by Ward Carroll
“I was afraid it would come to this,” Punk said.
“Hold on,” Spud said over the intercom before keying the radio. “Titan, any word from the Sandy package?”
“Negative. They haven’t checked-in yet.”
Spud knew what was on his pilot’s mind. He glanced down at his display and saw that Punk had switched his weapons toggle to Guns. The RIO cursed his luck as he realized the lieutenant in front of him was taking a crucial step toward becoming either the bravest or the dumbest nose gunner he’d ever been paired with.
Without another word between them, Punk rolled in on the vehicles more aggressively than he had the first two runs. While he sighted through his HUD and waited for his in-range cue, he noticed small bursts of light from the ground, like flashbulbs going off.
“They’ve jumped out of the trucks and they’re shooting at you,” Einstein reported from the bushes.
Punk responded by pulling the trigger on his stick, and he watched the tracers streak toward the ground but had to pull up before they hit their marks. As he jinked the nose back above the horizon, the jet bottomed out at fifteen hundred feet. He rolled quickly to the left and tried to assess the damage he’d been able to inflict with his strafing run.
Einstein came on the air again with, “SAM in the air.”
Spud had already caught sight of the shoulder-fired missile’s distinctive spring-shaped smoke trail, and as Punk pulled the throttles back to cool the engines, the RIO twisted one of the switches on his right console four times, which caused an equal number of flares to fire out of the same buckets that housed the bundles of chaff used to confuse radar operators. Shoulder-fired SAMs were heat-seekers and the flares were designed to give the missiles something hotter than the jet’s motors to seek. This time the SAM took the bait and exploded harmlessly behind them as they climbed for a second strafing run.
“Where the hell is the CSAR package?” Punk asked. “We’ve only got three or four more bursts from the gun and then we’re done.”
“Titan, we can’t hold the locals off the survivor much longer,” Spud reported over the AWACS frequency.
“Roger. I still have no comms with Sandy,” the Air Force controller replied before changing the subject. “Iron One, I showed you momentarily below the minimum authorized altitude. You’re reminded that aircraft are not allowed below ten thousand feet without a waiver from Zeus.”
“We need the waiver,” Spud instructed.
“Titan copies. We’ll coordinate clearance with Zeus. Remain above ten thousand feet until further notice.”
“Roger . . .” Spud replied without any intention of complying with the guidance.
“Spud,” Punk shot over the intercom, “we can’t strafe from ten thousand feet, and we don’t have time to sit up here and wait for this administrative horse shit to happen. The gomers will be on Einstein any second now.”
“I concur,” Spud returned. “But if we wreck the car, dad will really be pissed.”
“I never liked dad,” Punk said as he rolled in and executed another strafing run, and this time as he pulled out, several Iraqi bullets struck the canopy just behind his seat. Spud jerked his head below the canopy rail and shouted “fuck!” over the intercom as bits of Plexiglas flew into his cockpit, but he immediately rose back up and scoured the ground for SAMs.
“Are you hit?” Punk asked as he continued the climb and surveyed the damage behind him.
“No, I’m fine,” Spud replied. “They might have our number.”
“That’s true,” Punk said, “but they’re not going to get Einstein on my watch.” Accompanied by the discussion between the AWACS controller and the watch officer in the JTF-SWA command center about whether or not the Tomcat should be allowed below ten thousand feet, Spud attempted to dig his fingernails into the thick plastic glare shield above his instrument panel as Punk white-knuckled the controls and rolled in for a third strafing run.
The first thing Commander Campbell noticed when he regained consciousness was a terrible stench. He opened his eyes and saw that he’d been lashed across the back of a camel. He tried to move but couldn’t, and soon the camel’s heave as it walked coupled with the discomfort of the bindings and the pressure on his ribs caused him to feel motion sick. “Hey,” he cried, “get me down.”
The animal was halted and several nomads came into view, all apparently startled by the fact the commander had spoken. The little boy from the gully struck several blows to the skipper’s neck and shoulders with his shepherd’s stick and an older nomad flashed the skipper’s pistol while shouting at him in Arabic. The skipper pleaded for the boy to stop the beating, but that just seemed to further enrage them.
