“We got some help tonight—apparently some other ISA cell is going to stir up some shit for us tonight,” Wohl said. “Maybe it’ll keep the ragheads off balance, maybe it won’t. Forget about them and concentrate on your work tonight. Our job is to go in, check the escape-and-evasion areas, rescue anyone that might be out there waiting for us, and come back alive. Let’s get loaded up.”
Wohl had picked the men personally for this patrol, so he really was not looking into each individual’s face as he went down the line just before boarding the chopper—he could usually recognize each man by his build or choice of weapons or voice or attitude. He came to the last and most senior man in his squad, the “wheel,” who would coordinate the flight crew’s activities with the ground team. Monroe had his balaclava on, shielding his face against the freezerlike chill of the hangar. “Ready to do it tonight, Monroe?” he asked him. No response, just a thumbs-up and a rather nervous shuffling of the feet. Wohl looked and saw the mans right finger extended out of his mitten, covering the trigger guard of his suppressed IAI Uzi .45 submachine gun—this bad boy, he thought, was ready to go...
.. . but unfortunately, he wasn’t going to go! “You are one stupid son of a bitch, Briggs,” Gunnery Sergeant Chris Wohl said in a low voice. “You are just too stupid for words. Did you really think I wasn’t going to notice you on my aircraft?”
Hal Briggs pulled off his balaclava. “How’d you know it was me, Gunny? You didn’t even look at my face or my eyes.”
“You’re the only one who always sticks his trigger finger outside your mitten and covers the trigger guard when he gets nervous,” Wohl said. “I noticed it the first mission we flew. Now, what the hell are you doing out here? I thought the flight doc ordered another week of bed rest.”
“I’m sick of bed rest,” Briggs said. “I’m fine. I’m ready to go.”
“The doc didn’t sign you off yet.”
“Fuck the flight surgeon, Gunny,” Briggs said. “I’m ready to go on this patrol—hell, I’ve got to go on this patrol or I’ll go nuts.”
“You were ordered to stay in bed, sir,” Wohl said. “The doc ordered it, and I ordered it. Sick or not, sir, I’m going to kick your ass if you don’t start obeying orders.”
“You can do an operational evaluation on me,” Briggs suggested. “Plenty of room in the Pave Hammer. Besides, Monroe can’t fly tonight—he’s got a cold or a sinus infection or something.”
“Bullshit,” Wohl said. “Stop treating me like your senile old aunt baby-sitting you when you want to sneak out to the drive-in, Briggs. You wanna override doctor’s orders and go on a patrol, just come out and say it.”
“I’m saying it already, Wohl,” Briggs said. “I want to go.”
“Disapproved,” Wohl said quickly. “You look OK to me, but I did talk to the doc today—he said he found blood on a towel in your room. You been hiding shit from the flight doc, Hal?”
“Dr. Sabin checks the towels in my damned room?” Briggs exclaimed angrily. “I want him to stay the hell out of my room.”
“Did you or didn’t you?”
Briggs didn’t reply. Instead, he asked, “How do you feel, Gunny?”
“I feel fine.” .
“You sure?”
“Stick your tongue up my ass and take my temperature if you really care,” the Marine said irritably. “Otherwise, get out of my face.” “Why didn’t you get hit, Wohl? We were standing side by side, less than an arm’s length away from each other. Three guys went down when that antiaircraft artillery site opened up on us—two guys on one side of you, then me on the other side of you. You’re sitting in the middle and don’t get a scratch. Why the hell not?”
“Because a Marine sucks in a triple-A and spits out fire, Briggs,” Wohl said with a perfectly serious expression. “We eat barbed wire and piss napalm.”
“Yeah, yeah, hoo-rah and all that jarhead shit.”
“It ain’t jarhead shit, Briggs,” Wohl said earnestly. “I don’t know why I didn’t get hit, Briggs. Maybe I’ll get it on this trip—would that make you happy, Briggs?”
“C’mon, Gunny, I didn’t mean it that way. I’m just bored and ready to get my ass in the air again, and I can’t believe I got hit by the golden BB. I’m too young and too good-looking to get nailed by a triple-A site older than my uncle. ...”
