Force of Eagles (52 page)

The smiles and good words disappeared when the AWACS reported that Iranian fighters were being scrambled and would be airborne within minutes.

Leachmeyer was on the stage, pointing at the last position of Scamp 15 with an electronic pointer. “…and have the AWACS relay an order to Scamp One-Five to turn to the west and escape through Iraq.”

Cunningham spun around in his chair, looking at the President, who was standing, apparently thinking about Leachmeyer’s proposal. We’ve been down this road before, Cunningham thought, and was on his feet. “General Leachmeyer, a good suggestion, but I say let the tactical director on board the AWACS make that decision.”

Leachmeyer’s tone was patronizing. “Those men are tired and not thinking, we’ve got the big picture here. It’s time we started acting like a command center.” A murmur of agreement went around the room.

Cunningham leaned forward over the console, fighting to control his anger. These people were a bunch of bureaucrats playing a war game with high-tech toys and
real
people. “Charlie, we’ve sunk billions of dollars and who knows how many hours of training into the AWACS concept. Right now those men are in the arena, doing what they’ve trained for. As a command center it’s our job to support them, keep the strategic picture in view”—he forced the next words—“and to let
them
make the tactical decisions.” He paused to let it sink in. “What you’re proposing falls under tactics…Sounds like a good idea, so tell them about it—as an option to consider. But let them do what they were trained for.”

“Gentlemen”—it was the President—“I agree with General Leachmeyer. Order Scamp One-Five to escape through Iraq.”

The major working the communications panel looked at Cunningham for confirmation. He clenched his jaw, not trusting himself to speak, jerked his head yes and sat down.

Chapter 51: H Plus 15

Eastern Turkey

Aboard the AWACS Lieutenant Colonel Leon Nelson heard the transmission from the command center directing him to order Scamp 15 into Iraqi airspace. “Acknowledge that,” he ordered. “Status of Iraqi air defense net?” he asked.

He got an immediate answer. “All stations on alert and reporting. It’s hotter than hell.” A pause. “Colonel, they’ll engage anything coming their way.”

Nelson studied the tactical display in front of him. He ran the numbers through his head for the time-distance, rates of closure, intercept geometry when the Iranian interceptors actually become airborne. He made his decision and keyed his intercom. “Disregard that last transmission from Fort Fumble.” He knew everything he said was being recorded and could be used against him in a court-martial. Then to his Fighter Allocator: “Start talking to Cowboy and Rustler flights. You’ve got trade for them.” Cowboy and Rustler were the eight F-15s orbiting with the KC-135 tanker.

*

Kermanshah, Iran

Thunder was standing behind Spectre’s copilot as he watched the three tanks move past the abandoned intersection that had been Objective Red and toward the prison. “Those tanks are moving with a ZSU-23-4 and two SA-8s.”

“Just trying to discourage us,” Beasely said.

“Captain,” Mado interrupted, “the Rangers are reaching the airfield and loading now. I want you to fly a protective cover over the field.”

“In a moment, General, in a moment,” Beasely answered. “We got troops in contact down there. Let’s give them some cover first so they can withdraw.” They could see the jeep team behind the prison wall and Baulck and Wade in the ditch.

“Damn it, Captain. That’s an order.”

“Right, sir. And I’ll comply. In a minute.” He started to orbit. “Okay troops, we’re in again. Rock and roll time.”

*

Mallard’s C-130’was rolling down the runway and lifting into the air, loaded with half the Rangers. All the jeep teams except Ratso One and Nine had pulled in and established a perimeter defense on the airfield while Gregory and his S-3 double-checked with Stansell, Trimler and Bravo Company’s captain on where everyone was. “Ratso One with Baulck and Wade are still at the prison, in contact with the tanks,” the S-3 confirmed. “No word on Ratso Nine or Kamigami and Jamison.”

“I think that’s Ratso Nine,” Gregory said, pointing at the smoke coming from the granary. “Lots of activity going on there. Have Spectre check it out.” Stansell nodded. “Okay, draw in the perimeter defense and load.” Trimler and the captain went to work. Gregory stared at the smoke billowing above the granary. “Ratso One needs to disengage and come this way,” he told Stansell. Neither man wanted to mention that they would leave them behind if they had to.

“Spectre’s engaging the tanks now,” Stansell said. “I’ll get Locke and Byers.” He motioned to his driver, and the jeep headed for the F-15 still sitting on the ramp.

