“Commander, I can’t see them BTRs anywhere.”
“No, they sure as hell aren’t where they were. I looked for vehicles as we were coming down; I didn’t see any.” Hooper handed his night binoculars to Stuart, who swept the apron and the shadows by the buildings but saw nothing.
“What do we do, sir?” asked Feeney.
“We go by the numbers. I don’t see any people, either, and the windows of the Operations Building are dark, or nearly dark. Probably one small light, for the terrorists.”
“Do me and Jones follow you across?” asked Feeney.
“Negative. Follow the path you’ve rehearsed, and try to find any vehicles in the deep shadow between the Maintenance and Ops Buildings. Meet us by the front door if you can in-” he looked at his watch, “fifteen minutes, if there’s nothing. If you find something major, use your helmet radio.” Each man had a tiny two-way radio in his helmet, ultrahigh frequency and low power, with a range of 200 meters or less. “Let’s move out.”
Uqba ben Nafi 0437 GMT (0537 Local)
Captain Suslov yawned as he climbed into the commander’s seat of Praporshchik Tolkin’s T-72. He was surprised that the warrant officer had elected to go along in place of his gunner. Normally, tank commanders resented having an officer replace them in the right seat in the turret, and left them to deal with an equally resentful crew, but Tolkin seemed quite cheerful about it and said he didn’t want to miss the fun. So Tolkin stood in the gunner’s hatch on the left side of the turret as the driver, a mean-looking Kazakh named Berezin, started the tank’s 780-horsepower V-12 diesel engine. Soon all the vehicles were running at idle, and the doors of the supply warehouse had to be opened partially to let out the acrid blue smoke.
Colonel Zharkov walked past Suslov’s tank and waved to the zampolit. Suslov waved back and watched as Zharkov climbed into the commander’s hatch of the end tank and put on his helmet with its integral radio/intercom headset. Zharkov planned to lead the column in his T-72, followed by Sergeant Mishkin in the second tank and Suslov in the third. The three BTRs, each with a crew of three and carrying an eight-man rifle squad, would follow. The column would leave the supply warehouse and proceed south across the northeast-southwest runway to the area in front of the Maintenance Building, where the infantry would dismount. The three tanks would then advance to the Operations Building, smash the windows with their main guns, and present the terrorists with a fait accompli. The tank commanders would have a clear view from their hatches high above the turrets and, with the 12.7mm machine gun mounted at the commander’s position, could deal with any terrorists who did not immediately surrender.
It was not a subtle plan, nor was it intended to be. Zharkov did not think the terrorists would try to fight three main battle tanks; if they did, they would be killed. The tank crews would be protected from the terrorists’ automatic weapons and grenades. The greatest danger was that the terrorists would detonate fragmentation grenades before the tanks could reach the building, resulting in death and injury to large numbers of hostages and probably to the terrorists as well. If the rescue mission turned into a bloodbath, the Soviets would claim they had intervened only after the grenading started, and only with intent to save American lives.
Suslov mulled over his secret orders from the KGB as he waited for the order to move out. Zharkov had made a special point to the tank commanders and gunners that machine gun fire, if needed, should be tightly controlled, so that no American ended up with a Russian slug in him. The colonel stressed that the tank crewmen had plenty of protection and should aim carefully. Suslov doubted that he could get away with a deliberate “accident” with his machine gun unless the terrorists put up a genuinely heavy resistance. He would have to wait and see.
Stuart, Hooper, and Leah Rabin reached the deep shadows to the left of the large windows of the Operations Building without seeing any sign of activity. Ricardo had slipped around to the back door and reported in position by keying his helmet radio. Feeney and Jones had rejoined, slipping silently, directly beneath the windows, and Osborne and Miller had come in at almost the same moment, crossing the lighted tarmac by a more southerly route, behind the revetments along runway 11/29. They reported in a whisper that they had found no aircraft in any of the revetments they had checked.
