“I got her, Max.” Wiley tried to relax his fingers on the yoke.
“Good. I am going to take a little nap, so you fly nice and smooth, Ace.”
“Yes, sir.”
Blumenthal closed his eyes, still smiling. Blue Max could fly.
“Flashlight, Stonewall. The first aircraft have made their drop. There will be three more groups of two. Hang on four to six minutes, Flashlight.”
Brown looked at the tanks through the grass. A Russian officer was standing on the turret of the lead T-72, his hands on his waist. He pointed, and tanks formed behind him and moved to the road. I have to hold these guys up, thought Brown. He picked up the Dragon as two air force C-141s screamed overhead at full power, climbing and banking steeply over the sea. The tank crews simply stared at them in wonder. They’ll shoot at the next planes, thought Brown. He stared at the Dragon canister, hoping to find instructions as to how to fire the thing.
“You don’t know how to fire that, do you, sir?”
Brown turned to find Links kneeling beside him. “Do you, Links?”
“Jeez, sir, I am a fucking marine.”
Links looked so offended Brown laughed. “All right, if you can’t take orders like a marine, let’s see you fight like one. Hit that tank with the officer standing on the turret.”
“It’s too close, sir. The Dragon has to run a couple hundred meters before it will arm.” Links picked up his radio and the Dragon, then grabbed Lieutenant Brown’s pack harness and pulled him upright. “I found a spot, sir, just across this holler. We’ll be able to correct fire, and we’ll be far enough away to pot that lead tank.”
Two more C-141s climbed out over the golf course. Tank machine guns opened up, and Brown saw the flash and smoke trail of a SA-7 missile, but the aircraft flew on.
“We got time, sir, so let’s go.” Brown nodded and leaned on Links’s shoulder, fighting the pain as they hobbled together back down into the depression and up the other side.
Major Donahue could see order coming out of the confusion of the jump. From his temporary command post in a revetment just to the west of the diagonal taxiway that connected the two runways, he watched as squad sergeants popped colored smoke grenades and blew whistles, and squads formed. Soldiers stripped off parachutes and ran back onto the runway to assist injured comrades. Serious casualties were taken to medics assembled in a revetment 100 meters east of the CP, already marked with a red cross.
Squads formed into platoons and checked numbers and equipment. Major Donahue wished for a jeep, but none had been provided, so he got all his information, other than what he could see, by radio. The company command net crackled. Major Donahue watched as one of the tank commander sergeants helped Lieutenant Baird, hopping and favoring an ankle, to a revetment east of the diagonal taxiway, where the Sheridan crews had agreed to assemble. Good thing he’ll be riding, thought the major. Blue smoke curled from a grenade, and Donahue could see the tankers gathering, but the cavalry was the cavalry, so Donahue wasn’t surprised when Sgt. Matthew Tucker pulled a battered bugle from his pack and blew the call for assembly.
All eight Sheridan crews rushed from their assembly point in the revetment to the two tanks which had skidded to a stop, shrouded by dust, not fifteen meters apart but further back on the runway than planned. The second pair of C-141s was fast approaching, seeming to crawl through the dirt and scrub rather than fly over it. Spec 4 Calandra reached the near tank and began cutting away the nylon lashings. The straps were so tight that they yielded instantly to the sharp shroud-cutter knives. First Lieutenant Connelly climbed over the track and began cutting away and throwing off the cardboard around the gun and the tank commander’s hatch. Private Huckins dropped through the driver’s hatch and started the engine. Private Morrow climbed on top of the tank and opened his loader’s hatch, then dropped below to pull the heavy HEAT rounds out of their storage rings and stack them around his feet. Connelly unstrapped the .50-caliber machine gun and pinned it into its mounting at the tank commander’s position. Calandra climbed up and stepped all over Morrow to get into his gunner’s seat. Calandra unshipped the nine-foot and the twelve-foot radio antennas and passed them up to Lieutenant Connelly, who crawled out and fixed them in their mountings on the left upper surface of the turret. Calandra powered up the turret and the radios as Connelly slid back into his tank commander’s cupola.
