Force of Eagles (39 page)

“Above and behind you. Hit your brakes and fall in behind me.” Jamison did, and his fear gave way to relief when the sergeant descended past him on the right and he heard Kamigami check in with the team on the radio. “I’ve got Romeo Two, say your position.”

“North of target.” It was Baulck. “Thirty-three miles out.”

“Sergeant Major, are we okay?” Jamison tried to control his voice.

“Just lost. Keep looking for the team and follow me.”

Just lost…great.

Chapter 39: H Plus 3

Northwestern Iran

“Border in two minutes.” The relief in Sue Zack’s voice was felt by everyone on the C- I 30’s flight deck. “I don’t like this, skimming along just inside Iran.”

“When they authenticated,” Kowalski told her, “I figured they had a good reason. What the hell, worked out, didn’t it?”

The UHF radio crackled, “Scamp, Delray. Turn left to three-zero-zero.” Kowalski turned the Hercules onto the new heading to the northwest. “Scamp go gate—
Now
.” The crew could hear the urgency in the controller’s voice.

“What the hell is gate?” Brenda Iverson, the copilot grumbled.

“Afterburners.” Kowalski shook her head. “Which we ain’t got.” She shoved the throttles full forward and pushed on the yoke, nosing the plane over and picking up speed as the Hercules headed down. “But we got gravity. How much lower can we go?” she asked.

“Another three hundred feet,” Zack replied. “If you come right five degrees, we’ll be going down a river valley and you can descend a little lower.” Their airspeed was touching 275 knots, and the moonlight was giving them enough light to make out the mountain valley they were in.

“Scamp,” the AWACS radioed, “come right five degrees.”

“At least we’re all playing from the same sheet,” Kowalski said. “Border in one minute,” from Zack.

*

Eastern Turkey

Sweat was trickling down Leon Nelson’s face but his voice was still under control. The master sergeant was standing behind him, impressed with the way he had guided Scamp One-One along the border, changing headings to take advantage of terrain-masking and to keep the C-130 as low as possible in the mountains.

Both men watched the two blips on the radar scope that were Iraqi MiG-23s converging on the C-130. “Damn it, I didn’t think they’d go after Scamp as long as there was no border violation,” Nelson said over the intercom, not caring if it was recorded. “Well, we’ve got another card to play. I hope you muthas are listening…”

He flipped the toggle switch that allowed him to transmit over Guard, the international frequency reserved for emergencies: “Two fast-moving Iraqi aircraft heading zero-three-five degrees. You are approaching Turkish airspace and will be engaged if you cross the border. Repeat, you will be engaged if you cross the border.”

“The bluff’s not working, Colonel,” the master sergeant said. His eyes did not move from the radar scope. “They’re not breaking off the attack.”

Nelson slammed his fist down on the console as he watched the two fighters bear down on the C-130 and hit the intercom switch calling the electronic warfare officer. “Jam the shit out of everything those fighters got. Make ’em go blind and deaf.”

“Sir,” the officer replied, “I’m not allowed to use that capability in peacetime. It’s guarded against compromise and if we use it—”

“DO IT.”

Every radio frequency Nelson was monitoring exploded in a rasping, screeching clash of sound. With one motion Nelson jerked his headset off and hit the toggle switches that turned his monitoring channels off. His ears hurt. The radar scope in front of him flashed as the AWACS jammed itself as well as every other radar and radio within a hundred miles. Then it stopped.

“My God,” Nelson mumbled. The scope in front of him came back to life. The two blips had broken off to the right and were now headed to the southwest, back into Iraq and away from the C-130.

“Well, them fuckers
do
bluff,” Nelson said as he leaned back into the seat. “Scamp One-One,” he transmitted over the normal frequency, “you are cleared to climb and RTB at this time. We have no more trade for you.”

The reply was as cool as his transmission. “Thanks, Delray. I’ll be buying the bar.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” Nelson knew the brass would not like the last transmissions when they reviewed the tapes—very unprofessional—but he didn’t give a damn.

