When Sabin departed, Behrouzi turned to Briggs and began, “Leopard . . . Hal, I am sorry I surprised you like this ...”
Briggs didn’t let her finish. He pulled her into his arms and gave her a deep, longing kiss, and she returned it with every bit as much passion, holding him even closer. Both of their eyes were smoky, almost tearful, when they parted. “My God, Riza,” Briggs said breathlessly, “I’ve missed you so much.”
“I have missed you as well,” Behrouzi said. “I heard of your last mission just tonight. Were you hurt? The doctor said you—”
“I’m fine,” Briggs interjected. “Just a scratch.”
“A scratch? Let me look.” She zeroed in on his left shoulder as if she knew exactly where to look, and she unbuttoned his rough cotton shirt and peeled back his underwear. Heavy dressings covered the wound on both sides of his shoulder. “Entry and exit wounds, Hal? It is much more than a scratch,” Behrouzi said breathily. “I am so glad you are safe.” They kissed again, drinking even more deeply from each other than before. “You wanted to go on a mission? Tonight? Are you mad?”
“The team is flying into Iran, inspecting every safe area between here and Bandar Abbas.”
“Looking for Colonel Paul White and the survivors of the attack on your ship, I know,” Behrouzi said. “I have information for you— information on the whereabouts of your commander.”
“Paul? He’s safe?”
“For now,” Behrouzi said ominously. “He and twelve crew mem- • bers were taken aboard the Iranian aircraft carrier Khomeini after his ship was ...” Briggs tried to hide his thoughts, but his suddenly averted eyes were a dead giveaway for a trained observer like Behrouzi. “The carrier ... the Americans will attack the aircraft carrier?”
“I can’t tell you, Riza,” Briggs said. “We were told there’d be plenty of distractions while we made our infiltration into Bandar Abbas ...”
“I shall see about the carrier,” Behrouzi said. She took out a cellular telephone, got the Dubai Directorate of Military Intelligence duty desk, and spoke to the senior controller at the command center.
A few minutes later, she had her information: “Peace Shield Skywatch reports that there appears to have been an aircraft accident near the Khomeini—a helicopter or fighter crashed at sea, and there have been reports of antiaircraft fire. After the accident, one helicopter was reported departing for Chah Bahar—none toward Bandar Abbas.”
“That means they’re taking their prisoners to Chah Bahar!” Briggs said.
“Leopard, that helicopter could be a simple medical evacuation, or it could be just the carrier commander and his staff,” Behrouzi said. “And my intelligence information may be faulty and they could not be on the carrier after all, or they could be held on the carrier, or there could have been more than one helicopter...”
“Or this could be the best chance we’ve got to rescue our teammates,” Briggs said. “If we can get a strike team together, I’m going to give it a try. I’ve got to notify the team and tell them to back us up—there’s no time to waste!” Briggs was on the phone in an instant, notifying his command center that Wohl and the CV-22 team should return as soon as possible. “Riza, you’re wonderful,” Briggs said. “You may have saved the lives of all the survivors .. . but I have to go.”
“I shall go with you, of course.”
“Riza, this mission won’t be sanctioned by anyone ...”
“You think you shall go alone?” Behrouzi asked him with a smile. “Will you sprout jet-powered wings and fly five hundred kilometers to Chah Bahar?”
“I’ll find a plane or a ship to take me,” Briggs said. “The team will be back in less than an hour. Another hour for refueling and a briefing, ninety minutes en route ...”
“If your mission is approved by your superiors,” Behrouzi added. “And by then, it will be daylight.”
“I told you, I’m not talking about a sanctioned mission—I’m talking about rescuing my men,” Briggs said. “They’re my men—at least they’re supposed to be, if they’d ever let me prove it to them. I could take a cargo plane, parachute in, reconnoiter the base, and report back here.”
“Are you sure you are thinking properly?” Behrouzi asked cautiously. “Are you doing this because it is your duty and you feel you can succeed—or are you doing this to gain the favor of the men who now must serve under you?”
Briggs fell silent and scowled at Behrouzi—but, dammit, she was right. “I’m not thinking straight,” he said aloud, not really talking to Behrouzi but to himself. “This is not how Chris Wohl would do it. He’d play it by the book, gather intelligence, collect the data, assemble a plan, brief it with his superiors, get approval, assemble his troops and equipment, then brief his troops. He’d be methodical, calculating, and always damned effective. But...”
