Force of Eagles (46 page)

“Hey, Bro,” another Ranger asked, “how’d you think of that?”

The twenty-year-old Ranger from the streets of Watts mumbled, “My cousin’s locked up in San Quentin. He says they got lots of time to do nothing but study the guards and watch everything they do. That’s what I’d do…that’s what they did.”

The situation on the third floor was tougher. The frag grenade that had cleared the office had also punched holes in the wiring junction box below the control box. The electronically controlled locking mechanism was dead. “Tell the captain we’re going to start blowin’ doors up here,” the staff sergeant in charge of the third floor said. “Get Baulck up here and see if he can rewire this piece of shit while we do some blastin’.” He gestured toward the cells, “Let’s get some food and water to those poor bastards.”

Downstairs, Trimler was staring at the man Mustapha had delivered to him. The Iranian was still in a state of shock and seemed dazed, but he was standing unaided and trying to brush the dust from his uniform. A Ranger had plastered a bandage to the right side of his forehead, stopping the bleeding.

“He speaks English,” Mustapha said, his own English good enough for the job at hand. “Carroll has found the woman and the doctor. He needs help. They’re trapped.” He pointed across the compound at the burning building.

Trimler sent a team of Rangers to the administration building with Mustapha before he turned to the Iranian. “Your name, rank and identification number.”

“Colonel Vahid Mokhtari. I am the commandant of the prison and you are surrounded. I will accept your surrender.”

For a frozen moment Trimler said nothing, staring at the man. “I’m supposed to say nuts in situations like this,” he said. “But I’ve seen how you’ve taken care of these men, so I’ll do better. Try fuck off.”

Mokhtari smiled at him, sure of his position and how desperate the Americans were. “Keep smiling, asshole,” Leason said from the doorway. “I’m taking you with me when I leave.”

*

Stansell could sense that the situation was changing as the reports filtered in from the prison and road teams. It wasn’t enough to go on yet, but he knew where to look. He refused, though, to act in haste—a sure way to make bad decisions. He grabbed the mike to the portable UHF radio the Combat Control Team had set up in the command post. “Stormy, this is Lifter. Say position.”

Jack’s voice answered immediately. “Holding.”

Stansell checked his status board. Jack was right where he was supposed to be. “Stormy, I need a visual reccy of the highway. Take it to Point Gold.” Point Gold was the code name for the armored regiment’s garrison at Shahabad forty-two miles away. Stansell had re-roled Jack as a fast-moving forward air controller—and had tasked him to do a visual reconnaissance.

“Rog,” Jack acknowledged, “departing holding now.”

The colonel continued to work the radio. “Spectre, this is Lifter.” Beasely acknowledged the call and Stansell continued. “We need Roundup here. Please advise him.” The wait seemed interminable.

“Lifter, Roundup.” It was Mado’s voice. “We cannot land at this time. We must maintain contact with Blue Chip.”

Stansell swore under his breath. Gregory’s RTO had also established contact with Blue Chip in the Pentagon on his URC-101 SatCom set. But they had to use the much more cumbersome KY-57 encoder which slowed transmissions down. Mado knew all that. “Also, say reason for tasking for Stormy,” Mado demanded.

“That’s why we need you here,” Stansell answered. Hell of a time to have to start explaining everything to the man.

“Standby, Lifter,” Mado radioed, “Blue Chip is transmitting.” Great, Stansell raged, you’re talking to the heavies who haven’t got a clue—activity at the door caught his attention.

“Lifter, Roundup.” Mado was back on the radio. “Blue Chip wants to know why the delay in moving. We are not on schedule.”

“Roundup, I say again, that’s why we need you here.”

“Unable at this time, explain delay.”

“Standby,” Stansell snapped. He turned to the newcomers that two Rangers had escorted into the command post. It was Zakia and the man who had become her shadow, her contact.

“Colonel,” she began, “I’m Bill Carroll’s contact. We”—she nodded to the man beside her—“are your liaison with the Kurds.” They exchanged a new set of code words, establishing their bona fides.

“The gas truck?” Stansell asked.

Zakia’s face was impassive. “We arranged an impromptu diversion at the main airport and just happened across it. We thought you might be able to use some fuel. And I was directed to establish contact in case you have to escape overland.”