Sergeant Burnside yelled up from the runway. “You are all cut loose, Lieutenant, you are good to go.”
“Drive it, Huckins. Along the taxiway and down to the far end,” said Connelly into his helmet mike.
The tank lurched, then moved off steadily from the aluminum and cardboard pallet. “Kick it, Huckins,” said Lieutenant Connelly, feeling the adrenaline rise as the Sheridan picked up speed. To his right, he saw Lieutenant Baird’s tank belch blue smoke and drive off toward the revetments to the north.
“Major! I have Black Widow on Tactical! The SEALs in the control tower report tanks emerging from trees in the golf course,” said Stevens, one of the major’s four RTOs.
“Estimate of strength?”
Stevens’s reply was drowned by the third pair of C-141s LAPESing out Sheridans. One of the vehicles released much too high by a nervous pilot, landed nose down and flipped over. Donahue winced. The first four had come out cleanly, and their crews were already cutting the nylon straps and stripping off the heavy cardboard padding, ignoring the danger of having the next Sheridan dropped on top of them.
“He says he can only see the front of the column, sir. T-72s.”
“Calloway!” the major bellowed at the big lieutenant who had first platoon.
“Sir!” said Calloway, running across the apron.
“You about formed up?” “One missing, sir. I think he’s in the aid station.”
“OK. Take your people and secure the area around the Operations Building. Get some men up into that control tower with Dragons and machine guns. Lots of Dragons; the Navy sees tanks approaching from the west.”
“Yes, sir!” Calloway sprinted across the apron, gesturing for his men to follow.
Where the fuck are the tanks from the south? wondered Donahue, looking across runway 11/29, where thick smoke from the battleship shells continued to blow inland.
Hooper opened the doors of the Operations Building and stepped onto the tarmac. Soldiers in small groups were approaching the building, moving in short rushes. I hope these hyped-up paratroops don’t shoot me, he thought, a little queasy, thinking it a distinct possibility. I hope these guys were told SEALs wear black uniforms in night operations.
Hooper stood in the doorway, visor up, hands on hips and carbine slung from his shoulder, muzzle down. Soldiers stopped three meters away, not really covering him with their weapons, but not far from it. “Hi, guys! What kept you?” said Hooper smiling.
“Hey, Lieutenant!” called the nearest soldier, a thin black man who looked both mean and scared.
A much larger black man with “Calloway” over his pocket and no rank devices ran up and stopped in front of Hooper. “You Black Widow?”
“Yes. Actually, I’m Commander Philip Hooper, U.S. Navy.”
“Good,” the man smiled a little. “I’m Kestrel - er, Lieutenant Calloway, sir. Is this building secure?”
“It is. Please remind your men that everyone in the building is either a friend or a prisoner.”
“Yeah. Chill out, guys. We need to get up to the tower. There’s a tank column coming.”
Hooper felt himself reddening at the man’s abruptness. We told you about those tanks, asshole, he thought, but suppressed it. “The only access is through the building and up an iron staircase on the outside of the back wall.”
“Good. First squad, second squad! Through the building, then up the stairs outside! Set up Dragon and machine gun positions!” Now the lieutenant smiled a little more. “We’ll have you out of here in no time, Commander!”
Hooper turned and walked back into the main room. The progress of First S
quad had been arrested by the soldiers gawking at the trim, obviously female form of Leah Rabin. “Right on through and out the back, boys,” said Hooper evenly.
“We in the wrong service,” commented a Hispanic-looking sergeant as he resumed trotting toward the rear of the building.
“Stuart?” said Hooper, pressing his helmet mike key.
“Yes, Hoop,” said Stuart from his spot point on the roof.
“There’s an army on its way up to you. I think it’s ours.”
Stuart laughed. “Hey, Hoop? The ANGLICO officer just blew away the lead tank with a Dragon. He has two ‘cans’ for fire as soon as the Air Force is clear.”
The building shook as the last two aircraft climbed out overhead. Hooper chuckled. “William, please make sure our dog-faced guests have a good view of the righteous way to break up a tank column.”
