Force of Eagles (22 page)

The burden of command was on Stansell. It was a tricky thing, telling them the official mission of Alpha was a cover for the real operations, and at the same time letting them in on Cunningham’s intent that it be a lot more…

“We were created to be a cover for Delta Force. Officially, as of now, they’re tasked for the rescue mission.”

Dewa turned to look at him, her eyes bright.

“Shee-it,” Pullman muttered, thinking about the day Locke had appeared at Stonewood.

“This
cover
cost me my marriage,” Bryant said, looking at Stansell, then relented. It wasn’t Stansell who’d ripped apart his marriage. Locke shook his head. “You knew all along—”

“No, I found out last Monday when Dewa put the pieces together. I had it out with Cunningham Tuesday, and he told me there’s plenty more to it. Sure, we
started
life as a cover operation—”

“A goddamn Quaker cannon,” Pullman broke in.

“Chief,
listen
for a moment,” Stansell said. “The invasion of Normandy worked in 1944 because the Germans were looking at Patton, who was a
decoy
for the main force. Deception is part of what we do,” echoing Dewa earlier. “
But
there is one big difference between Task Force Alpha and Patton. His army only existed on paper and in fake message traffic. We’re alive and for
real
.”

“Big deal,” Pullman said.

“It is a very big deal, chief,” Stansell said. “If we’re good enough, Cunningham is going to make the brass look at us and think twice about who they send in after the POWs. And you’re the people who can make that happen. But you’ve got to
work
to make this thing happen.”

“You going to tell the troops all this?” Bryant asked.

“If I have to, but I’d rather not. Could compromise the whole deal.”

“It could happen,” Dewa said. “Foreign agents have been reported monitoring Delta Force. The OSI says we’re still clean—”

“You mean Delta Force might be compromised?” Locke could see what that would mean…“Okay, I’m still in.”

“Shee-it,” from Pullman, who also understood the possibles. “What’s another couple of weeks?”

Bryant said nothing. He didn’t have to.

And for the first time since Ras Assanya Stansell felt he was acting without looking over his shoulder for the approval of a tall, shadowy image named Waters.

“We start building fires today. Thunder, you start living with the C-130s. Get with Colonel Mallard and that lunatic navigator…”

“Drunkin Dunkin,” Bryant said.

“Yeah. And work out a series of low levels that train for penetration of Iranian airspace. You’re going to have to look at the Iranian’s radar coverage. Find gaps. Jack, the F-111s and F-15s belong to you,” he told Locke. “I don’t care where the F-15s come from but get us the best people you can and get them ready. Chief, you and me are going to work on the army starting today. How’s the mock-up coming?”

“I got the front wall, four guard towers and a cell block in Tikaboo Valley almost finished. The valley is oriented like the one in Kermanshah and pretty isolated—next to Dreamland, so nobody goes around there.”

“Dreamland?” Dewa asked.

“Yeah, the Air Force’s never-never land. Do a lot of top-secret stuff out there. No one gets near the place. We sorta fall under its umbrella. Until the mock-up is finished I found an old confinement facility at Indian River Auxiliary field the Rangers can practice on. There are twelve cells in an old World War II barracks they can blow the hell out of.”

*

Indian River Auxiliary Air Field, Nevada

The lone Hercules threaded the gap through the Spotted Range seven nautical miles northwest of the field, lined up on the axis of the southeast runway, popped to twelve hundred and fifty feet above the field’s elevation and slowed to one hundred and thirty knots.

“Captain Kowalski,” Pullman said. “We only needed one C-130 and she won the toss.”

“She’s looking good from here,” Stansell said.

The first stick of twenty jumpers streamed out of the C-130’s jump doors, ten to a side at one-second intervals. The drop broke off and the Hercules circled for a second run in, dropping the second stick of five. Even at over a thousand feet the men on the ground could tell the last jumper was Victor Kamigami, the battalion’s Command Sergeant Major. The first man on the ground was Robert Trimler, the young athletic captain that Gregory had picked to lead the rescue team. His second in command, First Lieutenant George Jamison, a tough black man two years out of West Point, joined him and the two reported in. “First Platoon, Alpha Company, sir,” Trimler said. “We’re your Romeo Team.” No salute—they were in a combat mode.

