His bomber and interceptor wing commanders, along with their squadron commanders, were sprawled in desk-armed chairs around the room. To Ramad’s right, slightly out of the mainstream of air force officers, sat Ahmed al-Qati and army Major Khalil Shummari, the commander of the helicopter company which supported al-Qati’s airlift operations. The aviation company was composed of Mil Mi-8 troop transports carrying thirty-two soldiers, Mi-24 assault helicopters able to transport eight troops as well as deliver devastating firepower, and a squadron of Mi-28 attack helicopters utilized as escort ships.
Ramad waved a thick sheaf of paper at them, and the buzz of conversation dwindled away.
“The work that Lieutenant Colonel al-Qati and I have accomplished in the past ten days has come to fruition, brothers. These orders from the Leader, countersigned by Colonels Ghazi and Salmi, allow us to now test the theoretical.
“Colonel al-Qati, you are to move your special forces company to Marada for these trials, and Major Shummari will provide the tactical airlift.”
“How soon are we to begin?” al-Qati asked. He did not appear as excited about the prospects as Ramad thought he might have been.
“We will start as soon as possible. I would like to have your units in place by tomorrow night. Or is that too much to expect?”
Play on the man’s vanity.
“We will be here,” al-Qati said.
Khalil Shummari said, “Colonel, these exercises will utilize simulated ordnance?”
Ramad tapped the orders with his forefinger. “The first five in the series will be conducted with simulators, Major. Then there will be a grand finale utilizing live chemical agents.”
Al-Qati frowned. “It seems to me, Colonel Ramad, that a live exercise could lead to a large number of casualties among my infantry as well as Major Shummari’s helicopter crews.”
“Nonsense,” Ramad said. “Are you saying that your soldiers are unprepared for chemical warfare?”
“We regularly train in CW techniques,” al-Qati said, “and we are well-trained. However, in any large operation, it is prudent to expect mistakes to be made. We do not necessarily need to assume the risk — the certainty, in fact — of losing lives merely to impress higher authorities.”
“Ah, but it is not higher authorities we intend to impress,” Ramad said.
The briefing room fell silent as its occupants mulled over Ramad’s statement. He always enjoyed having that edge of surprise, of knowledge that others did not possess.
Captain Gamal Harisah, first squadron commander of the bomber wing, rose from his chair. He was a study in intensity: small, dark, sharply focused. He was also a fierce and fearless pilot.
“Colonel Ramad, are we to conduct these flights, these exercises, without regard to overhead surveillance?”
“That is correct, Captain. The satellites may watch what they will.”
“And that is the reason for the live exercise, is it not?”
“That is quite right, Captain Harisah. The Leader is now prepared for the world to know for certain that we control an arsenal of chemical weapons.”
It was, Ramad knew, a complete change in policy, and one for which he had pressed. Until now, the Leader had insisted to the world that the chemical plant constructed with German assistance was purely in support of agricultural aims. Ramad — and others, like Farouk Salmi — had argued that a chemical capability did little to deter aggression against them unless its existence was confirmed and the resolution to utilize it was proclaimed and demonstrated.
“The objective of this program,” he continued, “is not only to hone our skills, but to also make clear to the warhawks in America and Israel that forays against our homeland will have devastating results for the Israeli populace. No longer will we allow raids within our borders to take place without retaliation.”
One of those acts of aggression still stung him every time he thought about it. Ramad had been commander of the MiG-23 squadron that lost two aircraft to Sixth Fleet F-14 Tomcats over the Gulf of Sidra. The Leader had attempted to persuade the world that Libyan territorial rights extended in a straight line across the Gulf, rather than following the indented curvature of the coast. The Americans had successfully tested the proclamation, and the imaginary line, and the Leader’s resolve, along with Ramad’s pilots, were found wanting.
“No,” he continued, “it shall not happen again. Our tolerance levels finally have been achieved.”
Ahmed al-Qati smiled a ghostly smile at that statement. Ramad knew well that the man had lost his family to the Tripoli attack.
