Stuart had spent an hour and a half on the secure radio link in the morning, talking with Lieutenant Colonel Loonfeather and Colonel Brimmer, reviewing just how the SEAL drop fit into the larger operation. It was agreed that the Air Force would pick Stuart up the following morning and fly him to Catania, and that he would then be picked up by COD (carrier onboard delivery) aircraft to join Loonfeather and Brimmer on America and move with them to Inchon to coordinate the three elements of the raid with them.
Stuart explained the updates and changes to the op plan to Hooper and Leah over a leisurely lunch. The rest of the team rested and looked after their equipment, except Goldstein, Feeney, and Cross, who had been invited to have lunch at the IDF Noncommissioned Officers’ Mess, and had been told by Hooper to go ahead.
The secure radio link, capable of sending and receiving scrambled voice and teletype, was established in a small air-transportable trailer next to the Israeli command bunker. It was manned by four rated U.S. Navy radiomen working in two shifts. Radioman Third Class Meyer ran up to intercept Stuart as he walked toward the bunker with Hooper and Leah Rabin.
“Excuse me, Commander Stuart,” said Meyer. “There’s voice traffic for you from Sixth Fleet.”
Stuart followed Meyer into the trailer and picked up the handset. “This is Commander Stuart, over.”
“This is Rear Admiral Wilson, Commander. I have some very bad news.”
Stuart sat down and listened to the very bad news. When he had it all, he returned to the command bunker on a dead run.
Sergeant Yanni Galen answered the phone in the NCOs’ Mess on the second ring. He listened to Capt. Leah Rabin for fifteen seconds, then hung up. “Hey, Goldstein! Your lot are to get back over to your area at the double! You may be pulling out of here this afternoon!”
Goldstein, Cross, and Feeney were out of their chairs and immediately ready to move. “What’s happened, Yanni?” asked Goldstein.
“Come on, David. I’ll drive you in the pickup,” answered Galen.
“What did they say?” persisted Cross.
“Captain Rabin said you may be picked up today and flown to wherever it is that you’ll be picked up by the bomber. It seems the terrorists have shot at least one hostage, a marine.”
“Holy shit,” whispered Feeney. “It’s a go, then.”
“Let’s get in the truck,” said Goldstein.
Feeney jumped in the cab of the gray pickup next to Sergeant Galen, while Goldstein and Cross climbed into the cargo bed. Galen accelerated out of the vehicle park and down the taxiway. He took the first corner so fast that Goldstein and Cross were thrown across the bed and rammed into the side. “Shit,” cursed Cross softly, rubbing a bruise on his elbow. “It can’t be that fucking urgent!”
On the open taxiway, Sergeant Galen drove even faster. Feeney watched him, hoping Yanni knew what he was doing. As the truck turned onto the crossing taxiway, its rear wheels hit a patch of blown sand and began to slide. Galen corrected for the skid, but then the right rear tire blew, and Yanni lost control. The truck did a complete spin, then slid backwards off the taxiway and down an embankment into some rough boulders. Galen and Feeney were slammed against the backs of their seats. Goldstein and Cross were thrown from the rear of the pickup into the rocks. Goldstein lay on his back, with his right leg twisted under him at an impossible angle. Cross was facedown and unconscious, bleeding from a deep head wound. Feeney climbed down to the injured men while Yanni Galen radioed for the base ambulance.
The SEAL team assembled in the command bunker, minus Goldstein and Cross, who were on their way to the hospital. Goldstein’s leg was broken in two places, and Cross had broken ribs in addition to his head wound. A tearful Yanni Galen sat in the corner, explaining to Captain Rabin what had happened.
Stuart and Hooper walked into the briefing room after watching the ambulance speed away. “How are the guys, sir?” asked Feeney, who still felt a little dizzy.
“They’ll be all right; fine, in fact. But they won’t be jumping out of any airplanes for a while. Damn!” Hooper pounded his fist on the wooden table hard enough to hurt his hand.
Leah Rabin dismissed the Israeli sergeant and joined the SEALs. “How long to get replacements in?”
