Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 05 Read online

  “Hostile aircraft turning!” The Khomeinis radar operator screamed over the intercom. General Tufayli made a mental note to tell his section chief to brief his men to remain calmer on the intercom—the operator’s voice had gone up at least one octave in the past few minutes as the unidentified attack planes closed in. “Range sixty kilometers, decreasing slowly, altitude now below two thousand meters. Heavy jamming detected.”

  “They appear to be heading for Bandar Abbas,” Badi observed, “but they could turn in our direction at any moment. No report on what type of weapon they are using.”

  “We must assume they have standoff weapons—unless they try a low-altitude suicide bombing run,” Tufayli said. He stared out the observation windows at the Khomeinis flight deck. “How much longer on the interceptor launch?”

  “Just a few minutes, sir.”

  “Damn you, Badi, I want air cover up as soon as possible to chase down those attackers! I want those fighters airborne now!”

  “Yes, sir,” Badi acknowledged. Badi could do nothing but pick up a phone and tell the air operations commander to speed up the launch.

  Tufayli watched as crews raced for the rescue helicopters on deck forward of the island superstructure. The rescue helicopters always launched before the fighters, and took up stations beside and behind the carrier, ready to provide search-and-rescue services in case a fighter had to ditch after takeoff. “If any of those attackers penetrate within fifty kilometers of my battle group, I will execute every last air defense on this ship! ”

  The first rescue helicopter was just lifting off the deck and taking position on the portside, ready to rescue any crewmen who might have to eject shortly after takeoff. It had taken more than five minutes to scramble a crew and get a helicopter airborne—that was totally unacceptable, thought Tufayli. He was going to whip this crew into shape first thing in the morning with nonstop drills. ...

  The general turned from the helicopter deck forward to the short holdback point near the center of the carrier in front of the island superstructure, where a Sukhoi-33 fighter, loaded with two R-73 long-range air-to-air missiles and two R-51 short-range heatseeking missiles, was readying itself for takeoff. This fighter had a small missile load and a partial fuel load so it could use the shorter 100-meter takeoff run, while another, heavily armed fighter could use the 200-meter run along the portside of the ship.

  Admiral Tufayli was impatient, but he knew that night carrier operations were the most dangerous and the crews were working at their best speed. “Range to those fighters?” he asked.

  “Range to nearest air target, forty-seven kilometers. They appear to be attacking the air defense sites at Bandar Abbas.”

  The GCC fighters had hesitated, Tufayli thought, they’d had second thoughts about attacking the carrier. Two had already paid for the hesitation and had been destroyed by missiles from Bandar Abbas. Soon the rest would be destroyed by Khomeini s fighters. Soon the world would know of the power of this Iranian carrier.. ..

  Suddenly a warning horn sounded throughout the ship—the collision-warning klaxon! At the same time, several missile and close-in weapon cannons began firing. “What is it?” Tufayli shouted. “What is going on? Report/”

  “Unidentified aircraft, range ... range, indeterminate!” a combat officer responded. “They seem to be right on top of us! Multiple contacts all around us! They are everywhere! Heavy jamming reported ... sensors are overloaded!” Tufayli and Badi scanned the skies as missiles ripple-fired into the sky and defensive guns roared, but no aircraft could be seen—wait, there! “I see a hit!” Tufayli shouted. “Off the starboard bow ... we hit one!”

  “No!” Badi shouted over the roar of the erupting defensive systems. “That was our helicopter! We have accidentally shot down our rescue helicopter! Cease fire, damn it! Cease fire!”

  It took several seconds for all of the Khomeini s weapons to stop. “Get another helicopter airborne immediately,” Tufayli shouted, “and then get those fighters up! And find those enemy aircraft!” In just a few moments, another Mil-8 helicopter had its rotors turning, and had lifted off from the helo mooring pad aft of the carrier’s superstructure, and a few moments later, two Sukhoi-33 fighters launched from the Khomeini s ski-jump flight deck.

  But then it happened again—suddenly every radio and every radar screen was completely jammed, drowned out by noise, and the threat receivers and radars reported enemy threats all around the carrier group. The battle group’s air defense commander had no choice—he ordered his loaded and ready weapon systems to open fire at the identifiable targets. In just a few moments, the Khomeini, the Zhanjiang, and most of the rest of the larger warships in the battle group had expended most of their ordnance.

