The ZSU leveled its quad-mounted barrels and fired a long burst down the road. The jeep careened and rolled over, skidding off to the right. The ZSU kept firing as it advanced, turning the jeep into a flaming pyre.
Kamigami pulled off to the side and waited. He watched the ZSU pull in behind the four concrete towers of the granary and stop. They were well within range of the airfield. A side hatch flopped open and two men crawled out. They were looking toward the airfield.
“Not good,” Jamison breathed, “all they have to do is pull around the far end of the towers and they’ve got a clear field of fire.”
“We do it now, before they get their act together,” the sergeant said, got out of the pickup and grabbed the RPG. “You cover me, Lieutenant, he belongs to me.” Kamigami checked the RPG and satisfied that it was ready to fire, he ran toward the ZSU.
Jamison watched him go, then followed. He had taken four steps when the two men saw them. The lieutenant yelled and drew their fire. The pickup behind him burst into flames and he flopped down on his stomach to return fire, but low bushes and a slight rise blocked his field of view. He stood up and fired. It wasn’t very smart but it did give Kamigami the time he needed. The sergeant dropped down into a shallow rut and took his time sighting the RPG. A bullet tore off his helmet. He shook his head and sighted again, then squeezed the trigger. The ZSU’s guns were swinging toward him when the rocket hit, blowing open the thin skin of the turret. A flash of flame was followed by billowing smoke.
When Kamigami swung the rifle off his shoulder and stood up he could not see Jamison or the two men who had been shooting at him. He ran toward the burning vehicle. A man dove out of the forward hatch and rolled away, the commander of the ZSU. Another figure followed, clothes on fire. Kamigami mercifully shot him.
The Iranian commander was scrambling for cover when Kamigami fired a short burst in front of him. The man changed direction and reached for an assault rifle pinned under one of the men Jamison had cut down. Again, Kamigami squeezed off a short burst, driving the man back. The ZSU commander backed against the wall of the granary yelling at the huge figure bearing down on him.
Kamigami had seen this man kill six of his Rangers. He wanted him. The Iranian dropped to his knees, scrambling for something in the dirt, then jumped up with a short length of pipe left over from when the granary was built, held it ready to swing. Kamigami dropped the lieutenant’s rifle and drew his Bowie knife. He did not slow down. The man started a swing but the sergeant snatched the pipe away from him and knocked the man’s arm away. He grabbed the Iranian’s hair, jerked his head back and let go as the Bowie knife flashed across his throat.
Kamigami then drew his Beretta and put a bullet in each of the other three ZSU crewmen, then trotted back to where he had last seen Jamison, trying to make his radio work and report the ZSU out of action. The radio had a dent in it, either from a bullet or him falling on it … He found the lieutenant lying in a bloody heap. He was still alive … “Lieutenant,” the sergeant’s voice was soft. “I was supposed to do the Rambo, you were just supposed to give me cover.” He shook out his first-aid kit and bound up Jamison’s chest and left thigh. “They do give medals for titanium testicles,” he said as he picked up Jamison in a fireman’s carry and jogged for the airfield, tossing the dead radio into the burning pickup truck.
Get off my goddamn runway, the Air Force sergeant who led the combat-control-team said to himself as he revved the engine and nosed the big bumper of the fuel truck against the nose of the burnt-out hulk of the C-130 that had closed “his” runway. He pushed hard at the wreckage, clearing the runway while Rangers came behind him, throwing debris to the side.
The runway was, finally, clear.
The flight engineer on Scamp 13, the disabled C-130 next to the dirt strip, ignited an incendiary bomb on the cargo deck of his aircraft, and flames shot from the back of the Hercules as the man ran for the two remaining C-130s that were starting engines. The number three prop on Kowalski’s Hercules started to wind up for an engine start. Then it spun down.
Inside the shack, Stansell heard Kowalski over the UHF. “Sheared starter shaft,” she said unhappily.
Mallard’s voice was calm when he answered. “Start your other engines and follow me on the runway for takeoff. I’ll taxi in front of you. When you’re in position I’ll back up and give you a buddy start. I’ll take off first …”
Stansell looked out the window. Mallard was turning onto the runway and Kowalski was taxiing on two engines as the third came on line. She followed and stopped at the very end of the runway while Mallard threw the props of his engines into reverse and backed up, stopping just in front of Kowalski. He ran his engines up, sending a sixty-mile-an-hour wind over Kowalski’s wings. Her number three prop started to turn, faster and faster, finally roaring to life. Mallard taxied clear and his loadmaster lowered the ramp, waiting for the first Rangers to board.
“Colonel Leason,” Stansell said, “please take Captains Hauser and Carroll aboard the first C-130.” Leason led the two outside. A Ranger drove them out to the waiting aircraft. “Ham”—Stansell turned to Gregory—“time for us to go.” Gregory nodded and issued orders for destroying the shack. The RTO slung the PRC-77 onto his left shoulder, picked up the SatCom radio and ran outside. Stansell grabbed the UHF radio and followed. Last man out was Gregory’s operations officer, who threw an incendiary grenade into the room and ran after his C.O. for the C-130s.
Stansell got into the jeep driven by one of the combat-control-team sergeants and drove out to the F-15. “Jack, leave it.” He picked up the incendiary block and headed for the nose-gear wheel-wall.
“Hold on,” Byers yelled. “I almost got this mother.” He was buttoning up the access panel. “Cap’n, get in the cockpit. I got to pump up the nitrogen bottle.”
“You got five minutes to get it cranked,” Stansell told Jack. “You’re moving by then or you burn it.” He dropped the incendiary by the nosewheel and got back into the jeep, heading for the C-130s.
“What the hell we doin’ this for?” Wade complained to Baulck. They were lying in the ditch outside the prison in the same spot where the first M-60 team had died. The wreckage of the dirt bike and machine gun was still there. Ratso One, the jeep team they had ridden with out of Objective Red, was parked three hundred yards away alongside the prison wall. They were both looking down the road toward the intersection.
Three trucks and a jeep sped by, heading for the airfield. The jeep slammed to a halt. It was Trimler. “One more jeep and that’s it,” he told them. “Fall in behind it and get your ass to the airfield.” The jeep spun its wheels and took off. Down the road they could see the last jeep approaching followed by a cloud of smoke and dust.
“Bet you anything that’s a tank breathing down their ass,” Baulck said.
The sour mood that had hung over the command center broke when Stansell and Mado reported the airfield was open. Now it was turning into jubilation as the AWACS reported that Scamp 15 with the last of the POWs was only thirty minutes away from the Turkish border and safety.