Fire Arrow

by Franklin Allen Leib

  “Lieutenant,” continued Colonel Bowie, “you’ve followed the sequence of events. First, we drop in the infantry company, including your people. Then, we LAPES in the Sheridans. Then we unwrap them and assemble them to kill the enemy’s tanks. Clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. The problem, Jason, is the time it takes to do all that. The Airborne Armor Raid is designed to drop behind enemy lines, but not in the middle of an enemy perimeter. It takes time for the infantry to land, assemble into platoons, and disperse to their positions. It takes more time to LAPES the Sheridans, get them off the pallets, and get them moving. All that time, Lieutenant, the enemy has us under his tanks and whatever else he has.”

  Lieutenant Brown followed the colonel’s pointer around the photographed Libyan tank positions. “How much time, Colonel, before the whole thing is working?”

  “We’ve compressed it as much as we think we can, Lieutenant, mostly by reducing the force we’ll drop. At the minimum, twenty minutes from the time the infantry hits the ground.”

  “Jesus, sir! Why so long?”

  “You cannot parachute soldiers without hard landings, Lieutenant, even into a plowed field. We will be landing on paved runways and taxiways. We will have casualties, broken ankles and legs. Those men will have to be cleared from the runway before the vehicles are dropped. Units have to gather, then disperse. It’s an imprecise process.”

  “It’s a clusterfuck, Lieutenant,” volunteered Major Donahue.

  “Thanks, John, for the clarification,” laughed Colonel Bowie. Major Donahue smiled.

  “So where does that leave me and mine?” asked Lieutenant Brown.

  “During the time when the infantry company is down, but not ready to move, as well as while we’re LAPESing the vehicles, we’ll have nothing to protect us from enemy tanks and vehicles except our own shoulder-fired Dragon missiles, and whatever naval air and gunfire you can bring in.”

  Lieutenant Brown nodded slowly. “I see, Colonel.”

  “Can you do it?”

  “Yes, sir. You can believe we can.”

  Bowie smiled. “Better get packed then, Lieutenant.”

  “Aye, aye, sir!” Brown saluted. Funny, he thought, as he went to look for Gunnery Sergeant Bright. Up until now, the most important thing had seemed surviving the low-level jump.

  “Atten-HUT,” called a voice from the back of the room.

  “As you were, men,” said Major General Francis Xavier O’Brien, Commanding General of the 82nd Airborne Division, as he strode to the briefing podium, followed by three scurrying aides. “Colonel Bowie, Colonel Squitiero, and Lieutenant Connelly, I need the three of you briefly.”

  The last few men filed out of the room, glancing back at the general and murmuring questions to each other. General O’Brien sat at the head of the gray metal table and put on his half-glasses. A colonel in Class A green uniform laid a light blue folder in front of the general and stepped back.

  General O’Brien was six feet tall and lean as a greyhound. His iron-gray hair was cut high and tight in the tradition of the Airborne. He looked ten years younger than his fifty-four years. His Class A uniform displayed eight rows of ribbons, topped by the Distinguished Service Cross, with the Combat Infantryman’s Badge and jump wings with a gold star in the suspension lines, signifying at least one combat parachute jump, above the ribbons. He opened the folder, and then studied the faces of the two colonels and the lieutenant who stood before him at attention with his light blue, almost colorless eyes. “Sit, please, gentlemen.”

  Lieutenant Colonels Bowie and Squitiero and First Lieutenant Connelly sat. The room, boisterous a minute before, was bleakly quiet. “Gentlemen,” said the general, speaking slowly and softly, “given the change in plan, and given that we will be unable to stage in Europe and transfer the Sheridans to C-130s, I have to decide whether to delete the armor from the mission.”

  “Damn!” shouted Lieutenant Connelly, leaping to his feet. His expression flushed to anger, and then bled white to embarrassment.

  “Steady, Lieutenant,” said Colonel Bowie, sharply.

  “It’s all right, Colonel,” said the general, evenly. “Let him speak his piece.”

  Connelly drew in his breath. “I beg the general’s pardon. When the Eighty-second saddled up for Grenada, sir, the Third of the Seventy-third was the only unit left out of it. It was said then that there was no armor threat on Grenada. I wasn’t even here then, sir-”

  “Neither was I, Lieutenant,” said the general, softly.

