The Sixth Fleet

by David E. Meadows

  “Aboul, our first run will be against the apron. How stupid!

  The aircraft are packed side by side. Why is that, you think, my friend?” Salim asked.

  “That’s what happens when you station more aircraft than the airfield will handle tactically, Salim.”

  “Red Formation,” Salim called to the two Mig-23s with him, “Blinder One on final with bomb bay doors open.

  First run on aircraft, second along runway, and third against the hangars.”

  “Roger, Blinder One. Good shooting! I’m straight in to outer taxiway. Making my run,” said Red Leader.

  “Blinder, I am taking the buildings to the right of the road,” Red Two reported. To the right of the road, four four-story buildings dominated the ball fields, small exchange, and mess hall. The four-story brick buildings housed the bachelor officer and enlisted personnel.

  Salim clicked his microphone twice to acknowledge the reports from the two ground attack-configured Mig-23s.

  The Blinder descended another five hundred feet, leveling off at two hundred feet. The two Floggers followed suit. Ahead a small passenger jet taxied to the runway.

  Salim keyed his mike and pointed the taxiing target out to the Rogger on his right.

  Red Two fired his cannon at it. The shells laced the top of the V. I.P aircraft. The aircraft exploded. A dark cloud of debris and burning fuel rocketed into the air behind the Flogger as it overflew the destroyed aircraft.

  “Five, four, three, two, one. Bombs away!” Salim yelled over the intercom while simultaneously pressing the red button on his armament control stick.

  The bombs caused the aircraft to jerk sharply as each fell away. Salim and Aboul bit their lips as they fought the controls to trim the aircraft. Moments later the concussion from the massive explosions rocked the aircraft as the four five-hundred-pound bombs hit the apron. Seconds later, other explosions echoed behind them. Aboul reached over and slapped Salim on the shoulder.

  “Salim, we have just erased American Navy’s air force.”

  He chuckled.

  “Not hardly, Aboul. Is the sergeant photographing this as he’s supposed to?”

  Aboul leaned back and looked around the flight engineer, who sat on a raised platform above the pilots monitoring the fuel, oil, and hydraulic gauges of the old bomber.

  “Yes, my friend. They are photographing.”

  “Red Formation,” Salim called, “first run complete. Am turning for second.”

  Salim turned the steering control as his feet pushed the left pedal to shift the tail flap. He pulled the left throttle back slightly. The TU-20 banked left at a thirty-degree angle. The two Mig-23 Floggers dove beneath the Libyan bomber and began a strafing run on a row of transport aircraft parked near the ASCOMED hangar. They executed a victory roll as the transports disappeared in a blaze of fire and metal. Human stick figures ran from the scene in all directions of the compass. Two had flames rising from the back of their shirts where burning fuel had splattered and stuck.

  “Blinder One, you will have to hurry,” warned Aswad Leader, flying fighter protection overhead.

  “Our radars reflect bandits approaching from the west. Four slow movers coming from two seven zero true and definite highperformance fighters inbound from the northwest. ETA is twelve minutes. Estimate your time to complete mission?”

  “Aswad Leader, I need another fifteen minutes to fully unload my cargo.”

  “I am sending two to intercept the slow movers. You have ten minutes, Blinder One. We are going to have company sooner than we expected.”

  Salim clicked his microphone twice. Damn! That left only Aswad Leader overhead to provide air protection. He needed more time to drop his load and Salim had no intention of leaving before he finished his mission. He glanced at Aboul, not surprised to see sweat running down the copilot’s face.

  “You heard, Aboul. We have time for one more run.

  What do you recommend?”

  “Let’s go for the towers and the hangars, Salim. Runway repair is easy. Constructing a building is another thing.”

  Aboul licked his dry lips.

  “Okay, we will switch runs two and three,” Salim told Aboul. Then he reported to Aswad Leader, the Mig-25 pilot in charge of the operation.

  “I am turning for run number three and, if we have time, we will go for the runway.”

  “Roger, Blinder One,” Aswad Leader replied.

