FORTY-ONE

ALL DURING FEBRUARY and March, people kept bringing up the rules of engagement. What will they be? What kind of document should we give Beckwith? Hell, I didn’t need any damn document. Some staff officers, the ones who worry about their bosses’ bowels, spent a lot of time focusing on this aspect. The rule was not to take any lives unless it was warranted. If Delta became involved in a firefight, it had to be able to use whatever force was necessary.

At the White House briefing Wednesday night, April 16th, the subject had come up. General Vaught introduced it very smoothly. The President had said, “As far as I’m concerned, Colonel Beckwith has my approval to use whatever force he needs to save American lives.”

President Carter understood where we were coming from. He’d been driven to the end of his patience. Now it was time to act.

I recalled the briefing held that afternoon, before we all went over to the White House, when General Meyer expressed his concern to General Jones about the command and control at the Pentagon of the Iranian operation. He feared it might be overcontrolled. When President Carter brought up the subject, “David, this is a military operation and you’re going to run it,” he almost used General Meyer’s exact words. I don’t know whether General Jones or General Meyer talked to the President after their meeting and before his, but I do know the situation was handled perfectly. From Desert One, Jim Kyle and I, back to General Vaught in Egypt, back to General Jones at the JCS, back to the President. It was clean, simple, and direct. A precedent had been set that night in the White House. I hope future American presidents, if faced with a similar situation, will follow.

Following the President’s brief, the generals and I left the White House around 10:00 P.M. The streets of Washington were nearly deserted, and the driver made good time. Everyone expressed his satisfaction. The talking was over. Now it needed to get done.

The blue Dodge pulled up in front of the River Entrance of the Pentagon. Generals Vaught and Gast went ahead into the building. General Jones took my arm and we began to walk down the darkened street. The night was balmy. It was cherry blossom time.

“You know, I thought it was very important you go over to the White House this evening. I wanted you to see what took place and to meet the President. I wanted you to be involved.” He stopped and looked at me. “You got a tough job, Charlie. God bless, and I’ll see you when you get back.”

There was an Army King-Air at Davison Army Airfield standing by to fly me back to Bragg. I was greeted by the two warrant officers who flew it. They were glad to be going home that evening. I thought to myself, If you fellas only knew where I’ve been and where, in the next few days, I’m going. History is gonna be made.

The fifty-minute flight to Bragg seemed like ten minutes. My mind raced from one point to another: when and where to inform the guys…last-minute checks…what to tell Katherine…remind everyone to be careful about how they assembled at the Stockade…tell them to use a cover story of another rehearsal out west. My mind ricocheted back and forth, covering all the potential problems Delta could have leaving Bragg. There was a lot to accomplish before we left.

Two C-141s were coming to get Delta on Sunday morning, the 20th. At 0730 hours we would on-load at Pope Air Force Base.

I told the troops on Thursday that we were moving forward to Egypt, but not that the mission was a go. I did, however, inform Buckshot and Country that we were not going on another dry run. The men spent the rest of the week cleaning and checking equipment. There wasn’t anything better to do. I wrote a letter to my wife telling her how much I loved her and our daughters. It was given to my adjutant, Captain Smith, who was staying behind, and he was told to hand it to Katherine in the event something happened to me.

By early Saturday night, Delta was cocked and locked. Country informed the unit they were to assemble at headquarters at 0230. A little earlier in the evening, one of the noncommissioned officers, Sergeant Holden (pseudonym), had arrived home and discovered a prowler in his home. He lived off the post and alone. He’d grabbed his 9mm Browning and taken the intruder out. Captain Smith called me around midnight to tell me of the incident. He assured me everything was kosher and that Holden would be at the Stockade on time.

With the unit together—they were dressed in casual civilian clothes—I told them, “We have in our midst one of our mates who I’m very sure will pull a trigger, because a few hours ago he did.” Sergeant Holden, who was still in an emotional state, didn’t think this was too funny. I then told the operators we were going to Iran. I thought the Stockade’s roof would come off. Oh, wow! The President’s message to them, about where the buck stopped, was also passed along.

Delta then loaded up in trucks and was taken down to Pope Air Force Base to meet the C-141s.

At Pope I was introduced to two Iranian generals whom General Gast had told me to expect. They’d come to the United States when the Ayatollah Khomeini assumed power in Iran. Both were intelligent and well educated and neither was “Joe Shit, the Rag Man.” They spoke Farsi and I thought they might be helpful to us in Teheran. One of them knew the Iranian Air Force very well and it was decided he would fly with the helicopters and stay with Seiffert. I hadn’t made up my mind about the other one. “What the hell,” I thought, “I’ll work with him until we get to Desert One, then I can see what happens. If he doesn’t work out I’ll dump him and he can return to Egypt on one of the 130s.” I issued both of them a new revolver, what we call a wheel-gun: a .357 Magnum Smith & Wesson. Delta didn’t have a large supply of Smiths, but I provided them to these generals because I felt it befitted their rank.

The two MAC (Military Air Command) pilots knew nothing of their destination. They’d been given an altitude and a compass bearing, but nothing else. One of them, after looking around for a while, walked over to me. “You act as if you’re in charge.” “I’m foreman of this here ranch,” I said. “Then, sir, how much fuel should I put in this bird?” I recommended he put on every drop he could. He hollered to the crew chief, “Fill ’er up.”

It was night when the transport planes landed at Frankfurt, West Germany. A fresh MAC crew came on board. They didn’t say much, as they had been briefed and knew their final destination. Delta was also joined in West Germany by a small 13-man cell that had been carefully selected and trained to take down the Iranian Ministry of Foreign Affairs building. In mid-November it had been discovered there would be two separate targets. Intelligence sources learned that three American Embassy officials were being held outside the compound, in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Delta was committed to the embassy and didn’t have the additional personnel to take down the Foreign Affairs building. Subsequently, it was determined that a select group would be formed for this task. They came from a Special Forces unit in this country and were commanded by an old friend who had much experience in special operations activities. He spoke several languages and the men under him had high regard and respect for him. Delta trained with this cell infrequently but maintained close coordination with it. Because of security it was determined that this cell should prepare and train in Europe. A building similar to the one in Teheran was found in West Germany, and at night this unit rehearsed its assault plan. They worked very hard and were as ready as Delta to accomplish their portion of the mission. This unit was under my operational command.

The mission now numbered 132 men: 2 Iranian generals; 12 drivers; a 12-man Road Watch Team, including translators, who would secure Desert One; the 13-man special assault team; and Delta’s 93 operators and staff.

The Road Watch Team would return to Egypt on one of the C-130s. One hundred and twenty men would continue to the hide-site.

This group didn’t include Al. He hadn’t made it. At the end his blood turned to water and he had a change of heart. I hope he doesn’t play stud poker. He’ll never win a pot.