Force of Eagles (25 page)

“This is the second flare-up we’ve had,” Mallard said. “Too much tension, no sense of team effort.”

“Now, how in the hell do we cure all that?” Stansell asked. Without blowing security? he silently added.

“Football,” Kamigami said, leaving the tent. “Survivors winners.”

*

Irbil, Iraq

The commander of the motor-rifle division slammed the phone down. What did those idiots in Baghdad expect? He had a division in name only and the forces in garrison at Irbil amounted to little more than a half-strength regiment. They withdraw battalion after battalion to reinforce the border with Iran, and now they expect him to respond like a Soviet motor-rifle division, the model the Iraqis had patterned their army after. If it had been anyone other than that fool Otaybi, the politicos, the asses that Hussein and the ruling council chose to make generals, would have ignored the ambush and let the trapped battalion fight its way out. Now he had to mount a major rescue effort. And all because of the precious Otaybi family.

Still, it wasn’t worth his life to let Ghalib al-Otaybi be captured by the Kurds.

*

Mustapha Sindi pointed at the shadow moving along the outer wall of the compound that housed the divisional headquarters in Irbil. The last of the relief column had left twenty minutes earlier and the evening twilight was rapidly fading into darkness. The audacity of the Kurds had worried Bill Carroll at first, they seemed totally unconcerned with the risks they were taking and moved casually into place right under the Iraqi guards. He relaxed when he saw how easily they disappeared into the deepening shadows, and his fingers relaxed their stranglehold on the two-foot-length of pipe he was carrying.

The shadowy image moved on. “They’re all in place,” Mustapha Sindi told Carroll, fingering the transmitter that would trigger the series of C4 plastic high-explosive charges placed around the wall. If they all worked, numerous sections of the wall would be breached at the same time. Now they had to wait…

*

Twenty-three miles to the northeast, the last of the Iraqi relief column was through the small village and passing the destroyed BTR. The Kurd left behind in the village to detonate the explosives timed it well. He hit the switch on his remote actuator and the booby-trapped BTR erupted, taking out the Iraqis in the rear of the relief column…

The dull boom echoed across the valley, reaching Irbil. “It begins,” Sindi said. The light banter typical of the young Kurd was gone. Now he was a serious guerrilla.

They heard Zakia’s voice in the next room talking on the radio. She came to the doorway. “They never suspected the armored car, didn’t even check it,” she reported. “Two trucks and the last armored car were destroyed, the road is cratered. The relief column is trapped on the other side of the village.”

“Tell our man to get the hell out of there,” Carroll said. He was expecting the Iraqi soldiers to sweep through the village and kill many of the inhabitants—most of them loyal Iraqis. “Have them hit the battalion at the bridge one more time. I want that Iraqi yelling for help when we work the headquarters over. Then everyone withdraws together.” Zakia went back to the radio to relay his instructions. “Mustapha—now.”

Sindi keyed the transmitter, and a series of explosions marched around the walls of the headquarters, sending smoke and debris into the air. Without waiting, Carroll and Sindi charged into the smoke along with ninety other Kurds. Sindi tripped over rubble in the smoke and went sprawling—he was not fully recovered-from the beating by the Iraqi soldiers but had insisted on going on the raid. Carroll picked him up by the back of his shirt and they covered together the few short steps to the wall. The C4 charge had knocked an eight-foot gap in the wall, and they ran through followed by four others.

Inside the compound they sprinted for the low building on their left, taking sporadic gunfire from the three-story building directly in front of them. The four Kurds following them headed for that building while Carroll and Sindi crossed the open ground leading to the low building. The bark of a machine gun from the rear of the compound was their first warning that the defenders were reacting and in force.

A sharp explosion ended that threat.

Carroll plastered himself to the building’s wall next to a window. At a nod from Sindi he jammed one end of the pipe he was carrying through the glass and raked it around the inner edges of the window frame, clearing away the glass. Sindi shoved the muzzle of his Uzi through the opening and swept the room with a short burst. A guard in the hall had heard the sound of the breaking glass and had come into the room, meeting Sindi’s gunfire. Sindi leaped through the window. Carroll right behind him stepped over the guard’s body, following Sindi into the cell block.

