breathe—but he was still ready to fight. “Thanks for giving us that chance, Major—I mean, ‘Commander.””
The building was quickly surrounded by the armored vehicles and heavily armed soldiers, and the assault began immediately. Heavy 100-millimeter breaching cannons blew large” man-sized holes in the walls on the ground floor, followed by dozens of volleys of smoke and gas grenades, then by Iranian Pasdaran troopers in a hastily organized full frontal assault. The American and UAE soldiers dropped several Pasdaran soldiers as they came toward the stairwells, but were quickly forced to retreat as their number grew. The commandos were much more successful at picking off the Pasdaran troopers up on the second floor, but soon the second floor, too, was filled with gas. One American Marine was shot in the chest and was carried up to the third floor by the others.
Soon they had to retreat from that position as well, but with each retreat they were taking out plenty of Pasdaran troopers.
Up on the roof, the sound of approaching helicopters meant that their time was quickly running out. At the same time as the helicopters approached, the ground units, carrying the dead Marine, made their way onto the roof. “Too many to count,” was the simple report from a surviving Marine.
A few moments later, three Iranian Navy SH-3 Sea King helicopters could be seen through the darkness. All of them were trailing rappelling lines, ready to drop soldiers onto the roof. All of the commandos took cover as best they could around the raised rim of the roof.
Suddenly a breaching charge blew open the roof-access door, and smoke and tear gas poured through. Briggs fired, and two Pasdaran bodies piled up on the stairway sill. They were quickly dragged away by other troopers, and no others emerged. The doorway was open—a few grenades tossed through would make short work of everyone on the roof. Briggs cleared everyone from the portion of the roof facing the doorway and assigned commandos to cover it.
“Anybody got any ideas?” Briggs shouted.
“I am afraid we need to consider a surrender, Leopard,” Behrouzi said. “We are outnumbered and outgunned.”
“I don’t think the Iranians are interested in taking prisoners, Riza.”
As if to prove the point, just then one of Behrouzi’s UAE commandos jumped to his feet, dropped his MP-5 submachine gun, stretched his arms out, and began shouting something in Arabic at a nearby SH-3 helicopter. “Get down, you fool, no!” she shouted in Arabic. But it was far too late. A heavy-caliber machine gun on the SH-3 opened fire, and the UAE commando was immediately cut down.
“They aren’t going to let us surrender,” Briggs said grimly, “So we’re going to have to fight our way off this roof. We’ve got the darkness to cover us. We’ll try to pick up as many gas masks as we can along the way and take out as many of them as we can.
Everyone just keep moving, keep-“
Suddenly one of the SH-3 Sea King helicopters exploded in a huge fireball, less than 200 feet from the rooftop. Then down below, one, then two of the armored vehicles surrounding the security headquarters building burst into flames, followed by several rocking explosions in the security building itself. Briggs and Behrouzi cut down three, four, five Pasdaran troopers trying to rush up onto the roof—but they weren’t attacking, they were fleeing some devastation behind them. Seconds later, another Sea King helicopter exploded, followed by the ZSU-23/4 air defense unit.
The ammunition cooking off inside the ZSU-23/4 completely shredded the vehicle from the inside out.
“What is it, Leopard?”
“I think … I hope, it’s the cavalry,” Briggs said.
Sure enough, it was. Out of the darkness, a large aircraft appeared. It swooped in toward the security headquarters building with incredible speed for an aircraft its size, its huge twin propellers acting as helicopter rotors. A Gatling gun mounted on its nose spat fire in several directions at ground targets as the huge aircraft moved with delicate precision toward the rooftop.
With the nose and an FLIR turret peeking over the edge of the roof, the CV-22 Pave Hammer tilt-rotor aircraft settled just a yard above the rooftop, rear end in. The cargo ramp was open, and commandos were running out and taking security positions around the rooftop.
Marine Corps Gunnery Sergeant Chris Wohl ran over to Briggs and Behrouzi as several Madcap Magician commandos helped the others to the CV-22 tilt-rotor. “Let’s go, Major,” Wohl said. “We’re outta here.”