“I’ll tell you what I believe, Briggs: I truly believe I won’t get hit because I’m a U.S. Marine. I truly believe I’m too tough and too strong and too dumb to get hit by a little Iranian Zeus-23/4.”
“Give me a break, Chris ...”
“I’m serious as a stock market crash, Hal,” Wohl said. “You see, you’re smart, a real college boy, not a correspondence-course college boy like me. You knew it was a ZSU-23/4, knew about how deadly it is to low-flying aircraft that stray within lethal range. .. hell, you probably know its rate of fire, its reliability, its crew complement, its maintenance procedures.”
“Yeah, I do. So?”
“So I’m not being critical, Briggs, but maybe you got tagged because you believed you’d get tagged. You thought it was perfectly logical and understandable and proper that if we come across a Zeus-23 that’s not supposed to be there, you’d get hit by a ricochet. I, on the other hand, believe that only lily-livered pussy-whipped, pudd-pounding, tired-ass, numb-nut legs—or any officer—are weak enough to be put down by something as low-tech as a Zeus-23.”
“What about Barnes and Halmar?”
“They got it because they were sitting next to you”
“Gimme a break, Gunny.”
“The point is, Briggs, I did not allow myself to die. I’d allow myself to die rescuing our shipmates, die with one or two fellow buddies on my shoulders, but not die by a lousy piece-of-shit Iranian ack-ack gun. And if it doesn’t kill me, it makes me stronger.” Wohl paused, shrugged, then added with a faint smile, “Or it could’ve been the nonstop praying I’d been doing, and the extra thin-line Kevlar jacket I was wearing that night.
“Now, stop screwing around and go get Monroe out here so we can get this show on the road. You want to help, go monitor the situation display in the command center. Just don’t let the flight doc see you.”
Monroe wasn’t too far away—he’d told Briggs that it would never work, so he’d been standing by, ready to go—and soon he was aboard the CV-22 Pave Hammer tilt-rotor and the rescue mission was under way. Again, Briggs was left behind.
Dammit, he thought, it wasn’t fair! Just because he didn’t snarl and growl like a bitch in heat like all these other borrowed Marines, he had to sit on his ass and get his room searched by the flight surgeon without his knowledge!
After returning his prized Uzi and its spare magazines to the armory, Briggs checked in with the command center. Nothing would be happening for at least twenty-five minutes until the CV-22 went feet-dry. Last mission, they hadn’t made it that far—an antiaircraft artillery site on Tumb as Sughrd, or Lesser Tumb Island, had opened fire on them as they passed nearby, and they’d been hit by a halfsecond burst. The CV-22 had sustained minor damage; three crewmen had been wounded by flying shrapnel, including Briggs.
This time, with a little luck, Madcap Magician was going all the way into the claws of the beast: Bandar Abbas, the largest military complex in Iran and one of the largest in the Middle East. Intelligence had suggested that the survivors of the Valley Mistress might have been taken to Suru prison. They were going to check out the prison’s security and try to find any weaknesses, in case they decided they had to break in; then they would check the safe areas.
Like all areas of every country in which they operated, Madcap Magician had a series of safe areas and escape-and-evasion plans formulated that every crewman was required to memorize before each mission. During the infiltration, every crew member was kept apprised of the team’s present position, their heading, and speed, so in case the aircraft was forced down, every man knew where he was and which way to proceed to the nearest safe area. At specific times for each area
, a survivor would make his way as carefully as he could to a contact point, where—with a little luck—a rescuer would be there to find him.
But every day that went by lessened the chance of a successful rescue. The Iranian army, the Revolutionary Guards, reserves, and Basij militias were everywhere, near every city, town, highway, road, railroad, bridge, and river, looking for infiltrators. A guy on the run couldn’t hold up for very long even if his health was perfect—if he was injured, as a result of an escape or fight, he’d be in bad shape.
He’d lost Colonel Paul White and ten of his best men, and he hadn’t even gotten a chance to lead them yet. . . .
