Fire Arrow

by Franklin Allen Leib

  “You haven’t been attacked by aircraft?”

  “No, Colonel. The helicopters and the fixed-wing aircraft are searching, but mainly to the south of us. We made very good time.”

  Asimov smiled for the first time since the attacks began. At least I have got the main body into position. His own task force had served as a decoy. “Will your positions overlook the airfield, Kirov?”

  “Yes, Comrade Colonel. The terrain is ideal, sloping gradually down from the runways and graded areas. We can get our guns to bear, at maximum depression, and still be hull-down.”

  “Good, Major Kirov, excellent. Continue to improve your position. The main attack will be entirely yours, although we will try to harass the enemy’s flank. Have you heard from Major Gurevich’s force?”

  “Not from him. We heard from one tank, who told us that he and a BTR are the sole survivors.”

  “Damn! What happened?”

  “The tank commander thought naval gunfire.”

  Shit, thought Asimov, that will be the next gauntlet we have to run, but we must get close, so close to the Americans that they cannot use bombs and naval guns. Then my tanks and infantry will defeat the lightly armed paratroopers and marines. They won’t stand a chance against Kirov’s twenty tanks! “Kirov, you cannot wait and shoot; the Americans have landed paratroopers ahead of their marines! You will soon come under attack from aircraft such as have attacked my force. You will have to advance; close with the Americans!”

  “Now, Comrade Colonel?” asked Kirov.

  “Wait for us, Kirov, if you can, but if you are detected, attack immediately. Your safety lies in closing with the enemy as quickly as possible.”

  “I understand, Comrade Colonel. We are confident of victory!”

  Just get bloody close, thought Asimov grimly. He looked up as the tank slowed and bucked. They were entering the moonscape created by the American naval shelling that had awakened them just before dawn. They were finally on the air base.

  Uqba ben Nafi, 0525 GMT (0625 Local)

  Lieutenant Colonel Loonfeather jumped from the side door of the marine CH-53D Sea Stallion helicopter as it landed in front of the Operations Building. He carried an M-16 in one hand and a map case in the other. Twenty-eight marine riflemen, most carrying Dragons, LAWs, or machine gun belts in addition to their rifles and light packs, filed out after him, running as they landed to positions marked by gesturing, whistle-blowing army Pathfinders. Three more Sea Stallions landed on the apron, disgorging the rest of B Company, 1st of the 6th Marines. Major Donahue met Lieutenant Colonel Loonfeather at the doors of the Operations Building.

  “I want you to understand, John, that my being here is in no way a reflection on you,” began Colonel Loonfeather. “The situation has changed a hell of a lot since we last went over it.”

  “Not at all, Colonel. I’m glad to see you,” said Major Donahue, smiling stiffly.

  Loonfeather looked around quickly, noting machine gun emplacements and riflemen with Dragons dug in or digging in, in unpaved areas off the apron, and others filling sandbags to reinforce positions on the tarmac. He could see other positions on the roof of the Operations and other nearby buildings. “Where are the Sheridans, John?”

  “Five are spread out in a natural depression at the western end of runway 11/29. Colonel Bowie intended them to be a maneuver force, to oppose any enemy armor breaking through across the runway. Two are set up east, to cover that flank. They’re in empty revetments on the north side of runway 11/29, along with mortar squads and Dragons. One flipped over on landing and broke its main gun.”

  Loonfeather nodded. Seven of eight intact was better than he expected.

  “Just how many Libyans do you expect from the south, Colonel?” asked Major Donahue.

  He means there had better be a real emergency for me to come loping in and take his command, thought Loonfeather. He resented the question and understood the feeling. “Major, we originally believed we had photographed forty T-72s and twenty-one smaller vehicles, mostly BTRs and a few BMPs. Navy photo recon and your own patrol have counted twenty-two tanks killed and five APCs of all types knocked out, so there’s still a major force out there somewhere, redeployed after yesterday’s photos were taken and not yet found by aircraft. I can’t believe they can be anywhere but south of here.”

  “Perhaps they have withdrawn. The Navy and marines claim to have given one group to the south a thorough pounding.”

