Force of Eagles (49 page)

“What the hell happened?” the loadmaster yelled over the intercom. “The jumpmaster fell out and I got bodies all over the deck…” They were flying straight and level now, less than two hundred feet above the ground.

“The fuckers hosed us down with a SAM and Triple A,” Dunkin told him. “We were lucky they were too far away…We got the jumpmaster in sight, he’s waving he’s okay.” The Rangers on the ground had a different view. The jumpmaster was coming down in his chute, swearing, and giving the C-130 the finger.

“Yeah,” the loadmaster shouted, “Well, I’ve got about twenty pissed-off Rangers that want to get on the ground.”

Mallard turned to his navigator. “Okay, Dunk, if we go in low enough, we can stay under all that crap they threw at us.” Dunkin reached for “the gadget” in his navigation bag.

*

Kermanshah, Iran

“Scamp One-Four destroyed on runway, five crew members KIA,” the RTO was transmitting on the SatCom, giving the Pentagon command center a status report after the mortar attack on the airfield. “Scamp One-Three damaged and out of commission. Aircrew, okay. Scamp One-Five is undamaged and mission capable. Stormy Zero-Two is slightly damaged, status unknown at this time, the WSO, Captain Furry, is wounded. One Ranger KIA, two wounded.”

“Say status of runway,” the woman’s voice came through the scrambler loud and clear.

“Runway is closed,” the RTO answered.

“Say current threat.”

“Negative threat to airfield at this time. Armored column reported at Mahidashi highway bridge…”

Gregory turned to Stansell, “We’re in big trouble unless we can get a runway open. And we could sure use another C-130 to help Scamp One-Two and One-Five get us out of here.”

Stansell thought a moment. “That hulk will have to turn itself out on the runway before we can push it off.”

“How we going to do that?”

“Jeeps and winches. But right now we’re going to see if the crew for Scamp One-Three can get their two good engines started and move about a hundred feet out of the way. We fill in the craters on the dirt strip and we’ve got a runway.”

“What about the F-15?” Gregory asked.

“Have to wait and see if Jack can get it started, it took some battle damage from that mortar round that got Furry, and if we can clear the main runway.”

“We still need another C-130,” Gregory reminded him.

“Right.” Stansell asked the RTO to let him talk to the command center. “Blue Chip, this is Lifter. We need airlift. Scamp One-One is in orbit with Delray Five-One. Send Scamp One-One our way now. Repeat, send Scamp One-One our way now.”

The wait for Blue Chip to make a decision seemed forever. Jack Locke walked into the silent room. “Furry’s in pretty bad shape,” he told the colonel. “Shrapnel in the back. Frag also punched two small holes in my jet. Doesn’t look bad but the nitrogen bottle for the jet fuel starter won’t hold a charge. Can’t start engines.”

The silence grew heavier.

“Lifter,” the SatCom came alive. “This is Blue Chip. Be advised Scamp One-One is departing orbit at this time.”

Lydia Kowalski and her crew were finally going to war.

“Now we got to get that C-130 moved,” Stansell said.

A voice came over the PRC-77. “Lifter, this is Romeo. We’re ready to load. All POWs released and accounted for but one. Working to free him now.”

Gregory looked at Stansell, waiting for a decision. “They’d be safer in the prison than here…until we get the field open.”

“Move them now,” Stansell ordered. “Jack, get out to the dirt strip and get it opened. We load the POWs on Scamp One-Five. It launches the minute we get a runway.”

*

Mahidashi, Iran

“Captain, this is all you’re gonna get,” Beasely’s flight engineer told him. The AC-130 had managed to climb to eleven thousand feet on its three engines and it wasn’t going any higher. Beasely wanted more altitude to increase his stand-off distance from the tanks approaching the bridge. Because the terrain elevation was 4,000 feet, he was only 7,000 above the ground. That meant a thirty-degree bank in his firing orbit would give them a stand-off distance of 12,000 feet—enough to stay clear of the ZSU-23-4 that was moving with the tanks, but it also put them inside the range of the two SA-8s Jack had seen.

Beasely told his electronic warfare officer and the illuminator operator to stay alert for SA-8s and entered a firing orbit to engage the lead tank that was almost at the bridge.

Mado wanted to order this AC-130 to stand clear but sensed that it would develop into a contest of wills and he wasn’t sure who would win—him, or Beasely and Thunder. So instead he continued to relay information to the Pentagon over the SatCom.