“Byers, I’ve got to crank,” Locke said when he saw the jeep racing toward them. The crew chief was standing in the left main-gear well just behind the landing-gear strut, pumping. He had a breaker bar inserted in the manual pump for the jet fuel starter and his arms went back and forth as he tried to pump up the nitrogen bottle’s pressure. Normally it took 250 strokes to recharge the bottle but his quick fix was leaking.

“Do it,” Byers called out. Jack pulled the tee-handle that manually activated the jet fuel starter. Nothing happened. Byers tried to pump the bottle up again but his arms gave out and he fell to the ground exhausted, then dragged himself upright and grabbed the handle.

“Leave it,” Stansell ordered from the jeep.

Byers ducked out from under the gear well. He could hardly move his arms. “Colonel, one more time.”

“No time…”

“Help me, goddamn it,” Byers blasted. “One more time…Christ-a-mighty, Colonel, these are my jets…”

And Stansell remembered another time…He darted under the wing and pumped at the breaker bar. Slowly the pressure built, then stabilized. “
Now
,” Byers shouted, and Jack pulled the tee-handle again while Stansell kept pumping. This time the JFS wound up, hesitated, and caught, coming to life.

“You
got
it,” Byers said. Stansell dropped the breaker bar and ran back to the jeep.

The left engine successfully engaged the JFS and was soon on-line and idling. The right engine started with no problem and JFS shut down. Jack hit the parking-brake toggle and jumped out of the front cockpit and bent over the backseat. “Furry, do I ever need you now…” His hands went to the switches, setting the F-15 up for a solo fight. “Hey, Byers, want to go for a ride?” The sergeant was still waiting and could not hear him over the engine’s noise. Jack pointed to the empty backseat, then to him. Byers gave a thumbs-up.

Jack was back in the front seat, and Byers scrambled up over the left wing onto the top of the variable inlet ramp and into the cockpit. When he was in the seat, Jack taxied for the runway…

*

The AC-130 shuddered as Beasely fired the 105 at the SA-8 that was behind the tanks. He had to open a corridor onto the tanks if he was going to survive. The thin-skinned SA-8 disappeared in a ball of fire.

Before he could sight on the second SA-8 a hail of 23mm cannon fire cut into the cockpit. The C-130 had come in range of the ZSU. The armor plating under the floor boards and along the sides absorbed most of the damage, but the three rounds that penetrated the flight deck hit the crew. Thunder was standing at the top of the ladder coming up from the crew entry well. He was talking to Mado and had his back to Beasely. Metal fragments and splinters pounded into his back, throwing him against Mado, blowing the two men into the crew entry well and against the television camera mounted in the crew-entry door.

Thunder pulled himself back up onto the flight deck. The carnage sickened him. Only the decapitated trunk of the flight engineer remained. The copilot was dead, most of his head blown off. The navigator and fire-control officer were slumped forward. The navigator had a left-shoulder wound, and blood was gushing from the fire-control officer’s head.

Beasely was still conscious, face gashed and bleeding, right arm hanging down. He was flying the Hercules with only his left hand. He looked at Thunder, sending a wordless plea for help.

Thunder unbuckled the copilot’s lifeless body and dragged it back onto the flight deck. He got into the seat and grabbed the yoke, taking control of the plane. “General,” he said, “for God’s sake…” The wind blast from the holes in the right side of the cockpit drowned his words.

Mado was back on the flight deck, still dazed from the fall. He shook his head, not knowing what to do. “Beasely,” Thunder called out, “tourniquet on right arm…help me.”

Mado reacted slowly, then more quickly as his head cleared. The Sensor Operator from the booth was on the flight deck helping with Beasely as Mado crawled into the pilot’s seat. “I’ve never flown a C-130,” he told Thunder.

Neither have I, Thunder wanted to say.

Mado headed for the airfield, gaining some confidence. The tee-handle for number-four engine on the fire-emergency control panel was lit up. Thunder looked out his shattered side window to check on the engine, which was a mass of flames. “Fire on number four.”

Mado feathered number four, he would only be flying on the left two engines. Could he do it? Could he gain enough altitude for them to bail out? Trying to land had not crossed his mind. “It’s getting worse,” Thunder told him.