“OK,” whispered Hooper. “We have everybody together, so let’s make a few changes. Osborne, go around back and come in with Ricardo; remind him to tune his radio to command, then you stay downstairs when he goes up. Give us a key click when you’re on station.” Osborne nodded and glided away into the darkness. “Leah, you come in behind me, left side window; you look right, I’ll look left. William, hit the right window behind Miller, same drill. Feeney and Jones, establish security ten meters back, facing outward, prone on the tarmac. Protect your night vision. After we crash in, give us a count of three, longer if you see lead or grenade fragments coming out at you, then hit the window to the left of the main door.” Hooper paused. Everyone heard the sharp click in his radio, which indicated Osborne was on station behind the building. “OK, we’re three minutes early, but there’s no point waiting to get discovered. Let me see your grenades.” Hooper looked at the cylindrical concussion grenades in each person’s left hand, checking that none had selected a round fragmentation grenade by mistake. “Good. William, tell Thunder we’re going in.”
Stuart’s heart was pounding with excitement. He made himself concentrate to get the cadence right, then pressed the transmit key. Three long, two short. He got the single click of acknowledgment back, tucked away the handset, and nodded to Hooper.
“OK,” Hooper took a deep, slow breath. “Sonic valves in ears.” Each SEAL inserted the rubber and metal earplugs that would protect their hearing from the blast of the concussion grenades. They could still hear normal speech. “Weapons on single fire.” He waited while they checked. “Pull and discard the grenade safety pin.” They did. Hooper pressed his helmet mike twice to signal Osborne and Ricardo. Then he began a slow count of ten while moving toward the windows, the others close behind him, fanning out across the front of the building. They began to jog, watching each other, keeping pace. Hooper finished his ten count and shouted “Go!” as he jumped for the window, his carbine held out butt first.
Sergeant Cifuentes finished reinstalling the fuel pump and bled the fuel system of air. He pulled his head from the engine compartment and shouted at Mohammed to try the starter. The engine ground through slowly, then roared to life. Cifuentes thought he heard a couple of extra loud pops, but then the engine ran smoothly. Good, he thought, wiping his hands. We will let it warm up a bit, then take it out for a test, then deliver it to its waiting Libyan crew.
Ahmed stood by the window next to the front door of the big room, staring out at the lights and shadows of the apron. Amin and Yusef had the watch, but Ahmed had been unable to sleep. Yusef was dozing in a chair behind the sleeping hostages, and Amin was upstairs in the control tower with the three controllers, two Libyans and a North Korean. Walid was asleep in one of the small rooms off to the right, and a faint light came from the room the naqib used as his office.
Ahmed picked up his AKS assault rifle and rubbed a bit of rust with a thumbnail. Where would it end? he wondered. How many would the naqib kill before the Kuwaitis gave in or the Americans came? Would he, Ahmed, have the courage to turn his weapon on the sleeping hostages before accepting martyrdom? Would he really see paradise if he did?
Ahmed heard a shout behind him, and turned. He saw the window in front of him burst inward, the glass catching the light from the apron in a million tiny shards. An enormous figure, all in black and with no face, emerged from the falling glass, and then Ahmed was deafened by the loudest sound he had ever known. It swept his hearing away, and with it his breath. Ahmed dropped his rifle and reached for his roaring ears. The black djinn shot him three times in the chest.
Hooper landed on the floor of the operations ready room, bits of glass streaming from his body. He was glad for
the poopy-suit, the helmet, and the heavy gloves. The first thing he saw in the dim light was a slim man with a folded-stock assault rifle, barely three feet away. Hooper shot the man without hesitation. Toward the back of the room, another man with a rifle across his knees started to rise from his chair. Before Hooper could bring his rifle to bear, he heard a sharp crack to his right and saw Miller’s CAR-15 flare. The man and his chair fell over and stayed down. “Osborne!”
“Here, sir. Nothing back here!”
They heard shouts from above, then heard the dull crump of a fragmentation grenade. Large chunks of plaster and dust came from the ceiling above them. Good, thought Hooper. Ricardo has taken the control tower. Hooper raised the plastic visor of his helmet and shouted to the hostages, lying on the floor and staring about like frightened nocturnal animals caught in a strong light. “Stay down, stay down! We are U.S. Navy SEALs!” Hooper saw Leah, her carbine hanging from her neck by its sling, motioning downward with her hands as she moved to the right. Of course, thought Hooper, these people are temporarily deaf from the grenades. Still clutching his carbine by the pistol grip, he motioned downward with his free hand as Stuart and Miller ran across the room toward the corridor, from which a light glowed. Stuart unslung the radio and set it down before following Miller into the corridor.