“Flaps aren’t coming down evenly,” Beasely said. “Scanner, check the flaps on the right side.”

A sergeant from the rear reported back. “Center section looks like its hanging up because of battle damage. The flap-drive motor is screaming its head off.” He was talking about the hydraulic-driven flap-drive motor nestled between the wings in the overhead above the cargo deck. Beasely eased the flaps back up and raised the nose with the yoke, playing the trim for all it was worth. When he was satisfied with the orbit, he sighted on the lead tank and sent a 105mm round on its way, the AC-130 shuddering as it absorbed the 105’s recoil.

“Direct hit!” the sensor operator in the rear called out. Then silence. “Beezer, that didn’t stop it. He’s still moving.”

“We do it again,” Beasely said. He could see the muzzle of the tank point at him as he sent three rounds toward the tank, until he blew a tread off. Then he turned to the second tank and fired.

“SAM lock on!” the EWO yelled over the intercom.

“Break right!” from the IO. Hanging out the rear of the aircraft, the illuminator operator could see two smoke trails coming at them. Again, he sent a stream of chaff and flares behind them. Beastly rolled into a 110-degree bank and pushed the nose down while turning to the right, pulling two Gs. As he did, a loader feeding the 105mm was thrown across .the aircraft into the ammo rack and knocked unconscious. The first missile streaked harmlessly overhead, but the second passed close enough that its proximity fuse activated, and the missile’s fireball sent a burst of metal fragments into the right side of the fuselage.

Again, the AC-130 retreated, trailing smoke from the right main gear well…

*

While the gunship was engaging the tanks, Mallard ran in for the second drop. Drunkin Dunkin was holding onto the back of the copilot’s seat, sighting the depression angle through the “gadget.” He was going to give the green light exactly six hundred feet short of where he wanted the first Ranger to land, which meant a depression angle of sixty degrees. “I need a hard altitude of three hundred and fifty feet, Duck.” Mallard checked his radar altimeter and squeaked it lower. The smoke trail of an SA-8 passed over them.

“What happens if they have a chute malfunction?” Don Larson, the copilot said.

“They won’t have time to think about it,” Dunkin said. “Ready, ready…” He sighted the depression angle, waiting to hit sixty degrees…

Actually, Dunkin was good enough to have eyeballed it, but this way he was deadly accurate. “Green Light!” The Rangers streamed out the back, their chutes popping open at the end of the twenty-foot static lines. Most were on the ground before they had made one swing, then were running for their rally point…

*

Kermanshah, Iran

The two Rangers were pushing against the wood brace, trying to lever it into place and shore up the ceiling. “Hernia time,” one grunted as they tried again. This time they wedged it next to the cell door. “Might be able to blow the door now,” the Ranger said. “That beam should take the weight.” Mary and Carroll looked apprehensively at the ceiling above them.

Mary put her ear to the cell door. “Doc, can you hear me?”

No reply.

Another Ranger called down into the basement. “Captain Trimler says it’s time to go. We got all the POWs loaded we’re moving out—”

“I don’t go without doc,” Mary said.

Carroll decided it. “Tell Trimler to leave us a truck. We’ll stay here with Mustapha. Tell the road team holding the intersection—”

“That’s Objective Red,” the Ranger told him.

“—Objective Red,” Carroll continued, “that we’re here and to pick us up when they withdraw. We’ll stay in contact over the MX-360.”

“We’ll stay,” the Ranger standing next to Mary said. The other Ranger nodded agreement.

*

The Pentagon

“Sir, the President wants to see you.” It was Cunningham’s aide, Stevens. He pointed to the Command and Authority Room. Cunningham grunted and pushed his chair back. When he stood up he could see Admiral Scovill, Leachmeyer and Camm from the CIA in the room. He had been expecting this.

The President was leaning back in his chair, pointing an unlit cigar at Burke, the CIA Director, when Cunningham entered the room. “The DIA tells me that a partisan force of Kurds attacked the main airport at Kermanshah in conjunction with our raid. Further, that they destroyed an airliner on the field that was waiting to move the POWs. Now what the hell is going on?”

Burke was fighting for his job and knew it. “I wish I knew the DIA’s sources so I could confirm that information—”

“They’re talking to the Mossad,” the President said, his voice tight. “Our allies—damn good ones too when it comes to intelligence. Don’t you talk to them?”

