Force of Eagles

by Richard Herman

  Camm felt sick. He knew he had badly misjudged the whole deal. What he said was, “We are, sir. We are.”

  *

  Mahidashi, Iran

  “They’re disengaging. Repeat disengaging,” a Ranger on the left flank transmitted. They had been deployed on both sides of the destroyed bridge when the tanks came at them. In front of him the hulks of two tanks were burning, one less than thirty meters away. It had taken their last Dragon shoulder-launched anti-tank missile to knock out the T-72. The rattle of heavy machine-gun fire echoed down from the right and the tank that the gunship had disabled kept firing round after round at the east bank. The tank on the right that the Rangers had finally nailed with the third Dragon was erupting with internal explosions. The smell of burning flesh drifted over them.

  The captain in command tallied his losses: three dead, eight wounded. He knew what was coming next—a mortar barrage. ‘Time to beat feet,” he mumbled, and passed the word to withdraw. On his order a hail of smoke grenades rained down from the Rangers onto the river bank, and the dull thumps of two 60mm mortars throwing smoke added to the confusion.

  The Rangers ran for the waiting trucks while the two jeep teams sprayed the smoke with short bursts from their M-60s. They had held the bridge for twenty-four minutes, destroyed three tanks (not counting the one disabled by the AC-130 but still firing), knocked out two BTR-60s, killed two dozen of the enemy and wounded another forty-three. More than a fair exchange.

  *

  Kermanshah, Iran

  The four trucks carrying the eighty-six POWs and most of the Romeo Team drove directly up to the rear of the waiting C-130—Scamp 15. Before they could unload, Stansell directed the trucks to disperse around the airfield and to keep their motors running, ready to move if the airfield came under attack again or if it was time to load the C-130. Scamp 14 was still burning on the runway, sending a dense pillar of black smoke into the air.

  Across the runway on the makeshift dirt strip the crew of Scamp 13 was having trouble starting number-four engine, the pilot and flight mechanic trying not to burn out the starter. Finally, the engine did come on line and wound up, and a noisy sigh of relief escaped from Stansell. He watched as the pilot jockeyed the throttles back and forth on the two good engines and slowly inched the damaged plane off the strip. When he judged the Hercules was going to move clear, he waved for the trucks to return and twirled his right forefinger above his head, motioning for the crew to start engines on Scamp 15.

  Trimler bounced out of the cab of the first truck, the Rangers threw the tail-gates of the trucks open and helped the POWs unload and move up the ramp of the C-130. Trimler had to help a tall, gaunt man out of the truck—his clothes in rags, he was barefoot and very weak. The man spoke a few words to the young captain. Trimler pointed to Stansell, and the POW slowly crossed the thirty feet that separated them, Trimler walking beside him. When they reached Stansell, the man somehow pulled himself to attention and slowly saluted.

  “Colonel Clayton Leason, 45th Tactical Fighter Wing, reporting for duty.”

  It was all Stansell could do to return the salute.

  *

  Kamigami wheeled the pickup truck down a deserted street, still dogging the ZSU-23-4. The sound of gunfire and mortars had driven most of the people of Kermanshah to cover, and the few who were outside and moving were too preoccupied to notice a pickup. He turned into an alley and stopped when he saw the ZSU clank to a halt. A hatch popped open and a man climbed out carrying what looked like a RPG, the standard Soviet shoulder-held anti-tank missile and an assault rifle. Kamigami watched the man hurry into a house, leaving the door open behind him.

  “They’re putting out a road guard to cover their flank,” Kamigami said. “Means they’re near their next position. Lieutenant, cover me and keep your eye on the ZSU. Don’t want to lose it now. I’m going in.” The sergeant grabbed the lieutenant’s rifle and moved toward the empty doorway. Jamison covered him with the M-203, figuring a well-placed grenade would discourage anyone from moving down the street. He marked where the ZSU turned into a grove of trees…

  Kamigami got to the doorway and paused, listening. The ugly sounds from inside indicated the Iranian soldier he had seen was engaged in a rape. He moved the rifle back onto his shoulder, drew his Bowie knife and darted soundlessly through the door. A moment later he was out, carrying the RPG, not saying a word.

