There was another way. He could set up the base to disrupt, even defeat the Americans’ assault, yet preserve the option Moscow wanted, that he himself might get the hostages. He needed to position himself and his all-Spetznaz unit in a concealed place where he had a clear run into the Operations Building, without being obvious that that was what he wanted, then position the Libyans to wreck the American assault force if Moscow changed its mind. The colonel began sketching rapidly. He would concentrate the Libyan armor in two places - a few kilometers below the low sand ridge south of the air base upon which he now stood, and in the ruined golf course 300 meters to the west of the Operations Building. Tanks and armored personnel carriers south of the air base could move to fighting positions dug into the south side of the sand ridge as soon as any bombardment stopped before a landing, and would have a clear field of fire at any American helicopters and troops approaching the central apron of the base, at optimum range for their guns and missiles. Tanks dug into the sand face lower down the slope facing south could oppose, from excellent fighting positions, any attempt to break into the center of the base by heliborne or parachute troops landing in the fields. The tanks and infantry concentrated in the golf course would have some very good cover from aerial observation in the groves of palm trees the Americans had planted to give their playground some shade, and could move rapidly to block both runways and to surround the Operations Building.
He would place his own unit, a tank platoon and a BTR-mounted infantry platoon, in a group of supply warehouses east of the north end of runway 03/21. He could tell the Libyans he was a maneuver force to oppose a landing across the beach, while being in a good position to move to the Operations Building quickly if ordered to take control of the hostages.
Zharkov knew that the Americans could detect electronically the trucks that carried the SAM-3 radars, so it didn’t much matter where he put them, other than far from his own position, for they were sure to get clobbered. He decided they ought to be moved anyway; at least make the bastards find them. Zharkov smiled slightly as his plan came together on his clipboard. He looked up at the low, wet clouds blowing in from the Mediterranean. We might even get this done before the American spy planes and satellites can see us moving. Zharkov covered the clipboard and walked briskly back to the waiting car.
USS America, 0930 GMT (1030 Local)
Lieutenant Colonel Loonfeather spread a chart on the coffee table in front of Colonel Brimmer. It was smaller scale than the plan of Uqba ben Nafi they had been studying, and showed the Libyan coast from Tripoli to El Asciar, and the Mediterranean out to a distance of twenty miles from the coast. “The whole concept of the Airborne Armor Raid, Bob, has never officially been written down. Too many people think it’s a suicide mission, and the main problem is that we just cannot get enough Sheridans into a target, unless we commandeer the entire Military Airlift Command. But we’ve been playing with the concept for years, and I think it should work to take over an airfield and extract people. What we cannot do is hold. We can do heavy damage to an enemy force, until we run out of resources.”
“Resources?”
“Us, Bob.”
“I see,” said Colonel Brimmer, frowning.
“Anyway,” continued Loonfeather cheerfully, “you wanted to know how we get in. We need ten C-141s. We orbit low out over the Med, maybe fifteen miles out. We’ll have to get a positive signal from the SEAL team that they’re in control of the hostages, then we come roaring in, right on the water, crossing the coast about halfway between the SAM sites at Wheelus and El Asciar,” Loonfeather pointed to the spot on the map. “We head down far enough into the desert to line up on the long runway from about six miles out, flying N.O.E.-”
“Hold it, Rufus. What’s N.O.E.?”
“Nap of the earth. Lower than low. Around trees, climb to clear a camel.”
“In a C-141? That’s a hell of a big aircraft!”
“In a C-141, Bob.”
Brimmer grinned and shook his head. “Now that must be something to see!”
“If you see it from the jump seat behind the pilots, Bob, it’s truly fucking terrifying.”
“Jesus, I guess! Well, what next?”
Loonfeather pulled the plan of Wheelus from beneath the smaller-scale chart. “The first two aircraft will be carrying the infantry company; about 145 men, including the augmentations. They’ll have to pop up to minimum 650 feet so the men can jump safely. All the grunts will un-ass from the two aircraft in the one pass. They’ll land along here, the taxiway parallel to runway 11/29.”
Brimmer nodded, tracing the taxiway. “What about any fighters in the revetments along the taxiway?”
