The Cobra Identity

by Frank Perry

hundreds of glass shards. The dust trail was thick and the attackers could not see well. He turned off the siren and strobe lights, but kept the headlights on to drive. The car would not hold together long on the dirt path, but they only had to go a mile. He yelled, “There! There’s our gear!”

  The pile of rocks was unmistakable. He jammed the brakes on hard, and they jumped while the car was still rolling. They tumbled on the rocky ground getting cut and bruised, but were able to leap to their equipment cache. The chase vehicles stopped a few hundred feet behind, and the troops jumped out into brush on both sides of the road. Blomstein fired judiciously as Peter put on his pack and recovered his weapons. They protected each other while getting ready to move.

  At the OC Rachael sat and turned away from the displays. Without sound, it was surreal, but the internal dialogue was all about a firefight. Suddenly, she heard Peter’s voice. He was breathing hard, running through the desert. “Command, this is Striker One, we’re pinned down and need air support! We have minor wounds, but are mobile!”

  One of the console staff started to speak when Simmons interceded, “Striker One, can you hold near the road for one minute?”

  When he answered, there was the sound of gunfire in the background. Breathing hard, his voice came through in the characteristic monotone of military transmissions, “Ah, Command—hold one, (gunfire). Command, they’re moving to flank both sides. Over.”

  Simmons wasn’t listening closely. Instead, he was firing other instructions. He answered, “Striker One, stay low and strip gear, be ready to move out fast and light, over.”

  “Roger, out (more gunfire).”

  On the screen in the OC the red and blue circles converged. Rachael was sick to her stomach and turned to the General in tears, unable to speak. She just wanted to leave the area. Simmons grabbed her by both arms forcing her to look at him, “Rachael! Rachael! We’re doing everything we can to get them out! Try to stay cool.”

  She pulled away and ran from the center, going back to her office to wait. She’d heard too much.

  On the ground, Peter ordered Blomstein, who was trying to keep the left flank from advancing, “Josh, strip off gear, Command orders.”

  “What? Strip? Major, that’s crazy, these guys are on top of us!”

  “Do it! Do it now!”

  Blomstein angrily threw his M4 down and dropped his ammo belt and radio. Moments later, Shields’ radio blared, “Striker One, Broken Arrow, Broken Arrow!”

  Simmons was communicating that he had ordered a direct attack on their position, telling them to take cover. Both men instinctively dove to the sand between moguls and buried their faces.

  Predator turned on approach and used its own onboard gimbaled laser to illuminate the field. The launch authority had already been given. In Nevada, the weapons office declared, “Pickle’s hot, firing!”

  The Iranians didn’t have time to react after a momentary flare from the missile motor, before it exploded in their midst. Many died instantly and more were knocked senseless or wounded severely. Peter and Blomstein recovered quickly and began shooting dazed soldiers that were standing on their perimeter. As they fired, the Predator pilot turned on landing lights and used the video camera in its belly to land on the dirt road near the strike team.

  Peter sensed what Simmons had contrived and threw down his weapon, grabbing Blomstein by the collar to follow him. The two men sprinted toward the road while the Iranians were still unable to respond. The Rangers had not had time for boots, and rushing through the rocks and dense brush was difficult. Both men stumbled several times, but kept moving despite ankle sprains. Dirt in their eyes made it difficult to see. The unmanned plane was over a hundred yards away and they ran to get there while the Iranians recovered from the missile blast. They could hear the sound of the small turbocharged engine idling, but then also heard gunfire behind them.

  At the OC, the main display switched to a thermal camera that could see the ground at night. Several officers quietly cheered, urging the strike team to get to the bird. Two blue circles were running along the road and the outline of the plane could be seen ahead of them. The thermal image also showed the heat traces of bullets streaking past them. One of the runners fell. The heat-generated image was poor, not good enough to tell which one was down. The command team watched as the second runner stopped and went back for his comrade as white streaks shot past, inches away from his body.

  Peter grabbed Blomstein and helped him up. The bullet had ripped through his right hip and he couldn’t run anymore. If he had not been in extreme pain, Blomstein would have told Peter to save himself, but he was out of his senses as Peter threw him over his shoulder and kept moving toward the plane. Another bullet tore through his right sleeve, but missed.

