“Thanks, but I think it will be faster by air evac.”
Rashir hesitated, studying the American. “I assure you, Colonel,” he said more slowly, “our hospitals are quite well equipped.”
“I … have no doubt of that, sir, but these injuries … I mean … by road …”
“We could use a helicopter, then. I will use my radio and get a helicopter for them.”
Will raised his hand, palm up. “I … appreciate that very much, Colonel, but I think, if you’ll permit the 130 to land and take off again, that we’ll just stick with the original plan. We also have another C-141 inbound, and I’ll be flying that one out in about an hour on a special mission.”
“What is this mission?”
“I, ah …” Will saw the tripwire too late. “I really can’t discuss it, sir. I’m acting under instructions from Riyadh.”
“Can I help with this mission?” Rashir asked, his face clouding up.
“Other than letting us get the airplane back out whether the sandstorm has hit or not, no sir.”
“I am commander here, Colonel. I have a secret clearance. My country is your host and a member of the coalition that has achieved such a glorious victory over Hussein. Do you not think I should know about a mission that operates from my base?”
Why the hell did I say anything? Damn, damn, damn, damn!
“I’m very sorry, Colonel, but in the rush of things, CENTCOM apparently failed to specifically authorize me to discuss it with you—or with anyone. I could call them …”
Colonel Rashir’s face progressed through several shades of red and purple as he studied Will’s eyes. His hospitality had been rejected, his authority trivialized, and his dignity offended.
“I am instructed to cooperate, Colonel. You shall have that cooperation, even if you think our hospitals and our security reliability are below your standards.” Making no attempt at a farewell handshake, he nodded his head curtly in dismissal, obviously furious, then began to turn away.
“Colonel Rashir, I did not mean …”
Rashir pivoted around and moved back toward Will, standing uncomfortably close, his eyes aflame and narrowed, his hands behind his back, watching with obvious pleasure as the American groped for a way to mollify him.
“It is interesting,” he said at last, “that you are posted to Saudi Arabia, Colonel. Wester-man … Wester-man.” He turned the name over on his tongue as if tasting it. “That is a Jewish name, is it not?”
A sudden flash of old and primal anger welled up from somewhere inside, fighting unsuccessfully to get out, as Will feigned a smile and said simply, “No, Colonel, I’m from Texas. Westerman is an American name.”
Rashir snorted, turned sharply, and left.
The message from Ronson crackled from the hand-held just before Will pulled open the door of the ALCE, brushing by the U.S. Army Delta Force officer who had been waiting impatiently for ten minutes and had every intention of letting the Air Force colonel know it. Two-fifty-five had just reached their holding fix and called in, and the British fighter that was going to rendezvous with them in the holding pattern and literally guide them back to the top-secret location had just lifted off. Will could hear the roar of the Jaguar’s afterburners in the distance.
Ronson tipped his head in the direction of the Army major dressed in combat fatigues, who cleared his throat a bit too loudly and introduced himself as James Moyer, Army Special Forces. “I was told to be here ten minutes ago, sir. And I was.”
Will gave him a neutral stare and waited until Moyer became uncomfortable with the silence.
“Ah …” Moyer said at last, “we’re ready to go as soon as we have an aircraft. I’m told you’re flying us in personally?” There was the slightest hint of amazement in his voice.
“That’s right. Any objections?” This man is an ass, Will concluded.
“Why, no sir, I was just concerned, Colonel, in light of the crash, I mean, that we aren’t straining too hard to get the mission off.”
“Meaning?” Will’s look was hard and cold, and he hoped the major got the point.
“Meaning that I’m told your two injured pilots were specially trained for this sort of mission. Forgive the question, but do you have the same training, sir?”
“I’m the commander of their unit, Major. Of course I’m trained for it. I’m the one that teaches many of the courses.”
“No offense meant, sir. It’s just that you fellows are used to dropping paratroopers, and this time, since we’ll actually be landing that pig in the desert …” Moyer stopped, aware of Will’s growing anger.
