Fire Arrow

by Franklin Allen Leib

  “Speculate,” directed Admiral Wilson.

  “I would say not, Admiral,” said the professor, as he seemed to shrink into his rumpled suit. “Abu Salaam is unmindful of the influence of any man, even Baruni. It is even said that he believes he is the Mahdi, the Messenger of God.”

  “Thank you, Professor,” said the admiral very quietly. Doctor Masad nodded and shuffled out of the conference room, his head bowed.

  Moscow, 2000 GMT (2300 Moscow Local)

  Ilya Antonovich Doryatkin, the Foreign Minister of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, lifted the bottle of Polish herb vodka and filled the glasses in front of the three men seated around the end of the huge conference table. The General Secretary of the Communist party of the Soviet Union and the chairman of the Committee on State Security (KGB) each raised his glass and drank, and then the stocky, red-faced Foreign Minister resumed speaking.

  “Comrades, this incident in Libya comes at a bad time. We have been trying to move the Americans to a more reasonable posture on arms control, and on trade and technology.”

  “Nevertheless, it has happened,” commented Mikhail Ivanovich Nevsky, the head of the KGB and always the hardest line against improving state relations with the U.S., “and we might as well make the best of it.”

  Doryatkin glanced at the General Secretary, looking for support. He saw a tired old man, fighting against emphysema for each succeeding breath. Doryatkin continued. “Agreed, Comrade, but what good can be made of this? We have told Baruni to end this crisis, to force the terrorists to send the Americans to some neutral country or to neutralize the terrorists himself. He refuses!” The Foreign Minister waved his arms above his head and paced the room. He stopped in front of a map of North Africa and jabbed at the area around Tripoli with a thick, nicotine-stained finger. “What the fuck do we support these petty dictators for if they won’t do as we wish?” The last was a swipe, however feeble, at the head of the KGB, who had long been a supporter of Baruni in that he willfully, even gleefully, transhipped Soviet materiel to movements of “national liberation” from El Salvador to the Philippines. Nevsky smiled coldly, and the General Secretary continued to breathe noisily, while dabbing his watery eyes with a handkerchief.

  The Foreign Minister ran his finger around the outline of Libya on the map. “We now have Baruni giving the Americans a perfect reason to invade Libya, and to eliminate its airstrips and its ground-to-air defenses - the only things in the entire country worth having should we ever want to attack the Middle East or deep into Africa.”

  “If the Americans attack,” said Nevsky carefully, “what assets do we have at risk, Comrade?”

  Doryatkin wished the Defense Minister, old Marshal Tikunin, were present at the meeting, but he was attending a Warsaw Pact exercise in Hungary. The old man was an ally, at least most of the time, against the ambitious head of the KGB. Doryatkin answered carefully, “We have three Spetznaz teams in Libya, training various groups of freedom fighters [Doryatkin regretted his earlier slip in calling them terrorists] and we have sixty pilots attached to their Air Force, supporting North Koreans and Cubans who would fly actual combat missions. Also, we have advisers in their armored and mechanized units, from commanders down through the company level.”

  “These men will be in harm’s way if the Americans attack,” said Nevsky without expression, hiding his pale, thin face behind his hands as he lit a cigarette.

  Doryatkin lit a cigarette for himself. “Yes, Comrade?”

  “Then we must support the Libyans,” said Nevsky with a slight smile.

  Doryatkin opened his mouth to speak. The General Secretary intervened. “Yes,” he wheezed, “we must.”

  Doryatkin smiled politely, picked up his papers, and spoke. “I will send a strongly worded message to the Americans, Comrade General Secretary, but I cannot believe they will be deterred.”

  “We will announce our support for a peaceful solution,” said Nevsky, relishing his victory, “and we will condemn hijacking, as always. But we must be ready to defend the sovereignty of our brothers in Socialist Arab Libya.”

  “Mumpf,” said the General Secretary, coughing wetly into his handkerchief and nodding. Doryatkin gathered the last of his papers and left the room.

  Washington, 2300 GMT (1800 Local)

  “What do the Russians say?” asked the President. He had felt the entire day weighing on him since early morning.

