Force of Eagles

by Richard Herman

  Force of Eagles

  Richard Herman Jnr

  © Richard Herman, Jnr 1990

  Richard Herman, Jnr has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 2001, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in the U.K. in 1990 by Hodder and Stoughton Ltd

  This edition published in 2014 by Endeavour Press Ltd

  For the MIAs, the men who went missing in action in South-east Asia, and whose only homecoming is in the memories and love of those they left behind.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: D minus 34

  Chapter 2: D Minus 33

  Chapter 3: D Minus 32

  Chapter 4: D Minus 31

  Chapter 5: D Minus 30

  Chapter 6: D Minus 29

  Chapter 7: D Minus 28

  Chapter 8: D Minus 27

  Chapter 9: D Minus 26

  Chapter 10: D Minus 25

  Chapter 11: D Minus 24

  Chapter 12: D Minus 23

  Chapter 13: D Minus 22

  Chapter 14: D Minus 21

  Chapter 15: D Minus 20

  Chapter 16: D Minus 19

  Chapter 17: D Minus 18

  Chapter 18: D Minus 17

  Chapter 19: D Minus 16

  Chapter 20: D Minus 15

  Chapter 21: D Minus 14

  Chapter 22: D Minus 13

  Chapter 23: D Minus 12

  Chapter 24: D Minus 11

  Chapter 25: D Minus 10

  Chapter 26: D Minus 9

  Chapter 27: D Minus 8

  Chapter 28: D Minus 7

  Chapter 29: D Minus 6

  Chapter 30: D Minus 5

  Chapter 31: D Minus 4

  Chapter 32: D Minus 3

  Chapter 33: D Minus 2

  Chapter 34: D Minus 1

  Chapter 35: D-Day

  Chapter 36: H-Hour

  Chapter 37: H Plus 1

  Chapter 38: H Plus 2

  Chapter 39: H Plus 3

  Chapter 40: H Plus 4

  Chapter 41: H Plus 5

  Chapter 42: H Plus 6

  Chapter 43: H Plus 7

  Chapter 44: H Plus 8

  Chapter 45: H Plus 9

  Chapter 46: H Plus 10

  Chapter 47: H Plus 11

  Chapter 48: H Plus 12

  Chapter 49: H Plus 13

  Chapter 50: H Plus 14

  Chapter 51: H Plus 15

  Chapter 52: H Plus 16

  Chapter 53: H Plus 17

  Epilogue

  Terms

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Sergeant Javad Khalian, a Revolutionary Guard commando, kept watching his target, trying to convince himself that he had found the foreigner. He had almost missed the man at first—he did not match the description passed out by the Guards. But as he watched, he became more certain that it was the young American the Council of Guardians was so eagerly seeking. The ten thousand dollars in gold the mullahs were now offering as a reward was ample proof of their eagerness.

  Yet he had to be sure, for it meant much to him, maybe even command of a company or battalion in the Revolutionary Guards. Command meant power and prestige and with that, dominance over his so-called equals. Khalian thought of the fools he had to serve with in the Guards—idiots who needed the type of leadership he could give them. But he wasn’t about to be the scorn of many jokes by bringing in the wrong man—again.

  The fading light made it difficult to follow the man through the crowded market of Khorramabad, a small town nestled in a pass by the Zagros mountains of western Iran. Khalian paused by a stall the vendor was closing in preparation for evening prayers that would start in a few minutes. He studied his quarry, struck by the man’s appearance, so much like his own. No wonder he had been so difficult to find and capture.

  The young Iranian’s ego swelled as he thought about his future. He almost strutted as he followed the American, not wanting to lose sight of him. Still, he had his doubts. Too many suspects had been brought in, only to be released or executed after their identity was established. It did not bother Khalian that innocent men had been hanged in public, left to squirm at the end of a rope or piano wire as they choked to death. He agreed that the executions were necessary if the integrity of the Guards was to be maintained before the public. Khalian cursed the whisper of doubt that kept him from acting—the suspect did move and act like an Iranian. But there was still something wrong, he couldn’t quite pinpoint…the way he moved?…gestures…?