“‘Pig,’ Major? You referring to the C-141B?”
“Uh, sorry, sir. I’m used to landing my men in helicopters or, at the worst, C-130s, and jumping out of 141s. I don’t know who the harebrained idiot is who decided to use a four-engine jet for this, but I think it’s nuts … sir.”
Will glowered at him and struggled to control his temper.
“Major, you are speaking with the so-called harebrained idiot who made that decision.”
Moyer’s eyes widened and he looked slightly stricken as Will continued.
“Since you question the decision, I’ll tell you the rationale.”
“That’s … that’s okay, sir, I apologize for second-guessing—”
“Shut up and listen, Major. We couldn’t carry all the vehicles you need in a C-130, especially the one you’d have to use to haul out the, uh, target, if it can’t be destroyed on site. We’d have to use two C-130s. Point two: we’re not allowed to fly in and land from the south now, by presidential order. We have to sneak in from the west, and there’s no way to do that with a C-130. They aren’t fast enough. Neither are your Pave Low helicopters.”
“Yes sir.”
“You may not have been around long enough to know it, Major, but this is almost exactly the sort of mission that we were poised to run to get the hostages out of Tehran in 1980 after the fiasco with the C-130 and the helicopter at Desert One.”
“Yes sir.”
“And that would have worked if Carter hadn’t been too wimpy to order a second try.”
“Yes sir. Colonel Westerman, I’m sorry. That was a stupid comment I made.”
Will nodded. “You’re damn right it was.”
“I … I do want to make sure, though, that you know that this could get nasty while you’re waiting for us, Colonel. We could even drag a firefight back with us.”
Will looked around at Major Ronson, who was pretending to look elsewhere. He looked down at his feet then, and rocked back and forth for a second with his hands behind his back before letting his head and eyes snap up to lock on Moyer.
“Where have you seen action, Moyer?”
“Sir?”
“Were you in Panama?”
“Why, no, I missed that one.”
“Were you in the ground campaign last month?”
“We were standing by, but my particular unit is a Special Forces—”
Will cut him off.
“I flew sixty-three combat missions over North Vietnam,” he said very quietly, “and punched out once near a place called Pleiku, then came back a year later in command of a C-141 to the very same field and almost lost my copilot to ground fire while carrying out three hundred and thirty South Vietnam Army soldiers sitting on my cargo deck with cargo straps tying them down and bullets whistling through the machine. I was in the lead ship into Grenada, and in one of the few C-141s to collect bullet holes in Panama. In other words, Major, I really don’t think I’m going to come apart on you if the lead starts flying. Your job, however, is to prevent that lead from being fired in the first place. Correct?”
“Yes … of course. Provided our intelligence and the assistance of our guide is all it’s cracked up to be.”
The designated “blue” frequency came to life suddenly behind them, the voice of the British Jaguar pilot boosted over an inordinately effective speaker.
“Good evening, MAC two-five-five. Ascot f
orty-four with you, closing at range twenty nautical, climbing to angels three-five-zero. How are you chaps hearing me?”
“Loud and clear, Ascot. How do you want to do this?”
“You stay steady in the hold, I’ll join you as wingman, then take over as lead and bring you in to a final and break off.”
The two pilots continued exchanging necessary information on the 141’s speed and rate of descent as Sergeant Richards came in the door and Ronson began relaying wind and runway length and surface temperature to MAC 255.
Will turned his attention back to the Delta Force commander. “Where were we, Moyer?”
“I was making a fool of myself, Colonel. I apologize again.”
Will’s eyes bored into Moyer’s, verifying his contrition.
“Okay,” Will said at last. “Get the personnel carriers and your men in position on the ramp where we’re going to park him, and be ready to help them unload. You’ll probably have less than ten minutes to get everything on board once the airplane’s empty.”
Sergeant Richards moved toward the two of them, a look of grave concern on his face. “Colonel … sir, could I see you a minute?” Will gave him a just-a-moment crook of the finger and turned back to Moyer.
