“Bringing it down, Sarge. Looks like 1,700 meters,” said Tommy Evans.
“Good. Marty, step on it. We’ll fire on the go.” He keyed the armor net and called Lieutenant Baird, whose Sheridan was 200 meters in front of him. “Blue Leader, Blue Two. Two tanks, to your right, over.”
“Got ‘em. You take the one on the right, Two.”
“Roger.” Tucker keyed the intercom. “Tommy, stay on the one on the right.”
“OK, Matt. Range is in, 1,715 meters.”
“HEAT, up,” said Henry.
Tucker looked up and saw a bright flash from the right tank. “Jesus, Tommy, shoot it!”
The Sheridan rocked as the gun fired and recoiled. “On the way,” said Tommy.
Colonel Asimov watched the American tanks turn back toward the north, and waited impatiently for the Libyan gunner to get ready to engage.
“Laser reads 1,712 meters. Gun corrected,” said the gunner finally. “Sabot loaded.”
“Shoot,” said Asimov.
The hypervelocity fin-stabilized sabot round from the 125mm gun of Asimov’s tank took exactly one second to traverse the 1,712 meters between the gun and the target. It struck Tucker’s Sheridan just aft of the turret, in the engine compartment. The sabot didn’t detonate; the shell carried no explosives, it was just an aerodynamically shaped solid dart of extremely dense spent uranium. The kinetic energy of the very heavy projectile traveling at five times the speed of sound simply blew the eighteen-ton Sheridan in half, scattering pieces of track, hull, and the engine over hundreds of yards. Asimov bared his teeth as he traversed his turret to seek the second vehicle. He heard a flat report followed by a louder explosion, and turned to look to his left. He saw his companion tank, its left track and turret gone, burning fiercely. “Hurry up with the loading!” he yelled into the intercom. He raised his head. He thought he could hear something like approaching freight trains above the roaring engine of the tank. He looked up and saw three dark objects, falling together toward him. He began to duck back into the turret, though he knew instantly that it would do no good. Can there really be shells so big you could see them in flight? he thought, crossing himself.
“Henry’s neck is broke, Sergeant,” said Tommy Evans. “He’s dead.”
Sergeant Tucker eased to the ground from the shattered Sheridan. His own neck felt twisted, and one shoulder howled with pain while the other was numb. “Bring him out, Tommy. I’ll carry him.”
Marty Grossman pulled himself up through the driver’s hatch at the front of the vehicle. His face was covered with blood from a head wound. “We can all carry him, Matt.”
Tucker nodded and rubbed his neck. The runway rocked beneath him as more heavy shells landed to the east. “We better boogie. The last salvo from the battleship was almighty close.”
“Good shoot, Devastation,” said Stuart, watching as the smoke rose off the runway to the east. Both the burning tank and the moving one had disappeared. “Fill in toward us from the gun line with the secondary battery; the colonel wants runway 11/29 taken out, cratered.”
“This is Devastation. Danger Close bearings?”
Stuart gave the coordinates for the front of the army and marine positions, and for the Sheridans off to the west of the main runway. Five-inch shells began exploding on the runway, sending up dust and smoke.
Loonfeather crouched behind Stuart. “What are you shooting in front of us, William?”
“Five-inch old 38-caliber, Rufe. New Jersey’s secondary battery.”
“Why not the sixteens?”
“Can’t work ‘em that close. Kill us before the Libyans did.”
Loonfeather rubbed his chin and closed his eyes, calling up the image of the plan of the air base and his means to defend it. “Five-inch will need a direct hit to kill a medium tank.”
“Probably. Close miss will blow the tracks and the hatches off.”
“Hm. I wonder if they’re coming at all?”
“You thinking of calling the helos back for the evac?”
“Yes. What do you think?”
“Sir! I have Falcon Red Leader on Armor!” said one of the RTOs Loonfeather had gathered to him.
Loonfeather snatched the handset. Red Leader was Lieutenant Connelly with five Sheridans west of runway 11/29. “Raptor Six, over.”
“This is Falcon Red Leader. We can see enemy medium tanks, T-64 or T-72 type, moving across the runway. Also BTR-60s, over.”
