Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 05 (36 page)

 
          
Briggs
didn’t let her finish. He pulled her into his arms and gave her a deep, longing
kiss, and she returned it with every bit as much passion, holding him even
closer. Both of their eyes were smoky, almost tearful, when they parted. “My
God, Riza,” Briggs said breathlessly, “I’ve missed you so much.”

 
          
“I
have missed you as well,” Behrouzi said. “I heard of your last mission just
tonight. Were you hurt? The doctor said you—”

 
          
“I’m
fine,” Briggs interjected. “Just a scratch.”

 
          
“A
scratch? Let me look.” She zeroed in on his left shoulder as if she knew
exactly where to look, and she unbuttoned his rough cotton shirt and peeled
back his underwear. Heavy dressings covered the wound on both sides of his
shoulder. “Entry and exit wounds, Hal? It is much more than a scratch,”
Behrouzi said breathily. “I am so glad you are safe.” They kissed again,
drinking even more deeply from each other than before. “You wanted to go on a
mission? Tonight? Are you mad?”

 
          
“The
team is flying into
Iran
, inspecting every safe area between here
and Bandar Abbas.”

 
          
“Looking
for Colonel Paul White and the survivors of the attack on your ship, I know,”
Behrouzi said. “I have information for you— information on the whereabouts of
your commander.”

 
          
“Paul?
He’s safe?”

 
          
“For
now,” Behrouzi said ominously. “He and twelve crew mem- • bers were taken
aboard the Iranian aircraft carrier
Khomeini
after his ship was ...” Briggs tried to hide his thoughts, but his suddenly
averted eyes were a dead giveaway for a trained observer like Behrouzi. “The
carrier ... the Americans will attack the aircraft carrier?”

 
          
“I
can’t tell you, Riza,” Briggs said. “We were told there’d be plenty of
distractions while we made our infiltration into Bandar Abbas ...”

 
          
“I
shall see about the carrier,” Behrouzi said. She took out a cellular telephone,
got the Dubai Directorate of Military Intelligence duty desk, and spoke to the
senior controller at the command center.

 
          
A
few minutes later, she had her information: “Peace Shield Skywatch reports that
there appears to have been an aircraft accident near the
Khomeini
—a helicopter or fighter crashed at sea, and there have
been reports of antiaircraft fire. After the accident, one helicopter was
reported departing for Chah Bahar—none toward Bandar Abbas.”

 
          
“That
means they’re taking their prisoners to Chah Bahar!” Briggs said.

 
          
“Leopard,
that helicopter could be a simple medical evacuation, or it could be just the
carrier commander and his staff,” Behrouzi said. “And my intelligence
information may be faulty and they could not be on the carrier after all, or
they could be held on the carrier, or there could have been more than one
helicopter...”

 
          
“Or
this could be the best chance we’ve got to rescue our teammates,” Briggs said.
“If we can get a strike team together, I’m going to give it a try. I’ve got to
notify the team and tell them to back us up—there’s no time to waste!” Briggs
was on the phone in an instant, notifying his command center that Wohl and the
CV-22 team should return as soon as possible. “Riza, you’re wonderful,” Briggs
said. “You may have saved the lives of all the survivors .. . but I have to
go.”

 
          
“I
shall go with you, of course.”

 
          
“Riza,
this mission won’t be sanctioned by anyone ...”

 
          
“You
think you shall go alone?” Behrouzi asked him with a smile. “Will you sprout
jet-powered wings and fly five hundred kilometers to Chah Bahar?”

 
          
“I’ll
find a plane or a ship to take me,” Briggs said. “The team will be back in less
than an hour. Another hour for refueling and a briefing, ninety minutes en
route ...”

 
          
“If
your mission is approved by your
superiors,” Behrouzi added. “And by then, it will be daylight.”

 
          
“I
told you, I’m not talking about a sanctioned mission—I’m talking about rescuing
my men,” Briggs said. “They’re
my
men—at least they’re supposed to be, if they’d ever let me prove it to them. I could
take a cargo plane, parachute in, reconnoiter the base, and report back here.”

           
“Are you sure you are thinking
properly?” Behrouzi asked cautiously. “Are you doing this because it is your
duty and you feel you can succeed—or are you doing this to gain the favor of
the men who now must serve under you?”

 
          
Briggs
fell silent and scowled at Behrouzi—but, dammit, she was right. “I’m not
thinking straight,” he said aloud, not really talking to Behrouzi but to himself.
“This is not how Chris Wohl would do it. He’d play it by the book, gather
intelligence, collect the data, assemble a plan, brief it with his superiors,
get approval, assemble his troops and equipment, then brief his troops. He’d be
methodical, calculating, and always damned effective. But...”

 
          
Briggs
stopped and looked at Behrouzi’s concerned expression. “But, Hal,” she said
softly, “you are not Chris Wohl. You are Hal Briggs. You are the Leopard.”

 
          
It
was then that the light finally went on in Briggs’s brain. “Riza ... you’re
right,” Briggs said. “I’m
not
Chris
Wohl. I wasn’t trained by the Marine Corps. I was trained by my uncle, the
sheriff of
Camden
County
,
Georgia
; by General Brad Elliott, by John Or- mack,
by Patrick McLanahan, by a team of engineers and crewdogs. They always said,
Just get the job done. Don’t plan everything to death. Train and study hard,
then use that training to decide on a course of action—then do it.’ And that’s
exacdy what I’m going to do.” He turned to Behrouzi excitedly. “I need a plane,
Riza.”

