“Hell, Dunk, we ought’a abort the whole shoot’n match and land,” Mallard said, thinking about their time over target and hitting the target.
“No,” the navigator told him. “All they got to do is slip south on the last leg and recompute a new elapsed time from the timing point to green light for the drop. They’ll only lose a few seconds so they’ll be okay on their TOTs. Everything else is the same. We’ll drop last.” He reached into his navigation bag and pulled out the gadget he had made for emergencies like this one …
Locke was standing beside the helicopter monitoring the C-130 frequency on the Huey’s radio. He watched the first Hercules turn away and head back to the west. “Looks like an abort for number one,” he told the chief.
Another C-130 popped over the low ridge in front of them like some pterodactyl rising from its desert nest with the sun at its back. It leveled off at its drop altitude and flew straight for the panels. A small bundle dropped off the ramp under its tail and arched behind the C-130, the parachute streaming out and snapping open when it reached the end of its static line. The canister swung back and forth until it bounced on the hard crust of the lake bed. “Looks short about seventy yards,” Pullman said. “That’s good for a free drop.”
One after another the C-130s popped over the ridge to drop their loads. Locke listened on the radio as each crew fed information back to the trailing birds about the winds. Most of the drops were inside a hundred yards. Finally the lead ship reappeared, popping over the ridge slightly north of the others. “He’s off course and too low,” Locke said, expecting the big cargo plane to slip south. Instead it headed straight for the helicopter. The load dropped off the back and the parachute blossomed out.
The helicopter pilot shouted, “It’s gonna hit us,” and the three men scattered away. The concrete-filled canister swung once before it bounced twenty feet short of the helicopter, and the parachute canopy collapsed over the rotor blades.
“They blew the hell out of that drop,” Locke said.
Pullman shook his head. “Someone up there was sending us a message, Captain. They may not be what the colonel was expecting, but these guys are good.”
The first C-130 to drop was circling to land on the dry bed and came down a short final, nose high in the air. The pilot slammed the big bird down onto the hardpan of the dry lake and reversed props, sending a dust storm in advance — a giant announcing its arrival with a roar and gust of breath.
“You want me to marshal them into parking?” the helicopter pilot asked.
“Nope,” Locke said, “let’s see how they handle it.”
The C-130 completed its landing roll-out and turned toward the helicopter. The pilot played a tune on the engines, varying the prop pitch by jockeying the throttles. The bird stopped, the crew-entrance door flopped down, and a green-suited crew member with shoulder-length hair climbed down the three steps built into the door. The door snapped closed, and the woman directed the pilot into a parking position next to the helicopter, signaling the pilot to set the brakes and cut the engines.
The pilot climbed down the steps and walked toward them. “Looks like your women did the first drop,” Pullman said.
The C-130 pilot, a captain, was a woman slightly taller than Locke. Her nametag announced she was Lydia Kowalski. “Dirty pool, Captain, moving the panels like that. Any more nasties up your sleeve?”
Locke shrugged. “Just routine cargo hauling. We’re sending most of you to Elgin Air Force Base to pick up a Harvest Eagle kit — want you back tomorrow. Then you’ll all be going to Fort Benning to bring some army troops and their equipment in Wednesday.”
“What’s a Harvest Eagle kit?” Kowalski asked.
“A whole tent city,” Pullman told her. “We’re goin’ to be camping here for a while.” He didn’t add that she and the others would appreciate their time here once they got to Iran…
After turning the C-130 crews over to Locke and explaining to Bryant what he wanted done, Stansell headed for Rahimi’s office, his mouth set. He had to work his way through the crowd of Red Flag players jamming the corridors of Building 201.
“Yo, Colonel,” a familiar voice called from one of the briefing rooms. It was Snake Houserman from Luke. “Didn’t know you were here.” Snake stuck his skinny face around the door. His features alternated between elfish and demonic depending on the situation.
“Not a player, Snake. I’m a coordinator.”
“Oh, no,” he laughed, the elf emerging, “another Warlord.” He disappeared back into the briefing room.
The sign on the door to the Intelligence section said, “Open” but the combination on the four-key cipher-lock had been changed. Stansell buzzed for admittance and Dewa unlocked the door. She was alone in the office. “Wild bunch, colonel. I had to change the combination to get a little work done. You know a Captain Houser-man? He doesn’t waste any time.”
“I’ll put some salt on his tail if he’s bothering you.”
“I can handle him. How’d the briefing go?”
“I’m worried.” He poured coffee and followed Dewa into her office. She sat at one end of the Air Force issue couch. He sat at the other end and told her about the meeting with General O’Brian and the C-130 crews.
“It doesn’t make sense,” he said, “we should be working with Delta Force and Combat Talon C-130s from the 1st Special Operations Wing.”
“Why Combat Talon C-130s?”
“They train for deep-penetration missions like this one. Their aircraft are specially configured. They’ve got terrain-following radars, upgraded inertial navigation systems and computers for precision navigation and airdrops, not to mention more powerful engines, armor plating, jamming capability …”
Dewa went over to her desk while Stansell stared at the floor, annoyed and frustrated. She sat and faced her computer, fingers moving over the keyboard. “Let’s see if I can find out what the 1st Special Ops Wing is doing with its aircraft,” she said as she called up the data banks she could access. “Nothing, so far.” She sat back. “I don’t have access to aircraft movement. What command does the First belong to and where’s it based?”
“Military Airlift Command, 23rd Air Force, out of Hurlburt Field,” he told her.
Again her fingers went over the keyboard. “Bingo. I’m talking to the Resource Management computer at Hurlburt through MAC’s logistic supply computer. Bureaucracies are wonderful things. They like to keep track of everything. Let’s see how Hurlburt’s Resource Management office is reporting their aircraft.” She studied the screen. “What does UE stand for?”
“Unit Equipment, how many aircraft an outfit owns.”
“Colonel, Hurlburt’s computer is reporting all but two of the First’s C-130s on station. I’d say that they’re all home.”
“They should be here. We’re not getting the support we were promised …”
Dewa heard the frustration in his voice. He badly wants to be part of this, she thought, not wanting to tell him what she saw. She was a trained analyst, and evaluated all the evidence, friendly and hostile, good and bad, on both sides of the fence. And she had drawn the only logical conclusion, which she was obliged to report to Stansell, an engaging pattern that was sure to add pain to his frustration. “Rupe”—she tried to make her voice sympathetic—“deception is part of what we do … it seems you’re not going to rescue the POW’s.”