Phantom Strike

by William H. Lovejoy

  *

  They had scrambled defence fighters out of Tripoli and Benghazi, but from what al-Qati was hearing on the radio, those defensive forces were gathering along the coast and moving toward the Egyptian border. The three companies of his battalion left at El Bardi had also been alerted.

  The Leader was expecting additional attacks from the Israelis, he supposed. That was a knee-jerk reaction and was an action al-Qati did not believe would occur. Not unless it was Israelis who were behind the attack on Marada Air Base.

  That was possible.

  But unlikely, given his suspicions of Sophia. He knew she spoke Italian fluently, as well as English. She was about his equal in French, which was rudimentary. Her Arabic was spartan, and the two of them had usually conversed in English. She might well speak Hebrew, but somehow, he doubted it.

  He wished he could step outside of himself, outside of his body, and kick himself.

  He would kick himself right in the testicles, which were what had led him to be so asinine.

  But he had loved her.

  Had?

  He still loved her.

  And she had used him.

  He had used her also, to attempt to prevent the senseless attack in Ethiopia.

  He had succeeded brilliantly.

  So brilliantly that his nation had lost a staggering amount of her military resources and personnel. He was chagrined to think of the many that had died at the base and at the chemical plant.

  His countrymen.

  He knew, of course, that in war one must expect that any given situation would be infinitely worse than anticipated. But the miscalculations that had occurred this morning were inexcusable.

  He could lay the blame for inadequate defence at Ramad’s door, but he could not place it all there. He should have admitted to Ghazi his involvement with the spy and accepted the death sentence he would have received.

  He had not. And he would not.

  All he could do was what he could do.

  Fortunately, they had not heard from Ibrahim Ramad for some time.

  “Where are we now?” he asked the pilot.

  Al-Qati no longer held his pistol to the man’s head. The pilot and his crew appeared to have accepted their lot, especially after additional news of the attack on Marada Air Base had been disseminated.

  “It is difficult, with our limited radar, Colonel. On dead reckoning, I believe we are some three hundred kilometres from where we estimated the AWACS aircraft to be. And remember, that was based on information we overheard from Marada Air Control. I suspect that the AWACS has left the region.”

  “How soon until we are in radar range?”

  “Perhaps another half hour, Colonel.”

  “Very well. Thank you.”

  Instead of threatening the co-pilot with a pistol he reached for the selector on the bulkhead next to him and switched from the intercom to the secondary tactical channel. The first channel was jumbled with orders and counter-orders emanating from Tripoli. Among the government and the military bureaus, chaos reigned. “Moonglow, Sundown.”

  “Proceed, Sundown.”

  “What is your status?”

  “Quite relaxed,” Shummari reported. “The errors of many ways have been seen.”

  “And your helicopter crews?”

  “We can be off the transports and airborne within fifteen minutes. The assistance of your soldiers would probably improve that time.”

  “Very good. You may expect assistance.”

  Al-Qati still did not know what he would find when they got to where they were going.

  He could only hope that the intruders were utilizing a staging base which he could cut off.

  After what had taken place at Marada, the raiders deserved to be slaughtered, and given the chance his duty was to slaughter them.

  *

  Barr heard Wyatt’s voice for the first time in fifteen minutes.

  “Let me have a status check,” Wyatt said.

  All of the planes read off their fuel states. Except for the Hercules, none of the numbers were encouraging.

  “Positions?” Wyatt asked.

  “Four’s alongside Wizard,” Gettman replied.

  “And Two’s got both of them in sight,” Barr said. He had had the bright skin of the C-130 visually for several minutes. He estimated that he was six or seven miles behind them. “We’re a bit more interested in you, Andy.”

  “I’m down to under two hundred knots and fifteen hundred feet of ground clearance. I’m sending Norm on now.”

  “The hell you are,” Hackley said.

  “You know the course I’m on. Scoot!”

  “Shit. Roger.”

