Fire Arrow

by Franklin Allen Leib

  Loonfeather gestured for Stuart to get down from the tank, and watched him slide off. He turned and saluted the Russian. “Stay well, Kazakh,” he said simply.

  “Go well, Dakota,” said Colonel Zharkov, returning the salute. “When you talk to your politicians, try to say we Russians were, ah, helpful.”

  Loonfeather nodded and smiled, then slid to the tarmac and ran after Stuart to the waiting helicopter.

  Uqba ben Nafi, 20 February 1015 GMT (1115 Local)

  Colonel Hassan al-Baruni sat in the back seat of the Mercedes limousine as it drove off the Tripoli Road onto the air base. Next to him sat his oldest comrade, Maj. Abdel Salaam Jalloud. The limousine rolled to a silent stop in front of the gutted Operations Building, where a short line of tanks and BTRs, manned by Russian Spetznaz troops, was parked. The Russians rendered crisp salutes. Baruni looked toward the entrance of the gutted building. The steel doors and their frame were still standing, and he could see in his mind the face of Abu Salaam, twisted with rage, the pistol in his hand flashing. Baruni could see the look of sudden pain on the American boy’s face as he fell to the pavement, and the colonel could feel the boy’s blood and brains on his own hands and face.

  The guard in the front seat got out and opened the door, but the colonel waved him away and pulled the door shut. The guard regained his seat, and Baruni told the driver to move on. Baruni felt his voice high-pitched and trembling.

  The limousine bumped over the broken and scorched concrete, past empty firing positions, some intact and some rent apart by cannon fire. Shell casings from weapons of many types skittered away from the tires as the limousine advanced. When the Mercedes reached the intersection of the two runways, Baruni whispered for the limousine to halt, and he climbed out, following the guard. The two BTRs carrying his personal bodyguard halted behind the Mercedes, and, as usual, two of the women dismounted and prepared to follow the colonel on foot.

  Major Jalloud got out of the limousine. Baruni looked so frail and agitated that the major was tempted to take his arm to support him. Jalloud looked nervously at the sad-faced guards, then back to the leader.

  Baruni took a pair of binoculars from a case at his belt and scanned the runways, stopping his sweep at each burnt-out tank. He counted fifteen he could see, mostly the black T-72s of his own army, but some greenish smaller tanks he thought might be American. Fire engines and ambulances patrolled slowly among the wrecks, the former spraying smoldering fires, the latter on one last sweep looking for wounded and dead. A temporary morgue had been set up in the base medical clinic, in the undamaged northern sector of the air base, and Baruni knew the count of the dead had passed 190 before his car had left Tripoli.

  Colonel Baruni started walking rapidly south, down the center of runway 03/21, around the many shell craters. He knew he was expected at the medical facility, to meet with the cameras and delegations of grieving relatives and to view the fallen soldiers, but he was drawn to the southern edge of his largest military installation, to the closeness of the desert that began just beyond a low ridge some twenty kilometers inland. He walked past the blasted tanks and saw in each gutted hulk a ruined piece of his dream of leading a united Arab movement.

  Baruni walked to the end of the pavement and stopped, looking at the scrubby wild grasses off the end of the runway, the shell craters and the tank tracks, the twisted metal and burnt grass, and at the dark stains where men had fallen. He turned and looked at the ruined air base under its thinning pall of smoke, and at Major Jalloud, who had followed him on his rapid march south. Jalloud was sweating and slightly short of breath. “My old friend,” began Baruni, his voice shaking and his hands trembling, “I fear we have suffered a catastrophe from which we may never recover!”

  “It, it was a brilliant vision, Aqid, but perhaps it is time to return.”

  “Return? How can we return?”

  “Return to the desert, Hassan.”

  Baruni looked back up the runway. The Mercedes was approaching slowly, but the BTRs of his guard had remained at the intersection, surrounded by a larger group of soldiers. The two women who always followed him had disappeared. “But who will guide the Jamahiriya?”

  “The Revolutionary Command Council has been reconvened. Believe me, my brother, it is only out of love that I say these things to you.”

  Baruni looked at his friend and smiled. He could see the anguish in Jalloud’s face, and he knew he told the truth. Baruni turned his back on Jalloud and looked once more toward the distant desert. “Perhaps it is best, Abdel.”