  The Secretary of State spread his large hands open before him. “Dobrynin says that they will not stand by - his words - tand by for a violation of the sovereignty of Libya.”

  “And what of the goddamned terrorists?” spat the President.

  The Secretary of State was startled. The President rarely used profanity of any kind. The Secretary sighed. “The Soviets condemn the hijacking in a TASS statement, sir, as well as to us privately, but they will not condemn the Libyans for giving sanctuary.”

  “Ach,” said the President, rising and walking to the windows to look out at the rose garden illuminated by dim floodlights. “What’s their game? They know we cannot stand for this.”

  “Sir, we have to keep this in proportion to other events,” put in the Secretary of Defense.

  “Goddammit, Dave!” exploded the President. “Right now, there are no other events! We have an American plane forced down in Libya, and sixty-five American people, most of them servicemen in uniform, held hostage! There is no proportionality!

  “Sir,” began David, drawing a breath. “We have many things on the table before the Russians at this time, not the least arms control.”

  The President turned from the window and pointed his finger at the Secretary of Defense like a gun. “I want military options, Dave, to get those people out of the hands of those terrorists and back into ours. And I want them tomorrow, at breakfast, here, in this room.”

  “Yes, sir, but we should consider-”

  The President cut him off. “Something that will work, Dave. Tomorrow, eight in the morning.”

  The Secretary of Defense nodded, then rose and stood at what he thought was attention. “Yes, sir, Mr. President.”

  The President nodded curtly to the two cabinet secretaries, his face set in a grim mask, and left the office.

  London, 16 February, 0015 GMT

  Loonfeather and Stuart were assigned a small office on the first floor of the huge Chancery Building. Stuart collected all the maps and plans of Uqba ben Nafi he had obtained from the Air Force and the CIA, as well as the satellite and SR-71 photographs from the safe in Captain Harris’s office, and found his way to the new space. Loonfeather was already there, pushing filing cabinets around and clearing one wall so they could pin up the charts. A compact marine colonel stepped into the room, identified himself as Bob Brimmer, and shook hands with Stuart and Loonfeather. Stuart took a roll of masking tape and arrayed the topographical charts of Wheelus along the bottom of the wall, with the most recent photographs above them.

  “Jesus, these pictures are clear,” said Loonfeather, making notes on a clipboard. “Two platoons of T-72s dug in at each road entrance, east and west. Six tanks each group, with towed antitank guns maybe 300 meters behind them, just inside the perimeter fence. I count eighteen more tanks, spread out along the southern perimeter of the base, all dug into shallow fighting positions, some facing inland and a few facing the base. Ten more - a full company - in positions on the beach, here, near the end of runway 03/21, and in these shallow depressions east of the POL area.”

  “Wouldn’t you think they’d keep some up on the tarmac,” asked Colonel Brimmer, “to block the runways?”

  Loonfeather nodded. “I sure would, Colonel, and I’d expect them to keep moving around. Those fixed positions are all right if your enemy doesn’t know where you are, and can’t spot artillery onto you.”

  “We’ll have massive firepower from the guns on the destroyers and the battleship,” said Stuart, following Loonfeather’s right hand as it flew from one photo to another, as his left traced t
he positions on the plan of the air base.

  “Massive,” said Loonfeather, “and very accurate. And we’ll have fighter-bombers and helicopter gunships. As a defensive setup for the base, these tanks are very poorly deployed.”

  “How does that change our planning?” asked Stuart, seating himself on the table in front of the photos and maps.

  “The problem of those tanks is not so much that they can keep us from taking the base,” said Loonfeather slowly, “but that they can reach the Operations Building quickly once we show our hand. We’ll get no praise for killing tanks if one or two get into that building and shoot up our people.”

  “The second problem is that any tank we don’t see or don’t kill will have a turkey shoot with our helicopters,” said Colonel Brimmer.

  “So we have to plan to eliminate all the tanks before we can go in?” asked Stuart.

  “We probably can’t wait that long,” said Brimmer, squinting at the photos. “Anyway, we should have some surprise going in. But we sure as hell have to deal with them before we extract.”