  “That’s possible,” conceded Loonfeather. “It’s also possible that the shelling from the New Jersey and her destroyers buried some of them, in which case we might very well get out of here and never see another enemy tank.” But I doubt it, he thought. The clever Russian son of a bitch who hid a tank company and a half in the underbrush of the golf course where we never should have found it would have a maneuver force somewhere. “What are your plans for evacuating, John?”

  “The bird you came in on will hop down to the aid station and load up with the injured troopers,” replied Major Donahue, pointedly ignoring the notes on his clipboard. “We’ll divide the hostages into three groups and put them on the other birds. Once they’re clear, we’ll assemble all of our forces within this perimeter, and then try to lift them all out in one go. Ten H-53s.”

  “Good, Major, very good. You carry on with your plan. I want to walk around, get a feel for the place.”

  Leah Rabin kept most of the hostages on the floor of the Operations ready room, while allowing as many as possible to get food and water from the army medics and to make bathroom visits. She moved among the people, encouraging them, telling them they would be leaving soon. She helped organize splinter barricades, made of metal furniture, covered where possible with heavy overcoats. She told each family group to remain together, and had individuals buddy into teams, each member charged with knowing the whereabouts of all his team companions. She lectured, she cajoled, but mostly she just talked, very calmly, smiling often, touching often.

  There was a mother with two daughters, one fifteen and the other thirteen. Their father was a chief radar technician on board the destroyer Adams. The thirteen-year-old, whose name was Angela, seemed fascinated by Leah and followed her constantly as she continued to organize.

  Leah finished moving family groups to positions closer to the foundations of the building, which were made of cinder block and concrete and might afford some protection from small-arms fire. Leah stood back and looked at the tight groups of people, all of whom looked back at her. They seemed cheerful and confident. God, I hope we can get on those helicopters soon, thought Leah as she sat down on the metal desk near the bound form of Abu Salaam.

  Little Angela approached the desk, on the side away from the terrorist. Leah smiled and stroked the child’s curly blond hair. “Are you and your mother and sister ready to leave in the helicopter, Angela?”

  “Yes, Leah. Will you go with us?”

  “The officers will tell who goes in which helicopter, Angela.”

  “What if the Marines and the Army can’t get us out?”

  “They will get us out, Angela. The helicopters have already landed. Very soon you must join your mother and sister. I am counting on you to make sure they get to the helicopter safely.”

  “I will. But what if the Libyans come first? I heard a soldier say the Libyans have tanks.”

  “We will fight. We will defeat them, Angela, and then we will leave.”

  “We have to fight, too? Not just the men?”

  Leah looked at the pretty child, her earnest expression and her innocent blue eyes. How unlike Israeli children, schooled on the never-ending need to defend themselves and their land. “Yes, Angela, if we have to. Women must fight: it is our freedom, our duty, just like the men.”

  “Will you be here to show us how, Leah?” The child’s eyes shone with fear, and with courage overcoming it.

  “Yes, Angela. Now, please join your family. We will surely be leaving in a few minutes.”

  Lieutenant Malenkov watch
ed as the four helicopters landed by the cluster of buildings across the runway from his position. His BMP was dug into the face of a shell crater, its 73mm main gun barely a foot above the surface of the runway. Malenkov radioed Colonel Asimov for instructions, but he received no answer. Malenkov had seen the smoke and felt the concussions of the Americans’ second attack, and watched as the attack aircraft had turned toward the sea, out of range of his two remaining SAMs. He wondered if Colonel Asimov was even alive.

  The third and last BMP of Malenkov’s platoon had broken down soon after the two vehicles had left the tanks. Its radiator had been shredded by the American antipersonnel rockets, and the engine had overheated and seized. Malenkov had sent its crew, on foot, to find Major Kirov’s force, which also didn’t answer the radio.

  So it’s mine to decide, thought Malenkov, watching the helicopter rotors spinning through the periscope sight of the 73mm cannon. I could be the only force left.

  Malenkov looked up at the six Libyan soldiers sprawled in shallow dug-out positions to the left of the vehicle. “Sergeant Hamidi!” he shouted. “Are you ready with the Strela?”

  Hamidi grinned, showing white teeth against his brown Berber face. He held the SAM-7 over his head and nodded. “Wait for my signal, Hamidi!”

