“Colonel Nelson”—it was the radio technician—“the Iraqis are scrambling interceptors.”
The voice was loud and insistent as it penetrated the fog swirling around in Jamison’s head. “Jamison, do you read me?” Something about the voice keyed a reaction, but the urge to doze was stronger. “Jamison, you black bastard, talk to me. ” Anger at last gusted through the lieutenant and blew his fog away. Fully conscious now, he realized he was hanging in his parachute harness and drifting. And someone was yelling stuff at him.
“Sergeant Major?”
“Welcome to Iran, Lieutenant. You had me worried. Sorry about the name-calling but I had to get your attention.”
Jamison had never heard Kamigami apologize for anything. Something had to be very wrong. “I’m sorry, my oxygen hose came loose. My face got all hot and I couldn’t think … where are you?” He twisted around looking for Kamigami.
“Above and behind you. Hit your brakes and fall in behind me.” Jamison did, and his fear gave way to relief when the sergeant descended past him on the right and he heard Kamigami check in with the team on the radio. “I’ve got Romeo Two, say your position.”
“North of target.” It was Baulck. “Thirty-three miles out.” “Sergeant Major, are we okay?” Jamison tried to control his voice.
“Just lost. Keep looking for the team and follow me.”
Just lost … great.
CHAPTER 39
“Border in two minutes.” The relief in Sue Zack’s voice was felt by everyone on the C-130’s flight deck. “I don’t like this, skimming along just inside Iran.”
“When they authenticated,” Kowalski told her, “I figured they had a good reason. What the hell, worked out, didn’t it?”
The UHF radio crackled, “Scamp, Delray. Turn left to three-zero-zero.” Kowalski turned the Hercules onto the new heading to the northwest. “Scamp go gate — Now. ” The crew could hear the urgency in the controller’s voice.
“What the hell is gate?” Brenda Iverson, the copilot grumbled.
“Afterburners.” Kowalski shook her head. “Which we ain’t got.” She shoved the throttles full forward and pushed on the yoke, nosing the plane over and picking up speed as the Hercules headed down. “But we got gravity. How much lower can we go?” she asked.
“Another three hundred feet,” Zack replied. “If you come right five degrees, we’ll be going down a river valley and you can descend a little lower.” Their airspeed was touching 275 knots, and the moonlight was giving them enough light to make out the mountain valley they were in.
“Scamp,” the AWACS radioed, “come right five degrees.”
“At least we’re all playing from the same sheet,” Kowalski said. “Border in one minute,” from Zack.
Sweat was trickling down Leon Nelson’s face but his voice was still under control. The master sergeant was standing behind him, impressed with the way he had guided Scamp One-One along the border, changing headings to take advantage of terrain-masking and to keep the C-130 as low as possible in the mountains.
Both men watched the two blips on the radar scope that were Iraqi MiG-23s converging on the C-130. “Damn it, I didn’t think they’d go after Scamp as long as there was no border violation,” Nelson said over the intercom, not caring if it was recorded. “Well, we’ve got another card to play. I hope you muthas are listening …”
He flipped the toggle switch that allowed him to transmit over Guard, the international frequency reserved for emergencies: “Two fast-moving Iraqi aircraft heading zero-three-five degrees. You are approaching Turkish airspace and will be engaged if you cross the border. Repeat, you will be engaged if you cross the border.”
“The bluffs not working, Colonel,” the master sergeant said. His eyes did not move from the radar scope. “They’re not breaking off the attack.”
Nelson slammed his fist down on the console as he watched the two fighters bear down on the C-130 and hit the intercom switch calling the electronic warfare officer. “Jam the shit out of everything those fighters got. Make ‘em go blind and deaf.”
“Sir,” the officer replied, “I’m not allowed to use that capability in peacetime. It’s guarded against compromise and if we use it—” “DO IT.”
Every radio frequency Nelson was monitoring exploded in a rasping, screeching clash of sound. With one motion Nelson jerked his headset off and hit the toggle switches that turned his monitoring channels off. His ears hurt. The radar scope in front of him flashed as the AWACS jammed itself as well as every other radar and radio within a hundred miles. Then it stopped.
“My God,” Nelson mumbled. The scope in front of him came back to life. The two blips had broken off to the right and were now headed to the southwest, back into Iraq and away from the C-130.
“Well, them fuckers do bluff,” Nelson said as he leaned back into the seat. “Scamp One-One,” he transmitted over the normal frequency, “you are cleared to climb and RTB at this time. We have no more trade for you.”
The reply was as cool as his transmission. “Thanks, Delray. I’ll be buying the bar.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” Nelson knew the brass would not like the last transmissions when they reviewed the tapes — very unprofessional — but he didn’t give a damn.
The Rangers had been hanging in their harnesses for over an hour and were numb from the cold. Some were slapping their hands or waving their arms to keep warm as they descended. “Passing over the tacan now,” Baulck radioed, still a thousand feet above the ground and headed to the south. When he judged the entire string to have passed over the beacon he would turn back to the north and start a spiraling descent onto the drop zone. “Heads up, we’re going in,” he warned, and arced gracefully back to the north. He immediately saw three blinks of a flashlight on the ground. “Land on those lights or follow me.” It was his last radio transmission.
The string of position lights on the canopies traced a path through the night sky as the Rangers spiraled down. The men started to deploy their rucksacks and weapons containers, letting them fall away on the lowering line to dangle fifteen feet below them. The heavy rucksacks would hit the ground first and the Rangers would touch down a hundred pounds lighter.
Bill Carroll watched the silent shadows spin down out of the sky. He flashed his light again, making sure the Rangers would home on him, away from the two waiting trucks and the portable tacan station. He jumped when he heard a voice directly above him. “It’s okay, we don’t need the light.” A figure dropped down beside him, pulling on the riser extensions and stalling his chute just before he touched down, still standing. It was Trimler, and his cold feet protested when they took the landing shock. Grunts and groans echoed over the DZ as more Rangers landed.
For a moment Carroll did not move. The sight of the parachutists dropping out of the sky and now distinct American accents sent a warm feeling through him. The POWs had not been abandoned — they were not political pawns being cynically exchanged on some geopolitical chess board by old men sitting in comfortable leather chairs, safe in some government office. He pocketed his flashlight and walked over to the American who was busy shaking off his harness and bundling up his parachute. “Sunset Gorge,” Trimler challenged, crouching and leveling his pistol at Carroll.