Force of Eagles (12 page)

He was delighted, especially when he found he had field operatives working in the area he had specialized in—the Middle East. When he learned that neither Congress or the new Director knew what he had, he decided to resurrect covert operations and make the CIA into the kind of organization he believed in. A good bureaucrat, he saw a chance to build an empire with himself at its head. And it was he who called his growing operation in the Middle East “Deep Furrow.”

“What does Deep Furrow tell us about the Jihadis?” he now asked Fisher.

“Quite a bit. The Council of Guardians in Iran is the mover behind the Islamic Jihad. The Albanian Embassy is providing support for the Jihad’s operations in the U.S. along with some help from Libya. We’re trying to find the channel they use for moving people in and out of the States. We’ve got an operative inside the POW compound at Kermanshah, who tells us they’ve got a Captain Mary Hauser and are…interrogating her.” She took a deep breath. “Another operative in Tehran reports that the Council of Guardians is putting on the heat to capture Captain Carroll. So far, he’s still on the loose. We’ve got our operatives trying to make contact and bring him out.”

“What in the hell is he doing there?” Camm asked.

“No idea, sir.”

“We’re running out of time on this one and need to fill in the gaps. Nail the two Jihadis. Turn them over to primary section. They’ll talk. Terrorists are like rats, see one, and be sure there’s more in the woodwork.”

She stood to leave.

“Susan, time’s critical. If Defense fumbles at Kermanshah…I want Deep Furrow to rescue the POWs.”

And he, of course, would get the credit. Maybe even be in line for Director.

*

Luke Afb, Arizona

“Whoever’s on that baby that wants to see me must be important,” Captain Jack Locke said to his wife. The two were standing in front of Base Operations at Luke Air Force Base watching a C-20 taxi in. The sleek military version of the Gulfstream HI looked elegant in its blue-and-white paint scheme, and the two Rolls Royce Spey engines on the small executive jet were much quieter than the F-229 engines on the F-15.

Gillian, Locke’s English wife, had picked him up at the squadron after a Wednesday’s doctor’s appointment when a sergeant had run out of the building, telling them the Command Post wanted him to meet a VIP flight that was landing in ten minutes. The inbound pilot had radioed ahead the request. Gillian had protested that she was two months pregnant, but Locke had told her, “You’re beautiful, you can charm whoever it is with your tony English accent.”

He had driven her over to Base Ops, where the C-20’s engines spun down and the hatch flopped down. “Well, I’ll be…that’s Colonel Stansell.” Locke shook his head. “I thought he was a first-class ass when I first met him, comparing him to Waters. Turned out to be a decent guy.”

Locke saluted when the colonel was still several feet away. “Got your message, sir.”

Stansell waved a salute back and the three stood together for a few moments while Locke introduced Gillian. Not the type I’d have guessed Jack to marry, Stansell thought, she’s real pretty but not the flashy type our ace used to favor. I better quit trying to match up people. I’d never have put Waters with his wife Sara either…

“Gillian, you’ll have to excuse me, but I’ve got to talk to your husband and I am pressed for time.”

Gillian bestowed a dazzling smile on him. “I’ll wait, Colonel.” What else was new?

As the two officers walked along the ramp and passed the waiting C-20, Stansell was aware of the contrast between them—Locke, almost six feet tall, dark blond hair, rugged looking. His green Nomex flight suit looked like it was tailored for him, and he could model for an Air Force recruiting poster, except for the scars over his right eye and along his left jaw.

“Jack, I’m on a special project. I need your help. Can’t tell you much more except that it will mean temporary duty at Nellis for a few months and it could be…interesting…”

“Ah, damnit, Colonel. Gillian’s two months pregnant, I can’t leave her alone—”

“Thunder’s on board, he’s at Nellis right now.”

Locke froze. “He gave up his ASTRA assignment?”

Stansell nodded.

“It’s got to be the POWs,” Locke said, understanding. “Okay,
okay
, count me in, Colonel. I owe Waters and the 45th big time.” An emotion Locke could not identify worked through him. “I know most of them.” He didn’t trust himself to say more.

“Thanks. I need all the help I can get.”

