Force of Eagles

by Richard Herman

  The voice was faint, but more intelligible. “Cleared in hot, nail the bastard—”

  They heard the sharp report of a small caliber weapon, then nothing.

  “What?” Kowalski said, then understood.

  “Doc was telling us to bomb his position,” Jack said bitterly. “I wish to hell my jet would crank…”

  Kowalski looked at him. “I’ve got a crew chief named Byers on my bird who might be able to—” Jack was already out of the room and running for Byers.

  Stansell looked out the window. Again words couldn’t express his feelings. Get on with it. “The C-130…it’s stopped burning…let’s see if that fuel truck can play bulldozer again.”

  *

  Objective Red, Kermanshah

  Trimler on the ground was listening on the PRC-77. “We knocked out the lead tank,” Thunder reported from the gunship. “They’re laying a lot of smoke…hold on…there’s five tanks in a V formation coming at you.”

  Trimler passed the word that another attack was starting.

  The two army captains bent over a map and planned their withdrawal to the airfield. “We stop ’em here and make them regroup,” Trimler said. “When that happens we lay down smoke and have Spectre move in for another pass—make it look like we’re counterattacking. But the forward fire teams pull back and we leapfrog backwards to the prison—fast. We lay smoke all the way and shoot at anything that comes through it.” He glanced at the low hills that framed both sides of the road and intersection. They should help hold the smoke in the area.

  “It will get tough past the prison,” Bravo Company’s C.O. said. “The terrain opens up…hard to hold…the tanks will spread out and flank us.”

  “Yeah, you’re right, we need to fall back to a holding position at the prison, get Spectre to slow ’em down while we disengage and run like hell for the airfield.” Trimler keyed the PRC-77 and relayed their plan to Gregory.

  *

  “My mother didn’t raise me to be a hero,” Andy Baulck said to his buddy Wade. They were holding the point furthest away from the intersection and closest to the advancing tanks. A jeep team was backing them up 150 meters down the road, around the comparative safety of a bend. “You ever fire one of these suckers before?”

  “Yeah, me and the Dragon are old friends,” Wade told him. He wiggled along a shallow depression, searching for a good spot to fire the missile. “Those got to be the new T-72s with laminated armor. They’re tough, takes lots to knock ’em out.” He could see the tanks, still over 1,000 meters away, advancing up the road, almost to the pass that led to Objective Red. “I’m going for the tracks…” He fired the Dragon at 800 meters and kept the crosshair on his tracker riveted on the front left track of the T-72. Wade never actually saw the missile as it followed the commands coming from his tracker and fed through a thin wire spinning out from behind the missile, but the Dragon hit within inches of where Wade had placed the crosshairs, blowing the tank’s track off a sprocket. The tank jerked to the left and stopped. The other four tanks turned and headed back, laying smoke. “Son of a bitch,” Baulck yelled, “I don’t believe it. MOVE.” The two men ran for the rear as a mortar team sent round after round toward the retreating tanks, adding to the confusion. They piled into the waiting jeep and raced for the intersection.

  Behind the smoke, the tanks headed away. Until a radio command stopped them and they pivoted on their tracks and headed back up the road, toward Objective Red.

  *

  Kermanshah, Iran

  Byers was under the left wing of the F-15 poking into an open access panel on the underside of the fuselage. “Cap’n, you ever hear of the golden BB?”

  Jack Locke did not answer.

  “What’s that?” Staff Sergeant Marcia MacIntyre, Kowalski’s flight engineer, asked.

  “A goddamn lucky shot,” Byers answered. “Two bits of frag hit, one knicks a wiring bundle in a fire-control junction-box and one fractures the coupling for the nitrogen bottle.” Byers didn’t take time to explain how the jet fuel starter used compressed nitrogen to start and how the JFS, in turn, started the engines. “Mac,” Byers called, “go get my scrounge bag. I think I got a coupling.” MacIntyre ran for the C-130 and Byers dove into his tool box. He pulled out a set of wrenches and reached inside the access panel, working furiously. “Cap’n you may just be in luck.”

  MacIntyre was back in moments with the canvas bag full of spare parts Byers had misappropriated from supply. “Got to go,” she told them. “We got the word to start engines. The Rangers are pulling in.”

