Balance of Power

by James W. Huston

  The helicopters hovered low behind them, over the horizon from the island. The Harriers flew low, farther out than the helicopters, ready to pounce.

  The FA-18s lined up to soften the beach. Two Spruance-class destroyers began shelling with their five-inch guns. One orange flash after another exploded on the beach as the automatically loaded guns slammed their shells into the vague target.

  The one obstacle the SEALs had found in front of the beautiful south-facing beach suddenly blew up with a huge tower of water as the timer marked five minutes before L hour. The explosion reassured the Marines that they would hit the beach on time, in stride.

  Two F-18s streaked from the southeast and popped up to their right. They rolled in one after the other and dropped bombs on the treeline just beyond the beach. Caskey could see the concussion spread through the trees and then black smoke rising as the bombs leveled two-hundred-foot areas.

  The F-18s pulled up and the Harriers streaked in underneath Caskey to begin their own close air support. They began a racetrack pattern, bombing and strafing the beach line as the boats made their way in. Caskey saw no return fire from the trees.

  “I wonder if they’re bombing a bunch of sand crabs,” Caskey remarked.

  “I haven’t seen any resistance at all down there. Have you?”

  “Not a thing,” Caskey said. “You know, I nearly shot you the other night.”

  “Where, in my bed?” Messer asked sarcastically as he adjusted the scan of the radar.

  “No, when you came swimming toward me after Drunk got those three boats.”

  “Thanks. See if I come to you for help again. Some shrapnel tore my raft. I didn’t think Drunk could see me—he hit the last boat about fifty yards from me. I could feel the explosions, and next thing I know I’m sitting in the water with my raft sinking underneath me. I just swam toward you so I’d get picked up.”

  “Yeah, I know, but I never told you I had my gun out and was pointing it at you while you were swimming toward me. I thought you were one of the bad guys—”

  Suddenly the radio crackled and Caskey recognized the E-2 naval flight officer in control of fighters. “Park Bench104. Bogeys inbound bearing 260 for 25 miles!” Caskey felt an adrenaline surge. “You hear that, Messer?”

  “Yeah, I got it.” Messer said, then stepped on the microphone button under his right foot. “Roger 260 for 25 miles say angels.” Then to Caskey, “Come port hard to260.”

  Caskey threw the stick to his left and pulled hard to drive the Tomcat quickly to 260. He instinctively accelerated through 300 knots heading toward 450.

  “Angels unknown. Appear low.”

  “Roger low. Where’d they come from?”

  “Unknown.”

  “Roger. Are they squawking?”

  “Affirmative. Squawking mode 3.”

  Messer switched to transmit on the front radio to talk to his wingman. “Mario, set combat spread.”

  “Roger” came the reply as the wingman took his position a mile and a half to the south, their left, heading west and slightly above them.

  Messer immediately found the bogeys on his radar. “Contact 260, 21 miles angels four,” Messer said, finding the planes at four thousand feet and climbing.

  “That’s your bogey.”

  Messer transmitted again. “You sure those aren’t the F-18s?” he asked, making sure the captain in charge of air intercepts was available.

  “I’m sure,” the E-2 replied.

  Messer transmitted, “Do you have Bravo Whiskey on the line?”

  “Affirmative,” the E-2 replied.

  “Any change in the rules of engagement?” Messer demanded.

  “Peacetime ROE,” came back the immediate reply.

  “Shit,” Messer said on the internal communications system as he went hot mike.

  “Combat checklist,” Caskey demanded. Messer immediately ran through the list with Caskey responding properly. They reached the final item.

  “Master arm on.”

  “Hold that,” Caskey said. “I don’t want to shoot anybody down by accident.”

  “Roger that, but if these guys are out to get us, I don’t want to be shooting blanks.”

  “I hear you.”

  Out of the corner of his right eye Messer saw the smoke trails of two SLAM missiles that had been fired by F-18s at two concrete bunkers on the island. He wanted to watch the burning smoke trail as the missiles streaked toward their targets, but he had other things to do. Messer flipped his microphone switch to the front radio again and called Meat. “You got these guys, Meat?”

