When the pilot banked hard, the radar altimeter completely broke lock, the warning horn sounded constantly, and the commandos all feared that it would be the last sound they’d hear before crashing into the sea.
“All chaff expended,” the gunner reported. They would be going in completely unprotected now.
Every hard bank threw the cargo bay occupants harder and harder against their harnesses, but each jarring move made Behrouzi smile. “They are working well,” she said to Briggs, motioning toward the cockpit. The noise level was very high in the Bronco’s cargo bay because they had removed the small rear door before takeoff—it would make it easier to do what they needed to do once they got over the Iranian naval base. “I think they do better than I.”
Hal Briggs was smiling, too, but his smile was just a facade—inside, his guts were twisting with worry, doubt, and downright fear. Had he made the right decision? He hadn’t expected to involve the lives of six other soldiers on this mission—and he certainly didn’t expect to involve Riza Behrouzi.
In his fantasy, he envisioned doing a HALO (High-Altitude, Low-Opening) parachute jump, solo of course, his trusty Uzi his only companion; he’d land on the rooftop of wherever the prisoners were being kept, blast his way inside, rescue the hostages, steal a cargo plane, dodge enemy fighters on the way out, bring them all back alive, be the hero, and fall blissfully into Riza’s waiting arms.
Well, this was reality: he was leading six strangers right into the well-prepared and well-armed clutches of the Islamic Republic of Iran’s army. They were still five minutes from reaching landfall, and already they were heavily under attack. Worse, he still didn’t know where the hostages were—or even if they were here in the first place!—and he had no idea how he was going to get them out. Stupid. Dumb. Asinine. If he survived this, Wohl was rightly going to kick his ass into the next century—or shoot him, if his rash actions caused the deaths of any of his men.
“How are we doing, Lieutenant?” Behrouzi called up front to the weapons officer. “Was that three Hawk missiles you evaded?”
“Yes, Major,” the weapons officer replied.
“Very good,” Behrouzi said in Arabic, her smile just as strong and as mind-blowing as always—it was more than enough to distract even Hal Briggs. “Expect a second volley in a few seconds and be sure to destroy it with the Sidearms.
If it does not come up, prepare for a Rapier or ZSU-23 radar. I don’t wish to swim to our target tonight.”
“I’ll do my best, Major—ah, damn you … my God … there!
Shoot!” the weapons officer shouted. The commandos in the cargo bay could hear the threat warning receiver beep, and the Bronco entered another impossibly tight break to evade another missile launch. But moments later they heard a loud fwooosh! from the right wing as the first Sidearm antiradar missile left its rail, and a few moments later, the threat tone abruptly ended.
“Very good, Captain,” Behrouzi called up to the pilot, smiling even more broadly, wishing that she could be watching the pilot’s actions as he fought to outmaneuver these Iranian missiles. “Keep up the good work. Let me know when you have the prison complex in sight.” The weapons officer’s response was choked off by another hard break, this time to the left, followed by another Sidearm launch. “What was that, Lieutenant? Another Hawk?”
The weapons officer was completely flabbergasted—here he was, fighting for his life, just milliseconds from getting a missile in the face or crashing into the sea, and a senior government intelligence officer, an assistant to the commanding general and the son of the Emir of Dubai, was making conversation! “That …
Allah preserve us, climb! … That was a Rapier J-band Blindfire radar, Major.”
“Ah, very good, the Iranians made a mistake,” Behrouzi said gleefully. “They activated their short-range air defense systems too soon. Did you get it, Lieutenant?”
“I … I don’t think so, Major.”
“That was the last Sidearm missile—we’re on our own now,” Behrouzi said in Arabic. “That Rapier is your first priority, Lieutenant—be sure you kill that unit right away. Range to shore?”
“Twenty kilometers.”
Behrouzi was silent—and Briggs knew why: they were still several minutes away from being able to attack any of the air defense sites with their Hellfire missiles. The longer range Hawk missile batteries could still track and shoot at them, no matter how low they flew.
Briggs clicked on the radio: “Genesis, this is Redman. The lights are bright in Broadway now. How copy?” No response. “Genesis, this is Redman, anytime now, buddy.” Still no reply. He removed the headset and tossed it aside. “Looks like our angel has flown back to heaven.”
“It was perhaps too much to hope for,” Behrouzi said. On interphone, she asked, “Range to shore, Lieutenant?”
“Eighteen kil-” He was interrupted by the threat warning receiver’s blaring alarm again—it was another Hawk missile site.
Behrouzi looked into Briggs’s eyes, and he could sense her fear—the Hawk was locked on, and there was nowhere to run now.
“Hawk acquisition … Hawk target illuminator …” They then heard the fast, high-pitched deedledeedledeedle! as the threat warning system detected the Hawk missile launch. The speed at which the Hawk system had gone from acquisition to illuminator to missile launch told them that the Hawk had a solid lock-on. The pilot started his evasive maneuvers, but everyone could sense that the maneuvers were sharper, more desperate … there was a second launch warning tone, then a third”
“Missiles in the air! Missiles tracking!” the gunnery officer shouted. “More missiles … I see more missiles in the air!”
One after another, it seemed as if the sky was filling with missiles, and now a few antiaircraft artillery sites opened up far in the distance, like a shower of fireworks. “There are missiles everywhere!” the gunner shouted hysterically. “They are everywhere! They-“
The interphone went dead, and the Bronco’s wild evasive maneuvers were cut short. A terrific explosion shook the Bronco as if a giant hand had slapped it, and there was a tremendous screech, like a man crying in terror … but they were still flying.
Behrouzi tore her headphones off and shouted, “There is a loud squeal in the radios. I cannot hear anything!”
For the first time in what seemed like years, Briggs smiled.
“That’s my angel,” he said. “Good going, Mack.”
It took several minutes for the squealing to subside in the radios and interphone. When she was able to be heard over the persistent side tones, Behrouzi asked the gunner, “What has happened, Lieutenant?”
“Every missile site in Iran opened fire on us all at once,” Junayd replied excitedly, “but all the missiles seemed to fly in every direction but ours. Then some artillery sites opened fire—but they were sweeping the skies erratically. I am still picking up missile tracking, illuminators, and up-link signals, but I see no missiles or gun sites attacking. It was as if they fired all their weapons at once at some large mass of targets overhead …
“That is good, Lieutenant,” Behrouzi said. “Our American commander brought an angel with us on the flight—I hope it stays.
Range to shore?”
“Nine kilometers, Major.”
“Good. Well within Hellfire missile range. Do you have that Rapier site yet?”