Force of Eagles (37 page)

In the rear of the aircraft the Rangers looked about, uneasy with the strange sounds the plane was making. “Ain’t never heard one sound like it was comin’ apart,” a sergeant said, loud enough for Baulck to hear.

“Shut your mouth,” he told the man. “Kowalski knows what she’s doin’. Captain,” he yelled across the cargo bay, “time to cammy up?” Trimler gave him a thumbs up and the word was passed. Sticks of camouflage paint appeared and the men started to change their faces into bizarre blends of green and black.

“Man, you look great in living color,” a black buck sergeant from the streets of Watts told the white corporal sitting next to him. “Better than black on white,” the corporal shot back.

*

“Scamp,” the AWACs controller radioed, “I hold you at departure now. Turn to a heading of two-seven-two degrees. Target will be on your nose at thirty-five miles.”

“Roger,” the copilot answered. The last radio transmission was intended to deceive any hostile monitoring of their radio frequency, make it sound like they were turning to the west, back into Turkey. Kowalski reached down onto the center flight-control pedestal and switched the IFF to standby. From here on the Iranians would have to find the C-130 by a skin paint as the Hercules continued on its old heading, straight into Iran.

*

Incirlik, Turkey

Mado was hovering over the command post’s Emergency Actions Controller. The twenty-year-old had sewn on her third stripe a week before and had never seen a general, much less talked to one. And now a man with two stars on the lapels of his fatigues was giving her his undivided attention as she decoded the message from the AWACS orbiting over four hundred miles to the east. Her fingers moved down the page, finding each code group and then reading the correct decode in the column to the right.

“I need that message.” Mado’s voice was like a threat.

“General, you might want to look at this,” Stansell said, drawing the man’s attention away. He had rummaged around in his brief case until he had found a map of an alternative ingress route Thunder had drawn up in case of decreased radar coverage by the Iranian air defense net. “This route can save us almost three minutes…”

The general studied the route for a moment. “No. Stay with the original plan. That will give us terrain-masking in case Maragheh comes back on line. We won’t gain that much by saving three minutes.” It was enough time for the command post controller to finish decoding the message and double check it for accuracy. She handed it to Mado, glad to get him off her back.

“Not good,” Mado said. “Kowalski hit the departure point two minutes late. Maybe we should send a recall message,” he muttered.

Stansell read the message, then checked the clock. “I think it’s too late, General. By the time she receives any recall she’ll have either linked up with the airliner or be on her way out of Iran, aborting the mission on her own.” The general’s indecision was almost palpable. “Sir, check the time and look at the numbers. Kowalski left the departure point seven minutes ago. It’s thirty-five miles to Rezaiyeh. She’s one or two minutes from intercepting the airliner. We have to relay a recall order through the AWACS. Any order you give now is O.B.E.”

Overtaken by events…Mado glanced at Stansell, still hesitating.

“Our command-and-control system, doesn’t give us the benefit of real time or even near real time in making decisions,” Stansell went on, fighting for every second of delay possible. “It’s the same old problem, sir, a commander has got to rely on his people to make the right decisions because there’s just no way he can control what everybody does.” The general only stared at him. “Look, let me query the AWACS for a status report while the Emergency Actions Controller encodes a recall message.” And an inspiration hit Stansell. “If you don’t like what you hear, then you sign the message for release and we send it.”

The general didn’t like one bit the thought of his signature on a recall message, proof positive who had sent it for any congressional committee. And for Cunningham. Stansell was already bent over the microphone, calling the AWACS, “Delray Five-One, say status of last mission.…”

*

Northwest Iran

“Scamp One-One, come tight ten degrees, target is at your eleven o’clock position, seven miles.” The controller in the AWACS was giving the C-130 a cut-off vector before turning them toward the airliner’s stern. Brenda Iverson, Kowalski’s copilot, acknowledged the new heading. The crew had practiced intercepting another C-130 at Nellis under the control of an AWACS that was participating in Red Flag. They had repeatedly run against a target aircraft, learning how to follow a controller’s directions until they got a visual contact and could complete the intercept on their own. Mostly, they had practiced approaching the target from the rear quarter, a simple matter of using overtake speed and cutoff angles. But this was different. It was going to be a much more difficult intercept as they approached from the front quarter.