“Then you need Chief Pullman. Best first sergeant and dog robber in the Air Force. He can cut through red tape faster than anyone. I think he holds markers on half the NCOs in the Air Force. He’s really a great first shirt.”

“I met him once,” Stansell said, “at Ras Assanya. Where is he now?” He remembered the big chief master sergeant who had helped with the evacuation of the 45th out of Ras Assanya. It had been Pullman who had shanghaied the extra C-130 that had made the difference for so many of them, except for the unlucky POWs.

“Still at RAF Stonewood in England. Why don’t you give him a call while I try to explain to Gillian what’s happening.”

They walked back into Base Ops. Locke found Gillian while Stansell used the AUTOVON line to England. Within minutes Stansell was back with them. “The retirement ceremony for Chief Master Sergeant Mortimer M. Pullman is Friday afternoon,” he said.

“He’ll cancel that if he knows. That C-20 belong to you?”

“For a while.”

“Let’s use it.” Locke turned to Gillian. “Sorry, honey. I’ve got to do this.”

“Not to worry, you go. I’ll get us moved to Las Vegas.” She touched her husband’s face. “I’m really a camp follower at heart, you know that.”

“Jack, you go home and pack,” Stansell said. “You’re going to Stonewood. I’ll have the crew refuel and file a clearance for England. I need to pick up my car, I’ll drive to Nellis.”

“You need to touch base with my boss,” Jack said.

“I’ll talk to your wing commander. He’s not going to like me stealing you so easy.”

Locke, often a joker in the past, looked at the colonel. “Sir, this mission may be impossible, but it’s my meat. Thanks.”

*

Phoenix, Arizona

Barbara Lyon decided that her exercise classes were definitely worth the effort as she bicycled home. Four times a week she pedaled to the gym three miles from her condominium in Phoenix, went through the routine, studied herself in one of the wall mirrors, then went through the process of comparing herself to the young instructors.

I’ve still got a few good years left, she calculated. Not bad for a thirty-seven-year-old ex— She cut the thought off and pushed her bike through the condo gate, almost running into Colonel Stansell. “Well, Rupe”—she smiled warmly—“you’re back.” She leaned forward over the handlebars, looking at the suitcases he was carrying. “Trying to sneak out?”

“Caught.” Stansell laughed, dropping the bags. Barbara was hard to ignore, wearing tight shorts and a cut-off top. A scarf held her hair back in a loose ponytail. “I left a note under your door. Been reassigned to Nellis at Vegas.” He wanted to say more of what he felt but the words weren’t easy.

“Then we might see each other again. I go to Vegas quite a bit to take care of an apartment building I own there.” She sat back on the bicycle seat and stretched her legs out. “I just finished a major remodeling and most of the apartments are vacant. Why don’t you stay there?” She waited, hoping he would take her offer. He nodded. “Super,” she said. “Can I catch a ride with you? I need to see how things are going…”

And to herself: You’re not going to be the one that got away, Colonel Stansell.

Chapter 8: D Minus 27

RAF Stonewood, England

As the C-20 Gulfstream taxied into the blocks at RAF Stonewood the pilot turned around and frowned at Locke. “We’ve got to go into crew rest,” he announced, wondering why the captain was getting such VIP treatment. “Where to next?”

“Be back here in twelve hours,” Locke told him, “we’re going to Nellis.”

“Captain,” the pilot muttered at Locke’s back, “there’s a shorter way to Nellis from Luke.”

Locke commandeered the Follow Me truck and headed for Chief Pullman’s office, passing a parade practice being held in front of the Base Operations building. “For Chief Pullman’s retirement ceremony Friday morning,” the driver told him.

Locke found the chief in his office in wing headquarters. Pullman didn’t look surprised to see him. “Don’t tell me you came over here to wish me bon voyage and good luck in my future life.”

Locke shook his head. “Chief, this is important. I need your help for a few months. Will you postpone your retirement until then?”

The chief stared down his big nose at the captain. “I got me one great retirement ceremony going, complete with band and general. Now, you think I’m gonna shitcan that because you need my help?”

