Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 05

by Shadows of Steel (v1. 1)

  The cells appeared to be small dormitory-type rooms, remodeled to be prisoner and punishment-reprimand facilities. Usually it took only one shotgun blast on the top outwardly swinging hinge to crack and pull the door open. When Briggs, now with a Cyalume light stick around his neck, glanced into the occupied cell, he saw two men lying on the floor, facing away from the door, arms outstretched with only the middle fingers extended, and with one leg bent and crossed over the other leg, pointing at the other man in the cell next to them. That was Paul White’s unspoken code-sign for a friendly.

  “On your feet, guys,” Briggs said. “I’m here to get you out.”

  The first cell he breached had Knowlton and McKay inside. “Jesus—its Major Briggs!” Knowlton said as he helped McKay up. “IVe got him, Hal. He’s hurt bad.”

  “Thanks for the flag outside,” Briggs said, handing Knowlton a pistol from a dead Iranian guard. He was off, checking more cells. “Follow me and stay close.”

  The search was not pretty, and after a very short time Briggs wasn’t feeling too heroic. There were prisoners in the cells other than Madcap Magician members. Briggs did not kill them, just searched them to make sure they had no weapons, but even though Behrouzi warned them in Arabic and Farsi not to leave the cell or try to run until they had departed, all of them bolted for the door as soon as Briggs and Behrouzi had left the cell, and they were gunned down by the UAE commandos guarding the exits. They could take no chances with the lives of their own.

  But the final tally heartened them all: nine Madcap Magician members well and rescued. Two more members had been killed by the Pasdaran guards; one more was critically wounded. The main captive missing was Paul White himself. “Carl, do you have any idea where the colonel is?” Briggs asked.

  “No,” Knowlton replied. “He was separated from us right away.”

  “Any idea if there are any others in this building?”

  “I don’t know, Hal, sorry,” Knowlton said dejectedly. “I was unconscious most of the time, exhausted. I don’t know how many men made it after the attack on the Mistress; how many we lost...” Briggs quickly polled the other Marines, but they couldn’t be sure how many others had been captured or killed in the attack, either. Their best guess was that they had everybody. “I wasn’t able to make contact with the others or try to find anything out, Hal, I’m sorry. ...” “Forget it, Carl,” Briggs said. “We’ll search the entire building.” But there was no time for that—one of Behrouzi’s UAE commandos ran upstairs to report that several heavy infantry vehicles were on the way. “Shit, it didn’t take long for them to organize a response.”

  “Our best chance is on the road,” Behrouzi said. “We should try to steal a vehicle, try to make it out into the open countryside. The Pakistan border is only a hundred kilometers east.” Briggs knew she was right—if they stayed in that building, they’d quickly be surrounded and chewed to pieces.

  But as they ran outside, they immediately drew heavy-caliber weapon fire from the infantry vehicles. The commandos’ weapons were useless against the Iranian infantry—they’d brought weapons only for close-range work, not to shoot it out with infantry forces. “Back inside!” Briggs shouted. “We got no choice!”

  Just then, the first infantry vehicle began to sparkle, then jump, then it burst into flames—and seconds later, they heard the OV-IOD- NOS Bronco fly overhead. The UAE Bronco crew had not hightailed it for home after dropping their paratroopers—they were burning most of their return fuel on covering their commando’s withdrawal. “Now’s our chance! ” Briggs shouted. “Run for the hospital! We’ll try to—! ”

  The night air suddenly erupted into an ear-shattering blast of gunfire. One of the heavy armored vehicles following the infantry forces was not a troop carrier—it was a ZSU-23/4 air defense vehicle. Its four 23-millimeter cannons fired at a rate of 3,000 rounds per minute, blanketing the sky with deadly radar-guided shells. The Bronco was shredded by the murderous gunfire, cut into pieces and burning long before it hit the ground. The commandos and the rescued hostages had no choice but to retreat back into the security headquarters building. Two UAE commandos and two Madcap Magician Marines stayed on the ground floor, ready to take out the first wave of attackers; the rest headed up onto the roof.

  “One lousy rescue this is turning into,” Briggs said. All of the Madcap Magician Marines were now armed, and together they made a formidable force—but everyone knew their options were quickly running out.