  “We have lost radio contact with our fighter patrol,” General Badi reported. “His radios have malfunctioned. And the carrier commander feels it is too dangerous to continue flight operations.” “And Bandar Abbas is under attack as well,” Tufayli said. “Order both fighters to continue their patrol for as long as possible, then recover at Chah Bahar.”

  “Yes, sir,” Badi said. Then, stepping closer to his superior officer, he said in a low voice, “Sir, these strange jamming signals and the false targets they have generated have severely reduced our air defense capability. If we came under missile or bomber attack now, we would be highly vulnerable—we are down to less than fifty percent weapon load, and it will take almost an hour to service and reload some of our mounts! ”

  “So? Get on it, General.”

  “I am suggesting, sir,” Badi said, “that perhaps it would be wise to evacuate the Khomeini. The battle group is virtually defenseless right now—no long-range detection, limited short-range detection, dwindling weapons stock, and limited or no fighter coverage. Even shore-based defenses cannot assist us. If this is a prelude to an attack, you have time to escape, perhaps with the prisoners.”

  “I will not!” Tufayli retorted. “It will seem as if I am running in the face of an attack! ” .

  “Sir, Chah Bahar can be notified that you are transferring prisoners to the naval security facility there, to begin their interrogation,” Badi suggested, emphasizing the word transferring so that Tufayli would be sure to catch his meaning. “You could see to their transfer personally. ”

  Tufayli considered the idea once again, then nodded. “See to it, General,” the admiral said. “Get the prisoners ready to transfer—I will see to their interrogation personally.” He clasped Badi on the arm in silent thanks, as his chief of staff hurried to carry out “his” instructions.

  Surrounded by armed guards and staff members, Admiral Tufayli was spared the ignominy of looking into the faces of the sailors and Pasdaran troopers he passed as he made his way to the fantail to take the helicopter to Chah Bahar. Already waiting near the fantail was a group of men in ragged, oil-soaked clothing, handcuffed, with black cloth bags over their heads.

  Tufayli stepped close to the man at the head of the group of prisoners and said over the roar of warning horns, shouting men, and helicopter rotors: “I see you are being treated well, Colonel White.”

  “Why, its Admiral Akbar Tufayli,” Paul White said, his moisture- starved voice a hoarse croak. His face was still caked with grease, oil, and salt from the hours he spent in the ocean trying to escape after the Valley Mistress had been sunk. “What’s that I smell, Admiral? Smells like a war going on ... ”

  A guard hit White in the solar plexus with a rifle butt; a few of the Marines surrounding him tried to break free of their guards to defend White but, weak with hunger and thirst, they were pulled back easily.

  Just then, a klaxon sounded throughout the ship, and again the ship’s defensive systems opened fire, seemingly in all directions. This time, the weapons fire lasted just a few short moments, then abruptly ended, though the klaxon was still sounding. Several officers ran up to Tufayli and gave him several reports and messages. “What was that, Admiral?” White said. “You’ve run out of SA-N-9 missiles? Is that possibl
e? You must’ve shot down one, maybe two dozen attackers to use up your long-range missiles like that.”

  “You shall join your spy ship at the bottom of the Gulf of Oman if you do not remain silent, Colonel White,” Tufayli warned. “The interrogation staff at Chah Bahar will find your knowledge of Farsi very interesting.”

  “We taking a trip somewhere, Admiral?” White asked. “Maybe that wasn’t war I smelled a second ago ... maybe I smelled something else? Is it coming from you? What could it be, Admiral?”

  In response, Tufayli whipped off White’s hood and said, “I warned you to remain silent, Colonel White. You must learn a harsh lesson.” Tufayli took a rifle from one of his guards, pulled one of the Marine guards away from the group, lifted the rifle to his head, and pulled the trigger. The Marine’s head burst apart like a ripe melon.

  Everyone around them jumped at the rifle report; the sound of the headless corpse hitting the steel non-slip deck seemed even louder. White’s eyes bulged in horror, and he looked as if he were going to sink to the deck himself on wobbly legs. “Any more deaths caused by attacks by your fellow American terrorists will be on your head, Colonel White,” Tufayli said. “You and your men will stand trial for all of this.”