1 Lafayette square, Washington, D.C.
THAT SAME TIME
The gentleman being escorted by the tuxedo-dressed bellman through the cherry-paneled corridors of the luxurious Hay-Adams Hotel in Washington already had his jolly, glad-handed face on when he entered the small, secluded dining room. His contact and another man, probably an assistant or aide, were already waiting for him. The double doors were closed behind him; the warm room enveloped him like a calfskin glove. Nothing like this in Tehran these days, he thought. “Ah, my friend Robert, it is good to be here with ...” But his politically practiced visage changed abruptly when the man in the room turned to him.
“Mr. Sahin, please come in,” Philip Freeman, the President’s National Security Advisor, said. It was obvious that his presence was a complete shock to Sahin. He extended a hand in greeting, but Philip Freeman did not accept it. Then Sahin looked for a chair and did not find one. It was obvious this was not going to be a civil sociable meeting.
Businessman and professor Tahir Sahin was one of a rare and unusual breed, vital to governments all over the world—a well-spoken, well-traveled, educated man welcomed and employed by all sides of a dispute. A son of a wealthy landowner in eastern Turkey, Sahin’s Muslim family had escorted and guarded the Ayatollah Khomeini during his exile to Iraq via Turkey in 1963. A young Tahir Sahin had then accompanied Khomeini to the holy Shi’ite city of Najaf in Iraq and spent several years with him, acting as interpreter and bodyguard.
Sahin had seen firsthand the transformation of Khomeini and his vision of a worldwide Islamic revolution, and in time Sahin had become infused with much of the same burning passion as Khomeini. When Khomeini had been deported from Iraq and moved to France in 1978, Sahin had returned to his native land and become instrumental in spreading the word about Khomeinis impending revolution to Turkey and everywhere else he traveled in his business. When Khomeini had made his triumphant return to Iran and established his Islamic republic, Sahin had been an honored guest many times. With his Turkish passport and Iranian identity papers, signed by Khomeini himself, Sahin could travel anywhere in the world with complete safety and security.
It was after the closing of all diplomatic relations between the United States and Iran following the U.S. embassy siege in 1979 that Tahir Sahin’s real worth had stood out. Sahin had been part of the secret “arms for hostages” deals with the United States to the benefit of the Iranians, but had also helped secure the release of British, French, Italian, and American hostages held captive by pro-Iranian radicals in Lebanon. Although not credentialed with the U.S. State Department or recognized professionally by any country, Sahin had been acting as an unofficial messenger between the two governments, keeping the lines of communication open between two countries who did not have embassies in each others country.
The downside to having a pro-Iranian, pro-Islamic fundamentalist man like Sahin roaming freely around Washington was that he was reportedly a deputy director of an organization called the Niru-ye Entezami-e Johuriye, or Institute of Strategic Security Studies. The ISSS was known as an Iranian defense “think tank,” which advised rich Middle East countries on emerging defense technology and strategies; but it was also widely believed to be an international intelligence front operation, designed to feed information through diplomatic channels back to Iran. If Sahin hadn’t been funneling messages back and forth between Washington and Tehran, he’d have been kicked out of the United States years ago as a suspected spy.
It was painful for Freeman to be meeting a likely Iranian spy like this, but there was no better way to impress upon Iran the seriousness of the situation that was before them now.
Tahir Sahin put his glad-happy face back on and nodded enthusiastically at his hosts. “It is indeed an unexpected honor to be here with you, General.”
“I have a simple message for President Nateq-Nouri and General Buzhazi,” Freeman interrupted. “The President of the United States views the attack on the civilian salvage vessel Valley Mistress by the Khomeini carrier battle group and the capture of its crew as an act of aggression against the United States. The President is demanding their return immediately.”
“Please, General Freeman, please,” Sahin interrupted, holding up his hands as if in surrender, “but I am nothing but a small businessman. I am not an ambassador or an emissary of any country...”
“And this is not a diplomatic visit,” Freeman interjected. “I’m asking you to deliver a message, Mr. Sahin—if you can do it, you’ll be providing a great service for both the United States and the Islamic Republic of Iran. If you can’t deliver the message, then we’ve all wasted our time here.”