“First order of business. Nasty wake-up for a sleepy fighter-jock,” Loonfeather grinned. “But now comes the good part. The next eight aircraft, C-130s, still flying N.O.E., roar down the runway, shaking the earth, and LAPES out the Sheridans. One Sheridan in each aircraft, so all are out in the first pass. All the vehicles should be down and cranked up inside of three minutes.”
“What does LAPES mean, Rufus?”
“I think marines do it too, but only with lighter vehicles. LAPES is Low-Altitude, Parachute-Extraction System. Essentially, a progressive-opening chute is ejected out the back door of the aircraft, into the slipstream. As the chute opens, it drags the vehicle, on skids, right out the back, to land on the runway with a mighty thump.”
“And you can drive it away after that?”
“Yeah. Not always, but yeah. We have to strip off a shell of laminated cardboard packing, but we should drive away at least five, which we figure is enough, and with any luck, six or more.”
“And then you just sprint to the Operations Building?”
“Well, more or less. Depending on the latest recon we have, we have some choke points we want to hold. Any tanks on the apron directly in front of the Operations Building should have been knocked out by the SEALs or by the antitank sections of the infantry company. Our main function is to get any enemy vehicles who try to come in from their perimeter defenses, although our spotters in the ANGLICO detachment will be calling in all sorts of air, missile, and naval gunfire attacks on tanks south of the long runway as soon as we’re clear of it, and the Navy will be able to spot-direct at the tanks dug in along the beach. I figure once we get in there, we have an excellent chance of driving the enemy away from the center of the base, and giving you heliborne gyrenes time to come and pick up the people.”
Brimmer whistled and shook his head. He did not find it surprising that the army brass thought such an undertaking suicidal. “OK, Rufus, let’s go see Captain Adams and work up the details of the close-support, both air and naval gun.” He looked at Loonfeather, who was still grinning. He looks a little crazy, thought Brimmer, as his own face cracked into a broad grin. “I have a few ideas I think might help.”
“Lead on, Colonel,” said Loonfeather, gathering his papers and stuffing them into his briefcase.
Tripoli, 0930 GMT (1030 Local)
Captain Suslov, Political Officer of the Second Independent Airborne Company (Spetznaz), Soviet Army, walked back and forth in the small plaza near the June 11 Monument. Colonel Ychengko’s bitch had told him to be near the Tunisian restaurant next to the plaza at nine in the morning, to wait for instructions from “the highest levels.” He knew that meant neither the Army nor the party, but the KGB. The prospect of a meeting, either with Colonel Ychengko or with his hatchet woman, Captain Petrovna, made him very nervous, and he was naturally a nervous man to begin with. The Soviet community in Tripoli was very small, and such a meeting, if noticed, would not be put down to chance. He much preferred receiving his instructions in code and by courier, or better yet, not at all. His main job for the Third Directorate was to file periodic reports on the reliability of officers of the Spetznaz, and he did this assiduously, without instruction or interference from Ychengko.
Suslov took shelter under a low palm tree as rain began falling lightly. He was dressed, per instructions, in civilian clothes,
and somehow that made him feel more conspicuous than if he had been in uniform. Rain dripped on his broad-brimmed straw hat. He looked at his watch; his masters were late. He put a cigarette in his mouth and turned out of the damp wind to light it under the brim of his hat. As he turned, he came face to face with Colonel Ychengko, wearing an old-fashioned seersucker suit and a similar silly straw hat. Suslov’s jaw dropped, and he almost lost the cigarette. He stifled the instinct to salute, and said quickly, “Good morning, Comrade Colonel.”
“Let’s walk, Suslov,” said Ychengko, pointing toward the harbor.
Ychengko found a bench he liked, looked around carefully, and sat, patting the space beside him for Suslov. The rain lessened and became a heavy mist, but all the Arabs had taken shelter. Suslov felt even more conspicuous, but Colonel Ychengko seemed unconcerned. The older man leaned close to Suslov and spoke quietly. “Suslov, we have special instructions from Moscow concerning this American hostage business.” The colonel paused. Suslov returned his gaze without expression. “Has the Spetznaz company received any new orders?”
“Just this morning, Comrade Colonel. Colonel Zharkov has set up a special commando, a platoon of tanks, plus a platoon of motorized infantry, to be placed under his personal command.” Suslov paused, feeling the pull of his fragmented loyalties.