A navy chief petty officer pushed himself to a sitting position, holding his ears. “There are two of them down that hall, Navy! The leader and the one that murdered the girl!” He spoke with the unintentional loudness of one who could not hear. Hooper looked at Stuart, who nodded. Miller had disappeared into the corridor.
Miller reached the lighted doorway and waited for Stuart. Miller stepped past the door, and Stuart kicked it off its hinges. Abu Salaam crouched in the corner, teeth bared like an animal, trying to work the action of his Makarov pistol. Stuart shot him through the forearm, and the pistol skipped away. Stuart reached in and dragged the gasping man from the small room into the corridor, then went after Miller.
Walid was awakened by the boom of the grenades, dulled by the intervening walls. He knew instantly what had happened - that the Americans had come - but he felt paralyzed in his cot. He heard shots, then a door being kicked in, then a single shot, close by, and then the sound of the naqib’s voice, cursing and protesting. Walid crawled from the bed to the floor. I must be brave now, for my family, he thought. I must remember my anger.
The door to his sleeping room was kicked open. There was no light from the passageway, but Walid felt the presence of the American. “Wait,” Walid said in English, “I want to come out, surrender!” It was too far across the room to his AKS, but Walid could just reach the fragmentation grenade in his jacket pocket. A few seconds-
“Take your time,” said Miller, pulling the pin from a fragmentation grenade and removing the spoon before it could fall. He held the grenade two seconds, then tossed it into Walid’s room, pulled the heavy door shut, and backed away. The blast followed almost at once.
Stuart emerged from the corridor, dragging Abu Salaam. Miller was out a second later. “I checked all the rooms, Commander. One guy, wasted.”
Stuart picked up the handset on the tactical radio. “Call it in, Hoop?”
“Wait one. Let’s be sure.” He pressed his helmet mike. “Ricardo?”
“OK, up here, Hoop. Three down, just me.”
“OK, Ricardo,” said Hooper. “I’m going to send Osborne out back. I want you to go out onto the roof and just listen; see if anyone is moving, and mark them. Don’t be gone over two minutes.” Hooper pointed to Osborne, who nodded and slipped out the back door.
“Roger, Commander,” answered Ricardo. “I’m leaving the field radio. I’ll call in on my helmet.”
Hooper clicked the mike, signing OK. “Feeney, see to our prisoner.”
Feeney moved behind Abu Salaam and cinched his wrists with plastic pull-through riot handcuffs, then pulled a field dressing from his pack. The little man struggled and poured forth a stream of shouted, angry Arabic. Leah leaned toward him and asked him a question in the same language. Abu Salaam sneered and barked a phrase at the Israeli officer. Leah pointed her finger at his face and spoke in a gentle, almost seductive tone. All color drained from Abu Salaam’s face, and his eyes and mouth opened wide in shock.
“Jesus, Feeney, gag the bastard,” said Hooper. Feeney took the red and white kaffiyia from around the terrorist’s neck and tied it tightly around his mouth. The eyes above the gag remained wide and staring. “What was he shouting, Leah?”
“He says we are cowards. Says we will be defeated because we are sentimental about a few hostages.”
“What did you say?”
“I asked him if he wished his remarks translated. He cursed me for a filthy Jewish whore.”
“So what did you say to him? He shut up quick enough.”
Leah reddened slightly. “I compared his beard to his sister’s cunt.”
Hooper’s eyebrows shot up, and a smile played at the corners of his mouth. Stuart started to laugh. “Jesus, you sure did!”
Leah flushed a deeper red. “You understood that?”
“Most of it. God, the look on his face!”
“Well, come on, tell the rest of it!” said Hooper, grinning.
“It is a fairly common Arab curse,” protested Leah.Stuart fought to control his laughter. “Let’s see. No translation can really match the Arabic, but she compared the two, ah, features, in terms of texture, smell, and usual employment.” Stuart began to laugh so hard he had to bend over, and he sat on the step next to Abu Salaam. Hooper’s big booming laugh joined in.
