A God in Ruins - Leon Uris [61]
Opposite this, a stable for mules to negotiate the final miles along the cliff-side road to Urbakkan. Then a small prison and punishment court.
Quinn took a radio message and decoded it. THERE IS NO EVIDENCE OF COMMANDING OFFICER BEING BILLET-ED IN MOSQUE.
“That makes the cheese more binding,” Dogbreath said. “Quinn?”
“Yo, I read it.”
“Do you think we should save a rack of missiles in case the mosque is armed?” Duncan asked of Quinn.
“No. This intelligence gives us the advantage of entering right over the main gate with no potential enemy able to get behind us. This baby flies so quietly, we’ll make our entrance without being detected. I say we come in and over the main gate, hover and unload our missiles and bombs right down the bowling alley. As soon as the buildings and their munitions go, we come down right alongside Barakat’s tower.”
“Let me think about it,” Dogbreath said. And he did, until his eyes washed out from glaze and concentration.
“Cherokee, this is Dogbreath.”
“Yo.”
“We’re probably going to scratch the mosque as a target. That means we can fly directly over the main gate.”
“No problem.”
“Novinski, this is Dogbreath.”
“Yo,” answered Novinski, sitting next to the general.
“Any of those gadgets give me a reading of how noisy it is outside?”
“Yo,” Novinski said. “Whispering Jesus, singing a lullaby. Under eighty decibels.”
Dogbreath shook his head in amazement. The SCARAB was eight times more quiet in the turboprop mode than as a helicopter. Should we make a bombing run or hope that the Iranians are totally off guard? We need a few minutes to get into the fort and for Quinn to squeeze off his missiles. I vote for Quinn.
Dogbreath turned and smiled and waved to RAM in the rear. They sat knee to knee in hard-ass bucket seats, their combat packs, helmets, and weapons crammed on the deck in the center aisle. Dogbreath found something else to fret about: the main cabin was not pressurized, and they’d have to go on oxygen if the SCARAB went high to save fuel.
The first point of the flight was to fly into the northernmost tip of Iran, avoiding Tabriz radar. The SCARAB took to her zigzag preprogrammed course like an old pro. Although the entire mission was made more difficult by mountains, she cruised unexcitingly.
No calls from Tabriz!
Sensing that radar coverage was poor and feeling the SCARAB might not be picked up at all because of her composite materials, Dogbreath ordered her up over the mountaintops to save fuel.
They flew close to plan toward the Iranian-Armenian-Azerbaijan borders.
“Volkovitch and Fellah, this is Dogbreath.”
“Yo.”
“Yo.”
“Are you scanning your frequencies?”
“Fellah here. Tabriz tower is speaking normally. Apparently, they didn’t see us or hear us.”
“Volkovitch?”
“No news from the Russians in Baku.”
“Novinski?”
“Yo?”
“Anybody’s radar suspect we’re up here?”
“Sure doesn’t look like it.”
“Dogbreath to Cherokee and IV. We’re looking very clean. Let’s make a run for the Caspian Sea just south of Arbail,” Dogbreath ordered.
The SCARAB descended as she approached the Caspian Sea and banked right to follow the coast. A high mountain range along the coast would give them cover from inland installations. Intelligence had the mountains well photographed. A dodge here and a twist there would keep them from being spotted.
Those not eating candy bars slept sitting up.
At the Iranian-Turkoman border, Dogbreath ordered the pilots to stay north and cross a deep marsh that would allow them to come around the back door into Iran and give a wide berth around Teheran.
Into a mad swirl of clashing hot and cold winds, the SCARAB chopped and chopped and dropped suddenly, then dropped into a wadi with her tail almost completely whipped around. Cherokee quickly took her off automatic pilot.
The craft was sorely protesting her load and altitude.