“Target separation,” a controller reported. “Scamp One-One appears to be moving away from the target aircraft and turning southwest.” The men were careful in what they said over the intercom, since all talk was recorded and synchronized with the radar tapes that recorded the mission.
“Scamp One-One must have an emergency of some kind to be diverting from their planned route,” Nelson said. “Stay with it.” He was an old F-4 driver out of Tactical Air Command and had ended up in AWACS as TAC phased the aging fighters out. His flying experience had proved invaluable as an AWACS controller. He thought about the last radio calls from Scamp and called the navigator who monitored the on-board electronic countermeasures equipment. “Any change in the Iranian air defense posture?”
“Negative. Maragheh is still off the air.”
The lieutenant colonel called the radio technicians monitoring the Iranian’s air defense radio net. Again, the response was negative.
“Colonel Nelson,” the controller said. “Scamp One-One has slowed to one hundred-thirty knots and is now heading due west, directly towards Iraq. Oh, looks like Scamp is descending and picking up speed.”
Nelson hit the conference switch on his intercom panel. “All stations, listen up. Scamp will penetrate Iraqi airspace on the heading they’re flying. I want complete coverage of both the Iraqi and Iranian air defense net.” He toggled the conference switch to “off.” “Oh, lord, you are in trouble.” He knew the Iraqis were awake.
The snap and sharp jerk of the parachute canopy opening was reassuring. The oxygen mask Trimler was wearing had twisted slightly in the C-130’s wash and he had to straighten it out before he could check his canopy. The heavy gloves he was wearing to protect him from the cold caused him to fumble for a moment. The canopy was good. Then he checked his oxygen connection. Good. He could see the two small position lights on the top of Baulck’s canopy, green on the right, red on the left, to his front left and below him. He grabbed the riser extensions that allowed him to maneuver and still keep his hands and arms below his heart. Circulation was going to be critical in the cold air. It looked like he was pulling on puppet strings hanging down from above him as he moved into formation with Baulck, who would lead and navigate the descent. Trimler pulled on his risers, braking and maneuvering until he was lined up above and behind Baulck.
“Radio check,” Baulck radioed. Each Ranger had a MX-360 radio strapped to his left shoulder.
Again, Trimler fumbled as he groped for the switch. He wasn’t about to risk taking a glove off and dropping it. Trimler checked in with his number in the team. “Romeo One’s okay.” There was no answer for Romeo Two. “Romeo Three, radio check,” Trimler barked. “Have you got Lieutenant Jamison in sight?” The captain reprimanded himself for the breech in radio discipline. He should have never used Jamison’s name.
“Romeo Three’s okay. Negative sighting on Romeo Two.” There was nothing wrong with Romeo Three’s radio discipline. The radio checks continued as each man reported in …
Since Kamigami was the last man out, he was highest in the stream. He could see a long line of lights stretched out in front and below him, a lighted path descending toward the ground. Baulck curved to the left and the string obediently followed in a synchronized routine. Further below, he could see a broken cloud deck lighted by a quarter-moon lacing the sky. He felt like an eagle soaring through the sky. Off to the right and below he caught a glimpse of two lights. The missing Jamison. He pulled on his risers, braking and slowing his rate of descent. The string snaked away.
“Romeo Two-Five’s got Two in sight.” Everyone recognized his voice.
“Keep him in sight,” Trimler ordered over the radio.
“Probably a bad oxygen connection,” Kamigami told them.
The sergeant major had identified the problem. The opening shock of Jamison’s parachute had popped the connection between his oxygen hose and the twin green airox bottles he carried. Before he could reconnect the hose he had become hypoxic, starved for oxygen. Jamison was not unconscious but groggy and irrational. He wanted to go to sleep, was drifting.
“He’ll come around when we get lower,” Kamigami radioed. “I’ll bring him back in when he’s conscious.”
“We’ll be goin’ through this cloud deck in a few minutes,” Baulck told the team. “Maintain a heading of one-six-five degrees until you break out. Fifty percent brakes while you’re in the clouds.”
“We’ll lose Romeo Two in the clouds,” Kamigami said. “Bearing and distance to the DZ?” He pulled out his compass but dropped it when he tried to flip its cover open. He fumbled with the cord that tied the compass to his pocket and finally got it open. There was enough moonlight for him to read the luminous dial.
“Bearing one-seven-five degrees, forty-two miles.” Baulck’s tacan receiver was locked on and giving good readings.
Kamigami made his decision. “I’ll stay with Two and rejoin you on the ground. He shouldn’t drift too far off course.”
“We’ll wait as long as we can,” Trimler told him. “If we’re gone, head for the airfield. Maintain radio contact.”
“Entering clouds now,” Baulck radioed.
Kamigami headed for Jamison. He could see the string of canopy lights below him disappear one by one into the cloud deck. Some eagle, he thought, if I get lost.
“Colonel Nelson,” a radio technician called over the AWACS intercom, “the Iraqi air defense net is tracking Scamp One-One and have alerted two SAM sites. No traffic on the fighter loop yet, just surface-to-air missiles.”
“I’ve got search-radar activity inside Iraq,” the navigator monitoring the electronic warfare equipment reported.
“Any activity inside Iran?” Nelson asked. All replies were negative. The lieutenant colonel watched the radar blip that was Scamp One-One move toward the Iraqi border. “You ain’t gonna live long inside Iraq,” he thought. “Sarge,” he barked at the man standing behind him, “bring up an overlay of the Iran-Iraq border on the scope.” The sergeant leaned around Nelson and pounded a command on the keyboard in front of him. A lighted map of the border etched itself on the screen. Nelson checked the digital readout showing Scamp’s groundspeed. “Fourteen miles to go, three minutes to live …”
“The heavies are going to have my ass for this if I’m screwing up whatever they’ve got planned.” Nelson keyed the radio. “Scamp One-One, Delray Five-One.” He was acting like a controller. “We have trade for you.”
“Roger, Delray.” It was Kowalski’s voice and he could hear the doubt.
“Please trust me,” he muttered before transmitting. “Rog, Scamp, come right to a new heading of zero-three-zero. Target is on your nose at thirty miles.” He was giving the C-130 vectors to fly northeast along the border just inside Iran. His tension eased a notch when he saw the blip turn toward the northeast less than a mile from the border.
“Delray, Scamp. Authenticate alpha lima.”
Good girl, Nelson thought, follow the vectors first, then verify. He checked the current authentication table and found the proper two-letter response to the letters A and L.
“Authentication is poppa tango. Your target is maneuvering, expect a new heading in four minutes.” He watched the blip fly along the border. “Figure it out,” he muttered, hoping the C-130 crew would see he was keeping them out of Iraq. He hit the conference switch on his intercom. “Everyone listen up. I’m betting the Iraqis will treat Scamp as an Iranian testing their air defense net and won’t engage them unless there’s a border penetration. I plan on keeping Scamp just inside Iran. For God’s sake, don’t forget to monitor the Iranians for some sort of reaction. With luck we should get Scamp out.”