The Mingrelian (24 page)

Tears welling in her eyes, she is cold, dirty, pitiable but alive, and Boyd’s heart soars. It’s the best possible ending for this mission, so far at least. He kneels and, pulling his K-Bar knife from its sheath on his ankle, cuts her loose.

“Got a blanket here,” the Marine says, returning from the office. “Nobody back there.”

He pulls up short, recognizing that he is interrupting something as Boyd and Ekaterina embrace.

“Right,” Boyd says, standing. “Let’s go.”

He lifts Ekaterina from the gurney, wraps her in the blanket and carries her toward the corner of Evin Prison.

*****

“Close the bleeds,” Raybon says as they start the pre-takeoff checklist.

Boyd shuts off the auxiliary power generators and heaters that run off the engines to increase power for a short runway takeoff. He resumes the checklist. “Flaps 50, engine to full power, release the brakes …”

The old aircraft creaks and shudders and begins to roll. They have Grand Ayatollah Sayyid Ali Mohammad Mashadi, his secretary, Ekaterina Dadiani, a wounded insurgent, five Ma
rines and Maj. Rick Shands, Boyd, Raybon, Davann and Emmet. Snow swirls now as they retrace their landing from the west along the elevated four-lane highway north of Tehran, lumbering along, all four engines flat out.

*****

The approach radar at Imam Khomeini International Airport south of Tehran, operational on generator power throughout the nuclear exchange, has followed the old C-130 from the time it crossed the peak of Mount Damavand, watched it circle and land, and now sees it take off. The Iranian Air Force lays shattered, its wreckage strewn across the nation from encounters with Israeli, Saudi, Qatari, Kuwaiti, Omani and some unidentified aircraft that might have been American. The main base at Mehrabad, near the center of Tehran, was neutralized on the first day of the war with medium range missiles, cruise missiles and bombs. Most of the fighter aircraft able to get aloft on that day were destroyed, but a precious few have retreated to the newer Imam Khomeini International and are hidden in hangars and bunkers on the periphery of the airport. Not wanting to risk another nuclear detonation, they are being held in reserve for whatever might lie ahead.

The Ansar-Ul-Mehdi Corps
commander in Tehran, Brig. Gen. Abdol-Najafi, has been notified that some type of commando raid is in progress at Evin Prison. He has assumed command of all the armed forces around Tehran as well as protection for the Supreme Leader. The purpose of this raid isn’t clear, but it poses a threat to the Supreme Leader, and Najafi has given orders to stop it. An old American F-4 Phantom jet fighter, given to Iran during the days of the Shah, has been hurriedly prepared for flight, and a pilot has been rushed to the aircraft in the hour Boyd’s nonstandard crew has been in the area. The Phantom is loaded with heat seeking air-to-air missiles and a 20
mm M61 Vulcan six-barrel Gatling gun identical to the weapon strapped to the ramp of the C-130.

As the C-130 takes off north of Tehran, the Iranian pilot at Imam Khomeini International Airport pushes his two General Electric J79 turbojets into full afterburner and begins to roll. He is 30 miles away.

*****

“PECOS to JUBA, bandit at heading two five zero.” PECOS has flown into Iranian airspace along the Caspian Sea and gone to maximum altitude to allow its side-looking radar to see over the mountains and into the Tehran area. They are continuing the agreed-upon process of adding 90 degrees to the actual heading to confuse listeners.

“Bandit, roger,” Boyd responds. He snaps his eyes to the southwest just as the wheels lift off the road.

“That would be the international airport south of town,” he says over the intercom.

“Up big boy,” Raybon says, looking to his left. The C-130 is climbing at full power.

“Emmet, can we make a right turn?”

“Not yet, too close to the hills.”

Raybon turns the aircraft to the left, into the bandit, and they circle through south to the east.

The Iranian pilot has also taken off to the west and is just retracting his landing gear and turning back to the northeast. He levels out and streaks across the city, passing through 600 miles per hour already. Heavy, and old, the F4 is still capable of impressive acceleration. He is four minutes away.

“OK, turn north, we’re over the hills,” Emmet says.

“Love those clouds now,” Raybon says, turning north as they rise into thick clouds and swirling snow.