It was too much for Gregory. “Damnit, this is no time to get involved with partisans. We’ve got problems here—”

“Ham, they’re not partisans. They’re here to help us—”

“Colonel,” Zakia interrupted him, “we’ve got to go and get our people to safety. If you cannot fly out of here, contact us here.” She pointed to a road junction eleven miles south of town. Then the two were gone.

Stansell watched them leave, then told Gregory, “I think we’ve got a two-part problem. First, Mado and Blue Chip are trying to run the show by remote control. We need Mado on the ground, talking to you, making the decisions here. Second, we’re in a different ball game. We’ve been set up. This is a trap…”

The UHF radio interrupted him. It was Mado, “Lifter, Blue Chip wants to know why the delay.”

Stansell picked up the mike and nodded at Gregory, who was still adjusting to the news. “Tell Blue Chip that we’ve been bush-whacked. Romeo Team is trapped inside the prison.”

“We have no confirmation of that!” Mado was almost screaming on the radio. “Say confirmation!”

Jack’s voice came over the UHF. “Lifter, Stormy. Tracked vehicles moving out of Point Gold toward you. Repeat, tracked vehicles moving your way. Number unknown at this time.”

“There’s your confirmation, Roundup,” Stansell said. “We need you on the ground—here.”

“Negative, negative,” Mado shouted.

“Then standby,” Stansell told him. “We will advise you of the situation as it develops.”

He had just taken command.

*

The Pentagon

Leachmeyer was standing in front of the computer-generated situation map at the front of the command center. A small microphone was pinned to his lapel and he was flashing an electronic pointer over the screen, explaining the situation to the President. “An enemy force of fifty personnel and an unidentified tracked vehicle are occupying the barracks behind the prison.” The pointer circled the buildings behind the prison. “They have not attacked the prison but are in a position to prevent movement in and out. Our two M-60 machine-gun teams here”—the pointer circled the two teams in the ditch next to the road that ran in front of the prison—“are providing fire, suppressing movement to the front of the prison—”

“So it’s a Mexican standoff,” Cunningham broke in. “They can’t get around to the front to go in, and we can’t get out.”

“I assume they are a holding force until that armored column arrives from Shahabad,” the President said. “When is it expected to reach Kermanshah?”

“We’re querying Roundup, that’s General Mado, sir, for an ETA,” Leachmeyer told him. The major sitting at the console keyed on Leachmeyer and started talking on the SatCom, asking for the position and ETA of the armored column.

“General Mado should be at the airfield,” Dewa said from behind Cunningham’s shoulder. “He needs to be with his ground commander to coordinate a breakout, not on Spectre.” The general turned and looked at her. “And if Romeo Team can get out of the prison in thirty to forty minutes, Task Force Alpha will be gone before those tanks get to Kermanshah.”

Cunningham grunted and keyed his mike. “Charlie, I think we had better start talking to the people on the ground. At this point Roundup is a relay point and we need to cut out the middle man. They’ve got thirty minutes to make a break and get the hell out of Dodge.”

The President’s voice boomed over the loudspeakers. “I want them out…now. Make it happen.” A new worry for Cunningham—the President was butting in at the wrong time.

*

Kermanshah, Iran

“Lifter, this is Roundup.” The urgency in Mado’s voice filled the room Stansell and Gregory were using as a command post. “Say number of POWs ready to move at this time.”

“Keep him off my back,” Gregory said. “We’ll be ready to break out in five minutes.” He turned back to his operations officer and made their last-minute arrangements with Romeo Team.

“Roundup, standby on the POW count,” Stansell transmitted over the UHF radio.

“Lifter, you don’t tell me to standby. I’m landing at this time—”

“Like hell, you are,” Stansell grunted. He keyed his mike, still on the same frequency. “Spectre Zero-One, Mover Two-Three, and Stormy Zero-Two, I have tasking for you.” Beasely, Doucette and Locke acknowledged in order. “Spectre your target is the barracks behind the prison. Laydown fire-suppression on command in approximately four minutes. Continue to engage until the trucks transporting the POWs are well clear of the prison.” Beasely acknowledged.

“Mover Two-Three, take out Objective Yellow and RTB.” Objective Yellow was the highway bridge at Mahidashi, halfway between Shahabad and Kermanshah. Doucette acknowledged and broke out of his holding orbit.

