by Walt Gragg
* * *
—
The catapult fired. Lieutenant Commander Bradley Mitchell’s Super Hornet roared down the runway and leaped from the Lincoln’s deck. Lieutenant Norm Sweeney was half a minute behind. They took to the heavens and headed west across a sparkling fall sea.
To the northwest, twenty miles distant, the Eisenhower’s raging fires burned. If anything, the uncontrollable flames appeared worse than they’d been when the pair undertook their last mission a few hours earlier. Each tried to ignore the horrific sight, but neither could do so. They couldn’t deny the anguish they felt each time they viewed the burning aircraft carrier. The fierce blazes tore at the pilots’ wounded spirits.
The F/A-18Es ripped across the afternoon sky. The target was thirty minutes away.
Mitchell considered this an easy mission, well below his immeasurable skills. Most of the fleet’s pilots, however, wouldn’t have agreed. Despite the determined efforts to eliminate them, the Pan-Arab air base Blackjack Section was scheduled to attack bristled with air defense weapon systems. A careless American could easily forfeit his life on a mission such as this. Nevertheless, to so adept a pilot, even with the air base’s deadly defenses, the assignment was a routine one.
For the first time, he couldn’t put his family problems behind him. The relentless distractions were starting to get the better of him. Brooke was there in the cockpit, her complaints weighing heavily on his mind.
They reached the Libyan coast. The target would soon appear. The mission could no longer wait. He did his best to push Brooke aside.
Mitchell spoke into his radio, “Echo Command, this is Blackjack Section . . .”
But Brooke was never far from his thoughts.
33
3:19 P.M., OCTOBER 20
BLACKJACK SECTION, FIGHTING SQUADRON VF-57
USS ABRAHAM LINCOLN
OVER THE LIBYAN AIR BASE
On the ground, figures raced toward the relative safety of their bunkers and gun emplacements. Blackjack lined up the target. The aircraft hangar was within his sights. Hidden within the buttressed shelter were a half-dozen MiGs. One right after the other, Mitchell released a quartet of thousand-pound bombs. Sweeney did the same.
This wasn’t the first attempt to take out the fortified structure. The hangar’s roof showed the scars of the daily raids against it. So far, the stout enclosure had withstood the pounding. Still, the framework was clearly weakened by the continual assaults. And it couldn’t resist the bombings forever. With any luck, Blackjack Section’s plummeting armaments would penetrate the building and destroy the aircraft inside.
The lethal ordnance sailed toward its purpose. A series of mighty explosions hit the hangar.
The F/A-18E pilots had performed their task perfectly. The only thing remaining was for the intelligence experts to determine the extent of the damage. They’d do so using the Super Hornets’ video of the attack and the spy satellites’ next pictures of the air base. If the Americans were fortunate, the images would confirm the objective had been destroyed. If not, another bombing run would be undertaken tomorrow and on each day following until elimination of the shelter and its aircraft was complete.
“All right, Worm,” Mitchell said, “looks like we nailed it. Let’s move on to the secondary targets.” There was no enthusiasm in the section leader’s voice.
“Confirm your assessment, Blackjack. Moving on to targets two and three.”
“Even though there’ve been no sign of them, keep your eyes open for enemy radar locks.”
“Roger, Blackjack,” Worm said. “With the vivacious Lisa awaiting my return, the only desert I want to find myself standing on has a big ‘Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas’ sign stuck in the middle of it. I’ve no intention of letting an air defense missile sneak up on us anytime soon.”
“Roger, Worm. Let’s begin our next run.”
A trio of bombs would soon be unleashed to assault a smaller aircraft hangar. And once that task was completed, the pair would move on to attacking the air base’s runways with their Vulcan cannons. The second hangar was soon within their sights. The bombs were released. And once more, the target was struck dead center.
The pilots moved on to the third, and by far the most dangerous portion of the mission.
Screaming in wing tip to wing tip a few hundred feet above the ground, they’d fire untold 20mm shells into the glistening black pavement of the air base’s primary runway in an attempt to put it out of commission.