Briggs stopped and looked at Behrouzi’s concerned expression. “But, Hal,” she said softly, “you are not Chris Wohl. You are Hal Briggs. You are the Leopard.”
It was then that the light finally went on in Briggs’s brain. “Riza ... you’re right,” Briggs said. “I’m not Chris Wohl. I wasn’t trained by the Marine Corps. I was trained by my uncle, the sheriff of Camden County, Georgia; by General Brad Elliott, by John Or- mack, by Patrick McLanahan, by a team of engineers and crewdogs. They always said, Just get the job done. Don’t plan everything to death. Train and study hard, then use that training to decide on a course of action—then do it.’ And that’s exacdy what I’m going to do.” He turned to Behrouzi excitedly. “I need a plane, Riza.”
“I have my liaison aircraft available right here at Mina Sultan,” Behrouzi said excitedly. “Any other aircraft, I must take time to requisition ...”
“What is it?”
“A surplus aircraft from your Marine Corps,” Behrouzi said, “an OV-IOD. I believe you called it a Bronco-D.”
“Your personal aircraft is an observation-and-close-air-support aircraft... ?”
“In my country, we have little use for a plane that fulfills only one role,” Behrouzi said with a smile. “This belongs to Sheikh Rashid’s eldest son, who is the Minister of Defense of the United Arab Emirates. When General Rashid is away, the Directorate is permitted to use it to transport myself and others to meetings and exercises all over the region. I am well trained in how to use it for ground attack as well.”
“So it still has its weaponry, its cargo bay?”
“Of course,” Behrouzi said matter-of-factly. “It is a D-NOS aircraft, configured for night reconnaissance as well as for ground attack and observation, with an AAS-36 FLIR turret, a Gatling gun in a helmet-aimed turret, laser designator, satellite navigation, missile warning system, chaff, and flare dispensers. His Eminence the Sheikh spares little expense for his toys.”
“Major Behrouzi, it sounds like just the magic carpet I need right now,” Briggs said happily. “Care to offer a guy a ride tonight?”
“Only if I can ride with you, Leopard,” Behrouzi said. “If what I think you have in mind is what you will do, I wish to ... how do you say, ‘be where the action is,’ no?”
In reply, Briggs gave her a kiss. “You’re on, Major Riza Behrouzi. Lead the way.”
Just twenty minutes later, Behrouzi and four men—Hal Briggs and three United Arab Emirates troopers, members of the Emir of Dubai’s Royal Guard Brigade commandos—were crammed in the tiny aft cargo bay of the OV-IOD-NOS (Night Observation System) Bronco attack plane, speeding down the runway of Mina Sultan Naval Base, on their way to Chah Bahar Naval Base in Iran.
They didn’t have a flight plan, clearance, permission, or a real concrete plan of action, but they did have a warplane. The OV-IOD- NOS twin turboprop attack-and-observation plane had a full attack payload configuration: fully fueled centerline and wing fuel tanks, 1,500 rounds of 20-millimeter ammunition for the six-barrel steerable Gading gun, two pods of four AGM-114 Hellfire laser-guided missiles on the fuselage sponsons, and one AGM-122A Sidearm anti-radar missile mounted on the outboard side of each of
the wing fuel-tank pylons. This Bronco also had chaff and flare ejectors installed in the tail booms to assist in decoying enemy antiaircraft radars and heat-seeking missiles. It seemed as if it took every available foot of Dubai’s 9,000-foot runway to get the heavily laden Bronco into the warm, humid air.
Shortly after leveling off at cruise altitude, Briggs was on the plane’s radio on the UHF emergency frequency: “Genesis, Genesis, this is Redman, if you copy, come up on Storybook, repeat, Genesis, this is Redman, come up on Storybook.” Briggs then flipped over to a special UHF frequency that they had used back when Briggs had been the commander of security operations at the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center. One of the ranges they’d used for weapons tests had been called “Storybook,” and each range had had its own discrete frequency. Redman was Briggs’s security detail’s call sign. “Who are you calling, Leopard?” Behrouzi asked.
