Deathrace sts-7

by Keith Douglass

  Kat and DeWitt got off on their drive to the east country, where the Navy had an unofficial firing range.

  Murdock and Jaybird drove Franklin and Douglas to North Island with five minutes to spare before flight time. They put on flight suits and stowed their MP-5's beside their feet. Five minutes later, the two Navy F-14 Tomcats raced down the runway and lifted off. They would do midair refueling three times and set down in Saudi Arabia, nonstop.

  The Tomcat can do about two-thousand miles to a tankful on a hop in ferry mode.

  The Toms carried minimum arms — two Sparrow missiles and two Sidewinders. They would be flying over no disputed territory. At a top speed of 1,500 mph they would be doing nearly Mach 2.34 and searching for favorable tailwinds.

  Yeoman Second Class Colt "Guns" Franklin sat in the rear seat of the F-14 and marveled at the wonder of it all. It was his first ride in a supersonic fighter of any kind. He'd almost lost his lunch when they took off from North Island. He listened to the chatter between the pilots. He could see the other F-14 to his right, just far enough away so the two planes wouldn't interfere with "clean" air ahead of them.

  He knew they would do air-to-air refueling. That would be something to see. He'd watch the other plane get the fuel, since he couldn't see much out the front.

  Guns wasn't even sure where they were flying. He figured they'd have to cross the U.S., pick up some fuel partway there, and then head for where — Greenland? They weren't going over the pole; he knew that from their talk.

  Fifteen hundred miles an hour. In two hours they would be all the way across the U.S. Damn! That was moving. He didn't even want to figure how fast that was in feet per second. He looked at the radar and intercept instruments in front of him but didn't touch anything. They fascinated him but scared him, too. He didn't want to push a button and fire a missile. Could he do that? He didn't know.

  A little over six hours later, the two fighters contacted the control tower at a U.S. Air base outside of Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. Both pilots had landed there before. Guns couldn't figure out why.

  Once out of the planes, Franklin and Douglas were taken to the field's commanding officer. He sent them down the hall to a small room where a civilian sat waiting for them. He shook hands with them and began chattering in Farsi.

  Douglas shrugged.

  Franklin cocked his head to one side, then replied in the same language "Sir, your accent is rather weird, or maybe it's mine, but I can understand you with no trouble. Is your accent the correct one for modern-day Tehran?"

  The CIA man smiled. "Mine is out of date, I'm sure, in a growing, changing language, but the important thing is that you understand, and can communicate. Your friend isn't so lucky."

  "He knows no Farsi, but he's a whiz with a SATCOM."

  "Good. We'll need you both."

  They went back to English.

  "Welcome to Saudi Arabia, men. I understand you're both SEALs from San Diego. Yes, we know that you're not spies, not trained to gather intelligence on foreign soil. What we'll want you to do is to back up and protect our man who is in country doing that job.

  "You'll get civilian clothes, and two changes. You have HK M-5's, I understand. Good German make. There will be nothing except your English to tie you to the U.S. Now, we'll get you fed, and then you can catch some sleep. You passed several time zones, so you'll take a day or so to adapt.

  "You'll have identity papers if you need them, but try to stay away from anyone who might ask for them. You were told you might go in HALO. A change here, gentlemen. We have too far to fly to penetrate the Iranian airspace at that altitude, which would show up on their radar.

  "Instead we'll go in low and mean, hope to stay under their radar. You'll be riding in a big mother, a specially equipped MC-13 °Combat Talon. It's also called a Hercules and can carry seventy-four troops fully combat-ready. You'll have the space all to yourselves.

  "This plane is especially equipped for exactly this type of deep-penetrating covert missions. She's painted all black and with no U.S. Air Force markings or insignia. The crew will be carrying no U.S. identity and their uniforms are strictly non-U.S."

  "So if we get shot down, nobody can say we're Americans," Franklin said.

  "Quite right and for good reason we won't claim you are. You'll get on board, and jump off a rear loading ramp on the plane. Plenty of room. We'll be dropping you off at no more than a thousand feet, depending on the terrain. Your chutes will be on static lines for instant deployment. You should have fifteen seconds before you reach the ground, so be ready. Have you ever jumped this low before?"