“The political objective of this exercise is to give the Israelis second thoughts about our will, our skill, and our resources. It is also intended to suggest to Washington that an American attack could well result in retaliation against Israeli targets.”
“We are certain,” al-Qati asked, “that a single live demonstration of CW weapons will achieve that end?”
“Absolutely,” Ramad assured him.
He could be confident of his assertion because Ramad, and in this room, only Ramad, knew how impressive the final demonstration would be. The lesson would be taught, and it was, after all, the will of Allah.
*
Bucky Barr was stripped to the waist, the sweat running through the thick hair on his chest and accumulating in the waistband of his khaki shorts, which were just about as wet as he was.
He was seated on the concrete floor of the hangar, next to the left main landing gear of three-six, hauling back on a three-quarter-inch-drive digital torque wrench. Lucas Littlefield was on his knees next to him, holding a combination wrench in place, to keep the bolt from turning as Barr tightened the nut down.
He tugged the torque wrench, and the nut reluctantly turned a quarter-turn.
“Goddamn,” Barr said, “you think we’re about there, Lucas?”
“Keep going.”
Barr reset the socket on the nut, then put his weight into the handle once again.
CLICK!
The torque wrench let him know he had reached 170 foot-pounds.
Barr sagged forward, slipped the socket from the nut, and dropped the wrench on the floor.
“Goddamn it!” Lucas yelped. “Don’t treat my tools that way, Bucky.”
Aeroconsultants had bought the tools, but Barr didn’t debate the point.
“Sorry, chief.”
He rolled onto his knees, then his feet, and crept out from under the wing.
All six F-4s were now in Hangar Four, three each staggered along each of the sidewalls, their twin canopies raised. The nose cones were also raised, revealing the mounts where the original radar scanners had been fixed. Each aircraft had its fully overhauled turbojet reinstalled, and Barr was proud of the new and sleek appearance. The lower fuselage and the underside of the wings and tail planes were finished in low-visibility grey. Topsides, the colour was that selected as the corporate colour of Noble Enterprises, a low-gloss cream. From the nose cone to the air intakes, dividing the cream and grey, a single, expanding red stripe had been taped in place. From the air intakes back along the fuselage, then swooping up the vertical stabilizer were twin red stripes. The N-numbers — all imaginary — and the Noble Enterprises logo were also red and were placed above the stripes on the fuselage sides.
The trailing edge of the wings, incorporating the ailerons and flaps, were also taped in two-foot-wide stripes, red on top and yellow on the bottom. The scheme was meant to identify for air show spectators whether or not a plane was inverted when it was flying several thousand feet above the crowd. The small plane pilots who hung around the fixed-base operator’s office had seemed reassured when they saw the planes in their new livery. Stripped of weapons pylons and military insignia, the jets presented the appearance of an aerial demonstration team.
Which was exactly what they were supposed to represent.
Both of the Hercules aircraft followed the same theme, though they had not received the cream paint. The tanker had been sandblasted down t
o its original aluminium finish, matching the Aeroconsultants craft, then both had received the red fuselage striping, N-numbers, and logos.
Noble Enterprises looked like a going concern, but it was misleading. None of the F-4s were currently capable of flight. Almost all of the avionics had been stripped from each aircraft. Pilots and technicians swarmed over the six aircraft, working side by side, congenially complaining while they focused on their particular tasks.
Tom Kriswell and Sam Vrdla had finally been turned loose on the contents of the Jeep trailers. They had black boxes, cables, and diagnostic equipment spread all over the workbenches. Vrdla had one old radio connected to a battery and antenna, and a Lincoln radio station pumped out Garth Brooks, Vince Gill, Tanya Tucker, and an occasional Willie Nelson.
Barr walked over to seven-seven and climbed the ladder. The ejection seats had been removed, and Wyatt was on his back on the cockpit floor, his head stuck between the rudder pedals, working a ratchet on the back of the instrument panel.
“Hey, Andy.”
