That was it. The MiGs disengaged and headed east into Iran. The F-15s had shot down two MiG-23 Floggers in less than seventy-two seconds. Snake called for a fuel check and joined up on the C-130, escorting the POWs across the border into Turkey, and safety, ignoring two other bandits who were looking for them.
The main floor of the command center was pandemonium. People pounded each other on their backs and shook hands. The noise wouldn’t die down. But the major who was handling the communications panel sat quietly, not joining in the celebration over Scamp 15’s safe deliverance. She folded her hands in her lap and looked at Cunningham, waiting. The general nodded at her. His Air Force, it was a-changing.
Stevens told him the President wanted to see him, and Cunningham heaved himself out of his chair and hurried to the Command and Authority Room.
The President came directly to the point. “I gave a direct order for Scamp One-Five to escape through Iraq. That order was disobeyed.” “That’s true, sir,” Cunningham had to bite his lip, not trusting himself to say what he was thinking — that the President had made a dumb decision.
“I want to know why. And I want some balls crunched.”
“May I smoke?” Cunningham asked, pulling out his favorite cigar. “I’ve got to cut back …” He lit it up and puffed, and it became a waiting game to see who would speak first.
The President made the move. “Lawrence, today has been a new experience for me …”
Cunningham knew that was as close to bending as his commander in chief would come. “Sir, I need to check it out about why your orders were not followed. It will take some time. But look at the results.” He motioned at the center situation board. “As of now, sir, it looks like the tactical director in the AWACS had a more current, more accurate grasp of the situation than we did. He did what he judged to be correct. It may not have been the best decision, but it worked.”
Cunningham looked uneasily at the President, saw no special reaction and went on … “We train them, give them multi-million-dollar toys to play with, then we’ve got to trust them when the heat’s on. Just the way it is, sir.” The President stared for a moment, then slowly nodded. “We look at the results,” Cunningham continued, encouraged, “try to learn from what happened, pick up the pieces, give ‘atta boys to the ones who did good and try to do it better next time.” He didn’t mention that some balls would still need to be crunched.
“Thanks, Lawrence.” The President stared out over the room that was now quieting down. “Is it always this hard?”
“Yes, sir. It is. And we’re not out of it yet. Two more C-130s to go.”
CHAPTER 52
“How’s it goin’?” Kowalski asked her loadmaster over the intercom. Hank Petrovich looked around the cargo deck. Almost every Ranger was asleep. Gregory and his S-3 were huddled with a medic going over the casualty list while another medic crouched on the deck working on Thunder. Stansell was there trying to help. Petrovich was relieved to see that they had stopped the captain’s bleeding. “Most everyone is asleep,” he told her. “But one of them wants to come up and talk to you.”
“Send him up.” Petrovich motioned at Andy Baulck, who worked his way through the sleeping men and up onto the flight deck.
Kowalski turned and looked at him. “How ya doin’, Sarge?”
“Playing in the major leagues, Captain, swingin’ one hell of a big bat.” Kowalski smiled at him. It was the truth. “Captain, I wanted to say thanks. They told me how you held the takeoff waiting for us to pull in …”
“My job, Baulck. Besides, you didn’t think I’d turn an asshole like you loose on a bunch of unsuspecting civilians?” Baulck grinned and crawled back down the stairs onto the cargo deck and fell into a deep sleep.
“Well, now,” her copilot Brenda Iverson said, “we got a visitor.” Jack Locke had joined up on the C-130‘s right wing, giving them a thumbs-up.
Nelson sank back into his seat on the AWACS, aching with fatigue. He had been airborne too long and needed rest. When the AWACS had landed at Incirlik after their first sortie and the insertion of Romeo Team aboard Scamp 11, the flight crew had changed out. But the mission crew in the rear had stayed aboard. Should have told more people about Operation WARLORD, he thought, so the mission crew could also have swapped out. Mustn’t suffer from “get homeitis,” we’re not headed for the barn yet. He studied the tactical display in front of him and called his fighter allocator for an update.
“The situation is fluid,” the fighter allocator told him. “I have six bandits airborne, two F-4s and four Floggers. They just seem to be roaming around. Someone over there must have figured out by now we’re egressing through the tri-border region and should try to position them as a blocking force.” Another voice interrupted to announce that four more bandits were now airborne out of Tabriz and two more were being scrambled.
“Any idea who they’ll commit on?” Nelson asked. “Scamp One-Two or Scamp One-One?”
“Whichever one they can find. I’ve got four F-15s, Rustler flight, still with the tankers and gassed, ready to go. Why don’t we send them in to escort Scamp One-Two since its the closest to the border, put Cowboy flight on the tankers for gas and then send them in to escort the last C-130 out?”
“Sounds good. Do it.”
The new controller sitting at the radar-control console was sweating. He had seen the body of the last controller still lying on the ground when he had driven up the mountain. At least he had the undivided attention of the captain in the control center and didn’t have to make any critical decisions. The captain had a vengeful Ayatollah looking over his shoulder and would have to answer for any mistakes. Still, there was guilt by association …
“Do you have the C-130s on your scope?” the captain barked over the command line from the control center.
“Not at this time. But I do know their approximate position. The first is halfway between Kermanshah and the tri-border area. The other has only taken off from Kermanshah and is headed north. Please standby, I have activity.” The controller studied his scope for a few moments. “Four fast moving targets have departed the tanker and are descending. I will lose them for a period of time when they are in the mountains. But I will paint them later. They are most likely fighters ingressing to escort the C-130s. I have four more targets now joining on the tankers.”
There was a long pause on the other end. “The last time,” the captain said, “they directed four F-15s to escort one C-130. It is a pattern. Monitor the four fighters that are penetrating our airspace. We will send four of our fighters against them when they rendezvous with a C-130. We use our remaining fighters to attack and destroy the C-130 they leave unprotected.” The Iranian command-and-control net had finally gotten its act together.
“Shee-it, Cap’n,” Byers grumbled from the back seat, “what’s all that bleepin’?” The F-15’s sensitive Tactical Electronic Warfare System was sending loud warning signals through Byers’ earphones.
“That’s the TEWS,” Jack Locke told him. “The chirp means airborne search radars are looking for us. There’s a knob on your left console that can turn down the volume.” The pilot glanced at his TEWS, not liking what he saw. “Lots of Gomers up and about.”