The smiles and good words disappeared when the AWACS reported that Iranian fighters were being scrambled and would be airborne within minutes.
Leachmeyer was on the stage, pointing at the last position of Scamp 15 with an electronic pointer. “… and have the AWACS relay an order to Scamp One-Five to turn to the west and escape through Iraq.”
Cunningham spun around in his chair, looking at the President, who was standing, apparently thinking about Leachmeyer’s proposal. We’ve been down this road before, Cunningham thought, and was on his feet. “General Leachmeyer, a good suggestion, but I say let the tactical director on board the AWACS make that decision.”
Leachmeyer’s tone was patronizing. “Those men are tired and not thinking, we’ve got the big picture here. It’s time we started acting like a command center.” A murmur of agreement went around the room.
Cunningham leaned forward over the console, fighting to control his anger. These people were a bunch of bureaucrats playing a war game with high-tech toys and real people. “Charlie, we’ve sunk billions of dollars and who knows how many hours of training into the AWACS concept. Right now those men are in the arena, doing what they’ve trained for. As a command center it’s our job to support them, keep the strategic picture in view”—he forced the next words—“and to let them make the tactical decisions.” He paused to let it sink in. “What you’re proposing falls under tactics … Sounds like a good idea, so tell them about it — as an option to consider. But let them do what they were trained for.”
“Gentlemen”—it was the President—“I agree with General Leachmeyer. Order Scamp One-Five to escape through Iraq.”
The major working the communications panel looked at Cunningham for confirmation. He clenched his jaw, not trusting himself to speak, jerked his head yes and sat down.
CHAPTER 51
Aboard the AWACS Lieutenant Colonel Leon Nelson heard the transmission from the command center directing him to order Scamp 15 into Iraqi airspace. “Acknowledge that,” he ordered. “Status of Iraqi air defense net?” he asked.
He got an immediate answer. “All stations on alert and reporting. It’s hotter than hell.” A pause. “Colonel, they’ll engage anything coming their way.”
Nelson studied the tactical display in front of him. He ran the numbers through his head for the time-distance, rates of closure, intercept geometry when the Iranian interceptors actually become airborne. He made his decision and keyed his intercom. “Disregard that last transmission from Fort Fumble.” He knew everything he said was being recorded and could be used against him in a court-martial. Then to his Fighter Allocator: “Start talking to Cowboy and Rustler flights. You’ve got trade for them.” Cowboy and Rustler were the eight F-15s orbiting with the KC-135 tanker.
Thunder was standing behind Spectre’s copilot as he watched the three tanks move past the abandoned intersection that had been Objective Red and toward the prison. “Those tanks are moving with a ZSU-23-4 and two SA-8s.”
“Just trying to discourage us,” Beasely said.
“Captain,” Mado interrupted, “the Rangers are reaching the airfield and loading now. I want you to fly a protective cover over the field.”
“In a moment, General, in a moment,” Beasely answered. “We got troops in contact down there. Let’s give them some cover first so they can withdraw.” They could see the jeep team behind the prison wall and Baulck and Wade in the ditch.
“Damn it, Captain. That’s an order.”
“Right, sir. And I’ll comply. In a minute.” He started to orbit. “Okay troops, we’re in again. Rock and roll time.”
Mallard’s C-130 was rolling down the runway and lifting into the air, loaded with half the Rangers. All the jeep teams except Ratso One and Nine had pulled in and established a perimeter defense on the airfield while Gregory and his S-3 double-checked with Stansell, Trimler and Bravo Company’s captain on where everyone was. “Ratso One with Baulck and Wade are still at the prison, in contact with the tanks,” the S-3 confirmed. “No word on Ratso Nine or Kamigami and Jamison.”
“I think that’s Ratso Nine,” Gregory said, pointing at the smoke coming from the granary. “Lots of activity going on there. Have Spectre check it out.” Stansell nodded. “Okay, draw in the perimeter defense and load.” Trimler and the captain went to work. Gregory stared at the smoke billowing above the granary. “Ratso One needs to disengage and come this way,” he told Stansell. Neither man wanted to mention that they would leave them behind if they had to.
“Spectre’s engaging the tanks now,” Stansell said. “I’ll get Locke and Byers.” He motioned to his driver, and the jeep headed for the F-15 still sitting on the ramp.
“Byers, I’ve got to crank,” Locke said when he saw the jeep racing toward them. The crew chief was standing in the left main-gear well just behind the landing-gear strut, pumping. He had a breaker bar inserted in the manual pump for the jet fuel starter and his arms went back and forth as he tried to pump up the nitrogen bottle’s pressure. Normally it took 250 strokes to recharge the bottle but his quick fix was leaking.
“Do it,” Byers called out. Jack pulled the tee-handle that manually activated the jet fuel starter. Nothing happened. Byers tried to pump the bottle up again but his arms gave out and he fell to the ground exhausted, then dragged himself upright and grabbed the handle.
“Leave it,” Stansell ordered from the jeep.
Byers ducked out from under the gear well. He could hardly move his arms. “Colonel, one more time.”
“No time …”
“Help me, goddamn it,” Byers blasted. “One more time … Christ-a-mighty, Colonel, these are my jets …”
And Stansell remembered another time … He darted under the wing and pumped at the breaker bar. Slowly the pressure built, then stabilized. “Now,” Byers shouted, and Jack pulled the tee-handle again while Stansell kept pumping. This time the the JFS wound up, hesitated, and caught, coming to life.
“You got it,” Byers said. Stansell dropped the breaker bar and ran back to the jeep.
The left engine successfully engaged the JFS and was soon on-line and idling. The right engine started with no problem and JFS shut down. Jack hit the parking-brake toggle and jumped out of the front cockpit and bent over the backseat. “Furry, do I ever need you now …” His hands went to the switches, setting the F-15 up for a solo flight. “Hey, Byers, want to go for a ride?” The sergeant was still waiting and could not hear him over the engine’s noise. Jack pointed to the empty backseat, then to him. Byers gave a thumbs-up.
Jack was back in the front seat, and Byers scrambled up over the left wing onto the top of the variable inlet ramp and into the cockpit. When he was in the seat, Jack taxied for the runway …
The AC-130 shuddered as Beasely fired the 105 at the SA-8 that was behind the tanks. He had to open a corridor onto the tanks if he was going to survive. The thin-skinned SA-8 disappeared in a ball of fire.
Before he could sight on the second SA-8 a hail of 23mm cannon fire cut into the cockpit. The C-130 had come in range of the ZSU. The armor plating under the floor boards and along the sides absorbed most of the damage, but the three rounds that penetrated the flight deck hit the crew. Thunder was standing at the top of the ladder coming up from the crew entry well. He was talking to Mado and had his back to Beasely. Metal fragments and splinters pounded into his back, throwing him against Mado, blowing the two men into the crew entry well and against the television camera mounted in the crew-entry door.