  *

  Jamison watched Kamigami drift through the trees. He was a ghost, floating soundlessly toward the hidden ZSU-23-4. The lieutenant could not credit it—that such a large man could move with so much skill and grace. Then the sergeant stood up and ran back toward him, not caring about the racket he made. Now Kamigami was a very noisy and visible tank. “It’s moving,” Kamigami said, hardly slowing.

  The ZSU had already passed when the two men piled into the pickup they had abandoned in the alley. “It’s outta range here,” Kamigami explained. “It’s going to get closer to the airfield and hose down the planes when they take off.”

  Jamison was on the radio, relaying the information to Lifter. “Gregory wants us to come in,” he told the sergeant.

  “Tell him right after we nail this bastard…tell him not to wait for us.” Lt. Jamison did as he was told…

  The ZSU was weaving its way through town. It turned onto the road that led to the airfield and the modified tank had just turned a bend when it ran into Ratso Nine. The jeep team had been making a last sweep of the road, making sure no unwelcomed visitors would appear on the Rangers’ flank as they drew back from the prison. Ratso Nine reacted first, but only the rear gunner could bring his M-60 to bear on the ZSU. His loader grabbed a LAW and fired. He missed. The driver wrenched the steering wheel back and forth, zigzagging down the road as he raced for the protective cover of a large concrete structure, a wheat granary, less than a hundred meters away.

  The ZSU leveled its quad-mounted barrels and fired a long burst down the road. The jeep careened and rolled over, skidding off to the right. The ZSU kept firing as it advanced, turning the jeep into a flaming pyre.

  Kamigami pulled off to the side and waited. He watched the ZSU pull in behind the four concrete towers of the granary and stop. They were well within range of the airfield. A side hatch flopped open and two men crawled out. They were looking toward the airfield.

  “Not good,” Jamison breathed, “all they have to do is pull around the far end of the towers and they’ve got a clear field of fire.”

  “We do it now, before they get their act together,” the sergeant said, got out of the pickup and grabbed the RPG. “You cover me, Lieutenant, he belongs to me.” Kamigami checked the RPG and satisfied that it was ready to fire, he ran toward the ZSU.

  Jamison watched him go, then followed. He had taken four steps when the two men saw them. The lieutenant yelled and drew their fire. The pickup behind him burst into flames and he flopped down on his stomach to return fire, but low bushes and a slight rise blocked his field of view. He stood up and fired. It wasn’t very smart but it did give Kamigami the time he needed. The sergeant dropped down into a shallow rut and took his time sighting the RPG. A bullet tore off his helmet. He shook his head and sighted again, then squeezed the trigger. The ZSU’s guns were swinging toward him when the rocket hit, blowing open the thin skin of the turret. A flash of flame was followed by billowing smoke.

  When Kamigami swung the rifle off his shoulder and stood up he could not see Jamison or the two men who had been shooting at him. He ran toward the burning vehicle. A man dove out of the forward hatch and rolled away, the commander of the ZSU. Another figure followed, clothes on fire. Kamigami mercifully shot him.

  The Iranian commander was scrambling for cover when Kamigami fired a short burst in front of him. The man changed direction and reached for an assault rifle pinned under one of the men
Jamison had cut down. Again, Kamigami squeezed off a short burst, driving the man back. The ZSU commander backed against the wall of the granary yelling at the huge figure bearing down on him.

  Kamigami had seen this man kill six of his Rangers. He wanted him. The Iranian dropped to his knees, scrambling for something in the dirt, then jumped up with a short length of pipe left over from when the granary was built, held it ready to swing. Kamigami dropped the lieutenant’s rifle and drew his Bowie knife. He did not slow down. The man started a swing but the sergeant snatched the pipe away from him and knocked the man’s arm away. He grabbed the Iranian’s hair, jerked his head back and let go as the Bowie knife flashed across his throat.