  “Jim,” Barr asked. “What have you got for terrain?” “Not too bad, Bucky. I saw a flat spot a couple of miles back. I can’t tell how soft it is.”

  “Well, we’re sure as hell not going to make it back to Chad. You circle the wagons where you are, and I’ll tell you how soft it is. Andy?”

  “Your call,” Wyatt said. “You’re the lowest on fuel.”

  “Let me,” Gettman said. “I lied. I’ve got the short straw on fuel.”

  “You’ve also got a passenger,” Barr said.

  “Nelson,” Formsby said “why don’t you simply punch out? You could test the surface with your feet.” “I get airsick in a parachute,” Barr said.

  “I understand. I happen to feel the same way myself.”

  Ahead of him, he saw the transport enter into a circular pattern. A few seconds later, as he closed up on them, he saw Gettman’s Phantom tucked in tight with the transport. They stayed at around seven thousand feet as Barr began to drain off speed and altitude.

  “Two, Wizard Three.”

  “Come on, Sam.”

  “You’ll want to take it left five degrees.”

  “Going.”

  After several seconds on that course, Vrdla said, “Now, Two, come to one-nine-eight.”

  Barr banked into the new heading, still letting down.

  When he was at fifteen hundred feet AGL, Vrdla said, “That’s it.”

  Barr surveyed the surface of the ground as he swept across it at 250 knots.

  “Jesus, Jim! You think that’s flat?”

  “I wanted to use the dune on the west as a launch ramp,” Demion said.

  “You’ve got any number of dunes to choose from,” Barr told him.

  The landscape, like most all of the landscape he had seen in the last couple of days, was barren and desolate. It undulated here by several feet along a two-mile stretch. If he stopped to count, he might be able to calculate a half-dozen scrubby bushes along the whole length.

  What was more important, however, the surface didn’t appear to have a totally sand composition. It seemed to be composed of crusted earth, and his job was to see how hard the lack of moisture and the heat of the sun had made the crust.

  He circled back to the east.

  “What do you think, Nelson?”

  “Absolutely worth a try.”

  He took the Phantom five miles east, then turned back to the west, deploying his flaps. With his missing wingtip, he wasn’t going to have leading edge slats for increased lift, and his landing speed would be a trifle higher than he liked.

  Maybe he wouldn’t get airsick in a parachute this time?

  “Nah.”

  “What did you say, Bucky?” Demion asked.

  “I yawned, Jim. This is a yawner.”

  Demion’s flat spot was about a quarter-mile wide, bounded on the north and south by dunes that were higher than the average dune. He selected the right side of the area. If he screwed it up, he wanted the others to have room to get down.

  He debated bellying it in. It would be preferable as far as he was concerned, but it wouldn’t tell the others anything about the surface’s ability to support tires.

  Punching the landing gear switch, he saw three green lights.

  Eased back on the throttles.

  Felt the tail sag and let it.

>   He wanted as much flare as he could get, using his lift until the last possible moment.

  The F-4 floated in.

  “Like a feather,” he said.

  “What?” somebody asked.

  He didn’t answer.

  Nose down a little.

  Little dunes hopping at him.

  Long, smooth, downward slope coming up.

  Chopped the throttles.

  The Phantom touched ever so lightly.

  He was a damned choreographer …

  The tires began spinning against the surface of the earth.

  Then digging in.

  The nosewheel touched down.

  Speed well down.

  The airplane rose and fell with the terrain, but the unevenness wasn’t particularly drastic.

  Slowing.

  He tapped the brakes.

  There weren’t any.

  “Fuck.”

  “What?”

  The F-4 dragged to a stop after maybe a mile-and-a-half.

  Barr let his breath out.

  Killed the turbojets.

  “That was nice, Bucky,” Demion said.

  He opened the canopy and felt the heat swirl inside. “Hey, Karl.”

  “Yo.”

