't get here in the next twenty-four hours, we're not going to be able to get the team on the ground and near enough to Tikrit with enough time to get to the objective while the big pow-wow is still going on,” Newman said.
“Pow-wow?” asked the Russian.
“Sorry … the big terrorist summit. I don't want to go through all this just to find out that Aidid, bin Laden and Saddam have all packed their bags and gone home before we get there to spoil their party,” replied the Marine.
“Ah … yes, now I understand. Pow-wow,” Komulakov replied, seemingly more concerned about learning a new American slang expression than about solving Newman's lack of an insert aircraft.
“What about the MD-80?” said Newman becoming somewhat exasperated.
“I'll call Dr. Harrod about it immediately. Now, as I understand your last message, you have added one person to the mission, but it is not you?”
“Yes, I've added one person to the ISET going in on the ground. Captain Weiskopf wanted to go because he's concerned that when the mission changed from Somalia, the work-up for ISET Echo just wasn't long enough. I agreed because Weiskopf has a lot more time on the ground in Iraq than any of the men in Echo. That'll give us a total of eight men on the ground for the mission. If we have to extract them with the STAR System, we will still only need four canisters—since each device extracts two men.
“Now, as to my not going in, that wasn't my doing, General. Harrod told me I wasn't to parachute in with my men, that I'm supposed to stay back here in the command center. I don't know why—I suppose he has his reasons,”
“Hm-m,” the general mused. “Is that typical?”
“I don't know if it is or isn't. Most of the time I go in with my guys. Sometimes I stay back. It varies.”
“I see.… Do you have a preference?”
“Well, on this mission I had asked to go in with the team.”
“But Dr. Harrod told you not to?”
“Yes.”
“I think that I sense your problem,” the Russian said after a pause. “It appears that Dr. Harrod wants to make sure nothing happens to you—you are, after all, indispensable. Yet I think that you have an eagerness to go so that you can make certain that the man who is responsible for your brother's death is found and dealt with.”
Newman thought about how to respond. “I suppose there's something to that,” he said in a neutral voice.
“Well, Colonel… perhaps I have a solution that will satisfy both you and Dr. Harrod. As I understand from the mission planning thus far, you are going to be aboard the aircraft when it inserts the ISET team in Iraq, is that correct?”
“Yes, sir. But then I'm going to return here to Incirlik or to Siirt to coordinate the operation.”
“Why don't you set up your command center aboard the aircraft that actually goes into Iraq for the parachute drop? And then re-position the aircraft at Siirt so that it is immediately available to launch in the event that something goes wrong. That way you will be ‘on site,’ as it were, to make sure personally that everything goes as planned. Yet, because you won't be actually parachuting in with your team, you are living up to the letter of the law with regard to Dr. Harrod's instructions. If there is any question about it, I will tell him that I overruled his orders. We won't say anything more about it—Dr. Harrod will not be directly involved with the planning and execution of the mission. I will be briefing him and you need not worry about staying in touch with him until after the mission.”
Newman was beginning to like this Russian. “General, I will take that to mean that you will approve my decision to put my command center on the plane.”
“Well, you know the old adage, Colonel—sometimes it's easier to get forgiveness than permission.”
“Thank you, General. Is there anything else?”
“Yes. I don't want you to make any changes in your mission planning. It is important because there are so many countries and organizations involved. Before you change anything—even adding a single minute to a procedure—you must clear it with me first. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly, General. I hear you.”
“Yes, thank you, Colonel Newman. And good luck.”
“Thank you, sir. I'll be in touch.”
Newman got up and walked over to the hall where his team leaders were taking a break. He no sooner waved them back into the office than his satellite phone rang again.
“Newman,” he said into the mouthpiece after checking again to make sure the EncryptionLok-3 was still engaged.
“Colonel, it's Dan Robertson.”
“Robertson, where the devil is my MD-80? Why can't your Air Force find a pilot to fly this mission?”
“It's inbound to Incirlik as we speak,” Robertson said. “Harrod released the plane eight hours ago, and I just found out about it. If it isn't there by now, it should be any minute. I don't know what kinds of games the powers-that-be are playing, but I'm sorry. I asked to brief the crew and was told that would be impossible. Anyway, it should be there within the hour.
“I know it's late, but there's a little good news,” Robertson continued. “They tell me that it has a complete communications suite aboard so that you can use it as a flying command post if you want.”
“Good. That's exactly what I want. Send Sergeant Major Gabbard an encrypted e-mail with a complete list of what's aboard so that I know what comms and frequencies to set up for the mission. We're going to have to go tomorrow night at the latest.”