Briggs felt like hugging the tall Marine. “How in hell did you find us?”
“Later,” Wohl said. “Right now, let’s get the hell outta here.
We’re bingo fuel, and we’ve got a tanker waiting for us off the coast.
In less than a minute, everyone was evacuated off the rooftop, and the CV-22 was wave-hopping its way out over the Gulf of Oman. The CV-22’s threat warning receiver beeped a few times, but they observed no missile launches or fighter pursuit. In ten minutes they were out of Iranian territorial waters, and a few minutes later they were refueling behind a U.S. Air Force HC-130N special operations tanker that had been dispatched from Bahrain to support the Madcap Magician rescue mission.
“Practically the entire UAE government was watching you guys heading off toward Chah Bahar,” Wohl explained once they were safely refueled and on the way back to Dubai. “Peace Shield Sky-watch reported the OVIOD Bronco belonging to General Rashid heading for Iran—they thought the Emir’s son was defecting or something. When I heard about it on the air defense net, I had an HC-13ON scramble from Manama Air Base in Bahrain, we took a token on-load over the UAE, and immediately headed toward Chah Bahar. Somehow, I knew it was you: first the message about the carrier and the lone chopper heading toward Chah Bahar, then the recall message “I almost got everyone killed, Gunny,” Briggs said. “I lost two Americans, I got four UAE commandos killed, I lost their Bronco …”
“Yes, you did,” Wohl said sternly. “You executed an impossible mission without proper planning, intelligence, and preparation, including the basics like how in hell you were going to get your asses out of the target area and safely back home. You put yourself and your troops in mortal danger. It was stupid, Briggs, really stupid. You exercised poor, immature, and completely rash judgment as a commander”
Wohl stopped, then nodded resignedly and added, “But you pulled it off, goddamn your Air Force bird-brain black ass. You saved ten guys, ten of your guys, and you didn’t leave anyone behind. You improvised, adapted, and overcame. You used incredible bravery and guts, and showed real leadership. I wouldn’t have done it that way, but I’m not the commander of Madcap Magician’s strike force—you are.”
OVER THE GULF OF OMAN THAT SAME TIME “Shamu One-One, this is Nightmare on all primary, how copy, over.”
Silently, McLanahan prayed. Be there, you guys, dammit, be there “Nightmare, this is Shamu One-One, read you five by,” the KC-10 Extender aerial refueling tanker copilot responded.
“We’re just about min fuel at Watchdog. What’s your position?
Over.”
“Nightmare is two hundred west of the ARIP, headed your way,” McLanahan responded, breathing a sigh of relief. They were one hour late to their scheduled refueling, near the U.S.S. Abraham Lincoln carrier group in the Arabian Sea, and now the B-2A was critically short on fuel—but so was their tanker, a converted Douglas DC-10 used by the U.S. Air Force for long-range aerial refueling and cargo hauling. If the KC-10 Extender couldn’t stay to hook up, they would have to abort to Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean—and surely this meant their cover would be blown. One didn’t have to be a math major to draw a parallel between all the attacks on Iran and the sudden appearance of a B-2A bomber on Diego Garcia.
“We’re headed your way, Nightmare,” the copilot of the KC-10 said.
“We’re working on an alternate divert site for ourselves to get you your full off-load. If you can take a partial off-load, it would sure help us out. Over.”
McLanahan pulled up a large chart of the Pacific and Indian Ocean regions and ran several range calculations through the navigation computer. “We can take a three-quarter off-load and abort to Guam if we can’t get a tanker to meet us,” McLanahan reported. He paused, showing Jamieson the calculations: “We can also take a three- quarters off-load, fly across India, southeast Asia, and China, and get our normal refueling west of Hawaii. Tempting, isn’t it?”
“We’re not authorized to overfly any non-international air-space,” Jamieson said, “no matter how much gas it’ll save. But yes, it is tempting. Take the partial off-load, we’ll plan on aborting to Guam.”
“Agreed,” McLanahan said. He relayed the information to the tanker crew, who were very excited to hear that
