Force of Eagles (27 page)

A guard rushed into the room, stopping Mary’s flow of words. “Commandant, the general is here.”

Mokhtari was on his feet. “Why wasn’t I told he was coming?” Panic worked at the edges of his mind. Mary caught enough of the conversation to understand that the general who commanded the People’s Soldiers of Islam had returned to the prison, the same general who had lost his eye and leg in an attack led by Muddy Waters of the 45th Tactical Fighter Wing.

*

Las Vegas, Nevada

Sunday morning traffic was almost non-existent as Stansell drove back to Barbara’s apartment. “How’s Jack doing?” he said in a low voice.

Dewa twisted around in the front seat and looked at the pilot. “Sleeping like a baby.”

“He deserves it.” They waited for a red light to change. “He just may have saved the mission, but we still have a gap to plug…Cunningham needs to know…”

“Transportation on the ground,” Dewa said, filling in his thought. He could only look at her, surprised at how easily she matched his thinking…“The light, Colonel. It’s green.”

They drove in silence, then: “Colonel?” It was Jack’s voice from the rear. “I’d like to spend a little time with Gillian and fly over to March Air Force Base near Riverside tomorrow. Be a good chance to show Thunder what the Strike Eagle can do.”

“What you got in mind?”

“I’ve got to get the attention of the F-15 jocks and need the help of the National Guard. If I read the situation right I’ve got about a week to teach them that when you’re on the bad guy’s turf the rules change. They’ve got to do it our way.”

“Have at it, I’ve got to move on your changes in the plan. I’ll tell Mado and get the word to Cunningham. I’ll have to go to Fort Fumble to get his blessing…be back by Wednesday.”

Stansell parked the car and watched Jack disappear in the direction of his apartment, where Gillian waited. He walked softly with Dewa toward her apartment, not wanting to end the moment. They climbed the outside stairs to the second floor, paused, leaning over the railing, still talking when Barbara came out of her apartment below them, complete—or incomplete—with tight jeans and a short denim jacket open in the front, revealing a clinging tee shirt. Mado walked out behind her. The click of Barbara’s heels echoed through the courtyard as they disappeared out the front gate, never seeing the two watching them.

“I think the general will be busy today,” Dewa said, straight-faced. “Would you like some breakfast?”

She unlocked the door, knowing they would be back at work in a few hours. But for a few minutes…

*

Kermanshah, Iran

Mokhtari nervously looked over the quadrangle as the general’s car drove through the inner gate of the entrance tunnel. There must not be any room for criticism. The dusty gray Mercedes halted at the base of the steps and a colonel from the second car in line ran up to the right passenger door, snapped it open. Mokhtari could see a frail shadow sitting in the back seat. “Come,” the colonel said, gesturing at the door. Mokhtari ran down the steps, then was halted as he started to climb into the rear seat. He stood at attention.

“We are pleased with your reports,” the general said. “You have shown progress since my last visit.”

“Thank you, your excellency. Sergeant Nesbit is a good source of information. Even the woman is now cooperating and will soon be dry as a witch’s tit. They will both die…of pneumonia…when I am finished.”

“No, we will need them shortly.”

“They are to be returned to the Americans?”

“Don’t be stupid. We will give half of them to our weak-willed brothers who demand to share power with us. Of course, you will select which prisoners to send.”

“Yes, I understand. One of the prisoners is a doctor. Shall I allow him to treat them?”

“No. But I want no more deaths for now. The old barracks behind the prison…I need them.”

“Of course, sir. There are some Kurdish squatters living in there now but they will be removed today.”

“Within this hour, my men must move under cover immediately.” The car door slammed shut and the rear wheels of the Mercedes spun in the dust as it turned toward the gate.

Mokhtari barked orders to the captain of the guards to clear the old barracks immediately. “How many men does the general have waiting?”

“There are eight trucks outside,” the captain told him, “and a tank carrier. When I approached the trucks I was ordered away.”

“What type of tank is on the carrier?”

“It was covered with a canvas tarp, commandant. It looked like a small tank, perhaps a PT-76. But there was no cannon. It might be a Shilka.”

