Leah, thought Stuart, as he broke into a run behind the others. Dear God.
The crack of the tank cannon from behind the Ops Building sent everyone inside sprawling. The shell had passed completely through the building without exploding. Next, the tank opened up with its machine guns, first the 7.62mm coax, and then the heavy 12.7mm mounted outside at the commander’s hatch. When she heard the low-pitched bark of the heavy machine gun, Leah knew the commander firing the gun had to be exposed, because she knew there was no way to fire the 12.7 from inside the turret on a T-72. Her first thought was to try to get a shot with her carbine, to kill the commander. Then she remembered the RPG-7 that Stuart had used to knock out the ZSU, half a lifetime ago.
The RPG launcher and the wooden box of grenades were over on the south side of the room, where they had been left, ironically, next to the bound and gagged Abu Salaam. Leah slithered across the room on her belly, the machine gun bullets seeming to press her flatter, seeking her. She reached the launcher and took a grenade from the box and inserted it into the tube. She looked at Abu Salaam, hating him. She could not see his mouth because of the gag, but his eyes twinkled with glee.
Leah scrabbled back across the room, holding the launcher in front of her. The building’s cinder-block foundation afforded some protection to the prone hostages, but the wooden structure was being shredded, as were the furniture barricades. Tracer ammunition had started several small fires.
The hostages followed Leah with their eyes as she squirmed across the room, slowed by the heavy launcher. For the first time, the eyes of the hostages were filled with fear.
Hasaffi shouted at his driver to keep accelerating. He was on the apron in front of the Maintenance Building, 225 meters from the Ops Building. His gunner and driver wanted him to turn back. He refused, and told the gunner to continue firing the coax while he fired short bursts from the heavy NSV machine gun on the swivel mount. American soldiers could be seen running toward the building from across the apron, or firing at him from positions across the runway, but he continued to concentrate his fire on the building and the hostages within. That would pain them more, be a greater revenge, he reasoned. Allah, he prayed to himself, give me victory, then take me to paradise. He intended to drive the tank right through the side of the building. He was sure he would kill everyone in the building, and he then would be killed.
Leah reached the window facing the oncoming tank. She could follow the sweeping of the coax, but the 12.7mm was firing in what seemed to be more random bursts. I will just have to guess, she decided. God of Israel, she prayed, protect me as I smite thine enemies. At least let me take the shot, and protect these innocents around me.
A burst of the heavy machine gun splintered the sill above her head. She rose quickly, the launcher already braced over her right shoulder. The tank filled the optical sight, and she pulled the trigger. The grenade’s rocket motor ignited after the grenade had been propelled ten meters from the launcher, and the grenade accelerated toward the tank. Leah could see the face of the commander as he swung his machine gun back toward her, too late. The HEAT grenade struck the ring joint just under the turret, penetrated the armor, and exploded inside, tearing the tank to pieces of tortured metal. The ammunition exploded in a ball of fire.
Lieutenant Colonel Loonfeather clattered down the iron staircase from the roof of the Operations Building, followed by his three RTOs with radio packs. He saw Stuart enter the building through the back door and went in after him. Most of the people continued to lie on the floor, but Loonfeather saw the female Israeli captain organizing wounded soldiers and marines to fight the fires. Stuart ran to her and embraced her, and she seemed to sag against him, but only for a moment. Loonfeather saw the RPG-7 launcher, wisps of smoke still coming from both ends, and knew who had killed the tank. “Stuart!” he called.
Leah pushed William away and returned to fire fighting. Many hostages were up and helping, but at the south end of the building the old, dry wood was beginning to burn brightly. “Yes, Colonel!” said Stuart.
“What’s your assessment?”
Stuart listened to the near silence for a second before answering. “I think it’s over, Rufus.”
Loonfeather nodded. “I do too. Get the people off the roof, and get these people organized in here. Better evacuate. There’s no way they’re going to stop this tinderbox from burning with a few fire extinguishers.”
“Will do, Rufus.” Stuart grinned, “Hey, Colonel, that was a hell of a fight!”
Loonfeather was thinking of his casualties, especially among his Sheridan crews, and found it hard to smile, but he did. “Jesus, yes, but let’s fuck off, White-Eyes! We’ve been here far too long.”