  "Ten times or so," Franklin said. "No problem."

  "We'll go in at night, right?" Douglas asked.

  "Yes. You'll get a ride up to Kuwait, and from there the MC-1 30 will take off for Tehran. We plan on dropping you about fifty miles this side of the city. Tehran has seven million people now and growing. We'll try to hit near a main highway where you can catch a bus to get to the city, and find the meet. It will all be spelled out on a paper for each of you. Don't let anyone see that paper."

  The civilian looked at them for a moment. "That's about it. Any questions?"

  "Does the Company put any restrictions on us? We're basically a shoot-and-scoot-type operation. This won't quite be that, I'd guess."

  "No restrictions. However, if there's a body count, it will bring out the Secret Police by the hundreds. They don't like anybody but themselves killing people in Iran."

  "Foul-ups," Douglas said. "Say we get to the meet, and this George isn't there? Say George got himself killed. What do we do then?"

  "You have a SATCOM. I'd hole up somewhere and ask for instructions. We'll be listening for you twenty-four hours a day. You should listen for us at midnight and six A.M.

  "We know what George is trying to find out," Franklin said. "We're not spooks, but we'll do what we can to help him, as well as protecting his ass."

  "Good. You'll be shown to quarters now for some food, and then sleep. Tomorrow you'll get a ride up to Kuwait." The man pointed at the door, and two Air Force men came in. "Right this way to your quarters, men," a corporal said. "Where's the food?" Franklin asked.

  The corporal grinned. "Hey, you get to order what you want, and we'll bring it to you. How about that for service?"

  The tension, the long flight, and the change in time all hit Douglas at the same instant. "Hey, if I drop facedown into my steak and go to sleep, just roll me over and let me snore. I've never been so damn tired in my life."

  11

  Monday, October 24

  1004 hours

  Kuwait City, Kuwait

  Franklin and Douglas had been outfitted with Iranian clothing an hour before. Now they looked over their I.D. and other papers that made them out to be Iranians. "We don't even look Arabic," Douglas said. "Make that Persian, Kurd, or Azerbaijani," Franklin said. "Whatever. We going to be able to pass?"

  "We damn well better, or we'll be dead meat."

  Douglas groaned. "We go in tonight as soon as it gets dark?"

  "Yeah. What a kick. That great big bird for just the two of us. Think they would have used something smaller, faster."

  "Could, but we wouldn't have any way to bail out. Hell, they say this plane has been prepped especially for runs like this. Covert as all hell."

  "Just so it gets us in without getting shot down. We'll worry about how to get out."

  Douglas scowled. "You still have that map? Let's take another look. Tehran is a humongous place, seven million bodies. We've got to find one certain apartment?"

  "Yeah, if we're gonna do any good."

  They both were surprised when Don Stroh, their CIA guardian, walked in the room two hours before flight time.

  "Any problems?" he asked.

  "Yeah, Stroh. I'd like to get some of your frequent flyer miles," Franklin said. "You must have built up a few million by now."

  "No such luck, mostly military aircraft. Problems?"

  "Yeah, the handguns they gave u
s. A piece of shit," Franklin said.

  "We got the Polish copy of the Makarov, the P-64. A nice light little nine-millimeter with six rounds. Best part is it can't be traced to the U.S. Everything you have is sterile of any U.S. tie. We planned it that way."

  "Rather have fourteen rounds in my magazine," Douglas said.

  "Sure, and you'd rather take the MP-5 you brought, but no chance. Anything else?"

  "We get out via Russia, right?" Franklin asked. "Baku?"

  "Correct. First we need to know exactly where that nuke plant is. If our man in there can't find it, you two will have to. I know you aren't trained for this. Mostly it's just common sense. Find the people who know what you need to know, and persuade them to tell you."

  "We'll get the damn intel some way," Douglas said. "Otherwise there can't be a mission."