  “You want to ditch the rest of your missiles before you try it? I forgot to.”

  “You got to think about these things, Bucky.”

  “And Jim, your goddamned brakes didn’t work.”

  “You told me you didn’t need them.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “So what do you recommend, Nelson?” Formsby asked.

  “Drag the tails on the fighters on approach and keep the nose gear up as long as possible. Once the nose tire’s down, you aren’t going to do much steering. Also, once the Phantoms are down, they’re not taking off again.”

  “What about the Herc?” Demion asked.

  “Let me get unhitched and jump down there, then I’ll tell you.”

  Barr unclipped his mask and chin strap, slipped off his helmet, and hooked it over the HUD.

  He worked his way out of his harness, saved his survival kit by tossing it out of the cockpit, slipped over the coaming, and slid to the ground.

  It felt pretty solid under his feet.

  He checked the ruts behind the main gear.

  And then had a hell of a time climbing back up onto the wing, over the intakes, and into the cockpit.

  When he finally reached it, he pulled the helmet close and spoke into the mike. “Two, here. My calculations say you’ll make it, Jim.”

  “How good are your calculations?”

  “I’m the best damned consultant in a five-or six-mile radius.”

  “That’s all I need.”

  Barr disconnected his helmet. The United States Air Force had issued it to him, and he was damned well taking it home with him.

  Within twelve minutes, they had Gettman, then the C-130 on the ground. The Hercules, with its rough-field design and big, soft tires, had less trouble than he had expected, but the low ground clearance of the fuselage managed to level a few small hillocks. As soon as it slowed enough, Demion turned it around and headed it back toward the east.

  Seven minutes later, Hackley appeared low out of the east and made one pass over the strip.

  He made a circuit, then his approach. The touchdown was perfect, but as soon as the nosewheel settled, it hit a soft spot, and the Phantom lurched right, put its right wing down, caught the earth, and cartwheeled.

  It spun laterally, ripping off a wing and the vertical stabilizer, dug its nose into the ground, and slithered to a stop.

  Upright, fortunately.

  Barr was already running by the time she had stopped, and mercifully, he heard the turbojets winding down. Hackley had killed them the instant he lost control.

  The rear canopy was gone, but the forward canopy slowly raised as he approached.

  He slid to a stop next to the fuselage which, buried in the dirt, gave him a clear view inside the cockpit.

  Cliff Jordan said, “See if I ever ride with you again, Norm.”

  Both men were shaken up, and Hackley had a big bruise on his forehead, but nothing was apparently broken. Barr and Formsby got them out of their seats, and Littlefield and Potter led them away toward the Herc.

  Barr sighed.

  “I’d say,” Formsby agreed.

  “I hope my suitcase and civvies are still aboard the Herc,” Barr said. “I’m giving up the Noble Enterprises job.”

  He stripped out of his G suit and the dove grey Noble Enterprises flight suit, then tossed them both into the cockpit of the F-4.

  In his shorts, he leaned over the coaming of the cockpit, found the timer, and set it.

  On their walk back to the Hercules, Formsby set the timers in the other two fighters. Barr didn’t want to destroy his own bird.

  Twenty

  Wyatt had been sorry to see Hackley go.

  In the immense wasteland surrounding him, he felt terribly alone.

  Ah, Jan. I wish I hadn’t given you anything to hope for.

  He didn’t think he was a particularly pessimistic man, but it didn’t look good from where he sat.

  He sat about eight hundred feet above an earth churned up by some earlier sandstorm. He figured his speed was down to around 180 knots because the F-4 was struggling. He had deployed his flaps and slats earlier in the effort to increase his lift. The flaps had moved only a third of the way into position before they grated to a stop.

  He also figured he was sixty or seventy miles behind the others.

  That was a long way in any desert, but particularly in this one, when there might be pursuit. He was worried about the transports Vrdla had been tracking.

