Firebreak

by Richard Herman

  “Destroy it,” Ben David ordered.

  Major David Harkabi sat in the cockpit of his F-16 and glanced at his watch. Fifteen seconds to go. He pointed at the crew chief standing by the switch that would open the blast doors to his bunker. When the second hand touched twelve, he shouted, “ZANEK!” the Hebrew word to go or launch. It was the Israeli Air Force’s war cry. The sergeant hit the switches and the doors at both ends started to roll back. At the same time, Harkabi started the F100 engine, bringing the F-16 to life. He taxied out of the bunker and raced for the runway. He was leading three other F-16s, the small strike force from Ramon Air Base that would go against the command headquarters of the Syrian First Army at Homs, over 350 nautical miles away.

  His wingman fell into place on his wing when he paused at the end of the runway. He snapped his head back against the seat’s headrest and then gave a sharp nod forward, the signal for takeoff roll. The two F-16s rolled together and the second two took the active. They would follow in ten seconds. It was Harkabi’s fifth mission that day and his fourth new wingman.

  Matt handed the telephone back to the harried girl behind the hospital desk and went looking for Shoshana. He found her in a hall bent over a gurney, tending a badly burned woman they had pulled from a bombed-out store. “I still can’t get through to anyone,” he told her. “If I can’t find Ambler, I’m going to have to head back on my own or get in contact with our air attaché.” She ignored him and kept working on the woman. Finally, two nurses took over and wheeled the gurney into the emergency room.

  “We can make another run,” she told him and walked out the doors to the bread van she had appropriated as an ambulance. A dispatcher gave her directions and she climbed behind the wheel. Matt hopped onto the passenger seat and she wheeled the van back into the burning port area of Haifa.

  The attack Dave Harkabi was leading had been laid on by the Citadel, the Israeli Air Force’s headquarters in Tel Aviv. Now it was being controlled by a direction officer in the hardened command bunker at Ramat David Air Base. He was standing at his console monitoring the takeoff of Harkabi’s F-16s from Ramon and two F-4E Phantoms from his base that the Israelis had modified to function as Wild Weasels. The F-4s had been packed with electronic gear and antiradiation missiles to counter hostile radars, surface-to-air missiles, and antiaircraft artillery. The F-4s could jam and deceive radar signals and, if need be, send a missile down a radar tracking beam and destroy the command guidance system of a hostile radar.

  The F-4s had one additional feature that Harkabi’s life would depend on. The Israelis had just installed a new black box designed to defeat the monopulse guidance and tracking radar of the SA-11 Gadfly surface-to-air missile the Syrians had deployed with their armies. The Soviet-built Gadfly had taken a heavy toll of Israeli fighters that day as the Mach 3 missile proved it could hit anything that came within its launch envelope. Each missile transporter had four 18-foot-long missiles mounted on a turntable that could traverse through 360 degrees. The specially modified tank chassis the missiles rested on could travel and shoot on the run as it moved along with an armored force.

  Israeli intelligence had identified over a hundred of the new missile launchers that were providing an umbrella for the three advancing armies. Twenty-six Israeli fighters, more than a squadron, had fallen victim to the Gadfly any time they had come within eighteen miles of a missile and were higher than a hundred feet off the deck. Out of desperation—and out of new ideas—the IAF could only stand off from the tanks thrusting toward them and wait until the Syrians were within artillery range and counterbattery fire could suppress the deadly missiles while the fighters worked over the ground forces.

  Intelligence had reported four SA-11 Gadfly tracks surrounding the target headquarters at Homs and now it was up to Harkabi to challenge the missile again.

  The street Shoshana drove down was in the working-class section of Haifa, not too far from the docks. The strident tones of a Klaxon split the air as an ambulance demanded the right-of-way down the narrow street. Shoshana pulled onto the sidewalk and let the ambulance pass. Ahead of them, they could see smoke rising from a pile of rubble in the street. “Damn them,” Shoshana said, “they didn’t care what they hit.” She slammed the makeshift ambulance to a halt in front of the smoldering rubble that had been the front of a building.

