IN THE STARLIFTERS, we flew from Wadi Kena to Masirah, Oman, which we immediately renamed Misery since we spent the whole afternoon trying to hide from the scorching Arab sun. The stopover also gave us plenty of time to think.
I knew I might not make it back alive. But I was less worried about dying than, in the crush of a complex mission, being left behind in Iran. The Long Walk in the North Carolina woods was one thing, but I dang sure didn’t want to have to walk to Pakistan.
I didn’t expect much resistance in my part of the operation. The Revolutionary Guard might have anticipated the Americans using the soccer stadium as a staging point, but our best intel showed they might post a couple of guards there at most. If those guards surrendered under our assault, we would flex-tie them and let them watch us evacuate the hostages. If they resisted, we would kill them. I didn’t have a problem with that. We hadn’t gotten all dressed up for nothing.
At dusk, we transloaded our gear onto Air Force C-130 Combat Talons, barrel-chested, reliable birds that needed only a short roll to get airborne and could stop on a dime. These Talons were also equipped with the terrain following radar and special navigation gear. We needed both to fly in low over the coast, undetected by Iran’s defense radar, then hug the jagged walls of the canyons the pilots planned to use as their route into the interior.
Finally, the Talons launched from Misery. Charlie, Bucky, and Logan went out on the first bird. Jim Knight, Wayne Long, and I sat near the front of the second. For four hours, we flew through the night “dark-horse”—no external lights—our faces lit only with the red lights that glowed inside the cabin. All the jump seats were removed from the aircraft to make room for Delta and our gear. But the Air Force had been kind enough to line the floor with mattresses to block out the cold and give us at least some cushion against the hard ride.
There were no pep talks or last-minute tactical reviews. The only sound I heard was the propellers’ drone as we sat quietly against the bulkheads, each man tending his own inner fires.
We skimmed low across the coast of Iran then climbed through known gaps in Iranian radar to navigate the maze of desert gorges leading to Desert One. Packed in shoulder to shoulder, Jim, Wayne, and I rolled and leaned in unison as the pilot flew “nap of the earth,” clinging to the dark canyon contours like a shadow. Soon I heard the engines throttle back and felt landing gear thump into place.
The Talon’s wheels slammed down hard on the desert floor, bottoming out the hydraulics, and rattling my teeth. We bounced once and got briefly airborne before hitting the deck hard again. The pilot reversed thrust. We taxied to a stop and the loadmaster dropped the rear ramp.
I expected to look out and see only a wide expanse of moonlit desert. Instead, I saw that the world was on fire.