  “And I’ll see you in hell for what you’ve just done,” White said weakly. “You bastard!”

  “Ah, not as glib as you were just a moment ago, I see,” Tufayli said. “Good. This will teach you to hold your tongue.” He raised his voice and said to all of them, “The United States has declared war on the Islamic Republic of Iran, so you are all prisoners of war. And since you are combatants not in uniform and are presumed to be spies, you shall not enjoy the privileges of prisoners of war as outlined in the Geneva Conventions. This means you are subject to a military tribunal without recourse. The penalty for espionage in the Islamic Republic is death by hanging. Of course, you may confess your crimes and admit your real identities, in which case your sentence can be commuted to life in prison—perhaps even a trade can be arranged for other prisoners.”

  “Fuck you, Akbar,” White said. “You’re the one who’s going to die, and I hope I’m the one who does it.”

  “Since you men are obviously not willing to speak openly in front of your commander here, we shall wait until we arrive in the military prison at my base at Chah Bahar,” Tufayli went on, smiling as the hood was again placed over White’s head. “The prisoner- exchange option and the chance to return to your homes is of course not available to you if you are dead, so I encourage you to accept my one and only offer. You will have a few moments to consider it, but when we arrive at Chah Bahar, I will have your answer. Confess your guilt or die.”

  MINA SULTAN NAVAL BASE, SHARJAH, UNITED ARAB Emirates

  THAT SAME TIME

  “Officer quarters” at Mina Sultan, the only military base in the emirate of Sharjah in the United Arab Emirates, were simple one-window, one-room concrete block buildings with flat metal roofs, purposely built with far less quality than Arab buildings to avoid the appearance that the UAE was showing any preferences toward non-Arabs in their country. Each building had its own coal-fired stove, a Fiberglass combination sink and shower with an electric thirty-liter water heater, a Porta-Potty bolted onto the back door opening, a bed, a desk with a single overhead light and a phone connected only to the duty officer at the command center, and a chest of drawers. Sometimes Briggs wished for one of the enlisted and non-commissioned officers’ rooms, which were nice, modern, air-conditioned dormitory- style brick buildings. Briggs unlocked the door, reminding himself to start placing little telltales on the door to check when the damned flight surgeon, Dr. Nick Sabin, went through his room, or maybe he’d just slap a hasp and padlock on the door and . ..

  Briggs flipped on the light and, to his amazement, found none other than Nick Sabin himself hog-tied on the bed, his ankles and wrists bound behind him, his mouth bound with duct tape. He was still alive and unhurt, thank God, and madder than hell.

  The big Colt .45 pistol was out and in Briggs’s hand in a flash, and he took immediate aim on the dark cloth in front of the only other enclosure in the building, the Porta-Potty. Sabin was flopping around on the bed muttering something, but Briggs had tuned him out. He shut off the light, crouched behind the bed, and shouted, “Come out of there now!” in English and in the best Arabic he could muster. “I said, come out!”

  “I am right here, Leopard,” came a soft, silken voice. Briggs whirled. The dresser had been pushed out several inches from the wall—dammit, he’d been so focused on the john that he hadn’t noticed—and she had been hiding behind it. He saw her hands were empty, saw.. . that it was Riza Behrouzi, the GCC commando! What in hell was going on here?

  “Get out from behind there!” Briggs shouted. “Hands on your head! Flat on the floor!” Behrouzi complied as he ordered. “If you move, I promise I’ll fucking blow your head off! ” Briggs leapt over to the Porta-Potty, ripped off the dark curtain, and aimed the pistol inside, even down inside the shithole—empty. He checked under the bed, under the desk, all around the stove—nothing. He locked the front door, checked that the plywood covering on the one window was secured, holstered his .45, then searched her right down to the skin, as roughly as he would search any other prisoner or suspect. He found no weapons.

  “What in hell are you doing here?” Briggs asked, remembering not to use either her code name or her real name in Sabin’s presence. He turned the woman over—and immediately his ears felt hot and his throat felt dry. God, she was so beautiful. This was like a damned dream!

