Delta Force (31 page)

THIRTY-NINE

OUT WEST, ON
March 25–27, we did yet another rehearsal. General Vaught traveled with the assault team. Each step of the plan was gone through and conducted in real time. Accurate distances were flown, the truck ride was made, role-playing guards were taken out as they patrolled a mock compound wall, the wall was climbed, dummy buildings were hit and cleared, the chopper rendezvous was made, the Rangers—at a make-believe Manzariyeh—held the airstrip, and C-141s successfully lifted everyone out. Seventh time, and it had gone again as smoothly as the Xs and Os on the blackboard. Delta returned to Fort Bragg.

Suddenly, good news! The STOL aircraft mission had been approved. Well how about that! Things began to look up. Life moved over to the fast lane. Dick Potter was briefed and dispatched to Egypt to set up an advance base in the event the go-ahead was given. He was a hard-charging officer and there was no doubt he'd get things done.

On 31 March the STOL returned from Desert One with all the necessary information. The crew consisted of two pilots—Jim and Bud. Jim, it needs to be said, has but one leg. The pilots were accompanied by an Air Force major. On the ground, they had dug soil and rock samples and taken photographs. For good measure, they had accomplished another task. Before obtaining approval to fly the aircraft into the desert, a lot of work had gone into developing a package of special lights, which could be carried on board the STOL.
When the plane landed, the crew implanted these beacons in the desert floor. The lights were designed to allow a C-130 to turn them on by remote control, while it was still two to three miles out. These landing beacons, which outlined the landing area, were small, and if the Air Force pilots weren't looking for them in the right grid they'd never see them.

The flight has a postscript. After the mission had been flown, I lunched with an intelligence chief who had done much to sell the STOL concept to the White House. Only after the President had agreed to the flight, only then, did this man discover, to his amazement, that one of the pilots had only one leg.

The mission flown by those three brave men was expertly done. While they were on the desert floor, they observed some vehicular traffic; but it did not interfere with them. When they returned they brought the proof necessary to convince the Air Force planners and everyone else concerned that EC-130 tankers could, indeed, land and take off in the desert. Good-bye blivets, hello fuel-birds.

The next step was a variation on a theme.

Colonel Kyle: “It doesn't make sense now, Charlie, for Delta to fly off
Nimitz
in the choppers. Why don't you consider flying from Egypt with the C-130s and meeting the choppers at Desert One?”

This was straightforward and made sense to everyone.

Shortly after reaching this decision, the following conversation with General Vaught took place:

“Charlie, we gotta figure out command at Desert One. Do you want it?”

“I don't really know whether I do or not. I see it only as a transient place.”

“Jim Kyle, by rights, oughta have it. Most of the activities at Desert One are air-related—landing and refueling.”

“I agree with you, General. I don't have time to fool with this. I gotta get my equipment and men off the 130s and onto the choppers. Once they lift off, I see it then as my operation.”

“Good. Then we're in agreement. What do you think about my going to Desert One?”

“General Vaught, I don't think that you can help Delta there. I would prefer you back in Egypt, where you can best influence the action. What if we get into trouble? What if we need something? The second night could be sticky, at Manzariyeh. We might need real help there.”

“I'm going to be there.”

“That's your decision. But, as for going in and standing around Desert One, I don't see how you'll accomplish anything.”

“O.K. We're agreed on Jim Kyle. Colonel Kyle should be in charge of Desert One.”

“Absolutely. Delta will take care of security.”

I liked and trusted Jim Kyle. I knew Desert One would be in good hands.

The question of General Vaught at Desert One is an interesting one. It was important he position himself where he could best influence and support the whole mission. It was my judgment he should be in Egypt the first and second nights. His going to Manzariyeh was all his doing. If something had gone sour there, I do not know how he would have influenced the action on the ground. If a sharp firefight unexpectedly developed, the lieutenant colonel commanding the Ranger contingent didn't need a two-star general and his staff looking over his shoulder. Generals should act and perform like generals, not battalion commanders.

I didn't feel I should have to worry about Desert One. As Moses had said to me, “Charlie, you've got a full plate as it is.” And, I did. No matter how many times we rehearsed or discussed our contingency plans—our alternatives—some problems remained. One kept setting off alarm bells in my subconscious. Once we took down the embassy, and as we waited for the choppers to lift us out of the Amjadieh soccer stadium, we could be attacked by an enemy mechanized unit. Against it Delta could not last long. The mission did not allow us to engage armor. How long would it take an Iranian military unit to get organized and react to the raid on the embassy? An armored cavalry unit was stationed in Teheran. Equipped with armored vehicles purchased around the world—British Chieftains,
American M48 and M60A1 medium tanks, Russian BTR-60s and ZSU-23-4s—this division had one contingent stationed six miles away, in the northeast suburb of Saltanat-Abad, and another one much closer—just blocks from the embassy at the Imperial Iranian Army Ordnance Depot at Abbas-Abad. The Russian ZSU-23-4 is a particularly formidable weapon. Delta would have no chance against this vehicle, which mounts four 23mm cannon on a light-armored chassis and utilizes both target-acquisition and tracking radar. The weapon scared us a lot.