“Feather number four,” Mado said. Thunder reached out and pulled the tee-handle, shutting the engine down and shooting the fire-extinguisher bottle. Mado looked at the center console, then moved the number-four throttle aft and the flight-condition lever to the feather position, matching number three. The plane started to descend. They could not maintain altitude on two engines. Mado pushed the two good throttles up and lowered the flaps, trying to gain altitude.

A gunner from the rear came onto the flight deck to help the wounded. “Stop lowering the flaps,” he said. “The hydraulic drive motor can’t hack it.” Mado looked at the sergeant and disregarded his warning as they headed for the airfield. He decided they were going to land on the runway. By the numbers…

*

“The Herky Bird’s had it,” Baulck told his partner Wade, “and do we need him now.” The lead tank was less than four hundred meters in front of them.

“I really hate this,” Wade said as he sighted the Dragon and sent the missile on its way. At the same time the jeep team from behind the wall sent another Dragon into the tank. The two missiles hit the tank on opposite sides, and a mass of flames and smoke broke over the tank. When the smoke cleared the tank had stopped its forward motion but its turret was swinging onto the prison and the barrel of the 122mm cannon was lowering, aiming at the prison wall where Ratso One was hidden.

“Those muthas just don’t want to get the message,” Wade mumbled, jamming his last missile-launcher onto the tracker. He aimed, squeezed the trigger, and this time, the tank exploded.

*

Stansell was holding the mike to the UHF radio he had thrown in the jeep as he watched the F-15 takeoff. Jack had to use his after-burners to get airborne on the short strip and now was rapidly gaining altitude. Abruptly the nose came down and the plane arced away.

Thunder’s voice came over the radio, demanding his attention.

“Lifter, this is Spectre. In-bound at this time for emergency landing.”

“Say emergency,” Stansell responded. In a few short words Thunder recounted their situation and how Mado was flying the plane. “Land on dirt strip north of main runway,” Stansell ordered.

“Roger,” Thunder acknowledged. Stansell watched as the disabled C-130 came into view, trailing smoke. It lined up on the main runway, pointing directly at the waiting Kowalski.

“For Christ’s sake…” Stansell growled and keyed the radio. “Scamp One-One, taxi clear of the runway.”

“Roger,” came the reply. Kowalski’s bird was moving, and she taxied off the main runway and onto the dirt strip.

*

“Right main isn’t coming down,” Thunder said. “Retract and do a gear up landing.” Mado said nothing. Thunder pulled up the gear handle.

“What the hell!” Mado exploded. The flight controls had just become very heavy.

“There’s hydraulic fluid all over us from the flap-drive motor,” a voice from the rear shouted over the intercom. “It blew a seal. Hit the emergency hydraulic switch. You gotta isolate the utility system.” The flap-drive motor had ruptured and was spewing flammable hydraulic fluid over the crew in the rear. Thunder scanned the instrument panel in front of him until he found the switch and toggled it down, and Mado could feel the controls again respond.

*

The AC-130 gunship came down final, much too fast for a normal landing. Mado pulled the nose up as it touched down on its belly. A shower of sparks and smoke trailed behind the big plane as it skidded along the concrete. Mado worked his rudder pedals, using the big vertical stabilizer, trademark of the C-130 for maintaining steering authority. At the very last the plane ground-looped to the left and came to a halt half off the runway. Smoke belched from the right gear well as the left two props spun down.

A man jumped off the rear ramp and ran for safety, then stopped and ran back, helping to carry Beasely off the plane. Four more jumped down and carried off two wounded. Beasely’s men were leaving as a crew. Rangers ran from Kowalski’s C-130 to help them. Stansell counted thirteen off the plane, two obviously dead. A tall figure jumped off the ramp. It was Mado. Stansell ran to the general. “Is this it? Everybody off?” Mado nodded dumbly. “Where’s Thunder?” Mado stared at him, then pointed to the flight deck. Flames were shooting out the rear of the plane as the hydraulic fluid ignited.

Stansell ran to the front of the Hercules, to where the low-light-level TV and laser-target ranger were bolted into the open crew-entrance door. His small size worked to his advantage as he squeezed around it and up onto the flight deck. Thunder was still strapped into the copilot’s seat, unconscious. Stansell ripped at his lap and shoulder harness, freeing the big man. A groan urged him on. His hands, wet from Thunder’s blood, slipped. He grabbed Thunder’s flight suit and dragged him to the crew-entry well. The rear of the aircraft was a wall of flame.