  “You came for us—that’s the important thing, Major,” Corporal McKay told Briggs.

  “He’s right, Hal—if you would have waited, we’d be dead,” Knowlton said. “No one was talking, so we weren’t good sources of information; we knew the U.S. government wasn’t going to acknowledge us or try to make a deal for us. They were going to discard us right away.”

  “We may still be discarded.”

  “But at least we’re fighting,” McKay said. The Marine had broken fingers, swollen eyes, and could hardly breathe—but he was still ready to fight. “Thanks for giving us that chance, Major—I mean, ‘Commander.’ ”

  The building was quickly surrounded by the armored vehicles and heavily armed soldiers, and the assault began immediately. Heavy 100-millimeter breaching cannons blew large, man-sized holes in the walls on the ground floor, followed by dozens of volleys of smoke and gas grenades, then by Iranian Pasdaran troopers in a hastily organized full frontal assault. The American and UAE soldiers dropped several Pasdaran soldiers as they came toward the stairwells, but were quickly forced to retreat as their number grew. The commandos were much more successful at picking off the Pasdaran troopers up on the second floor, but soon the second floor, too, was filled with gas. One American Marine was shot in the chest and was carried up to the third floor by the others. Soon they had to retreat from that position as well, but with each retreat they were taking out plenty of Pasdaran troopers.

  Up on the roof, the sound of approaching helicopters meant that their time was quickly running out. At the same time as the helicopters approached, the ground units, carrying the dead Marine, made their way onto the roof. “Too many to count,” was the simple report from a surviving Marine.

  A few moments later, three Iranian Navy SH-3 Sea King helicopters could be seen through the darkness. All of them were trailing rappelling lines, ready to drop soldiers onto the roof. All of the commandos took cover as best they could around the raised rim of the roof.

  Suddenly a breaching charge blew open the roof-access door, and smoke and tear gas poured through. Briggs fired, and two Pasdaran bodies piled up on the stairway sill. They were quickly dragged away by other troopers, and no others emerged. The doorway was open—a few grenades tossed through would make short work of everyone on the roof. Briggs cleared everyone from the portion of the roof facing the doorway and assigned commandos to cover it. “Anybody got any ideas?” Briggs shouted.

  “I am afraid we need to consider a surrender, Leopard,” Behrouzi said. “We are outnumbered and outgunned.”

  “I don’t think the Iranians are interested in taking prisoners, Riza.”

  As if to prove the point, just then one of Behrouzi’s UAE commandos jumped to his feet, dropped his MP5 submachine gun, stretched his arms out, and began shouting something in Arabic at a nearby SH-3 helicopter. “Get down, you fool, no!” she shouted in Arabic. But it was far too late. A heavy-caliber machine gun on the SH-3 opened fire, and the UAE commando was immediately cut down.

  “They aren’t going to let us surrender,” Briggs said grimly, “so we’re going to have to fight our way off this roof. We’ve got the darkness to cover us. We’ll try to pick up as many gas masks as we can along the way and take out as many of them as we can. Everyone just keep moving, keep—”

  Suddenly one of the SH-3 Sea King helicopters exploded in a huge fireball, less than 200 feet from the rooftop. Then down below, one, then two of the armored vehicles surrounding the security headquarters building burst into flames, followed by several rocki
ng explosions in the security building itself. Briggs and Behrouzi cut down three, four, five Pasdaran troopers trying to rush up onto the roof—but they weren’t attacking, they were fleeing some devastation behind them. Seconds later, another Sea King helicopter exploded, followed by the ZSU-23/4 air defense unit. The ammunition cooking off inside the ZSU-23/4 completely shredded the vehicle from the inside out.

  “What is it, Leopard?”

  “I think ... I hope, it’s the cavalry,” Briggs said.

  Sure enough, it was. Out of the darkness, a large aircraft appeared. It swooped in toward the security headquarters building with incredible speed for an aircraft its size, its huge twin propellers acting as helicopter rotors. A Gatling gun mounted on its nose spat fire in several directions at ground targets as the huge aircraft moved with delicate precision toward the rooftop. With the nose and an FLIR turret peeking over the edge of the roof, the CV-22 Pave Hammer tilt-rotor aircraft settled just a yard above the rooftop, rear end in. The cargo ramp was open, and commandos were running out and taking security positions around the rooftop.