Mokhtari shrugged and returned to his office, not caring about Shilkas. He slammed the door behind him, frustrated that Mary Hauser would live a while longer.

*

The key turning in the lock was enough warning. Mary had the bag over her head when the door swung open. She suspected the guards knew she only put the bag on when they opened the door. Why else would they fumble at the lock for so long and keep the light on? She could see a pair of boots from under the bottom of the bag. “Here,” a familiar voice said, and a bundle of clothes dropped at her feet. “Wear these under your chador.” The door clanged shut and the key scratched in the lock. Mary jerked the bag off and picked up the bundle. It was her uniform and it had been
laundered
.

DO WE HAVE A FRIEND, she tapped on the wall.

THINK SO, Doc Landis replied.

Chapter 26: D Minus 9

Maragheh, Iran

The antenna of the search radar swept the horizon with its relentless beat. The winds blew constantly at the radar site, gusting past thirty knots, and because the site’s elevation was 7,000 feet, located near the top of the mountain overlooking the town of Maragheh, it was always a cold wind. The Americans had built the site for the Iranians in the late 1970s when the Shah was still in power, and its location 2,600 feet above the valley floor gave it an excellent search capability.

Inside the module at the base of the antenna the four operators were warm enough, but less than vigilant. Since the end of the Iran-Iraq war there seemed little need for manning the search radar, and all were looking forward to shift-change in six hours.

The operator on the main scope was reading a newspaper and at first missed the weak strobing. Only on the eighth sweep of the antenna did he lower the newspaper and see the streaks of light that indicated a jammer was transmitting. He dropped the paper in a drawer and keyed his boom mike with a foot pedal, calling his superior in the control center at Maragheh ten miles away. “Sir, I have jamming activity.” As expected, there was no answer. The operator spun the cursor ringing the scope and read the bearing to the jamming while he measured off the distance. “In Turkey,” he muttered to himself. Again, he tried to contact his superior. This time a voice answered and the operator updated the officer at Maragheh. “I have light to moderate jamming bearing two-eight-zero degrees at ninety-six nautical miles. This is in Turkey, twelve miles from our border.” He keyed the button that allowed him to interrogate the IFF Mode One of U.S. and NATO military aircraft. The screen lit up with six responses. “I also have six Mode One responses squawking two-one,” he said.

“Do you have skin-paints only?”

“Searching now.” The operator twisted the receiver-gain knob, sending more high-frequency radio energy into the atmosphere. The returns on his scope blossomed, making him blink. Again he keyed the IFF, correlating the skin paints with the IFF squawks for both Mode One and Three. “All are squawking correct codes, sir. No unidentified skin paints.”

“Read the bulletins I sent you,” the officer said impatiently. “That is an announced joint Turkish-American Air Defense exercise. They are using AWACS and EC-130s operating out of Incirlik. Four of the aircraft you are monitoring will break off and head west in a few minutes. They are interceptors under the control of the AWACS. You should monitor in-flight refuelings and more interceptors from time to time. The exercise will last three weeks. Only report unusual activity, as I directed in my last bulletin.”

Eleven minutes later the radar operator tracked four targets as they broke out of the race-track pattern they had established and headed to the west. Impressed with his superior’s foreknowledge, the radar operator turned the receiver-gain down to a lower setting, reducing the glare of the scope, and pulled out his newspaper.

*

Sundown Cunningham had opened the curtain on operation WARLORD.

*

Nellis AFB, Nevada

The summons from Major General O’Brian, commander of the Tactical Fighter Weapons Center, came at 0902 hours Monday morning. By 0909, Stansell was standing in his office, surprised to see Captain Hal Beasely there. Before he had a chance to find out why the Beezer had been called in, O’Brian was talking. “Interesting reports from the gunnery range,” he said, adjusting his glasses, reading from a report. “Seems like your Captain Beasely here has put in some impressive performances with his AC-130. The range control officer says he can fire that 105 cannon of his at four or five rounds a minute. Highly accurate. Never seen a rate of fire like that from a gunship.” He looked over his glasses at Beasely. Stansell was puzzled. He was sure they were being called on the carpet, but why?

