A presidential finding had authorized a clandestine mission to extricate Nazari and his family. The Iranian could furnish all the information needed to effect a hostage rescue, provided his defection could be kept secret for a reasonable length of time. That appeared quite possible through the plan that was devised. It had received the grudging approval of the Senate and House intelligence oversight chairmen.
Mostafa Nazari was married to a Kurdish woman. He had arranged a long-delayed vacation trip to her remote hometown in the Zagros Mountains for late September. The location was made to order. American Special Forces personnel had provided the townspeople with life-saving aid in the wake of a deadly earthquake back in the sixties, during an era that found the U.S. Army operating there as guests of the late Shah. As a consequence, the mountain villagers had ignored the current government's "Great Satan" campaign against the U.S. and continued to remember the American soldiers with the fondness of a small town for its volunteer firefighters.
A landing site had been selected near the town. In the past few days, a truck containing jet fuel had been stolen and hidden there. Refueling would be necessary for the MH-53J Pave Low III helicopter to retrace the route back to its entry point into Iran. The six-man crew, augmented by a Delta Force team led by a major who had been there as an Army corporal in 1963, would bring out Nazari, his wife and three children.
Though the risks were indisputable, Wing Patton knew the operation had been carefully planned and rehearsed. The crew was the best and most experienced he had available. The Pave Low helicopter was strictly state of the art for this type of mission. Its AN/APQ-158 terrain-following and terrain-avoidance radar, plus the nose-mounted FLIR (forward-looking infrared) system, gave it the ability to fly right on the deck in total darkness. Using Navstar Global Positioning System satellites, the crew could plot the aircraft's position at any time within ten meters.
Patton was comfortable with his end of Easy Street. The element of the unknown came from the Iranian end. How secure was Mostafa Nazari's network? No one knew. But the National Security Agency had its electronic ears tuned to the area and would alert the White House Situation Room to any indication that Iran had penetrated the operation. A secure signal via a FLTSATCOM (U.S. Navy Fleet Satellite Communications System) satellite would alert the Pave Low commander to any change in plans.
Wing Patton's musings on Operation Easy Street were interrupted by the sounds of back-slapping and glad-handing as the delegation of eight well-dressed Chicago politicians, equally divided between blacks and whites, emerged from the senator's office. Like a horde of locusts, they were off to another congressional appointment in search of federal goodies. As he smilingly waved the last straggler out, Weesner turned to the General and beckoned him in.
Patton took a seat in front of the large mahogany desk and waited in silence. Military protocal required the ranking officer to speak first, and a senator with his hands on the Pentagon purse strings easily outranked a four-star general. Patton noted that the gray-maned, heavy-browed senator, whose beak of a nose and hunched posture made him resemble some exotic bird of prey, was no longer smiling. After shuffling some papers on his desk, Ev Weesner looked up.
"Next week's hearing will make us or break us, Philip," he said in a grave voice. In truth, his voice would have sounded grave singing "Happy Birthday" to Kermit the Frog. "As my rural constituents would say, we're in a heap of trouble."
"Yes, sir. I know."
"With the Soviets' empire crumbling all around them, my coalition is taking some heavy hits." His stable of Republican and Democratic hawks had helped build his reputation as one of the most skillful in the upper chamber at pulling military chestnuts out of the fire. But the pace of change was working against him. There was already talk of some yet-undefined commodity called the "peace dividend."
"My people have faith in you, Senator Weesner."
That brought a thin smile to the leathery face. "I appreciate the thought. But I don't believe I'm the man to get the job done this time."
Patton frowned. "Surely you're not giving up? The B-2 is the cornerstone of our strategic future."
"No, I'm not giving up. And, yes, I agree with your assessment wholeheartedly. That's why we are going to have to depend on you to carry the day."
"Me?"
"Correct. Every man in the Congress respects what you did as commander of SAC. For years, you assured us there would be no surprise attack on the United States. And look at how your forces performed in Desert Storm. Your B-52's showed that strategic bombers have their tactical advantages as well. Let's face it, General. You're our boy. In this battle, your prestige is the biggest thing we have going for us."
Wing smiled and nodded his head. Those were heady sentiments. He couldn't have said it better himself. "I'm flattered that you feel that way, Senator."
"It isn't just me. I've canvassed all my key people and they agree." Weesner gave one of his famous smirks that endeared him to the TV interviewers. "Without you, the B-2 is dead, Philip. Don't do anything to stub your toe before that hearing."
3
Colonel Warren Rodman sat across the table from his copilot and a short, muscular Army major and sipped slowly at the steaming cup of coffee provided by their Kuwaiti hosts. He had a bad feeling about this mission. Not for any logical reason. He had personally chosen the other five crew members. They were the best men at their jobs. He had been thoroughly briefed on every phase of the operation, except for the identity of the passengers who would be picked up. They were the responsibility of Major Mike Hardin, the Army Delta Force team leader.
At first he had been concerned about the refueling plan. He had never heard of a spec ops mission that required refueling at the target. But it had been explained that this was only necessary to bring them back out via the same route they took in, which had been chosen for maximum secrecy. It would not compromise their safety. Should it be necessary to abort the mission, they had enough fuel to fly a direct route back to the Persian Gulf.
So what was the problem? It was a vague uneasiness, a sense that something was not quite right with the equation, some ingredient missing from the recipe. He had felt it when he awoke that morning, and he hadn't been able to shake it.
Captain Peter Schuler, his copilot, mistook his concerned look for a reaction to the coffee. He held up his cup. "It's better than that stuff they gave us at King Khalid Military City."
They had just left the Saudi Arabian base a couple of hours ago. Roddy grinned. He didn't want his quirky mood infecting anyone else. "Right, Dutch," he said. "But it isn't like the coffee my mother taught me to make."
When he was growing up, Roddy's mother always kept a simmering pot on the kitchen counter. He figured some of the brew must have seeped into his genes during her pregnancy. Fortunately, Tech Sergeant Barry Nickens, his flight engineer, was the Juan Valdez of the 39th Special Operations Wing and would be in charge of the coffee department during the mission.
The room they sat in occupied one corner of a hangar away from the main part of the airfield, which was slowly being put back together after the devastation of the Iraqi invasion. The big chopper with its odd-looking bulges and six-bladed rotor was parked inside the hangar away from prying eyes. Nickens and the other enlisted crew members were checking and double-checking everything about it as they awaited takeoff time. The MH-53J was a long way from home. Assigned to the 21st Special Operations Squadron at the Royal Air Force Base in Woodbridge, England, it had been flown to Saudi Arabia where it was housed until Colonel Rodman and his crew arrived at noon today. The aircraft had been a familiar sight there earlier in the year.