  Marine Corps Gunnery Sergeant Chris Wohl ran over to Briggs and Behrouzi as several Madcap Magician commandos helped the others to the CV-22 tilt-rotor. “Let’s go, Major,” Wohl said. “We’re outta here.”

  Briggs felt like hugging the tall Marine. “How in hell did you find us?”

  “Later,” Wohl said. “Right now, let’s get the hell outta here. We’re bingo fuel, and we’ve got a tanker waiting for us off the coast.”

  In less than a minute, everyone was evacuated off the rooftop, and the CV-22 was wave-hopping its way out over the Gulf of Oman. The CV-22’s threat warning receiver beeped a few times, but they observed no missile launches or fighter pursuit. In ten minutes they were out of Iranian territorial waters, and a few minutes later they were refueling behind a U.S. Air Force HC-130N special operations tanker that had been dispatched from Bahrain to support the Madcap Magician rescue mission.

  “Practically the entire UAE government was watching you guys heading off toward Chah Bahar,” Wohl explained once they were safely refueled and on the way back to Dubai. “Peace Shield Sky- watch reported the OV-IOD Bronco belonging to General Rashid heading for Iran—they thought the Emir’s son was defecting or something. When I heard about it on the air defense net, I had an HC-130N scramble from Manama Air Base in Bahrain, we took a token onload over the UAE, and immediately headed toward Chah Bahar. Somehow, I knew it was you: first the message about the carrier and the lone chopper heading toward Chah Bahar, then the recall message...”

  “I almost got everyone killed, Gunny,” Briggs said. “I lost two Americans, I got four UAE commandos killed, I lost their Bronco ...”

  “Yes, you did,” Wohl said sternly. “You executed an impossible mission without proper planning, intelligence, and preparation, including the basics like how in hell you were going to get your asses out of the target area and safely back home. You put yourself and your troops in mortal danger. It was stupid, Briggs, really stupid. You exercised poor, immature, and completely rash judgment as a commander. ...”

  Wohl stopped, then nodded resignedly and added, “But you pulled it off, goddamn your Air Force birdbrain black ass. You saved ten guys, ten of your guys, and you didn’t leave anyone behind. You improvised, adapted, and overcame. You used incredible bravery and guts, and showed real leadership. I wouldn’t have done it that way, but I’m not the commander of Madcap Magician’s strike force—you are.”

  Over the Gulf of Oman

  THAT SAME TIME

  “Shamu One-One, this is Nightmare on AR primary, how copy, over.” Silently, McLanahan prayed. Be there, you guys, dammit, be there.. . .

  “Nightmare, this is Shamu One-One, read you five by,” the KC- 10 Extender aerial refueling tanker copilot responded. “We’re just about min fuel at Watchdog. What’s your position? Over.”

  “Nightmare is two hundred west of the ARIP, headed your way,” McLanahan responded, breathing a sigh of relief. They were one hour late to their scheduled refueling, near the U.S.S. Abraham Lincoln carrier group in the Arabian Sea, and now the B-2A was critically short on fuel—but so was their tanker, a converted Douglas DC-10 used by the U.S. Air Force for long-range aerial refueling and cargo hauling. If the KC-10 Extender couldn’t stay to hook up, they would have to abort to Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean—and surely this meant their cover would be blown. One didn’t have to be a math major to draw a parallel between all the attacks on Iran and the sudden appearance of a B-2A bomber on Diego Garcia.

  “We’re headed your way, Nightmare,” the copilot of the KC-10 said. “We’re working on an alternate divert site for ourselves to get you your full offload. If you can take a partial offload, it would sure help us out. Over.”

  McLanahan pulled up a large chart of the Pacific and Indian Ocean regions and ran several range calculations through the navigation computer. “We can take a three-quarter off-load and abort to Guam if we can’t get a tanker to meet us,” McLanahan reported. He paused, showing Jamieson the calculations: “We can also take a three-quarters off-load, fly across India, southeast Asia, and China, and get our normal refueling west of Hawaii. Tempting, isn’t it?”

