Leon Uris (15 page)

During the violent weather and turbulence, Dogbreath kept his mind on his display panels, unaware of the tension about him.

Should I have taken a spare pilot from El Toro? Damned, how could I? We only have a total of twenty men with arms. Marginal, marginal, well, hell, can’t do anything about it now. What’s that? he asked himself as perspiration beaded over his forehead. Goddammit, I should have taken an airsick pill. I cannot puke in front of these people!

“Quinn, this is Dogbreath.”

“Yo.”

“We’ve scratched the mosque as a target, so let’s examine your frontal assault plan.”

SCARAB dropped into a long, flat valley, and the air became dirty, woefully dirty. Quinn looked back and saw RAM tossed up and down, like a film with
broken threads. Yelps!

“Congratulations, men,” Cherokee said, switching on the loudspeaker system, “we made it again.”

Quinn gave a fuel reading to IV. The bitch was drinking up too many calories. IV fine-tuned the angle of the prop blades.

“Quinn to front cabin. We’re cleared of Teheran radar.”

“Dogbreath to Cherokee.”

“Yo.”

“We’re using up too much fuel. It is touch and go if we can reach the tanker plane or not. Since we’re cleared of major radar and there are no patrols in the area, shut down the terrain follower and take her up to twenty thousand and look for some smooth air.”

“I’ll see if I can run into a tailwind going our way,” Cherokee said.

“Attention, all hands,” Dogbreath said. “We will be climbing, looking for better air. Prepare your oxygen masks for deployment over your ugly faces.”

Bad time for humor. The rear cabin looked like carcasses hanging from hooks in a butcher’s freezer.

SCARAB climbed happily.

“Satellite report coming in,” Quinn said. “A few commercial flights to and from Teheran.”

“Time?”

“We are sixteen minutes behind.”

“Here we go,” Cherokee sang as his engine mellowed, caught a tailwind, and lifted her speed to a respectable five hundred subsonic knots per hour.

…Dogbreath’s head nodded as he joined his men snapping out a thirty-second nap.

“Novinski, this is Dogbreath.”

“Yo.”

“What will the wind be doing at twelve thousand?”

“One-forty at twenty-three knots, but definitely
swirling over Urbakkan.”

He clicked on the SCARAB’s loudspeaker. “This is Dogbreath. The wind doth bloweth, too strong and from iffy directions. I’d like your input. We scratched napalm as one of our ordnance and replaced it with phosphorous. We are now considering the idea of a direct courtyard landing after dispensing missiles and bombs. If we drop a phosphorous curtain, as we have practiced, we will have to fly out and circle the fort. I likewise fear that the courtyard mud might be flammable, and a fuck-up wind shift send the fire right back at us. Of course, the phosphorous could well insure our success…if it goes perfectly.”

“This is Grubb. I don’t like working with fire, it doesn’t cooperate.”

“Novinski here. How about something like this: ditch the phosphorous about ten miles downwind from the fort. It will save us nearly seven hundred pounds.”

“This is Quinn. Can’t ditch it all. We need some to have flare capacity when we rendezvous with the tanker plane.”

“IV.”

“Yo.”

“No phosphorous drop. If we light up the fort too soon, it could give the Irans several minutes to organize. We may need the flares on the way home.”

“Yo” confirmations. Dogbreath pulled down his night-vision goggles and peered from one display panel to another. The phosphorous was a damned-if-you-do, damned-if you-don’t decision. “What character this plane has,” he thought. “If we come through this, it will be a big player in the Marine Corps’ future. How do you feel, Jeremiah Duncan?” he asked himself. “Pretty good, I believe we’ve got everything covered.”

“Attention, all hands, this is Dogbreath. We are
making a variation of the landing. We will not make passes over the fort but fire our artillery from the hover position, then drop right into the courtyard. Marsh, Ropo,” he said, calling the squad leaders.

“Yo.”

“Yo.”

“This is Dogbreath. We will pick up twenty minutes, and Cherokee will reduce speed so that we hit our target precisely on the minute.”

H-hour minus twelve minutes…eleven minutes.

“All hands, check your weapons, ammo clips, and gear. Do not carry anything out of the SCARAB you can’t shoot or eat or wipe your ass with. Keep your oxygen masks on until you debark.”

H-hour minus seven minutes.

The front cabin people were all wearing nightvision goggles, and the FLIR gave a pretty picture of what was passing beneath them.