“Stay down in back, we’ve got a bandit approaching. We might have to take evasive action,” Boyd warns those in the back over the intercom. “Keep your body armor on.”

They are traveling at 250 mph, climbing at 1,500 feet per minute, at an altitude of 6,000 feet, which is 2,000 feet above the ground. They are ascending the foothills on the side of Mount Damavand, the peak of which is 10 miles away.

The Iranian pilot has acquired the lumbering C-130 on his target radar, which is remarkably like the weather radar in the C-130 Hercules. He arms his Sidewinder missiles.

“We’re locked on to target radar,” Emmet says as a warning klaxon breaks out on his console. “Make a left turn.”

Raybon turns the aircraft sharply to his left.

The Iranian pilot sees the turn and adjusts as he blows by Evin Prison just under the speed of sound and pulls up into the clouds.

“There’s a ridge up ahead and a valley just beyond,” Emmet says, eyes flicking from a contour map folded on his desk to the weather radar. “Skim the top of the ridge and drop into the valley.”

The Iranian pilot fires two Sidewinder missiles, and they lock on to their target. He sees the ridge approaching and pulls up to avoid following the raider into the mountain. Losing contact with his target in the clouds, he knows his radar cannot reacquire it. He breaks to the south and returns to Imam Khomeini International Airport.

The klaxon on Emmet’s console is joined by a high pitched alarm.

“Missile!”

The first missile was fired from the left wing of the Phantom. Now at Mach 2, it is locked on to the heat signature of the C-130’s left outboard engine. As the old C-130 dips over the
ridge, the missile loses sight of the heat signature at the same moment it detects proximity. It explodes. The second missile is locked on to the heat signature from the right outboard engine, but when it loses the heat signature it isn’t close enough to detect proximity and passes harmlessly overhead.

The first missile is just over the left outboard engine when it explodes in a massive fireball. Shrapnel shreds the outer third of the wing, penetrates the cargo bay and blows out the pilot’s side window. Raybon Clive’s head explodes, splattering the cockpit with blood and brains.

Boyd Chailland takes control of the aircraft and feels it pull sharply into the dead engine, which is burning fiercely. The radar altimeter reads 200 feet above ground level and visibility is zero.

“Davann, get in the jump seat. Read off the engine fire checklist.”

Raybon’s shattered body fills the left seat as wind rushes through the now gaping window. Boyd hands the checklist to Davann.

“Slow down, gradual right turn. Plenty of room,” Emmet says calmly. “Keep your nose up.”

“Throttle to idle,” Davann says.

Boyd pulls the No. 1 engine throttle to idle.

“Pull Fire Handle.”

Boyd reaches over his head and pulls the large red Fire Handle, which shuts down the engine and blows a fire retardant into it. Nothing happens. He’s practiced this in the simulator and talked about it in class. He reaches in front of the throttles and pulls the Condition Lever all the way back, feathering the prop. The drag is less. He shuts off the fuel valve to the burning engine, but it continues to burn. He pulls back the throttles of the other three engines and begins a gradual right turn.

“Rick, damage report,” Boyd says over the intercom. “Look at the tail, the wings, look for fuel leaks, fires, check for casualties. Call back on the intercom.”

“Gradual climb, heading two eight zero,” Emmet says.

“That wing is going to burn off in about two minutes,” Boyd says, shaking his head as he looks out the pilot side window at the fire consuming the left outboard engine. “Where can we put this thing down?”

“Increase your rate of climb,” Emmet says. “We’re climbing Mount Damavand, there’s a smooth slope on the other side. Two minutes.”

“We want to land uphill.”

“Roger.”

“JUBA to PECOS, Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!”

Emergency protocol would be to give his location and describe his damage and his plans, but he is well within Iranian airspace and doesn’t want to give them any clues as to where he might be found in the slight chance that he doesn’t crash. He assumes the wing will fall off any second and they’ll have about enough time for a Hail Mary and then they’ll be done. Not a religious man, he sees no point in reciting some words. God knows who he is; if he made the grade, fine. If not, it’s too late now to change it.

“One dead, three injured, tail intact, no fuel leak, left outboard engine burning,” comes the damage report from Shands.

