Fire Arrow

by Franklin Allen Leib

  “Essentially, that’s the deal, Admiral,” answered Loonfeather.

  “You’d better tell us what you mean by ‘essentially,’ Colonel,” said Admiral Bergeron, leaning close to the microphone. He looked around the table at the faces of his staff officers, noting that their expressions varied from confused to relieved. Major General Morton looked taut and angry.

  “Yes, sir,” said Loonfeather. “I’m sure the Admiral realizes that the Soviets are protected from our aircraft by their closeness to us and our helos. Once they let us leave, they will have no such protection. If the Admiral agrees that we will not attack the Soviets if they let all of us leave safely,” Loonfeather paused, and the speaker buzzed and clicked.

  Admiral Bergeron suddenly had a sense of the Soviet commander standing next to Lieutenant Colonel Loonfeather, listening to at least his end of the conversation. A gun to his head? Is it possible?

  Loonfeather resumed, “I suggest that we should make certain gestures, to show our good faith. My first request is that the Cobra gunships patrolling close to the south of us be withdrawn, out over the sea.”

  General Morton was out of his seat, shaking his head violently, his face red and contorted. Admiral Wilson gestured for calm. Admiral Bergeron waved his hands downward, demanding silence. He keyed the microphone and tilted it toward his mouth. “Raptor Six, this is Top Hat. Stand by, over.”

  “Raptor Six, roger, over.”

  Admiral Bergeron pushed the microphone aside and looked to see that the transmit key was off. He looked at each of his staff officers in turn, willing each man to calm. “Gentlemen, I see no reason why we can’t pull the Cobras back.” General Morton started to speak, seemed ready to burst, but the admiral held him silent with a look. “We can pull them back over the sea, have them hover below the horizon at low altitude, and still have them back overhead the air base in two or three minutes. Now, General Morton, you oppose this gesture?”

  The stocky marine had got control of himself, and his face had faded from dark red to blotchy pink. “No, Admiral, if a gesture is what it is. But without those Cobras, the marines on the ground have no chance if a fight erupts. None.”

  “We’d lose them all?” asked Admiral Bergeron.

  “Yes, sir. Captain Roberts might surprise them long enough to kill a tank or an APC with a LAW, and maybe a lucky helo with a quick pilot might jump out in the confusion, but those Soviet tanks and infantry would annihilate the grunts in the helicopters and on the ground, and many of the Russians might reach cover in the couple of minutes needed to bring back the gunships.”

  “In which case the ships and aircraft of this fleet would obliterate the entire base, including the Russians, wherever they tried to hide,” said Admiral Wilson. “Surely the Soviets know that.”

  “I don’t disagree, Admiral,” said General Morton. “I just don’t like the exchange. Right now we have a stalemate; we can bargain. Once the Cobras are withdrawn, the Russ has the undisputed advantage, however temporary.”

  “What would you suggest we tell Colonel Loonfeather, General?” asked Admiral Bergeron carefully. Morton hates the Russians and distrusts them without exception, but he has a point, thought Bergeron.

  General Morton rubbed his hands together. His jaw worked as he tore at the problem in his mind. “It’s tough. Loonfeather thinks he has a deal. Loonfeather has a good record, so I want to go with him. More important, he’s there; he can see this Russian, and feel him!”

  “So?” asked Admiral Bergeron, imagining the Russian and the big armor colonel, wondering how much Loonfeather trusted the Russian, and how much he should.

  General Morton smiled ever so slightly. “So, Admiral, let’s agree to pull the gunships back, either south, or north over the sea, but not out of sight. Let’s tell Loonfeather to ask the Russ for his own gesture of good faith.”

  Admiral Bergeron smiled at the ruddy marine, whose nickname since the Academy had been “Terrier.” More the fox today, thought the admiral as he picked up the command net microphone and pressed the key.

  Uqba ben Nafi

  Colonel Zharkov watched as Colonel Loonfeather finished talking to his fleet commander. Loonfeather handed the handset down to the officer who had brought the radio pack, introduced as simply, “Stuart, one of the commandos who secured the hostages before we jumped.”

  Loonfeather took a step closer to Zharkov, shielding the Russian from his tank crew. Loonfeather spoke slowly and precisely. “They agree in principle, Colonel. They’ll pull back the gunships, out over the sea. Now I need to ask you for a gesture to reassure my people.”