  An old man wearing a fireman’s coat came up to them. “We’ve transported all the survivors,” he told them. “The fire’s almost out but the building is collapsing. She”—he pointed to a hysterical woman two men were restraining from rushing into the building—“says her three-year-old daughter is trapped inside. We can’t get to her.”

  Matt got out of the van and followed Shoshana to the weeping woman and listened while she spoke softly in Hebrew. Then Shoshana took the woman into her arms and held her. Matt studied the men around him. Like the fireman, they were all in their sixties and older. All the younger men had left to fight the war, leaving the women, children, and old men to rescue the survivors. “Where’s the girl?” he asked no one in particular.

  The mother understood English and pointed at a rear corner of the building. “In the basement.”

  “There’s an unexploded bomb in there,” the fireman said. “Probably a time-delayed fuse. Who knows when it will go off.”

  “I wonder …” Matt said as he recalled the pattern of the attack he had witnessed from the hilltop cemetery. The one fighter that had flown over him at low-level had been carrying four general-purpose five-hundred-kilogram bombs and he had counted the attacking aircraft and explosions. If each aircraft had been carrying four bombs, then as best he could determine, 80 percent of the bombs had detonated. That tracked with an intelligence report he had read that claimed Soviet-designed bombs experienced a 20-percent dud rate.

  “They weren’t using time-delay fuses,” he said. Silence but no movement on the part of the man. “Give me your coat and gloves,” he said.

  “Matt,” Shoshana said, “it’s too dangerous. Don’t do it.” She had almost said that it was their battle and not his. Matt ignored her and pulled on the fireman’s heavy coat and tugged on the gloves, eyeing the building as another part of the front wall collapsed.

  “Strictly a professional interest,” he growled. “Always wanted to see what the business end of one of these puppies was like.” Carefully, he worked around the outside of the building, looking for a way in.

  The old fireman followed him, keeping up a running commentary on the destruction inside. He pointed to an unlikely opening in the back wall. “I’d go in through there,” the old man said. Matt nodded and dropped to his hands and knees and worked his way into the building. Twenty feet inside, a masonry wall stopped him. “It’s a load-bearing wall,” came from behind him. The old man had followed him into the building, relishing the chance to give advice over his personal safety. Matt could see his gleaming bald head behind him and wondered how he had squeezed his big potbelly through the narrow opening.

  “Why the hell aren’t you doing this?” Matt grumbled.

  “I’m retired.”

  “Great.” The pilot wiggled through a crack in the floor and found himself in an open space. “Now what?” he mumbled.

  “You’re sandwiched between the first and second floor.” The old man was still behind him. “The second floor collapsed onto the first. Feel it shake? It’s all going fall into the basement in a few minutes.”

  “Then you better get out of here, pops.”

  Matt could hear scrambling and puffing behind him. He pushed aside some plaster and framing and inched his way forward, still looking for a way into the basement. Then he heard the soft whimper of a child. A crashing sound deafened him and dust and smoke washed over him. He coughed and choked, trying to breathe. The old man was back and handed him a red bandanna. “Here, tie this over your face.” Matt did as he was told. “You’re going to have to break through the floor.” Matt felt the head of the crowbar being pushed up beside him.

  Th
e collapsed floor inches above his head shook as a tremor rippled through the building. Another whimper. Now Matt was certain he had the location of the girl pinpointed as he crawled into what had been a stairwell. The building shook again. “You had better hurry,” came from behind him.

  “Would you get the hell out of here!”

  What looked like the heavy joists of a subfloor barred his way. He shoved the crowbar into place and tried to pry a wooden beam aside. No luck. “Look up, schmuck.” The old man was still behind him.

  Matt did and saw an opening above him. He reached up and pulled himself up and over, dropping down to the other side. He found himself on the edge of a ten-foot drop into the basement. He reached for the flashlight in his coat pocket and shined it around the basement. Directly below him, he could see the hole the bomb had bored as it fell through the building and burrowed into the earth. “Where are you?” he yelled. Nothing. Then he heard the old man yell in Hebrew from behind him, on the other side of the heavy beams. Softly at first, barely audible, he could hear the girl’s voice. It was coming from behind a pile of debris that filled most of the basement.

