"Sorry to hear it." DeWitt took a long breath, then grabbed the cup of coffee Jaybird handed him. "If I pass out on one of our training runs, don't call just any doctor, get me straight to my urologist for a hormone transplant."
Jaybird came back in grinning and tossed DeWitt a small plastic bottle. He read the label. "Might help," he said holding it up. "One-a-day vitamins." They all laughed.
Kat stowed the gear that Jaybird had issued her in her locker. It included all sorts of items she wasn't familiar with, including some kind of a SCUBA device she figured must be a rebreather for underwater swimming. She had everything in shape when Jaybird came back.
He had a black tow bag beside an assortment of weapons.
"Long guns, today, Lieutenant. I'll drive the car around and load this for you. Also I've included some MREs and two six-packs of Coke. I think the L-T will take along a cooler with some ice. Might as well make it a real picnic. Not many fast-food places where you'll be going."
Kat went back to Murdock's office.
"The atmosphere in here has changed since yesterday," she said. "Now there's an excitement, an electrical charge. Reminds me of the last few minutes before a race."
"True," Murdock said. "We've got those two men heading for Saudi Arabia. It's like this is the real start of our mission. Now all we have to do is get the rest of the troops ready and get into Iran. Let's hope they do a good job."
Jaybird ordered the additional cammies for Kat, got the travel chits cut for the two SEALS, and grinned at the open-ended orders. The two men were to report to an Air Force base near Ridyah, Saudi Arabia, for an indeterminate time period, and would SEE to the base commander for further instructions. He'd never seen orders quite so vague before.
Kat and DeWitt got off on their drive to the east country, where the Navy had an unofficial firing range.
Murdock and Jaybird drove Franklin and Douglas to North Island with five minutes to spare before flight time. They put on flight suits and stowed their MP-5's beside their feet. Five minutes later, the two Navy F-14 Tomcats raced down the runway and lifted off. They would do midair refueling three times and set down in Saudi Arabia, nonstop.
The Tomcat can do about two-thousand miles to a tankful on a hop in ferry mode.
The Toms carried minimum arms — two Sparrow missiles and two Sidewinders. They would be flying over no disputed territory. At a top speed of 1,500 mph they would be doing nearly Mach 2.34 and searching for favorable tailwinds.
Yeoman Second Class Colt "Guns" Franklin sat in the rear seat of the F-14 and marveled at the wonder of it all. It was his first ride in a supersonic fighter of any kind. He'd almost lost his lunch when they took off from North Island. He listened to the chatter between the pilots. He could see the other F-14 to his right, just far enough away so the two planes wouldn't interfere with "clean" air ahead of them.
He knew they would do air-to-air refueling. That would be something to see. He'd watch the other plane get the fuel, since he couldn't see much out the front.
Guns wasn't even sure where they were flying. He figured they'd have to cross the U.S., pick up some fuel partway there, and then head for where — Greenland? They weren't going over the pole; he knew that from their talk.
Fifteen hundred miles an hour. In two hours they would be all the way across the U.S. Damn! That was moving. He didn't even want to figure how fast that was in feet per second. He looked at the radar and intercept instruments in front of him but didn't touch anything. They fascinated him but scared him, too. He didn't want to push a button and fire a missile. Could he do that? He didn't know.
A little over six hours later, the two fighters contacted the control tower at a U.S. Air base outside of Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. Both pilots had landed there before. Guns couldn't figure out why.
Once out of the planes, Franklin and Douglas were taken to the field's commanding officer. He sent them down the hall to a small room where a civilian sat waiting for them. He shook hands with them and began chattering in Farsi.
Douglas shrugged.
Franklin cocked his head to one side, then replied in the same language "Sir, your accent is rather weird, or maybe it's mine, but I can understand you with no trouble. Is your accent the correct one for modern-day Tehran?"
The CIA man smiled. "Mine is out of date, I'm sure, in a growing, changing language, but the important thing is that you understand, and can communicate. Your friend isn't so lucky."
"He knows no Farsi, but he's a whiz with a SATCOM."
"Good. We'll need you both."
They went back to English.
"Welcome to Saudi Arabia, men. I understand you're both SEALs from San Diego. Yes, we know that you're not spies, not trained to gather intelligence on foreign soil. What we'll want you to do is to back up and protect our man who is in country doing that job.
"You'll get civilian clothes, and two changes. You have HK M-5's, I understand. Good German make. There will be nothing except your English to tie you to the U.S. Now, we'll get you fed, and then you can catch some sleep. You passed several time zones, so you'll take a day or so to adapt.
"You'll have identity papers if you need them, but try to stay away from anyone who might ask for them. You were told you might go in HALO. A change here, gentlemen. We have too far to fly to penetrate the Iranian airspace at that altitude, which would show up on their radar.
"Instead we'll go in low and mean, hope to stay under their radar. You'll be riding in a big mother, a specially equipped MC-13 °Combat Talon. It's also called a Hercules and can carry seventy-four troops fully combat-ready. You'll have the space all to yourselves.
"This plane is especially equipped for exactly this type of deep-penetrating covert missions. She's painted all black and with no U.S. Air Force markings or insignia. The crew will be carrying no U.S. identity and their uniforms are strictly non-U.S."
"So if we get shot down, nobody can say we're Americans," Franklin said.
"Quite right and for good reason we won't claim you are. You'll get on board, and jump off a rear loading ramp on the plane. Plenty of room. We'll be dropping you off at no more than a thousand feet, depending on the terrain. Your chutes will be on static lines for instant deployment. You should have fifteen seconds before you reach the ground, so be ready. Have you ever jumped this low before?"
"Ten times or so," Franklin said. "No problem."
"We'll go in at night, right?" Douglas asked.
"Yes. You'll get a ride up to Kuwait, and from there the MC-1 30 will take off for Tehran. We plan on dropping you about fifty miles this side of the city. Tehran has seven million people now and growing. We'll try to hit near a main highway where you can catch a bus to get to the city, and find the meet. It will all be spelled out on a paper for each of you. Don't let anyone see that paper."
The civilian looked at them for a moment. "That's about it. Any questions?"
"Does the Company put any restrictions on us? We're basically a shoot-and-scoot-type operation. This won't quite be that, I'd guess."
"No restrictions. However, if there's a body count, it will bring out the Secret Police by the hundreds. They don't like anybody but themselves killing people in Iran."
"Foul-ups," Douglas said. "Say we get to the meet, and this George isn't there? Say George got himself killed. What do we do then?"
"You have a SATCOM. I'd hole up somewhere and ask for instructions. We'll be listening for you twenty-four hours a day. You should listen for us at midnight and six A.M.
"We know what George is trying to find out," Franklin said. "We're not spooks, but we'll do what we can to help him, as well as protecting his ass."
"Good. You'll be shown to quarters now for some food, and then sleep. Tomorrow you'll get a ride up to Kuwait." The man pointed at the door, and two Air Force men came in. "Right this way to your quarters, men," a corporal said. "Where's the food?" Franklin asked.