Force of Eagles (17 page)

“Rog. Six minute check complete.” Master Sergeant Glen Moore had the door over the C-130’s ramp raised and a 150-pound canister of concrete with a T-10 parachute ready. He would lower the ramp to a level position after they popped.

Dunkin grabbed the back of the copilot’s seat with both hands as the ridge line filled their windscreen. “Pop…now.”

Mallard ballooned the Hercules over the ridge, trading off his airspeed for altitude and slowing from 240 to 130 knots.

When he could see the lake Dunkin shouted, “Those bastards got the panels at the wrong end of the lake. Abort the drop, circle south for another run.”

“Rog,” Moore said, “aborting the drop.” Nothing ever seemed to upset the old sergeant.

Dunkin reached back to his station and rotated his intercom switch to UHF radio. He looked over the dry lake bed as Mallard turned away, then hit his transmit button. “Ruff flight, Ruff One-One aborting first drop. The panels are at the south end of the lake. New UTMs are”—he paused while he picked off the coordinates from his map—“8150-3080. Use the western edge of the lake for a timing point.” He paused before he rattled off another eight-digit set of coordinates. “Duck, reverse course and fall in behind tail-end Charlie. We drop last.”

“Hell, Dunk, we ought’a abort the whole shoot’n match and land,” Mallard said, thinking about their time over target and hitting the target.

“No,” the navigator told him. “All they got to do is slip south on the last leg and recompute a new elapsed time from the-timing point to green light for the drop. They’ll only lose a few seconds so they’ll be okay on their TOTs. Everything else is the same. We’ll drop last.” He reached into his navigation bag and pulled out the gadget he had made for emergencies like this one…

Locke was standing beside the helicopter monitoring the C-130 frequency on the Huey’s radio. He watched the first Hercules turn away and head back to the west. “Looks like an abort for number one,” he told the chief.

Another C-130 popped over the low ridge in front of them like some pterodactyl rising from its desert nest with the sun at its back. It leveled off at its drop altitude and flew straight for the panels. A small bundle dropped off the ramp under its tail and arched behind the C-130, the parachute streaming out and snapping open when it reached the end of its static line. The canister swung back and forth until it bounced on the hard crust of the lake bed. “Looks short about seventy yards,” Pullman said. “That’s good for a free drop.”

One after another the C-130s popped over the ridge to drop their loads. Locke listened on the radio as each crew fed information back to the trailing birds about the winds. Most of the drops were inside a hundred yards. Finally the lead ship reappeared, popping over the ridge slightly north of the others. “He’s off course and too low,” Locke said, expecting the big cargo plane to slip south. Instead it headed straight for the helicopter. The load dropped off the back and the parachute blossomed out.

The helicopter pilot shouted, “It’s gonna hit us,” and the three men scattered away. The concrete-filled canister swung once before it bounced twenty feet short of the helicopter, and the parachute canopy collapsed over the rotor blades.

“They blew the hell out of that drop,” Locke said.

Pullman shook his head. “Someone up there was sending us a message, Captain. They may not be what the colonel was expecting, but these guys are good.”

The first C-130 to drop was circling to land on the dry bed and came down a short final, nose high in the air. The pilot slammed the big bird down onto the hardpan of the dry lake and reversed props, sending a dust storm in advance—a giant announcing its arrival with a roar and gust of breath.

“You want me to marshal them into parking?” the helicopter pilot asked.

“Nope,” Locke said, “let’s see how they handle it.”

The C-130 completed its landing roll-out and turned toward the helicopter. The pilot played a tune on the engines, varying the prop pitch by jockeying the throttles. The bird stopped, the crew-entrance door flopped down, and a green-suited crew member with shoulder-length hair climbed down the three steps built into the door. The door snapped closed, and the woman directed the pilot into a parking position next to the helicopter, signaling the pilot to set the brakes and cut the engines.

The pilot climbed down the steps and walked toward them. “Looks like your women did the first drop,” Pullman said.

The C-130 pilot, a captain, was a woman slightly taller than Locke. Her nametag announced she was Lydia Kowalski. “Dirty pool, Captain, moving the panels like that. Any more nasties up your sleeve?”