  Malenkov ducked down inside the turret, checked that the SAGGER missile was ready, then returned to the periscope. The first of the big helicopters rose from its position near the buildings and flew the short distance to the revetment marked with the red cross, where it hovered. Malenkov took a deep breath and fired the cannon. The BMP bucked. The rocket-assisted, fin-stabilized HEAT round struck the rotor head of the helicopter just as it was about to land. The helicopter fell to earth, twisting violently, and crashed over on its side. Malenkov wouldn’t fire again until another lifted off. He hoped to remain undetected.

  “Jesus! The helo down by the aid station just got hit!” said Stuart into his helmet radio. He looked below him. Hostages, running crouched over, were being guided to the three turning-up CH-53s on the tarmac. The loud report of the shell striking the helo, followed by the tearing sound of the aircraft crashing, caused all movement to freeze. The marine crew chiefs guiding the hostages quickly turned their charges back toward the Ops Building, then ran for their aircraft.

  Loonfeather, who had been halfway up the stairway to the roof of the Ops Building, sprinted the rest of the way to the top, where he flopped beside Stuart. “Hey, my bad medicine pal! Where did that come from?”

  Stuart was startled to see Loonfeather, in his khaki shirt and green uniform trousers and tie, but there was no time to question. “No, Colonel. South. I saw nothing, so I guess cannon, rather than missile.”

  Below them, the three helicopters, without passengers, lifted into the ground effect, wheels barely clear of the runway, pivoted around the axes of their rotors, and headed back out to sea, flying as low as they could.

  “Sergeant Hamidi! Fire the missile!” shouted Lieutenant Malenkov.

  “Commander Stuart!” said Ricardo, holding the radio handset. “One of the Sheridans says he’s spotted a tank on the other side of the runway!”

  “Did Major Donahue hear that?” asked Lieutenant Colonel Loonfeather.

  “Yes, sir! He’s on the net himself. He just said, charge!’“

  Damn! thought Loonfeather. We need to save the Sheridans for close work. That tank should be given to the naval guns. I’m sorry, John Donahue. Loonfeather motioned urgently to a soldier with a radio on his pack to come to him. “Major Donahue, this is Colonel Loonfeather. I’m going to take command now, John. I want you to manage the perimeter defense.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Major Donahue. He resented being relieved, but at the same time he knew Loonfeather had more experience and knew the plan better. He keyed into the company net. “This is Raptor Six. Colonel Loonfeather has assumed overall command. Colonel Loonfeather is now Raptor Six, out.”

  Loonfeather switched the radio to the armor net and thumbed his transmit key. “This is Raptor Six. Falcon Blue Leader, fire a round at the enemy tank to mark it, then withdraw pronto. We’re calling naval gun.”

  “Falcon Blue Leader to Raptor Six. Wilco. Blue Two reports the enemy vehicle just fired a SAM.”

  “Shit. OK, tell him to shoot something at the target that we can see, and get back. I want to call naval gunfire to crater the runway.”

  “Roger. Blue Leader out.”

  Loonfeather twisted the selector back to company net. “Donahue, did any hostages board those helos?”

  “No, sir, I thought it was too dangerous.”

  “I concur.”

  Loonfeather put down the handset. Stuart was talking on Ricardo’s radio. “Stand by, Devastation, over,” said Stuart, his face taut. “Colonel, I want to lay some heavy H-E down beyond the end of runway 03/21, back about a klick. Walk it around; see what we scare up.”

  “I’m not sure how much we want to scare anything up, but do it. I feel a major assault coming, William.”

  “Yeah. I know.” Stuart picked up the handset. “Devastation, this is Black Widow. For effect, now, over.”

  The three marine CH-53s skimmed along in the ground effect, flying single file directly over the runway. The SA-7 fired by Sergeant Hamidi was guiding on the twin turbines of the helicopter last in line. The helicopters fled toward the safety of their carriers at 180 knots; the missile pursued at close to 900 knots. The missile struck the big helicopter just as it passed over the coast, and the helicopter hit the sea in a burst of spray and then settled on its floats. The aircraft commander and the copilot were killed by metal splinters from the missile’s warhead, which showered them from above. The crew chief and both door-gunners got out into the water and inflated their raft.

