Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 10 (50 page)

 
          
The
second Mi-24 was coming around again. Wohl turned to fire at it, but the rail
gun was out of commission, damaged in the rocket attack. The Mi-24 attack
helicopter’s steerable cannon lined up on Sanusi’s Humvee. Hal fired from the
commandeered Libyan APC, but the Mi-24’s armor was too strong and the bullets
had no effect. “Chris! Tag that son of a bitch!” But he saw in his own
electronic visors that their last rail gun was out of commission. “Look out!”

           
Suddenly, a small explosion erupted
on the right side of the Mi-24. Another of Sanusi’s Sandstorm warriors in what
looked like a World War II-vintage jeep had fired an RPG round at the
helicopter, missing the tail rotor and cockpit and hitting only the heavily
armored side. The Mi-24 wheeled in an impossibly tight right turn and fired a
rocket salvo, and at that range the attack was devastating. The jeep exploded
in a twisted, burning hunk of metal. Hal continued to fire on the Mi-24, hoping
that his shells would hit something vital, but he couldn’t tell if he was
hitting anything at all.

 
          
Then
he saw Sanusi’s Humvee stop, and Muhammad as-Sanusi himself climbed out, went
into the back of the vehicle, and emerged with a man-portable Stinger missile
system. But the Mi-24 pilot saw him at the same time, and he wheeled the
helicopter left to line up on him—the nose cannon was already leading into the
turn.
“Sanusi! Take cover!”
Briggs
shouted.

 
          
But
Sanusi stood his ground. With his men firing rifles at the oncoming helicopter,
the king stood calmly, his feet together, and hefted the Stinger to his right shoulder.
He activated the battery, powered on the unit, then pulled a lever with his
right thumb, uncovering the missile’s seeker head. The Mi-24’s cannon started
firing long before the pilot finished the turn, and at less than a mile away,
he couldn’t miss. The shells made a rooster tail of sand race across the
desert, headed right for Sanusi. The ripple of sand reached the king just as
Sanusi pulled the launch trigger and sent the Stinger blasting out of the
launch tube.

 
          
The
missile exploded on the Mi-24 gunship’s left engine intake, and the force of
the explosion followed by the complete destruction of the left engine caused
the Mi-24’s main rotor to fly off in a cloud of fire. The helicopter plunged
straight forward into the desert floor, then flipped upside down on its back
before exploding less than a hundred meters from where the king of united Libya
stood.

 
          
It
was as if everyone, including the Libyan soldiers, were stunned motionless as
they saw the sand and dust settle and King Idris the Second still standing,
holding the Stinger launcher triumphantly in one hand, laughing loudly as the
smoke and debris from the wrecked helicopter gunship wafted near him—but it was
as if even the smoke and flames dared not touch him. His men cheered as they
rolled up to cover him, but Zuwayy’s soldiers did not try to run or
fight—instead, moments later, they joined in the cheering.

 
          
“Pretty
good shooting, Your Highness,” Patrick said as he and the other Night Stalkers
joined him a few moments later.

 
          
“Shukran gazilan,”
Sanusi replied. He
looked at the other Mi-24 gunship and nodded happily. “Pretty good piece of
flying yourself, Mr. McLanahan.” Sanusi’s men were already taking possession of
the vehicles that were still intact—one T-60 tank, four armored personnel carriers,
and a Mil Mi-24 helicopter gunship.

 
          
To
Patrick’s surprise, Sanusi’s men and a good number of the Libyan soldiers were
greeting each other like long-lost brothers—the Libyan soldiers were tearing
off insignia and patches that had anything to do with Zuwayy’s regime, and
Sanusi’s men were giving the defecting soldiers imperial insignia to wear.
Moments later, they were all lined up before the king and each individually
swore loyalty to him in front of the others. They all did so without one moment’s
hesitation. The two surviving officers refused to swear loyalty to the true
king of united Libya—and were executed on the spot by a knife thrust to the
heart, by their own men.

 
          
“Turns
out most of these men were from the same town, west of
Tripoli
,” Sanusi said several minutes later after
he rejoined Patrick and the other Night Stalkers. “They are based at Al-Jawf.
They were sent out to investigate the reports of nuclear weapons and possible
hostile military presence at Jaghbub. They believe that if they made contact
with any enemy forces Jaghbub was going to be attacked by attack helicopters
and bombers from Zillah or rockets from Al-Jawf.”

 
          
“Strange
that the Libyans haven’t sent more troops, Your Highness,” Hal Briggs observed
as the day wore on. “They lost three attack helicopters and a light armor scout
platoon—I thought they’d be a bit more curious as to why.”

           
“They didn’t lose them,” Sanusi
replied with a smile. “The platoon has checked in every hour on the half hour,
as ordered. The platoon is continuing their search of Jaghbub. They have
encountered heavier-than-expected radiation levels, however, and are advising
against sending any more forces toward the town.” He was pleased at Briggs’s
smile. “Clever, sir. But you realize that won’t last long.”

 
          
“We
have extended the fiction another day or two, I think,” Sanusi acknowledged.
“But soon the platoon will be relieved, and that’s when Zuwayy will strike with
force.”