  "That's the rub." Stroh brightened. "But our man said he had a new lead, so maybe all you'll need to do is be backup for him. Oh, he'll have some more weapons for you when you get inside."

  "When do we leave?" Franklin asked.

  "A half hour," Stroh said. "Let's get out to the plane. You'll take off a half hour before dark. The plane will move north up through Kuwait, and then through the no-fly zone in Iraq. After that it turns to the right into Iran. This means we'll have only about two hundred and fifty miles to penetrate into Iran before you drop."

  "How low?" Franklin asked.

  "You're set for eight hundred feet. Takes about three hundred feet for a round chute to open, then twenty seconds or so to the ground."

  "Damn, I feel naked going in like this. No weapons, no gear, almost nothing." Douglas shook his head.

  "This is the way that it should work best. Let's get out to the flight line."

  Ten minutes later, they were in the big plane. The Hercules C-130 is a monster, especially for two passengers. It has four Allison T56-A-15 turboprop engines, good for 4,591 horsepower each. It has a high wing and has flown off aircraft carriers. It has a 132-foot wingspan, is 98 feet long, and the tail extends up 38 feet.

  The C-130 has a crew of five, cruises at 375 mph, and with a maximum fuel load can cover 4,894 miles without gulping more juice.

  Douglas looked at the cave-like interior of the big ship, and then at the Air Force sergeant who was the load master.

  "How in hell do we get out of this thing?" Douglas asked.

  "Easy. We lift the rear cargo door and you run down the wide ramp, and one step later you're outa here. We've got you attached to static lines so you'll have instant opening of the chutes. Nothing to get in the way except our prop wash."

  "How long we got, Sarge?"

  "Our flight time to the DZ is an hour and twenty-three minutes. I'll alert you fifteen minutes before drop time."

  They nodded, and the crew chief went back to the cabin. Douglas looked out the small round windows. It had grown dark quickly after they took off, and now he could see nothing but pure blackness.

  The two men slumped in the bucket seats, and worked their own thoughts. Douglas had been restoring a 1931 Model A Roadster in a garage near his apartment in Coronado. It had yellow wire wheels, a rumble seat, and a cloth top. He wanted to keep it all original but soon found that parts for a sixty-seven-year-old car were almost impossible to find. So he had been replacing some with remanufactured parts from specialty houses. He'd keep it as pure as he could, especially the outside. He loved the gas tank that sat over the engine next to the inside of the fire wall. No fuel pump. Gravity flow.

  He looked at the SATCOM radio he carried. It was much smaller than the multiple-use one that Ron Holt had for the platoon. This was a simple transceiver for the satellite only. He would turn it on to receive at midnight, and at noon. He could send at any time.

  That was the one item that could tie the team to the U.S. If they faced capture, that was the first destroy job he had. He had been with the Third Platoon for almost two years now, had been through three big operations before. He'd get through this one if he had to walk every damn step to Baku.

  First they had to find where the Iranian nukes were being made. South, somewhere south. At least this was something different from the shoot-and-scoot he'd been involved with so far.

  He knew Iran was a mountainous place. One hill went over eighteen hundred feet, which was higher even than Mammoth Lake, where he came from in California. Mammoth was around eight thousand feet, in the middle of the Sierra Nevadas. He yawned — no time for a nap.

  Colt Franklin took out the pistol again from deep inside his three layers of strange clothes. It wasn't even in a holster, just nestled into some folds of cloth. Safer that way, they told him.

  Skydiving and parachuting were not new to him, but this low jump would be a first. Sport jumping usually makes you go out at least twenty-five hundred feet. He thought of writing a letter, but didn't have any gear. He'd write when he got back. He'd heard about the mountain near Tehran. They said it was 18,934 feet. Damn. He'd love to get a shot at climbing it. But not this tour.

  Rock climbing was his passion, but he'd never seen a mountain almost nineteen thousand feet high. Maybe later he'd have a shot at it. If he didn't get shot on this run. He looked out the window again, but there was nothing out there. Just blackness. Good. He'd hate to see the slash of a jet fighter slamming past them. Much prefer to be alone in the dark, and get to the damned DZ in one fucking piece.