“Too bad the captain doesn’t believe in safe sex,” the general continued, his voice changing tone, threatening.

“Excuse me, sir,” Stansell said. “I wasn’t aware of any problem—”

“Colonel Stansell,” O’Brian interrupted, “your captain here and his crew threw one hell of a wingding in the BOQ Saturday night, or more accurately, Sunday morning. They imported some hookers from downtown…one they call Thunder Thighs.” The general stood up. “You’ll not turn my BOQ into a whorehouse. Do I make myself clear? Beasely, get the hell out of here while I chew on your boss.”

The Beezer saluted and left.

“Colonel,” O’Brian said, sitting back down, “control your people. I was talking to General Cunningham over the weekend and I realize you need that gunship and Beasely is, without a doubt, the best man in the business. But don’t let it happen again.” He nodded, indicating he was finished. Stansell saluted and turned to go. “Colonel, why in the hell did Thunder Thighs tell Beezer to grease his ears?”

Stansell beat a retreat. The general was, in some ways, an innocent.

Beasely was waiting outside. “You stepped in it this time,” Stansell told him. “Time for a little growing up. Come with me.”

An hour later they were in a helicopter circling the mock-up Chief Pullman had built in Tikaboo Valley. Stansell stuffed a photo of the prison he had taken from Dewa’s office into the captain’s hand. “Look familiar?” he yelled over the noise. Beasely studied the photo and the mock-up. “You know who’s in there for real?” Stansell jabbed at the photo. Beasely jerked his head yes. “That’s your next practice target,” the colonel shouted, pointing at the mock-up.

Back on the ground at Nellis, Beasely was much subdued, no more jokes. “Excuse me, Colonel Stansell,” he finally managed, “can I tell my crew what you’ve just shown me?” Stansell shook his head. “Don’t worry, sir, you can trust me. My act’s together now and you’ve got the best damn gunship crew in the Air Force. Fucking count on it. Sir.”

*

Kermanshah, Iran

The screams from the Box in the basement reached up the stairs into the three stories of the prison. The guards shut the heavy steel doors that opened onto each floor, but the screams still travelled down the wide corridors. It was a primeval shriek coming from the depths of a madness that tore apart the veil of sanity and let all who heard it know the reality of total despair.

Four guards rushed to the basement and crowded around the Box. “How long has he been in there?”

“Four days.”

The guards braced themselves as one unlocked the door and lifted the latch. The door banged open and the American tech sergeant exploded into the room. He grabbed at the guard’s leg and clung with a death grip. The guards struggled to break his hold, and when one’s arm came too close to the prisoner’s head he bit into the Iranian’s forearm, shook his head like an animal, refusing to let go.

The two other guards methodically beat the prisoner into unconsciousness with their truncheons. The American, they decided, had gone crazy.

A fifth guard came down the stairs and took in the scene, sick from what he saw. He swore that his CIA contact would know about it within the hour.

Less than twenty-four hours later, the guard’s information had worked its way through the Deep Furrow network and reached Allen Camm’s desk.

Chapter 27: D Minus 8

Langley, Virginia

Allen Camm needed to talk to Susan Fisher, his case officer for the American POWs. He suspected the POWs would be the subject of the unscheduled meeting that Director Burke had called for later that morning. He buzzed his secretary, telling her to send in Fisher.

“Anything new on the POWs?” he asked her.

She handed him a thick folder. “One of our Deep Furrow agents reported last night that a POW—no name—went crazy yesterday and that a high-ranking general from the Peoples’ Soldiers of Islam visited the prison Sunday. Apparently men or supplies are moving into the deserted barracks outside the walls. We don’t know which or how much yet.”

“The status of our plan for getting the POWs out?”

“Our operative in Tehran reports that the deal between the Islamic Republican Party and the IPRP is about signed and sealed. Half of the POWs will be flown to the IPRP’s headquarters in Tehran.” A satisfied look came over Fisher’s face. “Three of our Deep Furrow agents are scheduled to fly as guards on the airliner that will move the POWs. They’re going to hijack the plane and take it to Algeria. Our agents are in position on the ground there. It’s going to look like a splinter group of the Islamic Republican Party did it.”