The best judgments, based on message intercepts and analysis of the state of the Iranian military, indicated that it would, under ideal conditions, take ninety minutes for any element of this armored cavalry unit to organize and react in strength. The division's leadership had been decimated by the Khomeini government. When this fact was coupled with the unit's known lack of spare parts and maintenance capability, the intel planners determined that it posed little threat to Delta. The National Police, with their Scorpion-type armored cars that carried .50-caliber machine guns or 76mm cannon, were of greater concern. The police appeared to be more loyal to the Ayatollah than the Army, and more militant. The intelligence analysts could never pinpoint where they were positioned or what they were capable of doing. And then there were those Soviet ZSU-23-4s. What if they managed to arrive on the scene while Delta was still in the stadium waiting for the choppers?

Another contingency plan was called for and it was hoped it would not have to be used. Provision was made to have two AC-130E/H gunships on station over the city. One of them would fly over the embassy and prevent any armor from clanking down Roosevelt Avenue. The other would circle Mehrabad International Airport, where there were known to be two Iranian F-4 Phantoms on strip-alert.

There was never any intention just to arbitrarily shell Teheran. It was a matter of neutralizing any threat Delta could not handle. Two backup gunships were called for, in the event the first two ran low on fuel. Having them overhead made the
Delta operators feel more comfortable. Some of us had worked with gunships in 'Nam and knew their 105mm howitzer and 20mm Gatling gun could help us in Teheran. Morale soared. No way was Delta going to be pinned down and not be able to get the hostages out. That particular alarm bell stopped ringing.

One other use for these aircraft was agreed upon. As soon as the hostages and Delta had safely left Teheran, the gunship circling the compound would begin to methodically destroy the embassy's buildings. It would just chew them up till its guns ran dry. There was no sense leaving behind anything the Iranians could use as further propaganda.

The mission awaited White House approval to move ahead.

On Tuesday, April 15th, the RDF (Rapid Deployment Force) conducted a command post exercise on the Fort Bragg reservation, which General Jones planned to visit. The Chairman's office had called and requested I please pick him up in the afternoon and take him to the Stockade, where he wanted to talk to me.

This would not be General Jones's first visit to the Stockade. Right after New Year's, he'd dropped in. He was scheduled at that time to spend an hour with Delta. He left six hours later. General Jones understood communications and he was elated with our package. He was carried away. He fired weapons, watched demonstrations, talked to the operators, even had lunch with them. It was a day everyone enjoyed.

On the Tuesday of his visit to the RDF exercise, I found the location on the reservation where the games were being played. It was within the 101st Airmobile Division's headquarters command post area. I wore civilian clothes that afternoon and drove a leased car. The day was blustery and cool. It had rained hard the day before. The secondary roads were still wet, especially the rough dirt trail that led out to the 101st's command post.

An MP stopped me at the entrance to the area. “Sir, you can't stay here. There's an exercise about to begin.” I showed my identification and told him I was there to pick up the Chairman
of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. This rattled him. He called his headquarters for instructions. All of a sudden a little bitty short fella with his helmet right down on his nose—he was a senior officer of the 101st, but looked like Beetle Bailey—trotted over to me. He arrived out of breath. “Get that car away from here. There are no civilians allowed out here. You will leave. Now!” I was playing in his ballpark, so I respectfully told him who I was and what I was there to do, then showed him my ID. “I don't care who you are. You are not allowed here. Get out before I have you arrested.” When I'd gone to my wallet, he'd seen my Colt .45, which I carried cocked and locked. This made him even more nervous. “Colonel,” I said, “I'd like you to track with me. I'm here to pick up the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and you're getting ready to ruin your military career.” He backed off a little then. “All right. Drive your car off the road and park it in those bushes”; he pointed to a spot 100 yards across the road. I complied with the request and sat in the car and watched General Jones's arrival at the command post.

Before it ever happened, I knew what would happen next. Sure enough, before I even had time to smoke a cigarette, an MP came running out of the tent, jumped into a jeep, and, splashing water every which way, drove up to me. “Sir, would you follow me?” I said, “I'm not authorized to go into that area.” “Sir,” he said, “you gotta follow me.” General Warner, now a four-star general, who had replaced General Hennessey as commander of REDCOM (Readiness Command), came out and greeted me. He killed me with kindness. “Charlie, just give me a couple of more minutes and General Jones will be ready to go.” “Whatever you say, sir.” He's the 900-pound gorilla and he can do as he pleases. There was no way General Warner could have been more considerate.

My friend the colonel, Beetle Bailey, stood about six feet away, his helmet down around his nose, his head tilted back so he could stare holes in me. General Jones, dressed in fatigues and a nylon flight jacket, came out some few moments later. “Charlie, are you ready to go?” “Yes, sir,” I responded. Then I walked over to the little colonel and, in my most pleasant
voice, said, “You have a nice day.” I couldn't help myself. I can't stand colonels who act so high and mighty and are shot in the butt with themselves.

General Jones and I drove off. On this particular Tuesday, way out in the boondocks of Fort Bragg, there was nothing but mud, rutted trails, and rain-filled potholes. General Jones said, “Pull over, Charlie. I want to talk to you about Iran. What do you think?”