  Washington, D.C., 1415 GMT (0915 Local)

  The President sat in a deep chair in the morning room of the White House living quarters. He was dressed in pajamas and slippers and a long robe of deep blue silk. He had stayed in the situation room, far below, until past one in the morning, until the Joint Chiefs were able to confirm that all American units had left Libya and its waters and airspace. He rubbed his eyes, red with fatigue, and closed the red-banded “Eyes of the President Only” folder on his lap.

  General Elmendorf, chairman of the JCS, and Admiral Daniels, the Chief of Naval Operations, stood on the Chinese carpet near the fireplace. They were tired as well and seemed to seek the warmth of the low fire, though the room was warm. Between them and the President stood the Secretaries of State and Defense.

  “Thirty-six killed?” asked the President, “and fifty-one wounded?”

  The Secretaries of State and Defense looked at each other. The President’s anguish was evident. David Wasserstein spoke softly, “Mr. President, we had hoped for a minimum number of casualties, but it was a high-risk operation, and the opposition was far greater and far more effective than we expected.”

  The President nodded. “Why were we surprised?”

  “We weren’t, sir,” broke in Admiral Daniels, stepping forward. I won’t have these civilians apologize for my operation, he thought. “We were prepared for heavy opposition, and we defeated the enemy. Considering the opposition, we feel the casualties, while painful, were, ah, reasonable.”

  “Reasonable? Arch, can I tell that to the families of thirty-six men?”

  Admiral Daniels stiffened. “You can tell that to the nation, sir. We can be very proud of those men.”

  Again the President nodded, smoothing the folder on his lap. “All the remaining hostages are safe?”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” said the Secretary of State. “They’re at Rheinmain Air Base, undergoing thorough physical examinations, but they’re safe.”

  “Casualties?”

  “Cuts and bruises, Mr. President,” said the Secretary of State.

  “We may be thankful for that,” said the President.

  The Secretary of Defense cleared his throat. “The hostages will be flown to Andrews tomorrow, sir.”

  “Of course I’ll want to be there. When will the dead be returned?”

  General Elmendorf spoke. “Well, sir, since most of the casualties were from the 82d Airborne Division, the assault force has asked permission to escort the bodies, including those of the two murdered hostages, back to Fort Bragg.”

  The President nodded again, his head bowed. “Of course. I want to be there for that, too. Can that be scheduled?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the Secretary of State. “The ceremony of welcome for the returned hostages will be at Andrews at 2:00 p.m. The roll call and parade for the dead, at Bragg, will be just at dusk. Your schedule has been arranged so you can be at both ceremonies.”

  The President’s head came up abruptly. His jaw was set, but his expression was sad. “We did the right thing, gentlemen. We got our people out. Now we must do what is right for our heroes.”

  “Will you say that to the nation, Mr. President?” asked the Secretary of State.

  “As best I know how, Henry. Now, if you would leave me for a moment, I’d like to reflect on what I will say.”

  “Certainly, Mr. President,” said the Secretary. The men filed from the room. The Secretary of State, last out, cl
osed the door quietly.

  Oh, dear God, prayed the President silently. He closed his eyes and saw the line of flag-draped coffins on the tarmac at Pope Air Force Base, under a gray and blustery sky. Thirty-six. Did we do what was right? he prayed, seeing the mourners’ faces beyond the coffins. Were we just in doing so, Lord?

  The mental picture of the coffins faded. The President saw men and women and children, rescued hostages, leaving an airplane and running to embrace family and friends. Thank you, dear God, he thought, reaching for a yellow pad and a pen.

  Moscow, 1500GMT (1800 Local)

  Ministers Doryatkin and Tikunin sat in a low leather settee in Doryatkin’s office. Across the vast room, aides were packing the contents of Doryatkin’s desk in boxes and sealing them with red wax. Workmen collected the boxes and the metal filing cabinets, similarly sealed, lifted them onto handcarts, and wheeled them out.

  The room was quiet, the movement of the workmen silenced by thick Shirazi rugs. The lighting was dim, and the two ministers were serving each other from a liter bottle of export-only vodka. They clinked their glasses and watched the snowstorm lash the high windows. The events of the long day had left them almost too tired for speech.

