A God in Ruins - Leon Uris [58]
“You said there were two reasons.”
“I had this SCARAB prototype built with composites. It is not an all-aluminum plane, and the radar cross section is very low.”
Now came an hour of caution, nitpicking, alternate ideas: we haven’t thoroughly tested the experimental missiles and bombs, the SCARAB has to be refueled in midair, we need a diversionary attack or a carrier hit from the Persian or Oman Gulf…air cover…the condition of the Marine RAM team will be exhaustion after flying fifteen hours…and finally:
“No disrespect, Jeremiah,” General Bellicek said, “but aren’t you a little too enamored of those Israeli wing-and-a-prayer raids? They have to win. We have to plan it so as not to take losses.”
“Yeah, but they work,” Duncan retorted, “and the one goddamn reason they work is because they aren’t cluttered up with all the Yankee bells and whistles. One plane, in and out, twenty fucking Marines.”
“But does the SCARAB have the legs, Jeremiah?” General Hoyt pressed. “You are going to fly under enemy radar in rocky terrain. These are gas-guzzling tactics.”
“Quinn.”
“Yes, sir,” the gunner said. He clicked the carousel forward several slides and spoke. “Using a bad-case scenario, we can reach Fort Urbakkan, pull the raid, and fly out for a few hundred miles. We have called for a fuel tanker from Diego Garcia to rendezvous at thirty-one degrees, forty minutes latitude, fifty-eight degrees, twenty minutes longitude. That will give us four hours till daylight to scramble south to the Arabian Sea and land aboard one of our container ships.”
“How many tanker-to-SCARAB refuels have you tried?” Admiral Clearfield asked knowingly.
Duncan looked away, miffed. “Two,” he peeped.
Back and forth, back and forth. It was the kind of plan that made the American military clutch. One mistake would mean a catastrophe. To let go of this opportunity could be a sign of overcaution, or a fear of casualties. The terrorist would remember an American balk.
Keith Brickhouse, commandant of the Marines, broke his silence. “The PLO, the Iranians, and the rest of those terrorist bastards will increase their activities. They are going to say that America just doesn’t have the capacity to stop them. We are capable of this mission. We will be in and out of there before the muezzin calls the Moslems to prayer in Teheran.”
“And you’ll wish to hell you had had fresh troops going in,” General Hoyt said.
“Fresh troops is an oxymoron,” Duncan answered. “I have never known men to reach battle or who fight battles as fresh troops. Wars are won by men less exhausted.”
Silence. With the specter of American casualties and a failure, the Joint Chiefs and the President were overburdened.
“From time to time, war to war, Americans have shown the utmost ingenuity and courage. Such a time and place is right here now,” the commandant said.
Fourteen hours and twenty-two minutes had elapsed since Iranian terrorists had taken an American Lear jet out of the sky.
Overhead a giant C–5 jet transport carrying RAM and its sleeping SCARAB pressed toward the Tikkah Air Base on the far reach of Turkey.
Chapter 16
Aboard the C–5 each member of the Recreation and Morale team was issued a packet of maps, personalized for each Marine’s participation in the raid.
The mission and the importance of Bandar Barakat was explained. Jeremiah called for map blowups and went over the plan, minute by minute, inch by inch. Many the day and week they had drilled in specific maneuvering that was now fitted inside the scheme of the raid.
Every Marine had secondary and tertiary duties. All of them could double as corpsmen. Nicknames and personal names only spoken now, no calling a person by his rank. This they had also trained for, and it was hallelujah time when they got to call Major General Jeremiah Duncan “Dogbreath.”
Gunner Quinn O’Connell was the Mayday pilot, bombardier, second backup on the electronic systems, corpsman, and backup