“Go on,” barked Ychengko.
Suslov felt his nervousness increasing. “The commando is to be made up entirely of Spetznaz officers and men, hand-picked by the colonel.”
Ychengko nodded and waited for Suslov to continue. When he did not, the colonel looked up with evident annoyance. “Well, what else, Suslov? What is this commando supposed to do?”
Suslov shrugged. “Nothing has been said, Comrade Colonel. When I left to come here, the men and vehicles were being assigned and moved to supply warehouses at the northern end of the base.”
“By any chance have you been handpicked for this commando, Captain?”
“No.”
“Damn! How am I going to find out what they are doing?”
Suslov looked at the KGB colonel, pleased to see him agitated. “I am sure I could get into the commando, if it is important, Comrade Colonel.”
Ychengko looked at Suslov skeptically. “How are you sure?”
Suslov smiled slightly. “I am a qualified Spetznaz officer, and qualified in armor. I am sure Colonel Zharkov will give me a place. We are . . . quite friendly.”
Ychengko arched his bushy brows in a quizzical look. He knew the low regard in which zampolits were held by combat commanders. Suslov looked back, holding his slight smile, knowing exactly what Ychengko was thinking. Suslov was under no personal illusions about the depth of Colonel Zharkov’s friendship, but he felt he could count on Zharkov to continue to treat him well. Zharkov was ambitious and had excellent party connections of his own, but the glowing reports Suslov wrote about his colonel could only help. Suslov nodded slightly at the still-smirking Ychengko. Zharkov would put him in a tank, if he asked.
“Well Suslov, by all means get on that commando if you can, and if you can, find out for me what its mission is. But Suslov, this thing could boil over at any minute, and you could find yourself in the midst of an American assault. If you do, you are to ensure that your all-Russian unit inflicts casualties directly upon the Americans, do you understand?”
Suslov didn’t understand. “But, Comrade Colonel, our government has never acknowledged our military presence in this country, beyond embassy personnel!”
“Those orders, Suslov, come directly from Moscow. Do you understand that?”
Suslov nodded slowly. Ychengko got up curtly and strode away across the deserted park. Suslov finally lit his cigarette, turning the whole thing over in his mind. If Russians shoot Americans, Americans will shoot Russians. Why would the government want that? More precisely, why would the KGB want that?
Tripoli, 1015 GMT (1115 Local)
Ambassador Timkin, General Koslov, and Colonel Zharkov filed into the large audience room at the Defense Ministry. Colonel Baruni sat alone at a long wooden table in the otherwise empty room. He was in uniform - open-collared khaki shirt with red collar tabs, shoulder boards of rank, many rows of ribbons. He still wore his dark aviator-style sunglasses. Timkin thought he looked pale and distracted. Koslov thought he looked slightly comic. Without rising, Baruni waved the three Russians to chairs across the table. Timkin made a mental note of the uncharacteristic lack of courtesy. One of the elite guards entered, put tea and dates in front of each man, and departed. Zharkov noted that the top three buttons of her uniform blouse were unbuttoned.
“Good morning, Comrade Colonel,” began Timkin pleasantly.
Baruni sat up and removed his glasses. He looks as though he hasn’t slept in days, thought Timkin. “Thank you for coming, my Russian friends,” said Baruni, gesturing with the sunglasses, ignoring the fact that the Russian’s request for the meeting had been scarcely less than a demand. “I understand you wish to get my approval for your plan to defend our base at Uqba ben Nafi.”
Timkin smiled despite himself. He had always admired the colonel’s dramatic flare. “Yes, Comrade Colonel. And to ask for . . . progress in the matter of Abu Salaam and his hostages.”
“Of course.” Baruni smiled his famous smile. “Let me see the defense plans, first.”
Colonel Zharkov unfolded a large plan of Uqba ben Nafi Air Base in front of Colonel Baruni, who continued to toy with his glasses. He pointed out the significant points of the redeployment of the Libyan forces. He confirmed his intention (by now, already fact) of forming a small Spetznaz unit for “tactical evaluation,” but said nothing of its combat mission or present disposition. Baruni nodded, taking no apparent interest. Zharkov finished his briefing and left the marked plan in front of Baruni, who appeared to study it while chewing on one earpiece of his glasses.