“This is Raptor Six. If they get through the naval gunfire, they’re yours, over.”
“The lead tanks are through, Colonel, and making smoke.”
“Well, this is why we brought you, Red Leader. We can’t use supporting arms any closer. If you don’t stop them, it’s us with a few Dragons, and then rocks and bayonets.”
“Yes, sir! We’re moving, Colonel!”
“We’ll guard this net. Raptor Six, out.” Colonel Loonfeather shivered. The worst thing is that we have neither rocks nor bayonets, for all the good they might do.
“Hey Colonel,” called Stuart behind his spotting binoculars. “Some are coming through. There are APCs discharging infantry as they come.”
“Shit. Can you walk the shells a little closer?”
“Maybe a tad. We’ll ignite these wooden buildings alongside us, and maybe this one.”
Loonfeather weighed it. At least we should get rid of the infantry. “One more spot, William, then tell the battlewagon to cease fire; I want the Cobras back ASAP.”
“Roger, Colonel. Tell Donahue to get his people down. Tell them one more crash and it’s all theirs.”
Loonfeather talked to Thunder about the gunships as the last salvos of sixteen- and five-inch naval projectiles roared overhead. He talked to Donahue and once more to Connelly as the last close rounds from the battleship hit the runway, spraying concrete chips and metal fragments back on the soldiers between the low buildings south of the Operations Building, and onto the roof of the Operations Building itself. Loonfeather stood and counted eleven tanks, infantry bunched behind them, and four BTRs. I planned this formation and I’m fighting it as best I know how, he thought, and it’s all down to lieutenants and sergeants and a few tanks and a few more brave grunts. All the firepower in the fucking world, he thought, and they’re on us.
Loonfeather looked off to the left of the Operations Building, at the apron in front, which must be held for the evacuation. Mortars began firing, spotted from observers alongside him on the roof. In front, he heard machine guns open up and saw the oscillating exhausts of Dragons. The veritable whites of their eyes.
The front rank of tanks fired as one. The building in front of them burst into flames and sagged. Loonfeather felt the Operations Building sway beneath him as cannon fire roared through below him - multiple prolonged cracks of many enormous whips. Here and now, he thought. He switched frequencies again, to Command. “Thunder, this is Raptor Six. They’re on us.”
“We know, Rufus,” said Colonel Brimmer. “God keep you.”
0532 (0632 Local)
Colonel Zharkov watched his men as he monitored Major Kirov’s communications with his tanks. The Maintenance Building shook as several cannon shells struck the upper story. The men, who had been lounging around in small groups, smoking and talking, moved quickly back to their tanks and armored personnel carriers and climbed inside. Many closed the hatches.
There was a lot of shouting on the tank tactical net, much of it in Arabic, of which Zharkov understood little, but he could hear the fanaticism of the Libyan soldiers. Some were ululating into their microphones like Berber horse cavalrymen as Kirov and his junior officers shouted in vain in Russian to try to restore some discipline. The screams of “Allah’u Aqbar” chilled him; they brought back the horror of Afghanistan.
Zharkov gritted his teeth as more shells struck above him, sending down showers of plaster and glass from broken light bulbs. It’s only a matter of time before this building catches fire, he thought.
Captain Suslov appeared at hi
s side. Zharkov quickly briefed him on Kirov’s progress. “What will we do, Comrade Colonel?”
“Sit. Wait. This is turning into the bloodbath nobody wanted.”
Suslov’s face twitched suddenly, as if something the colonel said had startled him. “But Kirov is breaking through! Shouldn’t we support him, assure his victory?”
“No, Suslov. Remember, as far as the politicians of the world will tell it, that isn’t Kirov’s column; he isn’t even there. It is a Libyan column. Our orders were to take the hostages and give them to the Americans, to prevent a Soviet-American confrontation.”
Your orders, thought Suslov, remembering his own.
The Russian lieutenant who had the duty in the office at the end of the maintenance bays ran to Zharkov’s tank. He looks thoroughly scared, thought Zharkov. “Comrade Colonel, the Ambassador is calling for you on the secure land line from Tripoli.”
Zharkov climbed down and followed the lieutenant back to the office, running crouched as more shells exploded upstairs. He picked up the phone and announced, “Colonel Zharkov.”