Locke tried to think of a way to convince Pullman without telling him about the rescue mission. “Chief, I’ve seen you kick the Air Force into action. I’m working on a special mission that’s going to take a lot of ass-kicking to make it work and you’ve got the best boot around.” Locke could tell the chief was not moved. “It’s for Waters,” he said, not wanting to say more.

“Waters is dead.” But there was some pain in the chiefs voice.

Jack Locke knew what it would take to convince Pullman. “Chief, I’m calling in a marker on this one. You know about markers.”

“I don’t owe you, Captain.”

Nothing left but to tell him…“Colonel Stansell is putting together a rescue mission to get the POWs out of Iran. That’s close-hold information. You know a leak means it won’t go. We haven’t got much time. We need you.”

Pullman sat down, a pain shooting through his stomach. “Dammit. My stomach hasn’t squeaked since I decided to hang it up and retire. Now it’s squeaking like hell. Captain, my markers don’t go that high. Besides, you need the heavies backing you up, not me.”

But he was still the first sergeant of the 45th Tactical Fighter Wing. The POWs were his men. Pullman couldn’t shake off his sense of responsibility for them. He had become the wing’s first shirt because he knew when to cajole, teach, bribe and kick people along. And now the captain was standing in front of him, asking that he finish his job and do what all first shirts did when they got to the bottom line—protect their people. It wasn’t a debt he owed, it was an obligation he had undertaken when he started his climb through the ranks to become one of the top noncommissioned officers in the Air Force.

“Chief, I know that, and they’re behind us. But you know the people, the working troops who can make things available to us. You can make that happen double-time.” Locke had played his last card.

“I’m about to collect my biggest marker,” Pullman said. He picked up the phone and hit the button to the wing commander’s office. “.Sir, I’ve got to talk to you. Something has come up.” He walked into the hall, heading for his commander’s office.

Minutes later he was back, a rueful look on his face. “The Old Man wasn’t happy when I told him I wanted to postpone my retirement. He says the next ceremony will take place at the out-processing desk in base personnel. Hell, that’s nothing compared to what my wife is gonna say.”

*

The Zagros Mountains, Iran

The stream he had been following through the rugged Zagros Mountains of western Iran cascaded out of a canyon and turned southward, flowing into a long valley. Carroll could see an occasional clump of small shacks nestled along the streambed where families tried to keep a farmstead alive. He was surprised by the number of people who lived in the area, grazing mostly goats and irrigating small plots of land. It was hard to disappear.

After burying the woman and man in a shallow depression, Carroll had scrambled down a steep embankment at first light and headed cross-country until he stumbled onto the stream, which he was willing to follow until it turned south, away from where he wanted to go.

He found a spot in a clump of bushes that surrounded a small pool of water and made sure he used his right hand while he ate the last of the bread he had been rationing. It seemed like he was always hungry. He washed his shirt and pants and spread them out to dry. After shaving and washing himself, he stretched out in the warm late October sun. Trying to figure what the hell he should do.

Had the passengers on the bus or the driver reported the incident to the authorities? From the way the driver had acted and the passengers had almost thrown the man and woman off the bus, he doubted it. But it only took someone to start asking about their missing relative and that would lead to the bus. He had two, maybe three more days to find cover. Luck had to be running out. He couldn’t help talking in his sleep, and being left-handed eventually would probably trip him up. Islamic cultures demanded that the right hand be used for doing “clean” things while the left be used for “unclean.” One slip and he would be recognized if, say, someone caught him eating or leading with his left hand. How did he get himself into such a mess, he asked himself, a sense of total aloneness adding to his misery.

The images that drove him came back, much as they always did, were violent and crystal clear—his final hours at Ras Assanya…his commander Colonel Muddy Waters ordering him out and he refusing, remembering too Waters then telling him to stay with the flight surgeon and help with the wounded…the surrender of the base and the terrible moments when three Iranians broke into the aid station and started shooting, hitting the sergeant on the operating table while Doc Landis was working on him…He had shot one of the Iranians in the face and killed the other two before escaping into the night. But Doc Landis was left behind, still trying to save the wounded sergeant on the operating table. He’d made it to the beach and was in the water for over four hours. When he did reach safety he made a promise to follow the last order his commander had given him—help the wounded, the ones left behind…