“A friend that I think is flying tonight,” Briggs said. He keyed the mike: “Genesis, this is Redman on Storybook. How copy?”
“Loud and clear, Redman,” came the reply. “Fancy meeting you here. Seen any red-tail hawks lately?”
“Only in Amarillo,” Briggs replied. “Nice to hear from you again, Old Dog.”
Aboard the B-2A Spirit stealth bomber, AV-OI t
“This is an open frequency, remember,” Patrick McLanahan said from the flight deck.
“What in hell do you think you’re doing, McLanahan?” Jamieson asked. “Are you nuts? You’ll blow us for sure! ”
“This is the team, the guy we’re supposed to be supporting,” McLanahan said. “He knows security better than either of us, and if he took the chance to call, it must be serious.”
“Shit, this is going to get us killed—we’re still too damn close to the bad guys here,” Jamieson groused. But now he was intrigued as well: “So what’s with this ‘red-tail hawk’ and ‘Amarillo’ business?”
“A private code,” McLanahan said. “A job we did not long ago.” He keyed the mike: “What’s happening?”
“Got any screamers left?”
Jamieson looked as if he had seen a ghost as he stared in complete surprise at McLanahan. “He knows ... how in hell does he know about our JSOWs?”
“He was there when we first tested and built the things at Dreamland, AC,” McLanahan explained with a smile. “I don’t know if he was briefed on our mission, but he sure as hell seems to have figured it out.” On the radio, McLanahan replied, “Affirmative, Redman. Where do you need them?”
“Follow the lights,” came the response.
“What in hell does that mean?” Jamieson asked.
“It means he’s going in somewhere, probably into Iran,” McLanahan said. “Give me a one-eighty—I’ll see if I can pick him up on radar.”
“A one-eightyl You mean, fly hack to where we just creamed an Iranian aircraft carrier?” Jamieson retorted. “Are you insane?”
“C’mon, Colonel, where’s your spirit of adventure?” McLanahan asked. “We’ve got the gas, and we’re outside Iran’s radar coverage.” “Hey, my butt thinks my legs have been cut off,” Jamieson said. “We’ve still got twelve more hours’ flying time to go.” But he quickly relented, took control of the Spirit, and turned westbound toward the Strait of Hormuz again.
“What’s your altitude, Redman?”
“Shoshone,” came the reply.
“You two are just too fuckin’ cute,” Jamieson said. “Another code word from your days in Dreamland?”
“Exactly,” McLanahan said. “Shoshone Peak, in restricted area 4202A, sixty-five hundred feet above sea level. SAR coming on.”
McLanahan configured the B-2A’s radar, then shot a one-second sweep of the sky. The choice was fairly easy—there was only one aircraft near that altitude. “Level off at Brawley for confirmation.”
“Roger,” came the reply. A few moments later, McLanahan took another SAR shot and zeroed in on the same return—sure enough, it had leveled off at 9,500 feet above sea level—the same height as Brawley Peak in southwestern Nevada near Hawthorne.
“Radar contact, Redman,” McLanahan said. “Continue on course. We can keep an eye on you for a while, and if we see red lights, we’ll try to turn them green for you.”
Aboard the OV-IOD-NOS Bronco attack plane
“Thanks, Genesis. See you when I see you. Out.”
“Can they help us, Leopard?” Behrouzi asked.
“I think so,” Briggs said with a smile big enough to be seen in the dim light of the Bronco’s cargo bay. “Whatever happened over Bandar Abbas and over the Khomeini carrier group tonight, I got a feeling these guys are gonna make it happen over Chah Bahar.”
Baluchistan va Sistan Provincial Naval Base, Chah Bahar, Iran
23 APRIL 1997, 0408 HRS. LOCAL TIME
A flash of intense light like a billion-watt lightbulb instantly destroyed his night vision; followed by an earth-shattering explosion, louder than any sound he had ever heard in his life; then an incredible shudder that felt like ten earthquakes rolled into one. The normally unshakable deck heeled over to starboard as if a giant child’s hand had tossed them against the toy box, then the deck rolled hard to port, and the port rail was awash. Men were screaming, their faces yellowed by the fires, their voices as loud, maybe even louder—if that was possible—than the sounds of explosions and tearing metal.