*

Western Iran

The Rangers had been hanging in their harnesses for over an hour and were numb from the cold. Some were slapping their hands or waving their arms to keep warm as they descended. “Passing over the tacan now,” Baulck radioed, still a thousand feet above the ground and headed to the south. When he judged the entire string to have passed over the beacon he would turn back to the north and start a spiraling descent onto the drop zone. “Heads up, we’re going in,” he warned, and arced gracefully back to the north. He immediately saw three blinks of a flashlight on the ground. “Land on those lights or follow me.” It was his last radio transmission.

The string of position lights on the canopies traced a path through the night sky as the Rangers spiraled down. The men started to deploy their rucksacks and weapons containers, letting them fall away on the lowering line to dangle fifteen feet below them. The heavy rucksacks would hit the ground first and the Rangers would touch down a hundred pounds lighter.

*

Bill Carroll watched the silent shadows spin down out of the sky. He flashed his light again, making sure the Rangers would home on him, away from the two waiting trucks and the portable tacan station. He jumped when he heard a voice directly above him. “It’s okay, we don’t need the light.” A figure dropped down beside him, pulling on the riser extensions and stalling his chute just before he touched down, still standing. It was Trimler, and his cold feet protested when they took the landing shock. Grunts and groans echoed over the DZ as more Rangers landed.

For a moment Carroll did not move. The sight of the parachutists dropping out of the sky and now distinct American accents sent a warm feeling through him. The POWs had not been abandoned—they were not political pawns being cynically exchanged on some geopolitical chess board by old men sitting in comfortable leather chairs, safe in some government office. He pocketed his flashlight and walked over to the American who was busy shaking off his harness and bundling up his parachute. “Sunset Gorge,” Trimler challenged, crouching and leveling his pistol at Carroll.

Zakia had passed the challenge and response code to Carroll. “Sweet Water,” he responded.

Trimler holstered his weapon. “You Carroll?”

“I’m Carroll.”

“I’m Bob Trimler. Jack and Thunder send their greetings. They told me to tell you that they’re coming after your sweet young ass and what the hell are you doing here anyway?” It was better confirmation than any code word.

“Form on me,” Trimler called out, his voice carrying over the open field. The Rangers quickly broke out their weapons, shouldered their rucksacks, gathered up their parachutes and hurried toward Trimler.

“Have you got everyone?” Carroll asked.

“Negative. We lost two on the drop.” He keyed the radio on his shoulder. “Romeo Two-Five, you up?” There was no reply. He explained the situation to Carroll. “How long can we wait here?”

“When do you want to be in position at the prison?”

“We hit it at first light, just before sunrise, at six twenty-five local time.”

“We’re ten miles northwest of the prison so figure an hour to move into position. It’s almost twenty-three hundred now. We can wait six and a half hours at the most. Over there.” Carroll pointed to a clump of low farm buildings they could hide in—“It’s empty.”

Trimler gave his orders and the Rangers headed toward the Kurdish farmstead Carroll had pointed out. Four Rangers ran ahead to scout the building and make sure it was secure while another four stayed behind and swept the field to make sure no equipment was left behind and erase every sign that trucks or people had been in the field. Carroll jumped in the lead truck next to Zakia and told the driver to follow the Rangers.

A Ranger directed the trucks to park next to a shed and was speechless when he saw Zakia get out. He finally found his voice, “Ma’am, why don’t you go inside with Captain Trimler.” They followed his directions and entered the low mud-brick house, where Carroll introduced Zakia and the man who was her contact.

“We had planned to use the phone here,” Zakia said.

“A place like this has a phone?” Trimler asked.

“We installed it to send an arrival message,” Zakia told him. She spoke to the man in a language Trimler did not understand. He opened a cabinet where the. phone was hidden and dialed. Zakia sent up a torrent of words in a high-pitched, whiny tone while the man spoke. Carroll motioned for Trimler to remain silent until they had finished.

“What the hell…?” The Captain was bewildered.

