Skoumopolis was born in Thessaloniki. He was six foot even and weighed two hundred fifty pounds. When the Greek Army had drafted him forty years ago at the age of seventeen, freeing him from a life of schoolwork, he had been the same height, but a hundred pounds lighter. He had no idea what army life was going to be like, but he quickly found it a welcome change after years of Father slapping his ears to study and Mother pushing his head into schoolbooks. Every male did two years’ mandatory conscription in the service of his country. His father tried everything to get the authorities to defer the draft, including bribing the local draft board chairman, but Nicholas breathed a hidden sigh of relief when Athens eventually refused the request. He discovered to his surprise that he loved the Army and made up his mind to break the news to his parents, thereby shattering their dreams, that he intended to become a career noncom. That was, until four months before the end of his two years of government service, when the small night patrol Nicholas was with stumbled across a group of armed Albanians with automatic rifles on the Greek side of the border. In the fire fight that followed, Nicholas’s company pushed the armed gang back across the border into the chaotic environment of Albania, killing four and wounding no one knew how many. For Nicholas, his Army dreams ended with a bullet through the left side, which miraculously missed his stomach, intestines, other vital organs, and blood vessels, but destroyed one kidney. His fellow soldiers had backtracked after the fight to find him bleeding and unconscious. A month later he was discharged with a small disabled veteran pension. He returned to the polytechnic to finish his degree and then worked his way slowly up nondescript technical jobs as a civilian, to where he was now one of three senior Air Defense controllers in Chania, Crete. Along the way he married a Cretan girl, who gave him three boys to brag about and challenged him in pounds. Through his own efforts in the bars, Nicholas Skoumopolis the wounded soldier became Nicholas Skoumopolis wounded, disabled war hero.
Nicholas pushed the window in front of him farther out and flipped the fan on high, then tilted his cup and drained it in one gulp. He wiped his lips to shake the coffee drops off his thick mustache. His thoughts partially on the beach life in nearby Chania, he lifted the binoculars and returned to scanning the skies to the south. Almost immediately, Nicholas saw seven aircraft in tight formation headed toward the runway.
Damn, he was going to have someone’s ass for this.
Fighters! Americans most likely. They never remembered to file a country clearance before entering Greek air space.
Damn them! They think they own this country. If they thought he was going to give them permission to land they had better think again — short of fuel or not. They’d better have a better reason than “We forgot to file.”
He hurried to the radio and jerked up the microphone.
“Unidentified aircraft approaching Chania Airfield, this is Greek National Air Defense Control. Identify yourself.”
He received no reply. He repeated himself. By the third repeat, he was screaming at the pilots, who refused to acknowledge his demand. South through the open window, Nicholas watched the warplanes break off into a spread pattern as if positioning themselves to land. Not at his damn airfield!
“Unidentified aircraft, this is Greek National Air Defense Control. You are not cleared to land and you are interfering with the air traffic pattern. Break off and call Air Defense Control immediately!”
Rhodes Formation listened to the controller. Rhodes Two shrugged his shoulders at Demetri, flying about fifty meters away and able to see lo annis clearly.
“Rhodes Formation, this is Corfu Formation. What’s the holdup? We want to go home and we need you here to turn over. Or are you trying to sneak attack us?”
“Corfu Leader, we have unidentified aircraft approaching Chania and Air Defense has asked us to make an identity pass. They’re over the airfield now, so as soon as he tells us who they are we’ll turn back to your area.”
“Roger, we’ll stay on this frequency and monitor.”
Rhodes Leader clicked his mike two times in acknowledgment.
The Air Defense controller slammed the microphone down on the table and with binoculars in hand walked to the front of the tower, mumbling obscenities at the strangers. When alone he seemed to walk without any signs of the wound affecting his left side. He twisted the focus as he visually tracked the unidentified aircraft approaching the runway. The sun blinded him momentarily. He moved his glasses and waited for their flight path to clear the morning sun. When he made out their side numbers Nicholas was going to file violation reports. What the hell did they think they were doing? He reached in a nearby drawer and pulled out the short one-page forms. The Greek government would give it to the American Embassy in Athens and then they could work it out. If they were going to land they’d better lower their landing gear. It would be amusing to see the Americans land with wheels up, even if it closed the runway, like in 1996, when an Orion had used the entire runway — a runway long enough for it to take off and land three times without going around — and still kept going off the end for another hundred yards to crash. He grinned at the thought even as his mind began to register the fact that the aircraft in his binoculars were Libyan Mig-23 fighter-bombers.
