Flash Point (63 page)

The sailors on the
Saipan
watched the approach. The MH-53Js were like many other H-53 helicopters flown by the Navy and the Marine Corps. They saw those all the time. But these helicopters looked different. They had bulges and bumps where the other helicopters didn’t, and they didn’t have Navy or Marine markings.

The first Pave Low slowed as it neared the flight deck. The sailors strained to see the markings on the helicopter. There weren’t any they could see. The yellow shirt on the deck signaled the lead pilot where to put the enormous six-bladed helicopter. The pilot was very cautious; he had landed on ships before and knew he had to be careful.

The pilot maneuvered the Pave Low gently over the flight deck twenty feet above it and steadied directly above the landing spot. The Air Boss watched it with some trepidation. The Air Force was out of its element at sea. The Navy didn’t trust the Air Force to get anything right when it came to ships. But the fact that they had found the ship put them in good standing with the Air Boss. His hand was on the radio transmitter ready to call out at the smallest deviation from procedures.

The Pave Low III settled gently onto the deck, directly on the spot designated. Its landing gear compressed as the screaming plane’s weight shifted from the rotor blades. The deck crewman signaled for the pilot to shut down his port engine as another sailor put wood chocks in front of and behind the wheels.

The second Pave Low approached the
Saipan
along the same path. Its spot was aft of the first one, and it settled onto it as effortlessly as the lead had.

All of a sudden the deck was quiet. The rear access ramp of the Pave Lows opened and the pilots and aircrew stepped onto the flight deck. They looked around, then headed for the island.

The sailors had started to turn away when the rest of the occupants began filing out — men in dark jumpsuits with no insignia or markings. Like the aircrew, they proceeded into the island and disappeared behind them, followed by another group carrying large boxes. The Air Force was coming aboard, completely self-contained. All they needed was gas.

Woods was flipped onto his stomach, his face pushed down hard by a hand over his mouth. Suddenly he could feel warm breath on his cheek. A man whispered in his ear in gruff, accented English, “Don’t make a
sound
!”

Woods stopped struggling and listened. Suddenly the man was gone. No one was holding him down. He sat up quickly and looked around in the still, dark morning. Reaching inside his survival vest, he took out his 9-millimeter Beretta. He rose and started toward Wink.

As Wink finally freed himself from his aborted attempt to test the width of the crevice he had been eyeing, he too, was grabbed from behind. He panicked and fought as hard as he could as the strong arms pulled him backward, down the large boulder to the dirt. They tumbled off the last edge of the boulder and landed next to Woods.

The man grabbed Wink by the head and whispered loudly in his ear, “Stop struggling!”

The man, who had dark curly hair and a short beard, crouched next to them in unremarkable olive, army-like clothes. “You must be quiet,” he whispered.

“Who are you?” Woods asked. Woods tried to place the man’s accent. It was distinctly Middle Eastern, but he couldn’t identify it. Young and vigorous, the man was clearly not a shepherd or local farmer.

“Put your gun away!” the man said when he realized what was in Woods’s hand. “We must move.”

“Why should we go with you?” Wink asked.

The man looked at him, understanding. “You don’t have to. But they will find you.”

“Who will?” Woods asked.

“The Assassins,” he said quickly. “The ones coming from the valley to get you.”

It was good enough for Woods. He put the Beretta away. “Where are we going?”

The man didn’t respond. He unslung the M-16 that had been hanging across his back. It had a large clip of ammunition and looked well worn. He motioned for Woods and Wink to follow him.

The man worked his way through the rocks silently, Wink and Woods stumbling along behind him.

As they moved between large boulders making for the other side of the hill, Woods pulled his radio out of his survival vest and checked to make sure it was on the SAR frequency — 282.8. The man turned and grabbed the radio from Woods’s hand, nearly pulling Woods off his feet by the lanyard attached from the radio to his survival vest.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Woods said.

“Do not turn on.”

“Why not?”

The man considered the question unworthy of response. He gave the radio back to Woods and began walking again.

Woods stayed put. “I wasn’t going to transmit, just
listen
.”

