As he relaxed in his chair his pencil, seeming to move of its own accord, sketched a three-quarters profile of his oldest daughter Lisa. He let the pencil move, drawing in the face of his youngest daughter, Marilee, alongside Lisa. “I miss you,” remembering…
He snapped the pencil in two and threw the pieces in a waste basket.
The phone rang, breaking the hold that loneliness and a sense of loss had on his life. “Yeah?” It was the night manager at the officers’ club telling him that one of his men was turning into an ugly drunk and asking if he could handle it before they had to call the security police. Stansell slammed the phone down and hurried out of the building.
The casual bar in the officers’ club was alive with fighter jocks in for the Red Flag exercise telling their latest war story earned over the Nevada desert. The night manager pointed to a corner table occupied by one Captain James “Thunder” Bryant. An empty space surrounded him, a safe zone. “He’s drunk on his ass,” the night manager told Stansell. “The bartender refused to serve him so he just helped himself. One of his buddies tried talking to him. Didn’t do any good. That’s when I called you.”
Stansell bought a drink at the bar before he pushed his way through the crowd and sat at Bryant’s table. “Get lost, Colonel.”
“When you tell me what’s got a hold of you.”
Bryant focused a cold stare on the short colonel that sent a warning signal—he was on the edge of violence. Stansell sipped at his drink and waited. Bryant fumbled in his jacket pocket, pulled out a crumpled folded envelope and threw it across the table. “Read it.”
The return address was a law firm in Wilmington, Delaware. Stansell smoothed the envelope flat, not opening it. “I got one just like it,” he said, “when my wife gave me the boot.”
“So that makes us buddies?”
“No, it only means I’ve been where you are.” He stood up. “Get it together and stop feeling sorry for yourself. Come talk when you’re sober.”
“That’s easy for you to say now—”
“You think so? Twenty minutes ago I was drawing pictures of my girls. I don’t get to see ’em growing up.”
“So what the hell do I do right now?”
“You hurt, you take it, and you work like hell not to hurt anyone else.”
Chapter 17: D Minus 18
Northeastern Iraq
The old Kurd squatted outside Zakia’s infirmary, sketching the floor plan of the Iraqi army headquarters in the dust with a short stick. He was, Carroll was certain, key to the support needed from Mulla Haqui.
After talking to Haqui, Carroll had gone through the camp asking if anyone had a relative or friend that worked in Irbil, the town where a rifle division of the Iraqi army was headquartered, and found a young woman who told him about an old uncle who collected trash in the city. With Zakia’s help he and the woman found the only available telephone twelve miles away and she contacted the relative in Irbil.
The second day after the phone call the old man appeared in camp, dog-tired but anxious to tell his fellow tribesmen what he knew. When he had finished he rested back on his haunches, pleased he could help his people and that someone had had enough sense finally to ask him.
Carroll told them they needed to attack the Iraqi headquarters, and to do that, they would give the Iraqi “a real target to chase and bad information. What kind of information do the Iraqis trust?”
“What they see,” one of the men said. “And what they torture out of Kurds.”
“Have the Iraqis captured a Pesh Merga lately?” Carroll asked.
“Four days ago,” Mustapha told him. “Rashid Shaban. He will die before he tells them anything—”
“Would you like to free Rashid? It will be difficult and the Iraqis will take reprisals.” The burst of words, shouting, and animated gestures that erupted around him confused Carroll until he sorted out what they were saying. They weren’t arguing if they should do it, just how and when. Quietly he sketched his plan in dirt, interrupting occasionally to ask for specific information. One by one they stopped talking and turned their attention to the rough map he was creating. “Old uncle,” he asked the trash collector from Irbil, “can you get a message to Rashid?” The old man spat a glob into the dirt. Loud and clear, Carroll thought, suppressing a smile.
*
Las Vegas, Nevada
“Okay, Colonel, what’s eating you?” Dewa sat down at her desk in building 201, then saw the sketch he had made of his daughters and regretted her question.