“Shit!” spat Hooper. “We could get a couple of divers down from Athens, but they probably wouldn’t be parachute-qualified. Besides, we’ve been training on this for a day and a half, and we still have problems! Depending on what gets decided at Sixth Fleet and in Washington, we could be called on to drop tomorrow.”
“You can’t do this with six men, Hoop,” said Stuart.
Hooper scowled at Stuart, then suddenly he smiled. “I see my seventh, Willie-Boy.”
Stuart took a step back. “Oh, no! No way, Hoop. It’s been a hundred years!”
“How’s your Arabic, William?” asked Hooper sweetly.
“Hey, it’s great, if the terrorists want to talk about oilfield equipment! Come on, Hoop, you’ll have to get somebody qualified!”
“You would still be a man short, anyway,” interjected Leah Rabin. The two American officers turned to look at the tiny Israeli officer. She tapped the parachute badge sewn to her fatigue shirt. “My Arabic is fluent,” she said softly.
There was a moment of stunned silence, then Hooper exploded. “Hey, Leah, thanks, but no way are you coming!” He looked quickly at Stuart, then at the rest of the team for support. Nobody moved; nobody shook his head. Stuart smiled at Hooper and shrugged. Hooper slammed his hand again on the table. “William, Sixth Fleet will never go along with this!”
Stuart shrugged again, “They might. We don’t have a lot of options, and she does know the drill.”
“But she’s a woman!” shouted Hooper, throwing his hands in the air.
“Dammit, Commander, I am qualified!” shouted Leah with equal vehemence.
“It may frankly be a bigger problem, politically, that you are Israeli, Leah,” said Stuart.
“I will wear an American uniform. If I get killed, no one will ever know. If I don’t, my participation need never be officially acknowledged.”
Hooper stopped pacing and turned to face Stuart. “So, William?”
Stuart smiled broadly. “It’s your call, Commander. You lead.”
“Jesus! Well, all right! If Sixth Fleet agrees!” he jammed his finger into Stuart’s chest. “You’re number seven, and you,” Hooper tapped Leah lightly on the shoulder, “are number eight!”
The SEALs applauded and crowded around the officers. Stuart shook Leah’s hand and gave it an extra squeeze. I know she can do it, he thought, but I wish she didn’t have to. He separated himself from the group and started for the door.
“Where do you think you’re going, Troop?” asked Hooper sarcastically.
“To call Sixth Fleet, tell them our problem, and give them your recommendation that we include Capt. L. Rabin in the team.”
“Come back quick. We had better walk you two through in your positions.”
Washington, D.C., 1400 GMT (0900 Local)
The President listened carefully as the Chief of Naval Operations briefed for the Joint Chiefs. The operation was drawing together nicely, although the three elements of the ground-assault force, the most difficult and dangerous part of the problem, were far apart and had never worked together or even seen each other.
“Well, Arch, what’s the bottom line? Can your people go in there and get our hostages away from those murderous lunatics?”
“Yes, Mr. President, I believe they can. One advantage we have is that the officers who designed the assault will be together to run it, embarked on Inchon, just offshore.” Daniels was unaware of the accident in Israel and that, therefore, one of the three “assault coordinators” would not make it to the Inchon.
“Well, that should help, shouldn’t it?” asked the President.
“Yes, sir,” said Admiral Daniels, and sat down.
“So when can the rescue be carried out, Admiral?” asked the President, a hint of irri
tation in his voice.
Admiral Daniels stood again and looked around the cabinet room. That really wasn’t his question. “We’re looking at dawn, February 20, Mr. President. It’s really a political question, sir. We don’t have permission from either the Spanish or the Germans to launch the paratroopers from bases in their countries-”
“But I thought all the force we needed was on the ships of the Sixth Fleet!”
“Not really, sir. If we had one more carrier battle group, we wouldn’t need the air force bombers from England, but the Kennedy and her group are still two days west of Gibraltar. Besides, although we could rely solely on the marines to run the assault and rescue, the enemy’s large number of tanks pose a threat to the helicopters both in the air and on the ground. For that reason, we have built an important part of the assault around army infantry and armored airborne troops, which can get on the ground fast and which have a strong antitank and antivehicle capability.”
“And where are those army units?”