  “Go get a rope,” he yelled to the old man. He threw the crowbar into the basement and inched his body over the edge backward and hung by his hands. When his feet were planted firmly against the wall, he pushed off and jumped into the basement over the hole made by the bomb. He fumbled for the flashlight to help him get his bearings. He could smell something burning. He sniffed again and followed the pungent odor to the bomb. He directed his beam down the hole. Fifteen feet below him he could see the tail assembly of the bomb. The smell was stronger. “What the hell?” he mumbled. Did the Syrian bombs use some sort of acid fuse for a time delay? He couldn’t remember.

  Panic was eating at him now and he rushed over to where he thought the girl was buried. “Where are you!” he shouted. Again he heard the girl cry. He started to push the rubble aside, using the crowbar as a digging stick. Out of frustration, he turned around and started pushing with his feet. Finally, he broke through and could see an opening under a collapsed wall. He twisted around and crawled under, shining the light in front of him. Now he could see the girl. “Come on, honey,” he said, reaching for her. Then a small hand was in his and he gently tugged, feeling the girl come free. He pulled her into his arms.

  “Now where are you when I need you?” He shined the flashlight up to the ledge he had jumped off. A rope came tumbling out of the opening, obviously tossed from the other side of die heavy beams. He jerked at it.

  “Wait a minute,” came from the other side. “I’ve got to tie it down.”

  Matt shifted the girl to his back. “You’ve got to hold on and ride piggyback,” he said. He could feel her start to slip when he let go of her legs. For a moment, he didn’t know how he was going to get the girl up to the ledge and then himself without help. The old man would have to wiggle over the beams and joists that had barred the way. No way he could to that. “Think!” he raged at himself. He ripped the bandanna off his face and tied the girl’s wrists together, her arms around his neck, but her weight wasn’t enough to choke him. She started to cry and he grabbed the rope and pulled. It was secure. Hand over hand, he pulled himself out of the basement.

  On top of the edge, he yelled for the old man to reach up as he shoved the girl over the beams. He could hear the old geezer make soft cooing sounds as he cuddled the girl. Then he pulled himself over and dropped down beside the two. The old man handed the girl to Matt. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” Matt said. “I smelled burning coming from the bomb.”

  “Go!” the old man shouted, frantically pushing them forward.

  Once outside. Matt shouted for everyone to run for cover. Shoshana jumped into the van and started the engine, waiting for them. Matt jumped in, still holding the girl. The old man crashed in behind him as Shoshana sped away. A loud explosion ripped the building apart behind them.

  “So they don’t use time delays?” the old man yelled at Matt.

  The direction officer at Ramat David Air Base scanned the big plot board in front of him. Everyone in the room was quiet and only the gentle hum of electronic equipment could be heard. A keyboard operator typed a message into her communications computer and then stopped. In a darkened alcove at the rear, the greenish glow of three radar scopes could be seen, lighting the faces of their operators. The tactical director sat at the middle scope and noted that Harkabi’s four F-16s had reached their turn point far out over the Mediterranean and that the two F-4s were in position. He notified the direction officer, who keyed his mike and transmitted a go to the aircraft.

  Over the Mediterranean, Harkabi copied the go and lifted his aircraft up to two hundred feet off the deck and did a com-out turn with his wingman, turning directly toward the coast. Farther to the south, the second pair of F-16s did the same. High above them, a specially modified Boeing 707 turned on its electronic countermeasures gear and sent a mass of false signals out. The two F-4s that would challenge the air defenses around Homs so Harkabi’s strike package could get in crossed the Lebanese border and ran up the coast toward Beirut. They were using the coastal face of the Anti-Lebanon Mountain Range to mask them from the Syrians who were moving down the Bekáa Valley on the other side.