  “I got them. Which one do you want?”

  “I got the guy on the right, looks like line of bearings stacked right. You take the guy on the left.”

  “Got him.”

  “I got them,” Messer told Caskey. “They’re doing 550 knots and climbing. Geez, who are these guys?”

  It was almost light as they accelerated through 450 knots.

  “Buster,” Messer said, telling Caskey to go to full military power. Caskey pushed the throttles all the way forward, short of afterburner.

  “11 miles, 4 degrees low, 1,000 knots closure,” Messer said to Caskey.

  The E-2 NFO spoke again. “258, ten miles…”

  “Judy,” Messer transmitted, cutting off the E-2 and taking control of the intercept.

  “Who are you?” Caskey said to no one in particular as he strained through the windscreen to see the bogeys.

  “I’m gonna lock him up,” Messer said. “I don’t see any other airplanes.” Messer transferred the radar to single-target track and the radar instantly locked on the trailing bogey, slightly behind the lead. He slaved his TVSU—TeleVision Sight Unit—to the radar and switched his tactical information display to show the television picture. Although the light was dim, he could make it out. “It’s a fighter,” he said to Caskey. “I can’t make out the type yet.”

  “The sooner the better,” Caskey said.

  “9 miles, 1,100 knots closure.”

  “Give me an ID, Messer,” Caskey insisted.

  Messer switched back and forth from the television picture to the radar picture, running the intercept and trying to identify them simultaneously.

  Messer transmitted, “These guys are coming awful fast. Request clearance to fire.”

  “Stand by,” the E-2 replied.

  “I don’t have time to stand by!” Messer said. “These are fighters. They are doing almost 600 knots!”

  “Roger. Stand by.”

  “It’s an F-16,” Messer said suddenly. “Definitely an F-16,” he told Caskey. “F-16, confirm F-16,” he said to the E-2.

  “Roger Fox One Six,” the E-2 replied.

  “Request instructions,” Messer said.

  “Roger, stand by,” the E-2 said yet again.

  “Shit!” Messer said. “We’re going to get our asses shot!”

  “If a missile comes off the rail of one of them, I’m going to smoke him,” Caskey said. “Switching master arm on.”

  “Good AMRAAM solution. Ready to fire,” Messer replied tensely.

  “I’ve got a good Sidewinder tone. What the—” Two missiles suddenly rose up from the island off to the right and streaked into the sky. “Messer!” Caskey called.

  Messer looked up and saw the SAMs coming toward them.

  “Not again!” Caskey said as he pushed the nose of the Tomcat hard over toward the ocean.

  “They’re not headed for us!” Messer said. “Throttle back!” They watched as the two missiles streaked toward their targets. “Throttle back!” Messer repeated. Caskey immediately retarded his throttles to idle and began to climb. The F-16s came up toward them.

  “Tally-ho!” Caskey said. He could see the dot-sized targets six miles ahead.

  “They don’t see them,” Caskey said to Messer, his voice full of confusion. The two missiles raced toward the F-16s and hit them from the left almost simultaneously. Caskey saw two bright orange fireballs directly in front of him. He
then saw two other small bright orange flames behind the F-16s as two missiles flew off rails of unseen airplanes in the distance. The missiles climbed high into the sky and headed down toward the island. “HARMs,” Caskey said. “F-18s got a fix on the SAM site when they lit up the F-16s. Unbelievable.”

  Messer transmitted to E-2, “Splash two F-16s.” His heart beat like a hamster’s. He switched to the television picture and saw pieces of the airplanes drifting down into the ocean. The radar had broken lock, but the television was still locked on the contrast.

  The E-2 NFO came back in a panic, “You never received clearance to fire!”

  “We didn’t splash them,” Messer replied in an annoyed tone.

  “Say again?” the E-2 replied.

  “We didn’t splash them.”

  “Who did?”

  “SAMs.”

  “Off the island?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t one of our Aegis ships?”

  “Positive,” Messer said.

