The operator on the main scope was reading a newspaper and at first missed the weak strobing. Only on the eighth sweep of the antenna did he lower the newspaper and see the streaks of light that indicated a jammer was transmitting. He dropped the paper in a drawer and keyed his boom mike with a foot pedal, calling his superior in the control center at Maragheh ten miles away. “Sir, I have jamming activity.” As expected, there was no answer. The operator spun the cursor ringing the scope and read the bearing to the jamming while he measured off the distance. “In Turkey,” he muttered to himself. Again, he tried to contact his superior. This time a voice answered and the operator updated the officer at Maragheh. “I have light to moderate jamming bearing two-eight-zero degrees at ninety-six nautical miles. This is in Turkey, twelve miles from our border.” He keyed the button that allowed him to interrogate the IFF Mode One of U.S. and NATO military aircraft. The screen lit up with six responses. “I also have six Mode One responses squawking two-one,” he said.
“Do you have skin-paints only?”
“Searching now.” The operator twisted the receiver-gain knob, sending more high-frequency radio energy into the atmosphere. The returns on his scope blossomed, making him blink. Again he keyed the IFF, correlating the skin paints with the IFF squawks for both Mode One and Three. “All are squawking correct codes, sir. No unidentified skin paints.”
“Read the bulletins I sent you,” the officer said impatiently. “That is an announced joint Turkish-American Air Defense exercise. They are using AWACS and EC-130s operating out of Incirlik. Four of the aircraft you are monitoring will break off and head west in a few minutes. They are interceptors under the control of the AWACS. You should monitor in-flight refuelings and more interceptors from time to time. The exercise will last three weeks. Only report unusual activity, as I directed in my last bulletin.”
Eleven minutes later the radar operator tracked four targets as they broke out of the race-track pattern they had established and headed to the west. Impressed with his superior’s foreknowledge, the radar operator turned the receiver-gain down to a lower setting, reducing the glare of the scope, and pulled out his newspaper.
Sundown Cunningham had opened the curtain on operation WARLORD.
The summons from Major General O’Brian, commander of the Tactical Fighter Weapons Center, came at 0902 hours Monday morning. By 0909, Stansell was standing in his office, surprised to see Captain Hal Beasely there. Before he had a chance to find out why the Beezer had been called in, O’Brian was talking. “Interesting reports from the gunnery range,” he said, adjusting his glasses, reading from a report. “Seems like your Captain Beasely here has put in some impressive performances with his AC-130. The range control officer says he can fire that 105 cannon of his at four or five rounds a minute. Highly accurate. Never seen a rate of fire like that from a gunship.” He looked over his glasses at Beasely. Stansell was puzzled. He was sure they were being called on the carpet, but why?
“Too bad the captain doesn’t believe in safe sex,” the general continued, his voice changing tone, threatening.
“Excuse me, sir,” Stansell said. “I wasn’t aware of any problem—”
“Colonel Stansell,” O’Brian interrupted, “your captain here and his crew threw one hell of a wingding in the BOQ Saturday night, or more accurately, Sunday morning. They imported some hookers from downtown … one they call Thunder Thighs.” The general stood up. “You’ll not turn my BOQ into a whorehouse. Do I make myself clear? Beasely, get the hell out of here while I chew on your boss.”
The Beezer saluted and left.
“Colonel,” O’Brian said, sitting back down, “control your people. I was talking to General Cunningham over the weekend and I realize you need that gunship and Beasely is, without a doubt, the best man in the business. But don’t let it happen again.” He nodded, indicating he was finished. Stansell saluted and turned to go. “Colonel, why in the hell did Thunder Thighs tell Beezer to grease his ears?”
Stansell beat a retreat. The general was, in some ways, an innocent.
Beasely was waiting outside. “You stepped in it this time,” Stansell told him. “Time for a little growing up. Come with me.”
An hour later they were in a helicopter circling the mock-up Chief Pullman had built in Tikaboo Valley. Stansell stuffed a photo of the prison he had taken from Dewa’s office into the captain’s hand. “Look familiar?” he yelled over the noise. Beasely studied the photo and the mock-up. “You know who’s in there for real?” Stansell jabbed at the photo. Beasely jerked his head yes. “That’s your next practice target,” the colonel shouted, pointing at the mock-up.
Back on the ground at Nellis, Beasely was much subdued, no more jokes. “Excuse me, Colonel Stansell,” he finally managed, “can I tell my crew what you’ve just shown me?” Stansell shook his head. “Don’t worry, sir, you can trust me. My act’s together now and you’ve got the best damn gunship crew in the Air Force. Fucking count on it. Sir.”
The screams from the Box in the basement reached up the stairs into the three stories of the prison. The guards shut the heavy steel doors that opened onto each floor, but the screams still traveled down the wide corridors. It was a primeval shriek coming from the depths of a madness that tore apart the veil of sanity and let all who heard it know the reality of total despair.
Four guards rushed to the basement and crowded around the Box. “How long has he been in there?”
“Four days.”
The guards braced themselves as one unlocked the door and lifted the latch. The door banged open and the American tech sergeant exploded into the room. He grabbed at the guard’s leg and clung with a death grip. The guards struggled to break his hold, and when one’s arm came too close to the prisoner’s head he bit into the Iranian’s forearm, shook his head like an animal, refusing to let go.
The two other guards methodically beat the prisoner into unconsciousness with their truncheons. The American, they decided, had gone crazy.
A fifth guard came down the stairs and took in the scene, sick from what he saw. He swore that his CIA contact would know about it within the hour.
Less than twenty-four hours later, the guard’s information had worked its way through the Deep Furrow network and reached Allen Camm’s desk.
CHAPTER 27
Allen Camm needed to talk to Susan Fisher, his case officer for the American POWs. He suspected the POWs would be the subject of the unscheduled meeting that Director Burke had called for later that morning. He buzzed his secretary, telling her to send in Fisher.
“Anything new on the POWs?” he asked her.
She handed him a thick folder. “One of our Deep Furrow agents reported last night that a POW — no name — went crazy yesterday and that a high-ranking general from the Peoples’ Soldiers of Islam visited the prison Sunday. Apparently men or supplies are moving into the deserted barracks outside the walls. We don’t know which or how much yet.”
“The status of our plan for getting the POWs out?”
“Our operative in Tehran reports that the deal between the Islamic Republican Party and the IPRP is about signed and sealed. Half of the POWs will be flown to the IPRP’s headquarters in Tehran.” A satisfied look came over Fisher’s face. “Three of our Deep Furrow agents are scheduled to fly as guards on the airliner that will move the POWs. They’re going to hijack the plane and take it to Algeria. Our agents are in position on the ground there. It’s going to look like a splinter group of the Islamic Republican Party did it.”