Stansell shook his head. “Sorry, forget it…but,” he said, looking at Chief Pullman and Bryant and Locke, “I don’t like what I’m seeing, I didn’t like the Hollywood jump on Thursday or what I hear went on at the Red Stallion last night, the Rangers brawling in a parking lot…We’ve got to build a fire under our people, weld them together into a tight team, make them want to commit to what we’re doing.”
“Why don’t you tell them we’re here to rescue the POWs?” Locke asked.
Dewa ruffled through a stack of messages on her desk, avoiding eye contact with Stansell. Would he tell them the truth? If not, she would still do her job, but as for the future…
The burden of command was on Stansell. It was a tricky thing, telling them the official mission of Alpha was a cover for the real operations, and at the same time letting them in on Cunningham’s intent that it be a lot more…
“We were created to be a cover for Delta Force. Officially, as of now, they’re tasked for the rescue mission.”
Dewa turned to look at him, her eyes bright.
“Shee-it,” Pullman muttered, thinking about the day Locke had appeared at Stonewood.
“This cover cost me my marriage,” Bryant said, looking at Stansell, then relented. It wasn’t Stansell who’d ripped apart his marriage. Locke shook his head. “You knew all along—”
“No, I found out last Monday when Dewa put the pieces together. I had it out with Cunningham Tuesday, and he told me there’s plenty more to it. Sure, we started life as a cover operation—”
“A goddamn Quaker cannon,” Pullman broke in.
“Chief, listen for a moment,” Stansell said. “The invasion of Normandy worked in 1944 because the Germans were looking at Patton, who was a decoy for the main force. Deception is part of what we do,” echoing Dewa earlier. “But there is one big difference between Task Force Alpha and Patton. His army only existed on paper and in fake message traffic. We’re alive and for real.”
“Big deal,” Pullman said.
“It is a very big deal, chief,” Stansell said. “If we’re good enough, Cunningham is going to make the brass look at us and think twice about who they send in after the POWs. And you’re the people who can make that happen. But you’ve got to work to make this thing happen.”
“You going to tell the troops all this?” Bryant asked.
“If I have to, but I’d rather not. Could compromise the whole deal.”
“It could happen,” Dewa said. “Foreign agents have been reported monitoring Delta Force. The OSI says we’re still clean—”
“You mean Delta Force might be compromised?” Locke could see what that would mean…“Okay, I’m still in.”
“Shee-it,” from Pullman, who also understood the possibles. “What’s another couple of weeks?”
Bryant said nothing. He didn’t have to.
And for the first time since Ras Assanya Stansell felt he was acting without looking over his shoulder for the approval of a tall, shadowy image named Waters.
“We start building fires today. Thunder, you start living with the C-130s. Get with Colonel Mallard and that lunatic navigator…”
“Drunkin Dunkin,” Bryant said.
“Yeah. And work out a series of low levels that train for penetration of Iranian airspace. You’re going to have to look at the Iranian’s radar coverage. Find gaps. Jack, the F-111s and F-15s belong to you,” he told Locke. “I don’t care where the F-15s come from but get us the best people you can
and get them ready. Chief, you and me are going to work on the army starting today. How’s the mock-up coming?”
“I got the front wall, four guard towers and a cell block in Tikaboo Valley almost finished. The valley is oriented like the one in Kermanshah and pretty isolated—next to Dreamland, so nobody goes around there.”
“Dreamland?” Dewa asked.
“Yeah, the Air Force’s never-never land. Do a lot of top-secret stuff out there. No one gets near the place. We sorta fall under its umbrella. Until the mock-up is finished I found an old confinement facility at Indian River Auxiliary field the Rangers can practice on. There are twelve cells in an old World War II barracks they can blow the hell out of.”
*
Indian River Auxiliary Air Field, Nevada
The lone Hercules threaded the gap through the Spotted Range seven nautical miles northwest of the field, lined up on the axis of the southeast runway, popped to twelve hundred and fifty feet above the field’s elevation and slowed to one hundred and thirty knots.
