Force of Eagles (23 page)

Silence was a punctuation mark before the echo of Mokhtari’s heels as he climbed the stairs.

*

Mary Hauser lay on the cold floor, an ear pressed to the crack under her cell door. Doc Landis had sent her a message that they would try talking under the door, and they had discovered that in the early morning hours, when the guard was asleep and snoring, they could whisper back and forth, their words scurrying over the hard cold floor seeming to carry strength.

Doc Landis was saying, “The guards have sodomized eight men in the cell block. It’s a sort of degradation, a way to destroy our will to resist. They increase their own feeling of impatience when they degrade us. And it’s torture, doubly effective when it’s part of a routine. Anticipation becomes a working fear, as you well know…”

“...Doc, were you one of the eight?”

A pause. “Yes.”

“I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Talking helps me too.”

“He’s…” She forced herself to talk, she wanted to help him, and herself, by sharing. “He’s done it to me three times. Questions, beatings, strip and…and him…”

They stopped talking when they heard shouting upstairs. Their guard woke up and went to the stairs and spoke to someone above him. They could hear him climb the steps. “It’s Mokhtari,” Mary whispered, translating for the doctor, “I got the words ‘shooting a prisoner.’”

“I heard the word ‘guard,’” Landis said. “It sounds like Mokhtari went on a rampage.”

Neither gave words to the new terrors that started to work at them.

*

Langley, Virginia

The report detailed how Nasir Askari broke after seventy-three hours and twenty-two minutes in Primary, a new record. The technicians were changing shifts Friday evening and almost missed the first clues of rapid, agitated movements followed by muffled groans. By Monday morning the report was complete, much of the data correlated and verified, and on Allen Camm’s desk.

“Susan,” Camm said, “top drawer. I’m surprised at the number of Islamic Jihad over here. They really have a grip on what the Joint Special Operations Agency has been doing.”

“Well, we’ve put a dent in their organization. They have it right about the JSOA, though—terrorists should worry about them. Maybe we can change that and make them worry about us too.” Camm said nothing. “We’re expecting the Islamic Republican Party to give the IPRP some of the POWs in exchange for their support on the Council of Guardians. We’re moving Deep Furrow into place to rescue the POWs that are exchanged.”

“How?” Camm asked.

“They’ll be moved by an airliner. We plan to hijack the plane in transit and kidnap the POWs. It will look like a splinter group of the Islamic Republican Party did it as a protest against giving the POWs away.”

“How many POWs will be exchanged?”

“Probably about half, we figure.”

“Good. Real good. Keep on it,” Camm told her. He was feeling better and better about his prospects.

*

Nellis AFB, Nevada

The Huey hovered beside the approach end of the runway until the tower gave it clearance to taxi to the ramp. It flew a few feet above the ground until it was near building 201, then settled to earth. Stansell and Chief Pullman jumped down and ran out from under the rotating blades, their heads ducked. They were just back from an early Monday morning inspection of Texas Lake and headed for Stansell’s office.

“How is it going at the lake?” Bryant asked when they entered the trailer.

“Lots of action out there,” Stansell deadpanned, “someone seems to have stirred the pot.”

Bryant could sense the new upbeat in Stansell. “The F-111 crews are here and waiting in Intel.”

Stansell headed for Intel, but the surge of confidence that had been building burst like a popped balloon when he walked into Dewa’s office…“It’s been a long time, Mark,” he said, shaking Lieutenant Colonel Mark Von Droder’s hand. He had met V.D. when they were cadets at the Air Force Academy and had learned to dislike the man for the way he used and manipulated other people to get a leg up. A real operator and angle man. Trouble…

*

The Pentagon

It was a casual meeting, an Army four-star general running into an Air Force two-star that worked for him. “Simon,” Army General Charles Leachmeyer said, “haven’t seen you around lately. Drop in and talk when you get a chance.” Both men knew it was more than polite chatter. Simon Mado followed Leachmeyer into his office and closed the door behind them.

“Dammit, Mado, there’re at least four Russian agents moving around Fort Bragg watching Delta Force. I thought the idea was to get them looking at your troops at Nellis.”

“They haven’t bit on Task Force Alpha. Stansell’s got them buried out of sight in the desert.”

