“Aren’t you the one they call Amini?” He nodded. “Can I see Doctor Landis? I’m very worried about him.”
“We must talk first.” He cracked the door and scanned the corridor, listening for the sound of any activity in the darkened building. It was 1:30 in the morning. “You are being moved this morning with half the men. You’re being flown to Tehran, where, I’m sure, your treatment will be better.” Mary was astonished by the guard’s English. “You’ll be turned over to another political party. Should any of your new captors ask you, please do not tell them about me or any better treatment you’ve received. You must make it sound all bad or I will be compromised. That means a firing squad or a noose.” She could hear traces of an American accent.
“You’re the friend we’ve had here,” Mary said. She wanted to touch him.
He nodded his head and looked out the door again while she finished eating. He turned out the cell light and motioned for her to follow him to Landis’ cell. He swung the door back and let her in.
Mary saw the naked man lying on the floor, grabbed his blanket and covered him. “Get the blanket from my cell,” she said.
“I can’t do that.”
“Then help me get him on his bunk.” They moved him and Mary was trying to straighten him out.
“Don’t,” Landis said weakly.
“Get some water,” Mary said. The guard took the empty bowl and left.
“No water,” Landis told her. She could barely hear his voice.
“Then I’ll clean you up. Hold on, doc, we’re getting moved today. We’ll get you to a hospital.”
“Better hurry … internal bleeding … Mokhtari stomped the hell out of me …”
The guard was back with the bowl now, filled with water. “I need a washrag,” Mary said. The guard handed her a handkerchief. “Get him some clothes, we can’t move him like this.”
“He’s not going,” the guard told her.
“Then neither am I.”
CHAPTER 43
On the ramp at Incirlik the last of the Rangers loaded the C-130s and the wail of a cranking jet engine could be heard above the ear-splitting roar of ground power units that supplied electrical power and bleed air to the planes. Thunder was walking in from the AC-130 gunship when the AWACS taxied out, leading the procession of twenty-two aircraft that made up Task Force Alpha. The captain found Stansell and Mado inside the hangar talking to Gregory. “All systems are go on the gunship,” he reported. “They’ve got an FM radio for contacting the Rangers on the ground and a satellite-communications system on board. They’ve already established contact with the Pentagon’s command center.”.
Mado nodded and headed for the gunship that was to serve as his command-and-control aircraft. Thunder looked at Stansell and Gregory, snapped a salute and followed the general. Two KC-135 tankers taxied past. They would follow the AWACS into a holding pattern near the border and refuel the F- Ill s and F-15s. If needed, they could also refuel the AWACS. The number-three prop on the gunship started to turn. “Time to load,” Stansell told Gregory. The two men walked out of the hangar and headed for Duck Mallard’s C-130. Drunkin Dunkin was waiting for them by the crew-entrance door wearing his battered baseball cap.
Stansell took one last look around and climbed onto the flight deck. Mallard greeted him and the flight engineer handed him a headset. “Starting three.” Mallard hit the start button and moved the engine-condition lever for number-three to ground start. The big four-bladed prop started to turn and then spun down. “Looks like a sheared starter-shaft,” Mallard said. The flight engineer confirmed the problem.
“Radio Kowalski to start engines while we load her plane,” Stansell ordered. The Hercules exploded into furious activity. Stansell could hear Thunder’s voice on the UHF radio acknowledging the change in aircraft and hoped he could keep Mado calmed down. The Rangers tore the tie-down chains off the three jeeps and two motorcycles that were on board and drove them down the ramp. Everyone gathered up their equipment and ran for Kowalski’s C-130. Stansell took one last look around and hurried after them.
The two F-15 crew chiefs were waiting in the hangar until it was their turn to start engines in thirty minutes. They counted the six C-130s that followed the AC-130 as they taxied out for takeoff. “What the hell’s wrong with Mallard’s Herky Bird?” Ray Byers asked.
“Line chief says it’s a sheared starter shaft,” Timmy Wehr answered.
“Shee-it, why don’t they fix it?”
“Too busy, I guess, not enough time,” Timmy said.
“Keerap, I started out in C-130s. It’s no big deal. Let’s you and me do it.” Byers ran for his toolbox while Wehr pushed a maintenance stand up against the engine. A van drove up and the line chief asked them what they were doing. “Get a starter, Chief,” Byers bawled. The sergeant yelled that he’d be back in ten minutes and sped off, heading for supply.
After having her aircraft taken over by Mallard a dejected Kowalski and her crew were walking into the hangar when they saw Byers and Wehr working on the engine. Staff Sergeant Marcia Maclntyre, Kowalski’s flight engineer, ran up the steps of the maintenance stand to help them. “Captain,” she yelled at Kowalski, “it’s just a sheared starter shift. We can fix it in twenty minutes once we get a new starter.”
“Sorry,” Byers told them as he and Wehr clambered down the stand, “time for us to launch. We’ll finish this as soon as we get our jets in the air.”
“Thanks a bunch.”
CHAPTER 44
The bulky shadow in front of the lieutenant disappeared again. The two men had reached the next set of hills and were moving along the military crest, a line about two-thirds of the way up the hill and parallel to the actual ridge. Jamison hurried, trying to match the constant and relentless pace Kamigami was setting. It had been easier to follow him over the rough terrain when the moon was up, but now the lieutenant found himself stumbling and panting for breath in the darkness. He was seriously wondering if the sergeant major was human.
Jamison panicked and started to run when he didn’t see the sergeant. The fear of being separated drove him into the darkness, his foot slipped and he fell against the hillside, slipping and rolling once before he came to a stop. His equipment clattered against the rocks, and he was sure the noise carried at least a mile. He heaved himself onto his feet and tugged at his LBE webbing that held much of his gear, pulling it back in place. Jamison jumped when his K-Pot, the Army Kevlar helmet, appeared in front of his face. Kamigami was holding it for him. He hadn’t realized he had dropped it or heard the sergeant pick it up.
“You okay, Lieutenant?” Kamigami could sense the panic building in the young man. He had seen it before. “Got all your equipment? We gotta keep moving.” He kept up a reassuring flow of words. “I figure we’ve come over halfway, got another seven klicks to go.”
Seven kilometers, the lieutenant calculated — four and a half miles. They were making good time and still had almost three hours of darkness to reach their objective. “My radio. I dropped my radio.” The two men went to their knees and felt around in the darkness. Jamison pulled out his flashlight but before he could use it a vise-like grip was on his arm.
“No lights. Not after all that noise.” By now Kamigami was almost certain the lieutenant was a basket case. The young officer must not have secured his radio when he moved it from the shoulder strap of his LBE to his web belt after they landed. “Gotta move. Forget the radio. It’s going to get slower the closer we get to the objective.” He was going to have to explain everything.