  Understandable, thought Zharkov warily. “What do you want, Colonel?”

  “The last two helicopters. The ones farthest from us. They have casualties loaded, Colonel. Walking wounded, but they need treatment. Let me fly them out as soon as the gunships pull back.”

  Zharkov looked up and saw the flights of helicopter gunships pulling up and veering out over the formation, to reform a short distance away, over the sea. They could be back in firing range before a tank could move ten feet, he calculated. Still, they are less an immediate menace than they were. He looked at the distant helicopters the American wanted to fly off. If a fight started, those two would have been most likely to get away, as the others blocked them from view of the Russian gunners. Colonel Loonfeather knows that, of course. “Give me a minute, Colonel.” Loonfeather nodded and stepped back.

  Zharkov took the radio mike handed down by his gunner, and transmitted the order to his crews that the two most distant American helicopters had been given permission to leave. He waited impatiently while each commander acknowledged, the reports from the BTRs delayed while vehicle commanders relayed the order to the squads of dismounted infantry and received their acknowledgment. He handed the microphone back to his driver and turned back to Loonfeather. “I agree, Colonel. The last two helicopters may depart at your order.”

  Loonfeather smiled and tried to conceal his breath whistling out between his teeth. He nodded to Zharkov, then turned to Stuart. “William, tell Top Hat we’re sending out two helos.”

  USS America, 0608 GMT (0708 Local)

  The two CH-53 helicopters with their cargo of walking wounded marines lifted off, then reported themselves clear of the air base and over the Med. Admiral Bergeron felt the tight feeling in his shoulders ease, and he noted that the atmosphere in the briefing room off Flag Plot had become considerably less tense. Two home, he thought; six left to get out. He thumbed the transmit key on command net. “Colonel Loonfeather, what’s next?”

  “Back the Cobras up a bit further, Admiral. Then Colonel Zharkov will deploy his forces to the south of the remaining helos.”

  General Morton motioned for the microphone, and Admiral Bergeron pushed it toward him. “Raptor Six, this is Hammer. Why south of you?”

  “To protect us from Libyan stragglers, General,” Loonfeather’s voice floated in the smoky air. “His idea.”

  Morton frowned. “The Russ will be outside your perimeter, then?”

  “Affirmative, General.”

  “And then what?” cut in Admiral Bergeron.

  “Then the rest of the helos lift off, loaded, and we’re out of here.”

  The admiral and the general looked at each other across the table. Each had a hand resting on the base of the microphone. Something’s missing, thought the admiral.

  Something’s wrong, thought General Morton.

  “OK, Colonel,” said the admiral into the mike. “We’ll pull the Cobras back another 1,000 meters.”

  “Roger. Raptor Six standing by.”

  General Morton took the microphone from the admiral and made sure the transmit key was off. “I don’t like it, Admiral. I can’t believe the Soviet commander is just taking our assurances at face value.”

  “I know what you mean, Carl. I have the strangest feeling that Loonfeather is under duress.”

  Admiral Wilson leaned into the conversation at the center of the table. “We did get
those two helos out.”

  “And the Russ got our gunships backed off. If he’s a desperate man, or crazy, he could blow our force to tiny fragments before we could intervene,” growled General Morton.

  Uqba ben Nafi

  Colonel Zharkov had climbed back up into his T-72 and was giving orders into his microphone, at the same time waving and gesturing toward his own formation. Loonfeather and Stuart watched as Russian infantrymen assembled and remounted the BTRs, ready to move around the helicopters on the tarmac and to the apron to the south. Loonfeather grasped Stuart lightly by the arm and whispered into his ear. “Stand over there by the Sov tank, Stuart.” Stuart nodded and moved away from the Sheridan. “Calandra!” barked Loonfeather at the Sheridan. The gunner’s head popped up in his hatch. “Take off. Real slow, but don’t look back. Get down to Major Donahue, then blow the Sheridan and go with the staff.”

  “But Colonel, what about you and the commander?” asked Calandra, leaning toward the colonel.

  “Go, dammit!” growled Loonfeather, sneaking a look back toward Colonel Zharkov, who was still looking toward his own formation, away from the Sheridan. Loonfeather slapped the fender of the baby tank for emphasis. Calandra keyed his intercom and Huckins put the Sheridan in gear, backed it away from the T-72, turned, and headed slowly off to the south, in the direction of the assembled troops.