  “Yes, sir. But the senior NCOs in the battalion have never stopped talking about it, sir. And I recall that when the general took command of this division, you came and talked with us, and showed us the after-action evaluation, which said in part that not only was there Soviet-built light armor on Grenada, but also several strongpoints that could easily have been reduced by tank fire, and that perhaps we might have saved some lives.”

  “So I did, Lieutenant,” said the general.

  “And you told us, General, that if a similar operation came along in future, we would go.” Connelly waited for the general to respond. The general looked back in silence. Connelly took a deep breath and plunged on. “Sir, on this mission, the major threat is enemy armor, heavy armor, sir. If there was no armor threat, the Marines would keep the whole mission for themselves.”

  “Anything else, Lieutenant?” A hint of a smile tickled the corner of the general’s lips.

  “No, sir,” said Connelly, sitting down and feeling sheepish. I wish Colonel Loonfeather was here, he thought, helplessly. “But we are good to go, sir.”

  The general’s smile broadened. “Colonel Bowie?”

  “Sir,” said the ground-force commander, stiffening to attention.

  “Are you prepared to accomplish this mission without the armor? Won’t the Dragons be enough?”

  Bowie took a deep breath. “Sir, the Dragon is an excellent antitank missile. Fired by fully qualified people, it is a one-shot kill weapon against all enemy armor. It has, however, proved a difficult weapon for ordinary troops to guide.”

  “Go on,” said the general, glancing at Lieutenant Connelly, who was looking hard at his boots.

  “General, the Dragons will be within the perimeter. Oncoming tanks will present their most heavily armored surfaces, the turret face and the glacis, or front slope. A Dragon kill against the front of a T-72 is problematic at best. The tanks, on the other hand, can maneuver; get a shot at the enemy at his much more vulnerable tracks, or against his relatively unprotected ass-end.”

  “You concur with Lieutenant Connelly’s analysis, then, Colonel Bowie?”

  Bowie sat back and cleared his throat. “I do, sir. I want those tanks.”

  The general took off his glasses and set them on top of the blue folder. “So do I. Most definitely, so do I. My problem is-” the general turned and looked hard at Lieutenant Colonel Squitiero, “-that the Air Force has no proven capability to deliver Sheridans by LAPES from a C-141, and my good friend General Browning at Military Airlift Command cannot assure me that it can be done.” Colonel Squitiero opened his mouth to speak, but the general held up his hand. “General Browning has left the decision to me, Colonel Squitiero, and now I would like to hear from you.”

  Colonel Squitiero concentrated on meeting the general’s eyes. “It is true, General, that we have not established a LAPES capability with the 141. My squadron has been practicing, trying to perfect the technique, for four months now, at Charleston.”

  “With what results, Colonel?”

  “Mixed, General. The 141 has a higher stall speed than the 130 by twenty knots. Also, the jets on the 141 cannot build power as quickly as the turboprops on the 130. But the LAPESs themselves have gone well with dummy loads, up to and exceeding the weight of the Sheridan, as long as we have a very shallow descent and climb-out, and a relatively long drop zone.”

  “General Browning tells me you have never actually dropped a Sheridan.”


  Squitiero smiled. “True enough, General, until yesterday. We dropped four here yesterday, and didn’t bust even one.”

  The general leaned forward. “You did that here at Pope?”

  “Yes, sir. Alfa Company let us have four; the riggers rigged them, and we dropped them.”

  The general leaned back and allowed his slight smile to return. “Can you assure me, Colonel, that your crews - and how many trained crews do you have, by the way - can handle this mission?”

  “We have eight crews in the test team, sir, and they all are here. They have extra loadmasters with LAPES experience in 130s riding with them. General, I am going to be perfectly candid. If the drop zone was an open field, or even a highway, or if there were trees around, or telephone poles, or built-up structures of any kind around the DZ, then no, we wouldn’t be ready. But General, the DZ is an 11,000 foot runway, a paved parallel taxiway and the hard dirt in between. Better than that, it used to be a U.S. airbase. We dug all the old approach plates out of archives, and the crews have been drilling with them since they assembled here.”