“Jesus!” Dogbreath thought. “What if we just put the SCARAB down in the courtyard and loudspeaker to the Iranians that we are an Iranian plane dispatched to take Barakat away to Teheran! No…if we landed and set up a perimeter, we’d get into a nasty fire fight when they caught on. No, we’ve got to knock out our targets. But what an idea! Never will get a chance at it…Okay, Dogbreath, scratch that one…”

H-hour minus three minutes.

Holy shit, Mother McGee! IV saw it first in the sallow green, grainy glow that lit up their screen. Further glows flashed on the display panels.

“The minaret is sticking up like the hard-on I had this morning,” Cherokee said. “IV, start lifting the nacelles.”

“Forty-five…fifty…sixty…seventy-five…”

“Nothing moving down there, Dogbreath,” Novinski said.

A slight engine and propeller thump was smoothed by Cherokee’s hand.

“We are in helicopter mode,” IV said.

“This is Dogbreath. Quinn?”

Quinn O’Connell took a reading from his display screen, then locked on to the far end of the courtyard with a laser beam. Its light could not be seen by the Iranians. There it is! The communications tower. The beam further lit up the installation buildings.

“I am locked on the headquarters building and need minimal adjustments to target officers billet and enlisted barracks. Give me ten seconds between racks.”

“Jesus,” Dogbreath said softly, “they’re all asleep down there.”

“Cherokee, this is Quinn. Take her up another few hundred feet so I can get a better visual.”

“Rotors at eighty-five degrees. We are in helicopter mode.”

As the SCARAB drifted over the fort wall, Quinn’s fingers unlocked the bomb-rack releases. If Dogbreath’s bombs were working, they’d follow the laser beam into the target.

Quinn squeezed the bomb release. “God forgive me,” he whispered. Even as the missiles hurled down on the first sleeping target, he had lined up his second target.

Everything turned into slow motion, as if moving in a dream—clouds billowed, thunder, blinding light, and madly careening air.

The pulsating waves of air billowed before a stiff wind.

“Quinn, this is Cherokee. Hold your second rack. I’m taking her up some or we’ll start shaking like a dog shitting peach seeds.”

“Yo.”

The SCARAB caught the tail end of the blast, and it shook her. Little bits of the mud buildings sent up a shower of debris, pelting the craft.

“This is Quinn. I’m locked on the arsenal.”

“This is Cherokee. I need another minute and a half—”

“Novinski, this is Dogbreath. Can you confirm that there is only a little panic activity near the installations?”

“Novinski to Dogbreath. They’re running around in circles, not even armed.”

“Cherokee to Quinn. You are free to release the balance of your racks.”

“Two fired…three fired…four fired.”

Fort Urbakkan jumped and rocked and broke apart, leveled to the ground, a deep hole gouged from the site of the arsenal.

One end of the courtyard filled up with pajamaclad, screaming, kneeling, quivering men, like ants trying to scurry from boiling water.

“Novinski, Quinn, IV…how many Irans down there?”

“Fifty, maybe more.”

“They’re still climbing out of the rubble. Seventy-five,” Quinn reckoned.

“I’d say fifty,” IV said.

For the first time since the mission began, Dogbreath blinked. He froze time to get the words out of him…“Dogbreath to Quinn. Fire all cluster bombs.”

The scene below became a horror of Irans being showered with hundreds of thousands of razor bits of steel and exploding ball bearings.

“Dogbreath to Cherokee. Land her as far away from those people as we can and as close to that tower as we can get.”

“Aye, aye.”

“Attention, all hands, this is Dogbreath. We are descending to land. It appears that we have neutralized our primary targets.”

The RAM people were so glad to be getting out of the SCARAB, they forgot fear for the moment. The plane touched down softly, sending up a small billow of dust. Ramp down!

“Let’s go!”

Twenty Marines poured out at high port and split off. Marsh’s squad made for the tower while Grubb set up a perimeter in front of the SCARAB. Meeting no opposition, Grubb moved his men carefully down the courtyard.

They saw the enemy! Survivors crawling out of the rubble—some fell to their knees and pleaded not to be killed while others held up white flags of surrender.

“Grubb to Dogbreath.”

“Yo.”

“I’ve got maybe forty, fifty Irans trying to surrender.”

Dogbreath grunted, about to give an order to kill them. There were no contingency plans for prisoners. Unless we take them down, they might organize for a suicide charge…a couple of lucky shots and the SCARAB could be hit in a vital spot.