 
          
“That’s
why we need to attack,” Patrick said. “Let’s get back to Jaghbub and get our
planes in the air.”

OUTSIDE ZILLAH AIR BASE,
CENTRAL
LIBYA
 
THAT NIGHT

 
          
“Grumble
Twelve, this is Lion Seven at checkpoint two- nine-three.”

           
Dead on course. With all the
activity around the base as the division got ready to go to war with the
Egyptians, it was a relief to have a helicopter crew where it was supposed to
be, especially at night. “Acknowledged, Lion Seven,” the Libyan air defense
radio operator replied. “Radar contact, four-eight kilometers bull’s-eye. Verify
altitude.”

 
          
“Altitude
four hundred.”

 
          
Checked—right
on course and altitude, although he was very late checking in. If only all the
army aviation guys did it this well, the air defense operator thought, his job
would be a lot easier. “Acknowledged. Descend to two hundred meters on course.
Are you a single ship?”

 
          
“Affirmative,
Lion Seven.”

 
          
The
commander of the S-300 surface-to-air missile site stood behind the radar
station and optronics officer’s station, listening in. He narrowed his eyes in
thought. “He is very late—almost outside the code change time limit,” he said,
verbalizing his thoughts to the backs of his crew’s heads. Radio and
identification codes were changed daily, and deployed units had to return to
receive new ones within three hours of the changeover time or risk getting shot
down without warning. “Does his transponder check?” he asked his radio
operator.

 
          
“Yes,
sir.”

 
          
Something
still didn’t feel right. The commander keyed his command channel radio button:
“Lion Seven, are you single ship tonight?”

 
          
“Affirmative.”

 
          
“Where
are your wingmen?”

 
          
“One
unit is
daeyikh
,” the pilot of the
inbound helicopter reported. That meant it had been destroyed. “The other unit
has stayed behind to assist. We are returning for a code change.”

 
          
“Acknowledged,”
the commander said. That was standard procedure: Perhaps an officer aboard the
undamaged helicopter had returned with this crew to pick up new decoding
documents, because no aircraft could approach Zillah, especially at night but
anytime under this wartime posture, without a valid transponder code.

 
          
The
S-300 commander, situated thirty kilometers northeast of Zillah, had already
alerted his battery and the two flanking missile batteries of the approaching
helicopter five minutes ago when it popped up on radar. The S-300 air defense
system, one of the best all-altitude long-range surface-to-air missile systems
in the world, had managed to pick up the low-flying helicopter ninety
kilometers away even though it was only four hundred meters above the desert—the
S-300’s powerful multiscan radar could pick up aircraft as low as thirty
meters’ altitude or as high as thirty thousand meters and as far as three
hundred kilometers away.

 
          
There
were only three security ingress routes into Zillah, and they changed daily.
All flight crews were required to cross a route entry point and then fly a
designated ingress track until positive visual contact was made. The S-300
system also employed a powerful target-tracking low-light telescope, normally
used in high-radar-jamming environments or when the radar was down, but was
used routinely for aircraft identification. While the aircraft stayed on
course, the S-300 optronics operator could easily locate and track it. Each
aircraft had an identifying infrared- fluorescent code stripe on its nose and
sides to aid in long- range identification; the stripes were changed on a
random basis, usually once every week.

 
          
The
commander stood over the primary radar engagement officer and his assistant,
frowning at his own confusing thoughts. While the radio operator verified the
authentication codes, the radar officers checked the transponder identification
codes, which showed up on the radar screen along with the target’s speed,
altitude, and call sign. Everything checked okay. So why was he so nervous
about this inbound?

 
          
“Air
defense alert,” the commander said suddenly. He looked at his watch, then made
a note in his log. “All units, prepare to repel airborne attackers. This is not
an exercise.”

 
          
His
crew members turned to look at their commander in surprise, then snapped their
necks around, frantically checking their indicators and screens for any sign of
an intruder, something they missed. There was nothing. But they responded
anyway: the deputy pressed a button on his control panel, which sounded a
Klaxon throughout the battery that an attack was imminent; reload crews began
making preparations to load another four-round missile rack onto the
transporter-erector-launchers; and a warning was sent out to all aircraft and
all air defense units in the region, warning of an impending attack.

 
          
The
brigade command phone rang almost immediately: “Lieutenant, what do you have?”
the air defense brigade commander asked.

 
          
“Inbound
Mi-24 attack helicopter, Lion Seven, sir.”

 
          
“Does
he authenticate?”

           
“His codes are almost invalid, but
as of right now, he has been verified.”

 
          
“Any
other targets?”

 
          
“No,
sir”

 
          
“Then
why did you issue the air defense warning, Lieutenant?”

 
          
The
commander swallowed but did not otherwise hesitate: “Sir, Lion Seven left his
wingman behind, even though he reported another wingman destroyed. All of our
aviation units understand the importance of returning to base to be issued
up-to-date authentication documents—they must do so unless they are actively
engaging the enemy.”