  The general looked at the stocky Air Force colonel. He noticed Squitiero had Army jump wings sewn on his gray flight suit. That shouldn’t influence me, he thought, but it does. “So the answer is yes?”

  “Yes, sir. The Air Force is fully capable of supporting this mission.”

  “Your personal assurance?” asked the general, smiling more broadly.

  “Better than that, sir. I am flying the lead bird.”

  “With the troops, though.”

  “Yes, sir, because I like to lead. But I will happily fly a tank in if you wish.”

  The general waved the thought away. “I am sure you know best how to assign your crews, Colonel.” The general steepled his fingers in front of him, and thought in silence. He slowly nodded. “Lieutenant Connelly.”

  “Sir!” Connelly jumped to attention.

  “You had better go and see to your onload. There is very little time.”

  “Yes, sir! All the way, sir!” Connelly saluted crisply.

  “Airborne,” said the general, returning the salute. Connelly ran from the room. The general turned back to Colonel Squitiero. “I had to hear that from you, Colonel.”

  “Yes, sir. Understood, sir.”

  “You should be told, Colonel, that this general officer will be very upset if, following your assurances, you leave my infantry on Wheelus without its much-needed armor.”

  Squitiero let loose a bark of laughter, and then tried vainly to suppress a second.

  “Something amuses you, Colonel?” said General O’Brien, scowling.

  “No, sir. It’s just that I had a call some hours earlier, from a colonel in your command, Rufus Loonfeather.”

  “Go on,” said the general, his scowl fading.

  “Well, sir, he assured me that if we screwed the pooch on the tank delivery - pardon, sir, his words.”

  “I know Loonfeather well,” said the general.

  “Well, he described how the Dakota Indians rewarded braves who, ah, failed in battle.”

  “And so you fear him more than me?” General O’Brien chuckled.

  “Well, he said he would find me first.”

  The general laughed and stood up. Bowie and Squitiero jumped to attention. “Well, that’s all I have. Good mission, gentlemen. Bring all my troops back, if you can.” The general handed the folder back to his aide. The two colonels saluted, and the general returned the courtesy. “Airborne.”

  Uqba ben Nafi, 1700 GMT (1800 Local)

  “What time is it, Walid?” asked Abu Salaam, yawning.

  “Just six o’clock, Naqib.”

  “How long since we executed the marine?”

  “Just less than six hours, Naqib.”

  “And we have heard nothing of our brothers in Kuwait?”

  “Aqid Baruni called twice. He says he is doing everything he can.”

  “I am sure he is,” said Abu Salaam sarcastically. “It seems we are being ignored, Walid. Perhaps another lesson is required.”

  “Shoot another one, Naqib?”

  “Yes. Who is next on the list?”

  “A Navy seaman. Barbara Cummins.”

  “Very well. Have Ahmed bring her in here so we can explain the meaning of her sacrifice. Then you may do it, Walid.”

  Walid swallowed. I don’t want to shoot that scared young girl, he thought.

  “You must remember your hatred, Walid,” said the Naqib, seeming to read Walid’s mind.

  Tripoli, 1700 GMT (1800 Local)

  Colonel Baruni’s secretary entered the colonel’s office. Baruni was slumped in his chair, a wet cloth covering his eyes. “Colonel, I have finally got through to the Italian Prime Minister.”

  Baruni sprang to his feet, throwing away the cloth. “Good! Where can I take the call?”

  “Here, my Colonel. The light will flash.”

  “Thank you. You may go, then.” The secretary withdrew and closed the door. Baruni picked up the receiver as soon as the light flashed. “Nino, is that you?”

  The connection with Rome was good. Prime Minister Nino Calvi sounded distant, but clear. “Good God, Colonel Baruni, what is going on down there?”

  Colonel Baruni gripped the receiver in his left hand and gestured broadly with his right. “Nino, you have to help us! You have to tell the Americans that we do not control Abu Salaam! If they attack us, the situation can only grow worse!”

  “I don’t think they will listen, Hassan, especially to me. It was me who gave Abu Salaam into your control.”

  “But, Nino! I had no idea he would defy me! He shot that boy practically in my arms!”