“Fort Bragg, Mr. President,” answered the Secretary of Defense. “Loading their gear aboard air force transports. They can go as soon as the Spanish or the Germans give us a place to land and stage for assault.”
“Henry?” The President looked to the Secretary of State.
“I’m sure we’ll have all the concurrences we need by tomorrow morning in Europe, Mr. President. It’s Sunday, and because this is a complex political issue, our various allies want to collect enough opposition figures to develop united fronts in their several countries.”
“But Henry, three hours ago these thugs shot an American serviceman in cold blood! Surely, the allies have to support us!” The President’s voice had risen and his cheeks were getting red.
The Secretary of State squirmed. “We were assured by the Italians, Mr. President, that the terrorists would honor their own commitment not to harm the hostages until 8:00 a.m. in Europe on the twentieth. We believed we could buy some more time. This morning’s shooting was, I’m sorry to say, a complete surprise.”
“But the allies will support us?” demanded the President.
“I’m sure they will, Mr. President, as soon as they can.”
“Christ!” The President struck the table hard with the palm of his hand. “They shot an American marine in cold blood. Two hours from now, they may very well shoot another one, and you’re telling me that we cannot get in there for another two days?”
There was a painful silence as the President looked around the room. General Klim, the Chief of Staff of the Army, cleared his throat. “Mr. President-”
“Yes?”
“Ah, there is another, ah, way, sir. The commander of the Airborne Armored element, who is with the Sixth Fleet staff, recommends we fly the raid straight from Bragg, tonight, refueling the planes in flight over the Atlantic.”
“Then we wouldn’t need the Europeans’ permission?”
“Well, the transports would have to land somewhere, probably Torrejon, Spain, after they dropped the paratroopers. The Spanish might be pissed, but by then. . . .” General Klim let his voice trail off.
“What does Sixth Fleet say?” asked the President.
“Admiral Bergeron sent the recommendation along without endorsement, sir,” said Admiral Daniels.
“Meaning he doesn’t like it?”
“Yes, sir,” said Daniels. “He says it will be impossible to coordinate.”
“General Klim?”
“Mr. President, Lt. Col. Rufus Loonfeather, who commands the Third of the Seventy-third Armor, sir, who thought this up, says it can work, and I’m inclined to agree with him, though it would, of course, be preferable to have everything at least begin in Europe.”
“But not for two days.”
“That’s the choice, Mr. President,” said Admiral Daniels. Others around the table nodded.
The President rose from his seat. The others stood. “Gentlemen, I’m going to consult briefly with members of the Congress. When I return, you’ll have one hour to convince me not to try this Lieutenant Colonel Loonfeather’s plan. General Klim, when would the paratroopers have to leave North Carolina if we want to go tonight?”
“By noon today at the latest, Mr. President.”
“Make sure everything is ready. I’ll return within the hour.”
Pope Air Force Base, Fayetteville, N.C., 1530 GMT (1030 Local)
Lieutenant Colonel James E. “Jim” Bowie, Infantry, commanding officer of 1st Battalion, 502d Parachute Infantry Regiment sat in the Air Operations office, on the third floor of the three-story, white brick-face Operations Building next to the green ramp. The teleprinter had been running at high speed for two hours, transferring the entire op-order, with codes, commo net designations, and call signs, and a host of other details direct from Sixth Fleet in the Med. The slower fax machines had given him maps and symbolic renderings of the mission TO&E.
The colonel looked out the window into the cool rain. All of the airborne infantry company’s gear had been loaded into the first two C-141s in line on the apron, including a prodigious number of Dragon shoulder-fired antitank missiles in canisters.
The Sheridans were fully rigged for LAPES on the improved 42k pallets that allowed them to be dropped with full fuel and ammo loads and staged on the self-propelled K-loaders. The K-loaders would move them to eight more C-141s and align them with the aircraft ramps to be winched aboard. The tank on-load was on hold from Division, though no one had told Colonel Bowie why. The planes were fueled and ready to go, their aircrews briefed except for final weather. The soldiers, in full packs with weapons and full ammo loads, squatted in the hangar adjacent to the ramp, out of the rain.
The teleprinter finally stopped. Its last comment was a simple “message ends.” Bowie yelled for his runner and told him to assemble officers and senior NCOs immediately.