For the second time since being transferred to the prison facility, Carl Knowlton was replaying the death of the S.S. Valley Mistress in his tortured minds eye. It had been the most horrifying experience of his life. He had seen the aftermath of the Iraqi Scud missile hit on the barracks at Khobar during the Gulf War, where 117 American soldiers had been killed or wounded; he remembered the thousands of square miles of burning oil fields of Kuwait, when he thought that he was seeing a bit of hell right here on earth. But the air attack against the Valley Mistress had been the worst by far. The ship had felt so small, so helpless, as the sea rushed in to claim it. As the sea had poured into the crippled ship, the old bitch had literally screamed—its oil-fired engines first grinding to a painful halt, then tearing themselves apart, then exploding from the stress and rapid cooling. The scream had been like a loud siren, like a wild animal caught in a trap. . . .
This time, though, Knowlton had not been awakened by his nightmare, but by the sounds of real sirens—air raid sirens. He rolled painfully to his feet, his pants creaking from caked-on sweat, oil, and salt. The oil-fire burns on his arms, shoulders, and neck were wrapped in someone’s T-shirt, the pus and sweat making the cloth stick painfully to the burns.
“You all right, sir?” a young Marine lance corporal, J. D. McKay, asked. “You cried out.”
“Sorry, Corporal,” Knowlton said. “Real bad dream.”
“The guards might come back if they heard you—we gotta be careful,” McKay said. McKay had a right to lecture a superior officer: the Iranian Pasdaran soldiers had obviously recognized who McKay was right after his capture, because they had separated him and beaten him senseless, bludgeoning his face, breaking in teeth, ripping out hair, and breaking fingers. He definitely did not want to attract any more attention to himself.
“Right. Sorry.” Embarrassed, Knowlton stepped over to the one window in the room he and the Marine soldier occupied. The window was too high; Knowlton couldn’t see anything, and he was too weak to pull himself up onto the sill.
“Hop up, sir,” McKay said. Knowlton turned. McKay was crawling on his hands and knees toward the sound of the siren coming through the window.
“No, McKay, I can’t...”
“Get up, sir, and see what’s goin’ on,” McKay said, and the young Marine offered his back—probably the only part of his body not broken—as a footstool. Knowlton clapped the young soldier on the back, then painfully climbed up to peer out the window, pulling himself up onto the wall by the bars on the window to avoid putting his full weight on the kid’s back.
The window was open but covered with metal louvers, so he could see only a
few slivers of open sky outside. Still, it was enough: “I see searchlights,” Knowlton reported. “Jesus, hard to believe anyone on this planet uses antiaircraft searchlights anymore ... I see a SAM lifting off north, looks like a Hawk, missile flying southwest... there goes a second Hawk... no secondaries, no flashes .. . third Hawk lifting off. . . still nothing.” He climbed down off the Marine’s back. “Somebody’s out there, dammit. I think ... I hope it’s one of ours....” He pulled off his T-shirt, painfully ripping off the scabs and loose flesh from his burns. He tore a long strip of white cloth from the bottom of the T-shirt, then removed his trousers, tore a long strip off each pant leg, and began knotting the three pieces of cloth together.
“What are you doing, sir?”
“Trying to create a flag for whoever’s out there,” Knowlton said. “If they see it, they’ll know where to look for us.” He ripped a piece of reinforced trim from the T-shirt’s collar, tore it into thin strips, and tied that to the louvers so it could not be seen from the cell; then he stuffed the trousers and T-shirt pieces out the window through the louvers. It was hard to tell from inside the cell that anything was hanging outside. Knowlton stepped off the Marine’s back. “Thanks, McK—”
Just then the cell door burst open, and two guards entered. They jabbered excitedly in Farsi, and pulled Knowlton across the room and up against a wall. They then kicked McKay in the rib cage, sending him writhing in pain into the corner. They yelled at both of them for a few moments. Knowlton held up his burned hands to defend himself as best he could, but they saw his burns and decided they had seen enough and departed. They did not even think to look up at the window.
“Jesus Christ, those motherfuckers,” Knowlton cursed as he rushed over to the young Marine. He looked bad, but no worse than he had with Knowlton standing on his back looking out the window. He lifted the Marine up and propped him up in the corner so he could breathe easier. “You okay, McKay?”
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