The man replied over his shoulder. “They will hear you!”

“It plugs into my helmet,” Woods replied. He was growing annoyed at the man who had apparently decided to tell them exactly what to do, and expected them to go along.

Woods glanced over his shoulder at Wink, who shrugged. The radio was silent except for the hint of static that reassured him it was working. He followed the man blindly while playing with his radio. He couldn’t have retraced their steps if called upon to do so.

“We’re here,” the man said.

Woods looked around at the boulders. The sun was approaching the horizon and giving off just enough light to make the mountain and its numerous boulders visible. “Where?”

“Here you will hide. With me.”

Woods studied the terrain, then stared at their escort. “So you’re the one. What the hell happened?”

“What are you saying?”

“You were supposed to put the laser on the target.”

“There’s no time for talk now. First we must get out of the open,” the man insisted.

Wink had had enough. “Who are you? How are we going to get out of the open?”

The sky was lightening. “We must hurry!” he said, suddenly reaching out to pick up the bottom of a rock. Hinged on the uphill end, it came up easily. The fake boulder was five feet tall, six feet long, and five or so feet wide. Underneath was a large flat area.

Woods and Wink stared at the space, invisible a minute ago.

“Get in,” the man ordered.

The space was large enough for all three. Woods and Wink hesitated, but seeing no other choice, they ducked under the frame and sat down on the dirt underneath. The man lowered the frame behind him and sat next to them. He put his M-16 on the ground near him and took a deep breath. Woods whispered to the man he couldn’t see in the near darkness, “So what happened?”

“My partner was the laser.”

Woods was stunned. “You’re with the Mossad?”

The man considered, then responded, “I am Israeli.”

“So what happened?”

The Assassins found him yesterday. They stumbled on him and then killed him.”

Woods wondered if it was true. “Why didn’t
you
do the laser?”

“He had the equipment. Different hill. Different mission.”

“Did they get his equipment?”

“Yes. But don’t worry — it was untraceable. And he had no identification. There is no way they will know he was Israeli.”

“I’m sorry.” Woods was now just able to make out his outline.

“They are on the hill now, looking for us. They will be checking the boulders. We must wait. . . . Do you think your people will come for you?”

“Tonight.”

In the darkness the man reached behind him into something that looked like a duffel bag and pulled out a submachine gun. He handed it to Woods, then pulled out another M-16 and gave it to Wink. “Here. Be ready to use these,” he whispered. “If they find us, we will start shooting them right away. We will fire, open the rock, and rush out.”

“Are you sure?”

“I cannot be captured. If you want to surrender now, go ahead. If you stay with me, you must fight.”

Woods pressed his lips together anxiously. “I don’t even know how to work this.”

The man looked at the weapon he had given Woods and took it back. “Here,” he said, picking up the M-16 he had put down next to him. “You know how to use this, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Woods said. He looked at the rifle for a moment. “This is the safety here, right?”

“No, here,” the man said, indicating. “When it turns dark again we can begin preparation. One of us at a time can sleep today. You first,” he said, pointing to Wink.

Wink nodded. The last time he had fired an M-16 had been seven years before in summer training. Naval officers weren’t required to stay current with rifles.

On the ground Woods noticed what looked like a sophisticated electronics box surrounded by black foam. It had numerous digital displays and readings. “What is that?”

“No more talking,” the man said as he looked outward. Following his glance, Woods and Wink realized that the day had grown lighter and that now they could see out of the boulder. It was like a one-way mirror.

Big stood in the back of the
Saipan
’s CVIC, staring at the men before him. Bark had asked Big to become personally involved in the final stages of the mission planning for the combat SAR that was to get Woods and Wink out of Iran and he had just gotten off the helicopter that had brought him over here from the
Washington
.

The SAR team had taken over the CVIC of the
Saipan
. They had their own computers set up in the corner of CVIC in a square, like a small room. The pilots and mission planners were busy clicking through various computerized charts, SAM site disks, and satellite imagery that could be seen on the monitors.

The Pave Low aircrew were identifiable by their USAF wings on black patches on their flight suits. No names, just Air Force wings. There were Velcro spots on the flight suits from other patches they had apparently left at home.