Locke shrugged. “Just routine cargo hauling. We’re sending most of you to Elgin Air Force Base to pick up a Harvest Eagle kit—want you back tomorrow. Then you’ll all be going to Fort Benning to bring some army troops and their equipment in Wednesday.”

“What’s a Harvest Eagle kit?” Kowalski asked.

“A whole tent city,” Pullman told her. “We’re goin’ to be camping here for a while.” He didn’t add that she and the others would appreciate their time here once they got to Iran…

*

After turning the C-130 crews over to Locke and explaining to Bryant what he wanted done, Stansell headed for Rahimi’s office, his mouth set. He had to work his way through the crowd of Red Flag players jamming the corridors of Building 201.

“Yo, Colonel,” a familiar voice called from one of the briefing rooms. It was Snake Houserman from Luke: “Didn’t know you were here.” Snake stuck his skinny face around the door. His features alternated between elfish and demonic depending on the situation.

“Not a player, Snake. I’m a coordinator.”

“Oh, no,” he laughed, the elf emerging, “another Warlord.” He disappeared back into the briefing room.

The sign on the door to the Intelligence section said, “Open” but the combination on the four-key cipher-lock had been changed. Stansell buzzed for admittance and Dewa unlocked the door. She was alone in the office. “Wild bunch, colonel. I had to change the combination to get a little work done. You know a Captain Houserman? He doesn’t waste any time.”

“I’ll put some salt on his tail if he’s bothering you.”

“I can handle him. How’d the briefing go?”

“I’m worried.” He poured coffee and followed Dewa into her office. She sat at one end of the Air Force issue couch. He sat at the other end and told her about the meeting with General O’Brian and the C-130 crews.

“It doesn’t make sense,” he said, “we should be working with Delta Force and Combat Talon C-130s from the 1st Special Operations Wing.”

“Why Combat Talon C-130s?”

“They train for deep-penetration missions like this one. Their aircraft are specially configured. They’ve got terrain-following radars, upgraded inertial navigation systems and computers for precision navigation and airdrops, not to mention more powerful engines, armor plating, jamming capability…”

Dewa went over to her desk while Stansell stared at the floor, annoyed and frustrated. She sat and faced her computer, fingers moving over the keyboard. “Let’s see if I can find out what the 1st Special Ops Wing is doing with its aircraft,”. she said as she called up the data banks she could access. “Nothing, so far.” She sat back. “I don’t have access to aircraft movement. What command does the First belong to and where’s it based?”

“Military Airlift Command, 23rd Air Force, out of Hurlburt Field,” he told her.

Again her fingers went over the keyboard. “Bingo. I’m talking to the Resource Management computer at Hurlburt through MAC’s logistic supply computer. Bureaucracies are wonderful things. They like to keep track of
everything
. Let’s see how Hurlburt’s Resource Management office is reporting their aircraft.” She studied the screen. “What does UE stand for?”

“Unit Equipment, how many aircraft an outfit owns.”

“Colonel, Hurlburt’s computer is reporting all but two of the First’s C-130s on station. I’d say that they’re all home.”

“They should be
here
. We’re not getting the support we were promised…”

Dewa heard the frustration in his voice. He badly wants to be part of this, she thought, not wanting to tell him what she saw. She was a trained analyst, and evaluated
all
the evidence, friendly and hostile, good and bad, on
both
sides of the fence. And she had drawn the only logical conclusion, which she was obliged to report to Stansell, an engaging pattern that was sure to add pain to his frustration. “Rupe”—she tried to make her voice sympathetic—“deception is part of what we do…it seems you’re not going to rescue the POW’s.”

Stansell stared at her.

“Task Force Alpha is a decoy operation,” she told him. “A cover for the real mission. We get to play Quaker cannon.”

Like
hell
, he thought. Cunningham might seem to be playing along, but Stansell didn’t believe he’d let his Alpha go down the drain.

*

Kermanshah, Iran

Mary Hauser sat in the cracked bathtub scrubbing her hair, hoping the soap they gave her was strong enough to kill the lice. She couldn’t quite believe it, she had not been interrogated since the general had left, the food was improving and now this—a bath. Either they’re getting ready to release us—possible?—or an important visitor is coming for an inspection, she decided. She sank down into the tepid water and let it wash over her. As she reached for the ragged towel the guard had left her when he took her clothes the door swung open and Mokhtari stood there, holding a dark blanket. Two guards were behind him.