“Will do. Anything else?”
“No. Well done, Dan. I know the delay wasn't your fault.”
The men sat back down at the conference table, and Newman told them about the slight change in plans regarding his staying behind in Turkey. “I've been given the OK to put my command center on board the aircraft. After dropping in Team Echo, we'll take the MD-80 to Siirt. I'll command from there, and will be a lot closer than I would be back here,” he told them.
Weiskopf grinned and gave him a high five and the others followed suit. “Way to go, Colonel,” said Weiskopf. “I'll feel a lot better h
aving you up top than back here, I'll tell you that!”
There was a knock on the door and Sergeant Major Gabbard walked in. “Sir, the MD-80 is taxiing up to the front of the hangar right now. Shall I ask the pilots and crew to come in?”
“By all means, Sergeant Major,” replied Newman. “Bed the crew down with the troops or the senior NCOs, as appropriate, and send the aircraft commander and copilot over here right away. We're down to hours to get this mission underway.”
About ten minutes later, the sergeant major returned, knocked on the door, opened it, and announced, “Gentlemen, please greet the Air Force pilot who will be flying our troopers into Iraq.” All eyes turned and almost immediately every man's mouth dropped open.
Standing in the doorway, dwarfed by the sergeant major, was a five-foot-six-inch African-American woman wearing a big smile and an Air Force flight suit with pilot's wings and gold oak leaves.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen. I'm Major Jane Robinette, USAF Reserve. I have thirteen years of service and various tours of combat experience and served most recently in Operation Desert Fox, and I'm flight-certified in the MD-80 aircraft. In fact, in my civilian life, that's what I fly. And I can just tell how glad you are to see me.”
Newman was stunned. He knew that women were becoming more and more commonplace in the military, but he had strong feelings about bringing a woman into combat. As far as he knew, the Air Force was the only branch that assigned women to combat duty.
“Uh … welcome, Major Robinette,” he said, finally. “Forgive me … but I didn't really believe that a woman would be assigned to such a dangerous mission. This will be combat, Major. Did you get a briefing on the mission?”
“Yes, sir, I did. Not all of it, of course. But I do know that the mission is dangerous, and that it involves flying into Iraq.”
“Who's flying the plane tomorrow night for the parachute drop?”
“I am, sir.”
“But this is a very difficult and dangerous mission. Very high risk.”
“Yes sir, I know. That's why the Secretary of the Air Force picked me. He said that the mission deserved the very best that the Air Force could give you guys—and here I am.”
The men in the room laughed at her chutzpah.
Newman was still uneasy. He was also honest and decided to voice his more conservative viewpoint. “I suppose I'm a dinosaur, and old-fashioned about women serving in the Armed Forces. Actually, I don't have a problem with women serving. But I do have a problem with a woman going into combat.”
“You got that right,” one of the men muttered under his breath.
“Are you sure that you know what you're getting yourself into, Major?”
“Do you, Colonel?”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“Well, sir … I don't think anyone ever knows exactly what's going to happen on any mission, whether it's a routine one, or if it's a mission like this one. I've learned that it's best not to dwell on what might go wrong and to concentrate on making it go right and doing my job better than anyone else.”
“Sounds like you've heard these complaints before, Major.”
“Yes, sir … just about every time I fly with someone who doesn't know me.”
Only now did Newman realize why it had really taken so long to get the MD-80 out here—they had been looking for just the right pilot to meet the President's diversity goals. “Well, Major, what planes do you feel you're proficient in flying?”
“I have more than a thousand hours in F-15s and F-16s, sir. I've got nearly as many hours in C-130s, KC-135s, and the B-52—all together.”
“Have you seen any combat action?”
“Yes, sir. I was called up from the Air Force Reserve for Desert Storm and Operation Desert Fox before this mission. In Desert Storm, I flew fifty-six missions in an F-15 fighter jet, all of them in the same neighborhood we'll be going to on this mission. Later, in Operation Desert Fox, I flew seven missions in the two days of that campaign … hitting the targets determined to be Saddam's industry for weapons of mass destruction. I had the second-highest number of kills and second-highest number of successful missions.”
“Who was number one?” Newman asked.
“The guy who flew eight missions—but I beat him in average number of kills per mission.”
“She's a regular top gun, Colonel,” Bart Coombs said with a grin.
Major Robinette also grinned, but it was more forced. “Like the Colonel says, I've heard these complaints before.”
“Just want to make sure you know what you're getting into,” Newman mumbled.
