Beasely told his electronic warfare officer and the illuminator operator to stay alert for SA-8s and entered a firing orbit to engage the lead tank that was almost at the bridge.
Mado wanted to order this AC-130 to stand clear but sensed that it would develop into a contest of wills and he wasn’t sure who would win — him, or Beasely and Thunder. So instead he continued to relay information to the Pentagon over the SatCom.
“Flaps aren’t coming down evenly,” Beasely said. “Scanner, check the flaps on the right side.”
A sergeant from the rear reported back. “Center section looks like its hanging up because of battle damage. The flap-drive motor is screaming its head off.” He was talking about the hydraulic-driven flap-drive motor nestled between the wings in the overhead above the cargo deck. Beasely eased the flaps back up and raised the nose with the yoke, playing the trim for all it was worth. When he was satisfied with the orbit, he sighted on the lead tank and sent a 105mm round on its way, the AC-130 shuddering as it absorbed the 105’s recoil.
“Direct hit!” the sensor operator in the rear called out. Then silence. “Beezer, that didn’t stop it. He’s still moving.”
“We do it again,” Beasely said. He could see the muzzle of the tank point at him as he sent three rounds toward the tank, until he blew a tread off. Then he turned to the second tank and fired.
“SAM lock on!” the EWO yelled over the intercom.
“Break right!” from the IO. Hanging out the rear of the aircraft, the illuminator operator could see two smoke trails coming at them. Again, he sent a stream of chaff and flares behind them. Beasely rolled into a 110-degree bank and pushed the nose down while turning to the right, pulling two Gs. As he did, a loader feeding the 105mm was thrown across the aircraft into the ammo rack and knocked unconscious. The first missile streaked harmlessly overhead, but the second passed close enough that its proximity fuse activated, and the missile’s fireball sent a burst of metal fragments into the right side of the fuselage.
Again, the AC-130 retreated, trailing smoke from the right main gear well …
While the gunship was engaging the tanks, Mallard ran in for the second drop. Drunkin Dunkin was holding onto the back of the copilot’s seat, sighting the depression angle through the “gadget.” He was going to give the green light exactly six hundred feet short of where he wanted the first Ranger to land, which meant a depression angle of sixty degrees. “I need a hard altitude of three hundred and fifty feet, Duck.” Mallard checked his radar altimeter and squeaked it lower. The smoke trail of an SA-8 passed over them.
“What happens if they have a chute malfunction?” Don Larson, the copilot said.
“They won’t have time to think about it,” Dunkin said. “Ready, ready …” He sighted the depression angle, waiting to hit sixty degrees …
Actually, Dunkin was good enough to have eyeballed it, but this way he was deadly accurate. “Green Light!” The Rangers streamed out the back, their chutes popping open at the end of the twenty-foot static lines. Most were on the ground before they had made one swing, then were running for their rally point …
The two Rangers were pushing against the wood brace, trying to lever it into place and shore up the ceiling. “Hernia time,” one grunted as they tried again. This time they wedged it next to the cell door. “Might be able to blow the door now,” the Ranger said. “That beam should take the weight.” Mary and Carroll looked apprehensively at the ceiling above them.
Mary put her ear to the cell door. “Doc, can you hear me?”
No reply.
Another Ranger called down into the basement. “Captain Trimler says it’s time to go. We got all the POWs loaded we’re moving out—”
“I don’t go without doc,” Mary said.
Carroll decided it. “Tell Trimler to leave us a truck. We’ll stay here with Mustapha. Tell the road team holding the intersection—”
“That’s Objective Red,” the Ranger told him.
“—Objective Red,” Carroll continued, “that we’re here and to pick us up when they withdraw. We’ll stay in contact over the MX-360.”
“We’ll stay,” the Ranger standing next to Mary said. The other Ranger nodded agreement.
“Sir, the President wants to see you.” It was Cunningham’s aide, Stevens. He pointed to the Command and Authority Room. Cunningham grunted and pushed his chair back. When he stood up he could see Admiral Scovill, Leachmeyer and Camm from the CIA in the room. He had been expecting this.
The President was leaning back in his chair, pointing an unlit cigar at Burke, the CIA Director, when Cunningham entered the room. “The DIA tells me that a partisan force of Kurds attacked the main airport at Kermanshah in conjunction with our raid. Further, that they destroyed an airliner on the field that was waiting to move the POWs. Now what the hell is going on?”
Burke was fighting for his job and knew it. “I wish I knew the DIA’s sources so I could confirm that information—”
“They’re talking to the Mossad,” the President said, his voice tight. “Our allies — damn good ones too when it comes to intelligence. Don’t you talk to them?”
“Of course, we do …”
Allan Camm stepped in. “Excuse me, sir, but we carefully evaluate everything we get from the Israelis. We have found that the quality of their intelligence has degraded in the last few years …”
“Well, there’s nothing wrong with the quality now.” The President swung back onto Burke. “Bobby, you’re a pro … I need better intelligence.” He pointed at the situation boards with his cigar. “Now how do we get the rest of our people out of there?”
“Mr. President, it’s still salvageable,” Cunningham said. All eyes in the room were on him. “First, two-thirds of the POWs are out of Iran and should be landing at Incirlik within thirty minutes. Second, the last third are moving to the airfield right now and we’ve got a C-130 waiting for them.”
“And no runway,” Leachmeyer jabbed.
“They will have shortly, Charlie. You underestimate what a C130 can do and how motivated those people are.”
“That still leaves my Rangers trapped.”
So now they’re “yours,” Cunningham thought. “We’ve got two C-130s airborne that can land, and if the Rangers can disengage from that armored column we’ll get ‘em out.”
The door opened and Andy Wollard, the President’s chief of staff, came in. “Sir, latest transmission from General Mado: the Rangers are holding at the bridge and his aircraft has taken another hit engaging a tank. But he’s going to stay airborne. Also, all of the POWs but two are at the airfield.”
“Mado’s a goddamn hero,” Leachmeyer said.
Not if I have anything to say about it, Cunningham thought. He damn well should have been on the ground at the first opportunity…
The President dismissed them and huddled with his National Security Advisor.
Outside, Burke drew Camm aside and grabbed his right elbow. “We had better be clean on this …”
Camm felt sick. He knew he had badly misjudged the whole deal. What he said was, “We are, sir. We are.”
“They’re disengaging. Repeat disengaging,” a Ranger on the left flank transmitted. They had been deployed on both sides of the destroyed bridge when the tanks came at them. In front of him the hulks of two tanks were burning, one less than thirty meters away. It had taken their last Dragon shoulder-launched anti-tank missile to knock out the T-72. The rattle of heavy machine-gun fire echoed down from the right and the tank that the gunship had disabled kept firing round after round at the east bank. The tank on the right that the Rangers had finally nailed with the third Dragon was erupting with internal explosions. The smell of burning flesh drifted over them.