  Khalian hurried after him, not wanting to lose his prey in the thinning crowd. He did not see him stop to talk to a fruit seller and almost ran into him. To keep from arousing the man’s suspicions, Khalian walked on past. He quickly blended into the crowd and doubled back, wanting to talk to the vendor.

  “The one who just bought some fruit, old man. Tell me, was he a foreigner?”

  “No.” The old man’s answer was abrupt, bordering on the edge of hostility. He did not want to talk to the young sergeant with his swagger and bravado that carried none of the politeness and dignity that Allah demanded of the faithful.

  Khalian’s ego would not tolerate even the suggestion of an insult. “And tell me, you heap of pig shit, how do you know this?” He made a menacing gesture with his AK-47.

  “He spoke and acted as one of the faithful,” the old man said, letting the obvious comparison sink in.

  The young Revolutionary Guard wanted to shoot the vendor on the spot, punish him for his insolence, but the noise would only make the American bolt for cover. If he was the American…He would settle with the old fool later, after he had caught the foreigner. His confidence rose as he caught sight of the doomed fugitive, thirty meters away, eating at another stall. He swung his assault rifle down on its sling, letting it hang from his shoulder. By grasping the pistol grip, he let the crowd see him prepare for action. He strode after the American, ready to capture his prize, every inch a soldier of Allah, still not positive that he had the right man but now ready to act, tired of his caution.

  Ten meters short of the stall where the American had been eating Khalian lost sight of him. Where had he gone? Then he saw the narrow alley and felt a surge of disappointment that the American had chosen to run for cover, away from an appreciative audience that would have remarked on his bravery and skill in capturing the most wanted man in Iran.

  Seeing no one in the alley, he started to run, afraid that he was losing the foreigner. He skidded around a blind corner, seeing nothing in the fading light. The last thing he remembered was a searing line of pain circling his throat, cutting off his scream.

  The man twisted the wire garrote, cutting deep into Khalian’s throat. At the same time he guided the twitching body into a soundless slump, making a heap in the shadows. Moving quickly but with no appearance of being rushed, he untwisted the wire from around the Iranian’s neck and wiped it clean on the dead man’s shirt. A quick search turned out the man’s identification papers and money. He arranged the body to look as if he were napping, taking care to hide the AK-47 under the body.

  Carefully, he inspected himself, taking time to be sure that no blood had gotten on his clothes. He found two small spots near his left knee. By rubbing in dirt and then scrapping it off with a small but very sharp knife he removed the two spots. Checking to make sure that he was still alone, he walked around the corner into better light. Again he inspected himself for blood. Then he thumbed through the commando’s identification papers, satisfied that they fit him much better than his current set. He walked back to the body and placed his old papers and some of the money in the left-hand pocket of the commando’s shirt, carefully buttoning the flap.

  He reached into the shadows and retr
ieved the shoulder bag he had hidden two hours before. He rummaged in a side pocket and pulled out a note pad and pen. He quickly scribbled a note in Farsi, the Iranian language, “For dishonouring my sister, my family, and spreading corruption on earth.” Then he pried open the corpse’s mouth and shoved the note between its teeth, mumbling in English as he worked, “They won’t have any trouble believing that, you bastard.”

  Aware that he was talking to himself in English, he switched to Farsi. “That could be a fatal mistake.” He had been alone too long and was talking to himself out of loneliness. “God, you were thick,” he continued in Farsi, “I thought you’d never take the bait, using my left hand when only you were watching. For a moment, you had me worried.” He chided himself for taking so many chances in order to get the Iranian’s attention and then leading him to the killing ground he had selected. All very necessary he decided, pulling a large plastic bag out of his bag that he had purchased days before in another town.

  With some trouble, he shoved the body into the plastic bag, satisfied that he had made a good choice in luring the young commando after him. He tied the bag shut with an overhand knot and carried the body to a hole he had scooped out in a pile of garbage when he hid his shoulder bag. Quickly, he collapsed the hole over the body, calculating that Islamic prohibitions against handling unclean waste might keep the corpse from being discovered until it was well decomposed. Then they would have only his old papers to rely on, and perhaps the note would satisfy the authorities. He hoped, but he doubted it. He shouldered his bag, picked up the AK-47 and walked back to the alley. At least he had bought some time.

