“Better wait for her to decode that,” Stansell said, still playing for time. Again, Mado hovered over the young woman, willing her to hurry. But she would not rush the decode procedure and risk making a mistake.
Finally it was done and the general snatched it from her. He turned and studied the mission-status board that listed all of Task Force Alpha’s aircraft. All were mission-capable and ready for takeoff.
“Excuse me, sir,” the controller said, “I have to throw that message in the burn bag when you’re finished.” Mado handed it to her and walked away. She smoothed it out and handed it to Stansell.
Stansell read the one-line transmission from the AWACS:
TARGET AIRCRAFT INTERCEPTED AT 1738 ZULU.
A close one, Stansell thought, handing her back the message along with the recall message that Mado had almost sent.
“Relay the intercept message to the Pentagon’s command center,” he said, and walked after Mado. He found him by the coffee pot. “Sir, it’s a waiting game now. It will be at least four or five hours before we hear anything. I’d suggest trying to get some rest … there are bunks set up in a back room … I’ll notify you the moment anything comes in.”
Mado shook his head. “I’ve got to stay on top of this.”
Stansell headed for the bunk room, shaking his head, convinced the general would be a basket case by the time they got on the ground inside Iran. He glanced back over his shoulder. Mado was pacing back and forth, nervously wearing a path in the floor.
CHAPTER 38
Sue Zack was bent over her navigation table, facing the right side of the aircraft. She had pulled the blackout curtain around her and turned up the table lamp, giving her enough light to work by on the darkened flight deck. Her oxygen hose kept getting in the way whenever she moved and she kept pushing it aside. “Pilot, navigator”—she always tried to maintain proper intercom discipline—“problems.”
“Go ahead,” Kowalski acknowledged. Because they were wearing oxygen masks they could hear each other breathe when they keyed the intercom to talk.
“We haven’t got the winds to drop the Rangers as planned. They’re out of the north but not strong enough. If we were higher, maybe thirty-four thou instead of twenty-eight …”
“Hank,” Kowalski said. “You on?” A grunt confirmed that the loadmaster was on headset. “Send Captain Trimler and Sergeant Baulck up to the flight deck.”
“Be a few minutes, they have to get out of their gear.”
A few minutes later they were bent over Zack’s shoulder, listening to her explain how the winds they were counting on to carry the parachutists into the drop zone weren’t strong enough. “How close do we have to get for you to make it?”
Trimler studied the map, trying to calculate the wind effect, time and distance. Baulck was much faster. “Fifty miles due north,” he told her. “We can stay airborne for about an hour at this altitude, and our chute has a forward speed of twenty-five knots. But we got to clear some high mountains and the wind will drop off as we descend.” He looked at the free air-temperature gauge above Zack’s head. “Is that the outside temperature?”
She glanced up at the gauge. “Yeah, thirty-five below zero. That’s centigrade, Sarge.”
The navigator handed Trimler an extra headset and explained the situation to Kowalski. The pilot thought for a few moments, trying to decide what to do. As aircraft commander, the decision was hers. “Bob, we can get you in position for a drop but we would have to drop off this airliner we’re piggybacking on. That means the Iranian air defense radar might find us. All bets are off then.”
“Right now,” Trimler said, “it’s no drop. We’re just too far away.”
Kowalski keyed the radio, calling the AWACS. “Delray, Scamp. Any more trade?” She hoped the controller was smart enough to figure out that she was asking for an update on the Iranian air defense.
“Negative trade at this time.” The voice sounded puzzled.
She took in a deep breath and committed them. “Say threat.” It was a different radio call and anyone monitoring their frequency would probably catch it, at least a sure clue that something unusual was going on.
The pause from the AWACS seemed an hour long. “Negative threat at this time.”
“I hope to hell that means the Iranians are all asleep,” the pilot told them. “We’ll drop you fifty miles north of Kermanshah. Sue, figure out a point where we can drop off this Fokker and turn west to the release point. After the drop, we’ll head due west for the border. We’ll drop down onto the deck and fly a low level sneak out through Iraq. Hell, Iraq’s air defense is probably no better than the Iranians. And if the Iranians do detect us, they’ll think we’re Iraqis running for home.”
“Roger,” Zack said, working over her chart. “Loadmaster, ten minute warning.” Then: “Turn point in one minute.”
“Hank,” Kowalski said, “make sure everyone is on oxygen so I can depressurize the aircraft.”
Zack continued to work and they could feel the Rangers shifting around in the rear of the Hercules as they prepared to jump. “Pilot, Loadmaster. Cleared to depressurize.”
“Depressurizing now,” Kowalski announced. “Hank, watch ‘em for any signs of hypoxia.” She knew that at twenty-eight thousand feet a person could get groggy or even pass out from oxygen starvation. The flight engineer, Staff Sergeant Marcia Maclntrye, reached up and hit the dump switch on the overhead control panel.
“Turn right to a heading of two-three-zero … now,” Zack said. Kowalski swung the C-130 onto the new heading and watched the Iranian airliner they had been depending on to cover them disappear into the night. She maintained the same speed and altitude as the airliner, hoping to confuse any radar that might be painting them.
“Loadmaster, navigator. Six minute warning,”
“Rog,” Petrovich answered, “they’re ready. They even look relieved.”
“That’s the Airborne,” Kowalski said. “They teach ‘em in jump school to hate landing in an aircraft, too dangerous. Okay, we’re depressurized. Cleared to raise the door and lower the ramp.” The intercom was silent as they headed for the release point.
“Hank,” the pilot said, “tell Sergeant Baulck that we’ve got a lock on the tacan beacon. It looks good, bearing one hundred-eighty degrees at fifty miles. And wish him good luck.” She slowed the aircraft to 130 knots, their drop airspeed.
“Baulck says he’s receiving the beacon on his set and thanks,” Petrovich told her.
“One minute warning,” Zack said. They waited. “Thirty seconds.” Then it came. “Ready, ready, ready, Green Light.”
At the rear of the aircraft Sergeant Andy Baulck simply walked off the end of the ramp into the night, and twenty-four men shuffled out after him in a long line, one second apart. The last one out was Kamigami, who turned and gave a thumbs up sign as he stepped off the ramp.
The return on the green radar scope that marked the progress of Scamp One-One and the Iranian airliner had mesmerized the controllers aboard the AWACS. The tactical director, Lieutenant Colonel Leon Nelson, who commanded the mission crew in the rear of the E-3C, tried to maintain a more detached attitude and attend to other duties. But when the intercom panel at his multiple purpose console shorted out, he bumped a master sergeant out of his seat. He wanted to stay with the action while a technician repaired his panel. The sergeant stood behind the heavy set black man who was now occupying his seat. He had learned the hard way that Nelson was a no-nonsense type who didn’t like long discussions. The sergeant plugged his headset into a long extension cord that led to another intercom station, equally drawn to the radar scope.