The attack on the airfield was over.
Inside the compound the ZSU commander ordered his driver to break out of the compound. The Iranian gunned the engine and smashed through the rear gate. Kamigami’s eyes were drawn into narrow squints as he watched the ZSU-23-4 clank away from him. Only this time there were no supporting troops or trucks following it. The sergeant grunted in satisfaction and followed. He had a score to settle with the ZSU commander, preferably alive. Besides, as he told the lieutenant, the ZSU was a threat to any aircraft taking off from the airfield and they had plenty of time to rejoin …
“Spectre, Scamp One-Two.” Mallard was calling Beasely, who had joined him orbiting near the highway bridge. “Glad you could make it. Are you in contact with Ratso and what the hell is taking so damn long? We’ve been holding for over ten minutes.”
“Rog, Scamp. Sorry for the delay. Had to see a man about a mortar. Ratso is up and heading for the bridge now.” The two Hercules continued to orbit, with Beasely stacked above Mallard. Now they could see a small convoy move out of Mahidashi village toward the destroyed bridge. Three trucks, two vans and a small bus were sandwiched between the two jeeps. “Scamp,” Beasely called, “check the highway to the west. I’ve got the lead tanks in sight. Time to do some discouragin’.” Beasely broke out of orbit and started to climb, straining his three remaining engines.
“Scamp,” Beasely called, “Ratso is in position and says to drop on him.” The jeeps with their commandeered vehicles had pulled up near the bridge. Mallard could see civilians, the former owners or drivers, running back to the village. A Ranger in one of the jeeps popped green smoke, the signal to drop.
Drunkin Dunkin watched the smoke drift lazily upward. Satisfied that winds would not be a problem, he keyed his intercom. “Three minute warning.”
In the rear of the C-130 the jumpmaster stood by the left paratroop door. “Get Ready,” he bellowed. “Stand Up!” The forty-five jumpers were on their feet. “Hook Up!” Forty-five hands snapped the hook on their static line to the anchor line above their heads. “Check Static Line!” Forty-five sets of eyes took one last look at their static line and took the slack out of it by forming a bight and clenching it tightly. “Check Equipment!” Each Ranger used his free hand to jerk and tug at his equipment one last time, making sure everything was secure. “Sound Off For Equipment Check!” The last man in each stick tapped the Ranger in front and yelled, “Okay!” The signal was passed until the stick leader got it and yelled, “All Okay!”
The jumpmaster rooted himself in the door, holding on to the stanchions on each side. “One minute warning,” came over his headset. He stuck his head out and checked the approaching DZ. He could see the green smoke. Dunkin was right on. He stood back and pointed at the door with two fingers. “Stand In The Door!” The Rangers shuffled forward, two lines on each side of the aircraft.
The red jump light by each door snapped off and the green light flickered to on. “GO!” The Rangers took little hops as they went out the door one second apart. Ten men on each side had gone out when the jump light flicked back to red and Dunkin yelled over the intercom. “Red Light! Red Light! Stop Jump! Stop Jump!”
The jumpmaster stepped into the door and pushed the next jumper back with both hands. The Hercules rolled into a ninety degree left bank, pulled down and away … and the jumpmaster fell out the door as a smoke trail and tracers passed behind the C-130.
“What the hell happened?” the loadmaster yelled over the intercom. “The jumpmaster fell out and I got bodies all over the deck …” They were flying straight and level now, less than two hundred feet above the ground.
“The fuckers hosed us down with a SAM and Triple A,” Dunkin told him. “We were lucky they were too far away … We got the jumpmaster in sight, he’s waving he’s okay.” The Rangers on the ground had a different view. The jumpmaster was coming down in his chute, swearing, and giving the C-130 the finger.
“Yeah,” the loadmaster shouted, “Well, I’ve got about twenty pissed-off Rangers that want to get on the ground.”
Mallard turned to his navigator. “Okay, Dunk, if we go in low enough, we can stay under all that crap they threw at us.” Dunkin reached for “the gadget” in his navigation bag.
“Scamp One-Four destroyed on runway, five crew members KIA,” the RTO was transmitting on the SatCom, giving the Pentagon command center a status report after the mortar attack on the airfield. “Scamp One-Three damaged and out of commission. Aircrew, okay. Scamp One-Five is undamaged and mission capable. Stormy Zero-Two is slightly damaged, status unknown at this time, the WSO, Captain Furry, is wounded. One Ranger KIA, two wounded.”
“Say status of runway,” the woman’s voice came through the scrambler loud and clear.
“Runway is closed,” the RTO answered.
“Say current threat.”
“Negative threat to airfield at this time. Armored column reported at Mahidashi highway bridge …”
Gregory turned to Stansell, “We’re in big trouble unless we can get a runway open. And we could sure use another C-130 to help Scamp One-Two and One-Five get us out of here.”
Stansell thought a moment. “That hulk will have to turn itself out on the runway before we can push it off.”
“How we going to do that?”
“Jeeps and winches. But right now we’re going to see if the crew for Scamp One-Three can get their two good engines started and move about a hundred feet out of the way. We fill in the craters on the dirt strip and we’ve got a runway.”
“What about the F-15?” Gregory asked.
“Have to wait and see if Jack can get it started, it took some battle damage from that mortar round that got Furry, and if we can clear the main runway.”
“We still need another C-130,” Gregory reminded him.
“Right.” Stansell asked the RTO to let him talk to the command center. “Blue Chip, this is Lifter. We need airlift. Scamp One-One is in orbit with Delray Five-One. Send Scamp One-One our way now. Repeat, send Scamp One-One our way now.”
The wait for Blue Chip to make a decision seemed forever. Jack — Locke walked into the silent room. “Furry’s in pretty bad shape,” he told the colonel. “Shrapnel in the back. Frag also punched two small holes in my jet. Doesn’t look bad but the nitrogen bottle for the jet fuel starter won’t hold a charge. Can’t start engines.”
The silence grew heavier.
“Lifter,” the SatCom came alive. “This is Blue Chip. Be advised Scamp One-One is departing orbit at this time.”
Lydia Kowalski and her crew were finally going to war.
“Now we got to get that C-130 moved,” Stansell said.
A voice came over the PRC-77. “Lifter, this is Romeo. We’re ready to load. All POWs released and accounted for but one. Working to free him now.”
Gregory looked at Stansell, waiting for a decision. “They’d be safer in the prison than here … until we get the field open.” “Move them now,” Stansell ordered. “Jack, get out to the dirt strip and get it opened. We load the POWs on Scamp One-Five. It launches the minute we get a runway.”
“Captain, this is all you’re gonna get,” Beasely’s flight engineer told him. The AC-130 had managed to climb to eleven thousand feet on its three engines and it wasn’t going any higher. Beasely wanted more altitude to increase his stand-off distance from the tanks approaching the bridge. Because the terrain elevation was 4,000 feet, he was only 7,000 above the ground. That meant a thirty-degree bank in his firing orbit would give them a stand-off distance of 12,000 feet — enough to stay clear of the ZSU-23-4 that was moving with the tanks, but it also put them inside the range of the two SA-8s Jack had seen.