Flash Point

by James W. Huston

  Zev aimed carefully through his scope and pulled the trigger on his Remington 500 sniper rifle. “One dead,” he announced coolly. “Many more behind him. Maybe five hundred yards away.”

  “Got him!” the ALLTV sensor operator said. He saw a streak from the firefly coming from the top of a hill, lower than the one they had been searching diligently with all their sensors. He zoomed in on the hill with the IR sensor as the TV stayed locked on the ZSU, which was now moving. Its operators realized that if they were to have any chance at survival they had to get away from this invisible airplane with too many guns. They could shoot wildly without directing the fire while on the move, but at least that way they might live to shoot another day.

  In the lead Spooky, the Fire Control Officer watched the movement with comfort. He smiled to himself. You can run, but you just die tired. The ZSU could no longer shoot at them effectively. In the back the airman tossed the brass shell casing from the 105 into a large square box bolted to the ramp of the airplane, then turned quickly and grabbed another of the fifty-pound shells from the rack and slammed it into the breach of the howitzer.

  Suddenly the IR sensor operator exclaimed, “Multiple bad guys closing in on our airmen!” He had seen the whitish figures on the dark green background moving up the hill toward the figure with the streak from the firefly. “We’ve got to get some fire on them.”

  Through his night-vision devices the Spooky pilot watched the distant men scramble over the boulders toward the Americans. “Get the 25-millimeter on them!” he cried.

  “Redirecting the 25-millimeter to antipersonnel!” the Fire Control Officer declared, training the Gatling gun on the men who could now be seen clearly on the ALLTV. The officer began firing the 25-millimeter gun at eighteen hundred rounds per minute, its maximum rate of fire.

  Woods ducked as the 25-millimeter rounds began raining down on the hill five hundred yards from them, splintering rocks and sounding like the Indy 500 with all the cars crashing into each other.

  Zev was watching through his scope. “They are stopping those that aren’t getting hit. That will at least keep them there.” He looked at Woods. “Where are the helicopters? We must get out of here!”

  42

  The first ZSU-23 locked on to the Spooky quickly. It erupted again and its 23-millimeter cannons lit up everything around, making the valley look like a small room filled with anger and flame. The sky fired back as the Spooky rolled high over the hill and zeroed its battery of angry guns on the ZSU. The darkness was full of muzzle blasts on the ground and in the air as the antiaircraft battery and the mobile airplane hammered at each other.

  The Spooky quickly got the upper hand, its jammers confusing the ZSU’s radar. Each time the radar would lock, the electronic countermeasures of the Spooky would pull it off, directing the ZSU’s bullets elsewhere. The 105-millimeter Spectre cannon pumped shell after shell out of the airplane at the armored vehicle. The howitzer was accompanied by the blinding fury of the 40-millimeter gun next to it.

  Woods, Wink, and Zev crouched behind a massive boulder and listened to the gun duel between the meanest antiaircraft gun in the world and the meanest airborne gun platform in the world. The bullets flew back and forth, thousands of rounds of steel flying along the same path, like a bullet freeway.

  The howitzer blasted out shell after shell. Suddenly a 105 round found its mark slammed into the turret of the ZSU. The vehicle and its barrels erupted in flames and explosions, causing a blinding white flash on the TV and the IR.

  The pilot in the lead Spooky radioed the second plane. “Scratch one ZSU. How you coming?”

  “Seconds away. We’ll get him.”

  “Yours a nonfactor for the evacuation?”

  “Concur.”

  “Roger. Break, Grommett Niner Six, you’re cleared in. Call when 1 mile out.”

  The Captain of the lead Pave Low heard all he needed. “Grommett Niner Six is in. Wilco,” he called. They were two miles away. He started the dark gray ship up the hill toward the Americans.

  The gunfire had increased. Those Assassins who had survived the onslaught of the 25-millimeter gun from the dark sky had found safe spots from which to shoot. They were firing their AKs on automatic now, knowing this was their one and only chance. They wanted to do it for the Sheikh.