  The lieutenant pointed to the grove of trees where he had last seen the ZSU. Kamigami nodded and sprinted down the alley, leaving the pickup truck behind. Jamison ran after him.

  *

  The last of the POWs, minus two, were aboard the C-130. Trimler and a sergeant were comparing lists, making sure all the POWs were accounted for. Two men were carrying on a body bag—the POW who had been killed in the basement before the Rangers could save him. Four wounded were helped on board, including Ambler Furry, Jack’s WSO. “All accounted for except Carroll, Hauser, and Landis,” Trimler told Stansell and Leason.

  “Launch without them,” Clayton said. “I’ll stay until they’re here.”

  “You should go,” Stansell told him, not wanting to tell him the obvious…that there was nothing he could do to help.

  “I’ll stay. Load Mokhtari on board. I want that son of a bitch to stand trial. And there’s an Iranian guard, Amini, who should go with us.”

  “Why the guard?” Stansell asked.

  “He helped the POWs, says he’s a friendly agent working for someone called Deep Furrow,” Trimler put in. He turned to a sergeant. “Get the Iranian colonel and the guard on board.” The sergeant headed for the last truck.

  Heading toward them, a jeep bounced across the field on the other side of the runway, skirted the still burning hulk of the C-130 and skidded to a halt beside them. It was Jack Locke. “Trouble, sir,” he gestured toward Scamp 13. “The bird’s stuck and its tail is still in the way.”

  The sergeant who had gone to put Mokhtari and the guard on board came running back. “The Iranian colonel—he’s gone—escaped…”

  Mokhtari had not escaped. In the confusion of loading the trucks at the prison, he had simply walked into the ruins of his prison and been left behind.

  *

  Maragheh, Iran

  The radar operator was aching and his eyes were tired as he monitored the radar scope. He wanted to get outside and walk around, anything to break the long monotony of sitting in the radar shack. He made a mental promise never to again antagonize his superior, the captain in the control center. A flicker on the scope at forty-five nautical miles, bearing 215 degrees, caught his attention. He played the antenna tilt and receiver-gain and caught it again. He hit the IFF interrogator. No response. Again, he got the skin paint on what was now definitely an unidentified aircraft. His spirits rose. He had an intruder. The radar return disappeared off his scope.

  He jerked a drawer open, pulled out an acetate overlay and slapped it over the scope. The overlay outlined the mountains that masked his radar from detecting low-flying aircraft. He proceeded to calculate where the return would next appear on the scope when the intruder lost its terrain-masking.

  Suddenly the door of the radar shack was kicked open and the operator spun around. His captain stomped into the room followed by four armed men and a black-robed, turbaned old man—an Ayatollah. “Stand to attention,” the captain ordered. He glanced at the scope. “The Americans have attacked Kermanshah, obviously to rescue the filth being kept there. You should have detected their aircraft—”

  “But, sir, I have—”

  “You have been asleep,” the young officer told him, very worried about his own immediate chances of survival. The armed guards were not his men but the Ayatollah’s. “Take him out and shoot him—now.” When the Ayatollah nodded, two guards grabbed the operator and took him outside. The captain glanced back at the scope but jerked his head away when he heard two gunshots. Well, someone had to pay…

  “Get another operator in here,” he ordered, missing the return that flick
ered on the screen and then disappeared.

  *

  Western Iran

  “Thirty more seconds,” the navigator Sue Zack said, “then we’ll be back in behind some mountains.” The tension on the flight deck of Scamp 11 eased when they flew behind a mountain, away from the open valley that led to Maragheh. “ETA to Kermanshah, thirty-three minutes.”

  “Roger,” Kowalski acknowledged, “let’s see if we can get this old girl to go a bit faster.” She shoved the throttles up.

  Sergeant Ray Byers climbed onto the flight deck and stood behind Kowalski. “What in the hell are you doing here?” she asked, amazed to see the crew chief aboard.

  “Is this the Marrakech express?”

  “You asshole,” she said, suppressing a smile.