  Chairman Nevsky of the KGB walked quickly into the room and stopped. The aides and the movers recognized him, bowed deferentially, and silently departed. Nevsky crossed the dim room to the two ministers, neither of whom rose. “Comrade General Secretary, if I may intrude?” asked Nevsky, his voice soft, careful.

  “Of course, Comrade,” said Doryatkin. “Sit. Marshal, give our good friend some vodka.”

  Marshal Tikunin poured a glass of the clear spirit and passed it elaborately to Nevsky, who perched on a high upholstered chair. The glass was full to the brim, and Nevsky spilled a bit raising it to his lips.

  “It is good of you to stop by, Comrade Chairman,” said Doryatkin, with a little bob of his head.

  “I - ah, naturally, I wanted to congratulate you, Comrade, upon your election as General Secretary of the Communist party of the Soviet Union!”

  He runs it off like a drumroll, thought Doryatkin, smiling broadly. “Thank you, Comrade!” he said, lifting his glass. “And I thank you especially for, ah, encouraging your friends to make the vote unanimous.”

  Nevsky’s face was concealed behind his glass. “Unity is paramount in difficult times, Comrade.”

  “Quite,” said Doryatkin, waiting for Nevsky to continue.

  “Well,” said Nevsky. Tikunin bent to fill his glass, then filled Doryatkin’s and his own. “So you have turned the disaster of our arms in the Libyan desert to your advantage. Good!” Nevsky raised his glass.

  “Disaster, Comrade?” said Tikunin, reddening.

  “Well, we lost nine officers and forty-nine tanks. Surely-”

  “The black-asses lost forty-nine tanks, Comrade,” said Tikunin, masking his face with his uptilted glass. He set the glass down carefully and riveted Nevsky with his narrow-set eyes. “A far different thing.”

  Nevsky felt chilled by the old marshal. It was a feeling he was used to inflicting upon others.

  “Comrade Chairman,” interrupted Doryatkin mildly, “did you come here to consult about something, ah, specific?”

  Nevsky struggled to regain his composure. “Comrade, my wife-”

  “Yes, Nevsky?” said Doryatkin, an edge in his voice despite his smile. Marshal Tikunin filled the glasses.

  “-Has a cousin, Comrade General Secretary. The mother of one Suslov, a captain, killed. He was supposed to be with Colonel Zharkov, yet Zharkov’s special detachment fought no engagement, suffered no casualties.”

  “Really!” Tikunin said, containing a belch. “This Captain Suslov has been named a Hero of the Soviet Union!”

  Doryatkin turned to the marshal. “Can he have been away from his post, Comrade Marshal?”

  “Must have been!” growled Tikunin. “We must have a full investigation! I will summon Colonel Zharkov in the morning; he will explain.”

  “Colonel Zharkov is in Moscow?” asked Nevsky, raising his glass to his lips in both hands.

  “Yes. Surely he can tell us if this man left his post - or was on another assignment. . . .” Doryatkin let his voice trail away.

  “That may not be necessary, Comrade,” said Nevsky, his smooth voice cracking.

  “But surely,” offered Tikunin, “if the KGB has an interest?”

  “No, no,” said Nevsky, waving his empty glass. “It is - was, only for my wife’s cousin. Let the poor man rest as a hero.”

  Doryatkin raised his glass. “It will be as you wish, Comrade Chairman.”

  “Thank you, Comrade General Secretary.” Nevsky rose, bowed, and backed out of the room.

  The old marshal picked up the nearly-empty bottle of vodka, his big body shaking with silent laughter. He poured the remainder into Doryatkin’s glass and his own, with just a ceremonial drop into the KGB chiefs abandoned glass. “Your eternal health, Comrade,” said the marshal with a bark of laughter.

  “Nalivay,” said Doryatkin, settling back into the cushions.