  On the other hand, he was relieved to know that the others had landed successfully, even if a little unconventionally on Hackley’s part. No doubt, Kriswell would give Hackley a constant ribbing from this day on.

  Peering as far ahead as he could see, he could find nothing that looked promising in terms of putting the airplane on the ground in a fashion that even came close to Hackley’s performance.

  A quarter-mile to his right was a wadi that appeared as if it hadn’t seen water in two or three decades. It was, however, the only depression in miles, and he would feel better if he had a depression to hop into. To the south of it was a line of dunes that might serve as a secondary hiding place.

  Just in case.

  She wanted to go down some more, and he couldn’t afford to lose much more altitude.

  “Andy?”

  “Right here, Bucky.”

  “How you doing?”

  “Bopping along the same course I was on. I think.”

  “We’re all down.”

  “I heard Sam reading it off. Everybody okay? Cliff and Norm?”

  “Damn betcha. You going to make it?”

  “As a matter of fact, Bucky, I’m going to punch out in about five seconds.”

  “Don’t go wandering far from where you put down, okay?”

  “Plan on it.”

  The aircraft was humping now, wanting to drag her tail, slowing, struggling for lift. The air intakes were at full depression, attempting to maintain a clean airflow into the operating turbojet.

  Wyatt reached down into the crevice next to the seat, lifted the flap on the box, and flipped the toggle on the tinier.

  “Sorry, honey,” he said. “You’ve been a fine lady.”

  He made sure the safety pins were out of the seat, pulled his heels back as far as they would go, let go of the stick, and pulled the ejection handle.

  For a quarter-second, he didn’t think the seat was going anywhere.

  Then the explosion blew him out of the cockpit, numbing his spine.

  The wind blast caught him in the face and slapped his oxygen mask against his jaw.

  The seat went over backwards, the sky flashing through his vision. He started counting, but knew he was counting fast, urging the release.

  After a coupl
e of eternities, the seat fell away, and the drogue chute spilled from his parachute pack, dragging the main canopy behind it.

  It cracked open, abruptly slowing him, when he was less than a hundred feet above the surface. The canopy went concave for a few seconds, then filled.

  The ground below appeared rough, and he grabbed the toggles and steered himself toward the wadi.

  He didn’t reach it, but touched down lightly, running, then tripped on a rut, and tumbled to the earth, rolling onto his left shoulder. The Browning automatic stung his ribs. The canopy settled around him, and he rolled onto his back and lay there, feeling exhausted. Keeping the airplane in the air had been more wearing than he had thought.

  The Phantom didn’t wait for the timer. When she hit the earth, the impact switch closed the circuit between the batteries and the detonators.

  The explosion rumbled through the earth, gently shaking him.

  He sat up and looked to the south. He couldn’t see the crash site, but a column of smoke a mile away showed him her burial place.

  It saddened him immensely.

  Wyatt struggled to his feet, shrugged out of the parachute harness, and spread the canopy over the ground, securing it with piles of dirt he scooped by hand from the earth. It would give the Hercules a homing landmark.

  He hoped.

  Slipping the helmet off, he looped the chin strap through his web belt and let it hang off his right hip.

  The sun felt particularly intense. The heat increased his rate of perspiration, and his damp forehead turned muddy with the dust already on it.

  He retained his survival kit and rehooked it on his web belt.

  Pulling the automatic from its holster, he ejected the magazine and checked the load. Wyatt wasn’t sure why he did that; he didn’t plan on using it.

  Habit.

  The military taught all kinds of habits.

  The survival kit had a canteen of water, and he dug it out and took one sip, just enough to wet his mouth.

  Until he saw the Herc, he wouldn’t waste water.

  He walked over to the edge of the wadi and looked down into it. It was about seven feet deep, he judged.

  He sat down on its edge and dangled his legs over the side.

  Slow day at the office, he thought.

  And then thought about Jan Kramer.

  He supposed she wasn’t having a great day, either, and he was sorry for that.

  *