“Let’s get set to nail that runway. Once we’re done, we’ll head for home.”
“I don’t even know why we’re bothering, Blackjack. We tear them up and they come out five seconds after we’re gone to fix them. No matter how much damage we do, an hour from now they’ll have repaired this thing good as new.”
“I know. But orders are orders. And we’ve been directed to unload our Vulcans on that runway. So let’s get to it and head back to the boat.”
The speeding pair raced across the featureless desert. As they reached the runway Mitchell released a quick burst from his Vulcan cannon. Armor-piercing shells poured forth from the aircraft’s lethal nose. The striking armaments tore huge gashes in the three-mile ribbon of patch-marked asphalt. Sweeney squeezed his Vulcan’s trigger, spewing further angst upon the hot tar.
As they neared the attack’s midway point, the Mahdi’s air defenders let loose with their antiaircraft guns upon the low-flying Americans. Both rocketed through the fierce streams of gunfire. When they reached the western edge of the base, the duo turned to make a final approach. With a few hundred rounds remaining in each of their cannons, their assignment was close to its end.
Blackjack Section soared into the solemn skies, turned, and plummeted toward the ground. Entering a teeth-rattling dive, they headed for the black ribbon once more. It was then Worm spotted the first serious threat to their survival.
“Blackjack! I’m picking up a radar attempting to lock on to us.”
“Roger, Worm. My system confirms.”
“I’m picking up a second one.”
The Hornets continued plunging toward the sultry air base. Mitchell watched his screen.
Mourad’s air defenses were doing their best to grab hold of the immense prize.
“Did you copy, Blackjack?” Worm said. “These guys are getting close. Maybe we should abort and get the hell out of here.”
Suddenly Mitchell’s system screamed the warning. A searching radar had achieved a lock on the leading Super Hornet. An enemy missile would soon rocket skyward to destroy the first of the invaders. No longer was this a routine mission.
For a split second, he didn’t react. If anything, the knowledge his death was imminent seemed an odd relief. An ironic smile came over his masked face. He’d never thought of his life’s end being a solution to the problems he faced in his difficult marriage. Yet there it was, unexpectedly. He’d found an answer to his nagging concerns. Succumb to the Chosen One’s missile and there’d be no more Brooke and her petty annoyances.
Mitchell was stunned by his response. He fought against the startling impulse. His innate need for survival seized control, shaking him from the momentary lapse and forcing him to respond.
“Worm, I’ve got a missile lock! Break off the mission! Break off the mission!”
Mitchell’s F/A-18E raced skyward. A Russian-made, radar-guided SA-6 ground-to-air missile fired. Both pilots hit their afterburners and roared into the heavens. Each instituted evasive actions. The devastating missile closed with the lead Hornet. The nimble F/A-18E twisted and turned, dodged and wove. On the ground, the missile system’s operator matched his every move. The killer drew near. One of the Navy’s best pilots was locked in a life-and-death struggle in the bright skies over Libya. Mitchell’s thoughts were racing at incredible speed, yet he remained perfectly calm. Now wasn’t the time to panic. The tracking execut
ioner was right on his tail. Blackjack released chaff and a long string of flares. If that didn’t fool the unmerciful assassin, there’d be no choice but to blow his canopy and bail out. If the ejection didn’t kill him, he’d soon be dangling at the end of a billowing parachute floating toward the Sahara. He’d find himself on the scorching desert, alone and vulnerable, deep within enemy country.
Whether he could elude his pursuers would require both luck and skill. With only a Beretta pistol, he’d be no match for any armed unit in search of him. If he could evade capture after his fearful descent, he’d try to find a deep hole in which to crawl. There he’d turn on his rescue beacon and wait for help.