Loonfeather took the handset from the RTO on command net as Stuart shouted to the marines and the black-uniformed SEALs to get the hostages out of the building and assembled, and to organize help for the wounded.
“Feeney,” said Stuart. “Get upstairs and get everybody off the roof. Jones, make sure we don’t leave anybody, including that sack of shit.” He pointed to Abu Salaam, still slumped in the corner where they had left him.
Loonfeather pressed the transmit key. “Thunder, this is Raptor Six. Request the entire evac flight. Use the entire apron, over.”
“This is Thunder. Helicopters are already airborne, Rufus. They’ll reach you in two minutes, over,” said Colonel Brimmer, on Inchon.
“Thanks, Bob. We’ll be ready to go, I can assure you.”
“Was it as bad as it sounded on the radios, Rufus?”
Loonfeather felt his whole body shake violently for a second, as though he had been suddenly drenched in ice water. He had a sudden sense of dread. His ancestors beckoned him from the back of his mind. Danger, they said. Danger is very near. Without knowing why, Loonfeather looked out the window to the north, not at the burning T-72, but beyond it. From the north will come danger, the spirits whispered. Loonfeather saw nothing but the empty tarmac and the Maintenance Building beyond.
“Rufus? Raptor Six, this is Thunder, over.”
Loonfeather fought down the primitive foreboding and keyed his microphone. “It was far worse, Thunder, far worse. Raptor Six out.”
Across the apron, the pool of burning diesel fuel from Sergeant Hasaffi’s tank reached the corner of the Maintenance Building, which began to burn as the first helicopters crossed over the coast and descended toward the runway.
Uqba ben Nafi, 0548 GMT (0648 Local)
The first helicopters to arrive overhead the air base were twenty Sea Cobra gunships, two flights from Saipan and three from Inchon. The gunships hovered over a broad arc south of the Operations Building in the center of the base. Navy fighters and attack aircraft ranged farther south and watched the roads to the east and west. Airborne and marine units began to assemble on the tarmac as personnel were checked against lists. It was demanded by the plan that if possible no one, alive or dead, be left behind.
Lieutenant John Connelly’s Sheridan rolled into the area in front of the Operations Building, greeted by cheers and a raucous blast from Sgt. Matthew Tucker’s bugle. Connelly felt proud of his work, and of his men, but he wanted most to know the fate of the crews that had been hit. Tucker’s Sheridan had been the first to leave the net, and Connelly’s drawn, almost haggard face lit up to see Blue Two’s commander and two of his men. “Damn, Sergeant, you made it! Climb up here!”
“Yes, sir. We lost my driver, sir, Bobby Henry.”
Connelly felt his chest tighten. “I’m sorry, Matt.”
“Yes, sir. He was good; a good friend.”
“Shit, Sergeant, get up here on top, blow Assembly on that bugle; blow it over and over. Maybe some other guys got through.”
“Yes, sir,” said Sergeant Tucker, climbing up onto the turret and blowing the pure notes, first to the east and then to the other points of the compass.
“Colonel Loonfeather, we haven’t met. I’m Commander Philip Hooper; the SEALs, sir.”
Loonfeather turned from
his radio and shook hands. “You and your team did well, Commander. Thank you.”
“Make it Hoop, Colonel, please.”
“OK. Rufus, then.”
“Good,” grinned Hooper. “Have you got a minute to run down this evacuation for me?”
Loonfeather showed him the diagram on his clipboard. “It’s standard Marine Corps doctrine, Hoop. Perimeter defense is the marine rifle company, plus all those Cobras we could have used earlier.” Hooper smiled, but Loonfeather couldn’t; his face was set against the pain of the early casualty reports from the Armor. “We’re doing this as though we’re under fire, which is to say that we evacuate from the inside of the perimeter out, but the last unit to leave has to be strong enough to defend itself against any expected threat.”
“OK, the Marines are the Critical Mass Force, the last out.”
“Right, because their organization is intact - they weren’t dispersed by a parachute jump - and because the helo crews are also Marines.”