“Glad to see you’ve got all your combat equipment this time, captain,” Stansell said. “No more Hollywood jumps. Where’s Colonel Gregory?”

“Downtown bailing some of our men out of jail. Had some trouble at a bar last night.”

“Captain, didn’t the training schedule get posted yesterday?”

“Only for Romeo Team, sir. Colonel Gregory gave the rest of the men Saturday and Sunday off. First weekend in Vegas.”

Kamigami came lumbering up in full battle gear, an impressive sight. “Sergeant Major,” Stansell said, nodding to him. “Okay, Captain Trimler, supposedly your team is made up of experts in jail breaking—”

“The best we’ve got.”

“Good. Chief Pullman will show you what you’re up against.” He pointed at the barracks. “From now on, Romeo Team is locked in concrete, no personnel changes.”

“Sir, that decision really belongs to Colonel Gregory,” Trimler said.

“I’ll talk to him later.”

Kamigami gave a sharp nod and walked toward the barracks, wanting to inspect the cells. One of the squad leaders, Sergeant Andy Baulck, had overheard them talking and muttered, “Fuckin’ earless wonder,” loud enough for the CSM to hear. Kamigami pointed at the man, shutting off any further comments.

Chapter 18: D Minus 17

Nellis AFB, Nevada

“Thunder babes, what’s the distance from the front wall to the main cell block?” Locke asked.

Bryant searched through a stack of photos and diagrams on the table for the one he wanted. “Just over a hundred feet. Make it a hundred and ten, maybe a hundred and fifteen.”

“Problems,” Locke said. “Too big a bang with a GBU-15. We need something smaller than a two-thousand-pounder to blow holes in the walls. Otherwise we’ll blow out every window in the facing-side of the cell block and flying debris might puncture its walls.” Locke was working on a computer, running a weaponeering program. The GBU-15, the guided-bomb unit, with its combination infrared and TV seeker head, was the most accurate launch-and-leave bomb they had. Unfortunately it was mated with a Mark 84, a two-thousand-pound high-explosive bomb. Stansell and Bryant gathered around Locke, looking over his shoulder.

Bryant butted Locke out of his chair and ran the program calling up a laser-guided version of the Mark 82 five-hundred-pound bomb. “That’ll do the trick,” Locke said. “Only, the F-111s will have to hang around and lase the target or we’ve got to get someone on the ground to mark the wall with a ground-laser designator.”

“Okay,” Stansell said, making a note to relay the information to both Mado and Cunningham that they would have to use GBU- 12s and needed a ground team to spot each DMPI, desired-mean-point of impact. “Start training with five-hundred pounders, I’ll take care of the rest.”

Two hours later Dewa came in from church, a black lace shawl around her shoulders. For a moment Stansell found himself staring at her, caught by her quiet beauty. She brought him out of it with: “Colonel Gregory has got his officers together in their trailer. I think he’s reading them the riot act about Saturday morning.”

“He wants to be a Patton,” Locke said.

“Yeah, he does,” Stansell said, picking up the phone. “Take a break, people.” He dialed the number and asked for Gregory to come see him. The group filed out as Gregory walked in.

“I think Ham Gregory is going to learn something about Colonel Stansell and what’s underneath that quiet exterior,” Dewa told Bryant as she closed the door behind her…

“Colonel Stansell,” Gregory began, “let me assure you what happened Saturday morning at the Red Stallion has been taken care of.”

“I hope so.” Stansell’s voice was cold. “It set our progress back. I had work for you Saturday morning.”

“Yes, about the airdrop without my approval and freezing Romeo Team—”

“Have you seen the cells they practiced on?”

“No, but that’s beside the point. You tell me that I’m the ground commander for this exercise and then bypass me on Saturday and order Trimler’s Romeo Team on an airdrop. The army doesn’t work that way.”

“Colonel, you weren’t here when I needed you.”

“It could have waited.”

“Colonel, you can’t be that fucking stupid.” Stansell’s voice was calm, almost friendly. He leaned forward. “We are running out of time on this. Think back, remember I told you the very first day that we might be tasked for the real thing?” Gregory nodded. “You should have keyed on that. Obviously I’ve got to get someone that understands the name of the game. I’ll ask General Leachmeyer to replace you—”

“Colonel, for God’s sake, that’ll be the end of me. Just for an exercise?”