“The only thing I question, Colonel Zharkov,” said Baruni, smiling warmly, “is your recommendation that we remove most of our combat aircraft.”
Zharkov looked at Koslov, who nodded. “Comrade Colonel, if the Americans come, they will come very quickly from just over the horizon. They will immediately establish air superiority over Uqba ben Nafi. It is unlikely that any aircraft could even get airborne; they would be bombed or strafed while still in their revetments.”
Baruni frowned. “But surely some would get up?”
Zharkov pointed to the plan. “We suggest that two sections, four aircraft, be spotted, one section at the landward end of each runway, armed with antiship missiles. These planes must be manned, pilots strapped in, engines warmed up, around the clock. There is no hope that four aircraft, no matter how bravely flown, can break the Americans’ control of the skies, but they might be able to fly out low under the assault and strike a blow at the ships of the Imperialists.”
Baruni smiled. The picture in his mind of an American ship sinking from a Libyan missile attack might make this whole mess worthwhile. The Russians smiled back, imagining the Americans’ fury and embarrassment should that occur. Baruni looked back at the plan, and his smile faded. “But how will we defend the base without our fighter planes?”
“We suggest that the fighters be redeployed to your bases near Benghazi and Tobruk, with perhaps some of the longer-range attack aircraft and heavy-lift aircraft being sent to Al Kufrah and Jabal al Umaynat. The Americans will probably attack at least Benghazi and Tobruk, but at least you will have more time and more runways to get your aircraft airborne.”
Baruni nodded. It made sense, dispersing his fighters. It made sense as well to get the transports and other noncombatant aircraft to Al Kufrah and Jabal al Umaynat, which were over by the Egyptian border and unlikely to be attacked by planes from the carriers. “I agree. Please continue, Comrade Colonel.” He favored Colonel Zharkov with another brilliant smile.
Keep it simple and he will buy all of it, thought Zharkov, smiling in reply. “Comrade, the American air superiority will do them no good as long as we control the hostages. Th
erefore, we can win the battle on the ground by concentrating forces close to the hostages and making the Americans come to us. But to do that, to get really close, you must gain control of the hostages from the Palestinian fighters.”
Baruni nodded again. “Abu Salaam has not allowed us to bring tanks to the apron in front of him. He says to put them out on the runways!”
“Where the enemy will have a clear shot at them,” said General Koslov, smiling.
“Yes!” Baruni nodded more vigorously. “But you will be very close to the Operations Building, once you have moved tanks to the old golf course, and the tanks dug in south of the air base will have a clear field of fire at the enemy assault force. I approve, my Russian friends. You may execute the movements of forces required!” Baruni stood, rubbing his hands, and his three Russian guests stood.
Those forces have been in their new positions for at least an hour, thought Koslov. “Thank you, Comrade Colonel,” he said.
“May we then suggest that you go and talk to your protégé, Comrade Colonel?” asked Ambassador Timkin gently.
Baruni’s good humor evaporated. When the Russian said “his protégé,” he meant his problem. “Yes, I will go at once.”
“Please allow Colonel Zharkov to accompany you, Comrade Colonel,” smiled Koslov. “You and he can go over the defensive operation in detail.”
“Of course. My pleasure, Colonel Zharkov. We will leave from here in half an hour.”
“Thank you, Comrade Colonel. I will wait downstairs with your detail.” Zharkov turned and followed the other Russians out of the room.
Uqba bee Nafi, 1115 GMT (1215 Local)
Abu Salaam grunted into the telephone. He scowled and covered his eyes with his hand. Ahmed sat across the table from him, tidying his notes from the naqib’s conversations with the hostages. The naqib seemed to grow more agitated as he listened to the telephone; he spoke little, and his voice was muffled behind the hand that rubbed his eyes. Ahmed couldn’t really overhear, yet he wondered if he should leave the room until the leader finished. Abu Salaam balled the hand on his head into a fist and banged it on the table in front of him, then said “yes, yes,” several times in Arabic and slammed the phone down. He looked at Ahmed with his fierce, smoldering eyes and spoke softly. “That was Colonel Baruni, Ahmed. He insists on coming here again. That can only mean trouble.”
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