“Aye, Hoop!”
Hooper grinned broadly. We’ll have you out of here in no time, Commander, indeed. Shee-ut.
Jason Brown had watched the Dragon all the way from the launcher on Links’s shoulder to its target. It looked like a tiny yellow fireball, whiffling like a badminton shuttlecock as Links held the launcher sight on the target. When it hit the tank at the base of its turret, there was a bright flash as the round detonated; then the tank seemed to explode from pressure within. The Russian officer was thrown, cartwheeling, sixty feet in the air. The T-72 slumped on a broken track, and the place where the turret had been boiled with red flame and black smoke.
Brown keyed the handset for the destroyers. Adams had spot communications for both ships. “Stonewall, Flashlight Six. We have just kicked over the hornet’s nest. How long for fire?”
“The last two aircraft should be pushing out their cargo about now, Flashlight. What can you see of the target?”
“My RTO just bounced the lead tank with a Dragon. Two of the tanks are pointing their guns in this general direction - shit!” Brown pushed his face into the dirt as the number two tank fired a cannon shell over his head. “They’re shooting at us now, Stonewall.” Brown fought for control of his voice, which seemed to have gone up a full octave.
“Stand by,” said Stonewall. The final pair of C-141s climbed out overhead. The tank that had fired and a smaller vehicle that Brown identified as a BMP-76 turned and started toward Brown and Links’s position. The tank fired again, the shell screaming overhead.
“Time to di-di-mau, as in fuck off, sir!” shouted Links urgently.
“Flashlight, Stonewall. Shots in the air, one H-E and one smoke from each ship. Spot if you can, over.”
“Roger, over.” Brown turned to Links, “Take off, man! I can’t run. You have done well; get back to the beach!”
“Shit,” said Links. The word sounded strangely final.
Brown heard the fluttering, low-pitched roar of the incoming shells. He looked quickly through the spotting binoculars. “A flash of H-E and a red smoke is long, Stonewall. Drop 200, line is good. Yellow, drop fifty, right fifty for center spot. Shoot the box around that.”
“Roger, Flashlight, spot is in. Stand by.”
“Negative stand by, Stonewall. Fire for effect. We’ll be moving, or dead. Flashlight out.”
Links slung the radio and pulled Lieutenant Brown to his feet. The BMP fired its 73mm cannon into the trees to their left. Brown found he could run pretty well after all.
Hill 10, two kilometers south of Uqba ben Nafi
Colonel Asimov shouted and cursed and even kicked one sleepy Libyan trooper, trying to get his task force moving. The Libyan officers and non-coms did little to help. These black-asses are scared shitless from the shelling, he thought, and those shells were landing at least 1,500 meters away. Nonetheless, Asimov and his four junior officers had most of the vehicles running and the troops assembled and mounted in the vehicles and nearly ready to move. The camp would just be left; there wasn’t time to strike it.
Asimov gave his final instructions to the Libyan company and platoon commanders, who nodded without enthusiasm and returned to their units. Asimov surmised from their sullen expressions that if he and his Russian advisory team were not here, the whole force would soon be heading due south and wouldn’t stop until they reached the desert base at Gharyan, eighty kilometers away.
Asimov had command of the largest of the task forces Colonel Zharkov had established. He had three full companies of T-72 tanks, thirty in all, two platoons of BMPs equipped as scout vehicles, and a company of motorized infantry riding in open trucks and BTRs. His location, at the intersection of two tracks, one leading almost directly to the air base perimeter fence and the other leading toward Tripoli to the west, had been selected by Zharkov so that the force could attack any American force that landed directly on the base, or could interpose itself between the base and an airborne landing in the open country to the south.
The reports he had been getting from Russian officers on the base were confused and conflicting, but what was emerging was that a fairly large airborne landing was taking place on the airfield itself, and that he would have to get his task force onto the base as soon as possible to engage the Americans. He had to get into close contact before his task force was located in the open by American attack aircraft.