The lead aircraft dove from the east, flying parallel to the German built World War II airfield. An air-to-ground missile blasted away from the left pylon, destroying the concrete radar shack at the end of the runway. Thundering by overhead, a series of free-fall iron bombs cascaded from the Mig-23’s wings to explode, cratering the runway.
“Skita!” Nicholas cursed as he dove under the nearby table. The concussion of the bombs blew out the front windows, rattling the half-raised blinds and sending deadly glass shards and metal fragments exploding through the tower. He reached above and pulled the microphone underneath the table with him. Some glass had cut his hand and blood flowed down his fingertips.
“Rhodes Leader, this is Air Defense Control!” he screamed, his voice quaking.
“We are under attack! We are under attack! Minimum seven Mig-23 aircraft attacking the runway!”
“Rhodes Formation, bank right. Afterburners on. Max speed. Line abreast formation. Tallyho!” The four Mirage F-is banked hard to the right, afterburners firing simultaneously.
“Air Defense Control, we are on our way!”
“Armament switches on, Rhodes Formation. Air Defense, Rhodes Formation ten minutes to Chania. Keep talking!”
“Air Defense, this is Corfu Formation. We’re coming too. Inbound at max speed. Twenty minutes until overhead.
Afterburners on, Corfu Formation, right turn, staggered line formation. Rhodes Leader, hold them till we get there! Armament switches on! Tallyho!”
“Rhodes Two!” shouted Corfu Leader, anger in his voice.
“This had better not be one of your jokes!”
“I wish it were, I wish it were,” Rhodes Two answered softly, reaching up beneath his helmet to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Libyans! Skita! Next best thing to them being Turkish.
Rhodes Formation screamed down to eight thousand feet, their contrails marking the path. They listened to the monologue from Air Defense Control as two armed and angry Greek Air Force Mirage F-1 formations scrambled to where Libyan Mig-23s were bombing the airfield the Greeks shared with the Americans.
The Floggers continued the attack, unaware of the inbound Greek fighters.
Rhodes Formation, descending past three thousand feet, roared over the Greek Air Force base east of the airport, five miles from the airfield, shattering the windows in the commanding general’s office and several other command buildings. Small figures of military personnel running across the base flashed through Demetri’s vision. The rising sun, behind them, obscured their arrival from the Libyan bomber pilots, who were executing a turn for another attack run; this time from the west. Smoke rose from the American side of the airfield, where one Air Force tanker, an American Orion aircraft, and two C-130 transports burned.
The fo
ur Mig-23 ground-attack Floggers steadied right as they aligned themselves for another attack against the American Souda Bay Naval Support Activity. The sun re fleeted off their fuselages. Rhodes Leader caught the reflection and saw the telltale bursts as the Floggers’ twenty three-millimeter cannons opened up.
He searched the area, surveying the combat scene, mentally plotting the enemy positions. Demetri looked up and immediately spotted two Mig-23 fighters overhead in tight combat air cover for the bombers. As he watched, the two Migs overhead rolled right and began descending toward them. On the international airport side of the runway a commercial airliner burned, its remains scattered on the tarmac.
The humans, running for cover, looked so vulnerable and tiny from his vantage point. The Americans had no air defense capability at Souda Bay. It was just a transportation and reconnaissance hub — nothing else. Their protection was the responsibility of the Greek Air Force.
“Rhodes Two and Three; two bandits overhead, inbound.
Take them out. Rhodes Four, follow me. We’re going for head-on intercept. Weapons free. Tallyho!”
“We’re coming, Rhodes Leader!” shouted Corfu Leader.
“Hold out until we’re there! And don’t kill them all; save some for us!”
“Corfu, hurry!” Demetri shouted.