  “Hm,” said Loonfeather. “Let’s see what they have for air defenses.” With his felt-tipped pen, Loonfeather made circles around three whitish objects that looked to Stuart like the business ends of pitchforks. “These are SA-3 missiles, NATO-designation GOA, here below the intersection of the runways. The trucks neatly parked behind each are the FLAT FACE-LOW BLOW radars, the target acquisition and guidance system. Those missile launchers are hard to move, but you’d think they would at least disperse the radar trucks.”

  Brimmer and Stuart made notes. “What about guns?” asked Brimmer. “Guns worry me more than missiles.”

  “Out here, at both ends of runway 03/21 and at the eastern end of runway 11/29, Bob,” Loonfeather pointed with his pen. “These are Russian S-60s, 57mm automatic cannons. It’s a 1950s weapon, but dangerous against low-flying aircraft. Like the SAMs, they’re not mobile.”

  “Another target for the ships’ gunfire computers,” noted Stuart, writing quickly.

  “Exactly,” said Loonfeather.

  “So what do you think, Colonel?” asked Brimmer. “Seems a pretty naive setup. Is this standard Soviet doctrine?”

  “Far from it, Colonel,” said Loonfeather. “The Russians are a lot better than this. They would concentrate their tanks in maneuver units, and they’d hide what they couldn’t keep moving. This almost looks as though the Russ have washed their hands.”

  “We’ll have to keep up with the recon photos,” said Brimmer, writing.

  “What are these vehicles near the aircraft, Rufus?” asked Stuart.

  “Armored personnel carriers. Those, and the ones parked on the apron near the Maintenance Building are Russian BTR-60s. The two little ones with the tanks on the beach are Brazilian EE-9 Cascavel armored scout cars, and the small tracked vehicles mixed in with the tanks on the southern perimeter are Russ BMP-76s.”

  “Sounds like you have done a fair bit of photointerpretation work, Rufus!” laughed Stuart. The photos were clear, but not that clear, he thought to himself.

  “Yeah. ‘Bout all we do in Europe is look at pictures of the Soviets and their allies,” said Loonfeather, too absorbed to notice the laugh. He was running his long fingers over the curves of the topographical maps as Brimmer crouched beside him. Loonfeather suddenly stood and turned his back on the charts and pictures. He stepped to the steel table on which Stuart was seated, gesturing for Colonel Brimmer to take the straight-backed wooden chair at the head of the table.

  Colonel Brimmer shook his head, “No, thanks, Colonel. You run the brief while my thoughts catch up.” Stuart slid off the table and sat across from Brimmer. Loonfeather sat, steepled his long fingers in front of him, and grinned happily. “Gentlemen, no one has actually told me why I’m on this planning team, or why either of you are, but we can guess. William, you’ve been in on this from the outset. What’s your interest?”

  “I cracked a couple of prison camps in Nam a hundred years ago. Quiet in, quiet out. They want my input on method - getting to those hostages and neutralizing the immediate threat long enough for you guys to get in and take them out.”

  “And you have some ideas as to how to do that?” said Loonfeather, leaning back.

  “Yes. I’ll lay it out for you in a few minutes.”

  “Good. Colonel?”

  “I’m the Special Landing Force commander embarked in USS Inchon, with the Sixth Fleet. A reinforced battalion landing team, plus all the boats and helicopters we need to get in, and out. There’s a similar force on Saipan.”

  “You’ll do the actual extraction, then.”

  “That’s what we expect.”

  Loonfeather smiled. “And my job, gentlemen, is Colonel Baruni’s tanks. I command the 3d Battalion, 73d Armor, at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. We have the only air-droppable armor capability in the U.S. Army.”

  “You parachute with tanks?” asked Stuart, taken aback.

  “Not exactly parachute, and not exactly tanks. M-551 Sheridans; fast, big 152mm gun, but no real armor. Hit and run weapons.”

  “Can you break through those T-72s with such a light force?” asked Brimmer.

  Loonfeather’s smile expanded. “Not if we play fair, gentlemen.”