A long row of heavy steel doors stretched down the hall—all closed and locked. Carroll searched the dead guard’s pockets for a key. Nothing. Sindi was running down the hall, yelling at the door of each cell, trying to find out which cells were occupied by Kurds. They only had ribbon charges to blow open two doors. But they wanted to unlock them if possible—the concussion would probably break the eardrums of the prisoner inside.

Carroll headed for the guard room. So far the old man’s diagram of the cell block had been accurate, and according to it two guards should be on duty. One was still unaccounted for. Carroll kicked the door open and crouched. Nothing. He moved through and saw a dim figure huddled in a corner. He fired a short burst, fingered the light switch by the door…and saw what he had done. A young boy in uniform, maybe sixteen years old, lay dead on the floor. A large key ring with one key was on the floor beside him. Carroll shook his head, scooped it up and ran into the hall, trying not to think about teenagers who hid in corners frightened and confused…

Sindi was attaching a ribbon charge to a cell’s door when Carroll jammed the key into the lock and twisted. Inside was Rashid Shaban, unable to walk, the soles of his feet burned with an electric engraving tool. Carroll picked him up in a fireman’s carry and started up the hall while Sindi unlocked the cells. Shaban was the only Kurd being held, but Carroll had told Sindi to let as many prisoners as possible out, adding to the confusion bound to follow the attack.

Outside, the fighting had stopped and only the Kurds whom Carroll had detailed to hide explosive charges with delayed-action fuses were still in the compound. They were nine minutes into the attack and running out of time. Two men grabbed Shaban and carried him to the same dilapidated truck that had carried them into town. But instead of produce the truck was now overflowing with men and weapons. Carroll motioned to Zakia, raising his right hand to his lips. She pulled a police whistle out of a pocket and blew one long blast followed by two short toots. She paused and repeated the signal. Men came running out of the compound, some disappearing into the darkness, others piling into waiting cars and trucks. All had captured weapons and ammo cases.

The last two men out were carrying a wounded comrade and rushed up to Zakia as the truck’s starter motor ground, the engine finally coughing to life. Damn it, Carroll thought, the driver should have never turned it off. Zakia examined the Kurd lying on the ground while the wounded man spoke to her. She nodded and reached into a pouch on her belt, shaking free a syringe in a black plastic tube. The man spoke again and she gave him a swift injection in his left arm. He pushed his right hand into his coat and rolled over onto his stomach. She stood and ran for the cab of the truck, jumping in and telling the driver to move, and they drove out of the square, leaving the wounded man in the dust behind them.

“Dammit,” Carroll shouted, jumping from the truck, running for the man.

The truck skidded to a halt and Zakia jumped out. “No!” she shouted at his back. “He’s dead.”

Carroll hesitated, then ran back to the truck, the men pulling him into the back as they accelerated away.

“He’s booby-trapped,” a voice said. “If you had moved him, a grenade would have blown your head off.”

Carroll did not look at Zakia as he reminded himself that these people had been fighting for their existence long before the brave American came aboard. Their whole nation was a POW.

Chapter 23: D Minus 12

Nellis AFB, Nevada

“Was this ever meant as an exercise?” the leader of the Romeo Team, Captain Trimler asked. He was pacing the floor in Dewa’s office, obviously upset after spending an hour going over Romeo Team’s objective—taking a prison that held a large number of hostages. He had seen through to the truth.

“Nope,” Stansell told him. “Good chance we might do it.”

“It won’t work,” the captain said, studying the model of the prison. “On any airdrop we’re at most risk when we land. We need an objective rally point to form up, break out our weapons, get organized…takes time. Here”—he pointed at the model—“we’ve got maybe a minute to be inside, knocking the defenders down after the F-111s blow the walls. Any longer than that and they’ll have time to react. Probably start killing the hostages. To get inside fast we’ve got to be on the ground, locked and loaded, ready to go through that wall before the dust of the last bomb settles.”

“Colonel Gregory has seen this,” Dewa said. “Why didn’t he say something?”

Trimler only shook his head.

