Delta Force (35 page)

I broke into a run, but got no farther than the road. The heat was too intense to get closer. The helicopter closest to the conflagration was about to cook off itself. Its .50-caliber ammunition would go off any minute. The flames were reaching 300 to 400 feet in the sky. It turned as bright as day. Because of the intense heat, I was afraid the aircraft closest to the inferno might also catch fire and explode.

Kyle! I looked around and saw him busy on the radio. He didn't need me in his knickers.

I thought of the Blue Element and Major Fitch. In the flames I saw where the chopper had hit the aircraft's port side. Redeye missiles were going off now, pinwheeling through the night like it was the Fourth of July. It looked like there were people moving through the fireball. The first few men from Blue Element whom I came upon couldn't tell me for sure that everyone had gotten off.

In the distance, the tanker truck continued to burn. The bus stood where it had been stopped. Nearby, next to the road, the passengers remained hunkered together. Silhouetted against the flames, the five helicopters sat on the desert crust.

Major Fitch ran up to Buckshot and reported everyone from Blue Element had escaped, but that one of his operators, in going back to pull out an aircraft crew member, had badly burned his arms. Buckshot told me Fitch, considering what he'd been through, seemed rather calm.

Kyle was still on the radio when I walked over to him. “How about it?”

He said, “I gotta get security in. Soon as I get them, we're
going to get out. What do you think about these choppers now?”

“It's a hot sonovabitch out there,” I said. “The second one could go any minute.”

“What about the others?”

“They need to be destroyed.”

One of us said, and to this day I don't remember who, “Let's get an air strike in on them.” Jim got General Vaught on the radio and recommended he be given authority to bring in the air strike.

There was a lot of movement on the ground. I wanted everyone out of the desert as soon as possible.

I walked back to the last 130 in line. Buckshot had just jumped off and was going down to help get the Road Watch Team back.

Some of the planes had begun to taxi to their takeoff positions.

Off to the side I watched the Marine pilots running as hard as they could for our aircraft. Once on board, the ramp was drawn up and slammed closed.

I climbed up into the cockpit and our aircraft began to move. It taxied in a half circle. We were then third in line to take off. The two in front lifted off.

The fuel truck had nearly burned itself out, but the chopper and 130 were still burning violently.

It was almost 3:00
A.M
.

After being on the ground for four hours and fifty-six minutes, Delta was leaving Desert One.

Down the unimproved road we rolled. The big 130 began to pick up speed. Suddenly, we hit an embankment. I remember having seen it on the ground; it must have been three feet high. We were moving fast by then and the nose of that C-130 jerked almost straight up. Then it dropped hard. “We've just bought the farm!” If there's such a thing as luck… The plane bounced on the ground. The pilot gave it more power and somehow managed to get it back into the air. Next thing I knew, we were gaining altitude.

Had we been able to keep to the plan at Desert One, the six fully loaded helicopters would now be nearing the hide-site.

As it was, we hit the Gulf of Oman sometime after first light. I looked down and saw a small dhow sailing on the slate-blue sea.

FORTY-FOUR

IT WAS GOING
to be another crystal clear, hot day. You could see the Oman coast across the channel, floating above the heat. At least three times on Misery I was asked by General Gast to account for all the ground element personnel. No one from this group was missing. However, five airmen and three Marines were unaccounted for and presumed dead. Major Schaefer had been lucky. He was still alive, but badly burned. I watched while he was loaded onto a Medevac C-141. He and the other badly burned survivors of the crash were met in Egypt by a C-9 that carried a special burn unit.

All the way back to Masirah, I had felt lifeless. Oh, shit. I felt let down. And I cried. That's when I really sat down and said, Jesus Christ, you know, what a fucking mess. We've just embarrassed our great country. I was at a low ebb. I didn't want to talk. I didn't want to do nothing. And shot through all these emotions was the fact that I was highly pissed.

When we landed, the Marine helicopter pilots and crews went over a little way and stood in a group. Some of them wore that thousand-mile stare. A lot of people in Delta were angry, upset.

