“Should we do a radio check?” Jamison asked, glad they still had Kamigami’s radio.
“No. We’re still out of range. Just move.”
“Mornin’, Captain. Nice day for a flight.” Byers’ F-15 was parked on the ramp next to Jack Locke’s E model and he actually threw Locke a salute when he saw the captain. The sergeant wasn’t big on military courtesy. “You gonna bring that piece of shit back in one piece?” He gestured at the new F-15E, enjoying the chance to rag the pilot.
“Always do, Sarge.” Locke had preflighted the jet earlier but he still did another walk around out of habit. The old emotions came back — the empty stomach, the self-doubts, a slight warming of the cheeks. How many times had he been here before? The last few minutes before a mission started he was a man going over Niagara Falls in a barrel.
“Time to do it.” It was his WSO, Captain Ambler Furry, who climbed up the crew ladder and settled into the back seat.
Jack followed him up the ladder.
The launch of the fast movers went smoothly with the three F1 l l s leading the procession out to the runway. Von Drexler led the takeoff and the other two followed at twenty second intervals. Then Snake Houserman led the F-15s onto the active and they took off in pairs with ten second spacing. Jack Locke followed the eight F-15s and took off alone.
The two sergeants stood on the ramp watching Locke’s jet reach into the clear night air as an early morning quiet settled over the air base. “Do you think they’ll do it?” Wehr asked.
“Get the POWs out?” Byers had heard the rumors and had long ago decided for himself what Task Force Alpha was all about. Some of the POWs were his friends and he badly wanted to help. “They’ll do it. Come on, let’s get to that Herky Bird.”
Sergeant Maclntrye was sitting on the steps of the maintenance stand, the old starter at her feet, talking to Kowalski. She explained how the line chief had not yet returned from supply.
Byers checked his watch. “Over twenty minutes,” he grumbled, “Timmy, go see if you can build a fire under some asshole in supply and get us a starter.” The younger sergeant disappeared into the hangar to find a phone.
“If you can get it fixed,” Kowalski told them, “I’m going to launch. We may only be a backup, but we can be one in the air.”
Fifteen minutes later the line chief drove up with Wehr. “Sorry, but you know supply …” MacIntyre grabbed the starter and ran up the stairs to the engine.
“Be careful, Mac,” Byers called after her, “don’t want’a break any fingernails.”
“Byers, get your lazy ass up here and do some wrench bending.” She gave good as she got.
Byers started to pull himself up the steps of the maintenance stand. “Timmy,” he said in a low voice, “I’ll help. You go get my scrounge.”
“What the hell you need that for?” Wehr asked, puzzled why Byers would want the canvas bag he kept full of small spare parts — nuts, bolts, connectors, gauges, gaskets — parts that he had scrounged up. The bag was highly unauthorized and probably contained over ten thousand dollars worth of parts. It was worth a court-martial for a crew chief or maintenance troop to be caught with a scrounge. But when a crew chief needed to hurry things up and supply was sitting on its dead ass as usual …
Twenty-three minutes later they were done and the engine buttoned up. Wehr helped Byers push the stand out of the way as MacIntyre ran aboard the plane for an engine start. “I thought they were a backup and weren’t going to launch,” Wehr said.
Byers told him, “One thing’s for sure, if they go, I go.” He picked up his tool box and scrounge bag and ran for the back of the Hercules.
Trimler roused two men and sent them forward to replace Baulck and Wade at the outpost. “Time for a change out,” he told Carroll. Then he went around the compound, replacing the men on alert so they could get some rest and food. When the team settled back down, he propped up his radio on top of the low wall and stared into the night.
“Why don’t you do a radio check?” Carroll asked.
“We just listen. They’ll call when they’re in range. Knowing Kamigami, he’s got his position fixed and is moving. I hope the lieutenant is smart enough to listen to him.” Trimler sat down at the base of the wall, hoping to get some rest. “Jamison is slightly thick between the ears.” Then he reconsidered. “That’s not true, he’s just green … like I was …”
“Zakia’s been on the phone,” Carroll told him. “The town’s quiet and the road is open … we’ll have to move out in two hours. We can’t wait any longer.”
“I know,” Trimler said, accepting the fact that Kamigami would not rejoin them at the DZ. “I can’t believe it … the way your people use telephones to pass information. That’s just asking for a compromise.”
“They speak Kirmanji over the phone, not Farsi.”
“But what if the phones are tapped?”
Carroll shook his head. “Most Iranians only speak Farsi and wouldn’t bother to learn Kirmanji. Too demeaning for them. So the Kurds use it against them.”
“Can we trust the Kurds?” Trimler asked.
“Oh yeah, bet on it. Revenge is a lovely thing.”
CHAPTER 45
Spectre 01, of the AC-130 gunship, was turning over the departure point on its second holding orbit. “Hey, Magellan, you ready?” It was Beasely calling his navigator. Mado was not happy with the informality and lack of radio discipline among the AC-130 crew but said nothing.
“Rog, Beezer. We’ll hit the departure point right on time if you can fly three-minute legs on this orbit. Ten minutes to departure.” The navigator’s slight reversion to “professionalism” didn’t help offset the anxiety building in the general. He turned and looked at Thunder Bryant, secretly envying his cool and apparent detachment. Thunder was sitting on the edge of the crew-entry well, staying out of the way. He was listening on a headset and making notes on a clipboard. Mado was standing behind the pilot, not able to sit or relax.
As they turned onto the outbound leg Beasely counted the rotating beacons strung out behind him. “General, I count six anti-collision lights in trail. We’ve got a formation.” The six C-130s were stretched out in a line behind Spectre 01.
“Have them check in with their status,” Mado said over the intercom.
Before the copilot could comply, Thunder stopped him. “General, we trained to do this maintaining radio silence. If something’s wrong, they’ll call.” Mado did not answer and the copilot did nothing. Beasely rolled out on the outbound leg and started their descent to low level. The six C-130s followed Spectre — chicks in trail.
Now the UHF radio came alive. “Scamp One-One in-bound at this time.” It was Kowalski’s voice.
“Scamp One-One, this is Delray Five-One,” the AWACS answered. “Enter holding at Flight Level two-four-oh”—Nelson had just told Kowalski to orbit at twenty-four thousand feet.
“What the hell is she doing here?” Mado demanded.
“She’s backup,” Thunder said. “She’ll orbit with the AWACS.”
“That wasn’t what I wanted, order her to RTB.”
“She must’ve misunderstood,” Thunder said, trying to soothe the general. “She’s not going anywhere. Better we maintain radio silence. We can sort this one out later.” The general’s right hand clenched and relaxed, clenched and relaxed …