“What’s that?” Carroll asked, looking into the bed of a truck. He was with Zakia and her contact in one of the numerous warehouse garages that crowded the outskirts of Kermanshah.
“A portable tacan,” the man explained, pointing out the antenna and power unit. “You’re supposed to set it up north of town and turn in on for the next three nights.”
“Why a tacan?”
“For an airdrop,” Zakia told him.
“Zakia, who the hell are you?” No answer. She could never tell him that she was a Mossad agent.
“Miss Rahimi, then you have no hard evidence that a movement of POWs is imminent?” This from Director Burke of Central Intelligence. Dewa was standing on the low stage, a microphone in her hand. Whenever the Joint Chiefs or the President were in the National Military Command Center, every word was taped in case a controversy came up about who said what. And that brought out Burke’s formal speaking style, intended to enhance him for the record but tending more to make him sound like a rather pompous speaker in the well of the House.
“No, sir.” She had to protect Cunningham’s source. “But events inside Iran follow a rhythm, and the political beat points to a deal being finalized between the Islamic Republican Party and the IPRP. It may have already happened. The contract will be sealed by the transfer of half the POWs to the IPRP’s control. And that will happen very soon, no later than forty-eight hours from now, certainly before their sabbath, which is Friday.”
“Pardon me, Mizz Rahimi”—everyone could hear the DCI’s patronizing tone—“but my analysts do not agree with you.”
Dewa said something in Farsi and left the stage, handing the microphone to General Leachmeyer. “You did good,” Cunningham told her.
“Miss Rahimi, we missed your last comment,” Admiral Scovill said from behind the glass.
Cunningham handed her his mike, waiting expectantly. “I beg your pardon, I spoke in Farsi. I said, ‘That’s a shame because events will prove them wrong.’ ” Cunningham half-smiled.
The President turned to his advisors. “It comes to this. Do we go tonight or not?”
“Wait until Delta gets into place,” Scovill said. “Then use them.” Burke stared out through the glass. “Hold. Wait for developments.”
“Go with Delta,” the Secretary of Defense advised.
“Turn Task Force Alpha loose tonight,” Michael Cagliari, his National Security advisor said.
“We know how Leachmeyer and Cunningham would vote,” the President said. “But this isn’t something that gets voted on.” He looked out the window, studying the men and women waiting for his orders. Instinct told him to act now, to go with Task Force Alpha. He liked what he had seen in Nevada … but they were still the second team. “How soon can Delta be in place and ready to go?”
“Day after tomorrow,” Scovill said.
There were no safe decisions. Again, he looked over the room, coming last to Dewa. She’s right, he thought. And said: “We go with Task Force Alpha tonight. Make it happen. I want to be here when the raid starts.”
Hauser and Landis stood at attention in front of Mokhtari’s desk, and for a moment, Landis found himself clinically evaluating the man, like a crazy patient in an emergency ward. Mokhtari ended that.
“Bring him in,” he ordered in Farsi. One of the guards opened the door and the Iranian prisoner, the dissipated rapist of Mary Hauser, was shoved into the same corner where he customarily waited for her. At Mokhtari’s order the man shed his clothes, sat down, and bowed his head. He did not raise his eyes from the floor.
“No more lies, damn you. Now, why were you assigned to Ras Assanya?”
“Sir,” she began, trying again to convince him she was telling the truth, “I was assigned because my superior officers were tired of my complaining, they wanted to punish me …”
“So you said. I did not believe you then, I do not now.” He pointed at a guard who grabbed hold of Landis’ shirt and stripped it off. “Have you ever seen one of these?” He picked up a cattle prod from behind his desk. He walked behind Landis, touched one end of the prod to his bare back and mashed the button in the handle. Landis flinched, moaned. Mokhtari turned a small dial. “It was set on low. Now again, why were you sent to Ras Assanya?”
“I told you the truth, must I lie to you?”
Another order and a guard drew a knife and slashed at Landis’ trousers. Mokhtari touched Landis’ genitals, mashed the button, grid watched Landis collapse to the floor.
Mary had to stop it. “… I was to see if the GCI site could be used as a communications listening post …”
“I believe you, but you hesitated. Now tell me exactly what you did and what you learned.” This time Mary did not hesitate and told everything she knew, pouring it out as fast as she could until Mokhtari held up a hand.
“A pity that you didn’t think of all this from the first. A debt must be paid, not, unfortunately, by you.” His voice hardened and he spoke in Farsi. A guard grabbed Mary and pushed her out the door. Her last view of the room was of Doc Landis bent over the desk on his stomach, and the Iranian prisoner hunched on top of him.
INCIRLIK, TURKEY
THIS IS AN EXECUTE ORDER BY AUTHORITY OF SECRETARY OF DEFENSE.
UNIT: TASK FORCE ALFA
EXECUTE: OPORD WARLORD
H-HOUR: NO LATER THAN 2400Z THIS DATE
OPTIONS: NONE
SPECIAL INSTRUCTIONS: JOINT TASK FORCE COMMANDER WILL INITIATE OPERATIONS WHEN HE JUDGES ALL MISSION PARAMETERS ARE FULFILLED.
Gregory was the first to break the silence that held the small group clustered in Incirlik’s command post. “A Go, a goddamn Go.” His voice was little more than a whisper. “Are we going to have the northerly winds we need?”
Mado took the message, his face hard. “The weatherman tells me the winds at altitude are becoming more and more northerly and building. That’s what we need, but I’m still worried about the weather. Satellite photography shows a low cloud deck hanging in the Zagros Mountains.”
“Right now we’ve got enough ceiling and forward visibility to fly a low-level route through the mountains,” Stansell told him. He turned to the men for their inputs. “The OPORD calls for a two-thousand-foot ceiling and five miles forward visibility. Can you go with anything lower if the weather gets worse?” He watched their faces, suspecting reactions would be the best indication of their confidence. Most of them were entering unknown territory — combat. Experience had taught him that men changed when the fighting started. All bets were off.
“The C-130s can go with a thousand and three,” Duck Mallard said, “if I’ve got Drunkin Dunkin as lead navigator. Otherwise we need the two thousand and five.”
No problems there, Stansell decided.
“We can take it a bit lower,” Beasely, the aircraft commander of the AC-130 gunship said. “A five-hundred-foot ceiling is okay. Still need three miles forward vis.” Thunder had said the young captain was steady as a rock, and Stansell agreed.
“The F-15s need the two-thousand-and-five for escort at low level,” Jack said, “otherwise we need to go in at a higher altitude. I can take my E model in at just about zero-zero with the terrain following radar.” Jack’s evaluation matched Stansell’s.
Von Drexler had kept silent, his face a reflection of Mado’s. Since Stansell was looking directly at him, he knew he had to commit. “We need the two-thousand-and five,” he said. “The TFR in our jets isn’t as good as it should be.”
Stansell looked to Jack. What was the matter with Von Drexler? No help from Jack. “Colonel Doucette said he could fly a mission with take-off minimums, three hundred and one,” Stansell ventured, trying to discover why Von Drexler was hedging.