Hooper pointed at helicopter pairs flying in from the sea while the CH-53s continued to hover over the beach. “What about those guys?”
“Each pair - a CH-46 and a Cobra - will be vectored onto a downed helicopter, or a knocked-out Sheridan, to look for wounded or remains. Others will search the beach for stragglers from the jump, who were told to walk to the beach if they landed long. The name of every man picked up will be radioed to Major Donahue, who holds the master roster for all the units involved. The units inside the perimeter will be assigned a lift as soon as they’re certified present or accounted for by their commanders. As each unit is ready, we’ll call down a bird, and they’re gone.”
“The first bird picked up the casualties from the aid station.”
“Right. The second will pick up casualties here, and then the hostages go out.”
“And last the marines.”
“Right. The entire rifle company will go in one last lift.”
“What about your little tank?” asked Hooper, looking at the Sheridan.
“Regrettably, Commander, that gets blown up.”
“How about my team, and our distinguished prisoner?”
Loonfeather shrugged. “You’re intact, you can go with the hostages if you want.”
Hooper frowned, remembering Ricardo’s still body on the roof. We are not intact, he thought. “We’ve been watching you guys work for near forty minutes. We’ll wait and go last, with the marines, Colonel, if you please.”
Commander Hooper turned and walked back to his men. Loonfeather watched his back, fighting anger. The SEAL commander wasn’t exactly discourteous, thought Loonfeather, stung by Hooper’s abruptness, but he wasn’t exactly polite either. Loonfeather knew that many would criticize the operation. Surely Hooper would have argued for a quick snatch; commandos liked to strike and be gone. Hindsight would agree with them, since the SEALs had held the Operations Building without the expected opposition from close-positioned Libyan troops before the Airborne had jumped. Hindsight and my casualties will plague me, he thought grimly. Then his mood brightened quickly as he saw Lieutenant Baird and his crew, jumping and cheering, join up with Connelly on the lone surviving Sheridan. Fuck the second-guessers, he thought behind his smile. Fuck Commander Hooper, too.
“That wasn’t exactly polite, Hoop,” said Stuart, following Hooper as he walked away from Loonfeather.
“Oh, fuck you, William!” Hooper stopped and faced Stuart, anger to anger. “OK, no, I suppose it wasn’t, but I think letting the Army run this thing got a lot of people killed.”
“In what sense?”
“It was just too fucking complicated! If we could have had three CH-53s, escorted by a few Cobras, right after we secured the Ops Building, we would have been gone before a single Libyan woke up. Instead, we fight a major battle and damn near get waxed.” Hooper’s eyes were angry and sad. Ricardo had died in his arms, drowned in his own blood.
“Hindsight, Hoop.” Stuart sensed his friend’s grief, and he placed his hands on the big man’s shoulders. “Any moving vehicle, especially that ZSU, and we could have lost everyone.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m pissed about all the casualties, and especially Ricardo. He was a good friend.” Hooper lowered his head, his anger going. “But you know what else, William?”
“What, Hoop?”
“Maybe it was because I had nothing to do once the Airborne took over. Maybe it was because I felt like a spectator. But when those tanks came through that smoke, I was scared shitless.”
William smiled at his friend. “It did get loud.”
Hooper looked up and recovered his grin. “Precisely. Look, I’ll make it right with Colonel Loonfeather.”
The fire inside the Maintenance Building spread quickly, racing up the walls and igniting the dry wooden joists and beams. Colonel Zharkov had his men in their tanks and BTRs with the engines running. Outside on the apron, he could see huge helicopters landing by twos and threes and troops loading up. Nice and orderly, he thought, but too damn slow. We are going to have to drive out of here before the building starts to collapse, and the Americans will not be gone before that happens.
Zharkov climbed down the ladder from the narrow window above the bay doors. Even though the fire was at the other end of the long building, the heat and smoke were becoming intolerable. Zharkov gestured for the duty officer to join him. “Lieutenant, get the flag from the duty office.”
“Yes, Comrade Colonel!”
“Is there a sheet on the bunk in there?”
“Yes, Comrade Colonel!”
“Bring that, too.” The officer looked puzzled, but he hustled away.