  “Just hurry. The four aircraft coming from the northwest will arrive first and our warning devices identify them as F-16 Falcons. We should have interception in five minutes with the slow movers.”

  The TU-20 finished its turn to the northwest, lined up for the attack run along the flight line, and ascended to one hundred feet to avoid some of the concussion.

  “Bomb crew, as soon as this run is completed, line up the number three rack for immediate drop,” ordered Salim.

  There was still the gray American ship in the harbor, if he failed to drop all of his bombs.

  Salim throttled back. The cumbersome bomber slowed to two hundred fifty knots. The wings swept out to compensate for the reduced air speed.

  “Okay, five, four, three, two, one. Bombs away!”

  The first five-hundred-pound bomb hit one hundred feet from the main terminal. The second pierced the roof to explode inside, killing over a hundred Americans and Italians seeking shelter there. The third penetrated the larger hangar near the terminal and the fourth exploded on the perimeter road that ran along the security fence. The aircraft veered slightly to line up the next target.

  The Mig-23 to Salim’s left commenced a strafing dive toward a group of buildings. As it pulled up, free fall iron bombs fell, exploding as they hit the ground and the buildings.

  The cannon fire from the second Mig-23 started a series of explosions in the ammo dumps north of the airfield.

  “Ready!” came the call from the TU-20 crew chief standing over the open bomb bay doors with his hand on the bomb release lever, his eyes watching for the green light that would come on when Salim pressed the red button.

  “Bombs away!” Salim shouted, pressing the red button again. His thumb felt numb from the pressure exerted on the button even though he knew all it did was turn on the green light and release the safety mechanism to permit the bombs to fall.

  The crew chief saw the green light and pulled the lever.

  Four bombs cascaded out. The first hit the apron in front of the largest hangar on the airfield, destroying two small C-12 prop passenger aircraft parked side by side. The second pierced the roof of another hangar, exploded, and sent a large burst of flame and boiling smoke rolling out the opened entrances. The EP-3E and a P-3C, parked inside for routine maintenance, followed the initial explosion with their own, sending the remnants of the roof and sides hurling upward and outward. The third bomb hit an abandoned building surrounded by double rows of barbwire fence. The fourth bomb exploded on the taxiway, obliterating a hundred-foot section of heavy asphalt in a shower of concrete and dirt.

  “Look at them run, Salim! Like ants and we are the exterminators, no?”

  The glee in Aboul’s voice irritated Salim.

  Behind them, deadly infernos filled the bright daylight with dirty, tumbling clouds of smoke obscuring the parking apron and rolling across the road to join the dark smoke pouring from the burning buildings.

  “Blinder, let’s go. The slow movers are American Harriers.

  Let’s go! The Harrier fighters have shot down Aswad Two. Aswad Three is headed south and will rendezvous with us. The four are inbound; ETA eight minutes! The F-16s will be here in five. We are going!”

  Salim banked the aircraft hard to the right. The hydraulic sounds of the bomb racks moving into proper position, and the coppery smell of the red fluid, intermeshed with the sounds of increased power as the jet bomber turned.

  “Last run, Aswad Leader. Give me time for this last run!” Salim heard two clicks in his headset.

  A flash flew by the TU-20 pilot’s
right window.

  “Missile!” screamed Aboul.

  “They’re firing missiles at us. The warning beeper didn’t work!” A dark stain spread in the crotch of the copilot’s flight suit.

  “Handheld heat seekers, Aboul. Release flares now!”

  From the tail of the Tupelov a line of four flares shot out. A second missile decoyed into the second flare.

  “Aswad Formation, we are taking missile fire!”

  “Blinder, we see it. Red Leader, take out the position.

  Blinder, you have two minutes.”

  Near a burning building, a group of Italian airmen aimed another shoulder-launched SAM at the Tupelov. The Mig23 rolled left in a tight turn and headed for them. Red Leader fired his cannon, sending all but two of the Italian airmen scrambling for cover.