“Captain Kowalski,” Pullman said. “We only needed one C-130 and she won the toss.”
“She’s looking good from here,” Stansell said.
The first stick of twenty jumpers streamed out of the C-130’s jump doors, ten to a side at one-second intervals. The drop broke off and the Hercules circled for a second run in, dropping the second stick of five. Even at over a thousand feet the men on the ground could tell the last jumper was Victor Kamigami, the battalion’s Command Sergeant Major. The first man on the ground was Robert Trimler, the young athletic captain that Gregory had picked to lead the rescue team. His second in command, First Lieutenant George Jamison, a tough black man two years out of West Point, joined him and the two reported in. “First Platoon, Alpha Company, sir,” Trimler said. “We’re your Romeo Team.” No salute—they were in a combat mode.
“Glad to see you’ve got all your combat equipment this time, captain,” Stansell said. “No more Hollywood jumps. Where’s Colonel Gregory?”
“Downtown bailing some of our men out of jail. Had some trouble at a bar last night.”
“Captain, didn’t the training schedule get posted yesterday?”
“Only for Romeo Team, sir. Colonel Gregory gave the rest of the men Saturday and Sunday off. First weekend in Vegas.”
Kamigami came lumbering up in full battle gear, an impressive sight. “Sergeant Major,” Stansell said, nodding to him. “Okay, Captain Trimler, supposedly your team is made up of experts in jail breaking—”
“The best we’ve got.”
“Good. Chief Pullman will show you what you’re up against.” He pointed at the barracks. “From now on, Romeo Team is locked in concrete, no personnel changes.”
“Sir, that decision really belongs to Colonel Gregory,” Trimler said.
“I’ll talk to him later.”
Kamigami gave a sharp nod and walked toward the barracks, wanting to inspect the cells. One of the squad leaders, Sergeant Andy Baulck, had overheard them talking and muttered, “Fuckin’ earless wonder,” loud enough for the CSM to hear. Kamigami pointed at the man, shutting off any further comments.
Chapter 18: D Minus 17
Nellis AFB, Nevada
“Thunder babes, what’s the distance from the front wall to the main cell block?” Locke asked.
Bryant searched through a stack of photos and diagrams on the table for the one he wanted. “Just over a hundred feet. Make it a hundred and ten, maybe a hundred and fifteen.”
“Problems,” Locke said. “Too big a bang with a GBU-15. We need something smaller than a two-thousand-pounder to blow holes in the walls. Otherwise we’ll blow out every window in the facing-side of the cell block and flying debris might puncture its walls.” Locke was working on a computer, running a weaponeering program. The GBU-15, the guided-bomb unit, with its combination infrared and TV seeker head, was the most accurate launch-and-leave bomb they had. Unfortunately it was mated with a Mark 84, a two-thousand-pound high-explosive bomb. Stansell and Bryant gathered around Locke, looking over his shoulder.
Bryant butted Locke out of his chair and ran the program calling up a laser-guided version of the Mark 82 five-hundred-pound bomb. “That’ll do the trick,” Locke said. “Only, the F-111s will have to hang around and lase the target or we’ve got to get someone on the ground to mark the wall with a ground-laser designator.”
“Okay,” Stansell said, making a note to relay the information to both Mado and Cunningham that they would have to use GBU- 12s and needed a ground team to spot each DMPI, desired-mean-point of impact. “Start training with five-hundred pounders, I’ll take care of the rest.”
Two hours later Dewa came in from church, a black lace shawl around her shoulders. For a moment Stansell found himself staring at her, caught by her quiet beauty. She brought him out of it with: “Colonel Gregory has got his officers together in their trailer. I think he’s reading them the riot act about Saturday morning.”
“He wants to be a Patton,” Locke said.
“Yeah, he does,” Stansell said, picking up the phone. “Take a break, people.” He dialed the number and asked for Gregory to come see him. The group filed out as Gregory walked in.