“It’s twenty-hundred hours local, Major Moyer, and we need to be off early if possible. We need to be taxiing by twenty-forty.”
“Yes sir.” Moyer gave a snappy salute and left the ALCE. Will heard, rather than saw, the Humvee race away toward the far end of the tent city. For security reasons, the Delta Force unit had turned down the regular tent city and pitched their own camp after arriving twenty-four hours ago. According to the Department of Defense, no such force existed, and the less contact with other troops, the better.
Will turned to the sergeant who had just come from the medical tent with news that Lieutenant Rice had slipped into a coma. The beleaguered doctor estimated a maximum two hours before an operation was absolutely necessary to save his life. That left little choice about phoning Washington, where it was noon.
Walt Rice was in, and as Will had expected, the news hit him hard—all the harder for being unable to affect the outcome. The 130 was on the way, the hospital at Dhahran was waiting, and the sandstorm was approaching. Only Lieutenant Rice could provide the missing glue to keep the rescue together—by staying alive. Will gave the general the direct line to the ALCE, and pledged Major Ronson’s support in passing the latest information back to his office at the Pentagon.
Doug Harris read through the Engine Shutdown Checklist and the Before Leaving Aircraft Checklist as he tracked the sudden frenzy of movement outside the parked C-141. They had seen the dark hulk of a wrecked Starlifter on the side of the runway as they landed. It had loomed large and eerie in their lights—all the more so because no one had warned them that there was anything that close to the runway, let alone another 141.
There were vehicles everywhere, far more than seemed necessary for a mere emergency air evac. Doug was beginning to get an idea what was happening. There had been an accident, all right, and no one wanted to let it get out to the rest of the world. They really were to be an emergency air evac.
Doug raised a quizzical eyebrow at the aircraft commander and pushed his seat back, shedding the headset as he clambered out of the copilot’s position. The scanner had materialized up the three feet of ladder from the cargo compartment to the flight deck at the same moment.
“What’s going on out there?” Harris asked. “That’s one hell of a reception committee.”
“Sir, there’s a chief out there wants us all to come in to the ALCE immediately. He says that crash we saw occurred just an hour ago.”
“Okay.” Doug turned around toward the aircraft commander who was signing the 781 maintenance log. “You hear that?”
“Yes sir.”
“I suggest we go in and leave the engineering department to get her fueled.”
“Uh …” The scanner looked stricken. “They want us all in there, Colonel.”
Harris cocked his head and smiled a now-seriously-folks smile.
“Why?”
The scanner shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not a chief, Colonel, I’m just an Indian. They want us in.”
“Yeah, because they’re going to steal our airplane, I’ll bet anything!”
As they pulled away in a van with Chief Taylor at the wheel, the sight of several men throwing their crew bags into the back of a flatbed seemed to answer the question. As they rounded the right side of their aircraft, the sight of three tracked fighting vehicles and a small platoon of armed soldiers wearing berets answered the other: they had not been yanked out of the sky for an air evac. Doug Harris was ready to take someone apart by the time they arrived at the ALCE, and the aircraft commander simply hung back and waited for the explosion as Harris yanked open the door of the olive drab foldable, transportable ALCE box and charged inside.
“Who the hell is in charge of this place?” He stepped into the enclosure as the six-foot-two frame of Will Westerman moved from the far end to confront him. Both men stared at each other in stark silence for what seemed to Ronson and Taylor like an entire minute. Harris’s hands had been on his hips. They now slithered to his side, an involuntary gesture Westerman was mirroring, shocked smiles slowly crossing both faces as Will extended his hand.
“This I don’t believe! My God, Doug, what on earth are you doing here?”
3
Sandy 101 ALCE
Wednesday, March 6, 1991—8:10 P.M. (1710 GMT)
Doug Harris gripped Will Westerman’s right hand and gestured toward the door with his left. “This is what happens, Westerman, when you snag something out of the sky without looking. You get me!”
