“Quantity has a quality all its own,” Leachmeyer shot back. “We’re ready to go.”
“And compromised in two weeks.”
“When will Task Force Alpha be ready?” Scovill asked.
“Ground transportation should be available Saturday. We still need to get a portable tacan station in place near Kermanshah for our paratroops to home on. That should happen Sunday. We’re having a final mission rehearsal the same day.”
“You’re relying on the Israelis and betting on the come,” Leachmeyer grumbled. “You’re not close to being ready, and the President ought to be told that.”
“Deal with facts,” Cunningham said.
“I am.”
Cunningham chewed on that. Why is he so confident? Who’s he been talking to? Mado? “Well,” he finally said, “who was it that said a good plan violently executed now is better than a perfect plan next week.”
“Patton,” Leachmeyer said.
“Right. And I think the President ought to be told that. Task Force Alpha will be ready to go after Sunday.”
The garage-warehouse compound was a noisy place as the Kurds loaded the trucks. The Iraqi insignias and sand-colored paint had been artfully painted over and the ZIL-157 trucks already had that dilapidated look characteristic of the overworked vehicles driven by fanners in the Middle East.
“Where to now?” Carroll asked Mustapha.
“Kermanshah.” A hard look spread across the young Kurd’s face. “To repay some outstanding debts.”
“Where’s Zakia?”
“She left earlier to arrange for another place like this on the north side of Kermanshah. She will be waiting.” A truck cranked to life and moved through the yard and rumbled into the wide passage leading through the building. Two boys swung open the big double-doors leading to the outside and the truck disappeared down the road. “We move separately this time and mostly at night. It’s about two-hundred-eighty kilometers. We should all be there Saturday night.” Carroll thought that it seemed a long time to cover a hundred and seventy miles and said so. “It would arouse suspicion if we all arrived on Friday,” Mustapha told him. “You know how the mullahs are about the sabbath. Besides, it will give them a chance to visit relatives along the way.”
Carroll shook his head at the “arrangements,” shrugged and looked for a truck to hitch a ride. Go with the flow, he told himself. Besides, how else?
CHAPTER 30
Jack Locke walked around the F-4E, wanting to stroke it, pat it, talk to it. It was an old friend. He ran his hand around the gunport under the long nose as memories of the time he had shot down a Libyan MiG in this very aircraft, tail number 512, came rushing back. He continued the preflight, breaking into a smile when he saw the red star painted on the left intake ramp signifying this jet had downed — an enemy aircraft. “Damn, would Byers like to see you …”
The 163rd National Guard maintenance crews had labored hard over the Phantom, returning it to almost new condition. None of its battle scars from Ras Assanya were visible, and it glistened in the early morning sunlight in its new-found glory — an old veteran ready to fight again. “Damn, damn,” was all that Jack would let himself say, not wanting to reveal what he really felt to Thunder Bryant, who was crawling into the rear cockpit.
Both men were discovering a new emotion along with their sense of déjà vu. The machine was so much a part of them that it seemed to have a life, a magic of its own. It could offer them their past accomplishments all over again. Other veterans from other wars had experienced the same emotion when they saw an old ship or airplane they had taken into combat. Now their turn.
“I can’t beam you up,” Thunder told him. “You still got to climb up the side and strap it on.” He was anxious to follow the other twelve F-4s that were starting their engines. “Got to hit the tanker if we’re going to jump the C-130s.” Locke climbed up the boarding ladder and sank into the cockpit. It was a homecoming, a reunion.
“The President was impressed with the points you made about Task Force Alpha,” Admiral Scovill was saying to Cunningham. “He still has some doubts, wants to observe Sunday’s exercise in person.”
“That’s a bit unusual …”
“He’s going to address a convention in Las Vegas Saturday night so it fits into his schedule,” Scovill said. “There’s another problem. Camm reported that our loyal allies, the Panamanians, told the Cubans that Delta Force was down there. The CIA made two Cubans watching Delta. Not good.”
Yes and no, Cunningham could not help thinking.
Staff Sergeant Raymond Byers was waiting by his F-15 when the crew van arrived. He cracked a half-smile when Stansell clambered down the steps. “Mornin’, Colonel.”
“Byers, what the hell are you doing here?”
“Takin’ care of my jet, Colonel. Timmy’s here too. He’s got an Eagle all his own now. ‘Course ain’t as good as mine.”
Stansell shook his head and did a quick preflight of Byers’ F-15. As expected, the aircraft was immaculately prepared and despite his misgivings about the appearance of the sergeant, he had to admit that few jets received the loving care this one did. He clambered up the boarding ladder, ran the before-entering-cockpit checks and settled into the seat. He continued to run through checklist items before he started engines. He did it all from memory, not needing the checklist he carried in the leg pocket of his G-suit. He shoved a VCR tape into its slot. Everything he heard or said and all that he saw through the HUD would be recorded.
A few minutes later the four escort F-15s led by Snake Houser-man taxied past. He waited until they reached the hammerhead at the end of the runway before he started engines. He was going along as a chase plane to observe the flight. His right ear had been demanding a scratch all morning. “Stop that,” he commanded. “Missing ears don’t itch.”
“Got the C-130s and F-15s on the VSD,” Stansell said, talking for the VCR to record. “They’re at my twelve o’clock, twenty-two miles, in the weeds, below a cloud deck. The cloud deck is broken to overcast at five thousand. I’m at twelve thou. The four 130s are on their low-level route, two miles in trail. Good station keeping, right on course. They’re maintaining radio silence. Good. Two F-15s are running a racetrack pattern in front, the other two are behind the package, doing the same and varying their airspeed.”
Stansell’s radio crackled as the F-4s from March checked in with Blackjack, the Range Control Center. Blackjack gave the F-4s vectors and headings, establishing a search pattern above the cloud deck, much as Iranian ground controllers would do. Stansell turned lazily away from the four C-130s, not wanting his position to give the F-4s any clues about the whereabouts of the intruders on the deck. “The 163rd is established in a HICAP,” he recorded. “No contact on Joker”—Locke’s call sign. He was flying single-ship as a wild card and would jump the C-130s if the F-15s left them uncovered and if, a big if, he could find them on the deck underneath the cloud deck.
“The package should be underneath the HICAP in about ten minutes.” The colonel had constructed a mental map and constantly updated the position of the players. Only Locke was unaccounted for. He maneuvered in a race-track pattern, sweeping the area with his radar, trying to find Locke. “No contact on Joker. He must be using terrain-masking to avoid detection.” Stansell kept up a running commentary for the recorder that he would use in debrief.
“Gambler flight”—the UHF frequency for the F-15s on the deck came alive—“twelve bogies two o’clock at forty-five miles.” It was Snake Houserman’s voice. “Split — now.”