“There’s seven bandits!
We’re outnumbered.” He looked down at his weapon systems. Satisfied, he picked out his first target.
Rhodes Two acknowledged as he and Rhodes Three accelerated and pulled back on the throttle. laonnis felt his lips pull tight as the G’s pushed his body deeper into the seat. The Mirages climbed near vertical toward the Mig-23 fighters diving to meet them.
Good luck, thought Demetri as he and Rhodes Four lined up for their run. If Rhodes Two and Three missed their targets, he and Rhodes Four would be easy prey for the Migs headed down. This was going to be low-level combat with little room to maneuver. Rhodes Leader and Rhodes Four flipped to the right.
Then, with a coordinated zigzag into a hard left turn, their left wings pointing straight down at the ground, they came out of the heavy “G” maneuver directly over the east end of the main run way From the other direction, four Mig-23s became aware of the better-trained Greeks ahead, hurrying toward them.
“I have lock-on! One away!” screamed Rhodes Two over the circuit.
Rhodes Leader glanced up just as Rhodes Two’s Matra Mica missile meshed with a Libyan Mig-23, turning the older Russian fighter into a cloud of burning metal and smoke. Pieces of the enemy aircraft cascaded out and rained down. Demetri looked forward at the enemy. The Mig-23 fighter-bombers broke to the right, aborting their attack run.
“Let’s take them out, Rhodes Four!”
“I have lock-on, Rhodes Leader!”
“Fire!”
“Fox one!”
Rhodes Four’s missile dipped below Demetri’s vision before immediately reappearing ahead of him. It weaved through the air at supersonic speed toward the target. Flames from the missile’s rocket engine left a thick thread of curling white smoke behind it. He knew that on the enemy aircraft a series of beeps, increasing in intensity, rang in the enemy pilot’s helmet as the missile closed. From the tail of the Mig-23 a series of Hares, followed by chaff clouds, shot out in an attempt to decoy the air-to-air missile. The Mig pulled up and rolled left in an evasive maneuver against the Matra Mica missile.
On his console, Rhodes Leader lined up the second fighter, achieved lock-on with his fire control radar.
“Fox one!” Demetri shouted into the helmet microphone jammed against his lips by the tightened oxygen mask. “Rhodes Three, swing right. Swing right!” shouted Rhodes Two.
“Flares! Drop flares!”
The Libyan fighters were fighting back.
Rhodes Leader and Rhodes Four passed the end of the runway. The asphalt flashed by, giving way to thick scrub and long-deserted German World War II pillboxes. Rhodes Four’s missile missed the lead aircraft before it gained a lucky lock on the second aircraft that was trying to form up on another Libyan Mig-23. It scored a direct hit. The exploding Mig curved up in a nice arch before it lost momentum and tumbled into the sea. A parachute opened above.
“Break left, Rhodes Four. Rhodes Two, Rhodes Three, this is Rhodes Leader. Scratch one Mig!”
“Roger, Rhodes Leader, scratch one here! Remaining bandit is breaking south, rejoining your three!”
“Air Defense said there were seven!”
“I’ve only counted six, Rhodes Leader.” laonnis’s head searched frantically from side to side for the missing Libyan.
“Maybe one fled when we showed up? You got one and we got one and now there are four heading south.”
“Still one unaccounted for. Rhodes Two, Three; rejoin Rhodes Leader in pursuit! Tallyho!”
“I have lock-on! Fox two!” yelled Rhodes Four as he launched his second missile. The missile drove right up the tail of the trailing Mig-23. The aircraft exploded into a massive fireball. Rhodes Leader and Rhodes Four pulled up on their controls and rode over the conflagration, avoiding the falling debris that filled the sky ahead of them. No parachute came from the Mig.
“Yasoo, Ya Guppy Moo!” shouted Rhodes Two. “This is better than sex, Demetri. You should see what I have between my legs now!” laonnis reached down and tugged his crotch.
Rhodes Two and Rhodes Three pulled up alongside Rhodes Leader and Rhodes Four. Rhodes Two executed a victory roll.
“Steady, lo annis Rhodes Leader ordered.