  London, 2000 GMT

  Commanders Hooper and Stuart were ushered to a quiet corner table in the dark, red-plush and polished wood interior of Simpson’s Restaurant, next to the venerable Savoy Hotel on the Strand. Hooper wore his dress blue uniform, which he had left in the care of the Air Force at Upper Heyford during a stop on his long trip from Norfolk to Israel less than one week before. Stuart wore a dark blue, almost black business suit with a fine chalk stripe. Stuart was known to the maître d’hôtel; he entertained clients at Simpson’s frequently, but as always when they had dined together through their fifteen years of friendship, Hooper commanded all attention. As they reached the table, the captain appeared, and Hooper ordered champagne before they sat down.

  “Veuve Cliquot Ponsardin, Commander,” said the captain, presenting the bottle with its orange label.

  Hooper glanced at the bottle and nodded, smiling happily. “Appropriate, eh, William? How much of this stuff did we pour down our necks in the Officers’ Clubs of Subic Bay and Da Nang during the Dark Days?”

  The captain poured the wine and Hooper tasted it carefully. “Never varies. Excellent stuff. Please give my dear father a glass, and leave the bottle close to hand, Captain.”

  “Sir,” said the captain, filling both glasses. He placed the bottle next to the table in a silver bucket filled with cracked ice, and withdrew.

  Stuart raised his glass. “Absent comrades, Hoop.”

  “And your health, William. And to mine, and to the intactness of our skins after our most recent adventure.”

  Stuart drank slowly, savoring the wine. His left hand had required seventeen stitches and remained heavily bandaged; his right hand and face showed only red swellings and surface scratches around small bandages. A waiter rushed up, withdrew the bottle from the ice, and refilled the glasses. Hooper graced him with a brilliant smile.

  “How much longer can you stay in London, Hoop?”

  “Not sure, old man. My Sealies go home tomorrow. I sent a signal through the embassy that I might be called on to contribute to your after-action report.”

  “I didn’t know I had to write a report.”

  “Of course you do! You have to write for Black Widow! Surely you wouldn’t leave our place in history to an illiterate brute like me?”

  Stuart chuckled. “Well, it will be nice to have you around, anyway. I will check with the DIA at the embassy tomorrow and find out what is required.”

  “Excellent. Now, a final toast, to your expense account, which will doubtless pay for this fine dinner, even though it is your sworn debt of honor, and then let’s get to the serious drinking.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Stuart.” The maître stood next to the table.

  “Commander Stuart,” growled Hooper in mock outrage.

  “Really? We didn’t know, sir. Commander Stuart, then.”

  “Mister is fine, Mayer. What is it?”

  “The
re is an officer in the bar, sir. A Colonel Loonfeather. He wishes to join you, just for a moment.”

  “Colonel Loonfeather! Of course, Mayer. Ask him to join us. Perhaps you could arrange another chair.”

  “Sir.”

  “And more important, Mayer,” said Hooper, “another glass.”

  “At once, Commander.”

  The tall American Indian followed the maître to the table, a grin opening his bronze face. He was in service dress green uniform, his dark raincoat draped over his shoulders. Stuart thought he looked tired, even drawn. Stuart and Hooper stood and shook hands. Hooper pressed a full glass of champagne into the colonel’s hand. They drank, once again to absent friends, and sat.

  “You must join us for dinner, Colonel,” invited Hooper. “Stuart is paying.”

  “I would like nothing more, gentlemen,” replied Loonfeather softly. “I am flying to Washington tonight. The embassy put me up at the Savoy, and I saw you two walk past.”

  “You’re going tonight?” asked Stuart.

  “Yes. Air Force, special flight.” Loonfeather grimaced. “I’ll be asked to explain myself - my casualties, I think - tomorrow, At least they’ll let me fly to Bragg to meet the troops when they come in.”

  “Where are your men, Colonel?” asked Hooper, his good humor extinguished by Loonfeather’s sad tone.

  “At Rheinmain. They fly tomorrow morning, direct to Bragg. There will be a last calling of the roll for the dead. The President will be there.”

  “Excuse me once again, Commander.” The maître touched Stuart’s shoulder lightly. “The telephone. I’m sorry.”

  Stuart excused himself and followed the maître. Loonfeather sat in silence, his head downcast. Hooper pulled the bottle from the bucket and refilled the glasses. “You think they’re going to get rough, Colonel?”

  Loonfeather sipped his champagne. “I’m informed that the Secretary of Defense assured the President that casualties would be minimal.”