I said, “Don't say anything to those pilots. Leave them alone. Don't do or say anything!” I also thought of the DOD agents in Teheran. Kyle had been using the radio and there was lots of traffic to handle. Getting off the ground took priority. There was no time to contact the hide-site and tell them we wouldn't be coming. They were on their own now. (I
learned later the hide-site had been contacted by the communication center at Wadi Kena and informed of the decision not to go forward.)

Everyone but the wounded, who left separately, loaded onto a C-141 StarLifter and was flown out of Misery as quickly as possible.

It was over. It had been a failure. I sat dazed. After all that time and work and sweat, to come away empty. I began to realize what that failure would mean. Our country would be embarrassed. We'd lost eight good and brave men. And now, what would become of the hostages? God Almighty, after all the effort, here we sat, going back to Egypt—all because of those bloody helos.

General Vaught met us as we touched down in Egypt. In a little private room in his command trailer, he asked me what I thought. He had retained his composure but he was very tired. I walked him right through all of it. I repeated why six helos were essential to our success and I had the feeling he accepted my explanation. Whether he did or not I didn't give a shit, because that was the way it was. I didn't think I had to justify anything. The plan was followed to the letter, and we did precisely what I knew was right. It was right on January 4th; and it was right on the morning of April 25th. I had no second thoughts about the decision to abort at that time. I have none now.

All the troops had arrived in Egypt. They returned to the same hangar where, a lifetime ago, but not more than thirty hours before, they'd sung “God Bless America” and had heard the story of the boy David and the giant Goliath. There they had left their personal belongings and now were retrieving them. It was there that I vented some of my frustration. In getting out of the burning C-130, Blue Element had left without their equipment, which had been stored in the aircraft. Some of the men had taken their weapons, but most hadn't. I ripped into them. It was unfair, I realize, yet I told them, “You guys, as you came off, should have reached up and grabbed something. Goddamn, a lot of money burned up in there.” The men didn't appreciate this. “We were lucky to get off with our
asses,” I said, “Well some of you picked up your weapons. Why in the hell didn't all of you?” I was wrong. You know, by then I was angrily frustrated and had to let it spill out.

One of the officers who was going to be a driver paid no attention to me, and I really snapped into his ass. “If we ever do this damn thing again, I'll make sure people like you don't come along!”

In the desert I had never called anyone a coward. In Egypt it was a different matter. One of the Delta guys asked, “Are we going to go back again?” I replied, “I sure as hell hope so, but we're not going to go back with those people,” and I gestured toward the group of drivers. The thirteen men who were to have taken down the Foreign Ministry Building felt I was talking about them. I apologized for the misunderstanding and told them I had been referring to the other crowd—the drivers. I don't remember using the word “coward,” but I gotta tell you, I was emotional. At this time, I may have also called the helo pilots cowards. Some people say I did. I really didn't care. I carried a great deal of stress from the time we left Egypt for Iran until we returned. That's what I got paid to do. And I'm not a perfect person.

One thing I was sure of. My mind had been made up. I was not going to be a party to a second attempt if General Vaught was the Task Force Commander. What he had asked me in the desert was to me unforgivable.

The story of what had happened to the two Sea Stallions that never reached Desert One soon came to light. The first to abort was chopper Number Six. Just two hours into the mission, this helicopter received an indication that one of its main rotor blades was about to malfunction. It landed at once. Another helicopter (Number Eight) landed with it. When it was determined that Number Six could not proceed farther, its crew climbed aboard the other chopper, which then proceeded to Desert One.

Helicopter Number Five, the one in which Colonel Pittman was flying, turned back to the carrier four-fifths of the way to Desert One, when, after flying through several cyclonic sandstorms, it began experiencing instrument problems.

In Egypt we found the air strike had not been sent in to destroy the five Sea Stallions that had been left behind. General Vaught had gone up the chain to General Jones with the request. I understand the White House decided against it for fear the strike would endanger the lives of the bus passengers. Delta had brought along incendiary explosive devices that were going to be placed properly on the helos at the hide-site and be used if any one of them failed to crank the next night. The crew chief could have been briefed. All he would have had to do was pull the pin and there would have been no flyable helicopters left for the Iranians to find. But at Desert One the charges were still with Fast Eddie, and when everyone scattered to load on the C-130s, I didn't know where he was. Time ran out. Unfortunately, I did not have in my hands an M16 loaded with tracers. If I had, I would have set those damned machines afire.