  The Fire Control Officer in the Spooky could see the muzzle blasts from their AKs with his IR and TV. The ZSU was dead. He turned the 105- and the 40-millimeter guns on the intruders. “Bringing all to bear,” he announced. Everyone in the Spooky, all on the same ICS, nodded as the three guns began firing at their maximum rate of fire at the twenty or so remaining Assassins.

  Woods couldn’t believe his ears. The noise of the shells hitting the mountain and the boulders was like the Indy car wreck now joined by two or three train collisions. Shells slammed into the rocks all around the Assassins, shattering the boulders and anything near them. Jagged splinters of rock flew out for hundreds of feet as the shells hit again and again, without stopping: no pause, no mercy, just an unrelenting, unceasing rain of steel and terror.

  “One mile out,” the Captain declared as the Pave Low climbed up the backside of the mountain, his wingman one mile behind him. He called Woods on the radio. “Watchmaker, Grommett Niner Six coming up your backside. Are you armed?”

  The men on the Spookies stopped shooting when they saw the Pave Low approach the top of the hill. They began a new pylon turn, keeping the remaining Assassins on their scopes, ready to shoot again as soon as the Pave Lows were out of harm’s way.

  “Affirmative!” Woods cried through the din.

  “Put down all your weapons, now,” the Captain ordered.

  Woods couldn’t believe his ears. A few Assassins were now only two hundred yards away. “Say again?”

  “Put down all weapons—“

  “They’re shooting at us!”

  “Roger, sir, we’ll be doing the shooting for you.”

  Suddenly the Pave Low screamed up over the backside of the hill and hovered directly over Woods, Zev, and Wink at twenty feet. The two gunners from the Pave Low leaned out the doors on either side of the Pave Low and began firing 7.62-millimeter Gatling guns in the direction of the hidden Assassins.

  Woods, on one knee, put his Beretta back in his survival vest. “Put your gun down!” he yelled at Zev, who hesitated.

  Suddenly four large, thick ropes toppled out of the helicopter hovering above their heads and the commandos, wearing helmets and night-vision goggles, zipped down the ropes and hit the ground. The first ones to touch down began shooting from automatic weapons as they charged toward the remaining Assassins to set up a perimeter around Woods and the others.

  The commando leader went directly to Zev and threw him to the ground. Zev resisted and reached for his rifle. Another soldier picked up the sniper rifle and held it away.

  Woods was suddenly thrown to the ground from behind, his helmet pivoting slightly as his head hit the dirt. He felt himself being turned onto his stomach, the roar of the helicopter lessening as it pulled away. The gunfight was now just men against other men. Wink was tackled next, and Woods heard him cry out, “Shit! My knee!” One of the men muttered “Sorry, sir.”

  “You Lieutenant Woods?” someone asked Woods.

  “Yeah, what are you holding me down for—”

  “Should have been two people here. When we have too many people we sort it out later.”

  “There’s no need for this—”

  “Give me your hands, please,” the commando leader said. He pulled plastic handcuffs out of a hidden pocket and expertly cuffed Woods’s hands together behind his back.

  “Who are you?” Woods asked.

  “We’re here to get you out.” The leader glanced over at his men who were giving Wink and Zev the same treatment. They nodded at him. He spoke to Woods. “I’m gonna go find a place to get the helicopter back in here to get us out. Stay here.”

  Woods tried to sit up, but it was difficult and awkward. He
could hear the Assassins’ bullets ripping over their heads, the commandos returning fire furiously at the remaining men.

  The commando leader returned to where Woods, Zev, and Wink lay on the dirt near the top of the hill. He spoke into a lip mike. “Let’s go!” Two commandos each grabbed the bound men and headed quickly toward the top of the hill on the other side, in view of the flaming ZSU. The Pave Low came in low and fast, stopped in mid-air in a thundering nose-high maneuver. The enormous helicopter settled down toward the ground slowly as the Assassins suddenly realized what was happening and turned their attention to the chopper. Their AK-47 bullets banged harmlessly into the armor plating on the side of the plane as the commandos hurried toward it, their three captives in tow.

