But he was still the first sergeant of the 45th Tactical Fighter Wing. The POWs were his men. Pullman couldn’t shake off his sense of responsibility for them. He had become the wing’s first shirt because he knew when to cajole, teach, bribe and kick people along. And now the captain was standing in front of him, asking that he finish his job and do what all first shirts did when they got to the bottom line — protect their people. It wasn’t a debt he owed, it was an obligation he had undertaken when he started his climb through the ranks to become one of the top noncommissioned officers in the Air Force.
“Chief, I know that, and they’re behind us. But you know the people, the working troops who can make things available to us. You can make that happen double-time.” Locke had played his last card.
“I’m about to collect my biggest marker,” Pullman said. He picked up the phone and hit the button to the wing commander’s office. “Sir, I’ve got to talk to you. Something has come up.” He walked into the hall, heading for his commander’s office.
Minutes later he was back, a rueful look on his face. “The Old Man wasn’t happy when I told him I wanted to postpone my retirement. He says the next ceremony will take place at the out-processing desk in base personnel. Hell, that’s nothing compared to what my wife is gonna say.”
The stream he had been following through the rugged Zagros Mountains of western Iran cascaded out of a canyon and turned southward, flowing into a long valley. Carroll could see an occasional clump of small shacks nestled along the streambed where families tried to keep a farmstead alive. He was surprised by the number of people who lived in the area, grazing mostly goats and irrigating small plots of land. It was hard to disappear.
After burying the woman and man in a shallow depression, Carroll had scrambled down a steep embankment at first light and headed cross-country until he stumbled onto the stream, which he was willing to follow until it turned south, away from where he wanted to go.
He found a spot in a clump of bushes that surrounded a small pool of water and made sure he used his right hand while he ate the last of the bread he had been rationing. It seemed like he was always hungry. He washed his shirt and pants and spread them out to dry. After shaving and washing himself, he stretched out in the warm late October sun. Trying to figure what the hell he should do.
Had the passengers on the bus or the driver reported the incident to the authorities? From the way the driver had acted and the passengers had almost thrown the man and woman off the bus, he doubted it. But it only took someone to start asking about their missing relative and that would lead to the bus. He had two, maybe three more days to find cover. Luck had to be running out. He couldn’t help talking in his sleep, and being left-handed eventually would probably trip him up. Islamic cultures demanded that the right hand be used for doing “clean” things while the left be used for “unclean.” One slip and he would be recognized if, say, someone caught him eating or leading with his left hand. How did he get himself into such a mess, he asked himself, a sense of total aloneness adding to his misery.
The images that drove him came back, much as they always did, were violent and crystal clear — his final hours at Ras Assanya … his commander Colonel Muddy Waters ordering him out and he refusing, remembering too Waters then telling him to stay with the flight surgeon and help with the wounded … the surrender of the base and the terrible moments when three Iranians broke into the aid station and started shooting, hitting the sergeant on the operating table while Doc Landis was working on him … He had shot one of the Iranians in the face and killed the other two before escaping into the night. But Doc Landis was left behind, still trying to save the wounded sergeant on the operating table. He’d made it to the beach and was in the water for over four hours. When he did reach safety he made a promise to follow the last order his commander had given him — help the wounded, the ones left behind …
Lying in the sun on that rock beside the quiet pool, Carroll knew he had to go on but he needed allies. He searched his memory for all he had read on Iran. His duties as an Air Force intelligence officer had given him information to draw on, but blending what he knew into action was tough. He tried to recall the intel summaries and maps he had seen about Kurdistan, the undefined area to the north about the size of Wyoming that stretched through Iraq, Turkey and Iran. Okay, he decided, he knew where he’d likely find the help he needed.
He dressed and forced himself to start walking away from Kermanshah, where the POWs were, and toward the airport at Ahwaz, a town one hundred and fifty miles to the south.
He needed to catch a flight. He needed some allies.
Captain Bryant was waiting for Stansell when he came into building 201, the home of Red Flag at Nellis Air Force Base. The building was surprisingly quiet for 7:30 A.M. “Sorry, Colonel, we’ve got a problem I can’t handle,” Bryant told him, tension in his voice. “A real — kludge.”
“Is that ASTRA lingo?” Stansell asked, looking at the big captain.
“Yeah. Kludge means bottleneck. In this case it’s one Colonel Wilford, Red Flag’s commander. He’s bent out of shape and is digging his heels in. Not much cooperation. He claims we’re getting in the way of his mission.”
“I know Wilford,” Stansell said. “First name’s Tyrone. We used to call him Tyrant Wilford. I’m gonna have to get his attention real quick.”
Bryant followed Stansell to Wilford’s door. “Wait out here, this may not be pretty,” Stansell said, knocking on Wilford’s door.
“Come,” said the commander of the 4440th Tactical Fighter Training Group known as Red Flag. Wilford did not offer Stansell a seat when he entered. “Well, colonel, it seems your captain, the big black guy, wants to take over my operation. I run the biggest, the best, the most for real war game in the Air Force. Nobody comes as close to the big game as we do. Red Flag teaches our fighter jocks the pressure of war, the sensory overload, the disorientation of flying in combat. We get the tactical Air Force ready for the first ten days of combat and you’re not going to get in the way of that.”
“Mind if I sit down? This sounds like a pitch for a bigger budget.”
Wilford pointed to a chair. “Colonel, I don’t make dumb-ass jokes around here. I’ve got fifty-six jets with their crews landing here tomorrow for the next exercise — which starts Monday. I’ve also got a cryptic message from some paper-pushing flunky in the Puzzle Palace saying to support you and your Task Force Alpha. Then a captain with a sexy foreign number shows up wanting to use my facility. No way José. In case you didn’t get my message, read my lips.” The burly colonel leaned across his desk, his face rigid, humorless.
“Can I borrow your phone?” Without waiting for an answer Stansell dialed a number. “Dick, Rupe Stansell here. I’m having a little trouble convincing the commander of Red Flag that I need his help, can you explain it to him?” He handed the phone to Wilford. “I think you know who Dick Stevens is — Cunningham’s aide.”
Wilford did all the listening. Gently he replaced the phone. “Stevens asked if I knew why they call Cunningham ‘Sundown’.” The Air Force’s chief of staff was legendary for ordering colonels to be cleared off base by sundown when their performance fell short of his standards. “He wouldn’t tell me what you’re doing but it seems I’ve two choices, help you or start packing. Colonel, it looks like I don’t have a say in the matter. I’ve got three old forty-foot trailers in the parking lot out front you can use. But for God’s sake keep what’s her name—”