  Rachael sat quietly in her office with the door closed. She hated Simmons and hated Peter for volunteering for a suicide mission. She knew they were outnumbered and outgunned with no support that could get to them in time. Tears streamed down her face as she thought of Peter mortally wounded.

  On the ground in Iran, Peter reached the plane. Blomstein was conscious and seemed to be lucid. He threw Josh across the left wing next to the fuselage avoiding the rear propeller as he ran behind the tail boom to the other side to balance the load. The Predator is essentially a radio-controlled aircraft with no cockpit or passenger capability. As Peter jumped aboard, lying flat on the wing, Simmons gave an order and the Predator began to accelerate. The aircraft has a load capacity of four hundred pounds when full of fuel, but had used at least three hundred pounds of fuel and shot both missiles. With the additional aerodynamic resistance of the two men, takeoff was risky and not a sure thing, but at least they were mobile.

  At Creech, the pilot was sweating profusely with a 3-star issuing the orders, trying to manage a smooth takeoff with a slow climb rate. The plane was gaining speed and Peter suddenly found himself looking for a handhold of some kind. Across the plane, he saw Blomstein’s hand jab downward with a knife. With wind in his face at forty miles per hour, he reached to his belt and pulled his throwing knife free. jamming it hard into the thin composite wing skin under his chin. He put one hand over the wing and one held the knife hilt tightly. The plane bounced on the dirt road, before lifting off at about fifty miles an hour. They were flying -- if they could hold on.

  At the OC another cheer went up as the men went airborne, both alive. On the wing of the Predator, they were holding on for their lives as the plane gained altitude, aimed at the top of the mountain ridge ahead. At Creech, the pilot tried to maintain the wings level just above stall speed, fifty miles per hour.

  On the large screen, the display turned back to the virtual presentation. Predator could be seen moving toward the LZ where the helicopter was waiting. Simmons was watching intensely. They had no way to communicate with the men on the Predator. He picked up the radio handset again and issued instructions to the Predator pilot.

  The pilot responded, “Sir, it’s night time and the terrain is all rocks and trees. I can’t land.”

  Simmons responded, “Then crash the son of a bitch, I want those boys on that helo, do whatever you can to help them survive, that’s an order, Simmons out.”

  Sweat ran in rivulets on the pilot’s face. She was ordered to deliberately crash the plane. Two lives were at stake and the flying character of the aircraft was abnormal. Even though she was safe sitting at the control console, she felt a vicarious connection with the two souls that were now depending on her to get them down alive.

  Peter’s eyes were streaming tears from the wind. The plane was flying nose high, helping them hold on to the slick wings. The engine was laboring, but they were gaining altitude.

  At the OC, Simmons ordered a situation check on Striker Two. A voice sounded over the PA, “Striker Two, report, over.”

  Breathing heavily, John Stokes reported, “Striker Two, I’m thirty minutes from the LZ, over.”

  Simmons barked, “Tell him to hold.”

  At some point R
achael had reentered the OC, but remained unobtrusive as everyone worked at a frantic pace.

  The General ordered the Pave Hawk to deviate from the LZ and go to Striker Two’s position. They could pick him up at a hover in the rough terrain, then return to retrieve Peter and Blomstein. The Pilot insisted on talking to the General, “Sir, respectfully request to stay shut down at the LZ, we’re bingo fuel and our position will be disclosed.”

  Simmons responded, “Understand pilot, now follow instructions. Return to the LZ ASAP and help Striker One and Three get aboard. We’ll solve other problems as they occur, over and out.”

  Some of the OC senior officers starred briefly at Simmons realizing that he wasn’t following protocol and could be risking his career.

  The Pave Hawk was airborne and over Striker Two in less than a minute. Two minutes later, Stokes was winched aboard with all of his equipment, then the helicopter rushed back to the mountain top LZ.

  Soon after Stokes was recovered and the Blackhawk had returned to the LZ, Predator was less than a mile out. It took extraordinary pilot skill to match the awkward flight characteristics caused by the men over the wings and flying near stall speed. Her next challenge was to crash the bird without killing anyone.

  As the plane approached the ridge, Peter sensed a change in profile and could