“I thought we were going to do a controlled leak to keep that from happening.”

“You know the President ruled that out.”

“Look, Simon, I’ve pushed your career. I was the one that got you assigned to the JSOA and made sure you got the right visibility. How often does an Air Force officer pick up a sponsor from the Army who plays poker with the President of the United States? Now repay the goddamn favor and get behind Delta Force. They’re the experts at rescue missions. They’re my experts, and they better be yours.”

Mado felt shaken when he retreated from Leachmeyer’s office.

What the hell did Leachmeyer expect him to do? He slammed through the set of doors that led to his own office, stopped at a major’s desk. “Hal, remember that message you sent out a few days ago ordering GBU-15s shipped to Turkey for exercise WARLORD?” The major nodded and braced himself—he had seen Mado in one of these moods before. “Stop action on that and ship twelve GBU-12s instead.”

“What priority you want me to give this, sir? I’ve got seven other projects in the mill that all needed to be done yesterday—”

“Major, what in the hell do you think you get paid for?”

“Well, make up your mind what you want,” the major mumbled at Mado’s retreating back. He marked his notepad to get the message out. “Looks like a low priority to me.” He decided it would be easiest just to let the order for shipping the two-thousand-pound GBU-15s stand and he’d get a message out ordering the twelve five-hundred-pound GBU-12s shipped when he had a breather. He wasn’t about to get bent out of shape over some goddamn exercise and a pissed-off general who went up and down in his moods with the weather.

Chapter 20: D Minus 15

Kermanshah, Iran

Any movement was intense pain for Nesbit, even blinking his eyes. He could hear the guards working as they pried Jefferson’s body out of the Box. Mokhtari had ordered the two bodies—Jefferson’s and the guard’s—be left in the basement, and rigor mortis had set in after a few hours. All the guards had to parade through the basement, witnesses to the punishment for disobeying the commandant’s orders while Nesbit hung on the ropes.

“Sergeant Nesbit,” Mokhtari said, standing behind him, “I’m tiring of this. We end it now or you will join them.” He drew out his pistol and pulled the slide back, let it snap closed, chambered a round. The metallic crack filled the room.

The sergeant took to heart Jefferson’s last words, a message the man had died for. Still, he hated to seem to be giving in…“I was a command post controller, in charge of the command-and-control equipment that linked us with higher headquarters…”

Mokhtari keyed a cassette recorder as the sergeant talked. When he was satisfied the sergeant was finished he turned off the tape recorder and motioned for a guard to jerk on the rope that suspended Nesbit from the ceiling. “We will continue tomorrow,” he said, leaving Nesbit withering in pain. He went directly to the basement in the administration building and ordered his interrogation team to gather for instructions. Hauser would also be talking today, he was confident, and his nightly report to the Council of Guardians would be most complete.

*

Nellis AFB, Nevada

“Colonel, I just don’t know…” Duck Mallard kept looking at the captain standing in front of them. Rather than discuss the matter in front of the young officer, Stansell asked him to wait outside. The captain saluted and left the trailer.

“All right, what’s bothering you, Duck?” Stansell asked.

“I know we can use an AC-130, Colonel. A gunship like that gives us awesome firepower…But that’s the Beezer, Hal Beasely.”

“Is he a good pilot?”

“The best, a natural. I knew him as a lieutenant before he went to gunships. He was infamous then, still is…”

“So what’s his problem?”

“He’s a skirt-chaser, a womanizer of the first order. Hell, he’d screw a snake. In fact he’d screw a woodpile if he thought a snake was in it. And drink? Only Drunkin’ Dunkin can match him.”

“Then why keep Dunkin on your crew?”

“Best nav in the Air Force.”

“Okay, Beasely is a great pilot. We keep him. I plan to use his AC-130 as an airborne command-and-control platform and put General Mado and Thunder on board.” Mallard shook his head at this. “Is that a problem?” Stansell asked.

“Colonel, I’m just trying to give you the whole picture. The Beezer has absolutely no respect for what they call duly constituted authority.” Stansell didn’t blink. “Oh, hell, let’s keep him, he’s the most likable S.O.B. you’ll ever meet. He’ll fit right into this collection of misfits.”