Asimov watched with something approaching satisfaction as two companies of tanks, a squad of three BMPs, and the infantry company moved off west, traveling on the track and through the barley stubble in the fields on either side of it. Rows of tall date palms lined the track and divided the fields, offering some concealment from aircraft. The southernmost column of tanks began making smoke, which drifted over the whole formation in the offshore breeze. Major Kirov rode in his command tank near the middle of the formation and reminded the Libyan commanders via the command net to keep the vehicles spread out at proper intervals.
Kirov was to move west, then attack from a broad front along the base of runway 03/21. His orders were to suppress American fire, prevent the Americans from evacuating their hostages, and then await instructions.
Asimov would command the second element, which, though smaller, would be more maneuverable without infantry. With one company of tanks and the second BMP platoon, Asimov would proceed along the northerly track, breaching the base perimeter near the eastern end of runway 11/29, then attack in a northwesterly direction, giving heavy suppressive supporting fire to Kirov’s tanks and infantry, should they need to advance. Even with the poor quality of the Libyan officers, the overwhelming superiority of Asimov’s task force should quickly overwhelm any force the Americans could possibly have parachuted in. The troops themselves were from the elite Jihad Regiment, and their fighting spirit, at least, was quite good.
Asimov climbed into the commander’s hatch and gave the signal to move out. The group, in spread formation, started north at twenty kilometers an hour. They would be in position to attack in six minutes. Asimov hoped that Major Gurevich and his reinforced tank company, coming in from the ruined golf course, wouldn’t finish the battle before Asimov could bring his power to bear.
Washington, 0513 GMT (0013 Local)
The telephone on the console in front of the Secretary of State buzzed and lit up. Henry Holt listened to the White House operator, one subbasement below the situation room. “Mr. Secretary, we have Ambassador Dobrynin.”
The Secretary frowned. He had been caught up in the reports coming in from the battle area and forgot that he had put in a call to give the Soviet Ambassador formal notification of the commencement of military action. He placed that call fifteen minutes ago, and at this hour, he expected Dobrynin to be in his residence and immediately available to the American Secretary of State. “Put him through, please, operator.” There was a series of electronic tones, and the Russian Ambassador came on the line.
“Good evening, Henry,” said the Ambassador.
His voice sounds tense, thought Holt. Might as well make this formal. “Good evening, Mr. Ambassador. The President wishes you to inform your government that the United States has beg
un a limited military action in Libya. The sole purpose of the action is to effect the freedom of United States citizens held on the air base at Uqba ben Nafi, and will be confined to the area of the air base, although limited strikes may occur against other military targets in Libya to assure the safe withdrawal of our forces.”
“Oh, God, Henry!”
The Secretary surged on, ignoring the Russian’s outcry. “The President wishes to emphasize that the United States recognizes Soviet interests in Libya and that our limited operation is not intended to threaten them in any way.”
The Ambassador, seated at his desk in the small study next to his bedroom, took off his glasses and polished them on the lapel of his silk dressing gown. How to say this, he thought. “Henry, the General Secretary has died. Minutes ago, in his dacha.”
“My God, Anatoli! You have our deepest sympathies, of course.”
“Henry, how you handle your operation in Libya could cast a strong influence on the makeup of the new leadership of the party and the government!”
Holt let his breath out slowly. “I think I understand, Anatoli.”
“Henry, you must understand! Pictures of dead Russian soldiers, or Russian prisoners guarded by grinning American soldiers appearing on Soviet TV could - encourage - certain elements who do not favor the improvement of relations between our two governments.”
“Are you telling me there are significant Soviet units on that air base, Anatoli?”
How much can I tell him? thought the Russian. He knew Doryatkin’s plan to rescue the hostages with a Russian unit, and he suspected Nevsky’s intent to provoke a confrontation, but he had no idea just how. “Henry, it’s difficult-”
“Anatoli, we are right now running a very complex operation in Libya, an operation made all the more dangerous because you have set Baruni up with so many sophisticated weapons! Surely you realize that American casualties inflicted by Russians will make it even harder for us to move toward accommodation with the Soviet Union.”
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