  The Captain touched his landing gear down on the uneven hill but kept the helicopter in a hover so the gear wasn’t called on to absorb the weight of the ship. He lowered the ramp. The commando captain ran the last few feet to the chopper and handed Woods over to the commandos waiting inside. They grabbed him by the arms and pulled him hard up the ramp into the belly of the screaming helicopter. Zev was next and was hustled inside unceremoniously.

  Inside the helicopter the waiting commandos yelled at Woods. “We need you on the deck, sir,” pushing him down to the hard steel floor of the chopper covered only with a Kevlar blanket. Woods went down reluctantly but quickly, and the commando put a plastic tie around his ankles. He then lashed Woods to the deck through several hard points in the helicopter. Woods couldn’t move at all. He could see Zev across from him receiving the same treatment. “I’m sure glad I invited you!” Woods yelled.

  Farouk refused to give up and let them get away. He was tired of firing from his protected position while the Americans were near success. He knew he must be courageous. He stood up and aimed at the helicopter a hundred yards away, firing continuously.

  The commandos pulling Wink had moved more slowly out of concern for his tender knee. They’d reached the ramp and were handing him over to the men inside when the commando on Wink’s left was thrown to the ground by the force of several of Farouk’s AK-47 bullets hitting him in the back. He cried out as he fell. Wink’s body jerked as he was hit and he lurched forward. The waiting commandos quickly pulled him up into the helicopter and shouted for the medic.

  The gunner in the Pave Low saw Farouk clearly through his night-vision devices and turned his 7.62-millimeter Gatling gun on him. He pulled the trigger and walked the angry fire hose of red tracers into Farouk’s body, watching as the bullets tore into him. He then turned his gun on the handful of remaining Assassins, who stayed hidden and fired occasionally by extending a weapon from behind a boulder.

  Thankful for his bulletproof flak jacket, the commando who had been hit by Farouk’s bullets stood up and climbed aboard the helicopter, “You okay?” the commando leader yelled. The man nodded.

  Zev looked at Woods and pointed with his head toward Wink. Woods saw them working on Wink, trying to stop the bleeding from his back. “Wink!” Woods shouted, trying to move across the deck to get closer to his friend. “Wink!” He strained against the lines holding him down and tried to get free. “Get these lines off me!” he yelled furiously.

  The helicopter lifted up from the landing zone as the bullets continued to plink off the side of the behemoth and its armor plating, moving quickly to its left and heading down the side of the mountain ten feet above the boulders. Wink wasn’t moving.

  “Wink!” Woods yelled again, his eyes growing damp.

  “What?” Wink replied, his voice full of pain.

  “You okay?”

  “No. Those mothers shot me in the back. It hurts like hell,” he said.

  The medic turned toward Woods. “He took a couple of ricochets in the back.” Quickly slicing through the plastic ties binding Wink’s wrists behind his back, the man began cutting away his flight suit. “No organs though,” he said as he examined the wounds. “He should be okay.”

  “Thank you, God,” Woods said as he relaxed and quit fighting the lines holding him and the plastic ties around his wrists and ankles.

  The second Pave Low crested the top of the mountain and hovered just off the ground as the first one had. The commandos still on the ground began a slow calculated movement toward the helicopter as they continued to receive opposing fire from the three or four Assassins now remaining. They returned fire, much more accurately, accompanied by the guns of the Pave Low. They made it into the helicopter one by one until there were only four men on the ground returning the Assassins’ fire. On a radio signal from the pilot the rest of the commandos dashed up the ramp into the armored chopper and it lifted off the top of the mountain, its guns still firing their angry red tracers at the small muzzle flashes coming their way.

  As the helicopter rose, the Assassin who had been lying next to Farouk saw the shoulder-fired SAM that Farouk had been about to use. Dropping his AK-47, he stood up to use the missile, but as he did so the helicopter dropped below the summit, out of sight. Suddenly, it was quiet. The Assassin lowered the SAM in frustration.

  “Two’s clear,” the pilot of the second Pave Low transmitted.

