Those discussions came back to Breanna as the wheels of the C-17 hit the ground. Dust flew everywhere. The dirt was packed down and hard, but it wasn’t asphalt, let alone cement. The plane shook violently, drifting to the right but finally holding to the runway area and slowing to a crawl well short of the cratered apron where the van and warhead were waiting.
“Let’s turn it around,” said Captain Dominick. “The tail will be right next to them.”
It was a narrow squeeze, but they managed to make it, pulling around in a three-point turn that even a driving instructor would have been proud of.
Boston, Sugar, and the loadmaster sprinted down the ramp. Nuri was already at the wheel of the van.
“You sure we ain’t gonna glow sittin’ next to this sucka?” asked Sugar.
“You glow already,” said Boston.
There wasn’t enough room for the van with the Ospreys in the rear. But the loadmaster improvised a chain and tackle and a pair of impromptu ramps, allowing them to bring the warhead into the bay and place it, without too much groaning, onto a pair of dollies. They wheeled the weapon alongside the Ospreys, chaining it to the side.
By that time, Greasy Hands had helped Hera bring Tarid and the wounded missile technician inside. They lay them on temporary stretchers behind the Ospreys in the seating area. The accommodations weren’t exactly first class, but neither was in a position to complain.
“Greasy Hands? What are you doing here?” asked Danny when he saw Parsons.
“Enjoying retirement,” said the chief, clapping him on the back.
“Social Security doesn’t stretch as far as it used to,” said Boston. “So he decided to moonlight. We pay him under the table.”
“Well I’m glad as hell to see you,” said Danny.
“Same here,” said Greasy Hands. “Next time you guys kidnap somebody, though, pick someone about fifty pounds lighter.”
They got off the ground a few minutes later, the aircraft shuddering as the wind kicked up, but lifting them up with plenty of room to spare.
Plenty of room being defined, in this case, as three and a half meters.
Breanna worked out a course that would bring them back to Baghdad International Airport, where they could refuel before continuing on. They would also be able to get a doctor for Tarid, who’d woken but remained dazed on a makeshift stretcher below. The other Iranian didn’t look as if he’d make it, though he was still alive.
“Twenty minutes to Iraqi territory,” Breanna announced. “We’ll be in Baghdad inside the hour.”
The MC-17 had come east without a direct escort, operating on the theory that they were safer if the Iranians had no idea they were there. The fighters tasked to protect it remained over southern and northern Iraq, ready to scramble if necessary, but otherwise attempting to look as if they were interested in something else.
The theory had proven correct on the flight in, but now reality injected complications. Because of the coup, the Iranian air force had scrambled several flights of MiGs. While they were slow to get in the air — the C-17 had already landed at the missile site before the first one took off — there were now a full dozen over the western half of the country, with more on the runways.
The AWACS detected one of the patrols flying up from the south on a rough intercept with the MC-17 shortly after it took off. Though it didn’t seem likely that the Iranians had spotted the cargo aircraft, the fighter group commander decided to take no chances. The group of F-15s to the south were told to intercept.
The fighters were picked up immediately by Iranian air defenses. Radars and missile sites began tracking them along the border area, trying to lock on and launch missiles. One of the antiaircraft sites was almost directly in the MC-17’s path. The northern group of interceptors, which included an F-16 Wild Weasel SAM suppressor, was ordered to take out the defenses. More MiGs came out for them as they started toward the site.
In the space of ninety seconds the sky became intensely crowded and angry.
The cargo aircraft, however, remained at very low altitude, undetected by either the SAMs or the Iranian interceptors.
“I think we can sneak by all this,” Dominick told Breanna. “We just stay on course.”
“Exactly.”
The word was no sooner out of her mouth than the AWACS announced a new warning: A pair of Iranian fighters had taken off from Tabriz and were heading south, in their direction. Two more aircraft were coming off the runway right behind them.
Breanna looked at the IDs, which were flashed over via a messaging system from the AWACS. The planes were Su-27s, older Russian aircraft recently sold to Iran. They were long in the tooth — but would have no trouble shooting down an unarmed cargo aircraft. Both were equipped with improved versions of Slotback radar; the “look-down, shoot-down” radar system made it easy for them to locate and destroy aircraft at low altitudes.
The MC-17 was a sitting duck. Even a Megafortress would have had trouble against them, if it didn’t have its Flighthawks.
“They’ll see us as soon as they come further south,” Breanna warned Frederick. “We need to get as close to that border as we can. I’m going to call the F-15s south. Maybe they can help.”
As soon as the Eagle pilots hit their afterburners, the Iranians changed course and headed for them.
So far no one had fired at each other. The Iranians protested that the Americans were trespassing and would be shot down; the Americans replied that they were covering an operation on the Iraqi side of the border and would return as soon as they were confident that the Iranians would not interfere. The white lie led to considerable huffing and puffing, but no gunplay.
Not yet, anyway.
“We’re clear,” said Breanna, following what was going on via the AWACS link.
But they didn’t stay clear. The second flight of Sukhois continued south, directly toward their path.
“We have thirteen minutes to the border,” Breanna told Frederick. “Just keep on keepin’ on.”
But the Iranians had finally spotted them. The lead Sukhoi asked the MC-17 to identify itself.
“What should I say?” Frederick asked Breanna.
“Tell them we’re on a mercy mission,” she said. She remembered the list of injuries, all minor except for Tarid’s bullet wound, that her people had suffered. “We have a patient who requires burn treatment.”
“Maybe you ought to talk to them,” said the pilot, doubtfully. “Maybe they’ll believe a woman.”
They didn’t.
“Unidentified aircraft. We see that you are a U.S. warplane,” answered the Iranian. “You are ordered to turn to the north and fly to Tabriz airport.”
“Negative,” said Breanna. “We have a very sick patient we’ve evacked from one of your facilities. You better check in with your superiors. Your English, by the way, is very good. Where did you learn it?”
Flattery got her nowhere. The pilot increased his speed. The two Sukhois were now less than thirty miles away, closing the distance between the two aircraft at a little over four miles a minute.
The border was just over twelve minutes away. More importantly, the closest American fighters, off to the south with the MiGs, were nearly fifteen minutes from firing range.
Depending on what missiles the Iranian interceptors were carrying, they might already be in range to fire. Even if they were under orders to obtain a visual identification before making an attack, they would get to the MC-17 well before the Eagles did.