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 Ormack, 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 exactly 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 OVIOD. 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 DNOS 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 OVIODNOS (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 OVIODNOS 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 Gatling gun, two pods of four AGM-1 14 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-01 I “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 welclass="underline" “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-eighty? You mean, fly back 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 fran’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 aeca 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 OVIODNOS BRONCO ATTACK PLANE “Thanks, Genesis. See you when I see you. Out.”