  “We’re not authorized to overfly any non-international airspace,” Jamieson said, “no matter how much gas it’ll save. But yes, it is tempting. Take the partial off-load, we’ll plan on aborting to Guam.”

  “Agreed,” McLanahan said. He relayed the information to the tanker crew, who were very excited to hear that they wouldn’t have to try to get landing permission in Oman or fly anywhere near Iran right now—any aircraft, especially U.S. military aircraft, flying anywhere near the Persian Gulf would definitely be putting the lives of its crew at risk right now. Like a huge, angry swarm of bees, the entire Iranian air force was up, fully alerted, and looking for revenge. With a partial off-load to the B-2A, the tanker could safely make its way back to its staging base at Diego Garcia, a small island in the Indian Ocean leased by the United States from Britain for use as a military air and naval base, about 1,500 miles south.

  They agreed on a “point parallel” rendezvous, in which both aircraft would fly toward each other 1,000 feet apart in altitude. About thirty miles apart, the tanker turned in front of the bomber so it would roll out about four to five miles ahead of the bomber, within visual range, and then Jamieson would fly the B-2A up into the pre-contact position. The rendezvous was automatic—the tanker’s navigation computers performed the entire operation, backed up by occasional updates by the B-2A’s synthetic aperture radar transmitting in air-to-air mode—and a few short minutes later, the KC-lO’s flying boom was nestled into the B-2A bomber’s in-flight refueling receptacle. The fuel transfer began. The B-2A needed gas badly, so the KC-10 crew turned up the transfer pumps and got the transfer rate up to 3,000 pounds of fuel per minute—enough gas to fill up sixty automobiles every minute.

  The fuel transfer was about half completed when suddenly the tanker’s director lights—the rows of colored lights on the tanker’s belly that told the pilot where to fly to stay in the proper refueling envelope—flashed on and off rapidly, and the refueling boom popped out of the bomber’s receptacle. McLanahan was watching the tanker and checking to make sure the fuel was being distributed to the proper tanks when he saw the flashing lights and immediately shouted, “Break away, break away! ” Jamieson chopped the throttles and started a 3,000-foot-per-minute descent, making both crew members light in the seats from the sudden negative gravity. “Boom’s clear! Tanker climbing!” McLanahan reported.

  “What happened? What is it?” Jamieson asked, scanning his instruments. “Was it a pressure disconnect? Boom malfunction?”

  “The tanker’s lights are out,” McLanahan said. “I lost sight of him ... ”

  “Get him on the SAR,” Jamieson said. “We need this refueling.”

  Just then on the radios, they heard a thick Middle Eastern- accented voice say in English, “Unidentified aircraf
t, unidentified aircraft, this is Interceptor Seven-Four, air force of the Islamic Republic of Iran, on emergency GUARD frequency. You have been observed flying into Iranian airspace in violation of international law. You are ordered to follow me to a landing at Chah Bahar air base. Turn left heading three-five-zero degrees immediately or you will be fired upon without further warning! ”

  “What?” Jamieson shouted. “What kind of bullshit is this? We’re not in Iranian airspace! ”

  McLanahan made no reply—but he did reach up and hit the COMBAT switch light. The light began to blink because Jamieson’s consent switch was not in the proper position. “Give me consent for COMBAT mode, AC.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Do it, Colonel!” McLanahan shouted. “Keep on descending— take it down to two thousand feet, fast!” Jamieson was about to argue again, but he flipped his consent switch to CONSENT, and the COMBAT light turned steady.

  As Jamieson nosed the bomber over and pointed the B-2A’s beaked nose seaward, McLanahan displayed the threat scope on his supercockpit display. There was the KC-10 tanker, transmitting rendezvous beacon codes. “Shut down your transmitters, Shamu,” McLanahan prayed aloud. Another symbol, a flashing inverted-V “bat-wing” symbol with a yellow triangle emanating from its nose and overlapping the KC-10 symbol, also appeared on the scope.

  “What is it?” Jamieson asked.

  “An Iranian MiG-29,” McLanahan replied. “He’s got the tanker locked on his attack radar.”

  “An Iranian MiG! What’s he doing way out here? We’re a hundred miles outside Iranian airspace! ”