Stansell thought, he’s really going to be skeptical when he hears about the Army. “General O’Brian, I was planning on setting up a forward operation location on one of the dry lake beds you own. The Army contingent, most of our people, and the C-130s would operate out of there. We’d use Nellis primarily for support.”
Pullman’s back stiffened when he heard what Stansell was proposing, knowing who would have to get it organized.
O’Brian’s fingers drummed his desk. “When?”
“Tomorrow latest.”
The general walked over to a wall map of the Tactical Fighter Weapons Center. Nellis was a large Air Force Base, and when the bombing ranges and the Military Operating Areas were tacked on, the general controlled a piece of southern Nevada about the size of Switzerland. “I’m putting you at Delamar Lake. We renamed it Texas Lake for Red Flag. It’s a dry lake bed seventy-four miles to the north we use for C-130 operations. You should pass for a routine exercise. I’ll run cover for you but I’ll have to tell the Office of Special Investigations to be on the lookout for anyone interested in what you’re doing … When does Delta Force get here?”
Gawdamn, Pullman thought, the gray-haired fox doesn’t miss much.
“We’re getting Rangers and I plan to bring them tomorrow, no later than Wednesday.”
“Stansell, when you decide where to build a mock-up of your target let me know. You’ll need camouflage netting to hide it from the satellite the Russians monitor us with. And Mort, next time you want trailers ask.” The general drilled an astonished Pullman with his hard blue eyes. “I do talk to my troops. Now get the hell out of here. Your C-130s are landing in thirty minutes.”
As they retreated from the general’s office Stansell said, “Chief, why didn’t you tell me you knew him?”
“It didn’t seem important … I got his ass out of a crack when he was a second lieutenant. He was responsible for a big supply kit during a deployment exercise and some expensive tools were stolen. I found them.” Pullman wanted to change the subject before Stansell asked more questions. Actually, the chief had had to beat an airman almost senseless before he learned where the tools had been hidden. “What are you going to do with the 130s?”
“Find out how good they are and have them haul some valuable cargo.”
Lieutenant Colonel Paul “Duck”—what else? — Mallard followed the other four members of his C-130 crew into Red Flag’s auditorium. He had been there during Red Flag 85-1—the first exercise of 1985. Something’s strange, he thought. Normally a unit knew months in advance if it was going to be part of Red Flag. He looked around the large room, walls covered with plaques, flags and mementoes of past Red Flag exercises. He found the other seven aircraft commanders, each surrounded by his own crew. All of his forty crew members were there.
Mallard sat down next to his navigator, Captain Percy Dunkin. The tall skinny navigator was already asleep, probably still hung-over, Mallard figured.
“Room, ten-hut.” Pullman’s voice rang out from the back as Stansell walked down the aisle. Everyone but Dunkin jumped to attention. Mallard didn’t bother to disturb him.
Stansell proceeded to tell Mallard and his men that he needed volunteers for a tough, hazardous operation. It would include risky low-level flying, paradrops and short field landings. There might be casualties. Mallard spoke for his 463rd Wing. They were all in.
“Good. Welcome to Task Force Alpha. We start now. You’re going to launch out of here in one hour and fly a first-look low-level route to a dry lake. You’ve got to hit your Time Over Target plus or minus a minute, paradrop a dummy load on the panels that will be staked out there and do an assault landing on the lake bed. After you’ve landed you’ll be launched on your second mission. Captain Jack Locke will brief you on the route and target.”
Mallard’s copilot, First Lieutenant Don Larson, was staring at Locke. He almost twisted his head off when he made the connection and turned to look at the departing Stansell. “Colonel Mallard, I’ll bet my sweet black ass this is a biggy. Stansell is the guy that escaped out of Ras Assanya and Locke was the 45th’s Top Gun. We’re playing big leagues.”
“And you just may be lucky enough to get your ‘sweet black ass’ shot off,” Mallard said straight-faced, and punched on Dunkin until he woke up.
Forty-five minutes later Mallard’s loadmaster was signaling him to crank the C-130’s number-three engine. Dunkin was hunched over the navigator’s table still working on his map. I’ve got the world’s tallest troll for a navigator, Mallard thought. Not only is he an alcoholic, he walks around like the hunchback of Notre Dame. He also reminded himself that Captain Percy “Drunkin” Dunkin was also just about the best lead navigator in the Air Force.
Chief Pullman had a UH- 1 F helicopter, the venerable Huey, waiting on the ramp when Locke was finished with the C-130 crews. The captain was surprised when Pullman told him it was there to fly them to Texas Lake. “Don’t ask, Captain. How else you expect to get there before the Herky Birds and stake out the drop panels?” The chief threw a bundled-up parachute canopy and a bag of steel pins into the Huey and clambered on board. “Come on, we got work to do.”
As the helicopter lifted off and headed for Texas Lake seventy-four miles north of Nellis, Pullman unfolded a 1:50,000 scale map and pointed to a spot on the dry lake. He had to shout to be heard over the noise. “This is where Captain Bryant wants us to stake out the panels. He said to cut the parachute up and make a big cross.” When they reached Texas Lake the pilot sat the Huey down near the spot Pullman had marked on the map. Locke tapped the pilot on the shoulder and pointed to the southern end of the lake.
“What the hell?” Pullman yelled.
“Stansell said to throw them a curve,” Locke shouted at him as the Huey lifted off. “He was expecting C-130s from the First Special Ops Wing. He’s really pissed.”
Dunkin was standing behind the copilot’s seat, clutching a map in one hand and steadying himself with the other. He had a death grip on the left side of Larson’s seat. Two stop watches were dangling from his neck, bouncing up and down from the light turbulence, and his battered yellow baseball cap was on backward. He claimed it was lucky.
“Where the hell is the lake?” Mallard shouted over the intercom.
“Over the next ridge. Trust me,” Dunkin answered. “We’re on time.” They were the first in the string of C-130s flying five minutes in-trail. “After you pop over the ridge in front of us level off at sixty-two twenty. That will give us thirteen hundred fifty feet above the ground just like a troop drop,” Dunkin said. “The panels will be on the nose. Loadmaster, six minute warning.”
“Rog. Six minute check complete.” Master Sergeant Glen Moore had the door over the C-130’s ramp raised and a 150-pound canister of concrete with a T-10 parachute ready. He would lower the ramp to a level position after they popped.
Dunkin grabbed the back of the copilot’s seat with both hands as the ridge line filled their windscreen. “Pop … now.”
Mallard ballooned the Hercules over the ridge, trading off his airspeed for altitude and slowing from 240 to 130 knots.
When he could see the lake Dunkin shouted, “Those bastards got the panels at the wrong end of the lake. Abort the drop, circle south for another run.”
“Rog,” Moore said, “aborting the drop.” Nothing ever seemed to upset the old sergeant.
Dunkin reached back to his station and rotated his intercom switch to UHF radio. He looked over the dry lake bed as Mallard turned away, then hit his transmit button. “Ruff flight, Ruff One-One aborting first drop. The panels are at the south end of the lake. New UTMs are”—he paused while he picked off the coordinates from his map—“8150–3080. Use the western edge of the lake for a timing point.” He paused before he rattled off another eight-digit set of coordinates. “Duck, reverse course and fall in behind tail-end Charlie. We drop last.”