  Ten minutes later the load master came back and yelled.

  "Time We're about fifteen away from the Drop Zone. I hate this low-level stuff. You probably felt us rolling around a little. So far we've not had any radar tracking us, which is great. About five minutes until drop, I'll open the rear hatch and get you hooked up on the static line."

  He vanished. They tried the windows again. Nothing.

  When the load master came back into the cabin, the two SEALs stood. He hit a switch somewhere and there was a grinding, whirling sound and the rear ramp section of the big transport swung down revealing a square of pure black space. For a moment Franklin thought he saw lights below, but he wasn't sure.

  The Air Force sergeant hooked up the SEALs to the static line, one on each side of the wide hatch. The static line would automatically pull the rip cord, and their round chutes would deploy as soon as they jumped out the door. Douglas had heard that it took a chute three hundred feet to fully deploy and start slowing a man's decent. Then within a few seconds they would drop through the other five hundred feet to the ground.

  They couldn't use the rectangular steerable chutes this close to the ground. The round chutes would spill air on one side or the other for some control. But not much. Soon now. They were both hooked up to the static line and ready.

  "Stand by," the load master shouted against the roar of the wind behind the plane. They watched the red light on the bulkhead over the door. In a heartbeat it turned to green. "Go, go, go," Douglas shouted.

  The two SEALs ran the ten feet to the gaping hole in the back of the big transport and raced into space.

  The slipstream of the big transport battered Douglas for a moment, then he felt the chute open behind him. The big round chute caught the wind with a shrilling crack. At the same time the parachute harness jerked at his legs, thighs, and shoulders. He'd been halfway upside down in the slipstream, the chute yanked him savagely upright. It was harder than Douglas had ever felt on a chute opening, even with sixty pounds of gear.

  He shook his head, and looked above him. The glorious jet-black canopy billowed there, fully open, and cutting his rate of descent to a modest speed. He looked around, but couldn't find the other chute.

  The ground. He looked down, and in the faint moonlight he could see it. What appeared to be some kind of a road showed to the left maybe half a klick. That might be the highway they were to use to get to Tehran.

  Suddenly there were trees ahead of him. He pulled the cord on the right side of the chute, spilling some air on that side and drifting him to the right of the trees.

  Then the ground rushed at
him. He took it the way he had dozens of times, with his knees slightly bent and his hands on the chute release. He hit the ground and ran, dumped the chute, and began pulling it into a big wad. For a moment he didn't make a sound, and listened. He heard a grunt from his right.

  "You okay?" he said, half aloud.

  "Hell yes," the short reply came.

  They found each other a minute later. Franklin used the entrenching tool he carried to dig a hole for his chute and harness. He covered the spot with some branches and dead leaves. Douglas did the same with his chute and gear, then pushed the digging tool under the pile and looked around.

  "Thought I saw a road when we came in," Douglas said.

  "To the left, half a klick," Franklin said. "We better move."

  They found the road twenty minutes later. There was little traffic. It was paved and two lanes, looked like a main highway for this country. Half a dozen trucks sped by. The two SEALs moved down closer. The route ran generally northeast by southwest. From there they had to go northeast.

  After a half hour's wait near the road, they heard an older rig coming that had to be smaller than the others. Franklin watched it come through the darkness, then walked out near the side of the road and waved both arms in the glare of the headlights. The old, much used farm truck, with a stake body, slowed, then stopped.

  Franklin chattered for a moment in Farsi with the man in the small truck, then waved at Douglas. They both crawled into the cab. They saw the rig had crates of live chickens in the back.

  Franklin took some bills from his pocket and gave the farmer two 10,000 rial notes. The old man grinned, showing snaggle teeth, and then he nodded. He said something to Franklin. They both laughed.

  "Told him we missed our bus to Tehran," Franklin whispered.

  They got to the big city before daylight. Franklin told the farmer where they wanted to go, and he explained how to get there. The farmer stopped at an open-air market that was almost filled already with merchant booths.