Zharkov climbed up onto the turret of his tank and waved for the men’s attention, shouting to be heard above the rumble of the diesels. “We are going to have to show ourselves. We have been ordered to avoid direct conflict with the Americans. I wish to reemphasize that point.”
He looked at each tank and BTR commander. Each nodded his understanding. Zharkov looked hard at the zampolit, Captain Suslov, who nodded gravely. Behind Suslov, out of his view, Warrant Officer Tolkin nodded vigorously. “Good.” The duty officer had returned with the Soviet flag, on its wooden staff, and the wrinkled sheet from the bunk. Zharkov handed the flag to his gunner, who stuck it upright in his hatch. Zharkov draped the white sheet over the barrel of the tank cannon and fastened it with wire. He climbed into the commander’s hatch and trained the gun out right to the three o’clock position.
Stuart watched Leah as the hostages jogged single file toward the three CH-53s assigned to pick them up. She waved them onward, urging each one to hurry, but the women and nearly all the children wanted to stop, to touch her, before they proceeded to the helicopters. At last, the three helos were loaded, and they lifted off under their screen of Cobras and A-7s flying above. The hostages waved from the open doors of the helos until they could no longer see the apron. The slim Israeli officer waved back, her face streaming with tears.
“Leah,” whispered Stuart. She looked up at him, stripping the tears from her eyes with the back of an angry hand. She turned from him, and he felt pain beyond imagining. “Leah, please,” he began again.
She whirled and threw herself into his arms, sobbing, beyond words. He held her, fiercely tight, and he felt a tightness in his throat. “Leah.”
Leah pushed her face up gently past his chin. “William,” she whispered, her breath short from crying, “I have never seen such bravery as among those people.”
“They’re safe, now.” It seemed an inadequate thing to say.
“There were so many casualties!”
“Too many. But you were very brave.”
Leah pushed him back, looking at him. “Brave? I didn’t feel brave.”
“Brave, Leah, and beautiful.”
Leah wiped away the last of her tears and seemed to stiffen in William’s arms. “Are you talking of love to me, Commander?” There was the edge of forced humor in her voice.
“Yes. Please don’t lau
gh, Leah.”
Tears streamed from her eyes again, and she pressed her face into his chest. “Oh God, Stuart, I can only cry now.”
“I love you, Leah.”
Leah sobbed so deeply that Stuart felt his body rocked as he held her.
“OK, Rufus. The lists are complete. Last Airborne units all present or accounted for,” said Major Donahue.
“Load ‘em, John.”
“Yes, sir.” Donahue swung his arm in a circle above his head, then pumped it once. Knots of soldiers ran crouched to waiting helicopters in orderly rows, holding their weapons at port arms, across their chests. Lieutenant Colonel Loonfeather tapped Major Donahue on the shoulder. “What was the casualty total, John?”
“Thirty-six KIA, Rufus, including the aircrews picked up at sea or lost at sea.”
“How many of my Sheridan crews?”
“Fifteen, Colonel. I’m sorry.”
Jesus, thought Loonfeather. Fifteen killed out of a total of thirty-two who jumped. “Well, John, we knew they’d catch hell if they had to fight.”
“As near as we can tell, Colonel, the seven who fought killed nine T-72s.”
Loonfeather smiled between pride and pain. “Yeah, John, the hard way, too. In the open, tank to tank.”
“Brave men, Colonel.”
Loonfeather watched as the last of the Airborne loaded up and the CH-53s began taking off. The marines moved to the assembly points near the landing spots that had been marked on the tarmac in white paint. Such brave men, thought Loonfeather.
“Colonel?” asked Lieutenant Connelly, at his side. “Shall we blow the Sheridan?”
“Is it charged?”
“Yes, sir, but it’s safe. We should back it away from the helicopters. Huckins has the radio detonator.”
Loonfeather had the sudden image in his mind of danger lurking unseen. He once again heard the whispers of the Old Ones, so long dead. The feeling was so strong that Loonfeather trembled, as he had earlier. The warning had something to do with the Sheridan. “Lieutenant, let’s leave it where it is. The detonator has enough range; we’ll kick it off when we’re airborne.”
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