  A sudden tiredness overcame him as he walked away from the marketplace. Switching from the near-perfect Farsi he had been speaking, he spoke two words in faultless Arabic, “Insh’ Allah.” Then muttering in English, “as God wills.” Especially for what happens to a loose cannon in Iran, by necessity undirected and uncontrolled.

  Chapter 1: D minus 34

  Central Arizona

  The two compass-gray F-15 Eagles punched out of the top of the broken cloud deck scudding over the Arizona desert. The flight lead’s voice came over the UHF radio, “Fence check.”

  His wingman, Colonel Rupert Stansell, did not acknowledge the call as his fingers flicked the switches that would arm the fighter for combat. Without looking, his left hand flashed over the IFF, Identification Friend or Foe, panel just behind the throttles, touching the toggle switches that would turn the four modes on the radar transponder to standby and deny an enemy the capability of interrogating the F-15’s radar beacon. Automatically, he reached forward with his left hand and moved the Master Arm switch up on the armament control panel. “IFF standby. Master Arm on,” he told the instructor pilot riding in the back seat of his D model Eagle. Stansell had simulated the exact actions he would have taken if they had just penetrated into hostile territory.

  “Contact, bogies, on the nose at fifty-five miles,” the flight lead, Snake Houserman, radioed. Stansell suppressed a grunt and pressed the center button on the left throttle in an upward motion, increasing the range of his radar display to eighty miles. Two blips flashed on the Vertical Situation Display, the VSD, at fifty miles. He had made a basic mistake—it was hard to see targets at fifty miles using a forty-mile scope.

  “Rog,” Stansell replied, “contact bogies.” The radar contacts were their “adversaries,” two other F-15s from Luke AFB. The colonel was vaguely aware that he was breathing very rapidly.

  “Just do it as briefed, sir,” Captain Greg Donaldson, the instructor pilot in his back seat pit, cautioned. Donaldson was worried about the colonel. He hadn’t been doing well in Air Combat Tactics.

  “Toro, Lobo One and Two entering air-to-air now, North Point, ready.” Snake Houserman called over the UHF radio, checking them into the area on the flight frequency. Snake was Lobo One and Stansell was Lobo Two. They were flying straight and level at 500 knots Calibrated Air Speed. Snake was at 15,000 feet and Stansell at 19,000.

  Snake was a very young captain who was showing promise of being an outstanding fighter jock. Stansell was envious of the young man’s potential, already more than anything he had.

  The bogies checked in, “Lobo, Toro One and Two entering air-to-air now, South Point, ready.”

  “Roger, Tom,” Snake answered, “fight’s on, tape’s on.” Stansell tried to control his rate of breathing, knowing he could hyperventilate. They still had over two minutes before they came together in the merge, lots of time. His fingers played the piccolo, those series of switches and buttons on the throttles and stick that gave the pilot control of everything he needed in combat. He blipped the range button down, decreasing his radar range to forty miles. He moved the Target Designation Control switch on the left throttle and drove the acquisition bars on the Vertical Situation Display over the left target. He mashed the TDC button and immediately released it. The radar system did as it was commanded and locked on.

  “Too early, Colonel,” Donaldson told him. Stansell grunted, conceding the instructor pilot was right. In combat the radar-warning gear in the enemy’s cockpit would be screaming “lock on” at the pilot, giving him ample time to react and avoid a head-on medium-range missile shot. Stansell broke the lock on, losing the capability for the launch of an AIM-7M Sparrow missile. “Sort the formation and don’t take your final lock until the range is about fifteen nautical miles,” Donaldson said.

  Stansell waited, working to control his breathing for the seventy seconds it took for the range to decrease from thirty-five to fifteen miles. He selected a twenty-nautical-mile scope and drove the acquisition bars with the TDC to the left target and mashed it. But this time the radar wouldn’t lock on and stayed in the scan mode. Either the system was malfunctioning or Toro was jamming him.

  “Go for a Fox Two,” Donaldson commanded, hoping the AIM-9L Sidewinder could acquire a heat signature off the approaching F-15’s intakes for a short-range, front-aspect missile shot.