“Uh-huh. Colonel, can we get on with the briefing? I simply must get back to my quarters to rinse out my panty hose.”
The room rocked with laughter.
Newman, still laughing, rose from his seat and pulled out the empty chair at the table. He bowed grandly. “Major, it is with great pleasure that I welcome you as one of the guys.”
The others clapped and cheered as Major Jane Robinette took her seat at the table.
MISSION COMPROMISED
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Incirlik Air Base
________________________________________
Adana, Turkey
Friday, 3 March 1995
1745 Hours, Local
For twenty hours straight, the ISEG teams rehearsed their mission—in the hangar during daylight hours, and at night, at the far end of the air base. Newman then insisted they all get a few hours' rest—even though few would sleep, especially the eight men who were going on the ground inside Iraq.
Now, after months of planning, training, changes, and more planning, it was finally time for the mission to depart. The delayed arrival of the MD-80 had forced Newman to make further adjustments to the plan.
The seven men of ISET Echo plus Weiskopf would be the only ones to go into Iraq, unless there was trouble. And even though the others moaned about “being left in the rear with the gear,” he ordered ISET Delta, along with Sergeant Major Gabbard, to remain in Incirlik as security and support for the UAV technicians and to guard the thousands of pounds of gear that wasn't going on the operation—equipment that was now staged in the hangar.
Newman had already displaced ISETs Alpha and Bravo forward to Siirt as the QRF. He placed Bart Coombs in command of the QRF, with Captain Bruno Macklin, the SAS officer, as Executive Officer. Newman told them to locate enough four-by-four transportation to get the two ISETs across the border somehow and into Iraq if ISET Echo ran into trouble. ISET Charlie would remain with Newman and the airborne command post—to be parachuted in to help Echo if necessary.
Finally, Newman decided that because of the belated arrival of the MD-80 and the delay in getting the operation underway—at the most it should now last just seventy-two hours from insert to extraction—he and McDade would simply stay aboard the converted MD-80 and use it as their mobile command and communications center. His plan was to return to Siirt after ISET Echo parachuted into Iraq, from which he would then control the operation. All these plans were dutifully transmitted back to Deputy Secretary General Komulakov at the UN and National Security Advisor Simon Harrod via encrypted e-mail.
Counting the six UAV technicians who had delivered the Global Hawk, the three-person MD-80 crew, Newman's two-man command element, and Weiskopf's thirty-eight ISEG operators, there were only forty-nine people involved in carrying out this complex and dangerous operation. But, Newman reasoned, that's enough to get my brother's killer—and if we get Saddam or any of those other thugs, all the better.
Just after the sun's light was replaced by the bluish-white glare of the mercury-vapor lamps surrounding the hangar, Captain Joshua Weiskopf and the fourteen men of ISETs Charlie and Echo boarded the MD-80, headed for the back of the aircraft, and started strapping on their SVX-30 steerable parachutes. A few minutes later, Newman and McDade climbed aboard and took up their stations at the communications consoles that had been installed on the left side of the aircraft, directly aft of the
forward cabin door.
Major Robinette, First Lieutenant Charlie Haskell, the copilot, and Master Sergeant David Maddox, the crew chief, were already aboard, checking and double-checking the engines, oil pressure, and hydraulics; testing the communications equipment, navigation, and avionics displays; making one last inspection of the flight maps; and getting the latest weather updates. They had completed their pre-flight checklist by the time the men in back were 'chuted up and strapped into the two rows of web seats secured to the sides of the cabin.
Though from the outside this MD-80 could have passed for a civilian airliner, the interior was pure military transport. Not only had all the regular airline passenger seats been removed and replaced with two long rows of standard military red nylon benches, but numerous other changes had been made as well.
The forward galley had been removed and turned into the crew chief's station. Only the coffeemaker and sink remained of what had once been a mini flying kitchen. Where once food and beverage carts had been stowed for serving passengers, green oxygen bottles were now strapped in place. A system of tubes affixed to the interior of the fuselage carried the oxygen to those in the passenger cabin. Every two feet or so, all the way to the back of the aircraft, there were quick-connect fittings so that each passenger could be assured of a place to hook into the oxygen.
As the aircraft's twin tail-mounted engines started, Master Sergeant Maddox walked down the cabin between the two rows of men, making sure that each was strapped in, hooked up to the aircraft oxygen system, and had a working intercom connection. He got a thumbs-up from each man. Before strapping into his own seat, he checked the gauges on the green bottles once again to make sure they were fully charged. Satisfied, Maddox keyed the microphone on his headset and said, “All set back here, Major Robinette.”