Just as the commander was sure he was going to vomit, a military truck raced up and came to a stop in a cloud of dust. The skipper heard their approach, and he lifted his head in time to see several helmeted figures dressed in olive drab and armed with rifles jump out of the back of the truck. Half of them brusquely herded the nomads into a group, and the other half gathered around the left side of the camel where the skipper’s head hung toward the ground.
The skipper felt the rope around the belly of the beast slacken, and, with ankles and wrists still bound, he was lowered to the dirt and stretched flat on his back. He wasn’t sure what to expect as the soldiers removed his boots and socks, but their intent was quickly made clear with the hellish sting of a rifle butt across the bottom of his feet.
The commander could hear laughter over his screams as strikes landed. He lost count of the hits and felt himself detach. He heard somebody wailing even louder than he was, and he looked over and saw another American flyer being beaten, and as their eyes met, he realized he was looking at himself. Then he saw himself begin to heave.
The taste in his mouth ended his out-of-body experience, and he fought to turn over against those who held him down. His tormentors took note of his gags and stopped their assault. They continued to laugh as he rolled onto his stomach and yielded to the angry waves of nausea.
Once the convulsions ceased, the skipper twisted onto his back and tried to reach to the small pocket on the left biceps of his flight suit. “Blood chit,” he shouted at them as he jerked his thumbs toward the pocket as far as his bound wrists would allow. “Blood chit. Money.”
Two of them pinned him again, and an Iraqi officer, distinguishable by his black beret, leaned across the skipper, unzipped the pocket, and removed the blood chit. The Iraqi officer read it, chuckled, and then read it aloud. The entire group laughed boisterously. The Iraqi officer wadded the tear-proof paper in the skipper’s face, screamed something at him in Arabic, and then slapped him twice. The officer shouted some orders at the men and then climbed back into the cab of the truck on the passenger’s side. The skipper was blindfolded and thrown between the troop benches that ran the length of either side of the bed. The soldiers climbed in around him and took turns kicking him as the truck began to move.
After twenty minutes of bouncing across the desert, the soldiers grew tired of their prey. The skipper lay dazed and bruised along the bed, still as death for fear that any movement might cause the soldiers to recommence the beatings. The truck stopped and the soldiers got out, leaving the skipper alone in the back. He listened intently to the shuffling of boots and the clicking of rifles as the officer barked orders at the men, and in his mind’s eye he saw them lining up into a firing squad.
Then hands were on him again, and he was slid along the bed and propped up onto his feet on the dry plain behind the truck. The blindfold was removed along with the bindings on his ankles and wrists. Before him stood a tall man in a uniform similar to the rest, but with more sparkle to it.
“Commander Campbell, welcome to Iraq,” the man said in perfect English. The skipper wondered how the Iraqi knew his name and rank, but then saw that he was holding the leather nametag from his flight suit. “I am Colonel Nabbah.”
The colonel gestured to the boots that had newly been placed at the skipper’s
feet. “I believe these are yours. Please put them back on.” The skipper sat on the dirt and gingerly worked his boots over his sore feet. “I apologize for the overzealous conduct of my countrymen. I’m afraid they are a bit excited after today’s battle.”
Once the skipper finished tying his boots, the colonel guided him into the back seat of a large Mercedes staff car idling nearby and then walked around the rear bumper and joined him from the opposite side. As soon as the colonel shut his door, the car sped off. The skipper fought the urge to ask where they were going, figuring that he was in the middle of a “soft sell” routine. He had been schooled on this insidious technique during his SERE (Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape) training right after flight school, and he knew that it was as dangerous as torture in its ability to effect the flow of classified information.
“You must be thirsty,” Colonel Nabbah said as he reached into a canvas bag between them and removed a liter of bottled water. “Please . . .”