  “I came to see you,” Behrouzi replied, as Briggs let her up. She shook her head at Dr. Sabin, still trussed up on the bed. “I found this one rummaging through your room. I was going to report him to the security police when you arrived.”

  “Oh, really!” Briggs couldn’t wait to hear Sabin’s explanation. He carefully peeled away the duct tape around his mouth—good thing he kept his hair short.

  “She jumped me!” Sabin shouted indignantly the instant the tape was removed. “She nearly broke my neck! ”

  “I have a feeling she could have done that easily if she wanted, Doc,” Briggs said with a wry smile. Sabin obviously didn’t see the humor in it, though. “Were you in my room when she attacked you?”

  Sabin looked a bit embarrassed but nodded. “I came to check up on you,” he explained. “I knew your team was going out on another mission, and I didn't find you at the command center, and I'm not allowed in the ops hangar, so I thought I'd check here ...”

  “I don’t like anyone coming into my room when I’m not here, Doc,” Briggs said, his voice not as stern or displeased as he’d first meant it to be. Briggs just took his time undoing the tape binding the doctor’s wrists and ankles as they spoke.

  “Fine—then I’ll confine you to the clinic,” Sabin said irritably. “I only let you out of my immediate care because you were making life miserable for me and my staff, but it was under the premise that I keep you under close observation. And since you don’t think it’s necessary to send over stool or urine samples as I asked you to do, yes, I search your laundry and your commode. Since this is how I’m treated for trying to accommodate your wishes, I’ll be the asshole and confine you to the clinic until I’m good and ready to release you. How’s that sound?”

  Hal started undoing the duct tape much quicker now—the flight doc was really pissed. In a moment Sabin was untied and back on his feet. “Sorry, Doc,” he said. “I’m a little jumpy when the team’s going out on a mission.”

  Sabin looked at his outfit and nodded in disgust. “You were trying to go out with them, against my orders, weren’t you?” he observed. Briggs’s silence confirmed his suspicions. “Not only will I put you back in the clinic, but I’ll put a twenty-four-hour guard on you.” “That’s not necessary. I’m fine, really,” Briggs said. “If I have any problems I’ll be sure and let you know. And you obviously put a real big bug in the gunny’s ear, because he booted me off. But you don’t ne
ed to confine me. I’ll do as you say.”

  “Good. You’d better.” Sabin turned to Behrouzi and asked Briggs, “Now, can you please explain who this is, and what she’s doing here? You obviously know who she is.”

  Briggs hesitated—he didn’t know how to address Riza in front of any outsider. But Behrouzi extended her hand, gave Sabin a mindblowing smile that melted both men’s hearts, then showed him an ID card. “I am Riza Behrouzi, assistant to the deputy general, Directorate of Military Intelligence of the United Arab Emirates.” She handed her ID card over to the doctor, who gave it a careful examination before handing it back. “I was ordered to interview Major Briggs immediately, since he and his forces came under attack by an unknown ZSU-23/4 system on Tumb as Sughrd on their last mission.”

  “Here? Now? That seems a little strange.”

  “Truthfully, Doctor, the Directorate had heard that Major Briggs was dead,” Behrouzi said with a half-amused, half-embarrassed expression. “Little of what the Americans do here at Mina Sultan Naval Base is well known in the UAE. We are also looking for Gunnery Sergeant Wohl, who apparently is also alive and well. Do you know where I can find him? I need to interview him immediately.”

  Sabin looked at Behrouzi suspiciously, then at Briggs. After years of serving with special operations forces, he knew that the less he said and the more suspicious he was, the better. “You should be talking to the base commander or the operations commander, Major Behrouzi,” the doctor said. “Tm not exactly sure how you got on base without an escort, but Major Briggs seems to know you and is willing to vouch for you. I can’t help you any further. Major Briggs, are you well enough to escort Major Behrouzi to base headquarters, or should I call security?”

  “I’ll handle it, Doc,” Briggs assured him. Sabin smiled and nodded—it was obvious that Briggs not only had the situation under control, but was as anxious as a love-struck teenager to be alone with this woman. The flight surgeon rubbed his aching arms and wrists once more, received another mind-blowing smile from Riza as an apology, then departed.