“Stormy Zero-Two, run another visual reccy on the highway. We need the position of Gold.” Gold was the Iranian armored regiment moving on Kermanshah. Jack acknowledged and headed after Doucette.

*

“Well, well, Ramon,” Doucette said to his WSO, “good old Rupe had our fuel figured down to a gnat’s ass. Looks like you get to do your own lasing this time.” Contreraz buried his head in the scope, driving his cursors out to the highway bridge. Doucette deployed the Pave Tack pod below the weapons bay.

*

On board the AC-130 Beasely had to quell a mutiny by one of his crew. As aircraft commander he had total control of his plane, regardless of rank. The fact that Mado was a two-star general and he was a captain didn’t matter. “General, we land after we hose down the barracks. End of discussion or you get off my flight deck.” He headed for the prison.

“That’s tellin ’em, Beezer,” came over the intercom from some unknown voice in the rear.

*

“Okay, ready to blow the door,” the Ranger told the three men inside the cell on the third floor. “Get against a side wall and under your mattress, put your fingers in your ears, close your eyes and open your mouth.” The three men told him they were ready. The Ranger yelled, “Fire in the hole,” pulled the ring on the fuse-igniter that started the timing cord burning and took cover.

The C4 plastic charge exploded, and they ran for the cell with two more Rangers, kicked at the door…but nothing happened.

“You need a bigger charge, numb nuts,” another Ranger growled.

“Yeah, well this is going to take a little experimenting to get it right. These damn doors are tougher than I thought. Don’t want to kill the poor bastards inside.” He carved another piece of explosive off the brick and stuck it next to the hinge, ready to try again. It was going to take a long time to blow all the doors on the third floor. He called for help and worked faster.

*

Outside, the last of the freed POWs were rushed across the quadrangle and helped through the gap in the wall. “That’s a hundred ninety-one,” a sergeant yelled at Trimler. “Six trucks loaded and ready to roll.”

“Colonel Leason”—Trimler turned to the gaunt man standing beside him, amazed at the strength he still had after what he’d been through—“I think you should go with this group.”

“No, I go with the last man.”

Trimler understood. “We need to take cover. All hell’s going to break loose in a minute.” They could hear the AC-130 bearing down on them.

*

The Mahidashi Highway Bridge

“We’re going to be skoshi on fuel,” Contreraz grumbled, taking his final cursor placement on the highway bridge.

“We gots enough my lad, we gots enough.” Doucette was breathing hard. They were down on the deck, screaming across the valley floor, leaving a visible shock wave behind them. Doucette could see the small village of Mahidashi less than a kilometer from the bridge. “No short rounds on this one, Ramon. Please.” He was thinking about his own children when they were little.

“Ready, ready…pull,” Contreraz called. Doucette pulled the F-111’s nose up and two bombs rippled off. “Was that a switch arm?” Ramon shouted, his head still in the scope. He had been expecting a single bomb to come off. Doucette owned up to the error but claimed two were always better than one.

Contreraz watched the time-to-impact counter on his scope run down. “Laser on,” he told Doucette, illuminating the bridge for the last few seconds of the bombs’ flight as the F-111 arced away.

*

On the ground the guidance-control operator of a Soviet-built SA-8 Gecko, a surface to air missile, tracked the F-111 as it pulled away from the target. The operator assumed the F-111 for some reason had aborted its run and was not going to bomb the bridge. He was thankful that his superiors had positioned him well clear of the bridge and he was in a position to engage the American. After over a week of waiting he was ready. He decided to launch, using the electro-optical tracker and not the radar. Why send an electronic warning? He mashed his fire-control button and sent two missiles on their way, then watched in satisfaction as the rear of the F-111 flashed and exploded.

*

Doucette fought for control of his dying jet. “Eject! Eject!” Contreraz did as commanded and grabbed the ejection handle beside his left knee. With a press-squeeze-pull movement he started the sequence of events that fired explosive bolts and guillotines that freed their ejection capsule from the airframe. A rocket motor with a 40,000 pound thrust kicked them skyward.

*

The SA-8’s guidance-control operator watched the crew module separate from the F-111 and make its parachute-controlled descent. He switched to radar guidance and tracked the module before he launched two more missiles. His men cheered when the module and parachute disappeared in a fireball. They were too busy congratulating themselves to reload, or notice the F-15 that had its nose on them.