He scanned the staid terrain with one eye while watching his screen with the other. The ground beneath him looked barren and sparsely populated. Maybe, just maybe, if no one spotted his parachute he’d stand a chance. A search-and-rescue helicopter would be launched immediately. With so great a distance to travel, however, they’d need at least three hours to arrive, pinpoint his location, and pick him up. And with so bleak a landscape for him to hide in, three hours would be a lifetime. He realized his odds weren’t good. There was an excellent chance his head would be severed and stuck on a pole long before the rescuers drew near.
He was out of time. He could die a certain death in the heavens or take his chances on the inhospitable ground. He reached for the canopy release. But luck was with him. The falling curtain of chaff and long line of flares fooled the system’s inexperienced operator. The SA-6 swerved off course, pursuing a falling flare. The misguided killer raced after the descending decoy. It exploded a few hundred yards behind the fleeing fighter.
Mitchell was safe. He brought his aircraft under control, cut back his afterburners, and headed northeast toward the Mediterranean. Worm soon returned to his place on his section leader’s wing. They hurried home.
* * *
—
Blackjack Section neared the fleet. The Lincoln’s arrester cables waited to catch the arriving Super Hornets. Mitchell aligned his aircraft for landing.
He’d never before had the briefest thought of ending his life. Yet in the crushing skies over Libya, with his death imminent, such a desire had sprung to the forefront without the slightest warning. He was clearly shaken by the close call. As he neared the welcoming deck, his response to the all-too-real dangers astonished him. His haunting questions and mounting self-doubts would be there for him to examine once he was safely on board the Lincoln.
34
3:21 A.M., OCTOBER 21
3RD PLATOON, BRAVO COMPANY, 2ND RECONNAISSANCE BATTALION, 2ND MARINE DIVISION
THE CAIRO–ALEXANDRIA HIGHWAY
Quite unexpectedly, the second fierce storm in a week blew in from the ebbing Mediterranean. There could be no denying the sparse rains were arriving early this year. And with more intensity than anyone could recall.
Ominous black clouds thundered across the broad seascape to hammer the North African coast with a fury rarely seen by mortal man. Huge waves pounded the beaches, tearing at the fragile sands and carrying them out to settle in the ocean’s depths. Over the coming millennia, new sands would form on the battered shoreline to replace those lost to heaven’s rage. With the passing of time, the mighty storm’s scars would be forever healed. By then, if man still existed on this insignificant planet, the promises of a twenty-first-century oracle would be long forgotten by the descendants of those who’d fought and died here.
For now, however, nature’s impressive power was there for all to witness.
Incessant lightning strikes stung the shadowy vistas with a frightful fireworks display that tore at its all-consuming veil for hours without end. One after another, unpredictable currents leaped from the flittering heavens to perform their dance of alarming inspiration. With each startling image, the night’s mantle was momentarily shattered. The eerie desert world became disjointed and surreal. Terrifying claps of rumbling thunder provided the orchestration for the electrifying performance. With every new chorus of the fearsome overture, it was as if the gods themselves were voicing their displeasure with mankind’s evil follies.
The winds howled and a sticky gray, smoke-tinged rain fell in stinging sheets upon the exposed Americans. In their foxholes, hidden beneath their sheltering ponchos, they futilely attempted to find protection from the raging storm’s power. Their efforts failed miserably. Yet there was a silver lining to their suffering. For the abominable conditions accomplished one wonderful thing. They halted the ruthless battles, and gave the Marines an opportunity to catch their breath for the first time in three days. Even Mourad’s followers had lost the will to fight in the deplorable conditions. Except for occasional sniper fire, there’d been no sign of them since early in the afternoon.
For twelve hours, to the relief of all, the killing was halted by the biting desert rains.
Within the American defenses, a nearby bolt illuminated a pair of hunched figures moving near the front lines.
“He’s over here, sir,” James Fife said, “in the foxhole next to the highway.”
“How bad is he?” Captain Richards asked.
“I think you’d better see for yourself.”