  The Italian Air Force officer and the SAM operator crouched, but stood their position. Their heads followed the approach and the departure of the Mig. Red Leader shoved his power controls all the way forward and pulled back on the throttle, sending the Mig into a near vertical climb.

  The Italian officer slapped the noncom’s shoulder. The surface-to-air missile blasted out of the army green tube.

  Flares rocketed down from the Mig, but the missile traveled up, nicking each flare like checkpoints on a road map, before disappearing into the white-hot afterburner. The Mig-23 blew apart. Its burning fuselage sailed another fifty feet before it tumbled down to explode on the runway.

  “Salim! They got him!”

  “Shut up, Aboul. We’ve one more run to do.”

  “No, Salim, we must go, now!” He reached over and shook Salim’s shoulder.

  “We need to go!” he cried, terror showing on his face. Wide-eyed, fear drained his face. Aboul’s head twitched back and forth as he reached forward.

  Salim reached over and slapped Aboul’s hands away from the controls.

  “No! Don’t touch anything! We have one more run and we will do it!” Aboul grabbed him. Salim pushed Aboul’s hand off him.

  “Stay calm!”

  He saw where Aboul had wet himself and Salim’s lips curled in disgust.

  From the other side of the runway Red Two roared toward the Italian SAM team, his cannon shells tearing up the pavement and soil as he bore in to avenge Red Leader.

  On the ground, the Italian officer drew his pistol and fired at the attacking Mig, methodically pulling the trigger, one bullet after another. A third noncom ran out of the nearby building with another handheld SAM canister bouncing on his shoulder. He kneeled and fired. Red Two discharged a series of flares and rocked the Flogger to the left. The missile locked on the heat of the magnesium flares and passed harmlessly behind the Libyan fighter. The ground in front of the SAM team erupted into small geysers of dirt and asphalt as the twenty-three-millimeter shells raced toward the Italians.

  The officer touched the SAM operator, held up one finger, and shook his head. The kneeling airman nodded, licked his dry lips, and forced himself to ease the pressure off his trigger finger. He knew, as well as the officer, that they needed a rear-hemispheric shot for the infrared homer to work.

  The sergeant who had fired the missile that missed tossed the empty canister to the ground, stood to attention, and stuck his left arm into the crook of his raised right arm as he faced the approaching Mig. The Mig veered slightly to align the bullets with the stationary men. The sergeant dove to the side. Cannon shells tore up the ground where a moment before he had flicked off the Libyan.

  The officer and airman never moved. As the Libyan fighter passed overhead, the airman whirled the SAM canister around. The Italian officer slapped him on the back.

  The airman fired their last missile. The missile, trailing a corkscrew contrail, veered slightly right and struck the rear exhaust of the Flogger, blowing its tail off. The aircraft, already vertical in its climb, whirled over with its nose pointing down to a field on the other side of the perimeter road. The nose cone hit first. The Mig crumbled in upon itself before a massive explosion from the remaining fuel and bombs knocked the Italian heroes off their feet as a rolling black cloud of flame and shrapnel rose over one hundred feet into the air.

  The Blinder bomb crew reported over the intercom to Salim that the last rack was in place.

  “Hold tight. Last run and we’ll head for home,” Salim said calmly. He glanced at his copilot, who lay quietly with his head resting on the cockpit window, his eyes shut and moaning. Salim thought that if he had his gun, the least he would do would be to pistol-whip the coward.

  He twisted the wheel hard to the right, causing the old bird to groan in protest as it banked into a hard right turn.

  The plane came out of the turn perfectly in line with the runway. Salim nosed the aircraft slightly up and when the runway disappeared beneath the bomber he shouted, “Bombs away!” and hit the red button. He always wanted to say that.

  The first three bombs hit the grassy area between the damaged taxiway and the main runway. The fourth five hundred-pounder carved a hundred-foot-wide, twenty-foot deep crater in the middle of the runway, completing the shutdown of Sigonella Airfield. “Red Formation, Blinder One; we are done,” Salim called, knowing that only the two Mig-23s attacking the other base were all that remained of Red Formation. He pushed the throttles forward and pulled back on the steering controls. The large bomber began to climb.