Kowalski was pushing the C-130 along at 265 knots, much faster than they had practiced intercepts or ever flown at low level, and the Hercules was protesting.

“Turbine inlet temperatures are high,” the flight engineer said, worry etching her voice as she watched the gauges climb past 1,000 degrees. “We’re over-temping. Going to have to back off.”

“Not yet,” Kowalski said. Both pilots scanned the night, straining to catch sight of the Iranian airliner’s anti-collision or position lights.

“Negative radar contact,” the navigator told them. Sue Zack was trying to find the transport version of the Fokker Friendship with her APN-59 radar set. She was hoping that the props of the twin-engined, high wing turboprop aircraft would help reflect radar energy. No such luck.

“Tallyho,” Kowalski called over the intercom. She could see the red anti-collision light flashing in the darkness. “Keep trying to find them, Sue. I need the range. Double-check all lights. Make sure we’re dark.” Kowalski’s commands rippled out as she waited for more information from the AWACS.

“Target at your nine o’clock, five miles,” the AWACS told them. “Come left forty degrees.”

“What the hell?” the copilot said, worried about the new heading. “We’re cutting it close.” They waited for the next command from the AWACS.

“Contact,” the navigator called out, “Three and a half miles.” They had turned enough for the C-130’s nose-mounted radar to paint their target.

“Keep feeding me ranges, Sue,” Kowalski said. “I think the AWACS is blowing this…We’re going to shoot by and cross right in front of the airliner.” She tried to visualize what was happening from a bird’s-eye view.

“I’ve lost him off the left side of my scope at two and half miles,” Sue told her.

“Scamp, turn left twenty degrees.” the AWACS commanded. The call was too late and the turn too little. It was going to be a botched intercept.

Kowalski made her decision. She had been judging their closure and watching the Fokker’s red flashing anti-collision light. She could still see the airliner at the C-130’s left ten o’clock position. They needed room to turn onto the airliner. She wrenched the Hercules further to the left, standing it on its wing in a ninety degree bank, turning away from the Iranian. “Judy,” she called over the radio, the command that said she was taking over and maneuvering on her own to complete the intercept.

It was the right decision. Almost immediately, Kowalski wrenched the Hercules back to the right, playing the throttles and sending the turbine inlet temperatures past 1050 degrees. Now they were arcing onto the Iranian’s stern and closing rapidly. She wanted to harden up her turn, pull more than two Gs as they turned, but she was worried about her bird standing up to the strain. “Come on, old gal…”

The small Fokker transport was still crossing left to right, directly in front of the C-130. Kowalski estimated the Iranian was climbing out at about a hundred and thirty knots and crossing at almost ninety degrees to her heading. Right now it was all seat-of-the-pants flying for the captain. Her instincts had better be good.

“I’ve got a radar contact,” Sue called out. She couldn’t quite match Kowalski’s cool. “Inside a half mile.”

The dark form of the Fokker filled the pilot’s windscreen as it surged past them. “Overshoot!” she yelled. Now the C-130 was going to cross directly behind the Iranian. Kowalski rolled wings level and pulled back on the yoke, bringing the nose high into the air. Her heading was ninety degrees off the Iranian’s. She rolled a hundred and ten degrees to the right and pushed the nose down, turning after the Fokker. It was as close to a high yo-yo as a C-130 could come.

On the cargo deck only the seatbelts the Rangers were wearing kept them from spilling over the compartment when Kowalski maneuvered, rolling the big cargo plane up onto one wing, then the other. They had never experienced that before. Dirt and dust filled the air and anything loose tumbled onto the men. Only the load-master, Hank Petrovich, had not been strapped in and he had smashed against a bulkhead, gouging a furrow in his forehead. Then they were straight and level, less than a thousand feet behind the Fokker. It had been a near thing.

