“Gambler lead is positioning for an engagement, moving between the threat and the C-130s,” Stansell observed. “Good defensive move in case they get jumped. Damn it, they’re not staying with the 130s.” Stansell’s radar followed the F-15s as they moved away from the C-130s and each pair fanned out in an arm of a wide pincher movement heading toward the orbiting F-4s. “They’re taking the bait and going to engage the HICAP.” Stansell continued talking into the recorder, detailing how Gambler flight was violating the Rules of Engagement that only allowed for the F-15s to engage when they were jumped by bandits. “Make the F-4s find you,” he raged.
He pointed his nose toward the developing engagement in time to see the four F-15s punch through the cloud deck. He followed Snake in a frequency change when he called the F-15s to the same channel the F-4s were on, and the radio burst into a wild buzzsaw of sound.
“Fox One on the southbound F-4 at eighteen thousand.” Snake’s voice.
“Lobo flight, two bandits at four o’clock, low, eight miles, on us. Just coming out of the clouds. What happened to the goddamn ROE? Brewer flight, go to second CAP.” The Phantom flight-lead was still a disclipined professional and sent four of his birds out of the engagement to another CAP point to continue the search for the C-130s.
“Skid! Break right.” From an F-4
“He’s on me! Boomer come back left.” Another F-4 in trouble. “Where’d he go?”
“Smoky, he’s coming to your six.” A F-15 was warning his wing-man.
Stansell’s lips compressed into a tight line as the four F-15s engaged the eight remaining F-4s. He headed after the C-130s and switched radio frequencies.
“Okay,” he recorded, “C-130s at two o’clock, nineteen miles. Still on course. No Joker. Dropping through the cloud deck now.” Stansell’s Tactical Electronic Warfare System buzzed at him. “Got an interceptor searching in the area. Bingo, cloud bases at forty-five hundred feet and got a bogey on the VSD. Bogey converting onto the C-130s. The bogey must be Joker.” He checked that the VCR was recording everything he saw through the HUD.
The four C-130s were working their way down-track, heading for the prison mock-up, still on time. “Tallyho,” Stansell muttered when he saw them. “Got a visual on Joker.” He watched Locke slash down onto the lead C-130, maneuvering into position for a rear-aspect missile shot.
“Puff One-One, you’ve got a bandit at your seven o’clock,” the pilot in the second C-130 radioed, warning the lead aircraft. “On you.”
“Rog,” Duck Mallard’s voice answered. “Check turns only. Don’t do anything stupid. Seven minutes out.”
Stansell watched the lead C-130 make a level twenty-degree turn to the left before returning to track. The move created a small problem for Locke before he took his missile shot. He broke the attack off before he crossed between the lead and following C-130 or broke the mandatory five hundred feet altitude separation the ROE required.
Locke then repositioned for a sequential attack, staying below the cloud deck. He rolled onto his back and pulled his nose toward the ground and swooped down onto tail-end Charlie, dropping his F-4 like a giant bird of prey. Another voice came over the radio. “Puff One-Four, the bandit’s on you.”
“Roger.” Stansell could hear the strain in the pilot’s voice. The big cargo plane jerked to the left, lowered it’s nose and continued a hard downward turn.
“Puff One-Four is trying to generate an overshoot by turning into Joker,” Stansell recorded. Then, “Puff One-Four,” he yelled over the radio, “pull up!”
But it was too late. The left wing of the C-130 caught the ground and the cargo plane cartwheeled into a fireball. Dense black smoke pillared into the sky, a dark beacon marking the funeral pyre of Puff One-Four.
“Hey, Byers,” Timmy Wehr yelled across the ramp, “it’s our old bird—512.” The two crew chiefs ran toward the spot on the ramp where the sergeant from transient maintenance was standing, waiting to park the F-4.
“Look at her,” Byers shouted as the engines spun down. “She’s beautiful.” They watched the canopies open and the pilot rip his helmet off. He threw it over the side, letting it bounce on the hard c-oncrete, shattering its visor. “It’s Locke and Bryant,” Byers said in amazement. They could sense that something was terribly wrong as the two men dismounted. Locke ignored his helmet lying on the ramp and stomped toward building 201, Bryant following close behind.
Wehr’s voice was a whisper. “Geez, Locke was crying …”
Cunningham’s aide, Dick Stevens, took the phone call. He knew better than to hesitate and walked directly into the general’s office. “General, Task Force Alpha just lost a C-130. All five crew members killed.”
Cunningham spun in his chair, his back to the three generals in his office. Finally he turned back to Stevens. “Get Mado. We’re going to Nellis.”
Dewa saw the light in the trailer that served as Stansell’s and Pullman’s office when she pulled into the parking lot in front of building 201. Stansell’s car was out front. You’re hard to find, she said to herself. She walked into the rear office and headed for the coffeepot, ignoring him. It was almost midnight, she was tired, needed a jolt of caffeine. She took a mug and waited for Stansell to start talking.
All night if we have to, Colonel, she thought.
“My fault,” he muttered, “all my damn fault.”
“Really,” she said, her voice neutral. “You should tell Jack. He thinks it’s all his fault. Gillian is barely coping with him.”
“It was my decision to fly that exercise. I was pushing too hard trying to get us ready, and I killed five of my own people. Cunning-ham’s going to be here in the morning, the President wants to watch our final exercise Sunday, Byers and Wehr show up with the Holloman jets … Some fucking wonderful commander I am.”
Dewa wanted to shout at him to stop feeling sorry for himself. “At least I wouldn’t worry about the two sergeants being here,” she said quietly. “Holloman is here for a Red Flag exercise and crew chiefs come with their aircraft. And the President was scheduled for a speech in Vegas three months ago.”
“Dewa, I killed five of my own people …”
“That isn’t what I heard.”
“Watch.” He turned the TV on and hit the play button of the VCR. “This is a copy from the flight. The Accident Board has the original. Pullman back-doored a copy of my own tape.”
Dewa watched the accident unfold on the screen. At one point she glanced down at the counter, noting the spot on the tape she wanted to replay. The horror of the C-130 pitching into the ground and disappearing in an eruption of smoke and flames stunned her. “Oh, my God … No wonder you and Jack …”
The tape ran out and stopped. She rewound it to the particular place she wanted now and sat down on the couch next to him. “Tell me about Byers and Wehr … how they pulled you out of Ras Assanya.”
“Why? What the hell does that have to do with this?”
“Please. Just tell me.” She had to break through the image of the dying C-130 that held him, that would not let him escape.
Slowly Stansell related how the Iranians had interrogated him after he had surrendered the base. “After about twelve hours they had worked me over good, kept asking me what happened to Waters. Nothing I said seemed to satisfy them. Two of ‘em took me out to the bunker where he was killed. It was dark and I couldn’t identify anything. That made them even more angry. One of them kept screaming death to America, death to this, death to that. I was getting pretty sick of it so I shouted ‘Death to Khomeini.’ I figured the old bastard was dead so what harm would it do?”