 
          
“I
have my liaison aircraft available right here at Mina Sultan,” Behrouzi said
excitedly. “Any other aircraft, I must take time to requisition ...”

 
          
“What
is it?”

 
          
“A
surplus aircraft from your Marine Corps,” Behrouzi said, “an OV-IOD. I believe
you called it a Bronco-D.”

 
          
“Your
personal aircraft is an observation-and-close-air-support aircraft... ?”

 
          
“In
my country, we have little use for a plane that fulfills only one role,”
Behrouzi said with a smile. “This belongs to Sheikh Rashid’s eldest son, who is
the Minister of Defense of the
United Arab Emirates
. When General Rashid is away, the
Directorate is permitted to use it to transport myself and others to meetings
and exercises all over the region. I am well trained in how to use it for
ground attack as well.”

 
          
“So
it still has its weaponry, its cargo bay?”

 
          
“Of
course,” Behrouzi said matter-of-factly. “It is a D-NOS aircraft, configured
for night reconnaissance as well as for ground attack and observation, with an
AAS-36 FLIR turret, a Gatling gun in a helmet-aimed turret, laser designator,
satellite navigation, missile warning system, chaff, and flare dispensers. His
Eminence the Sheikh spares little expense for his toys.”

 
          
“Major
Behrouzi, it sounds like just the magic carpet I need right now,” Briggs said
happily. “Care to offer a guy a ride tonight?”

 
          
“Only
if I can ride with you, Leopard,” Behrouzi said. “If what I think you have in
mind is what you will do, I wish to ... how do you say, ‘be where the action
is,’ no?”

 
          
In
reply, Briggs gave her a kiss. “You’re on, Major Riza Behrouzi. Lead the way.”

 
          
Just
twenty minutes later, Behrouzi and four men—Hal Briggs and three United Arab
Emirates troopers, members of the Emir of Dubai’s Royal Guard Brigade
commandos—were crammed in the tiny aft cargo bay of the OV-IOD-NOS (Night
Observation System) Bronco attack plane, speeding down the runway of Mina
Sultan Naval Base, on their way to Chah Bahar Naval Base in Iran.

 
          
They
didn’t have a flight plan, clearance, permission, or a real concrete plan of
action, but they did have a warplane. The OV-IOD- NOS twin turboprop
attack-and-observation plane had a full attack payload configuration: fully
fueled centerline and wing fuel tanks, 1,500 rounds of 20-millimeter ammunition
for the six-barrel steerable Gading gun, two pods of four AGM-114 Hellfire
laser-guided missiles on the fuselage sponsons, and one AGM-122A Sidearm
anti-radar missile mounted on the outboard side of each of the wing fuel-tank
pylons. This Bronco also had chaff and flare ejectors installed in the tail
booms to assist in decoying enemy antiaircraft radars and heat-seeking
missiles. It seemed as if it took every available foot of
Dubai
’s 9,000-foot runway to get the heavily
laden Bronco into the warm, humid air.

 
          
Shortly
after leveling off at cruise altitude, Briggs was on the plane’s radio on the
UHF emergency frequency: “Genesis, Genesis, this is Redman, if you copy, come
up on Storybook, repeat, Genesis, this is Redman, come up on Storybook.” Briggs
then flipped over to a special UHF frequency that they had used back when
Briggs had been the commander of security operations at the
High
Technology
Aerospace
Weapons
Center
. One of the ranges they’d used for weapons
tests had been called “Storybook,” and each range had had its own discrete
frequency. Redman was Briggs’s security detail’s call sign. “Who are you
calling, Leopard?” Behrouzi asked.

 
          
“A
friend that I think is flying tonight,” Briggs said. He keyed the mike:
“Genesis, this is Redman on Storybook. How copy?”

           
“Loud and clear, Redman,” came the
reply. “Fancy meeting you here. Seen any red-tail hawks lately?”

           
“Only in
Amarillo
,” Briggs replied. “Nice to hear from you
again, Old Dog.”

Aboard the B-2A Spirit stealth
bomber, AV-OI t

 
          
“This
is an open frequency, remember,” Patrick McLanahan said from the flight deck.

 
          
“What
in hell do you think you’re doing, McLanahan?” Jamieson asked. “Are you nuts?
You’ll blow us for sure! ”

 
          
“This
is the team, the guy we’re supposed to be supporting,” McLanahan said. “He
knows security better than either of us, and if he took the chance to call, it
must be serious.”

 
          
“Shit,
this is going to get us killed—we’re still too damn close to the bad guys
here,” Jamieson groused. But now he was intrigued as well: “So what’s with this
‘red-tail hawk’ and ‘
Amarillo
’ business?”

           
“A private code,” McLanahan said.
“A job we did not long ago.” He keyed the mike: “What’s happening?”

           
“Got any screamers left?”

           
Jamieson looked as if he had seen a
ghost as he stared in complete surprise at McLanahan. “He knows ... how in
hell
does he know about our JSOWs?”

 
          
“He
was there when we first tested and built the things at Dreamland, AC,”
McLanahan explained with a smile. “I don’t know if he was briefed on our
mission, but he sure as hell seems to have figured it out.” On the radio,
McLanahan replied, “Affirmative, Redman. Where do you need them?”

 
          
“Follow
the lights,” came the response.