  “Roger that,” the E-2 replied. “I see no other bogeys.”

  “Where do you think those guys were from?” Caskey said.

  “I don’t know. Singapore has F-16s, I know that, or maybe Malaysia.”

  “Singapore? You think they’re in on this?”

  “I have no idea, but I bet we find out.”

  “Does Indonesia have F-16s?”

  “I think so.”

  “Great, we’ve really got it narrowed down.”

  They turned quickly back toward the amphibious group and scanned the skies with their radar.

  “You got anybody else out there yet?” Messer asked the E-2.

  “Negative.”

  Colonel Tucker stood in front of Dillon in the LCAC as they made their way to the beach. He surveyed the line of landing craft behind him and the AAV-7s, the Amphibious Assault Vehicles, in front of him. The AAVs, Amtracs as they were called, were essentially armored personal carriers that motored in like boats, then crawled up on land like tanks, and carried a platoon of Marines inside the armored protection. The most heavily armed and protected, they went ashore first. Tucker wanted to touch the shore in his LCAC right after them. He looked at the other amphibious assault boats behind him.

  Fifteen hundred Marines heading ashore. He loved it. But he also knew how badly these things could get screwed up. That was why he was in the LCAC. He had seen it too often. Mayagüez, the Iranian hostage rescue, Grenada, Panama, Beirut, Somalia—he had been at every one of them. He had seen people die each time. These quiet little political missions, not the full-on wars where you got to use tanks and fighters as they were meant to be used, but the little political wars, they were the ones that got you. The Marines were always the first ones in and the first ones to die. And the last ones to get any credit.

  It wasn’t going to happen this time. He would go ashore with his troops and make sure. This was the first landing he had been in charge of. Every “i” had been dotted, every “t” crossed. This one would be different. He had been pleased by the lack of resistance thus far. They hadn’t seen one shot fired from the island with the exception of the SAM, which hit somebody. He couldn’t see who or what, but he assumed it was the F-18s. These guys were playing for keeps. That’s fine, Tucker thought. So are we.

  He flinched and pushed Dillon down as bullets suddenly slammed into the front of the LCAC with the characteristic ping that he had heard before. Small-caliber machineguns, he thought to himself. Probably AK-47s. Black market specials. Available by the truckload at a discount. He watched the other Marines as they scrunched down farther into the landing craft and looked at each other. None looked terribly frightened, but he knew better than to take this too lightly. Any bullet fired by anybody—including a stupid terrorist—could kill you very dead. He pulled his chin down to test the tightness of his helmet strap. Overhead the Harriers and F-18s raced in to strafe the line of palm trees just inshore from the target beach.

  Suddenly the LCAC was at the beach and climbing up out of the water. It drove right across the sand on its cushion of air and stopped just short of the treeline. Its engines screamed and rattled. Tucker stood up. “Let’s go!” he shouted. The other Marines charged down the ramp and fanned out to left and right. Several LCUs hit the beach behind them and Marines charged ashore by the dozen. No rebel yells, no screams, just the deadly efficient silence of trained Marines going about their business.

  Dillon ducked down and ran awkwardly behind Tucker. His helmet bobbed on his head and was heavier than he had expected. He stepped onto the sand and was immediately thrown down by Luther, who had been assigned to look out for him. “Don’t stand up when people are shooting at you,” he yelled at Dillon. “Bad idea.”

  Those ashore first threw themselves down and began returning fire, trying to walk behind the AAV. A bullet suddenly hit the sailor driving the nearest LCU. He was wearing a flak jacket, but he was hit in the neck just above the flak jacket. Blood spurted as the sailor fell to the deck. A petty officer standing next to him immediately jumped to the wheel and continued the throttle pressure to keep the LCU pushing against the shore. A Navy corpsman quickly placed a battle dressing on the wound. When all the Marines were finally off, the petty officer backed the LCU off the sand and turned it back toward the fleet.