  Sergeant Matthew Tucker sat in the commander’s hatch as the Sheridan slowed from forty miles an hour. He pressed the button that activated the stabilizing system for the main gun. “You got him, Tommy?” he spoke into his helmet mike on intercom.

  The gunner, Spec 4 Tommy Evans, answered at once. “Yo, Sarge. Got him in the twelve-power setting. Tough shoot, though; he’s really low.”

  “You make the shoot, Tommy. Driver, stop.” The Sheridan lurched as Pvt. Marty Grossman, the driver, brought it to an abrupt halt.

  “Here goes, everybody.” Tommy pressed the trigger. The Sheridan reared up like a colt as the forty-nine-pound HEAT round roared from the barrel.

  Sergeant Tucker watched the round explode just short of the black smudge protruding above the whitish soil. He saw a jet of flame spring from the top of the enemy vehicle and a dark object take flight. Below him he heard the bore evacuator blow like a foghorn. Henry, the loader, struggled to chamber the next round in the awkward screw breech. “Better hurry, guys. I think he launched a SAGGER.” Tucker pressed the twin triggers of the .50-caliber M2 machine gun, and guided the tracers onto the tiny target.

  “Colonel, this is Kirov. Heavy shellfire is falling in behind me, and there are two light tanks crossing the runway, heading diagonally away from the Operations Building.”

  They must be looking for Malenkov, with his dead radio, thought Asimov. Kirov had reported the downing of the first helicopter. “Kirov, I am hull-down, east of the two light tanks. I will deal with them. We must close with the Americans, or they will finish us with artillery and air strikes. Launch your attack.”

  “We are rolling, Comrade Colonel.” Kirov switched frequencies and gave the attack order. In case any radios were malfunctioning, he fired two orange smoke grenades as his tank began to move.

  Lieutenant Malenkov winced as the machine gun bullets rattled and screamed off the face of the BMP’s turret. The turret was about the only part of the vehicle with sufficient armor to resist .50-caliber rounds. The SAGGER missile he had fired had overflown the target before the gunner could control it, and the American light tank was still coming. Because the BMP was tilted up in the crater, he couldn’t depress his main gun sufficiently to shoot the American.


  I have two choices, he thought bleakly. Back up out of sight and wait for a mortar shell or artillery round to find me, or drive up over the lip of the crater and face the bastard gun to gun. He smiled and pushed the intercom button. “Forward, Ali. Climb us out.”

  “Blue Two, this is Blue Leader. Break off and return to the revetment, over.”

  “Hey, Lieutenant, we got this guy!” protested Sergeant Tucker.

  “Leave it, Tucker. Naval gunfire incoming,” said Lieutenant Baird.

  Shit, thought Tucker. “Blue Two, roger,” he said into the microphone, then switched to intercom. “We’re pulling back. Take a shot if you got one, Tommy.”

  “He’s moving, Matt! He’s coming up!”

  “Up Tommy,” said Henry, signifying that he had loaded the round, closed the breech, and got out of the way of the recoil of the gun.

  Tommy watched as the enemy’s turret emerged and tilted steeply upward. Then he saw the tracks churning sand. He pressed the trigger on the control stick. “On the way, motherfucker,” he breathed. The enemy vehicle erupted in an orange-yellow burst of flame, which gathered itself into a black puff of smoke and was gone.

  Private Marty Grossman floored the throttle and pulled the steering bar for a tight left turn. Heavy shells from the ships offshore were already raising clouds of smoke and dust to the south and east. Grossman looked through the periscope as he turned the Sheridan, watching the shell flashes near the end of the runway. He saw two low black silhouettes against the smoke. He thumbed his intercom button. “Sarge! Two tanks, on the runway, to your right!”

  Sergeant Tucker pressed the palm switch on his control handle to take control of the turret and gun away from the gunner, and traversed the gun out to the right. He saw the tanks immediately, speeding toward him on the runway. He laid the gun by eye on the right-hand target, released the palm switch, and spoke into the intercom. “Take it, Tommy. Get the right-hand vehicle in the choke reticle for ranging.”