“PECOS to JUBA, bailing out?”

“Negative.”

Chapter 43: New York

This is Brian Williams at the NBC News Center with breaking news. As we continue our nonstop coverage of the nuclear war in the Middle East, we have late breaking news from Israel. We are live with our chief foreign correspondent, Richard Engel, in Tel Aviv. Richard, what can you tell us?”

“Thank you, Brian. The government of Israel has just released the latest casualty figures from its nuclear exchange with Iran. The updated estimate of fatalities has now reached 50,000, with an estimated 100,000 injured. Already, 70,000 have been treated at emergency hospitals set up around the nation. The towns of Safed, Dalton, Jish and Amirim were completely destroyed, and anyone there is assumed to be a fatality. Those towns are shown on this map, Brian. This larger, shaded area west of the Sea of Galilee has sustained extensive damage with many buildings destroyed by blast and fire. That area continues to be highly radioactive, and anyone able to leave has been told to leave immediately.

“The weapon that was exploded by Hezbollah has been determined to have been a plutonium bomb of approximately 1 megaton. To put that in perspective, Brian, the bomb over Hiroshima was the equivalent of 16 kilotons of TNT, so this one would have been 60 times larger.

“The two smaller weapons detonated by Israel along the Golan Heights and the border with Lebanon were in the 10
kiloton range. Casualties there include the invading Hezbollah fighters, estimated at 10,0000.

“Prevailing winds have carried the radioactive plume south into Jordan and threaten the cities of Jerusalem and Amman. Civil Defense officials there are releasing guidelines for protection but have not recommended evacuation.”

“Richard, what have you learned of the missiles launched from Iran into Israel? Were they nuclear?”

“Yes, Brian. Israel reports examination of the debris from the 10 medium-range ballistic missiles launched by Iran and intercepted by Patriot Missile batteries in Israel has revealed that four of them were plutonium bombs, the other six were conventional.”

“What about the Gaza Strip, Richard?”

“Brian, there were no nuclear detonations in Gaza. There was a mass assault by Hamas fighters, but they were slowed by the extensive fortifications built up there, and when they breached those fortifications, they ran into withering artillery fire. Israeli forces have restored their border.”

“Thank you, Richard. This has been Richard Engel in Tel Aviv.

“Now to other breaking news. The Arab news agency Al Jazeera reports that Niavran Palace, home to the Grand Ayatollah and Supreme Leader in Tehran, is surrounded by an angry mob and that shots have been fired. In this unconfirmed report, Revolutionary Guard militia have taken responsibility for the safety of the Supreme Leader. It is not known if the Grand Ayatollah is in the palace or elsewhere.”

Chapter 44: Mount Damavand

e’re over the top,” Emmet says.

The radar altimeter reads 1,000 feet, the regular altimeter is at 14,000 feet. They break out of the clouds, and sunlight streams into the cockpit, accentuating the red blood splattered over the windshield and instruments.

“Look over at 10 o’clock. That’s the flattest area. Can you put it down there?”

“Have to,” Boyd says, seeing a wide field of snow without protruding rocks. It is at least a 20 per cent slope. He pulls the throttles of the three functioning engines and pushes the yoke forward to begin a slow descent as he circles to the northern side of the mountain and begins to line up an approach for landing. He clicks the intercom button.

“Rick, come up here to help with a casualty.”

Then he speaks to Davann.

“We need to move Raybon. We’ll have to use both seats to land.”

“Oh,” Rick Shands says simply as he climbs into the cockpit from the below and sees the carnage. He grabs a blanket from the bunk at the back.

Davann stands and puts his hands under Raybon’s arms, gently lifting his friend and mentor up from the left seat. As his torso slides up, his head falls to the side showing a jagged, hand-size piece of metal that hit just below his left ear and sheared off half of his skull. Multiple smaller shrapnel wounds pepper his left arm and side. The side window is gone, and the
fuselage of the aircraft is fenestrated with shrapnel from the exploding Sidewinder missile.

Rick steps up with the blanket and wraps it around Raybon as they lift him across the jump seat, behind the navigator’s seat and lay him out on the lower bunk.