“Put this on. Now.” It was not a blanket but a chador, the shroudlike robe all Iranian women wore.

She stood, drying herself. They’d seen her like this before, she reminded herself, trying not to be upset by what the chador meant—a symbol of subservience. Part of the technique, don’t read too much into it. “I want my uniform back,” she said, slipping the chador over her head and letting the rough cloth fall over her body.

“The hood,” Mokhtari ordered.

She raised the hood and covered her head, and the two guards stepped around the commandant and took hold of her, dragging her out of the bathroom and down the stairs toward her cell. Mokhtari, leading the way, turned into the interrogation room short of her cell. The guards followed, dragging-carrying her. Mokhtari turned, sat behind the desk. One of the guards grabbed the chador and jerked it off.

Mokhtari ignored her, looked into a corner of the room. She followed his eyes, to a man standing in the corner. A dirt-stained shirt barely covered his barrel chest and potbelly. He had massive arms, and fists that slowly clenched and unclenched as he watched her. His pants were unbuttoned. He was barefoot.

“One of my former prisoners,” Mokhtari told her. “He has learned to do what I tell him.” He then spoke to the man in Farsi, after which the man exposed himself, and as Mokhtari watched, reached out and grabbed Mary Hauser, pushed her against the desk and proceeded to perform as ordered.

Chapter 13: D Minus 22

Northeastern Iraq

Bill Carroll led the pack train into the mountain camp of the Pesh Merga, careful to keep his hands in the open. He glanced at a woman huddled against the wall of a hut, her face covered with sores.

“That’s what an Iraqi gas attack does,” Mustapha Sindi said in Kirmanji, the Kurdish dialect. “She’s one of the fortunate ones.” Sindi was riding the lead donkey, still not able to walk very far before his strength gave out, thanks to the severe beating the Iraqi soldiers had given him.

Carroll had asked Sindi only to use his native language so he could learn to talk with the Kurds. With Carroll’s knack with languages, similarities between Kirmanji, Farsi and Arabic were enough to allow him to pick up quickly the rudiments of the Kurdish tongue

“Do you have a doctor here?” Carroll asked Sindi, “you need attention.” He had come to like the man, who talked nonstop and never complained.

“My cousin Zakia. She is the only female doctor in Kurdistan.’ Sindi explained everything to Carroll, a sign that he trusted the American. “She was here when I left but she often goes with the soldiers on raids.”

The makeshift village served as a base camp for the Pesh Merga, the Kurdish patriots fighting for their own homeland inside Iraq. The camp was filled with women and children, refugees from the repeated attacks the Iraqi army had carried out against the Kurds, their own people. There were only a few old men in the camp, and Carroll did not see a single young one.

“Over there.” Sindi pointed to a mud-brick hut. A woman in her mid-thirties appeared in the doorway, leaned against the doorjamb and crossed her arms, face expressionless, waiting for them. She wore camouflaged fatigue trousers and boots, tee shirt stretched across her breasts, and her dark hair was pulled back into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. As they approached, Carroll thought he could see a resemblance between Mustapha Sindi and the woman.

“Zakia,” Sindi sighed as Carroll helped him off the donkey.

The woman appraised Carroll, then turned to Sindi. “Wait here,” she ordered, taking her younger cousin inside.

Carroll tethered the donkeys and sat down, his back against the wall, and soon dozed off in the warm sun.

A toe of a boot prodded him awake. Zakia was standing over him. “Mustapha has told me how you saved him.” Her voice had a kind of lyrical undertone. “I thank you.” She was not smiling. “My cousin trusts you, but then he is very young and foolish. It is dangerous to trust strangers in this country.”

Carroll searched for the right words in Kirrnanji. “If you give me a chance I will prove myself.” He tried to choose his words carefully, not wanting to be misunderstood. “I rescued Mustapha because I was trying to make contact with the Pesh Mersa.”

“Why?”

Might as well level with her. “I’m trying to help the POWs the Iranians are holding at Kermanshah, and I need help. Yours.”