  The Fire Control Officer in the Spooky orbiting above the hill had been watching the fight on his ALLTV. He had kept his crosshairs on the Assassins the entire time, not willing to shoot with American forces so close. His mouth suddenly went dry as he saw one of the Assassins stand and aim a shoulder-fired missile in his direction. He had waited an eternity for the second Pave Low to call clear. He was ready and fired the 105 at the man, the shell missing by many feet. “Shit,” he muttered. He directed the other two guns on the Assassins and put them on maximum fire as the airman in the back loaded another fifty-pound shell in the 105. The bullets rained down, but not before the Assassin fired his missile at the black sky raining death down on him.

  The missile flew out of the tube at the end of a red-hot rocket motor just as a 40-millimeter shell tore the man apart. He dropped as the rocks around him splintered and severed the other two remaining Assassins.

  “SAM! SAM!” the IR sensor operator screamed into the intercom aboard the Spooky.

  The pilot of the Spooky reached behind him to his left and grabbed a handle hanging on the bulkhead with a long cable attached to it. He quickly squeezed one of the buttons and several flares dropped out of the back of the AC-130U as the pilot pulled up into a steep climb. The copilot was already pushing the throttles to their stops. As the flares lit up the sky around them, they climbed away and took a steep left turn to put the climbing SAM on their beam. The pilot pushed the yoke forward and the Spooky went into a steep dive.

  Behind them the SA-7 missile continued to climb, but it was more interested in the flares than it was in the diving airplane. It slammed into one of the brightly burning flares and expired five hundred yards behind them.

  The Spooky pilot leveled off, climbed back up to altitude, and headed west. “One’s off,” he transmitted.

  “Two’s off, we’re right behind you.”

  The Pave Low carrying Woods and the others came to the valley floor and headed west and north, going at the helicopter’s top speed.

  One of the commandos bent down and untied Woods from the deck. He helped him sit up. “You okay, sir?”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “Where’s your ID, sir?”

  “In my wallet in my pocket. Chest pocket. Left.”

  The commando reached into the pocket of Woods’s flight suit. He pulled out the wallet and saw the ID in the plastic window. He shined the flashlight on it, then on Woods’s face. “What’s your Social?”

  “Five six three, three three, five seven seven eight.”

  The man reached behind Woods with a knife and cut the plastic ties on his wrists and feet, then undid his handcuffs.

  “Thanks,” Woods said. He rubbed his wrists and crawled aft to Wink. “You okay, bud?”

  “Yeah. It hurts, but I’m okay.” He rolled slightly toward Woods. “I want a Purple Heart. Thi
nk this qualifies?”

  “Has to.”

  Wink nodded. “’Cause if it didn’t, I was going to write to that congressman of yours. He’d make it right.”

  “I’m sure he would.” Woods smiled. “Let me know if you need anything.” He stood up and staggered to the bench seat. The crew chief strapped him in. It was loud inside but smoother than he had expected, only an occasional bump as they flew along close to the desert floor. The Pave Low beat its way quickly toward Turkey, and safety.

  Woods leaned his head back against the bulkhead as he sat motionless. Zev’s hands were still handcuffed and bound together as he lay on the deck. Woods rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t realized how tired he was. He thought of sleep, but he wanted to be completely aware of everything that happened the entire way back to safety. He looked at one of the commandos and pointed to Zev, still lashed to the deck like a menacing shark. “You going to let him up?”

  “No, sir. No idea who he is.”

  Woods wasn’t buying that. He found the commando captain. “Let him up,” he said, pointing at Zev.

  “Don’t know who he is, sir.”

  “I’ll tell you who he is,” Woods shouted angrily. “He saved our lives on the ground back there. He hid us out for a day and put his own life in danger. He was the one who told us we succeeded in getting the Sheikh, and if we hadn’t, he’d have done it himself. Now let him up!”

  “I’ll let him off the deck, but I’m not going to undo his hands.”

  “Fine,” Woods said.

  The man crossed to Zev and unleashed the lines holding him down. Zev nodded gratefully and joined Woods on the bench seat. The crew chief tossed Woods a helmet, which Woods put on Zev’s head. He strapped Zev into the seat next to him. As the helicopter bounced through some rough air, Woods and Zev put their heads back against the bulkhead and closed their eyes. In spite of Woods’s determination to stay awake, he dozed off.