  The colonel broke his attempted lock and used his left thumb to toggle the weapon switch on the side of the right throttle to the middle detent, calling up the Sidewinders. The characteristic growl of the Sidewinder filled their earphones, masking all other communications. Stansell had made another mistake. He reached for the volume control knob and turned the tone down just as he visually acquired the on-coming F-15s. Once a visual contact was established, they were free to maneuver and engage the bogies in a turning engagement.

  “Tally two, left ten o’clock, seven miles, slightly high!” Snake radioed. At least his eyeballs were no better than Stansell’s.

  At the same time, another voice broke into the radio transmission. “Tom One. Fox One on the west F-15 at nineteen thousand.” The Interceptor symbol on Stansell’s Tactical Electronic Warfare System scope was flashing at him, warning him that the pilot in the approaching F-15, Toro One, had just taken a simulated ALM-7M shot at him. How had he missed the audio warning on his own TEWS? The Sidewinder’s growl must’ve overridden it. Another mistake. In action a Sparrow with a sixty-six pound high explosive warhead would’ve been streaking toward Stansell. The smoke trail that “The Great White Hope” left behind it would get any pilot’s attention and force a violent evasive maneuver, anything to break the radar lock-on guiding the Sparrow.

  Almost immediately, the same cool voice announced, “Tom One, Fox Two on the west F-15 at nineteen thousand.” Now Stansell had a Sparrow and a Sidewinder coming at him.

  “Break right!” Donaldson shouted. “Honor the goddamn threat, Colonel!”

  Stansell didn’t hesitate and for the first time, he reacted quickly. Burying his right foot in the rudder pedal; he pushed the stick forward and to the right, starting a Split-S maneuver toward the ground and reversing course. “Put your nose on him, colonel. You’re solving the goddamn problem for him,” Donaldson bellowed, the strain of grunting against the six Gs they were pulling laboring his voice. Stansell pulled the nose of the F-15 up and reversed course to meet his pursue
r head-on, but he was too heavy-handed and snatched over eight Gs on the F-15, causing the Over Load Warning System to activate. He was so engrossed that he did not hear the double rate beeper and then the computer-activated female voice saying, “Over-G, Over-G, Over-G,” to warn him of the excessive forces he was loading on the jet.

  Stansell grunted hard to fight the Gs, exactly the way most people fight constipation. While not very elegant, it did work. Stansell could feel a granddaddy slip out, making its presence known in the cockpit.

  It was too much for Donaldson. He keyed his mike and transmitted for the other aircraft to hear. “Lobo Two, knock it off, knock it off,” while he toggled his oxygen regulator to one hundred percent oxygen, cutting off all cockpit air to his mask. The four Eagles immediately flew wings level and checked in with their call signs. “God, Colonel,” Donaldson muttered over the intercom. “You over-G’d the jet with that last maneuver. Call an over-G and head for home.”

  Stansell keyed the radio, “Lobo Two, RTB at this time. One hundred and six percent overload. Level two on the wings—8.2 Gs.”

  “Rog, Two.” It was Snake’s voice. “Land from a straight-in approach”

  The short colonel scanned his instruments and wings. “Roger.”

  “I’ll give you a battle damage check,” Snake told him, slipping his aircraft under Stansell’s for a visual check. “You look OK. Recover single ship. See you in debrief.” Snake peeled off and headed back for the center of the area to set up the next engagement with the other element of two aircraft.

  “He’s going to have some fun now,” Donaldson said. “Two-vee-one is Snake’s idea of an interesting fight.” The “vee” was shorthand for “versus” and two against one would tax every skill Houserman possessed. The captain knew the other three pilots would go to the backup mission of low level intercepts they had briefed in case Stansell aborted. They would drag the fight down to five hundred feet—exactly as in combat—into the environment where they excelled and none of their potential opponents ever trained in peacetime, making the first few days of any war that involved F-15s something of a turkey shoot until the opposition got the message. But at the moment neither Stansell, Snake or Donaldson knew how close one of them was to having a chance to show just how good the F-15s were.