  Chapter 50: H Plus 14

  Objective Red, Kermanshah

  The three teen-aged boys crouched behind the plaster-covered rock wall and watched the cloud of dust coming from the airfield move toward them. The wall was set back thirty yards and paralleled the road that led from the prison to the main intersection where the Americans were. By the time the dust cloud reached the prison, they could make out the lead jeep and the two trucks that followed. The oldest of the three told the other two to keep down. Being sixteen gave him the leadership of his small band and he told them to check their weapons. He moved the safety to off on the Heckler-and-Koch assault rifle his cousin had brought home from the Iraq war. The fifteen-year-old clutched his family’s double-barreled shotgun and wished he had the Heckler-and-Koch. The thirteen-year-old had to be satisfied with an old revolver with five rounds.

  The boys had listened to the mullah at their school and under-stood how the cowardly Americans always ran when confronted with the just anger of the faithful. And they were among the faithful. The sixteen-year-old listened, and when he thought the small convoy was almost to their position shouted “now!” and the three boys jumped up and started to fire from behind the protective cover of the wall.

  The lead jeep returned fire with the M-60 machine gun mounted on the hood. The gunner in the rear swung his M-60 and raked the wall. A Ranger in the bed of the first truck cut loose with his SAW while another fired an M-203, sending a grenade over the wall. No one had ever told the boys what firepower meant, and they were stunned when the first burst of fire from the M-60 tore the wall apart in front of them.

  The thirteen-year-old found himself lying on the ground, covered with pieces of the wall. He tried to crawl over to the other two boys, who were still. But he could not—his right leg would not move. The boy looked down. There was nothing below the knee. He stared at it, not understanding why he didn’t feel a thing, then tried to crawl away. But a pain stopped him. He had never hurt like that before. He slipped into unconsciousness as he bled to death.

  The mullah was safe at home.

  *

  “Knock it off,” the lead Ranger yelled. “We got ’em.” The Rangers scanned the wall, looking for movement. Then they were at the main intersection—Objective Red.

  Trimler got out of the lead truck and found Bravo Company’s commander while Romeo Team unloaded. They conferred with the squad sergeants and the leader of the jeep teams, then parceled out their remaining Dragons and moved into position. “How long until they get the airfield open?” Bravo Company’s C.O. asked.

  “Anybody’s guess,” Trimler said. “But we’ve got to hold here.”

  *

  Thunder was working the FM radio aboard the AC-130 and was talking to the RTO at Objective Red. “The Rangers are in position,” he told Beasely. The pilot orbited over the intersection, marking the position of the Rangers. He could see the first of the tank column approaching the low pass that led to the intersection.

  “Okay, troops,” Beasely announced over the intercom, “time to rock and roll again.” Each station checked in.

  “Captain,” Mado demanded, “what the hell are you doing? We’ve got battle damage.”

  “What we get paid for, general. The last hit only got the right main gear. Just a little rubber burning. It’s out now.” Beasely wasn’t paying much attention to the general as he concentrated on setting up his first orbit and sighting on the lead tank. He mashed the trigger, and the plane shook as he sent the first 105 round on its way. In the back a loader had already reloaded and Beasely fired again. “Goddamn,” he yelled in frustration, “those are tough sons a bitches.” He fired again…

  *

  Kermanshah, Iran

  “Stand back,” the Ranger commanded as he pulled the ring on the fuse igniter and stepped clear of the cell door. It was the third attempt to blow down the door and he had made each charge progressively bigger, risking blowing down the ceiling on top of them. The sharp explosion filled the corridor with dust and smoke. Their ears were still ringing when they saw the door. It was, finally, off its hinges. Mary quickly pushed it out of the way and went into the cell.

  “Doc, oh God.” She was beside Landis. Doucette’s bomb had blown down part of the ceiling onto him. The lower half of his body was crushed under a massive concrete beam that pinned him to the floor. At least he was still alive. She lifted his head. “Doc…”

  “Mary, go, get out…I’m not going to make it.”

  “No, not without you.”

  “Tell my wife—”

  “You’ll tell her.”