Wyatt lowered his head against a pedal and peered up at him. “Yeah?”
“How long we been here?”
“We’re one day short of two weeks.”
“It seems like one week short of two years.”
“You get that main gear reinstalled?”
“Damn betcha! We are now complete on the body work and mechanical shit.”
“So you climbed up here to tell me it’s worth celebrating,” Wyatt said.
“Hell, yes! It’s a milestone.”
“Okay. Send somebody to town for beer.”
Barr slid back down the ladder and crossed to where Littlefield was cleaning tools and putting them away in his stack of castered cabinets.
“You want to check out the hydraulics while we still got her on the jackstands, Bucky?”
“We’ll do it in the morning, Lucas.” Barr pulled his wallet from his hip pocket. The leather was streaked dark with moisture. He fumbled in the bill compartment and extracted five fifty dollar bills. “You want to take a break?”
“Hell, yes, but we ain’t going to find any females in this burg.”
Barr stuffed the bills into Littlefield’s breast pocket. “Take one of the Wagoneers and go buy us a propane grill, about ten pounds of chopped sirloin, buns, pickles, chips, the works. Potato salad. Don’t forget the potato salad. And baked beans.”
“You forgot the beer.”
“The beer goes without saying.”
Littlefield dipped his hands into a plastic vat of waterless hand cleaner and started to smear it around.
Barr walked over to the workbenches at the back of the hangar.
The seeming confusion of wires, cables, instruments, and electronics boxes was actually organized. Kriswell and Vrdia had nearly identical groups of components arranged into six areas. As they probed each piece with digital and analogue instruments, verifying the correct functions of integrated circuits and silicon chips and other mysteries Barr didn’t care to know about, they tagged the components that passed with yellow tape. “How’s it going, Tom?” he asked.
“Magnifico! This is top-grade stuff, Bucky. All we’ve run into are some calibration problems.”
“I wonder how much it cost Uncle?”
“Don’t ask. We’ve got maybe ten million bucks on the bench.”
Barr reached out for a six-inch-square box.
“And don’t touch!”
“Hey.”
“This is my office. Go sit in your own.”
“Is it going to work?” Barr asked.
“Hell, I don’t know.”
“That’s comforting as hell.”
“Of course it’ll work,” Kriswell said, putting down a probe and digging his Marlboros out of his pocket. “I flat-out guarantee it.”
“For how long?”
“Hundred hours good enough?” He stuck the unlit cigarette in his mouth. He didn’t smoke anymore.
“Should be,” Barr agreed.
He moved down the bench and bent over to peer into a Head Up Display screen resting there. It was blank, but he pictured targets showing all over the place.
The F-4 Phantom was designed as a two-seat fighter, with the radar operator placed in the rear seat. The philosophy had been not to overload the pilot with too many chores to accomplish, especially when the going got hectic in a combat situation. The philosophy was still in vogue for F-14 Tomcats and F-lll swing-wing bombers.
Noble Enterprises was converting the F-4 to single seat operation, utilizing avionics and controls designed primarily for the F-15 Eagle. It was an ambitious venture, but one that Demion, Kriswell, and Wyatt thought feasible. And if they did, so did Barr.
All he had to do was fly it, and he was looking forward to that.
*
At four-forty-five in the morning, the air was unmoving on the perimeter of the small airfield. Ahmed al-Qati expected it to start moving at any time.
To the northeast, the faint glimmer of dawn was beginning to wash the squat buildings of El Bardi. It was not light enough yet to define the sea beyond the town.
Behind him in the darkness were the eighty-five men of his First Special Forces Company. The four platoon leaders and the company commander, Captain Ibn Rahman, stood with him at the side of the runway, waiting.
Al-Qati and Khalil Shummari had flown back to El Bardi right after the briefing at Marada Base yesterday, and al-Qati had put his special forces officers to work immediately, recalling the men from the exercise underway and cajoling them into cleaning and preparing their equipment for this morning’s deployment.
