The captain in command tallied his losses: three dead, eight wounded. He knew what was coming next — a mortar barrage. “Time to beat feet,” he mumbled, and passed the word to withdraw. On his order a hail of smoke grenades rained down from the Rangers onto the river bank, and the dull thumps of two 60mm mortars throwing smoke added to the confusion.
The Rangers ran for the waiting trucks while the two jeep teams sprayed the smoke with short bursts from their M-60s. They had held the bridge for twenty-four minutes, destroyed three tanks (not counting the one disabled by the AC-130 but still firing), knocked out two BTR-60s, killed two dozen of the enemy and wounded another forty-three. More than a fair exchange.
The four trucks carrying the eighty-six POWs and most of the Romeo Team drove directly up to the rear of the waiting C-130—Scamp 15. Before they could unload, Stansell directed the trucks to disperse around the airfield and to keep their motors running, ready to move if the airfield came under attack again or if it was time to load the C-130. Scamp 14 was still burning on the runway, sending a dense pillar of black smoke into the air.
Across the runway on the makeshift dirt strip the crew of Scamp 13 was having trouble starting number-four engine, the pilot and flight mechanic trying not to burn out the starter. Finally, the engine did come on line and wound up, and a noisy sigh of relief escaped from Stansell. He watched as the pilot jockeyed the throttles back and forth on the two good engines and slowly inched the damaged plane off the strip. When he judged the Hercules was going to move clear, he waved for the trucks to return and twirled his right forefinger above his head, motioning for the crew to start engines on Scamp 15.
Trimler bounced out of the cab of the first truck, the Rangers threw the tail-gates of the trucks open and helped the POWs unload and move up the ramp of the C-130. Trimler had to help a tall, gaunt man out of the truck — his clothes in rags, he was barefoot and very weak. The man spoke a few words to the young captain. Trimler pointed to Stansell, and the POW slowly crossed the thirty feet that separated them, Trimler walking beside him. When they reached Stansell, the man somehow pulled himself to attention and slowly saluted.
“Colonel Clayton Leason, 45th Tactical Fighter Wing, reporting for duty.”
It was all Stansell could do to return the salute.
Kamigami wheeled the pickup truck down a deserted street, still dogging the ZSU-23-4. The sound of gunfire and mortars had driven most of the people of Kermanshah to cover, and the few who were outside and moving were too preoccupied to notice a pickup. He turned into an alley and stopped when he saw the ZSU clank to a halt. A hatch popped open and a man climbed out carrying what looked like a RPG, the standard Soviet shoulder-held anti-tank missile and an assault rifle. Kamigami watched the man hurry into a house, leaving the door open behind him.
“They’re putting out a road guard to cover their flank,” Kamigami said. “Means they’re near their next position. Lieutenant, cover me and keep your eye on the ZSU. Don’t want to lose it now. I’m going in.” The sergeant grabbed the lieutenant’s rifle and moved toward the empty doorway. Jamison covered him with the M-203, figuring a well-placed grenade would discourage anyone from moving down the street. He marked where the ZSU turned into a grove of trees …
Kamigami got to the doorway and paused, listening. The ugly sounds from inside indicated the Iranian soldier he had seen was engaged in a rape. He moved the rifle back onto his shoulder, drew his Bowie knife and darted soundlessly through the door. A moment later he was out, carrying the RPG, not saying a word.
The lieutenant pointed to the grove of trees where he had last seen the ZSU. Kamigami nodded and sprinted down the alley, leaving the pickup truck behind. Jamison ran after him.
The last of the POWs, minus two, were aboard the C-130. Trimler and a sergeant were comparing lists, making sure all the POWs were accounted for. Two men were carrying on a body bag — the POW who had been killed in the basement before the Rangers could save him. Four wounded were helped on board, including Ambler Furry, Jack’s WSO. “All accounted for except Carroll, Hauser, and Landis,” Trimler told Stansell and Leason.
“Launch without them,” Clayton said. “I’ll stay until they’re here.”
“You should go,” Stansell told him, not wanting to tell him the obvious … that there was nothing he could do to help.
“I’ll stay. Load Mokhtari on board. I want that son of a bitch to stand trial. And there’s an Iranian guard, Amini, who should go with us.”
“Why the guard?” Stansell asked.
“He helped the POWs, says he’s a friendly agent working for someone called Deep Furrow,” Trimler put in. He turned to a sergeant. “Get the Iranian colonel and the guard on board.” The sergeant headed for the last truck.
Heading toward them, a jeep bounced across the field on the other side of the runway, skirted the still burning hulk of the C-130 and skidded to a halt beside them. It was Jack Locke. “Trouble, sir,” he gestured toward Scamp 13. “The bird’s stuck and its tail is still in the way.”
The sergeant who had gone to put Mokhtari and the guard on board came running back. “The Iranian colonel — he’s gone — escaped …”
Mokhtari had not escaped. In the confusion of loading the trucks at the prison, he had simply walked into the ruins of his prison and been left behind.
The radar operator was aching and his eyes were tired as he monitored the radar scope. He wanted to get outside and walk around, anything to break the long monotony of sitting in the radar shack. He made a mental promise never to again antagonize his superior, the captain in the control center. A flicker on the scope at forty-five nautical miles, bearing 215 degrees, caught his attention. He played the antenna tilt and receiver-gain and caught it again. He hit the IFF interrogator. No response. Again, he got the skin paint on what was now definitely an unidentified aircraft. His spirits rose. He had an intruder. The radar return disappeared off his scope.
He jerked a drawer open, pulled out an acetate overlay and slapped it over the scope. The overlay outlined the mountains that masked his radar from detecting low-flying aircraft. He proceeded to calculate where the return would next appear on the scope when the intruder lost its terrain-masking.
Suddenly the door of the radar shack was kicked open and the operator spun around. His captain stomped into the room followed by four armed men and a black-robed, turbaned old man — an Ayatollah. “Stand to attention,” the captain ordered. He glanced at the scope. “The Americans have attacked Kermanshah, obviously to rescue the filth being kept there. You should have detected their aircraft—”
“But, sir, I have—”
“You have been asleep,” the young officer told him, very worried about his own immediate chances of survival. The armed guards were not his men but the Ayatollah’s. “Take him out and shoot him — now.” When the Ayatollah nodded, two guards grabbed the operator and took him outside. The captain glanced back at the scope but jerked his head away when he heard two gunshots. Well, someone had to pay …
“Get another operator in here,” he ordered, missing the return that flickered on the screen and then disappeared.
“Thirty more seconds,” the navigator Sue Zack said, “then we’ll be back in behind some mountains.” The tension on the flight deck of Scamp 11 eased when they flew behind a mountain, away from the open valley that led to Maragheh. “ETA to Kermanshah, thirty-three minutes.”