Lieutenant Colonel Bowie passed out copies of the final op-order to the officers and non-coms who commanded units. He handed several copies of the Supporting Arms Plan to Jason Brown, the navy lieutenant who commanded the ANGLICO detachment. The Supporting Arms Plan included the plans of the air base with the gunfire and air spot references, plus the day codes of all units, the list of code names and gun calibers of the ships, and bomb and missile loads of the fixed- and rotary-wing aircraft units. The army unit commanders would have the plan as well, but the ANGLICO would carry it out as long as they were neither knocked out nor masked from targets.
First Lieutenant John Connelly, Armor, commanded the two armor platoons: eight M-551 Sheridans. He received, in addition to the rest of the briefing package, the latest satellite and SR-71 reconnaissance photos. He noted that they were twelve hours old. He turned to the 82d Airborne G-2 Intelligence officer, who was coordinating for the mission up until the time it left Bragg. “No new photos, Colonel Sullivan?”
“Not since early this morning in North Africa, Lieutenant. Heavy cloud cover.”
Lieutenant Colonel Bowie concluded the briefing. “OK, men, look through and mark the changes; we’ll have a final brief in here just before we fly. I want every piece of gear and every man in the aircraft at eleven-thirty.”
“Do we have a go then, Jim?” asked Lt. Col. Paul Squitiero, USAF, commander of the 20th Military Airlift Squadron, who would fly the lead C-141.
“No,” said Colonel Bowie. “JCS and everybody else in Washington are meeting with the President. I spoke to the Army Deputy Chief of Staff for Operations ten minutes ago. We’ll lift off on time with or without final approval; if they turn it down, we come back.”
“What’s your sense of it, Jim?” asked Capt. William Schubert, Infantry, who commanded the airborne rifle company, A Company of the 1st of the 502d.
Lieutenant Colonel Bowie shoved his own stack of papers into a plastic briefcase. “My feeling is that we’ll sleep in the skies tonight, gentlemen. And then we’ll hold a rather sudden reveille at the old Wheelus Air Force Base, tomorrow most early.”
Schubert gestured to his platoon l
eaders and senior sergeants. “Go! Get loaded!”
The officers and NCOs filed out of the room. Lieutenant Colonel Bowie called to the ANGLICO commander and motioned him to a seat. Bowie’s task force XO, Maj. John Donahue, sat on the edge of the table next to the colonel. “Lieutenant Brown, we have barely met. You know Major Donahue?”
“We met yesterday afternoon, when I got here, Colonel.”
“Good. Your team will jump with me, from the first aircraft. Has your team been together long, Lieutenant?”
Brown shook his head. “No, Colonel. My gunny sergeant and I have been together three months, in San Diego and then Long Beach. The other guys have been collected from Norfolk to Mayport.”
Colonel Bowie frowned. “Why didn’t the Navy send an intact team?”
“We don’t have many people who are jump qualified and ANGLICO qualified, Colonel. We had to piece it together. But the gunny and I do the actual spotting; we will be fine.”
“The two of you have done actual spotting together?” asked Major Donahue.
“Yes, sir. Gunfire, up to eight inch, at San Clemente Island, and aircraft at Twenty-nine Palms.”
“California?” Bowie asked. Brown nodded. Bowie stood, turned his back, and looked thoughtfully at the large plan of Wheelus tacked to the wall. We’ll be a long way from California, he thought. “Lieutenant, I hope you realize that the proficiency of your spotting team, and of naval air and gunfire, is absolutely critical to the success of this mission.”
“I . . . knew it was important, sir.” Lieutenant Brown had been flying so hard in the last twelve hours he hadn’t fairly had time to think.
Bowie turned back toward Brown and the others. “Not important, Jason, critical. You’ve read the op plans, but you aren’t really experienced in airborne operations, am I right?”
“Yes, sir, I surely am not. Gunnery Sergeant Bright and I have only jumped with marine Pathfinder units, sir. I hope you’ll bring me up to speed, Colonel.” Brown felt it was a lame response, but it would hardly do to conceal the fact that he and his team had no knowledge whatever of airborne operations.
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