The skipper accepted the offer with a nod and took a healthy series of draws on the plastic container. The cool water felt good as it streamed through his dry mouth and throat. “Where are you from?” the colonel asked. The commander didn’t answer but stared blankly at the back of the driver’s head directly in front of him. The Iraqi laughed to himself. “You don’t feel like talking?”
“I won’t talk,” the skipper muttered, as much convincing himself of his resolve as responding to the colonel’s question.
“That’s fine,” the colonel replied. “We really don’t need you to talk . . . not right now, anyway. The fact that you’re in our hands provides the nation of Iraq everything it needs. Plus, I’m sure your co-pilot will tell us everything we want to know.”
Einstein. “Did you capture him?” the skipper blurted almost involuntarily.
The colonel smiled as he reached into the bag again and withdrew a bottle of water for himself. “See? You do like to talk.” He took a swig from the bottle. “Don’t you want to know where we’re going?” The skipper attempted a return to his original silent tack, this time staring into the desert through his window. “I’m sure you do,” the Iraqi continued. “We’re going to drive above the thirty-third parallel and then get into a helicopter and fly the rest of the way to Baghdad.” The colonel reached over and calmly grasped the skipper’s right forearm. “Have you ever been to Baghdad?” The Iraqi’s touch startled the commander, and he nervously twisted his head away from the window and found himself gripped by his captor’s confident expression. The colonel laughed again and said, “No, of course not. Americans don’t visit Baghdad. They drop bombs on it.”
That’s because Baghdad’s not a very nice place, the skipper thought, but dared not say. At the same time, the idea of going to Baghdad horrified him, and the very sound of the word caused him to realize what shock had prevented thus far: He was in for the trial of his life. He tried to strengthen his resolve by remembering the Code of Conduct: I am an American fighting man . . .
They rode silently for a time until Colonel Nabbah lit a cigarette and started another monologue. “You know, I lived in New York City for three years.” This time, although startled by the break in the quiet, the skipper forced himself to do nothing but gaze out the window as the Iraqi spoke. “I attended Columbia University until I was called back by the Revolution.” The colonel took a long drag on his cigarette and smiled. “I learned much from your country, much more than you’ll ever know.”
Punk only got half a burst from the gun on his third strafing run, and as soon as the firing stopped he pulled out of the 30-degree dive while Spud threw the expendables switch twice as many times as there were flares remaining to obey his command. “We’ve got nothing left,” the pilot said dejectedly over the intercom. “Einstein’s as good as captured if the rescue package doesn’t get here in the next minute or so.”
“We’ve still got the drop tanks,” Spud quipped. “We could drop those on ’em.”
Punk considered the idea. “That’ll work, Spud. Set up the switches to jettison the tanks.”
“I was kidding . . . It was a joke, get it?”
“No, it’s our last chance,” Punk countered. “They’ll see them come off the jet and they’ll have to honor them.”
“I think they know you’re out of bullets,” Einstein shouted over the distress frequency. “They’re all out of the trucks now firing up at you.”
“Ah, shit . . . All right,” Spud said with resignation to his pilot. “One more run. Maybe we’ll even hit something. Even an empty drop tank can do some damage.”
Punk rolled in one last time and this time as he established the jet in the dive twice as many white flashes as before greeted him. “This is going to be ugly . . .” he thought aloud.
“Iron One, pull off high and right,” a voice called over the distress frequency. “Survivor, stay put until further notice.” As Punk started to raise the nose, he looked over his left shoulder to the southwest and saw one A-10 diving toward the Iraqis and then another plunging toward the desert, 45 degrees off the strike axis of the first jet. Punk leveled the F-14 and started an orbit overhead to watch the Air Force jets execute their attack.
The A-10s each shot several missiles on the way down while simultaneously firing their 30-millimeter Gatling guns. Punk looked to the ground around the vehicles and saw the incendiary bullets stir the dirt like schools of fish disturb the surface of a lake, and then the Maverick air-to-surface missiles exploded with deadly accuracy. Once the blasts settled, all that remained mobile was a lone truck limping toward the east, finished off in short order by a follow-on fusillade from the lead Warthog. The scene was disquieting and exhilarating at the same time.