  There was no answer.

  “This is Aswad Leader, Blinder. Forget Red Leader and Red Two. Take evasive action and return to home plate.

  We will re-form on you as you head out.”

  Two minutes later the Libyan attack formation of one Mig-25 Foxbat and two Benghazi Mig-23s formed around the antiquated TU-20 Blinder as it crossed the Italian coast of Sicily at eight thousand feet heading south at Mach one.

  The second Mig-25 joined them twenty miles further south.

  “Where are the other aircraft?” Salim asked Aswad Leader.

  “I have ordered the Benghazi aircraft to return to their base.”

  “How many did we lose?”

  “Blinder One, maintain radio silence,” Aswad Leader replied curtly.

  Salim saw Aboul reach forward and take the steering controls.

  “We have done good, Aboul,” he said, as if nothing had happened.

  Four minutes later the Italian F-16 fighters reached Sigonella.

  “Pronto, Sigonella Control, this is Etna Formation,” said Etna Leader. Colonel Antonio Lopez was a tall, dark-haired “Valentine” who was fifth-generation Italian. His ancestors originally migrated from Spain in the mid eighteenth century as military officers and palace retainers for the king and queen of Naples, who were Spanish. He was the fifth generation of Lopezes who had made the military their career. His great-grandfather fought in World War I and his grandfather fought in Libya and Ethiopia during World War II. His father led the transfer of allegiance from the Army to the Air Force, to much derision from his grandfather.

  Antonio had eight years of Air Force service under his belt, but other than defensive fighter patrols over the Balkans, this was his first combat action. He wondered what his father would do and, at the same time, swore that as a Lopez, he would live up to the family name and honor. He glanced up as if suspecting his grandfathers of watching him — God rest their souls. He quickly crossed himself.

  “Etna Leader, we are under attack! Large swept-wing bomber with Libyan colors escorted by minimum of two Mig-23 aircraft,” shouted the Italian Sigonella air terminal controller to the arriving fighter formation.

  “There are fighters overhead. Two enemy aircraft destroyed. Blinder heading south from airfield.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “They are fifty miles south on a course of one eight zero at approximate altitude seven thousand five hundred meters.”

  “Roger, this is Etna Formation. We are engaging. Talk us to them, Sigonella Control.”

  “Sorry, Etna Formation. My radar is damaged. I am transferring everything to Italian Air Defense C
ontrol at Groseta. Be advised that to your west are four American Marine Corps Harriers approaching Sigonella. We watched them engage the Libyan fighters before our radar was destroyed.

  They reported shoot-down of one Foxbat.”

  The F-16 Fighting Falcons turned noses up, afterburners blazing, and wasted two minutes overhead searching for the Libyan fighter formation.

  “Sigonella Control, there is nothing here!” Antonio Lopez snapped.

  “Then they departed with the bomber.”

  “Etna Formation, form on me!” Antonio yelled. He twisted the aircraft to the left and came out of the dive at eight thousand meters, his F-16 screaming southward.

  A minute later the loose diamond F-16 formation broke the sound barrier as it passed the coast of Sicily. Windows shattered as the sonic boom rode its crest through the port city of Catania. The front window of one insurance company burst. The owner-agent brushed the bits of glass off his suit, saw the damage along the street, reached down, unplugged his phone, stepped through the broken window, and walked across the street to the nearby bistro. It was time for a holiday.

  Fifteen minutes later the escaping Libyans with the pursuing Italian fighter aircraft were forty miles apart when the Libyans passed the thirty-sixth parallel west of Malta.

  “Etna Leader, this is Groseta Air Defense Control. We have lost contact with the Libyan formation. Last course plots them inbound to Tripoli.” The Italian Air Defense controller paused.

  Etna Leader heard the controller arguing with someone in the background. Finally the controller came back on the radio.

  “Etna, return to base. What is your fuel state?”

  “No, we have sufficient fuel to continue pursuit. We have the enemy on our radars and can do local intercept.”

  His grandfathers would never forgive him for turning back.