The two Iranian pilots never saw the dark specter that bore down on them off their right wing because the C-130’s camouflage blended into the night and it was running dark. Only the red glow of instrument lights on the flight deck broke its shadow. It was hard to say what their reaction would have been if they had seen the Hercules slice behind them, traveling-at 265 knots, slow for a fighter but all too fast and close for a pilot who had last maneuvered like that in pilot training.

Inside the C-130 the jumpmaster unstrapped and ran forward to check on the loadmaster. Blood was pouring down Petrovich’s face, and he was groggy from the blow. The jumpmaster ripped a first-aid kit off the side of the fuselage, pulled a compress bandage out and stopped the bleeding. “A Band-Aid would probably do the trick,” he reassured the man, binding him up.

The loadmaster sat on a jump seat, put his headset on and checked in with the flight deck. “We’re okay back here, captain. Hey, I didn’t know a Herky Bird could do that.”

“Yeah,” Kowalski said, “the old bird is pretty maneuverable. A four-engine fighter. We heard you took a header. Sure you’re okay?”

“I’m okay. You didn’t get my balls, Captain. Look worse than I am.”

The corporal sitting next to Baulck rasped, “I thought you said she knew what she was doing.”

“You better count on it,” Baulck shot back.

Slowly the tension on the flight deck eased a notch as Kowalski maneuvered the C-130 into position, two hundred feet behind and slightly below the Iranian airliner, as the turbine inlet temperature moved back down into normal operating range. The pilot keyed her intercom. “Everyone on oxygen. Tune to start prebreathing and do a little purging.” She wanted to get nitrogen out of everybody’s blood for when they depressurized at altitude. No point in risking a case of the bends. Then: “Thank you, Mr. Lockheed.”

*

Incirlik, Turkey

Mado was staring at Stansell. The AWACS had not answered the colonel’s question about the status of Scamp One-One but had told them to standby. Now the command post Emergency Actions Controller was copying another encoded message from the AWACS. “Send the recall message,” Mado growled, his decision finally made. He scribbled his name across the bottom, releasing it for transmission.

“Better wait for her to decode that,” Stansell said, still playing for time. Again, Mado hovered over the young woman, willing her to hurry. But she would not rush the decode procedure and risk making a mistake.

Finally it was done and the general snatched it from her. He turned and studied the mission-status board that listed all of Task Force Alpha’s aircraft. All were mission-capable and ready for takeoff.

“Excuse me, sir,” the controller said, “I have to throw that message in the burn bag when you’re finished.” Mado handed it to her and walked away. She smoothed it out and handed it to Stansell.

Stansell read the one-line transmission from the AWACS:

TARGET AIRCRAFT INTERCEPTED AT 1738 ZULU.

A close one, Stansell thought, handing her back the message along with the recall message that Mado had almost sent.

“Relay the intercept message to the Pentagon’s command center,” he said, and walked after Mado. He found him by the coffee pot. “Sir, it’s a waiting game now. It will be at least four or five hours before we hear anything. I’d suggest trying to get some rest…there are bunks set up in a back room…I’ll notify you the moment anything comes in.”

Mado shook his head. “I’ve got to stay on top of this.”

Stansell headed for the bunk room, shaking his head, convinced the general would be a basket case by the time they got on the ground inside Iran. He glanced back over his shoulder. Mado was pacing back and forth, nervously wearing a path in the floor.

Chapter 38: H Plus 2

Western Iran

Sue Zack was bent over her navigation table, facing the right side of the aircraft. She had pulled the blackout curtain around her and turned up the table lamp, giving her enough light to work by on the darkened flight deck. Her oxygen hose kept getting in the way whenever she moved and she kept pushing it aside. “Pilot, navigator”—she always tried to maintain proper intercom discipline—“problems.”

“Go ahead,” Kowalski acknowledged. Because they were wearing oxygen masks they could hear each other breathe when they keyed the intercom to talk.

“We haven’t got the winds to drop the Rangers as planned. They’re out of the north but not strong enough. If we were higher, maybe thirty-four thou instead of twenty-eight…”

“Hank,” Kowalski said. “You on?” A grunt confirmed that the loadmaster was on headset. “Send Captain Trimler and Sergeant Baulck up to the flight deck.”

“Be a few minutes, they have to get out of their gear.”