“Comrade Colonel, this is Ambassador Timkin. We have just had an urgent signal from Moscow, from Doryatkin. The General Secretary has died.”
Zharkov didn’t speak. The power struggle would now be out in the open.
Timkin continued. “Doryatkin is very concerned about that Spetznaz unit of yours. What is your situation?”
Zharkov briefly explained where he was, and his guesses about the fighting a few hundred meters to the south. “Good, Colonel,” said Timkin. “Stay concealed until it is over, if you can. If the Americans are defeated, try to keep the black-asses from butchering all the hostages.”
“And if the Americans prevail, Comrade Ambassador?”
“Stay where you are. They aren’t likely to search the base, are they?”
“No, I wouldn’t think so, but this building is taking fire, and may burn.”
“God. Well, if you have to show yourself, try to avoid a fight. Surrender, even.”
“That may not be possible. The Americans will probably fire as soon as they see us.” I would, he thought bleakly.
“Well, Colonel Zharkov, try to do your best. I am sure you know what is at stake in the, ah, larger arena.”
He means Moscow. “I understand, Comrade Ambassador. I had better go and brief my men. However it ends, this battle will be over very quickly.”
USS America
Admiral Bergeron read the message from the high-speed teleprinter link with Washington:
0219 0530ZFLASHTOP SECRET LIMDISFM MILESTONE CINCTO TOP HAT COMSIXTHFLTRE FIRE ARROWSOV INFORM FRIENDLY REPEAT FRIENDLY SOV UNIT ON UBN AIR BASE. US UNITS MUST NOT ENGAGE IF UNIT CLEARLY IDENT SELF AS SOV VICE LIBYAN. FOR CINC ROGERS RADM USN.
The admiral handed the message back to the waiting second-class radioman. “Make sure this is passed immediately to Lieutenant Colonel Loonfeather.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” The radioman ran down the ladder two flights to Communications and handed the message to an operator. “Watts, send this right away to Lieutenant Colonel Loonfeather.” He picked up the clipboard from the supervisor’s console. “He is, ah, Thunder Two, over on Inchon.”
“I’ll get it right out.” Watts took the perforated paper tape that had been punched out by the teleprinter when the message had been received, fed it into another machine, and ran it. Inchon’s code came back, signifying receipt. Watts sat back down and put on his headphones, which were tuned to the army’s company net. Those guys are in it up to their necks! he thought.
On Inchon, twenty miles away, the Communications Watch supervisor logged the message, noted it was a Flash, and called his runner. “Weeks, get this up to Flag Plot and find a Colonel Loonfeather.”
“Right, Chief,” said the kid, taking the sealed red top secret envelope. He went up the ladders to Flag Plot. Officers and sailors and marines were milling around. Some were shouting into microphones; others wrote on floor-to-ceiling plastic boards. Weeks tried to ask a chief petty officer where to find Colonel Loonfeather, but the chief brushed past him with a “sorry, sailor.” Weeks had been in the Navy only six months, and he was awed by the commotion and a little scared. With relief, he spotted a console in the middle of the compartment with a hand-lettered cardboard sign that read, “LTC LOONFEATHER USA.” Weeks dropped the red envelope on the vacant console and fled.
Commander Stuart watched as the Libyan tanks concentrated their fire on the control tower and surrounding roof. Soldiers standing to guide Dragons at the advancing tanks were being cut down by accurate fire from the machine guns on the tanks. Stuart was amazed how many tank commanders were standing in their hatches, firing the heavy 12.7mm machine guns on the swivel mounts while Army and Marine sharpshooters tried to shoot them down. The air buzzed and cracked with small-arms fire and all manner of sounds from dull thunks to metallic screams as bullets struck and ricocheted around Stuart’s head.
The large building immediately to the west of the Operations Building was burning furiously. The flames were encouraged by an increasing offshore wind as the morning warmed, blowing the smoke in from the battlefield and obscuring most of it. Stuart thought it unlikely that he would again be called upon to spot targets for the warships, and he decided to leave the roof and see if he could be useful down below.