 
          
The
brigade commander hesitated. The lieutenant was a prior noncommissioned
aviation officer, well experienced in both air defense and aviation
procedures—at least, the lieutenant hoped the brigade commander remembered.

 
          
But
it came down to only one thing, which the brigade commander pointed out moments
later: “That’s not a violation of procedures or a cause for issuing a general
air defense warning. So ... you’re saying you have a hunch, is that it,
Lieutenant?”

 
          
“Yes,
sir.”

 
          
“Well,
you’re allowed all the hunches you like, Lieutenant—it’ll keep the men on their
toes,” the brigade commander said after another lengthy, agonizing pause. “But
may I remind you that your battery will have to reposition to another location
after the alert is over, so your men will be up all night.”

 
          
“I
am aware of that, sir.” Once the missile batteries turned on their radars, spy
planes and satellites could map their location easily, so it was important to
move the missiles and radars around to make it more difficult for the enemy to
find and target their radars. Fortunately, the S-300 missile system was very
easy to relocate—it took less than a half hour to set up again after finding a
suitable spot. The units were moved several times a week—no more than a few
hundred meters, but far enough where garbage pits, latrines, and launcher
anchor points had to be redug each time out of the desert. That was usually the
hardest part, and the aspect of the move that caused the most grumbling.

           
“Very well.” The lieutenant was one
of the best battery commanders in the entire brigade. The lieutenant started
out as a conscript after dropping out of high school at the age of fifteen. By
the age of eighteen, he had accepted a regular enlistment, and just two years
after that was made a noncommissioned officer. Being prior enlisted himself, he
could handle his enlisted men, conscripts, and noncommissioned officers just
fine. “Report your threat assessment and engagement to the brigade operations
officer immediately after you’ve called off the alert.” There were a few clacks
in the net; then, on the brigade-wide channel, the lieutenant heard, “All
units, all units, Twelve has issued a general air defense warning for the
brigade. Report and correlate all contacts now. This is Brigade, out.”

 
         
My
God, what in hell is going on here?” Greg “Gonzo” Wickland, the mission
commander aboard the EB-52 Megafortress, exclaimed. They had just launched from
Jaghbub and had no sooner turned southbound on course than the entire Libyan
air defense network seemed to light up all at once. “SA-10, SA-11, SA-5s—every
theater and tactical air defense radar is on the air all of a sudden.”

           
“Sanusi’s men didn’t make it,” the
aircraft commander, George “Zero” Tanaka, surmised. “The Libyans probably shot
down the Mi-24, and that alerted the whole country.”

           
“What do we do?”

 
          
“We
press on,” Tanaka said. “The Hind helicopter was just a feint—we can still go
in on our own.”

 
          
Wickland
shook his head. “This is crazy, Zero,” he said. “We’ve got the gas to get us
all the way to
Iceland
—why didn’t he just order us to head west and link up with a tanker to
send us home? We’re loaded down with crappy Russian bombs and missiles that
probably won’t work; we’re surrounded by bad guys; and this isn’t even our
damned fight!”

 
          
“Just
button it, will you, Gonzo?”

           
“I’m serious here, man!” Wickland
shouted. “What are we doing here? I’m an engineer, for Chrissakes! I’ve never
been in the military! My job is designing and testing weapons and attack
systems and writing software, not dropping bombs on Libyans who want nothing
more than to shoot my ass off! I want to—”

 
          
“Gonzo,
I don’t give a shit what you want,” Tanaka interrupted. “Just keep the
computers humming and shut your pie-hole.”

 
          
“Sure,
go ahead—bitch at me. You’re the ex-Air Force war hero—you get off on this
shit, not me. It’s McLanahan who’s going to get our asses shot off! I didn’t
come out here to ...”

 
          
“Wickland,
I said,
shut the fuck up”
Tanaka
said. “You knew exactly where we were going and what we were going to do, when
we briefed this mission. You knew we were going to attack
Libya
, refuel and rearm, then attack again. You
took the money, bought your Mercedes and your big house in
Memphis
, and got your big stock options. Now you
gotta earn your money. So just fly the plane, keep those computers going and
that nav system up tight, and
shut up”

 
          
Wickland
seemed to shrivel up just then. He sat upright in his ejection seat, seemingly
oblivious to all the new air defense warnings popping up on their threat
display. Tanaka looked over at him, and after a few moments realized that the
guy was just plain scared. Tanaka, a twenty- one-year veteran of the U.S. Air
Force and retired lieutenant colonel, with over five thousand hours in about
nine different tactical fighter and bomber aircraft, instantly felt sorry for
him. Combat was just another phase of flight for Tanaka. The simulators they
flew back at Sky Masters Inc.’s headquarters in
Blytheville
were a hundred times more hectic and every
bit as realistic as the real thing— Tanaka thought it was excellent preparation
for these operational missions, so much so that he felt ultraprepared for
almost every Megafortress flight. He never realized that the other, less
experienced guys might not think that way. Wickland was an engineer, a
designer, not a combat aircrewman.

           
“Listen, Gonzo,” Tanaka said, “I’m
sorry. I know you’re scared....”

 
          
“I’m
not scared.”