“Of course, we do…”

Allan Camm stepped in. “Excuse me, sir, but we carefully evaluate everything we get from the Israelis. We have found that the quality of their intelligence has degraded in the last few years…”

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with the
quality
now.” The President swung back onto Burke. “Bobby, you’re a pro…I need better intelligence.” He pointed at the situation boards with his cigar. “Now how do we get the rest of our people out of there?”

“Mr. President, it’s still salvageable,” Cunningham said. All eyes in the room were on him. “First, two-thirds of the POWs are out of Iran and should be landing at Incirlik within thirty minutes. Second, the last third are moving to the airfield right now and we’ve got a C-130 waiting for them.”

“And no runway,” Leachmeyer jabbed.

“They will have shortly, Charlie. You underestimate what a C-130 can do and how motivated those people are.”

“That still leaves my Rangers trapped.”

So now they’re “yours,” Cunningham thought. “We’ve got two C-130s airborne that can land, and if the Rangers can disengage from that armored column we’ll get ’em out.”

The door opened and Andy Wollard, the President’s chief of staff, came in. “Sir, latest transmission from General Mado: the Rangers are holding at the bridge and his aircraft has taken another hit engaging a tank. But he’s going to stay airborne. Also, all of the POWs but two are at the airfield.”

“Mado’s a goddamn hero,” Leachmeyer said.

Not if I have anything to say about it, Cunningham thought. He damn well should have been on the ground at the first opportunity…

The President dismissed them and huddled with his National Security Advisor.

Outside, Burke drew Camm aside and grabbed his right elbow. “We had better be clean on this…”

Camm felt sick. He knew he had badly misjudged the whole deal. What he said was, “We are, sir. We are.”

*

Mahidashi, Iran

“They’re disengaging. Repeat disengaging,” a Ranger on the left flank transmitted. They had been deployed on both sides of the destroyed bridge when the tanks came at them. In front of him the hulks of two tanks were burning, one less than thirty meters away. It had taken their last Dragon shoulder-launched anti-tank missile to knock out the T-72. The rattle of heavy machine-gun fire echoed down from the right and the tank that the gunship had disabled kept firing round after round at the east bank. The tank on the right that the Rangers had finally nailed with the third Dragon was erupting with internal explosions. The smell of burning flesh drifted over them.

The captain in command tallied his losses: three dead, eight wounded. He knew what was coming next—a mortar barrage. ‘Time to beat feet,” he mumbled, and passed the word to withdraw. On his order a hail of smoke grenades rained down from the Rangers onto the river bank, and the dull thumps of two 60mm mortars throwing smoke added to the confusion.

The Rangers ran for the waiting trucks while the two jeep teams sprayed the smoke with short bursts from their M-60s. They had held the bridge for twenty-four minutes, destroyed three tanks (not counting the one disabled by the AC-130 but still firing), knocked out two BTR-60s, killed two dozen of the enemy and wounded another forty-three. More than a fair exchange.

*

Kermanshah, Iran

The four trucks carrying the eighty-six POWs and most of the Romeo Team drove directly up to the rear of the waiting C-130—Scamp 15. Before they could unload, Stansell directed the trucks to disperse around the airfield and to keep their motors running, ready to move if the airfield came under attack again or if it was time to load the C-130. Scamp 14 was still burning on the runway, sending a dense pillar of black smoke into the air.

Across the runway on the makeshift dirt strip the crew of Scamp 13 was having trouble starting number-four engine, the pilot and flight mechanic trying not to burn out the starter. Finally, the engine did come on line and wound up, and a noisy sigh of relief escaped from Stansell. He watched as the pilot jockeyed the throttles back and forth on the two good engines and slowly inched the damaged plane off the strip. When he judged the Hercules was going to move clear, he waved for the trucks to return and twirled his right forefinger above his head, motioning for the crew to start engines on Scamp 15.

Trimler bounced out of the cab of the first truck, the Rangers threw the tail-gates of the trucks open and helped the POWs unload and move up the ramp of the C-130. Trimler had to help a tall, gaunt man out of the truck—his clothes in rags, he was barefoot and very weak. The man spoke a few words to the young captain. Trimler pointed to Stansell, and the POW slowly crossed the thirty feet that separated them, Trimler walking beside him. When they reached Stansell, the man somehow pulled himself to attention and slowly saluted.