“He was calling about his father,” Carroll said. “Seems the old gent is in failing health but has just taken a turn for the better. He still needs two more days before he’s out of bed. Actually, it’s a code they set up with their radio operator. You arrived and are two men short. He’ll send out the arrival message. They use the phone system to keep in contact. Zakia was making background noises in case anybody was listening.”

“Who the hell are they?”

“Don’t ask,” Carroll said. “I don’t know and they won’t tell you.”

Trimler shook his head and went outside. He checked the security of the compound and ordered half the men to sack out and the other half to stay on alert. “Wade, Baulck, set up a listening post a hundred meters down the road.” He pointed to the rut that led to the farmstead, and the two men moved quickly out and disappeared into the night.

The captain checked the disposition of his men again, not surprised to find half of them asleep. He had heard how the strain of actual operations caused men to fall asleep the moment the tension was broken. Good, he thought, I want ’em fresh. He unstrapped the radio from his shoulder and leaned against the low wall that surrounded most of the compound. “Romeo Two-Five, you up?” he radioed. No answer. For a moment he thought maybe he heard a low crackling, but couldn’t be sure…

*

“Any idea where we are?” Jamison asked.

Kamigami didn’t answer and held the whisper mike to his left ear. He thought he heard something and spoke into the radio. No answer. He set the radio down and pulled out a map and flashlight, hunched down to shield the light and studied the map. The last briefing they had received before mounting the C-130 had pinpointed the drop zone ten miles northwest of Kermanshah. But he didn’t know where he and Jamison had landed. He had seen some farm buildings south of them and they had passed over a dirt road before they landed in a field. He stood up and peered into the night, his six feet four inches working to his advantage. When he adjusted his night vision goggles he could make out a low hill the other side of the dirt road.

“We go there.” He pointed to the hill, hoping they could get their bearings on top…otherwise they would have to wait for first light. When in doubt, he thought, take the high ground.

*

Eastern Turkey

Leon Nelson glanced at his watch, 1948Z, and ran another station check. Each position on the AWACS reported no unusual activity inside Iran or Iraq. The Iraq air defense posture had reverted to normal after the two MiGs that had almost intercepted Scamp had landed. The Iranians had never stirred. They had another hour on station and no aircraft to control. It was going to be an unproductive hour boring holes in the sky.

He relaxed into his seat and tried to rest but his mind would not let it go. He kept thinking about the briefing he and his controllers had received the day before on Operation WARLORD. They had only been briefed on
their
role in the mission and not shown the specific objective. His private theories about WARLORD were confirmed when the C-130 broke off its planned profile and flew within sixty miles of Kermanshah. The cargo plane had slowed to 130 knots before it started its descent to low level. To the lieutenant colonel’s way of thinking, there could only be one reason for that-it was an airdrop and it had something to do with the POWs at Kermanshah. But why had the C-130 headed toward Iraq? They should have flown a low-level right back to Turkey. There were too many unanswered questions to let Nelson relax.

“This is what I get paid for,” he mumbled before calling the pilot. “Let’s head for home plate now,” he ordered. Every instinct he had was shouting that he was needed at Incirlik.

Chapter 40: H Plus 4

Maragheh, Iran

The four men in the radar shack were gathered around the TV, engrossed in the program they were watching. Because they were sitting on a mountain top, they had excellent reception and could pick up Turkish and Iraqi channels. Both of those countries offered much better viewing than the Ayatollahs allowed in Iran. It was the only benefit of pulling duty at the radar site.

The radar operator sighed when the channel went off the air. It was almost midnight and he had more than twelve hours to go before he was replaced. He had made a mental promise never to cross the captain in the control center again and returned to the main console. “It’s cooled off by now,” he muttered, and went through the start-up routine, bringing the radar back on line. His training had been thorough and he wanted to do a good job, but other things kept getting in the way. He didn’t even contemplate a communications check that might disturb the captain and felt justified when his sector swept dean. There were no targets over eastern Turkey or Iraq.