Force of Eagles

by Richard Herman

  “Byers, I’ve got to crank,” Locke said when he saw the jeep racing toward them. The crew chief was standing in the left main-gear well just behind the landing-gear strut, pumping. He had a breaker bar inserted in the manual pump for the jet fuel starter and his arms went back and forth as he tried to pump up the nitrogen bottle’s pressure. Normally it took 250 strokes to recharge the bottle but his quick fix was leaking.

  “Do it,” Byers called out. Jack pulled the tee-handle that manually activated the jet fuel starter. Nothing happened. Byers tried to pump the bottle up again but his arms gave out and he fell to the ground exhausted, then dragged himself upright and grabbed the handle.

  “Leave it,” Stansell ordered from the jeep.

  Byers ducked out from under the gear well. He could hardly move his arms. “Colonel, one more time.”

  “No time…”

  “Help me, goddamn it,” Byers blasted. “One more time…Christ-a-mighty, Colonel, these are my jets…”

  And Stansell remembered another time…He darted under the wing and pumped at the breaker bar. Slowly the pressure built, then stabilized. “Now,” Byers shouted, and Jack pulled the tee-handle again while Stansell kept pumping. This time the JFS wound up, hesitated, and caught, coming to life.

  “You got it,” Byers said. Stansell dropped the breaker bar and ran back to the jeep.

  The left engine successfully engaged the JFS and was soon on-line and idling. The right engine started with no problem and JFS shut down. Jack hit the parking-brake toggle and jumped out of the front cockpit and bent over the backseat. “Furry, do I ever need you now…” His hands went to the switches, setting the F-15 up for a solo fight. “Hey, Byers, want to go for a ride?” The sergeant was still waiting and could not hear him over the engine’s noise. Jack pointed to the empty backseat, then to him. Byers gave a thumbs-up.

  Jack was back in the front seat, and Byers scrambled up over the left wing onto the top of the variable inlet ramp and into the cockpit. When he was in the seat, Jack taxied for the runway…

  *

  The AC-130 shuddered as Beasely fired the 105 at the SA-8 that was behind the tanks. He had to open a corridor onto the tanks if he was going to survive. The thin-skinned SA-8 disappeared in a ball of fire.

  Before he could sight on the second SA-8 a hail of 23mm cannon fire cut into the cockpit. The C-130 had come in range of the ZSU. The armor plating under the floor boards and along the sides absorbed most of the damage, but the three rounds that penetrated the flight deck hit the crew. Thunder was standing at the top of the ladder coming up from the crew entry well. He was talking to Mado and had his back to Beasely. Metal fragments and splinters pounded into his back, throwing him against Mado, blowing the two men into the crew entry well and against the television camera mounted in the crew-entry door.

  Thunder pulled himself back up onto the flight deck. The carnage sickened him. Only the decapitated trunk of the flight engineer remained. The copilot was dead, most of his head blown off. The navigator and fire-control officer were slumped forward. The navigator had a left-shoulder wound, and blood was gushing from the fire-control officer’s head.

  Beasely was still conscious, face gashed and bleeding, right arm hanging down. He was flying the Hercules with only his left hand. He looked at Thunder, sending a wordless plea for help.

  Thunder unbuckled the copilot’s lifeless body and dragged it back onto the flight deck. He got into the seat and grabbed the yoke, taking control of the plane. “General,” he said, “for God’s sake…” The wind blast from the holes in the right side of the cockpit drowned his words.

  Mado was back on the flight deck, still dazed from the fall. He shook his head, not knowing what to do. “Beasely,” Thunder called out, “tourniquet on right arm…help me.”

  Mado reacted slowly, then more quickly as his head cleared. The Sensor Operator from the booth was on the flight deck helping with Beasely as Mado crawled into the pilot’s seat. “I’ve never flown a C-130,” he told Thunder.

  Neither have I, Thunder wanted to say.

  Mado headed for the airfield, gaining some confidence. The tee-handle for number-four engine on the fire-emergency control panel was lit up. Thunder looked out his shattered side window to check on the engine, which was a mass of flames. “Fire on number four.”

  Mado feathered number four, he would only be flying on the left two engines. Could he do it? Could he gain enough altitude for them to bail out? Trying to land had not crossed his mind. “It’s getting worse,” Thunder told him.