  Stuart frowned. “Rufus, the kind of unit I think we could get into the middle of the base should be able to handle the hijackers, and we would figure to spread enough light demolitions to prevent the interceptors from getting up, but there’s no way they’ll be able to stand off any sort of assault while you’re parachuting into the desert and forcing the perimeter of the base.”

  Loonfeather positively beamed. “Quite so. We will therefore just have to land our men and equipment in the middle of the base, then let the Libyans worry about breaking through us.”

  The three men leaned forward and began talking in earnest. Stuart told how he was planning to get the SEALs in via the water reservoir, and how naval gunfire would be prespotted to take out the tanks and antiaircraft guns and missiles as soon as the SEALs had control of the hostages. The Navy would establish immediate air superiority over the base with carrier-based fighters, while navy and marine attack aircraft and helicopters aided the Airborne in destroying or driving off the Libyan armor and infantry. Loonfeather described how the first paratroopers would be on the airfield less than three minutes later, and the Sheridans off-loaded and cranked up before the Libyan tanks could crawl out of their fighting positions, once they discovered they were mostly pointed in the wrong directions. As soon as the Airborne had secured a defensive perimeter in the area around the Operations Building, the marine assault force would land in sufficient strength to assure the area was secure against counterattack, and the SEALs would have the hostages ready to go out on the first returning assault birds. Then the big marine helicopters would return, load the soldiers and marines, and be gone.

  When Captain Harris entered the room at 0220, he found the three men of the planning team laughing and slapping each other on the back. He poured out coffee from a thermos. Whooping with the enthusiasm of schoolboys, the three field-grade officers outlined the plan. Captain Harris was impressed, if politely skeptical. “Very ambitious, from a command and control standpoint.”

  “Oh yes, Captain, it will be a bitch,” said Loonfeather, “but we have something special going on here, perhaps unique in the history of joint operations. The men doing the planning are the ones who will actually coordinate the fighting units.”

  “And you think the Airborne can get in there, smack in the middle of that air base?” asked Captain Harris.

  “Hell, yes, Captain,” said Loonfeather, standing next to the largest map of Uqba ben Nafi. “My troopers will hit the center of that base like a fire arrow landing on the roof of a sleeping pony soldier’s pup tent!” Loonfeather turned and drove his fist into the center of the map with enough force to shake the wall. He turned back to the room, his eyes bright and his grin lopsided.

  Stuart looked at the big Indian a
nd started to laugh. Colonel Brimmer and Captain Harris looked startled and a little worried. Stuart threw his arm around Loonfeather’s shoulder. “Gentlemen, you have to get to know this officer. He isn’t mad, he’s acting.” Stuart stage-whispered in Loonfeather’s ear. “Rufus, try to remember you are the cavalry.”

  Loonfeather straightened up and replaced his mad grimace with his broad grin. “Right. In this life, I’m a bluebelly.”

  “I must say I like it,” said John Harris.

  “The op? The op will be dynamite,” said Loonfeather.

  “I like the name, anyway.”

  “What name?” asked Bob Brimmer.

  “Operation Fire Arrow,” said Harris as he left the room.

  The planning groups reconvened in the embassy’s third-floor conference room at 0400, and individual teams made quick reports of progress. Secure satellite voice and data links were established with the Sixth Fleet group on the America and with the Joint Chiefs in the Pentagon. Much of the information, especially recommendations for moving forces and materiel around, was able to be exchanged by computers talking directly to each other. Information was processed and displayed as options on monitors in the three locations simultaneously, though the embassy had far less computing and display capability than either of the military facilities. London’s role was planning and political, so London led off.

  The terrorists’ original deadline for the beginning of execution of hostages was less than twenty-eight hours away, said Admiral Wilson as he began his brief. The Italian government continued to press Baruni to ask for more time, and the Libyan leader had expressed willingness to help, but said he hadn’t the power to force the Abu Salaam. Baruni had suggested a gesture of good faith, perhaps just acceding to one demand, for the release of Abu Salaam himself. The Italian cabinet had reportedly been meeting all night in closed session, refusing to admit either the U.S. Ambassador or his Libyan counterpart. Admiral Wilson was interrupted by a voice on the voice scrambler from Washington, its tone flat and tinny from the electronic coding and decoding.