The grumbling had been widespread last night, and still this morning, though he could not discern the exact words, al-Qati heard the tone of discontent in the dozens of conversations taking place behind him.
He also sensed that his officers were displeased with him, not because of the unannounced deployment — for which they had not yet been fully briefed, but because he had shirked his own duties for three hours during the night.
The magnetic attraction of the Seaside Hotel in Tobruk was almost beyond his will to resist. At least, he did not mount a defensive strategy within his mind. Al-Qati could not believe, nor fathom, the fates that had brought Sophia Gabratelli to him so late in his life. Nor did he even try to understand why, after months of what he was certain was fruitless courting, she had taken him into her arms and her bed.
He harboured no illusions about himself. He had become newly aware of the bald spot expanding on the back of his head. His bold, hooked nose dominated a face ravaged by wind and weather and sun. To be truthful to himself, there were some positives. He was hard and fit. The muscles of his arms and legs and stomach were apparent and utile. Unlike many Arab men, he tried not to treat women as inferiors. He supposed that there might have been some mystique in his reputation as a professional warrior, if she were even aware of it. When they were together, he talked very little about himself or his past exploits. He was not a braggart. She was quite aware of world politics and tensions, and their conversations embraced those topics as well as soccer, for which they were both avid fans, the cinema, and music. She was far ahead of him in the realm of art and literature, but he enjoyed her analyses of both. She was an avid listener when he talked of what he had learned of military leadership and tactics.
And despite the physical change in their relationship in their last two meetings, Sophia remained something of an unattainable ideal for him. That such a woman would hold him close, that he might nuzzle the smooth, freshly scented aroma of her flesh made him more capable than at any time in his memory. She had called him a magnificent lover…
“I hear them, Colonel,” Rahman said, startling him out of his reverie.
“Yes.” He heard the thrupp-thrupp of rotors.
Seconds later, the two Mi-8s and three Mi-24s — known by their NATO codenames as Hip and Hind — came hurtling out of the dark. Four Mi-28 assault helicopters — the Havoc — flew to the sides of the ma
in group.
Two C-130H transport craft were due to arrive within the hour, to load the company’s armoured personnel carriers. Rahman had detailed six men to stay behind and accompany the mobile equipment.
“All right, Captain,” al-Qati said. “Let’s check them out and load them up.”
Rahman nodded to the lieutenants, who spun around and went in search of their platoons for last-minute inspections before embarking.
The rattle of weapons and creak of web gear behind him was obliterated by the noise of the helicopters as they hovered into place and then settled to the asphalt of the airstrip.
The First Platoon, known as the Strike Platoon and composed of his most elite soldiers, loaded first. Ahmed al-Qati stepped back and watched them file onto the runway. They were dressed in desert camouflage utilities, with steel helmets painted in sand and tan and grey. Each man carried a twenty-seven-kilogram backpack and had four one-litre canteens of water attached to his web gear. A large pouch, attached to the side of the packs, contained each man’s CW kit. The primary weapon for the platoon was the Kalashnikov 5.45 millimetre AK-74 assault rifle. One 12.7 millimetre DShK-38 heavy machine gun was also assigned to the platoon, as were RPG-7 antitank rockets and SA-7 Grail missiles for air defence.
Despite their earlier complaints, these men carried themselves well — heads up, shoulders back, proud. Lieutenant Hakim, their commander, trotted to the head of the column and assigned the nineteen men to seats in the Mi-24 assault helicopters.
The other three platoons loaded quickly aboard the Mi-8 transports.
Al-Qati reached down and picked up his pack, slinging it over his shoulder. He carried his web gear and holstered 7.62 millimetre Tokarev automatic in his left hand and headed for the lead Mi-8. Looking around, to be certain nothing was left behind, he saw only the eight parked BMD fire support vehicles awaiting their transport. He counted six men tending to them.
Clambering into the helicopter’s cabin, he found Major Shummari standing in the cabin, talking to someone over a headset.
Phantom Strike Page 10