  “Feather number four,” Mado said. Thunder reached out and pulled the tee-handle, shutting the engine down and shooting the fire-extinguisher bottle. Mado looked at the center console, then moved the number-four throttle aft and the flight-condition lever to the feather position, matching number three. The plane started to descend. They could not maintain altitude on two engines. Mado pushed the two good throttles up and lowered the flaps, trying to gain altitude.

  A gunner from the rear came onto the flight deck to help the wounded. “Stop lowering the flaps,” he said. “The hydraulic drive motor can’t hack it.” Mado looked at the sergeant and disregarded his warning as they headed for the airfield. He decided they were going to land on the runway. By the numbers…

  *

  “The Herky Bird’s had it,” Baulck told his partner Wade, “and do we need him now.” The lead tank was less than four hundred meters in front of them.

  “I really hate this,” Wade said as he sighted the Dragon and sent the missile on its way. At the same time the jeep team from behind the wall sent another Dragon into the tank. The two missiles hit the tank on opposite sides, and a mass of flames and smoke broke over the tank. When the smoke cleared the tank had stopped its forward motion but its turret was swinging onto the prison and the barrel of the 122mm cannon was lowering, aiming at the prison wall where Ratso One was hidden.

  “Those muthas just don’t want to get the message,” Wade mumbled, jamming his last missile-launcher onto the tracker. He aimed, squeezed the trigger, and this time, the tank exploded.

  *

  Stansell was holding the mike to the UHF radio he had thrown in the jeep as he watched the F-15 takeoff. Jack had to use his after-burners to get airborne on the short strip and now was rapidly gaining altitude. Abruptly the nose came down and the plane arced away.

  Thunder’s voice came over the radio, demanding his attention.

  “Lifter, this is Spectre. In-bound at this time for emergency landing.”

  “Say emergency,” Stansell responded. In a few short words Thunder recounted their situation and how Mado was flying the plane. “Land on dirt strip north of main runway,” Stansell ordered.

  “Roger,” Thunder acknowledged. Stansell watched as the disabled C-130 came into view, trailing smoke. It lined up on the main runway, pointing directly at the waiting Kowalski.

  “For Christ’s sake…” Stansell growled and keyed the radio. “Scamp One-One, taxi clear of the runway.”

  “Roger,” came the reply. Kowalski’s bird was moving, and she taxied off the main runway and onto the dirt strip.

  *

  “Right main isn’t coming down,” Thunder said. “Retract and do a gear up landing.” Mado said nothing. Thunder pulled up the gear handle.

  “What the hell!” Mado exploded. The flight controls had just become very heavy.

  “There’s hydraulic fluid all over us from the flap-drive motor,” a voice from the rear shouted over the intercom. “It blew a seal. Hit the emergency hydraulic switch. You gotta isolate the utility system.” The flap-drive motor had ruptured and was spewing flammable hydraulic fluid over the crew in the rear. Thunder scanned the instrument panel in front of him until he found the switch and toggled it down, and Mado could feel the controls again respond.

  *

  The AC-130 gunship came down final, much too fast for a normal landing. Mado pulled the nose up as it touched down on its belly. A shower of sparks and smoke trail
ed behind the big plane as it skidded along the concrete. Mado worked his rudder pedals, using the big vertical stabilizer, trademark of the C-130 for maintaining steering authority. At the very last the plane ground-looped to the left and came to a halt half off the runway. Smoke belched from the right gear well as the left two props spun down.

  A man jumped off the rear ramp and ran for safety, then stopped and ran back, helping to carry Beasely off the plane. Four more jumped down and carried off two wounded. Beasely’s men were leaving as a crew. Rangers ran from Kowalski’s C-130 to help them. Stansell counted thirteen off the plane, two obviously dead. A tall figure jumped off the ramp. It was Mado. Stansell ran to the general. “Is this it? Everybody off?” Mado nodded dumbly. “Where’s Thunder?” Mado stared at him, then pointed to the flight deck. Flames were shooting out the rear of the plane as the hydraulic fluid ignited.