“Sandy Three, the zone is secure,” the A-10 lead called to the HH-60 crew who trailed him by ten miles. “We’ll be flying low cover.”
“Sandy Three copies,” the helicopter pilot replied. The Navy lieutenant turned to the SEAL team leader, another Navy lieutenant, behind him and asked, “Are you ready?”
The SEAL responded with a thumbs up and then turned to his team as he slammed the magazine into his M-4 rifle. “Load ’em up, gentlemen; load ’em up.”
Einstein heard the distinctive sound of the helicopter’s rotors as it approached. The young RIO mentally reviewed the pick-up procedures and tried to recall the information he’d put on his ISOPREP card, personal information that the rescue crew would use to quiz him to ensure the enemy wasn’t luring them into a trap. My first dog was a beagle named Sparky, he recalled repeatedly, fearing he might choke in the heat of the rescue and cause the team to retire without him. My first dog was a beagle named Sparky.
The helicopter pilot directed Iron Two RIO to pop a smoke near his position to show the SEAL team exactly where he was and to allow the pilots to assess the direction of the wind for the landing. The HH-60 set down about fifty yards from Einstein, and at that point, the RIO emerged from the bushes with his hands in the air. Once he caught sight of the SEALs running for him, he fell to his knees and waited for their instructions.
Einstein was suddenly jumped from behind. His right arm was twisted painfully behind him, and he felt the blade of a knife at his throat. His assailant coolly uttered, “Who won the college world series last year?” into his right ear.
“What?”
“Who won the college world series last year? Your life may depend on the answer . . .”
Einstein gulped and replied, “I don’t know.”
“Okay, then what was the name of your first dog?”
“Sparky,” Einstein shouted. He was hoisted to his feet and hurried to the helicopter. Once past the chaos of the rotor-generated wind blast, the RIO was pushed through the crew door in a heap, and the SEALs piled in behind him. As they lifted off, the door gunner put a few rounds from his mini-gun into the wreckage of the vehicles for good measure. The HH-60 raced south just a few feet off the ground with the two A-10s in company above it.
“Iron Two RIO aboard Sandy Three,
” the helicopter pilot relayed over the AWACS frequency. Cheers erupted in the Current Operations Cell at JTF-SWA and were soon followed by more from Flag Briefing and Analysis aboard the Boat. At the same time, the next Southern Watch event began to check in with the AWACS to continue the search for Commander Campbell.
Twenty-five minutes later, the HH-60 touched down at Camp Doha, Kuwait. Just over two hundred fifty miles to the north, two burly guards were escorting the skipper from Colonel Nabbah’s staff car to a Russian-made transport helicopter for the final leg to Baghdad.
NINE
“I can’t believe we’re just sitting here,” Biff said to the rest of the officers gathered around the circle in the middle of the Cheesequarters.
“Believe it,” Trash advised. “Congress is full of weak tits. This country used to protect its own—even assholes like the skipper.”
“It’s not Congress. It’s the United Nations,” Monk said. “There’s no support in the U.N. for punitive strikes against Iraq. Our coalition, if you can call it that, is falling apart. It seems like the international community is starting to listen to Iraq’s side of the argument.”
“You think too much, Monk,” Trash said. “Sometimes in life you should just react. Don’t you ever wanna smash some joker in the face when he pisses you off?”
“Last time I checked, assault was a crime, Trash,” Monk replied.
“See?” Trash said. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. That’s why you’re bald. Your hair got bored with hanging out with you.”
“I’m with Biff and Trash,” Fuzzy said. “It’s time to fish or cut bait. If we’re not going to head home, then let’s kick some ass. We’ve flown less since we got extended here in the Gulf than we did before this crisis, if you can call it that.”
Biff pointed to the television above Fuzzy’s head. “Look, the skipper’s on the news again. Turn it up.” Fuzzy tapped the volume button a few times and then flipped his seat around to face the screen along with the other six officers in the room.