  “And he still controls all the hostages?”

  “Yes.”

  “When is his deadline to shoot another?”

  “He said eight hours. I think he said eight hours, Nino.”

  “And there have been no more shootings, Hassan?”

  “No, praise God! My men at the base tell me everything is very quiet.”

  “Well, Hassan, all I can say is to keep trying to get Abu Salaam to release at least some hostages. The Americans may hold off if they see you gaining some control.”

  “All right, yes, Nino, I will keep trying. Please talk to the Americans.”

  “I will, but if any more of those people are hurt, I doubt if anyone will be able to help you, Hassan.”

  “Tell them we will try everything.”

  There was a hollow click as Rome broke the connection.

  Walid returned with the girl and Ahmed. Of the two, Abu Salaam thought Ahmed looked the more frightened. Maybe I should have Ahmed pull the trigger, thought Abu Salaam. But no, Walid truly deserves the honor.

  “Do you understand what we must do?” asked Abu Salaam in Arabic. The girl waited while Ahmed translated.

  She is pretty, thought Walid. She had very pale skin, almost translucent, and big brown eyes. Her hair was jet black, short, and parted in the middle. Her lips were full and sensuous. She was rather thinner than Walid liked a woman, but her breasts swelled nicely beneath her wrinkled uniform shirt.

  Remember your hatred, thought Walid.

  Ahmed’s voice cracked as he translated the Naqib’s words. He couldn’t look at the woman.

  Seaman Barbara Cummins turned to look at the chief terrorist slumped in his chair, his feet on the table. He looked filthy and truly evil, with his matted beard, damp around the mouth, and his burning eyes. “Am I next, then? Are you going to shoot me?”

  “We must. Your government has ignored our just demands.” The chief terrorist sounded sad, but Seaman Cummins saw he was still smiling. The young one, who wouldn’t look at her, mumbled his translation.

  Barbara Cummins understood. She was going to die. She was at once terribly frightened and very angry. “You have no right to take hostages! You are just pirates! Cowards who shoot innocent people!”

  Abu Salaam cut her off with an angry shout. Ahmed cringed and translated as quickly as he could. Ab
u Salaam whitened with anger and began to speak softly. The kid translated. It was a litany of all of the injustices inflicted upon the defenseless Palestinians by the Zionists and the Great Satan that was America.

  Barbara interrupted Ahmed’s halting translation. “Tell him I don’t want to hear this shit. Tell him to get on with it.” She was afraid her fear would soon overcome her anger and that she would beg them to spare her. She wanted to avoid that above anything, because she was sure it would do no good.

  The chief terrorist was clearly surprised when Ahmed translated. “What do you think of that, Walid?” asked Abu Salaam in Arabic.

  “She reviles us, Naqib; she is brave.”

  “Brave, Walid?”

  “Yes, Naqib,” said Walid softly, “brave, and beautiful.”

  “Is she as beautiful as your youngest sister was, Walid, when last you saw her?” Abu Salaam’s voice was a hiss.

  Walid remembered Fatimah, his youngest sister, the really pretty one. He remembered digging her headless body, covered with fat black flies, from the rubble of their family’s home after the Israeli air raid. Bitterness rose in his throat, and he choked and closed his eyes against the awful vision. “I will do it, Naqib,” he whispered.

  Abu Salaam leaned forward and patted Walid’s thigh. “Brave fighter, Walid. Take her out; let the others see what will happen and then shoot her, just outside.”

  The tall one took Barbara Cummins’s arm. “Come,” he said in English. Oh God, let me be brave, she thought. He guided her out of the small office and back into the main room where the others sat in chairs or on the floor. She forced herself to march, chin up, fighting back tears. Marching was awkward with her knees shaking and her hands tied behind her, but she marched. The civilian pilot who had flown the aircraft stood up quickly, but one of the terrorists moved in front of him and shoved him back. When he shouted, the terrorist stabbed him in the stomach with his rifle. The pilot doubled over, gasping.

  When they reached the door, the young terrorist, who was following, said something urgent in Arabic. The tall one stopped, then pulled off his red and white checked headdress and offered it to Barbara. “Blindfold?” the young one asked softly.