“Geez … Doug, we gotta talk, fast. What an awful time for a reunion! I’m in the middle of the mother of all crises.”
“That phrase is getting overused, you know.”
Will turned to Ronson. “Hold the fort for a moment, Jerry, while I brief …” He glanced back around at Doug, checking the silver eagles on the shoulders of his flight suit and feigning amazement: “My Lord in heaven, they’ll promote anybody …” Then back at Ronson: “… while I brief Colonel Harris here.”
“Yes sir.”
Will turned back to Doug. “Or should I call you Colonel Captain Harris?”
“Yeah, well, I’m a 747 captain now, but ‘Colonel’ will do nicely,” Doug replied, noting the puzzled look on Major Ronson’s face.
Will saw Ronson’s confusion as well, and gestured at Doug. “Jerry, this turncoat got off active duty fifteen years ago and joined the airlines while I stayed on to keep Charleston safe for democracy. He’s a United Airlines pilot now, moonlighting as an Air Force colonel.”
Doug shook Ronson’s proffered hand before following Will out the door of the ALCE. The two colonels walked a few yards away into the stark blackness of the desert night at the edge of the tent city.
“Doug … Lord, it’s been too long. Let me tell you quickly. I’m in charge of a very vital, very secret mission, but we lost the mission bird on landing a while ago …” His words tumbled out quickly, the ticking of the clock in his head becoming compelling.
“I know, I saw it on rollout. Quite a surprise.”
“Yeah … well, we couldn’t say anything about it on the radio.”
“I gathered. What on earth happened?”
“I’ll … have to fill you in later. Right now I’ve got to take your airplane, and …”
“That’s okay. I guessed that much.”
“And I’ve got to shanghai some of your crew.”
“They’re not mine. I’m just hitching a ride. I mean, they are mine in that I’m their leader, but not their A/C. Did you follow that?”
“Not a word.”
“I’m their squadron commander, but not the A/C, you see. We’ll need to involve the young captain back there, Pete Tilden.”
“You’re a squadron commander? I haven’t gotten over the shock of your being a full c
olonel! Doug, the resident rebel? God’s gift to United flight attendants?” Will was chuckling as Doug wagged his finger at him.
“Okay, pompous-ass-with-the-eagles-on-active-duty. I’m commander of the 97th Squadron at McChord, a goddamn active-duty squadron, I’ll have you know.”
“Me, too.”
“Like hell you’re commanding the 97th.”
“No, I mean at Charleston. I’m commanding a SOLL squadron.”
“I knew you were at Charleston.”
“Yeah, Harris, but you never write.”
“Nor do you.”
The two old friends fell silent for a second, a decade of no communication a yawning gulf between them, but both of them startled at how quickly the old familiar rhythms of friendship—the give-and-take barbs and humor—had returned, cutting through the pretensions and posturing of rank and position in a microsecond. It was like falling into a time warp, as if they were back in school growing up together again and pretending to be in the middle of a desert facing a mountain of challenges. Which was reality and which was make-believe? The disorientation lasted all of a few seconds, but it opened an anthology of memories.
“Okay,” Will said at last, “back to business.”
“Bidness. We’re from Texas, remember?”
“Yeah. Come on, man, this is dead serious.” Will looked pained. “I’ve got less than thirty minutes to get in the seat. They’re refueling your airplane now and loading it. Your bags have been pulled off and should be by the ALCE back there. I need some of the crew to go with me. Is the A/C, Captain … what was it?”
“Tilden.”
“Tilden. Is he AR-qualified? Aerial refueling, I mean?”
“Hey, I know what AR means. I am a qualified 141 jockey, okay?”
Will’s right hand went over his eyes in mock embarrassment. “I’m so sorry. I forgot.”
“Who else do you need?”
“He can serve as copilot. I need the full complement. Two engineers and a loadmaster. We’ve got a contingent of Delta Force Special Forces types we’re taking up north. That’s top secret.”
Scorpion Strike Page 5