Richards gingerly stepped into Erickson’s hole. He lifted the thin poncho covering the platoon’s leader and stared at the distorted form lying in three inches of muddled rainwater. He placed his hand on the platoon leader’s chest. Much to his relief, Richards could feel the lieutenant’s labored breath rising and falling. He put his palm to Erickson’s forehead. It was impossible to miss the fever raging through the motionless Marine.
The company commander looked up at the platoon’s sergeant. “At least he’s breathing. How long’s he been like this?”
“Don’t know for sure, sir. I checked on him about an hour ago. He wasn’t doing very well then. I tried to get him to go back for medical attention. But he refused. Said after all that’s happened he wouldn’t leave what remained of the platoon until the 1st Division arrives. Claimed the men, those alive, and those who weren’t, deserved no less. To tell you the truth, he was pretty much out of his head. A lot of what he said didn’t make sense. A while later I heard him talking real crazy like. I swear, it sounded like he was having a conversation with those who died while taking the beach. Then I heard nothing from the lieutenant. So I thought I’d better come back and check. Found him like this a few minutes ago. That’s when I sent for you.”
“You did the right thing, Gunny. Let’s get him out of here. I’ll take him to the battalion aid station so one of the corpsmen can have a look.”
They pulled the inert figure from the murky hole and carried him to the company commander’s Humvee. As they did, a particularly impressive lightning strike flashed in the distance. A nasty refrain of threatening thunder soon followed.
Richards turned to Fife. “Doesn’t look like Lieutenant Erickson will be back anytime soon. For the time being, you’ve got command of 3rd Platoon.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll do my best to hold things together until the reinforcements get here. Has there been further word on the 1st Division?”
“The rumors were true. They’re on the way from Naples. Last I heard, the lead elements are scheduled to land before sunrise. But the storm’s slowed them a bit. If the seas calm, we can expect them here early in the afternoon.”
“Let’s hope so, sir. Two days ago we had a pair of Marines in each of these foxholes. Now about a third of them don’t have anyone in them at all. We’ve got gaps in our lines so wide you could sail the Queen Mary through here without anyone noticing. We can probably stop a few modest attacks as long as the air support remains strong. But any major offensives and there won’t be anyone alive to hold off anything.”
“I know, Gunny. Hang tight. Help really will be here soon.”
“Yes, sir. Any idea what the higher-ups have planned for us?”
“Nothing definite. A cou
ple of days lying on the beach licking our wounds is the most likely scenario. Let the 1st Division slug it out with the Chosen One while we get reorganized.”
“Sounds good to me, sir.”
“All right, Gunnery Sergeant, 3rd Platoon’s yours.”
* * *
—
The corpsman laid Erickson on an examining table in the battalion aid station’s tent. With the lull in the fighting, for the first time in days the grave table wasn’t surrounded by a river of red.
Richards stood nearby, anxiously waiting for him to finish his examination. The medic spotted the discolored rip in the lieutenant’s sleeve and the faint signs of dried blood. He poked around long enough to be convinced he might have discovered the source of his latest patient’s perplexing problems.
“Captain, can you give me a hand? I need to get his shirt off to take a better look at his arm.”
Richards lifted the unconscious lieutenant and held him in a sitting position while the corpsman carefully removed Erickson’s rain-soaked fatigue shirt.
“Go ahead and lay him back down, sir.”
On his swollen left arm, a filthy bandage covered much of his biceps. From his elbow to his shoulder the arm was bright red and swollen twice its normal size. Discolored crimson streaks flashed across his chest. Others ran down the length of his arm. A few reached his blackened fingertips.
The corpsman carefully removed the old dressings. When the last fold of deteriorating cloth was gone, the source of Erickson’s condition was there for all to see. In the area where the shrapnel had penetrated the skin, thick puss oozed from an angry wound.
“How long’s he had this injury, sir?”
“Four days. Got hit while taking the beach. His corpsman tried to get the shrapnel out, but he failed.”
“Why didn’t you make him take care of it before now?”
“Because I didn’t realize it was even a problem. He hasn’t said anything about it to anyone.”