  Loonfeather looked at his hand, which tingled and began to hurt. That was a tank you slapped, Rufus, he thought, not a pony. I have to stay calm, stay aware of the danger. Calm. He turned and walked the few steps to Stuart, standing beside the Russian tank. Colonel Zharkov awaited him, arms folded across his chest, a scowl of mistrust on his face, his almond eyes slitted. “We will ride with you, then, Colonel?” asked Loonfeather cheerfully.

  “Why did you order your vehicle away, Colonel?” rasped Zharkov, glaring down at the two American officers.

  Loonfeather tried to look surprised. “Why Colonel, I’m your hostage. You don’t need those men, and besides, I’m sure you realize we couldn’t leave the vehicle in your hands without - complications.”

  Zharkov relaxed. The American took advantage of me to get his men and vehicle away. If he had asked, would I have let them go? He didn’t want to ask. He is clever, but nothing has really changed. “You may climb up, then, Colonel; we are almost ready to move. I am afraid I can’t offer you any better seat than on top of the turret.”

  “Always been my favorite, Colonel,” said Loonfeather, easing his breath out slowly. That was tense, he thought, but we couldn’t agree to give them the Sheridan. And I couldn’t take the risk that Top Hat might order me not to accompany the Soviets as a hostage.

  Colonel Zharkov went back to his microphone, but kept an eye on the two American officers standing below him. The Sheridan rumbled across the tarmac toward the American assembly. Loonfeather turned to Stuart, who slapped him on the shoulder. “You’re going with them, then, Colonel?”

  “Yep. No sweat, just a little extra good faith.”

  “Well, good luck. I’ll tell Top Hat as soon as you’ve gone.”

  “I’ll need the radio, Paleface.”

  Stuart picked up the radio pack and presented it to Loonfeather. “Away you go, Colonel, and Godspeed.”

  “You’re not getting this, Commander. You’re my RTO. Up you go.” Loonfeather pointed to the Russian tank.

  Stuart frowned. “You can operate this radio as well as I can, Colonel.”

  “True, but I would feel better for your company, Commander.”

  “Shit,” said Stuart, without inflection. He set the radio pack down heavily, a millimeter from Loonfeather’s toe, “Gimme a fucking boost.”

  Loonfeather leaned closer. “If this really bothers you, White-Eyes, I could have a friendly word with my pal the Russ.” The colonel grinned broadly.

  Stuart grimaced. “Fuck you, Loonfeather. I know it’s better that two go.” Loonfeather seemed to think the whole situation was terribly funny, and Stuart felt himself flush with anger. “Just give me a boost up, then pass the radio.”

  Loonfeather grasped Stuart’s boot and hoisted. “Good man,” he whispered.

  USS America

  “Top Hat, this is Thunder, over.”

  “Go ahead, Thunder, you’re on the speaker, over,” said the Communications Chief of the Watch. He pointed to a microphone in the center of the table labeled “B.”

  “Major Donahue reports the Sheridan is returning to him,” said Colonel Brimmer, from Inchon. “He’s in contact with the gunner. Colonel Loonfeather and Commander Stuart are still with the Russians, who are moving, backing away from the helicopters.”

  Admiral Wilson picked up the “B” microphone and spoke to Thunder. Major General Morton picked up the command net mike and shouted through clenched teeth. “Raptor Six, this is General Morton. Report!”

  There was a short delay, then Loonfeather’s voice floated in among the hisses and clicks of the scramblers. “We’re fine, General. Colonel Zharkov’s troops and vehicles are pulling back. We should be able to get everyone out shortly, if nothing goes wrong, General!”

  “And what about you, Colonel?”

  “We will stay with the Soviets as an act of good faith, General. Colonel Zharkov wanted assurance that our aircraft would not attack once our troop helos had gone, sir.”

  “So he doesn’t trust us?” General Morton strained his ears to hear signs of duress in Loonfeather’s voice.

  “Russian paranoia, sir,” said Loonfeather, almost laughing. Would you trust us? he wanted to add.

  General Morton was cautious. “What happens to you and Stuart?”

  “Colonel Zharkov has undertaken to get us out of Libya in a Soviet military aircraft, or, failing that, dump us at the Swiss Embassy in Tripoli.”

