“Roger,” Air Force Lieutenant Colonel Thomas McPherson replied. He spoke to the tanker’s boom operator. “Ready to disconnect, Foxtrot Alpha.”
“Understood, One-Zero. Pumping stopped.” The operator aboard the KC-10 paused briefly and then announced, “Released.”
White vapor puffed into the darkening sky as the jet fuel boom popped out. McPherson slid his throttles back a tiny bit and watched the KC-10 pull further ahead.
Within seconds the two other C-17s finished gassing up and broke away from their own tankers. November TwoZero slid into position behind McPherson’s plane, while the third Globemaster, brought this far as a spare in case one of the first broke down, slotted itself into the KC-10 formation.
“Coming up on Point Echo,” One-Zero’s copilot warned. They were nearing the coordinates preselected for their covert entry into Iranian airspace.
McPherson nodded. “Got it. Here we go.” He drew a breath, steeling himself for the difficult flying ahead. “Navigation lights off.”
“Nav lights off,” his copilot confirmed, flicking switches that shut down the blinking lights on the C-17’s fuselage, tail, and wingtips.
“FLIR on. TFR on standby,” McPherson said. His wide-angled, heads-up display HUD came on, showing the dark, rugged landscape ahead and below them in clear, black-and white detail. To allow them to fly below Iranian radar and through the middle of the jagged mountains around Tehran, Air Force technicians had specially modified each of the C17s assigned to NEMESIS. The LANTIRN-type pod installed in each aircraft’s starboard fuselage cheek contained both a FLIR, a forward-looking infrared sensor, and a terrain-following radar.
He spoke into the intercom system. “We’re starting the E-ticket ride, Pete. Have your guys strap in.”
Colonel Peter Thorn’s unruffled voice came back through his headset.
“We’re all set, Mack. Let her rip.”
McPherson pulled November One-Zero into a tight, diving turn to the right, angling east-southeast toward the Iranian border. He kept his eyes fixed on the altitude indicator winding down on the right side of his HUD. Trailing one thousand feet behind, the second C-17 followed him down with its own navigation lights off.
Now ten thousand feet above and several miles behind them, the three KC-10s and the spare transport cumed right in a gentle, sweeping turn that would take them back toward Incirlik.
McPherson levered off just three hundred feet above the sharp-edged, snow-covered ridges that separated Turkey from the Islamic Republic of Iran. The two American aircraft crossed the border in total darkness, flying low at nearly four hundred knots over the great salt lake of Orumiyeh and on over an arid, sparsely populated plateau.
Fourteen minutes after entering Iran, he began throttling back, slowing the C-17 to two hundred and fifty knots. The ground ahead was rising steeply, thrusting skyward to become the boulder-crowned foothills of the Zagros Mountains.
With his eyes locked to the HUD and his hands to the controls, McPherson linked suddenly hard right, lining up with a narrow, winding valley that cut east and south through the mountains. Sheer rock walls rose above the C-17 on either side, sometimes crowding in so close that a fiery, rolling impact seemed inevitable.
The tall, lanky lieutenant colonel grinned tightly as he nimbly maneuvered the large, four-engine aircraft through box canyons and over rugged escarpments. He’d like to see some hot-shit fighter jock try following in his wake tonight. Hell, this was real flying.
Back in the C-17’s troop compartment, Thorn nearly let go of his map case when another abrupt bank threw him forward against his seat straps.
“Crap,” he muttered.
Diaz heard him. A broad smile spread across the sergeant major’s face.
“You want a puke bag, Pete?” he asked helpfully. “I guess the ride’s a little rough after all those cushy Pentagon executive flights, huh?”
Oh, very nice, Thorn thought wryly.
“No thanks, Tow.” He shook his head and then nodded solemnly toward the two forty-foot-long shapes tied down in the middle of the troop compartment. “I was just hoping the guys who loaded those birds knew what they were doing.”
The “birds” were UH-1N Hucys painted in Iranian camouflage and markings. Even with their rotors off, each weighed nearly two tons. If the chains and guy ropes holding them in place gave way under the stress and strain of the aircraft’s repeated sharp turns, the helicopters would first crush the soldiers seated against the side and then smash straight through the C-17’s fuselage.
“Oh, man,” Diaz chuckled. “You’re just full of cheerful thoughts tonight, aren’t you?” He raised his voice loud enough to carry over the steady roar of the engines. “How about you, Mike? You checked your lottery ticket, yet?”
“Sure thing, Tow! You’re looking at the first Delta Force millionaire.”
Thorn listened to the banter passing back and forth, keeping his own growing worries to himself. The Duke of Wellington’s advice to his officers at Waterloo seemed apt: “Anything that wastes time, indulge it.” He and his troops were still at least two hundred and fifty miles from the landing zone. During this hair-raising, low-level flight, none of their hard-earned skills would make one damn bit of difference to whether they lived or died.
Hamir Pahesh kept a close eye on his companions around the campfire. Even his friend Agdas was growing more nervous as the minutes and hours ticked past. The others, those who had less reason to trust him, were now openly suspicious. Mohammed was the worst of all.
“These friends of yours are very late, Pahesh,” the big, bearded man rumbled slowly. He scratched his stomach idly, a movement that kept his hand very near the pistol stuffed into his waistband.
“Our business does not always run on a timetable,” Pahesh reminded him sharply. “You should know that.” “Perhaps they have trouble,” another man said. His gaze kept darting off into the darkness beyond the fire at the slightest change in the sound of the wind.
“Or perhaps they are leading the Komite here to catch us all sitting on our asses,” Mohammed snarled, still irked at being cut short so rudely.
“Hush!” Pahesh held up a hand for silence. He cocked his head, listening. He could hear the sound of jet engines whining somewhere off to the south, drawing nearer at a rapid clip. “There! You hear them? The planes?”
They all nodded.
The sound faded abruptly.
“Pain! So where did these friends of yours go now…” Mohammed began belligerently.
He was drowned out by the rippling, piercing howl of jet engines at full thrust. All four men looked up in stunned surprise as a huge aircraft popped up over the low ridge and banked sharply to circle back around for a landing. Another plane followed the first only seconds later.
“Come!” Pahesh led the other four men toward the top of the ridge at a stumbling run.
They arrived in time to see the first C-17 dive, flare out suddenly, and touch down near the end of the fire-marked dirt road. Thrust reversers kicked in with an ungodly roar as the enormous camouflaged jet rolled past them, trailing a billowing cloud of dust, sand, and gravel. It braked to a complete stop only a thousand meters from where its wheels first kissed the ground.
Bearded soldiers wearing Iranian Army uniforms were charging down the aircraft’s rear cargo ramp even before the second C-17 came to rest.
NEMESIS command team Flanked by Diaz and a five-man team, Colonel Peter Thorn jogged up the ridge to meet their CIA contact. He slowed down near the crest, studying the scruffy, dirty-faced men waiting for them. They looked more like brigands than truck drivers, he thought grimly.
He mentally crossed his fingers. Dealing with local talent on a covert op was always chancy. You never knew how far you could trust them.