“Dogbreath to Grubb. Have your people fire over their heads and advance down yard. Try to herd them back into the far end. If and only if you detect hostile gunfire or they make any gesture toward us, cut them down.”

The Marines moved their perimeter a bit farther, then a bit farther.

The raid had reached its critical moments. It was going too smoothly, Jeremiah thought. Nothing can shoot and maneuver like this! First blip. An Iranian
machine-gun squad was creeping atop the west wall. Grubb ordered his night-vision, shoulderfiring TOW gunner to lay one on. He did. Out in the courtyard the Irans seemed to get the RAM communication and backpedaled.

Moment of truth.

“Dogbreath to Ropo. What’s going on?”

“Ropo, can’t talk.”

Dogbreath now tensed from the torture of not knowing if Bandar Barakat had been located and was alive.

Ropo crept up a circular staircase that must have been built for midgets. His team struggled behind him like a toy train taking a sharp curve. Muffle the fucking grunts!

Ropo’s hand reached for the next step. No step there. He patted the floor. He had reached a landing. Ropo wormed himself onto it in a sitting position, back against the wall; he held his gun at the ready and flicked on a flashlight to locate the apartment door. He felt a presence. Ropo looked up to see a fat man standing over him with a pistol a few inches from his head, and caught a glimpse of the man’s face as the flashlight was kicked from his hands. Barakat!

The man said something in Farsi.

“Barakat,” Ropo said loudly, “if you shoot me, you’re dead.”

“Israelis?” asked the fat man.

“We’re from Mars,” Ropo answered, tempted to grab Barakat’s ankles and dump him.

The conversation could be heard over the command network. Those in the SCARAB sweated. The Marine below Ropo had inched to the platform but could see next to nothing. Barakat’s uneven breath became ponderous.

“Where are your guards?” Ropo asked.

“I shot them the instant I heard the bombs.”

“Can I turn on my flashlight and talk?”

The Marine behind Ropo shined a light into Barakat’s face. Ropo slammed his forearm into Barakat’s knee, sending him crashing. He fired.

“Oh, God, no!” Duncan whispered as he heard the report of the bullet.

“We’ve got him! We’ve got him. We’ll be back in seven or eight minutes.”

Jeremiah Duncan allowed himself to decompress for the first time since receiving orders to fly to Washington. No joy, no elation, no sense of final victory. Duncan, a religious man when unseen by others, nodded to God in thanks for seeing things his way this time. Novinski, Quinn, and IV reached over and squeezed his shoulder. Jeremiah accepted the touch, hunched his shoulders, and cracked his neck.

The old Marine allowed himself a moment of self-satisfaction. Jesus, he thought, all the years of planning, how many years? Forty? Planning maneuvers, raids, battles, campaigns. Now at last was a close-to-perfect operation. At least, up to this point. It seemed like something went always awry after the first shots were exchanged, and it usually boiled down to every Marine improvising with the man on his left and right to win their piece of turf. This was sublime!

“Quinn to Novinski. What kind of read can you get on your display of the courtyard?”

“Novinski here. Marsh’s squad at ten o’clock from west wall to one-third of courtyard. Grubb’s people making a move back toward SCARAB. Separation between Marines and Irans is at least sixty yards. Hold it, hold everything, something’s lying on the deck about twenty yards behind Marsh’s squad.”

“What?”

“Quinn to Dogbreath! I see it, too! Unexploded bomb!”

“This is Grubb. I see it loud and clear.”

“Dogbreath to Grubb. Can you read the stripes?”

“Black and blue, a cluster bomb!”

“Dogbreath to Grubb. Stop! You are ordered not to throw yourself on that bomb. It won’t help. Pull Marsh’s squad back, dump your ammo and missiles as planned for weight reduction. Marsh.”

“Marsh here.”

“Cover Ropo’s and Grubb’s people. Do not, repeat, do not fire near that grounded bomb, but keep those Irans pinned back. Allow no forward movement.”

“Marsh here. I’ve got it.”

Half of Grubb’s squad ditched their ammo clips, laid their missiles down, and ran up the ramp. They had to jam their way around the operating table and dispensary that had been lowered from the ceiling.

Ropo’s five-man squad burst out of the tower dragging a dumpy captive whose legs would not keep up. Into the plane! Marsh pulled his men back…back…

“Dogbreath to Grubb. We’ve got the fat man. Keep bringing your people back, but softly and at the ready.”