“I think Ham Gregory is going to learn something about Colonel Stansell and what’s underneath that quiet exterior,” Dewa told Bryant as she closed the door behind her…
“Colonel Stansell,” Gregory began, “let me assure you what happened Saturday morning at the Red Stallion has been taken care of.”
“I hope so.” Stansell’s voice was cold. “It set our progress back. I had work for you Saturday morning.”
“Yes, about the airdrop without my approval and freezing Romeo Team—”
“Have you seen the cells they practiced on?”
“No, but that’s beside the point. You tell me that I’m the ground commander for this exercise and then bypass me on Saturday and order Trimler’s Romeo Team on an airdrop. The army doesn’t work that way.”
“Colonel, you weren’t here when I needed you.”
“It could have waited.”
“Colonel, you can’t be that fucking stupid.” Stansell’s voice was calm, almost friendly. He leaned forward. “We are running out of time on this. Think back, remember I told you the very first day that we might be tasked for the real thing?” Gregory nodded. “You should have keyed on that. Obviously I’ve got to get someone that understands the name of the game. I’ll ask General Leachmeyer to replace you—”
“Colonel, for God’s sake, that’ll be the end of me. Just for an exercise?”
“Still haven’t got the picture. This is not an exercise.”
“I didn’t understand that…I do now…”
Stansell sank back in his chair, satisfied that he had been right about him, and for the next few minutes he filled in Gregory on the entire situation.
“Colonel Stansell, I missed Vietnam and Grenada. This may be my only chance to lead men into combat. I can’t tell you how much I want that. Hell, I don’t give a damn about making full colonel and ending up assigned to the Pentagon. Okay, I’m not a brain and need things spelled out. But dammit I can fight and I can lead men. I want that chance, and I’ll do it your way.”
“You got it,” Stansell said.
“Would you mind coming with me?” Gregory stood up, waiting for Stansell. They walked together to the trailers, and it was a different man that called his officers together.
“Starting now,” he told them, “we start training for a mission that is going to be real rough. We’re dealing with a lot of unknowns now but, just but, we might get a Go order. If we do we will be ready. I hope you’re reading me on this because the mission objective is close-hold for security reasons. Romeo Team will train for storming the prison and lead the way in. Bravo Company, you’ll train for holding the airfield and road security. Then we cross train. Check out of the motel. We move to Texas Lake in two hours.”
Stansell walked back to building 201, satisfied h
e had made the right decision and realizing that he had made a mistake by not confiding in Gregory from day one. Locke was waiting for him. “Colonel, I’ve picked four F-15 drivers from Luke and four from Holloman for Task Force Alpha. You know one of ’em—Snake Houserman. They’re all here for Red Flag and can move over to us. Looks real natural. We’ll be using their F-15s. Tomorrow I want to pick up the E model and my wizzo, Ambler Furry, from Luke. The F-111 crews are due in and we got two Libyan raiders.” The captain was obviously excited. “Oh,” Locke added, “we also got an AC-130 gunship coming in. With the radios it’s got on board we can use that puppy for a command-and-control platform. Colonel, this is coming together, I think we’re going to make it happen…”
Chapter 19: D Minus 16
Kermanshah, Iran
Jefferson recognized the footsteps before the guard came into his narrow view. The man’s routine never varied—come down the stairs early in the morning, always alone, enter the room, listen to be sure no one was moving around above him; set the bowl down and loosen the rope that held up Nesbit’s arms; lower his hands a fraction of an inch. The sergeant had his full weight on the floor, his wrists at least two inches lower. The guard would massage Nesbit’s legs and give him a drink, then spoon some of the watery slop into his mouth. When the guard was finished with Nesbit he would unlock the Box and help Jefferson out, supporting him until some circulation came back to his legs, helping him walk to the grimy toilet in the corner, then hand him the bowl and let him finish what he had not fed to Nesbit. Finally he would motion to the Box, and Jefferson understood that their benefactor had done all he could for them and would crawl back in.
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