The lead scout slowed his bike as he approached the prison, looking for Romeo Team’s road guard, and caught a glimpse of two men in the ditch on the right side of the road in front of him. That should be the M-60 team, he figured. He turned to look at the prison on his left — and died in a hail of gunfire from what he thought were deserted barracks. The dirt bike spun and threw him into the ditch, then crashed down on his lifeless body. The M-60 team returned fire, attempting to suppress the threat coming at them from behind the prison.
The carefully planned raid called WARLORD died with the scout, and a new operation began — the battle for Kermanshah.
“Through here,” Carroll yelled at Mustapha as he cleared the broken glass out of a window. The Kurd looked at the prison’s administration building and decided he didn’t want to go in. Doucette’s five-hundred-pound bomb had done its job too well. The top floor had collapsed onto the ground floor, and a fire was burning in the rear half of the building. Mustapha shook his head and followed Carroll through the window. A jagged, gut-wrenching scream stopped them both — a guard trapped in the dying flames. “Let the bastard burn,” Carroll said.
Mustapha couldn’t let it go. He moved quickly through the wreckage, homing on the shrieking man, saw him through a curtain of flames trapped under fallen masonry. He raised his Uzi and shot the guard.
“MARY!” Carroll’s voice carried through the building.
“Down here, in the basement …”
Carroll looked at the pile of debris between him and the voice and felt the heat of the fire still pressing on his back. And then a figure came staggering out of the rubble, covered with dust and blood.
“Lifter, this is Ratso Nine. Objective secured.” It was the last of the jeep teams checking in on the PRC-77. Lifter was the airfield’s call sign. Stansell watched Gregory and his S-3, the battalion’s operations officer, mark their maps with Ratso Nine’s position at the nearest intersection to the airfield. Stansell hovered just behind them in the temporary command post they had set up in the deserted building. Gregory was commanding the action on the ground while he ran the show in the air. Stansell was making grease marks on a small acetate-covered board he could tuck under his arm and carry with him. A map was taped to one side and a matrix for tracking the status of aircraft to the other.
“Ratso Three and the two M-60 teams all report the barracks are quiet,” the S-3 said. “But that fire had to come from somewhere.”
“Where are Ratso One and Two?” Gregory asked. “We’ll sort that problem out later. Right now we worry about getting past the prison and taking Objective Red.” Stansell was impressed by how cool the lieutenant colonel was. The RTO asked Ratso Three where the first and second jeep teams were.
“Making an end run,” was the reply. Gregory approved.
“Lifter, this is Ratso Nine.” The RTO acknowledged the latest radio call. “I’ve stopped a big gas truck with two civilians. They say they’re making a fuel delivery to the airfield.” The men could hear the confusion in the Ranger’s voice. “They’ve got the recognition code.”
“Repeat,” Gregory ordered. The jeep team confirmed the two civilians had the correct recognition code.
“Ask what type of fuel they’re carrying,” Stansell said. The question was relayed and the answer came back. The truck was full of JP-4 and was a pumper from the main airport eleven kilometers north of town. “It’s welcome,” Stansell said. “Bring it in.” Gregory ordered an escort team to take one of the extra jeeps and bring the truck in, but to stay well clear of all activity until it and the drivers could be checked out …
Ratso One and Two, the lead jeep teams, threw quick U-turns when the motorcycle scout was killed. They told Ratso Three to hold while they doubled back. The Ranger navigating in Ratso One had his map out and pointed to a break in the buildings off to their left. It was not a road but open lots that led into the outskirts of town. The two jeeps bounced across the rough field, past the low buildings and onto a paved street. Both the driver and navigator had memorized the map and knew where they were as they raced for the intersection that was Objective Red. A police car saw the two speeding jeeps and chased them through the almost deserted streets. Ratso Two’s rear gunner swung his M-60 around and sent a short burst into the car. It bounced off a parked truck, rolled over and burst into flames.
The two jeeps twisted and turned through the town until they hit the main highway, then turned left, darting through heavier traffic. A short burst from an M-60 determined the right-of-way at an intersection, and six minutes after making the U-turn, Objective Red was secure.
“Up there,” Andy Baulck pointed to what was left of the one guard tower at the rear of the prison. “The captain wants to know what’s goin’ on behind the wall.”
“I’ll take this one,” Wade said. The corporal had been Baulck’s best drinking buddy since the fight with the C-130 loadmasters at Texas Lake. Baulck motioned him forward and he worked his way up the tower’s ladder. He moved slowly, careful not to make any noise. The ladder had fallen back on itself and Wade had to pull himself up through the last four feet of scaffolding. He poked his head above the wall and pulled it back down, reminding Baulck of a pop-up target on the firing range. Slowly, Wade raised his head again and took a longer look. Then he was back down. “Place is crawling with troops. Maybe fifty of ‘em. They’ve got something inside a shed, the doors are open.” And then they could hear a diesel engine on the other side of the wall cough to life.
The first-floor guard kept shaking his head and punched another series of numbers into the control box that unlocked the cell doors on the second floor. The red light stayed on. “He wasn’t assigned to this floor and doesn’t know the code but is scared shitless,” a Ranger said. “We’re going to have to start blowing the doors.”
“Takes too long,” a buck sergeant grumbled, his eyes drawn into a squint. “Damn, I know what I’d do if I was in this cage.” He ran out into the corridor and banged against the door of the first cell in his rush. “You know the numbers to the lock box?” he asked the POWs still trapped inside. A voice gave him four numbers and he ran back to the office and shoved the frightened guard aside. He keyed in the numbers and the green light flashed on. The lever was moved down, and the ninety-five POWs on the second floor were free.
“Hey, Bro,” another Ranger asked, “how’d you think of that?”
The twenty-year-old Ranger from the streets of Watts mumbled, “My cousin’s locked up in San Quentin. He says they got lots of time to do nothing but study the guards and watch everything they do. That’s what I’d do … that’s what they did.”
The situation on the third floor was tougher. The frag grenade that had cleared the office had also punched holes in the wiring junction box below the control box. The electronically controlled locking mechanism was dead. “Tell the captain we’re going to start blowin’ doors up here,” the staff sergeant in charge of the third floor said. “Get Baulck up here and see if he can rewire this piece of shit while we do some blastin’.” He gestured toward the cells, “Let’s get some food and water to those poor bastards.”