“Why don’t you tell them we’re here to rescue the POWs?” Locke asked.
Dewa ruffled through a stack of messages on her desk, avoiding eye contact with Stansell. Would he tell them the truth? If not, she would still do her job, but as for the future …
The burden of command was on Stansell. It was a tricky thing, telling them the official mission of Alpha was a cover for the real operations, and at the same time letting them in on Cunningham’s intent that it be a lot more …
“We were created to be a cover for Delta Force. Officially, as of now, they’re tasked for the rescue mission.”
Dewa turned to look at him, her eyes bright.
“Shee-it,” Pullman muttered, thinking about the day Locke had appeared at Stonewood.
“This cover cost me my marriage,” Bryant said, looking at Stansell, then relented. It wasn’t Stansell who’d ripped apart his marriage. Locke shook his head. “You knew all along—”
“No, I found out last Monday when Dewa put the pieces together. I had it out with Cunningham Tuesday, and he told me there’s plenty more to it. Sure, we started life as a cover operation—”
“A goddamn Quaker cannon,” Pullman broke in.
“Chief, listen for a moment,” Stansell said. “The invasion of Normandy worked in 1944 because the Germans were looking at Patton, who was a decoy for the main force. Deception is part of what we do,” echoing Dewa earlier. “But there is one big difference between Task Force Alpha and Patton. His army only existed on paper and in fake message traffic. We’re alive and for real.”
“Big deal,” Pullman said.
“It is a very big deal, chief,” Stansell said. “If we’re good enough, Cunningham is going to make the brass look at us and think twice about who they send in after the POWs. And you’re the people who can make that happen. But you’ve got to work to make this thing happen.”
“You going to tell the troops all this?” Bryant asked.
“If I have to, but I’d rather not. Could compromise the whole deal.”
“It could happen,” Dewa said. “Foreign agents have been reported monitoring Delta Force. The OSI says we’re still clean—”
“You mean Delta Force might be compromised?” Locke could see what that would mean … “Okay, I’m still in.”
“Shee-it,” from Pullman, who also understood the possibles. “What’s another couple of weeks?”
Bryant said nothing. He didn’t have to.
And for the first time since Ras Assanya Stansell felt he was acting without looking over his shoulder for the approval of a tall, shadowy image named Waters.
“We start building fires today. Thunder, you start living with the C-130s. Get with Colonel Mallard and that lunatic navigator …” “Drunkin Dunkin,” Bryant said.
“Yeah. And work out a series of low levels that train for penetration of Iranian airspace. You’re going to have to look at the
Iranian’s radar coverage. Find gaps. Jack, the F-111s and F-15s belong to you,” he told Locke. “I don’t care where the F-15s come from but get us the best people you can and get them ready. Chief, you and me are going to work on the army starting today. How’s the mock-up coming?”
“I got the front wall, four guard towers and a cell block in Tikaboo Valley almost finished. The valley is oriented like the one in Kermanshah and pretty isolated — next to Dreamland, so nobody goes around there.”
“Dreamland?” Dewa asked.
“Yeah, the Air Force’s never-never land. Do a lot of top-secret stuff out there. No one gets near the place. We sorta fall under its umbrella. Until the mock-up is finished I found an old confinement facility at Indian River Auxiliary field the Rangers can practice on. There are twelve cells in an old World War II barracks they can blow the hell out of.”
The lone Hercules threaded the gap through the Spotted Range seven nautical miles northwest of the field, lined up on the axis of the southeast runway, popped to twelve hundred and fifty feet above the field’s elevation and slowed to one hundred and thirty knots.
“Captain Kowalski,” Pullman said. “We only needed one C-130 and she won the toss.”
“She’s looking good from here,” Stansell said.
The first stick of twenty jumpers streamed out of the C-130’s jump doors, ten to a side at one-second intervals. The drop broke off and the Hercules circled for a second run in, dropping the second stick of five. Even at over a thousand feet the men on the ground could tell the last jumper was Victor Kamigami, the battalion’s Command Sergeant Major. The first man on the ground was Robert Trimler, the young athletic captain that Gregory had picked to lead the rescue team. His second in command, First Lieutenant George Jamison, a tough black man two years out of West Point, joined him and the two reported in. “First Platoon, Alpha Company, sir,” Trimler said. “We’re your Romeo Team.” No salute — they were in a combat mode.
“Glad to see you’ve got all your combat equipment this time, captain,” Stansell said. “No more Hollywood jumps. Where’s Colonel Gregory?”
“Downtown bailing some of our men out of jail. Had some trouble at a bar last night.”
“Captain, didn’t the training schedule get posted yesterday?”
“Only for Romeo Team, sir. Colonel Gregory gave the rest of the men Saturday and Sunday off. First weekend in Vegas.”
Kamigami came lumbering up in full battle gear, an impressive sight. “Sergeant Major,” Stansell said, nodding to him. “Okay, Captain Trimler, supposedly your team is made up of experts in jail breaking—”
“The best we’ve got.”
“Good. Chief Pullman will show you what you’re up against.” He pointed at the barracks. “From now on, Romeo Team is locked in concrete, no personnel changes.”
“Sir, that decision really belongs to Colonel Gregory,” Trimler said.
“I’ll talk to him later.”
Kamigami gave a sharp nod and walked toward the barracks, wanting to inspect the cells. One of the squad leaders, Sergeant Andy Baulck, had overheard them talking and muttered, “Fuckin’ earless wonder,” loud enough for the CSM to hear. Kamigami pointed at the man, shutting off any further comments.
CHAPTER 18
“Thunder babes, what’s the distance from the front wall to the main cell block?” Locke asked.
Bryant searched through a stack of photos and diagrams on the table for the one he wanted. “Just over a hundred feet. Make it a hundred and ten, maybe a hundred and fifteen.”
“Problems,” Locke said. “Too big a bang with a GBU-15. We need something smaller than a two-thousand-pounder to blow holes in the walls. Otherwise we’ll blow out every window in the facing-side of the cell block and flying debris might puncture its walls.” Locke was working on a computer, running a weaponeering program. The GBU-15, the guided-bomb unit, with its combination infrared and TV seeker head, was the most accurate launch-andleave bomb they had. Unfortunately it was mated with a Mark 84, a two-thousand-pound high-explosive bomb. Stansell and Bryant gathered around Locke, looking over his shoulder.
Bryant butted Locke out of his chair and ran the program calling up a laser-guided version of the Mark 82 five-hundred-pound bomb. “That’ll do the trick,” Locke said. “Only, the F-111s will have to hang around and lase the target or we’ve got to get someone on the ground to mark the wall with a ground-laser designator.”