Mado, a master at judging Cunningham’s reactions, had sensed from the moment he and Stansell had entered the general’s office with Rahimi that it would be a rough meeting.
“Okay, Colonel, what the hell does this tell me?”
“The POW compound is 275 nautical miles from the tri-border region of Turkey, Iran and Iraq. For a slow mover like a C-130 at low level, that’s about an hour’s flying time—”
“Dammit, colonel, be specific.”
“One hour and eight minutes from time of penetration of Iran’s border to the prison at 240 knots indicated airspeed. Low-level all the way. Given the increasing capability of the Iranian air defense net that’s a long time over hostile territory. That’s why they need a combat air patrol for escort.”
Cunningham lit a cigar and drew it to life. He liked the way Stansell refused to be intimidated.
Mado read the signs and started to relax but quickly put himself back on edge, giving the appearance of being worried. The cigar was the clue to the general’s attitude, and Mado did not want Cunningham to know that someone could read him enough to anticipate his reactions.
“What type of aircraft do you want for the CAP?”
“Strike Eagles — F-15Es,” Stansell said.
“You want to put at risk one of the most cosmic jets I own? Not at twenty-nine million dollars a copy.”
“It’s also the most versatile jet you have, general, and can do a lot more for us than fly a CAP. We’re facing a lot of unknowns, and flexibility can make the difference.”
“Back burner that for now. What’s the other reason you’re here?”
“General, we’ve seen an OSI incident report on Sergeant Byers,” Mado told him, and summarized the report and Stansell’s connection with Byers, believing that it fitted into the cover they were building for Delta Force. Cunningham’s face told him nothing.
“Miss Rahimi,” Cunningham said, “this is your area, how do you see it?”
Dewa Rahimi looked at Stansell. Everything the colonel said and did told her how much he wanted to be part of the rescue mission, and she wanted to help him. But the connection with Byers was too obvious … “It opens up the possibility of compromising the mission if they’re also after Colonel Stansell,” she said.
“Is there any indication Stansell’s being watched?” Cunningham asked.
“None.” She felt better.
Stansell volunteered no information about the tails. Or what seemed like tails.
“I’m not about to switch horses this early on,” Cunningham said. He caught the look of relief on Rahimi’s face, quickly followed by one of surprise. Maybe she suspected something … One smart female, he thought. He would have to think harder about how to distract her and the colonel before they tumbled onto the truth — which he hated and still hoped to overcome by making a diversion into the real thing …
Now Cunningham turned on the two men. “Not enough progress, you need more people to help get this thing moving. Get ‘em. I can think of three reasons why this mission will fail — for starters, poor intelligence and piss-poor training. You’ve got to weld strangers from Air Force and Army into a tight team. Where the hell are you going to train so this doesn’t turn into a fiasco? None of the crews you’ll be using has ever been in combat. No test can predict how an individual will react the first time someone gaits to hose him down. You need a training program. So what is it, and where?”
Stansell looked at Mado, who offered no support. “We’ll have all that to you by this time next week, sir. But I still want F-15s for CAP.”
Good answer, Cunningham thought. You’ll make this into plenty more than a cover operation, or goddamn Quaker cannon … “I’ll decide later when I see the threat estimate in your ops plan. Talk to Byers if you’re worried about him, he may be involved in something else. Dismissed.”
Stansell was convinced the meeting had turned into a disaster, especially with Cunningham’s voice chasing them out of his office … “Don’t screw this one up.”
As they walked to Mado’s office Dewa said, “Is that for real or a front he puts on as a commander?”
“Most of that was meant for me,” Mado said. “I was trying to read him, watching his cigar, and he caught me out.”
Stansell ignored the exchange. “Cunningham said to get help and get moving.” There was an edge in his voice. “General, I know you’re working eighteen hours a day bringing this on line, but I’ve got to start making things happen. I know who can help, and I need airlift.”
Vahid Mokhtari, commandant of Kermanshah prison, stamped his feet on the hard dirt in front of the building that served as both administration and quarters for the guards. He could have waited in his four-room apartment in the corner of the second floor that overlooked the yard where the POWs stood punishment and he would have seen the car the moment it drove through the inner gate of the main entrance into the prison, but anticipation and impatience drove him outside. The two guards waiting on the entrance steps knew Mokhtari was not stamping his feet to keep warm in the cold night air.
The loud squeal of the outer iron-barred gate that opened into the entrance tunnel of the compound echoed through the quadrangle as it rolled back on its track. Mokhtari’s lips twitched slightly as he turned and retreated up the steps.
He was ready for his next guest.
The two guards glanced at each other, relieved that Mokhtari ignored them. They walked down the steps when they heard the outer gate winch shut. The car was in the tunnel. After a few moments they could see the inner gate split open and each half swing back, tripping the consent switch that activated the ramp. The tracks of the ramp had been greased earlier that day and now it moved silently, covering the deep pit in the entrance tunnel and allowing the car to drive through.
The headlights of the car swept the compound as it turned toward the waiting guards. The main building was dark except for the light in the office window at the end of each floor. Two heads appeared in the window of the top office on the third floor and watched the car drive in and swing up to the smaller administration building.
A series of tap codes began working through the walls of the main building, alerting the inmates of the car’s arrival. Unseen faces crowded into every barred window that overlooked the compound while other inmates listened for any reaction from the guards. The building became eerily silent.
Colonel Clayton Leason, the senior ranking officer who commanded the POWs while they were in captivity, pulled himself out of his bunk and joined his cellmate at the window. “What do you think, Doc?”
“It’s too late for normal business. Maybe a courier, or they’re bringing another prisoner in.” Both men stared into the night, looking for clues, gathering whatever wisps of information they could use to resist their captors.
When the car stopped beside the two waiting guards a man jumped out of the front passenger seat and jerked the rear door open, then reached in and pulled out the lone occupant. “She’s yours,” he said, and got back into the car. The driver mashed the accelerator and spun the car’s wheels, kicking up a shower of dust as he headed for the gate, anxious to leave the prison.
The two guards grabbed the woman and hurried her up the steps. The black canvas bag over her head hid her features. Stiff from the long ride, she stumbled on the steps and fell, only her handcuffed wrists in front of her helping her break the fall. The guards pulled her to her feet and guided her into the building and to the basement office where Mokhtari was waiting.
The tap codes started again.
The woman pulled herself to attention when the guards released her. She could see light through the bottom of the bag and was aware that three other people were in the room. All men, she thought. Her latest set of jailers.