  Kamigami then drew his Beretta and put a bullet in each of the other three ZSU crewmen, then trotted back to where he had last seen Jamison, trying to make his radio work and report the ZSU out of action. The radio had a dent in it, either from a bullet or him falling on it…He found the lieutenant lying in a bloody heap. He was still alive…“Lieutenant,” the sergeant’s voice was soft. “I was supposed to do the Rambo, you were just supposed to give me cover.” He shook out his first-aid kit and bound up Jamison’s chest and left thigh. “They do give medals for titanium testicles,” he said as he picked up Jamison in a fireman’s carry and jogged for the airfield, tossing the dead radio into the burning pickup truck.

  *

  Get off my goddamn runway, the Air Force sergeant who led the combat-control-team said to himself as he revved the engine and nosed the big bumper of the fuel truck against the nose of the burnt-out hulk of the C-130 that had closed “his” runway. He pushed hard at the wreckage, clearing the runway while Rangers came behind him, throwing debris to the side.

  The runway was, finally, clear.

  The flight engineer on Scamp 13, the disabled C-130 next to the dirt strip, ignited an incendiary bomb on the cargo deck of his aircraft, and flames shot from the back of the Hercules as the man ran for the two remaining C-130s that were starting engines. The number three prop on Kowalski’s Hercules started to wind up for an engine start. Then it spun down.

  Inside the shack, Stansell heard Kowalski over the UHF. “Sheared starter shaft,” she said unhappily.

  Mallard’s voice was calm when he answered. “Start your other engines and follow me on the runway for takeoff. I’ll taxi in front of you. When you’re in position I’ll back up and give you a buddy start. I’ll take off first…”

  Stansell looked out the window. Mallard was turning onto the runway and Kowalski was taxiing on two engines as the third came on line. She followed and stopped at the very end of the runway while Mallard threw the props of his engines into reverse and backed up, stopping just in front of Kowalski. He ran his engines up, sending a sixty-mile-an-hour wind over Kowalski’s wings. Her number three prop started to turn, faster and faster, finally roaring to life. Mallard taxied clear and his loadmaster lowered the ramp, waiting for the first Rangers to board.

  “Colonel Leason,” Stansell said, “please take Captains Hauser and Carroll aboard the first C-130.” Leason led the two outside. A Ranger drove them out to the waiting aircraft. “Ham”—Stansell turned to Gregory—“time for us to go.” Gregory nodded and issued orders for destroying the shack. The RTO slung the PRC-77 onto his left shoulder, picked up the SatCom radio and ran outside. Stansell grabbed the UHF radio and followed. Last man out was Gregory’s operations officer, who threw an incendiary grenade into the room and ran after his C.O. for the C-130s.

  Stansell got into the jeep driven by one of the combat-control-team sergeants and drove out to the F-15. “Jack, leave it.” He picked up the incendiary block and headed for the nose-gear wheel-wall.

  “Hold on,” Byers yelled. “I almost got this mother.” He was buttoning up the access panel. “Cap’n, get in the cockpit. I got to pump up the nitrogen bottle.”

  “You got five minutes to get it cranked,” Stansell told Jack. “You’re moving by then or you burn it.” He dropped the incendiary by the nosewheel and got back into the jeep, heading for the C-130s.

  *

  “What the hell we doin’ this for?” Wade complained to Baulck. They were lying in the ditch outside the prison in the same spot where the first M-60 team had died. The wreckage of the dirt bike and machine gun was still there. Ratso One, the jeep team they had ridden with out of Objective Red, was parked three hundred yards away alongside the prison wall. They were both looking down the road toward the intersection.

  Three trucks and a jeep sped by, heading for the airfield. The jeep slammed to a halt. It was Trimler. “One more jeep and that’s it,” he told them. “Fall in behind it and get your ass to the airfield.” The jeep spun its wheels and took off. Down the road they could see the last jeep approaching followed by a cloud of smoke and dust.

  “Bet you anything that’s a tank breathing down their ass,” Baulck said.

  *

  The Pentagon

  The sour mood that had hung over the command center broke when Stansell and Mado reported the airfield was open. Now it was turning into jubilation as the AWACS reported that Scamp 15 with the last of the POWs was only thirty minutes away from the Turkish border and safety.

  The smiles and good words disappeared when the AWACS reported that Iranian fighters were being scrambled and would be airborne within minutes.

  Leachmeyer was on the stage, pointing at the last position of Scamp 15 with an electronic pointer. “…and have the AWACS relay an order to Scamp One-Five to turn to the west and escape through Iraq.”