  Syrian early warning radar operators started talking to each other, confused by the mass of targets now appearing on their scopes. A young Syrian captain, recently returned from a year’s training, called it correctly and sent out an attack warning to all stations. He warned that they had multiple targets but that only a few were real aircraft. They just didn’t know which were the false targets. Then heavy strobes blanked out the Syrian radars. The 707 was now actively jamming.

  The air defense commander of the four SA-11 Gadflies surrounding the Syrian First Army headquarters at Homs ordered his men to battle stations. On each of the tracked vehicles, the antenna for the Flap Lid radar slued toward its predetermined sector. Then he performed a radio check with his ground observers, who formed a spider web of observation posts around the headquarters. The observation post farthest to the southwest reported a visual sighting of two F-4s heading directly toward Homs. The turntables on top of two Gadfly transporters turned toward the reported threat.

  Harkabi coasted in one hundred feet off the deck and at 540 knots airspeed when his tactical electronic warfare gear came alive, sending him urgent warnings of hostile radar activity. He was four and a half minutes out. His radio crackled with commands from the two F-4s ahead of him as they ran straight at the target. The lead F-4 detected radar signals coming from the Flap Lid radars and launched two homing antiradiation missiles. At the same time, the Syrians launched two missiles at each of the F-4s. The Gadfly missiles used semiactive homing, which meant the Flap Lid radars had to stay locked on the F-4s for the missiles to guide. It was a shootout in which the winner had the fastest missile or had launched first.

  The lead F-4 fireballed as the Gadfly won. But the two missiles the Israeli had launched were still homing. The air defense commander immediately placed his Flap Lid radars in standby as the tracked vehicles scooted to another position. The antiradiation missiles went into a memory mode and continued toward the last source they had detected. But the Flap Lid radars had suffered from poor quality control during construction and the wave guide on one of the sets leaked radar energy. One of the Israeli-build missiles sensed the weak energy escaping from the radar and homed on it. The missile track exploded as the missile found its mark.

  Harkabi heard the radio call of the second F-4 as it tried to escape after launching two missiles. Then silence. He was sixteen miles out. His wingman split off to the right as they hugged the deck and Harkabi worked his systems. He was going to toss a two-thousand-pound optically tracked smart bomb at the target. If he could identify the headquarters on his video scope and lock it up, he could launch the bomb and leave while the optical tracker in the head of the bomb homed on the target.

  But he was too low at one hundred fe
et and had to increase his altitude to get a picture. He lifted up to three hundred feet, well into the Gadfly’s envelope. His electronic warning gear warbled at him—he was in the beam of a monopulse radar—but he had a video picture of the concrete bunker. He drove his target cross hairs over the entrance that gave him good light and dark contrast and pickled the bomb off. The F-16 jerked as the bomb separated. Two missiles were coming directly at him. Harkabi’s hand twitched on the stick and the agile F-16's nose came up, snatching eight g’s. Both missiles committed to an up vector and Harkabi slammed his jet in a hard turn to the left as he dropped to a hundred feet. The missiles tried to follow him through the descending turn but their small fins could not handle the turn and one broached sideways while the other flashed by overhead.

  Behind him he saw his wingman fireball and wondered if he had got his bomb off. He keyed his radio and told the two F-16s following him to break off the attack and not challenge the Gadfly. He was vaguely aware that he was flying over a ZSU-23 antiaircraft battery and that the quad-mounted gun had been firing at him.

  Shoshana was in the back of the van, kneeling in front of the little girl who was safe in her mother’s lap. Shoshana was smiling and speaking softly in Hebrew while she cleaned the child and checked for injuries. Other than a few small cuts and bruises, the girl was only dirty and very frightened. It amazed Matt how the harsh, guttural Hebrew became soft and tender as Shoshana spoke, comforting the girl. When they were finished, Shoshana told the mother to get the child a tetanus shot just in case.

  Matt sat down beside her in the van, not touching, their backs against the side panel. They were both exhausted. She turned to him, not smiling. “Matt Pontowski, you are …” She stopped, not completing her thought. Saying “wonderful” simply wasn’t enough.