  Stansell ran to the front of the Hercules, to where the low-light-level TV and laser-target ranger were bolted into the open crew-entrance door. His small size worked to his advantage as he squeezed around it and up onto the flight deck. Thunder was still strapped into the copilot’s seat, unconscious. Stansell ripped at his lap and shoulder harness, freeing the big man. A groan urged him on. His hands, wet from Thunder’s blood, slipped. He grabbed Thunder’s flight suit and dragged him to the crew-entry well. The rear of the aircraft was a wall of flame.

  Now Stansell had to fight down his own panic. A 40mm-round in the ammo storage racks cooked off and he glanced at the cockpit windows—no help there. He looked up and saw the emergency escape hatch in the ceiling but doubted he could manhandle Thunder’s 235 pounds through it. He managed to drag him down to the crew-entrance door, the way he had come in, and shoved his head through the gap below the TV camera. Blood was running over Stansell’s hands as he pushed, but Thunder was wedged between the door and the camera. Then someone was pulling at Thunder from outside. Gregory and a Ranger. The two men pulled Thunder free, and Stansell squeezed through. Together they half-dragged, half-carried Thunder to Kowalski’s C-130 as the gunship flared into an inferno.

  *

  The F-15 started a curvilinear approach, running in on the tank that was maneuvering past its burning leader, and headed for the Rangers blocking the road at the prison. Jack ran through the procedure he had practiced in the weapons simulator trainer for calling up a Maverick and launching it from the front cockpit: air-to-ground master mode selected; master arm on; move the Castle switch on the stick to the right; nose gear steering-button depress and release; move the crosshair with the target designation control switch on the left throttle. By the book—except the crosshair wouldn’t move—battle damage from the mortar attack and the frag that had nicked the wiring bundle.

  “Byers,” Jack said, “you got to do some work back there.” A skeptical grunt answered him. “On one of your scopes, you’ve got a TV picture with crosshairs down at the bottom. Grab the hand controller on the right side, move the crosshairs with the left button top. Yeah, that’s it. Now position the crosshairs over the tank you see.” The crosshairs moved over the image of the tank that was coming through the seeker-head of the Maverick Jack had called up. “You got it. Now pull the trigger. Right. You just locked that sucker up.”

  Jack was jinking back and forth, dodging the 23mm rounds that he knew were coming at him from the ZSU moving with the tanks. His TEWS was chirping, warning him of an SA-8 lock-on. He saw the two missiles launch and jerked the Eagle’s nose up, waited for the missiles to commit on him, then turned hard into them and dove. The TEWS did the rest and the missiles flashed by. “Wait your turn,” he said, and sent his Maverick on its way. He pulled off to the left, still jinking hard, and repositioned for another run.

  “Okay, Byers, you got the hang of it now. We’re going after the SA-8 that just shot at us. It looks like an armored car with six wheels. Get it locked up as soon as you can.” Again, he rolled in and could see the burning hulk of his last target. A T-72 tank could shake off round after round from 105mm cannons and Dragon anti-tank missiles, but it was no match for the warhead of a Maverick. This time Buyers got an early lock-on, and Locke mashed the pickle button at max range, broke off and turned away.

  “ZSU is next,” he said. “Hold on. We got other things to do.” Jack had just seen another threat on his TEWS…

  *

  “He got him!” Baulck cheered as the first Maverick killed the tank two hundred meters in front of them. The two sergeants were very much surprised to find themselves still alive as the last tank broke off and retreated into the smoke it had been laying down. Ratso One was accelerating from behind the prison wall, coming straight at them, its two M-60s blasting at the tank. Soldiers on foot were moving out from the smoke and running toward them. The jeep skidded to a stop and they piled in. The gunner in the front seat held on to the straps of Wade’s LBE as the loaded jeep raced for the airfield. All the while the gunner in the rear was spraying the area behind them.

  *

  Stansell was on the flight deck behind Lydia Kowalski, who waited for the order to take off. The jeep teams had all come in except Ratso One and Nine, and the Rangers had set up three firing teams as a close-in perimeter defense. The jeeps had all been driven together and Gregory had ordered them stripped of weapons and destroyed.

  The Air Force sergeant leading the combat control team had crawled into the emergency escape hatch on top of the flight deck and was scanning the area with binoculars. Now he dropped down to the deck and pointed to the north. “There’s some big guy coming in. He’s carrying someone. I mean that guy is big!”