Chapter 21: D Minus 14

Kermanshah, Iran

Doc Landis could hear the guard snoring. Old habits had reestablished themselves and the guard had slipped into a light sleep in the early morning hours. “Mary, talk to me,” he whispered under the door, his cheek against the damp concrete. Somewhere in the dark he heard the scurry of a rat. “Mary?”

“I need help, doc.” The words were faint. “It was awful, the worst it’s been…I’m still bleeding. Oh God, they even had a VCR, filmed it. Made me watch it. I don’t know how much longer…”

“Mary, how much have you told him?”

“Nothing. Yet.”

“Start talking some next time. Don’t let them get to the beating stage. Feed them a little at a time. Try to trade a few words for some relief. See if they’ll let me treat you.”

“But—”

“No buts. Do It.”

*

Nellis AFB, Nevada

Crew Chief Staff Sergeant Raymond Byers jerked the chocks from around the main gear, freeing his jet for flight. He motioned the pilot to taxi forward and stop. He darted under the wings and ran his hands over the tires, making sure they were clean and uncut. His knowing eyes swept over his F-15, giving it one last check. Baby was ready. He ran out front, to the pilot’s left, gave him a thumbs-up, and with a backward wave motioned for him to taxi out into the stream of aircraft moving down the taxipath.

Grudgingly he admitted that the jet of his old partner, Tim Wehr, looked as good as his, and Timmy had launched his F-15 just as quick. They had had the two best jets in the wing at Holloman. “Yo, Timmy,” he called across the ramp, “looking good. Our drivers will beat the shit out of those assholes from Luke.”

Timmy joined him as they walked in. “Did you see Cap’n Locke? He was in that E model that taxied out. What d’you think Stansell will say when he sees us here?”

“Who gives a rat’s ass?”

*

Locke watched the four F-15s from Luke fly a low level combat air patrol for the string of C-130s working their way along a low-level route through the heart of central Nevada. His WSO, Ambler Furry, kept up a running commentary from the pit, the backseat of the Eagle.

“The C-130s are right on course,” Furry told him. “The lead C-130 looks like he’s flying a precision approach the way he keeps on track.”

“That’s Drunkin Dunkin on Mallard’s crew. He’s the navigator I told you about.” Locke was trailing behind the package, evaluating the F-15s and C-130s on their first integrated flight. He kept watching for the flight of four Holloman F-15s that were supposed to intercept them somewhere en route to the target.

“I got ’em on the TEWs,” Furry said. “Nine o’clock on us.”

Locke pointed the nose of his jet toward the threat. His APG-70 radar system found the four Holloman Eagles on the first sweep. The radio came alive with chatter as Snake Houserman called his F-15s onto the Holloman birds. The four Eagles surged up and away from the C-130s, leaving them naked.

Locke was raging. “Snake knows better. The LOCAP was sup-posed to maintain radio silence and stay with the C-130s until Holloman found them and got a visual. Holloman was briefed to act like Iranians and not use their look-down capability to find us at low level.”

“Yeah,” Furry said, “well, Holloman sure forgot about that. The 49th was using everything they had to find us. Look at that, they’re really mixing it up now.” Furry watched the eight F-15s come together in the merge.

“We’ll stay with the C-130s,” Locke said.

*

The range controller in the mobile trailer that served as the range-control tower keyed his mike, “Cleared in hot,” he radioed, trying to get a visual on the F-111 that was running in on the tank hulk that was serving as a target.

“There,” Stansell said, pointing to the south. He could see the F-111 hugging the desert floor through the large window of the glass cupola on top of the trailer. “You can see the shock wave,” he said. A visible wave of air was rolling behind the F-111, kicking up a shower of dust and dirt.

“You’re in the green,” the range controller radioed. The F-111 pulled up in a forty-five-degree climb over five miles short of the target, loading the aircraft with four Gs in two seconds. It was a perfect toss.

“Bomb gone.” It was Torch Doucette’s voice.

“No laser guidance on this pass,” the range controller said. “Strictly a radar and computer delivery. The APQ-146 radar in the F-111F is cosmic, the wizzo shouldn’t have any trouble breaking out the target we’re using today.”