Stansell knew the reason. Gregory was too gung ho—show him what to do and get out of the way. It was Gregory’s chance, his only chance, to lead a daring history-making operation, and after his shaky start with Stansell he wanted to leave no doubts about who should be the ground commander. Brigadier General “Messy” Eichler’s words about finding an expert on special operations and listening to him came back. Stansell hoped it wasn’t too late. What else had Eichler said that he had forgotten?…“Get Locke and Bryant in here,” Stansell ordered. “Time for a head-knocking session. Captain Trimler, you’re going to be my Siamese twin for the next couple of days.”

*

Northeastern Iraq

Mulla Haqui was pleased. The wizened man who led the Pesh Merga kept walking around the fourteen ZIL-157 trucks they had taken, waving his arms and talking. A tired Bill Carroll sat on the tailgate of a truck—everyone seemed to talk nonstop at the same time—and watched the Kurds sort and stack the supplies, weapons and ammunition they had captured from the Iraqis.

One of Haqui’s bodyguards came over and said the old man wanted to speak to him. The guards surrounding Haqui split apart, letting Carroll approach, still carefully watching him. “Undamaged,” Haqui said, sweeping the trucks with his hand. “We are moving tonight, these trucks will help. The village must be empty by morning. The Iraqis will search for us with aircraft but we will hide in Iran.” Haqui moved closer and slapped Carroll on the shoulder, “You have helped us.” Carroll was aware of the guard standing close behind him but didn’t see the knife only inches away from his right kidney. When Haqui moved back, the guard relaxed.

“And the way the Iraqis reacted after we attacked the relief column…smart, how did you know they would destroy their own village in retaliation?”

“
Insh’
Allah
,” Carroll said, hoping he had it right.

Haqui looked at him. “Are you…?”

Carroll shook his head. “I’m of a different faith, the people of the Book.” The tone of Carroll’s voice carried conviction, but doubt lingered in the old man.

“The prisoner,” he abruptly ordered. Two guards disappeared into a mud hut and dragged out Ghalib al-Otaybi. “We will leave him behind,” Haqui said. The Iraqi lieutenant colonel was the same age as Carroll, twenty-seven.

Haqui stared at Carroll, eyes unblinking. “Kill him.” Otaybi’s knees buckled. The two men at his side jerked the Iraqi to his feet and stood back. The constant talking that marked Kurdish tribal life was silenced. It was Carroll’s final testing.

Hesitation was out of the question, Carroll knew. He walked straight toward Otaybi, then walked past. Otaybi turned his head, looking at the American. A guard slapped him—making him look straight ahead. In one swift move Carroll drew his pistol, thumbed the safety off, cocked the hammer, turned and fired one shot into the back of Otaybi’s head.

A guard spat. “You were too merciful. He would have tortured you like Shaban before he killed you.”

“He”—Carroll pointed his toe at Otaybi—“is not my teacher.” He walked off quickly then, not wanting the Kurds to see him shaking.

Zakia found him huddled against the back wall of a hut, shivering. She sat down next to him, put her arm around his neck and drew his head onto her shoulder.

“A foolish greedy man on a bus”—Carroll voice was shaky—“a bitter woman who lost her family in a war and only lived with hate, a teenage boy wearing a uniform because he found a job guarding prisoners, and now…damn it, I’m not a murderer…”

“Shush, we are all soldiers here. Old and young, woman and child. We do things no civilized human being should have to live with. I killed that man we left behind in the square when I could not save him.” She pulled Carroll’s head against her breasts.

After a while she stood and led him to her bed. A sharing of renewal they both needed.

*

Nellis AFB, Las Vegas

A message arrived. “That’s all we need,” Stansell grumbled after he read it. “General Mado gets here late this evening. Cunningham has ordered him to move out here with us. I want to have an answer before we tell him about getting the Rangers in place ahead of the F-11l’s attack on the prison. Chief, you’re going to have to find him an office and we’ve got to keep him busy until we get this hashed out. Stansell’s gut warned him to handle the general with care…he just didn’t fully trust the man who was the Joint Task Force Commander. Was it because of the last meeting he had with Cunningham?