Leah turned away. Miller and Jones stared at her. Both looked embarrassed. “Come on, Miller,” said Leah firmly. “Help me untie these people. Jones, try to find some drinking water.” Leah moved swiftly among the hostages, cutting their bonds with her shroud-cutter knife, touching them gently. Macho pigs, she thought, the heat returning to her cheeks. She turned to look at Hooper and Stuart. Hooper squatted in front of Abu Salaam while Stuart sat next to him, holding onto the terrorist’s shoulder. They are not mocking me, she realized. They are laughing at him, because we have beaten him. She watched Abu Salaam squirm and writhe against his bonds as the men’s laughter lashed him like whips.
Hooper looked at the hostages. Leah was walking among them, helping them up into chairs. None were hurt, but all were rubbing their painful ears. Mostly the people were smiling at Leah, and some were hugging each other. Ricardo’s voice crackled in Hooper’s helmet radio. “Real quiet, Hoop.”
“Good. Osborne?”
“Made a quick recon back here, Hoop. Nothing moving.”
“OK, Osborne, get back inside.”
“Roger, comin’ in, Hoop.”
Hooper looked back at Stuart. “Hey, Hoop! Told you getting in would be easy!” Stuart was smiling, but Hooper felt the fear. From now on, we depend on others to get us out, and for them, we wait. “Call us in, William.”
Stuart pressed the transmit key, and for the first time spoke into the handset. “Top Hat, Thunder, this is Black Widow. Station, I say again, station.”
Washington, 0451 GMT (2351 Local)
The President looked at the copy of the message that had just been transmitted from commander, Sixth Fleet to all units involved in the hostage rescue mission:
IMMEDIATE EXECUTE OPERATION FIRE ARROW IMMEDIATE EXECUTE 0450z
“Inform the Russians, Henry.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” said the Secretary of State.
Uqba ben Nafi, 19 February, 0451 GMT (0551 Local)
Sergeant Cifuentes watched as Mohammed opened the doors of the Maintenance Building, then jumped up onto the turret and sat in the commander’s seat. Mohammed was thrilled to be taking a ride.
The Russian lieutenant who was the duty officer stepped from his tiny office and held up his hand. His uniform was rumpled, and he looked angry. Probably woke the bastard up, thought Cifuentes.
“Where do you think you are going, Sergeant?” asked
the Russian.
“Finished repairs. Test engine,” replied Cifuentes in his heavily accented Russian.
“Call the vehicle’s proper crew, Sergeant,” said the lieutenant brusquely.
“Crew come half hour. Now just make test run.”
“Sergeant, I want that vehicle deployed now. The crew can test it on their way to their assigned station.”
Cifuentes smiled and shook his head, as though he didn’t understand. He, of course, understood perfectly; he had had four years of Russian in school, and he had to keep it up to read the maintenance and technical manuals that allowed him to work on the Russian equipment. But he wanted his test drive after sweating over the balky engine all night. He eased the vehicle into first gear and let in the clutch. The ZSU started forward with a lurch. Cifuentes was amused to see the Russian leap clear as he pulled the steering bar to the right and drove the vehicle through the open doorway.
“Sergeant, I order you to stop that vehicle!” screamed the lieutenant in his high-pitched voice.
“Chinga tu madre!” called Cifuentes amiably, shifting into second gear and turning right again.
All vehicles and personnel had been ordered to keep clear of the front of the Operations Building, so Cifuentes drove into the alley next to Maintenance that would take him around behind Operations and to the end of runway 11/29.
Four A-6s from VA-12 on America turned out of their low orbits near the twelve-mile limit and accelerated toward shore, climbing rapidly. The fire-control radars on the aircraft were slaved to the radar emissions from the truck-mounted Flat Face target-acquisition radars, which controlled the SA-3 GOA antiaircraft missiles. The Shrike missiles hanging beneath the A-6s’ wings were locked on as well. The flight leader had assigned each of the other planes a target, and he pulled his own aircraft above the others and watched them fire, two missiles each. He withheld his own two missiles in case any radar emissions continued after the first strike. The GOA missiles themselves would not be destroyed unless the Libyans had been foolish enough to locate them near the radar trucks, but they would be blind and useless. The flight leader watched the time-of-flight display clock run down, then saw all three target blips disappear in rapid succession. He radioed his flight to turn home to America, to land and rearm. He would remain on station, in case another radar source should come up on the screen.
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