“Still haven’t got the picture. This is
not
an exercise.”

“I didn’t understand that…I do now…”

Stansell sank back in his chair, satisfied that he had been right about him, and for the next few minutes he filled in Gregory on the entire situation.

“Colonel Stansell, I missed Vietnam and Grenada. This may be my only chance to lead men into combat. I can’t tell you how much I want that. Hell, I don’t give a damn about making full colonel and ending up assigned to the Pentagon. Okay, I’m not a brain and need things spelled out. But dammit I can fight and I can lead men. I want that chance, and I’ll do it your way.”

“You got it,” Stansell said.

“Would you mind coming with me?” Gregory stood up, waiting for Stansell. They walked together to the trailers, and it was a different man that called his officers together.

“Starting now,” he told them, “we start training for a mission that is going to be real rough. We’re dealing with a lot of unknowns now but, just but, we might get a Go order. If we do we will be ready. I hope you’re reading me on this because the mission objective is close-hold for security reasons. Romeo Team will train for storming the prison and lead the way in. Bravo Company, you’ll train for holding the airfield and road security. Then we cross train. Check out of the motel. We move to Texas Lake in two hours.”

Stansell walked back to building 201, satisfied he had made the right decision and realizing that he had made a mistake by not confiding in Gregory from day one. Locke was waiting for him. “Colonel, I’ve picked four F-15 drivers from Luke and four from Holloman for Task Force Alpha. You know one of ’em—Snake Houserman. They’re all here for Red Flag and can move over to us. Looks real natural. We’ll be using their F-15s. Tomorrow I want to pick up the E model and my wizzo, Ambler Furry, from Luke. The F-111 crews are due in and we got two Libyan raiders.” The captain was obviously excited. “Oh,” Locke added, “we also got an AC-130 gunship coming in. With the radios it’s got on board we can use that puppy for a command-and-control platform. Colonel, this is coming together, I think we’re going to make it happen…”

Chapter 19: D Minus 16

Kermanshah, Iran

Jefferson recognized the footsteps before the guard came into his narrow view. The man’s routine never varied—come down the stairs early in the morning, always alone, enter the room, listen to be sure no one was moving around above him; set the bowl down and loosen the rope that held up Nesbit’s arms; lower his hands a fraction of an inch. The sergeant had his full weight on the floor, his wrists at least two inches lower. The guard would massage Nesbit’s legs and give him a drink, then spoon some of the watery slop into his mouth. When the guard was finished with Nesbit he would unlock the Box and help Jefferson out, supporting him until some circulation came back to his legs, helping him walk to the grimy toilet in the corner, then hand him the bowl and let him finish what he had not fed to Nesbit. Finally he would motion to the Box, and Jefferson understood that their benefactor had done all he could for them and would crawl back in.

This morning, though, the guard broke the routine, he drew a stool up beside Nesbit and motioned Jefferson to sit there while he ate. The guard walked over to the stairs and sat down.

“Colonel Leason says to start talking,” Jefferson said, barely audible. “Spill what you’ve got to but get off the goddamn ropes.” The sound of quick hard footsteps echoing on the stairs jerked the guard to his feet. Panic lit his eyes. Jefferson set the bowl down and scurried for the Box. The guard was right behind him, locking the door. Jefferson glued his eye to the peephole, taking in the scene.

Mokhtari was in the room. He walked over and examined Nesbit’s bonds, looked directly at Jefferson’s box. Could Mokhtari know he had been out of the Box? The guard was standing at attention looking straight ahead. Mokhtari walked over to him, drew out his pistol, jammed the muzzle into the guard’s mouth and pulled the trigger. The gunshot reverberated through the building. Mokhtari pointed the gun at the back of Nesbit’s head, changed his mind, swung and pumped four shots into Jefferson’s box.

Holstering his pistol, he walked over to the wall and grabbed the rope that lifted Nesbit’s arms. As he yanked on it Nesbit’s screams split the air. Mokhtari untied the rope and pulled, lifting Nesbit into the air. Every prisoner and guard in the building heard Nesbit’s cry, until he slipped into unconsciousness.