“No names, please. You may call me “Ace,” ” lo annis answered.
“Now, let’s add to our scorecard and tonight, Demetri, you may buy the Metaxa as the women caress and smother me with kisses as they congratulate me on my victories.”
The four Greek Mirage F-l aircraft tore off in angry pursuit of the fleeing Libyan Mig-23 aircraft. Thirty miles south of Crete Corfu Formation joined Rhodes for a few minutes before low fuel forced the second Mirage formation to break off. Chania Airfield was untenable when Corfu Formation soared overhead. With crossed fingers and red-flashing low fuel lights, Corfu Formation continued to Herakiion and landed safely.
Fifty miles south of the airfield, Rhodes Leader ordered break-off when the Migs disappeared into the haze surrounding the North African landmass. Thirty minutes later, during their return to Crete, his formation was intercepted by eight fully armed Greek Mirage F-is. Two escorted the first air heroes of the twenty-first century back to the mainland.
The other six established a combat air patrol between Greece and Libya like angry hornets searching for something to sting.
In the deepwater port of Souda Bay, Greek sailors rushed to their ships as the Greek destroyers and frigates began casting off lines. Gun crews scurried to unlimber their weapons. New white surface-to-air missiles slid out onto the rails of the ships’ SAM batteries. By the time Rhodes Formation landed in Heraklion thirty-three minutes later, two gas turbine-powered Greek Navy frigates, which had arrived the day before for a port visit, were knifing through the water at twenty knots as they departed the deepwater bay.
* * *
The aged swept-wing Tupelov-20 jet bomber flew low over the coast, startling the midmorning beachcombers, some walking their dogs, others searching the sands with metal detectors, and the few early morning sun worshippers who had already staked out their part of the beach.
The flight path circumvented the port city of Catania in favor of the direct route to NATO’s Sigonella Air Base.
“Salim,” the copilot said, “look in the harbor. An American warship.”
Salim leaned forward to peer out the copilot’s window.
“It is not a warship, Aboul. It is what the Americans call an auxiliary. It’s an oiler. Or, one of their pre positioning ships.”
“I think we should bomb it.”
“We shall see, we shall see,” Salim, the older pilot at thirty-three, replied. Salim was a Taureq Bedouin; a member of a hidden tribe of Saharan warrior-herders
who had kept the French from conquering the interior for over one hundred years. He was only six years older than Aboul. He also knew he was the only Taureq to ever become a pilot, even if the plane he flew was an aged, cantankerous bomber.
Salim had joined the Libyan Air Force fifteen years ago after spending a lifetime of moving with the tribe between Tripoli and the interior, trading and racing camels and selling sheep to the city dwellers and stealing the few odds and ends that drifted their way. During his last visit with the tribe to Tripoli, Qaddafi’s draft board — a patrol of five soldiers — grabbed him and he disappeared directly into the military amidst the screams and oddle-op ping of his mother and sisters. Although determined to run away, each day brought Salim new curiosities of the modern world. Within weeks he discovered military life to be easier than plodding the desert, food more plentiful and sleeping on a cot much more comfortable than the desert floor. Also, by five months he had decided he was going to fly the aircraft that daily passed over the armed camp. By then, his tribe would have had to kidnap him to rescue him. Salim was hooked.
A year later, he finished technician school and three years later the Libyan military, in a gracious and short moment of equal opportunity, decided to give the ignorant Taureq a chance in flight school. Salim was not surprised to discover his superiors never expected him to graduate.
The three Tripoli Mig-25s and four Benghazi Mig-23s, flying above the Tupelov, broke off and ascended to four thousand feet. The TU-20 and Mig-23 formation quickly covered the final ten miles to the defenseless NATO base.
Above them, the Mig-25 Foxbat fighter aircraft began a defensive fighter patrol to protect them during their mission.
“I see the base, Salim,” Aboul said. He thought Salim had a lot of common sense, for a Taureq. But Taureqs were known to die for nothing, his father had warned when Aboul told him who his pilot commander was. They would charge over a dune, with their ancient rifles misfiring, into the face of modern weapons and never understand why they died, when they outnumbered the victims they sought to massacre.
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