The men in the black jumpsuits wore nothing to identify them. No rank, no unit patches, nothing. Nonetheless, Big had no doubt who they were — Special Forces commandos who would be going in on the Pave Low helicopters to get Woods and Wink.

Big didn’t know what he was supposed to do. He had been asked to come meet with the Pave Low pilots, but they didn’t seem to be in a briefing mood.

The pilot in command of the lead Pave Low, the mission commander, saw him and got up from his computer. Approaching Big, he said, “You must be Lieutenant McMack.”

“Yes,” Big said. “What’s your name?”

“Doesn’t matter.” The Air Force MH-53J pilot took a round container of Skoal from his flight suit pocket. He tapped it lightly, took off the round top, grabbing a pinch of it and sticking it between his lower lip and gum. It gave him a slightly swollen look and muffled his speech. Slipping the Skoal back into his flight suit, he spit into a small V-8 juice can that he picked up. “You were there last night,” he said.

“I was the wingman.”

“Tell me about it.”

“What would you like to know?”

Three other Air Force officers joined them, and they all took chairs in front of a large chart of the area hanging on the wall.

“How’d you get shot down? Who got you?” the Captain queried.

“A ZSU. I think there were two of them. They were waiting for us.”

The Captain spit into the can again and examined Big. “I heard you got lit up by an SA-6.”

“We did.”

“How do you know it wasn’t him that got your wingman?”

“I saw the tracers go into his airplane, and I got hit. You can look at the bullet holes in my wing.”

“Where were the ZSUs?”

Big stood up and moved to the chart, studying it carefully. “Here — this was our target,” he said, his finger on the site. “It was Point Whiskey on our chart. We came in from this direction,” he indicated, “got lit up by the SA-6 through here, and decided to do a pop-up drop instead of coming in higher. We didn’t want to get hit by the SA-6.”

“Me neither,” said one of the pilots.

“All we ever got was a search indication from the SA-6. He never locked onto us.”

“Did they ever launch a missile at you?” This from the Captain with the Skoal.

“Not that I saw.”

“How do you know there was an SA-6 there?”

“We saw his radar.”

The Captain pondered. “There’s a theory that some ZSUs have an SA-6 radar transmitter that it uses to light up planes to drive them down. Doesn’t have any SAMs at all, only the radar. They carry it around just so pilots will see the SAM radar and head lower to get away from it, right into the ZSU-23’s envelope. They’re waiting for you. Then when you’re in range, they light you up with their real radar and knock the shit out of you.”

Big raised his eyebrows. “Who the hell would think of that? That’s not very friendly.”

“Not at all. Downright mean,” the Captain said. “But if it’s true, it makes this easier. We sure don’t want to go into an SA-6 site.”

They were all quiet, staring at the chart. The Captain broke the silence. “You see anything that makes you think there was an SA-6 there other than the radar warning?”

“No.”

“See the imagery from today?” the Captain asked.

“No.”

One of the other officers got up and retrieved several printed photos from a desk near one of the Air Force computers, handing them to the Captain, who asked, “Get these loaded into the computer yet?”

The pilot nodded. “All set.”

The Captain gave the photos to Big, who examined them carefully. “Yep, this is the place. Right there is the fortress — Alamut. You can see it. You can even see where our two bombs went in. . . . All for naught. Whoever was supposed to be there to laser designate for us wasn’t. Assholes. Anyway, we were on our own. Probably missed him by a mile.”

“Where were the ZSUs?”

“The one that got us was right here, at the base of this small mountain.”

“Where was the other one?”

“I never got a good fix on him. I think he was off to the east, over here.”

“And where did your wingman go down?”

“Last I saw their chutes, they would have come down about . . . here. Yeah, there’s the smoking hole . . .”

“Right by the ZSU.”

“Basically. Yeah.”

The Captain studied the photos. “I don’t see any SA-6 site, or any other SAM. If our intel is right, which I don’t like to count on, then our only problem will be these ZSUs and maybe some men on the ground.”