Hooper and Ricardo were next to him, their faces screwed into the roof, helmet to helmet. Hooper had been talking into the handset of Ricardo’s radio, but Stuart saw the handset lying shattered at the end of its cord. He reached and grabbed Hooper’s wrist, and when Hooper looked up, hand-signed “let’s go.” Hooper shook his head and twisted his body so Stuart could see that the SEAL commander’s other hand held a blood-soaked field dressing against Ricardo’s neck. Ricardo’s eyes were closed. Stuart pulled his field dressings from his own pack and pressed them into Hooper’s hand. Hooper’s face was a mask of pain as he took the dressings and mouthed the word “go.”
Stuart rose to a crouch and was immediately knocked flat by the impact of several shells on the side of the building. He felt the broken glass on the roof bite into his hands and face as the roof buckled and began to collapse. He slid through a crevice and tried to hold onto the edge of the torn roof with his bloody hands. A soldier rolled on top of him and they both fell heavily to the floor inside the Operations Building. Stuart felt a sharp pain in his back; he had fallen on his still-slung CAR-15. He sat up and looked at the soldier. The man was dead and looked puzzled.
“Come on, William, let me help you,” said Leah Rabin. She helped him to an aid station set up by medical corpsmen who had come with the marines, and got one of them to look at him. The corpsman, a short, smiling black man, hummed while he worked, even though his entire uniform was soaked with blood.
“Might need a few stitches when we get back to the ship, sir, on the hands, but you can go back up through the roof, if you want,” said the corpsman with a deep laugh.
“Thanks,” said Stuart, patting his face, which felt stiff with bandages. His hands were wrapped like mittens, although the corpsman had thoughtfully left the trigger fingers of both hands free. “Leah, how are the hostages?”
The hostages were huddled in small groups, mostly lying on the floor, surrounded by makeshift barricades of metal furniture. Many had covered themselves with folded metal chairs. Stuart felt that most looked surprisingly confident.
“Once we started taking casualties, several of the hostages took weapons from the wounded and went out into the alleys. These are brave people, William,” said Leah softly.
“Any idea of total casualties?”
Leah gestured to a small group of men lying on the floor under gray blankets. A few had their faces covered. “Since the firing became heavy, none have been brought in from outside. I am afraid the worst will come. The Libyans are pressing hard.”
“You thought they would run away.”
“I really did.”
“Well, only a few got through. I think the last
close salvo from the Jersey knocked down most of their infantry.”
“I am sure we can handle the infantry, William. But the tanks are inside the minimum range of the Dragons. Have you ever fought against tanks, William?” Leah’s voice was softened with sadness.
“No, I haven’t,” he admitted.
“Tanks are incredible people-killing machines, William. If a single intact tank reaches this room, everyone in here could die.”
Stuart felt chilled. We could still end up with nothing. With worse than nothing. He unslung his carbine. “I’d better get out there in that alley and see if I can help.”
“I want to go with you.”
Stuart looked at Leah, ready to argue. She was standing, looking at the calm faces of three hostages who appeared to be a mother and two young daughters. There was a sad tenderness in Leah’s face. Stuart felt at that moment that he loved her, and he wanted more than anything to keep her from harm, just as she wanted to keep the mother and daughters from harm. “OK,” he heard himself saying. His throat was choked with emotion. “Let’s go, Captain.”
She looked at him, and then she touched his bandaged face. It was all he could do to keep himself from weeping. “No. I will stay here, with them. If there is to be a last stand, the women will make it. It has always been that way.” The mother hugged her daughters and cried a little. The girls smiled bravely. “You go, William.”
William kissed her cheek. “I’ll be back, Leah.” He said it loud enough for the hostages to hear. As he stepped out into the alley, he felt a great rage rise in his breast, almost a lust to kill.
Major Kirov watched through his periscope as his three lead tanks reached the edge of the runway nearest the Operations Building. Four others had gone across the runway to the east. Two had been knocked out by wire-guided missiles, but two had managed to reach revetments, where Kirov had told them to stay and wait for the final pincer across the apron, once the alleys were forced. Kirov and five more tanks were back fifty meters, keeping up heavy suppressive fire on the positions being maintained on the roof of the Operations Building.
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