On the StarLifter, which was returning Delta to the United States, I asked one of Blue Element's troop sergeants, Allen, to have a talk with me. He'd been furious for what I'd said to the men about leaving their gear behind in the burning aircraft. We found a little privacy in the back of the cockpit. “I want to apologize to you and to the men. Please pass this word to everyone. I realize now how lucky you were to just get out alive. I should have thought before I spoke. It's a lick on me.”

FORTY-FIVE

GENERAL VAUGHT AND
I hadn't slept for a long time. We didn't sleep any on the flight back across Europe to Washington. In the plane, we discussed over and over what had happened and what we thought would happen. I learned then that the choppers, when they had been put on
Nimitz
, were not accompanied by any of our own maintenance people. It was like having your neighbor knock on the door and ask you to take care of his dog while he's gone, but then not giving you any dog food. The carrier provided their own maintenance to the Sea Stallions. These mechanics and their officers had no idea what the choppers were going to be used for. Who knows how they were handled? I know that two of them never got to Desert One. In Vietnam, the people in the high-risk, special ops business who relied on choppers learned they had to put their own mechanics to work on the helos. A helicopter needs tender loving care. In special ops when a chopper doesn't crank, it's usually a matter of life and death. In the regular Army or Navy it isn't. That's a big difference.

I learned that the pilot who had been killed on the 130 was Richard Bakke. At Hurlburt, during the Air Force's training phase, Bakke had seemed to be the pilot who always led the way in dirt landings and takeoffs, and low-level flying. Getting in and out of Iran was one fine piece of airmanship. Those Air Force pilots did a hell of a job, and there was none of them better than Rick Bakke.

We landed at Langley Air Force Base in Virginia and were
greeted by General Otis. He was professional and, of course, very sympathetic. General Vaught went off with him to the Pentagon. I suspected General Vaught wouldn't get to sleep for several more hours.

As Blue Element was transloading from the StarLifter to a C-130 for the return to Camp Smokey, the aircraft crew chief, who hadn't a clue who these men were, delivered a verbose, professional emergency-proceedings briefing, which covered how to exit a 130 if it should catch on fire. When he was through, the guys, many of them with singed hair and still smelling of smoke, gave him a standing ovation.

Delta and I flew back to Camp Smokey early Sunday morning and, once the men were settled, I, too, found my cot and fell asleep at once.

At 1100 hours, Sunday morning, April 27, I got a phone call from the JCS, on secure, stating the President would arrive our location that afternoon and that more details would follow.

General Vaught and General Jones arrived around noon and they had lunch with us. The Marine pilots, the drivers, and their Farsi-speaking translators were also there.

Although it hadn't rained, the day was cool and cloudy. Because Camp Smokey was nearly socked in, the presidential helicopter came in very low.

President Carter was accompanied by Dr. Brzezinski, Dr. Brown, and two secret service agents.

When the President came over to me, I apologized for the mission's failure. Walking over to the hangar where the men had assembled, he put his arm around me.

General Vaught climbed up on a platform and gave a short Knute Rockne speech. The troops were lined up in military formation, but wore civilian clothes. When he was finished, General Vaught introduced President Carter.

He spoke softly and sincerely.

No matter what happened, he appreciated what these men had done for their country. Then he expressed his concern for the hostages, who, you could see, still commanded his full attention. We needed to continue, he stated, to help him find a way to get them released.

After this short message, he told me he wanted to meet and speak to each person individually. The President then walked through the formation, shaking each man's hand. He spoke to most for a minute and to some, longer.

Dr. Brzezinski followed behind the President, also shaking hands and murmuring greetings. Although he wore a sport coat, he also wore a pair of what looked like ski boots. Boris had spotted them, and when Dr. Brzezinski appeared before him, he said, in perfect Polish, “I like your shoes, sir.” This surprised Dr. Brzezinski. He and Boris then carried on, in Polish, a conversation that must have lasted several minutes.

Before he returned to his helicopter, the President told me in his gentle voice, “I have been remiss in not knowing more about Delta Force. I am very impressed with what I've learned about them and what I've seen today. I didn't know we still had people like this, people who would sacrifice everything for their country. Colonel Beckwith, I am very proud of these men.”