The flight deck fell silent as they waited for the next radio transmission from the AWACS that would commit them. The AC-130 turned onto the inbound-leg toward the departure point, still descending. “Sky King, Sky King, this is Delray Five-One with a Romeo Tango message. Do not acknowledge. Repeat, do not acknowledge.” It was the transmission from the AWACS they were waiting for. It had been disguised to sound like a normal status report but the Romeo Tango meant the message was for them. The AWACS was reporting the latest status of the Iranian air defense net. “Sierra Hotel Lima. Repeat. Sierra Hotel Lima.”
Thunder flipped to his page of code words. “Situation normal, sir.”
“Does that mean that the radar at Maragheh is active?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mado was silent as he digested this latest information. Had they considered all the factors? Had the threat changed? “It doesn’t feel right …”
“Why?” This is from the Beezer. “Everything’s just like we planned …”
“For one, the weather is below mission minimums,” Mado shot back.
“Sir, look out the window. It’s clear as a bell, well almost.” Mado did as the pilot said. Two F-15s flew past on the left and established a racetrack pattern in front of them, easily avoiding the few clouds that were breaking apart. The weather was exactly as the weatherman had forecasted. Mado’s whole background and makeup said abort the mission, get back to the safe and predictable routines of the Pentagon. But he knew it wasn’t to be, and that for the first time in his career he was actually leading men into combat.
“Departure point in thirty seconds,” the navigator broke in. They waited. Then, “Departure point now. Anti-collision light off.” The copilot turned the rotating beacon off, the signal to the next C-130 in trail that they were at the departure point. One by one, the C-130s turned off their flashing anti-collision beacons as they overflew the point and turned toward the southeast, heading into Iran.
“Departure point now,” Drunkin Dunkin announced over the intercom, business as usual. His head was buried in the radar scope with his mangy yellow baseball cap on backward. “New heading one-two-six degrees.” Without looking, his right hand reached up and bounced off the button starting the elapsed time on the clock, and his left hand triggered the stop watch hanging from his neck. For Drunkin Dunkin, if he did his job then Duck Mallard would get him safely home.
“Anti-collision light off,” Mallard said. “Loadmaster, double-check all lights out, we’re running dark now. How long to penetration, Dunk?”
“Six minutes. I’ve got a radar contact on Spectre. We’re exactly two miles in trail.”
“Well, Colonel,” Mallard said, “this is it. I wonder how Mado is doing …
“He’s carrying a lot of new responsibility,” Stansell said. He looked around the flight deck. He could make out the pilots’ faces in the muted reflection of the red instrument lights. Sweat glistened on the dark face of the copilot, Don Larson. Mallard seemed calm as he hand-flew the plane, not relying on the auto-pilot at low level. Stansell had heard a slight edge in his voice but didn’t worry about it. Duck Mallard had his emotions under control. I hope everyone else is as cool, Stansell thought. Myself included.
The engines of the two trucks were idling smoothly as the last of the Rangers loaded. Bill Carroll was sitting on the runningboard of the lead truck waiting for Zakia. The two squad sergeants made another sweep of the compound, a last double-check that no trace of their stay could be detected. Zakia walked out of the house carrying the telephone and an Uzi submachine gun. Trimler was right behind her. He spoke briefly to the two sergeants and they climbed into the back of the trucks. When the Rangers were all out of sight, Carroll, climbed into the cab of the first truck and Zakia into the second.
The trucks rumbled out of the compound and stopped when they reached the outpost a hundred meters down the dirt road. Two Rangers materialized out of the shadows and climbed on board the second truck. Twenty-three of the twenty-five Rangers were accounted for. The small convoy moved down the rut and turned onto a gravel road that would take them to the main highway that led to Kermanshah.
Kamigami made a stay-motion at Jamison and moved toward the back of the building looming in front of them. The lieutenant sank to the ground, thankful for any rest. He was on the verge of exhaustion after following the sergeant major through the hills that offered them a rough path into Kermanshah. He had never credited the stories making the rounds in the battalion about Kamigami and had always chalked them up to the lore the enlisted troops used to scare lieutenants like himself. According to the rumor mill, twenty-mile forced marches were child’s play for the sergeant. Now Jamison was wondering how much else that was impossible was true.
The lieutenant caught his breath and tried to fix their position. Judging by the lights and the noises in the distance, he estimated they were on a hillside on the outskirts of Kermanshah, no more than two kilometers away.
A babble of voices erupted from the other side of the building and lights sent a glow over the roofline. Jamison was sure someone had seen or heard the sergeant and drew his pistol, a newly issued 9mm automatic. He tried to find Kamigami but couldn’t see a thing. Then a man wearing a ragged suit coat and stocking knit cap pulled down to his ears walked around the corner of the building and looked directly at the spot where the lieutenant had last seen Kamigami. The lieutenant rolled into a prone position and sighted over the barrel. He thumbed the safety to off and then moved back to the hammer, ready to cock the weapon.
Which was when a heavy weight hit him in the back and knocked the breath out of him, and a hand clamped over his mouth and the pistol was twisted out of his grip.
Lieutenant Colonel Leon Nelson was pleased with his crew. After the AWACS had launched out of Incirlik, he had briefed them on the coming flight and how they, Delray 51, would be supporting Operation WARLORD. Then something had clicked with every man and woman on-board and a precision he had never seen took hold. The hand-controller at the number three console was hanging up and the operator could not roll the ball full left. Within minutes, the computer technician had it fixed. As the mission developed, Nelson could hear it in their voices. They were committed to WARLORD.
Nelson called up the tactical display that reached out 250 nautical miles. The C-130s and the four escorting F-15s were strung out in a line snaking through the mountains. He rolled the hand-controller and the cursor moved over the lead return. He called for identification and information flashed on the screen; call sign Cowboy 31, type F-15, speed 280 knots, altitude 7,250. That’s slow and only about four hundred feet above the ground, he thought. He watched two fighters set up a racetrack pattern in front of the C-130s, and for a moment he was jealous and wished he was there … anywhere, even in one of the four orbiting F-15s that had to stay behind.
Then he called for a status report on the Iranian air defense. All was quiet. He keyed up the close-in display and watched the two F- Ills break out of orbit and move through the mountains. Again he rolled the cursor over the returns and called for identification. They were Mover 21 and 22, F-111 F, 480 knots, altitude 7,600 feet. A little high, he calculated, they must have their terrain-following radar set at seven hundred fifty feet. That’s going to be a problem if the Iranians are awake.
The crackle of a UHF radio transmission came through Nelson’s headset. “Mover Two-Two. Aborting.”
“Mover Two-Two,” Von Drexler’s voice came over the UHF, “this is Mover Two-One. Say emergency.”