“Those are for us,” Pullman told Kamigami.
“I didn’t know the OPORD said we got trucks,” Kamigami said.
“It doesn’t. I don’t know about you but I’m not about to walk. Hell, we’ll be long gone before the motor pool figures it out. Let the officers walk.” Kamigami threw his gear into the back of one truck and took the keys from the driver. “If you’ll get this squared away in a hangar”—Pullman swept the six pallets with a gesture—“I’ll check with munitions. We’ll be ready to bed ‘em down when the birds arrive.”
Six hours later a nervous Pullman paced the ramp in front of the hangar they had been given to use, waiting for the first C-130 to taxi in. Stansell glared at the big sergeant when he climbed down the crew-entry steps. “Chief, I told you to stay—”
Pullman threw him a hasty salute. “Big problems, sir. No GBU-12s on base. All that got shipped were GBU-15s, two-thousand pounders.” The chief knew how to switch the colonel’s attention away from his insubordination.
Stansell clamped a tight control on his anger. “Somebody screwed _up big time. Let’s find General Mado and try to sort this out. What else?”
“Under control, sir. We’re using the gym to billet most of the Rangers, got the officers in the VOQ, and the mess hall will set up a chow line in the hangar there. We can keep the troops under cover inside.”
They found the general at the back of the C-130 talking to Incirlik’s wing commander. “General,” Stansell began, “we’ve got a problem. No GBU-12s … only GBU-15s were shipped—”
“Someone really screwed up.” Mado turned to the wing commander. “We need an emergency shipment of twelve GBU-12s in here ASAP — twelve hours max.”
“I can’t make that happen, General. The Turks are real touchy about munitions coming in-country, and an emergency shipment like that is too public, too easily monitored—”
“Colonel, we didn’t come here to be grounded by some snafu and bullshit regs. Now make it happen and quick.”
“Sir,” the wing commander persisted, “I know what you’re up against but I can’t do it that quick without getting us kicked out of Turkey.”
Mado glared at him. Angry, yes, but also, it came as something of a shock to him, that he felt a degree of relief. And then he realized why. He wanted the POWs rescued, would do whatever he could to make it happen. Sure, of course … But he was, after all, an expert in special operations, and in his firm opinion he had a lot more confidence in Delta Force than in Stansell’s less organized, pick-up Task Force Alpha. Besides, there was Leachmeyer breathing down his back. He shunted aside such crass considerations as where his own career was best-served in this Delta-Alpha tug of war … Well, whatever, he wasn’t going to roll over and play dead because the wrong bombs had been shipped. “Let’s go with the GBU-15s—”
“No way,” Pullman cut in. “Too much collateral damage. We’d nail at least some of the POWs when we blow the walls if we use those bigger bombs.”
“Are you really sure, Chief?” Mado asked.
“I built the damn walls just like the Iranians did. I saw what five-hundred pounders did. I’m sure, General.”
“I’ll get a message off to the command center in the Pentagon and let them sort it out,” Mado said as he turned and walked toward a waiting car, cutting off any further discussion.
“No way, General,” Stansell growled. “Chief, you’re about to earn your pay this month. Let’s talk to Doucette and find out where we can find GBU-12s in Europe. You’re going to do some unauthorized requisitioning.”
“Now, how in the hell am I going to do that?”
“Let’s find Doucette first.” They walked into the hangar where most of the aircrews were gathering and found Doucette and Contreraz talking to a maintenance sergeant about their jet. After hearing Stansell, Doucette told them that his unit at RAF Lakenheath had GBU-12s in their ammo dump but that he doubted the 48th’s DO, Colonel Billy Joe Barker, would release them since OPORD WARLORD only required the 48th to provide F-111s and aircrews. It would take a special, coordinated authorization from higher headquarters to budge Barker since he had dealt with the Turks before, and that would take days to arrange.
“Would he even know if the bombs were sent to RAF Stonewood for a practice exercise, like an emergency munitions buildup?” Pullman asked. Doucette conceded that sounded like normal maintenance training that Barker wouldn’t be too concerned with. Pullman found a telephone and placed a long distance phone call to a friend at Headquarters United States Air Force Europe in Germany who owed him a favor. Pullman collected favors like a gambler took in markers. “The GBU-12s will be built up and waiting for us at Stone-wood. Okay, Colonel,” Pullman said, “now how in hell do we get them here?” You just don’t walk in and shanghai twelve GBUs. Munitions are tightly controlled—”
“Why don’t I go get ‘em?” Doucette asked.
“You’ve just ferried your jet in from Nellis,” Stansell said. “You’re almost out of crew duty, you should go into crew rest”
“The only people here who know that are you and me, Colonel. Von Drexler hasn’t landed yet. Hell, Colonel, flyin’ straight and level is no big deal. I’m fine and slept most of the way over here while Ramon flew the jet. Ramon”—he turned to his WSO—“file a flight plan and let’s go a’fliegening.” Contreraz ran for a pickup truck.
“What?” Pullman said. It was moving too fast even for him.
“A’flyin’,” Doucette translated … it’s supposed to be what the Air Force is all about. Another thought occurred: “Chief, we can one-hop it without refueling going to Stonewood but we’re going to need to hit a tanker coming back if we’re hauling bombs. Can you arrange a KC-135 for us?” Pullman nodded, pleased to still have something to do, and headed for the telephone to arrange it, muttering about freewheeling jet jockeys. But he was impressed.
“I’ll get a message off to Cunningham and have the GBUs released to you by the time you get to Stonewood,” Stansell said. “Just get them here ASAP.” As he watched Doucette walk out to his F-111 he decided he wasn’t going to tell Mado about his midnight requisitioning of GBU-12s until they arrived at Incirlik. He found a pickup truck and headed for the communications shack to send out his own message to Cunningham. We’re still players, General, he said to himself.
A power surge activated the protective circuits of the AN/FPS-8 radar, and the slowly rotating sweep disappeared from the radar scope as the set shut off. The operator caught it immediately and grabbed the checklist, turning to the appropriate page. “Let it cool down first,” the maintenance technician grumbled, not caring if the set was working or not. The operator ignored him and worked his way through the checklist, noting all the voltages. The radar was back on line in three minutes.
“Now what are the Americans up to?” the operator sighed as he played the receiver-gain and antenna-tilt for the best return. He could count four skin-paints — returns off a target — that did not correlate with an IFF squawk. When they disappeared off his scope he dropped the antenna tilt and recaptured the returns as they started a westbound penetration run into Turkey at a lower altitude than before. He almost stomped on the pedal under his right foot to call his superior in the control center but thought better of it. Twelve minutes later he picked up four eastbound skin-paints at low altitude inside Turkey heading straight for Iran. Again, there was no IFF squawk from the fast-moving returns. The operator watched as the returns disappeared from his scope, a good indication the aircraft were descending lower. Still, he only monitored the scope, though he was now worried about a border penetration.