  “Do you believe that, Colonel?” rasped the general, mopping his red face with a handkerchief.

  “I do, General. It’s my gut.”

  General Morton paused, transmit key released, and looked at Admiral Bergeron. The Sixth Fleet commander stared back at him, then slowly nodded. Morton thumbed the transmit key. “OK, Colonel, we will ride with you. Despite thirty-two years in the Marine Corps, I do not have words to describe what I will do to you if you foul this up, and end up displayed in Tripoli in chains.”

  “Roger, General, understood.”

  “Hammer out,” said General Morton, slamming the mike down on the table.

  “Hammer, Raptor Six. Thank you for your support, out.”

  General Morton reached for the mike, then withdrew his hand. His anger faded in sympathy for Colonel Loonfeather in his precarious position. “Admiral, do you get the feeling that our intrepid colonel does not appreciate the difficult decisions we, condemned to the rear, have to make?” His voice trembled with emotion.

  “Strange, General,” said Admiral Bergeron slowly, around the cigarette he was lighting, “I thought he understood very well.”

  Uqba ben Nafi

  “Call Donahue on company net, Stuart; tell him to be sure everyone is cool and ready to jump on those helos.”

  Stuart switched frequencies and spoke quietly into his mike. “Done, Colonel. Top Hat not too happy with our being here?”

  Loonfeather sighed, his head dropping onto his chest. The T-72 rumbled underneath them, taking up the rear position behind the moving column of tanks and BTRs. “I’m afraid Hammer is the problem for me. General Morton. He is definitely going to have himself a piece of my Injun ass when we get back.”

  “Shit, Rufe, I will speak up at your court-martial,” said Stuart cheerfully.

  Loonfeather cracked a tiny smile. “That is why I brought you along, brother.”

  “Hah!” barked Stuart, watching as the Soviet formation cleared the helicopters and deployed south of the apron in front of the Operations Building.

  The T-72 jerked to a halt. Colonel Zharkov turned to the two American officers seated on the back of his turret. “Colonel Loonfeather, are you confident that our bargain will be ke
pt?”

  Loonfeather took a breath. “Yes, Colonel. We will go, and then you will go.”

  “Is your lift ready?”

  Loonfeather looked across the apron. The last marines were trotting toward their assigned aircraft in orderly lines. Only Major Donahue and three officers stood still on the tarmac. Beyond them, the last Sheridan burned fiercely. “Yes, sir. All six will go on my signal.”

  “Release five,” said Zharkov, looking away.

  Loonfeather pulled himself to his feet. “That is not our deal, Colonel.” He felt the edge on his voice, anger first, and then fear.

  “I know,” said Zharkov. “Critical mass force; I know. But send five, please, Colonel.” Zharkov continued to look away.

  Loonfeather ducked down next to Stuart. “Problem. Tell Donahue to get as many as he can into five helos, and to get them off. Hold one bird.” Loonfeather pressed a finger to Stuart’s lips as he started to question. “I don’t know, just tell him. Get the aircraft up!”

  Stuart transmitted Loonfeather’s words to Major Donahue. Practically immediately, the four northernmost helicopters in the formation lifted, throwing up clouds of fine dust, and banked away toward the sea as soon as they had gained sufficient altitude. Marines in the sixth helicopter moved quickly to board the fifth, which then rose and turned to follow the others.

  Loonfeather watched the helicopters pass over the coast and out of machine gun range, then motioned Stuart to come close. Loonfeather mouthed “command” to Stuart, who nodded and switched frequencies. Loonfeather made a thumbing movement with his hand, which Stuart took as a signal to press the transmit key and hold it open. Loonfeather turned to the Russian and shouted above the rumble of the tank’s diesel engine. “Colonel Zharkov, I must know why one of my aircraft has been detained. We agreed that all would be released.”

  “Go and board your helicopter, Colonel,” said Colonel Zharkov quietly.

  Loonfeather stopped, his mouth still open. “Colonel?”

  “Go and board your aircraft, please.” Zharkov looked Loonfeather in the eyes, his face stiff and pained. “I trust you, Colonel, as a soldier. I regret to say I do not trust my superiors in Tripoli or in Moscow sufficiently to give you my word on your safety, if I take you with me.”