Phantom Strike

by William H. Lovejoy

  “Go, Two.”

  “Let’s get Wizard down next. I need a tractor and a spare tire. And Wizard, please be advised my ass-end is still on the runway.”

  He turned on his navigation lights to give Demion a clear indicator of where the F-4 was located.

  Just to be certain, Barr released himself from his couplings, jammed the safety pin in the ejection seat, and slipped over the coaming of the cockpit. He lowered himself down the fuselage side until he was hanging by his fingers, then released his hold. He hit the ground hard enough to sting his ankle.

  He hobbled a couple hundred feet away to watch the Herc come in.

  Gettman’s flare, in the bottom of the chuckhole, provided the warning Demion needed without blinding him. The big transport glided in, burned a little rubber, then veered toward the right side of the strip. When he had slowed enough, he turned left and came toward Barr, rumbling past the wounded Phantom and off the runway.

  Minutes later, Win Potter drove the tractor down the ramp, hooked a tow bar to the nose gear of the F-4, and dragged it twenty feet from the strip.

  Wyatt began landing the rest of the planes.

  It was almost nine o’clock before they had the wheel and tire changed and the fighters and C-130s lined up near the wreckage of the two old hangars.

  Wyatt forbid the use of any major lights, not wanting to attract the attention of any possible airborne border patrol. Pilots and technicians used penlights to perform their post-flight checks. They made certain that bombs and missiles had not been damaged by rock debris on the runway.

  From the two drums of water they had brought along, Formsby passed out rations in small cardboard pails. That was for bathing, getting the sweat and dirt out of the pores. Hank Cavanaugh issued MREs, but few of them were very interested in eating.

  It was too hot.

  It stayed that way long after the sun went down and a billion brilliant stars came out. Wyatt allowed a single red light to be illuminated in the cargo bay of the Hercules, where everyone gathered, some to try and sleep. A chess game got underway, as did a four-handed game of poker.

  Barr and Formsby walked up the ramp, passed through the cargo bay, and joined Wyatt in the crew compartment. A dim glow of cerise light spilled through the hatchway.

  Since the bunks had been removed, they sat on the floor, leaning against the bulkheads.

  “You handled that landing well, Bucky,” Wyatt said.

  Barr shrugged. “Part of the territory we walk.”

  “I admit to being somewhat concerned about the ordnance load you were carrying,” Formsby said.

  “I thought about it some myself,” Barr said.

  He really hadn’t considered it deeply, though. The reflexes and the instinct assumed command in times of crisis, and the mind kind of followed along. His responses with the stick, rudder, throttles, and brakes had been automatic; he hadn’t thought about what action to take at all.

  “Did you guys have time to think about what Church wants us to do?” Wyatt asked. “About catching Ramad’s aircraft on the ground on the morning of the second?”

  “I did think about it,” Formsby said. “Being an air controller with nothing to control allows a certain flexibility of time. I think he’s right.”

  “Ditto,” Barr said. “If we go up against those blast doors with five-hundred-pounders, we’re only going to leave dents behind.”

  “All right, then. That means we sit here through the day tomorrow and hope no stray Mirage spots us.”

  “With no appreciable amount of time over target, however,” Barr said, “it would be helpful to know Ramad’s thoughts on a take-off time.”

  “Dawn is likely,” Formsby said. “I don’t think many Libyan pilots like to fly at night.”

  “If all we had to do was intercept the flight, we could hide out over the Sudan and pounce on them,” Wyatt said. “But half our mission is delivering HE against the chem plant. We’re a little short of aircraft and ordnance type for what we’re facing.”

  “Do you want to change the roles for the C and D models, Andy?” Barr asked. “We could load bombs on the centre-line and move their missiles to the E models.”

  “It’s a thought, Bucky. Let’s keep it on the desk for the time being.”

  “The crucial point,” Formsby said, “is still Ramad’s take-off time. Do you suppose your spies have determined anything more?”

  “Not my spies. But we can call ’em and find out,” Barr said. “With all of the risks currently involved, I think we can add the risk of a short radio call. I should think they’ve got their satellites still in position unless they’ve given up on us.”

  “They received my transmission a couple days ago without apparent trouble,” Formsby said.

  “Hokay,” Wyatt said and got his feet under him. “It’s still afternoon in D.C.”

  He went to the console and powered up the radios. Selecting the Tac One set, he punched in the frequency numbers that Embry had given him.

  Barr got up and went to stand beside him.