  Stansell grabbed the binoculars and climbed into the hatch. It was Kamigami. He waved at Gregory, who was still on the ground, pointed at the slowly jogging sergeant and gave a thumbs-up. Gregory spoke into his radio, and two Rangers from a firing team sprinted out to help their sergeant major. In the distance Stansell saw two smoke trails etching the sky and followed them to their source—two Iranian F-4s. He dropped down to the deck and grabbed a headset, transmitting over the UHF radio. “Stormy! Two bandits to the northeast, coming our way.”

  “I got ’em,” came Jack’s flat reply. “There’s two more behind ’em fifty miles out.” He did not have to tell Stansell that the airfield would soon be under attack.

  Stansell ordered the sergeant back into the hatch and told him to fire a red flare, the signal to board immediately for takeoff. The Rangers came running for the C-130. Gregory climbed up onto the flight deck and pointed at the road leading to the prison. A jeep was kicking up a cloud of dust. “That’s Ratso One,” Gregory said. “Kamigami and Jamison are on board. Ratso Nine bought it.” He looked at Stansell, waiting for the decision.

  “We can’t wait for Ratso One,” Stansell said, hating the words.

  Jack’s F-15 slashed by, two hundred feet off the deck. “Let’s see if he can discourage those assholes first,” Kowalski told them, waving at the first two F-4s. “The other two are still five, six minutes out.” She was the aircraft commander and the silence on the flight deck indicated that she had made the decision. She ran the engines up, ready to release the brakes and roll if the F-4s got through.

  *

  Byers hands were braced against the instrumental panel as the F-15 jerked and bounced two hundred feet above the ground. He knew enough about the digital readouts on the screens in front of him to realize they were traveling at 500 knots and he was scared…the ground rush…the noise…

  “Come on, baby…” Jack was breathing hard and talking to himself. Byers wished Furry’s helmet fit tighter. Even a little slop became a major rub when Jack pulled two Gs. At four Gs it was pain and at six…Jack punched the air-to-air master mode, called up one of his AIM-9 Sidewinder missiles, locked onto the lead F-4 and mashed the trigger. The missile leaped off its rail on the left wing and traced the path of a sidewinder rattlesnake through the sky. Jack then pulled into the vertical and rolled, ready to bring the nose of the F-15 back into the fight. The Sidewinder hit the left int
ake of the lead F-4 and the Iranian fireballed. His wingman broke hard to the left and ran to the east.

  Now Jack dove for the ground and headed for the next two F-4s. He could hear Byers puking in the back seat.

  *

  Ratso One slammed to a halt under the tail of the C-130 and the six men scrambled up the ramp. Kowalski promptly released the brakes and the cargo plane started to move, slowly at first, then with greater speed. The ramp was up and the door coming down when the nose gear lifted into the air, then the main gear came unglued, and the Hercules leaped into sky.

  *

  Eastern Turkey

  “Cowboy, this is Delray Five-One.” The AWACS fighter controller’s voice was precise and measured. Snake Houseman acknowledged the call for his flight of four F-15s still in trail with a KC-135 tanker orbiting thirty-five miles from the Turkish-Iranian border. “Six bandits are being scrambled from Tabriz onto Scamp One-Five. Scamp One-Five is one-two-zero degrees at one-one-five nautical miles from your position. Standby…” The controller in the AWACS paused, evaluating the lastest information that he had received. “The bandits are now airborne and being vectored into Scamp One-Five. Fly heading one-one-zero degrees. KILL. Repeat. KILL.”

  Snake again acknowledged for his flight, and the four F-15s split into flights of two, crossing the border into Iran…

  *

  Kermanshah, Iran

  The closure rate for the three planes was over a thousand miles per hour. Jack’s air-to-air radar display had the second pair of Iranian F-4s at twenty miles and 5,000 feet above him. He did not have a tallyho yet. Even though he had no qualms taking on two F-4s with his Eagle, he had to remain on the offensive and use everything he had that gave him an advantage. And speed was his number-one advantage. He rotated the selective-jettison knob to the first detent to shed the five bombs and three Mavericks he had left to reduce the drag that slowed him down. But before he hit the red button in the center of the knob he reconsidered and turned the knob back to off. He had a use for them.