  Cunningham spun around in his chair, looking at the President, who was standing, apparently thinking about Leachmeyer’s proposal. We’ve been down this road before, Cunningham thought, and was on his feet. “General Leachmeyer, a good suggestion, but I say let the tactical director on board the AWACS make that decision.”

  Leachmeyer’s tone was patronizing. “Those men are tired and not thinking, we’ve got the big picture here. It’s time we started acting like a command center.” A murmur of agreement went around the room.

  Cunningham leaned forward over the console, fighting to control his anger. These people were a bunch of bureaucrats playing a war game with high-tech toys and real people. “Charlie, we’ve sunk billions of dollars and who knows how many hours of training into the AWACS concept. Right now those men are in the arena, doing what they’ve trained for. As a command center it’s our job to support them, keep the strategic picture in view”—he forced the next words—“and to let them make the tactical decisions.” He paused to let it sink in. “What you’re proposing falls under tactics…Sounds like a good idea, so tell them about it—as an option to consider. But let them do what they were trained for.”

  “Gentlemen”—it was the President—“I agree with General Leachmeyer. Order Scamp One-Five to escape through Iraq.”

  The major working the communications panel looked at Cunningham for confirmation. He clenched his jaw, not trusting himself to speak, jerked his head yes and sat down.

  Chapter 51: H Plus 15

  Eastern Turkey

  Aboard the AWACS Lieutenant Colonel Leon Nelson heard the transmission from the command center directing him to order Scamp 15 into Iraqi airspace. “Acknowledge that,” he ordered. “Status of Iraqi air defense net?” he asked.

  He got an immediate answer. “All stations on alert and reporting. It’s hotter than hell.” A pause. “Colonel, they’ll engage anything coming their way.”

  Nelson studied the tactical display in front of him. He ran the numbers through his head for the time-distance, rates of closure, intercept geometry when the Iranian interceptors actually become airborne. He made his decision and keyed his intercom. “Disregard that last transmission from Fort Fumble.” He knew everything he said was being recorded and could be used against him in a court-martial. Then to his Fighter Allocator: “Start talking to Cowboy and Rustler flights. You’ve got trade for them.” Cowboy and Rustler were the eight F-15s orbiting with the KC-135 tanker.
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  *

  Kermanshah, Iran

  Thunder was standing behind Spectre’s copilot as he watched the three tanks move past the abandoned intersection that had been Objective Red and toward the prison. “Those tanks are moving with a ZSU-23-4 and two SA-8s.”

  “Just trying to discourage us,” Beasely said.

  “Captain,” Mado interrupted, “the Rangers are reaching the airfield and loading now. I want you to fly a protective cover over the field.”

  “In a moment, General, in a moment,” Beasely answered. “We got troops in contact down there. Let’s give them some cover first so they can withdraw.” They could see the jeep team behind the prison wall and Baulck and Wade in the ditch.

  “Damn it, Captain. That’s an order.”

  “Right, sir. And I’ll comply. In a minute.” He started to orbit. “Okay troops, we’re in again. Rock and roll time.”

  *

  Mallard’s C-130’was rolling down the runway and lifting into the air, loaded with half the Rangers. All the jeep teams except Ratso One and Nine had pulled in and established a perimeter defense on the airfield while Gregory and his S-3 double-checked with Stansell, Trimler and Bravo Company’s captain on where everyone was. “Ratso One with Baulck and Wade are still at the prison, in contact with the tanks,” the S-3 confirmed. “No word on Ratso Nine or Kamigami and Jamison.”

  “I think that’s Ratso Nine,” Gregory said, pointing at the smoke coming from the granary. “Lots of activity going on there. Have Spectre check it out.” Stansell nodded. “Okay, draw in the perimeter defense and load.” Trimler and the captain went to work. Gregory stared at the smoke billowing above the granary. “Ratso One needs to disengage and come this way,” he told Stansell. Neither man wanted to mention that they would leave them behind if they had to.

  “Spectre’s engaging the tanks now,” Stansell said. “I’ll get Locke and Byers.” He motioned to his driver, and the jeep headed for the F-15 still sitting on the ramp.