  The first Marines ashore had reduced the fire from the treeline to a weak smattering of resistance. The terrorists were clearly backtracking into the dense foliage. Tucker knelt on the sand and monitored the radio reports from the Marines at the far ends of the beach. All the reports were the same. Minor resistance retreating into the jungle. “Secure the beach and hold until further orders,” he transmitted curtly. The objective was to get to the probable headquarters, near the concrete bunkers, before a defensive perimeter could be set up.

  The second wave of LCUs jammed into the beach and the ramps came down. Just like D-day, Tucker thought. Not much advancement in getting ashore in the last fifty years. After two more assault waves the beach was overflowing with fully armed Marines and maneuvering armored vehicles looking for paths into the jungle. He could see two bodies lying on the beach, but no other casualties.

  Overhead the powerful CH-53E helicopters headed for the scheduled landing. They’re late, Tucker thought to himself. They flew directly toward the hill that had been identified as the LZ, the landing zone. He had picked it himself. It was a clear knoll a mile and a half inland, directly on the other side of their objective. Three hundred Marines would be dropped on the hill and twelve hundred on the beach. They were to converge on the target from both directions simultaneously. Tucker grabbed the radio transmitter from his radioman and personally called all the company commanders. When they were on their receivers, he gave the coded signal to turn inshore.

  34

  THE ENORMOUS THREE-ENGINED CH-53E DESCENDED quickly toward the landing zone. The Marine captain piloting the beast from the right seat scanned the nearby trees quickly for any signs of life. He couldn’t give the scan as much time as he would have liked, though; he was concentrating on settling the 53 onto the knoll without sinking too fast and breaking the aircraft’s back.

  The copilot in the left seat and the crew chief in the back were much more diligent in scrutinizing the forest around them. Their eyes darted back and forth as their hearts pounded. Neither had been in combat before, and although they were excited, they were nervous.

  Despite their heightened awareness, they never saw the bullets coming from the woods. As the 53 settled onto the knoll, bullets slammed loudly into the helicopter. The Marines in the back bent over to minimize their exposure but they were restrained by their belts. They scrambled to free themselves and shuffled toward the back and side doors.

  They could see white flashes from the woods and quickly began to return fire. A couple of anxious Marines began firing from inside the helicopter until a master gunnery sergeant slapped their helmets to stop them. They poured out the back, formed a circle on the ground aro
und the helicopter, and continued returning fire in the general direction the shots seemed to be coming from. The 53 lifted off and quickly pulled away, nosing down immediately from the knoll once airborne. It skipped over the trees back toward the ship. The next 53 hustled in as soon as the landing zone was clear.

  The second 53 tried to be smarter. The crew knew it was a hot landing zone, not a simple dropoff. The pilot came in hotter—faster and steeper. The Marines in the back felt themselves being lifted from their seats as the helicopter dropped quickly to avoid the gunfire from the trees. But bullets slammed into the sides of the ship. The men felt helpless, unable to return fire, and most leaned over and ineffectually covered their helmeted heads with their hands.

  The 53’s nose came up as the pilot slowed over the landing zone. The smoke from the three engines began to catch up with the helicopter and surrounded it with a haze of dark hot exhaust.

  Suddenly three shoulder-fired heat-seeking missiles screamed up at them out of the woods. The missiles headed directly toward the hottest spot—and hit the engines just below the rotor blades. The engines burst into flame as the wounded helicopter settled the last fifty feet onto the ground and crashed. Fire broke out from the top of the helicopter and soon the entire aircraft was engulfed. Marines from the first helicopter ran back to help but the flames were too intense. Although some of the men were able to crawl out of the fire and run away, several were trapped on board.

  Admiral Billings sat back in his chair, his eyes glued to the large screen where he watched the live, real-time video link from the Predator flying quietly fifteen thousand feet above the island. Its zoom television camera was fixed on the smoking helicopter. The Predator had done its job: Billings and his staff had been able to watch the entire landing. The Marine intel officer was able to forward information to Colonel Tucker and it had been relayed in time to make a difference to the troops on the ground. But Billings hadn’t anticipated the impact of seeing the death of his men firsthand. The Predator’s camera remained fixed on the burning hulk of a helicopter.