Zakia had passed the challenge and response code to Carroll. “Sweet Water,” he responded.
Trimler holstered his weapon. “You Carroll?”
“I’m Carroll.”
“I’m Bob Trimler. Jack and Thunder send their greetings. They told me to tell you that they’re coming after your sweet young ass and what the hell are you doing here anyway?” It was better confirmation than any code word.
“Form on me,” Trimler called out, his voice carrying over the open field. The Rangers quickly broke out their weapons, shouldered their rucksacks, gathered up their parachutes and hurried toward Trimler.
“Have you got everyone?” Carroll asked.
“Negative. We lost two on the drop.” He keyed the radio on his shoulder. “Romeo Two-Five, you up?” There was no reply. He explained the situation to Carroll. “How long can we wait here?”
“When do you want to be in position at the prison?”
“We hit it at first light, just before sunrise, at six twenty-five local time.”
“We’re ten miles northwest of the prison so figure an hour to move into position. It’s almost twenty-three hundred now. We can wait six and a half hours at the most. Over there.” Carroll pointed to a clump of low farm buildings they could hide in—“It’s empty.”
Trimler gave his orders and the Rangers headed toward the Kurdish farmstead Carroll had pointed out. Four Rangers ran ahead to scout the building and make sure it was secure while another four stayed behind and swept the field to make sure no equipment was left behind and erase every sign that trucks or people had been in the field. Carroll jumped in the lead truck next to Zakia and told the driver to follow the Rangers.
A Ranger directed the trucks to park next to a shed and was speechless when he saw Zakia get out. He finally found his voice, “Ma’am, why don’t you go inside with Captain Trimler.” They followed his directions and entered the low mud-brick house, where Carroll introduced Zakia and the man who was her contact.
“We had planned to use the phone here,” Zakia said.
“A place like this has a phone?” Trimler asked.
“We installed it to send an arrival message,” Zakia told him. She spoke to the man in a language Trimler did not understand. He opened a cabinet where the phone was hidden and dialed. Zakia sent up a torrent of words in a high-pitched, whiny tone while the man spoke. Carroll motioned for Trimler to remain silent until they had finished.
“What the hell …?” The Captain was bewildered.
“He was calling about his father,” Carroll said. “Seems the old gent is in failing health but has just taken a turn for the better. He still needs two more days before he’s out of bed. Actually, it’s a code they set up with their radio operator. You arrived and are two men short. He’ll send out the arrival message. They use the phone system to keep in contact. Zakia was making background noises in case anybody was listening.”
“Who the hell are they?”
“Don’t ask,” Carroll said. “I don’t know and they won’t tell you.”
Trimler shook his head and went outside. He checked the security of the compound and ordered half the men to sack out and the other half to stay on alert. “Wade, Baulck, set up a listening post a hundred meters down the road.” He pointed to the rut that led to the farmstead, and the two men moved quickly out and disappeared into the night.
The captain checked the disposition of his men again, not surprised to find half of them asleep. He had heard how the strain of actual operations caused men to fall asleep the moment the tension was broken. Good, he thought, I want ‘em fresh. He unstrapped the radio from his shoulder and leaned against the low wall that surrounded most of the compound. “Romeo Two-Five, you up?” he radioed. No answer. For a moment he thought maybe he heard a low crackling, but couldn’t be sure…
“Any idea where we are?” Jamison asked.
Kamigami didn’t answer and held the whisper mike to his left ear. He thought he heard something and spoke into the radio. No answer. He set the radio down and pulled out a map and flashlight, hunched down to shield the light and studied the map. The last briefing they had received before mounting the C-130 had pinpointed the drop zone ten miles northwest of Kermanshah. But he didn’t know where he and Jamison had landed. He had seen some farm buildings south of them and they had passed over a dirt road before they landed in a field. He stood up and peered into the night, his six feet four inches working to his advantage. When he adjusted his night vision goggles he could make out a low hill the other side of the dirt road.
“We go there.” He pointed to the hill, hoping they could get their bearings on top … otherwise they would have to wait for first light. When in doubt, he thought, take the high ground.
Leon Nelson glanced at his watch, 1948Z, and ran another station check. Each position on the AWACS reported no unusual activity inside Iran or Iraq. The Iraq air defense posture had reverted to normal after the two MiGs that had almost intercepted Scamp had landed. The Iranians had never stirred. They had another hour on station and no aircraft to control. It was going to be an unproductive hour boring holes in the sky.
He relaxed into his seat and tried to rest but his mind would not let it go. He kept thinking about the briefing he and his controllers had received the day before on Operation WARLORD. They had only been briefed on their role in the mission and not shown the specific objective. His private theories about WARLORD were confirmed when the C-130 broke off its planned profile and flew within sixty miles of Kermanshah. The cargo plane had slowed to 130 knots before it started its descent to low level. To the lieutenant colonel’s way of thinking, there could only be one reason for that — it was an airdrop and it had something to do with the POWs at Kermanshah. But why had the C-130 headed toward Iraq? They should have flown a low-level right back to Turkey. There were too many unanswered questions to let Nelson relax.
“This is what I get paid for,” he mumbled before calling the pilot. “Let’s head for home plate now,” he ordered. Every instinct he had was shouting that he was needed at Incirlik.
CHAPTER 40
The four men in the radar shack were gathered around the TV, engrossed in the program they were watching. Because they were sitting on a mountain top, they had excellent reception and could pick up Turkish and Iraqi channels. Both of those countries offered much better viewing than the Ayatollahs allowed in Iran. It was the only benefit of pulling duty at the radar site.
The radar operator sighed when the channel went off the air. It was almost midnight and he had more than twelve hours to go before he was replaced. He had made a mental promise never to cross the captain in the control center again and returned to the main console. “It’s cooled off by now,” he muttered, and went through the start-up routine, bringing the radar back on line. His training had been thorough and he wanted to do a good job, but other things kept getting in the way. He didn’t even contemplate a communications check that might disturb the captain and felt justified when his sector swept clean. There were no targets over east-em Turkey or Iraq.
Satisfied, he stood up and headed for a bunk at the rear of the room to get some sleep with the other men. He left the radar set on.
“Captain Kowalski, let me make this perfectly clear,” Mado was pacing the floor in the Intelligence section of the command post, “by deviating from your planned flight path you put this entire mission at risk.” Stansell listened to the general work over the captain. He was glad Thunder had awakened him when the debrief started. “If the Iranians detected you,” Mado continued, “they are going to start asking questions and all the answers point to Kermanshah—”