“Keep him off my back,” Gregory said. “We’ll be ready to break out in five minutes.” He turned back to his operations officer and made their last-minute arrangements with Romeo Team.
“Roundup, standby on the POW count,” Stansell transmitted over the UHF radio.
“Lifter, you don’t tell me to standby. I’m landing at this time—”
“Like hell, you are,” Stansell grunted. He keyed his mike, still on the same frequency. “Spectre Zero-One, Mover Two-Three, and Stormy Zero-Two, I have tasking for you.” Beasely, Doucette and Locke acknowledged in order. “Spectre your target is the barracks behind the prison. Laydown fire-suppression on command in approximately four minutes. Continue to engage until the trucks transporting the POWs are well clear of the prison.” Beasely acknowledged.
“Mover Two-Three, take out Objective Yellow and RTB.” Objective Yellow was the highway bridge at Mahidashi, halfway between Shahabad and Kermanshah. Doucette acknowledged and broke out of his holding orbit.
“Stormy Zero-Two, run another visual reccy on the highway. We need the position of Gold.” Gold was the Iranian armored regiment moving on Kermanshah. Jack acknowledged and headed after Doucette.
“Well, well, Ramon,” Doucette said to his WSO, “good old Rupe had our fuel figured down to a gnat’s ass. Looks like you get to do your own lasing this time.” Contreraz buried his head in the scope, driving his cursors out to the highway bridge. Doucette deployed the Pave Tack pod below the weapons bay.
On board the AC-130 Beasely had to quell a mutiny by one of his crew. As aircraft commander he had total control of his plane, regardless of rank. The fact that Mado was a two-star general and he was a captain didn’t matter. “General, we land after we hose down the barracks. End of discussion or you get off my flight deck.” He headed for the prison.
“That’s tellin ‘em, Beezer,” came over the intercom from some unknown voice in the rear.
“Okay, ready to blow the door,” the Ranger told the three men inside the cell on the third floor. “Get against a side wall and under your mattress, put your fingers in your ears, close your eyes and open your mouth.” The three men told him they were ready. The Ranger yelled, “Fire in the hole,” pulled the ring on the fuse-igniter that started the timing cord burning and took cover.
The C4 plastic charge exploded, and they ran for the cell with two more Rangers, kicked at the door … but nothing happened.
“You need a bigger charge, numb nuts,” another Ranger growled.
“Yeah, well this is going to take a little experimenting to get it right. These damn doors are tougher than I thought. Don’t want to kill the poor bastards inside.” He carved another piece of explosive off the brick and stuck it next to the hinge, ready to try again. It was going to take a long time to blow all the doors on the third floor. He called for help and worked faster.
Outside, the last of the freed POWs were rushed across the quadrangle and helped through the gap in the wall. “That’s a hundred ninety-one,” a sergeant yelled at Trimler. “Six trucks loaded and ready to roll.”
“Colonel Leason”—Trimler turned to the gaunt man standing beside him, amazed at the strength he still had after what he’d been through—“I think you should go with this group.”
“No, I go with the last man.”
Trimler understood. “We need to take cover. All hell’s going to break loose in a minute.” They could hear the AC-130 bearing down on them.
“We’re going to be skoshi on fuel,” Contreraz grumbled, taking his final cursor placement on the highway bridge.
“We gots enough my lad, we gots enough.” Doucette was breathing hard. They were down on the deck, screaming across the valley floor, leaving a visible shock wave behind them. Doucette could see the small village of Mahidashi less than a kilometer from the bridge. “No short rounds on this one, Ramon. Please.” He was thinking about his own children when they were little.
“Ready, ready … pull,” Contreraz called. Doucette pulled the F-111’s nose up and two bombs rippled off. “Was that a switch error?” Ramon shouted, his head still in the scope. He had been expecting a single bomb to come off. Doucette owned up to the error but claimed two were always better than one.
Contreraz watched the time-to-impact counter on his scope run down. “Laser on,” he told Doucette, illuminating the bridge for the last few seconds of the bombs’ flight as the F-111 arced away.
On the ground the guidance-control operator of a Soviet-built SA-8 Gecko, a surface to air missile, tracked the F-111 as it pulled away from the target. The operator assumed the F-111 for some reason had aborted its run and was not going to bomb the bridge. He was thankful that his superiors had positioned him well clear of the bridge and he was in a position to engage the American. After over a week of waiting he was ready. He decided to launch, using the electro-optical tracker and not the radar. Why send an electronic warning? He mashed his fire-control button and sent two missiles on their way, then watched in satisfaction as the rear of the F-111 flashed and exploded.
Doucette fought for control of his dying jet. “Eject! Eject!” Contreraz did as commanded and grabbed the ejection handle beside his left knee. With a press-squeeze-pull movement he started the sequence of events that fired explosive bolts and guillotines that freed their ejection capsule from the airframe. A rocket motor with a 40,000 pound thrust kicked them skyward.
The SA-8’s guidance-control operator watched the crew module separate from the F-111 and make its parachute-controlled descent. He switched to radar guidance and tracked the module before he launched two more missiles. His men cheered when the module and parachute disappeared in a fireball. They were too busy congratulating themselves to reload, or notice the F-15 that had its nose on them.
CHAPTER 48
“I’ve got the reticle on him,” Jack told his backseater. Furry checked the video screen in front of him that repeated whatever Jack saw through the HUD. It matched the video image he was getting from the seeker head of the Maverick Jack had called up. He drove the crosshairs on his scope over the six-wheeled vehicle that was starting to move down the road and pulled the trigger on his right-hand controller to half-detent. He liked what he saw and went full action. The Maverick’s sensitive, cooled infrared seeker-head was locked on to the SA-8.
“Locked on, cleared to pickle,” Furry called.
Jack waited as they bore down on the vehicle. A cold anger drove him on and he started to jink his jet back and forth in small random heading and altitude changes.
Meanwhile Furry was busy at monitoring their position for hostile radar activity and glancing back at their six o’clock position. “Lots of radar activity in front of us,” he said. “But no threats. They haven’t had a chance to reload—”
“Hold on …” Jack mashed his pickle button, sending a rocket-powered Maverick with its 125-pound warhead shrieking at the SA-8.
The crew of the SA-8 finally saw the F-15 before the Maverick leaped off its launcher and had slewed their vehicle to a stop. They were scattering when the missile hit, destroying the village. Jack circled and watched three men running for the nearby vehicle. “Not fast enough …” He thumbed back the auto-acquisition switch on the stick, changing his HUD display to guns. Since the cannon in the F-15 was canted up two degrees for air-to-air, it was going to be a low-angle strafe-run with a real low altitude pull-out. He triggered a short burst into the enemy … the cannon gave off a soft burring sound … and watched them crumble. He came in for a second pass and fired again.