Sahin nodded thoughtfully. “I will of course endeavor to do as you wish, General Freeman,” Sahin said. “I hope I have the good fortune to have the opportunity to speak with Minister Velayati or Minister Foruzandeh.”
“See to it that this message is delivered immediately, Mr. Sahin,” Freeman said. “We are going to play a little game with the Islamic Republic of Iran.”
“A game, General?”
“Yes, Mr. Sahin. Every day that an American is held captive by Iran, or his whereabouts are not known, the United States will attack a military target inside Iran. You will not know where, or when, or how, only that it will happen. The United States will not publicize this; no public comments will be made. The targets will be vital military installations and command-and-control targets. The goal of the strikes will be gradually to weaken Iran’s air defense, command, mobility, and long-range strike capability so that if war does break out, Iran will have difficulty defending its borders from attack or will find its forces substantially weakened or unable to mobilize.”
Tahir Sahin laughed a hesitant, nervous laugh. “This . .. this is very odd, General Freeman,” he said. “This .. . this is tantamount to terrorism!”
“Call it what you will,” Freeman said. “If the captives are not released, Iran will suffer the consequences.”
“Does this concern the proposal by the Islamic Republic to exclude all foreign warships from the Persian Gulf?” Sahin asked. “Is this an attempt to induce Iran to capitulate?”
“This has nothing to do with the Persian Gulf,” Freeman said. “In fact, the President is seriously considering that proposal, and he may agree to it with some modifications. This only concerns the thirteen men missing from the salvage vessel Valley Mistress. The President wants those men immediately released unharmed and unmolested in any way—no questioning, no interrogation, no coercion.”
Sahin shook his head, his eyes blankly scanning the room in complete surprise. “This is a very unexpectedly belligerent and arrogant stance the President is taking, General Freeman,” he said. “Is the President truly in control, or is it possible that the military has taken over the White House?”
“The President is in control, I assure you,” Freeman replied. “If I were in control, I’d have destroyed all of Iran’s military bases one by one, sent Iran’s carrier to the bottom of the Gulf of Oman, and had U.S. troops occupy Hormozgan Province by now.”
“Do you believe such a belligerent, intractable attitude will help improve relations with Iran or assist in negotiations, General?”
“Perhaps you don’t understand, Mr. Sahin: the United States is not negotiating anything at this time,” Freeman said, turning to leave. “The attacks will comm
ence and will continue until our demands are met. The President may open negotiations for the removal of land-attack warships from the Persian Gulf, but as for the topic of the survivors of the Valley Mistress, we will not negotiate. The attacks will commence and will continue until our demands are met. Good day, Mr. Sahin.”
“This is ... this is highly irregular!” Sahin blurted out as Freeman reached the door. “I must take with me some proof of this discussion, some sign that you and I spoke—”
“The only proof you need is the news that a military target inside Iran has been destroyed,” Freeman said. He checked his Ulysses- Nardin multi-zone watch and added, “In fact, the first attack should be happening at any moment. It will be in retaliation for the illegal and unwarranted attack on the Valley Mistress. Good day to you, Mr. Sahin.”
Aboard the B-2A Spirit stealth bomber av-OI 1, over Iran
THAT SAME TIME
McLanahan finished typing in commands on the supercockpit display. “SAR configured,” he announced. “No terrain returns, no large cultural returns, moving-target mode enabled.” He turned to Jamieson: “Ready, AC?”
“I was born ready, MC,” Jamieson said gruffly. “Take the shot.”
“Here we go,” McLanahan said easily, “radar enabled ... radar transmitting...” then, just two seconds later, he announced, “radar’s in standby.”
“Two seconds is plenty long for the ragheads to track us, MC,” Jamieson pointed out angrily. “A standard SAR shot is one second max, dammit.”
That point was most important while they were so close, because in order to transmit the synthetic aperture radar, COMBAT mode was temporarily suspended. Part of going into COMBAT mode was the activation of the B-2A stealth bomber’s AN/VUQ-13 BEADS system, the Bomber Electronic Attenuation Defensive System, or the “cloaking device.” BEADS electrified the outer surface of the B-2 A bomber and the cockpit windshield with positive ions, in effect turning the aircraft into a giant electron magnet.
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