  Landis looked at her. He knew what had happened to him and that his body would fight death for hours. But he also knew without a surgeon and an operating room he was not going to make it. In the distance he could hear cannon fire. “Mary, I’m ordering you to go, goddamnit…”

  Carroll reached down and pulled her to her feet. At first she fought him but Mustapha helped and the two men dragged her out of the cell. One of the Rangers came back in and gave Doc Landis a double shot of morphine. Doc understood the Ranger was trying to administer a fatal dose, but it wasn’t enough. He watched the man go before he closed his eyes. And waited.

  *

  “I’m slow,” Gregory muttered under his breath. He was watching Scamp 13 run up its two engines, trying to break out of the rut it was stuck in and move clear of the dirt runway. “You”—he pointed to a sergeant—“get the fuel truck and use it like a bulldozer. Get behind the C-130 and push like hell.” He went over to Stansell. “Help’s on the way.” He pointed to the big fuel truck that was nosing in under the tail of the Hercules. The sergeant driving the truck gunned the engine and pushed. The thin skin of the C-130 crushed and buckled but the raised ramp held against the fuel truck’s bumper. The big cargo plane jerked, then at last broke free and moved clear of the dirt strip.

  Scamp 15 with its load of POWs and wounded was already moving into position at the end of the makeshift runway. The men on the airfield watched as the pilot set the brakes and ran the engines up to max power. It seemed forever before he released the brakes and started to move. The takeoff roll seemed even longer until the nose gear lifted and the Hercules was airborne, climbing steeply into clear air. Then the plane dropped down onto the deck and arced around the north side of town, heading for freedom. No one at the airfield saw the stream of 23mm high-explosive bullets that reached out to the Hercules, falling short because of the range.

  “We just may do this yet,” Stansell said, pointing to Mallard’s C-130 that was coming in to land, and in the distance they could see Kowalski’s Herky Bird approaching. Stansell studied the still burning hulk on the runway. “We can use that fuel truck again—when that baby stops burning.”

  Gregory was running back inside the makeshift command post. “Colonel, we got work to do. Time to dry this place up.” Stansell agreed and followed him. In the distance, he could see a truck approaching the field…

  *

  Gregory and his S-3 were on the radios organizing a withdrawal, working out how to pull in the Rangers from Objective Red and bring in the road teams. While they worked Stansell located one of the incendiary explosive devices they had brought along. He planned to shove it into
a gear-well of Locke’s F-15, pull the pin and leave another burning hulk at the airfield. The sooner the better, he calculated, too many things were against getting it airborne. Besides not being able to crank the engines, the F-15 needed the hard surfaced runway to take off. And the burning C-130 had that blocked.

  Jack appeared in the doorway of the command post. “Colonel,” and he stepped aside. Stansell looked up and saw Bill Carroll and Mary Hauser standing there.

  Stansell tried to find the right words, couldn’t. “You had us worried…” was all he could come up with, but they didn’t need words. Carroll told Stansell and Leason about Doc Landis while Mary stared into a corner. “That’s a rough one,” Stansell said. “We’ll go back and get him if—” Lydia Kowalski came into the room then with Duck Mallard.

  “Sorry to take so long getting here,” she said.

  The MX-360 radio above the RTO’s head crackled and a strange voice started talking. “You are surrounded. Your position is hopeless. I will accept your surrender.”

  “Mokhtari,” Mary said. Leason went rigid…Just the sound of that voice…

  “Why waste lives needlessly?” Mokhtari went on. “We have, of course, taken prisoners.”

  “The bastard,” Leason said. “He’s got someone, he’ll torture—”

  “It’s Doc Landis…” Mary said.

  “Ah, you don’t believe me,” the voice went on. “Here, perhaps I can encourage him to talk to you…”

  Mary was crying. “I knew I shouldn’t have left him . .”

  The sound that came over the radio was unintelligible, pathetic.

  “What the hell?” This from Jack.

  “Mokhtari, the prison commandant,” Leason said. “A sadistic, vicious”—he fought for control—“he tortures…”

  “Please don’t make me encourage him again. Perhaps you would like to talk to the doctor. He is conscious now.”