  Wyatt depressed the transmit button and said, “Paper Doll, this is Yucca Flight.”

  The response was immediate. The NSA people were monitoring them closely.

  “Yucca, this is Doll.”

  “I need to talk to Paper Doll One or Two.”

  That was Church or Embry.

  “Stand by, Yucca, I’ll see what we can do.”

  It was twenty minutes later before they heard Church’s voice.

  “Yucca Flight, Paper Doll One.”

  “I’ve been waiting for this,” Barr said. “Can I talk to him?”

  Wyatt waved him toward the desk microphone.

  Barr picked it up and said, “Hello, Dolly.”

  Formsby laughed.

  A very sober Church said, “I trust you’re in place.”

  “Righto,” Barr said. “We have a need for data.”

  “What data?”

  “The Test Strike launch time.”

  “We haven’t gotten anything yet, but I’m hopeful. I’ll call as soon as I know anything, but at least by 4:00 A.M. your time.”

  “0400 on the first of August?” Barr asked. “It’s almost that, now.”

  “0400 on the first,” Church confirmed.

  “Yucca out,” Barr said, dropping the mike back on the console. “Hell, I might as well go find an oasis.”

  “See if they’ve got take-out, will you, Bucky?” Formsby said.

  *

  For the duration of the exercise, Lieutenant Colonel Ahmed al-Qati had established the encampment for the First Special Forces Company one kilometre east of the Marada Air Base. Major Khalil Shummari’s helicopter crews were also stationed at the cantonment area.

  The tents were aligned in neat rows, and many of his enterprising soldiers had suspended parachute canopies inside the tents, to trap a layer of insulating air between the canopy and the tent roof The construction detracted several degrees from the forty degree Celsius temperatures that were being achieved during the day.

  The first tent in the first row was utilized as the headquarters tent, and al-Qati met there with Shummari and Captain Rahman late at night.

  “With the information leakage that takes place in Tripoli,” he told them, “I would not be at all surprised if Test Strike is common knowledge in the West.” Shummari nodded.

  “And since I prefer to be prepared for all contingencies, I am going to assume that an air assault by — it doesn’t matter by whom, is an imminent possibility.” “That would fall to the province of the air defence organization, would it not?” Rahman asked.

  “It should, yes, Ibn. However, I am also concerned that Colonel Ramad does not take the threat seriously. His staff and pilots are preparing a plan, but I believe that their hearts are not in it.”

  “We must work from assumptions,” Shummari said. “Yes, we must. First, I assume that the attack would be launched as pre-emptive of Test Strike, and therefore, must come prior to the morning of Aug
ust second.

  “Second, I assume that aircraft of the American Sixth Fleet will not be utilized, as being too obvious. This assumption is partially supported by the intelligence report of F-4 aircraft being prepared.”

  “Not by the Israelis?” Rahman asked.

  “That is possible, but I think no one will want to point fingers at the Americans or the Israelis — that is, to the sea, or to the east. The attack will come from the west or from the south.”

  “It may not happen,” Shummari said.

  “It may not, and we will be all the happier. However, in the event that it does, what can we do?”

  “I will keep my SA-7 air defence missiles on alert,” Rahman said.

  “And I can load air-to-air missiles aboard the four Mi-28s,” Shummari added.

  “Good. And I am afraid that is the extent of our air defence capability. But I want to think beyond that. With Ramad’s MiG-23 interceptors ranged against the F-4s, it is likely that one, or perhaps two, of the intruders will be shot down. Ibn, I want your Strike Platoon ready to take off at any moment. Khalil, we will need to assign two of your Mi-8s to them. We want to be the first on the scene of a downed aircraft, to gather evidence, hopefully to capture a pilot alive.”

  “I see where you are going with this,” Shummari said.

  “Yes. If the attack occurs prior to Test Strike’s launch time, perhaps we can prove to our superiors that knowledge of the exercise is widespread.”

  “You would like them to call it off?” Rahman asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  “I would like that, also,” the captain said.

  Al-Qati looked to Shummari.

  The aviation company commander nodded his approval.

  The two officers left him alone with his thoughts, which was not particularly good for him. His mind was divided along two paths lately, and he was never certain which path he would travel.

  He was extremely tired of worrying about Ramad’s ambitious designs.

  He preferred wandering the path of Sophia.

  And he looked to the back of the tent, where the radio set was located on a spindly-legged table.

  Rising from the camp stool he sat on, he carried it back to the radio.

  He called his battalion headquarters in El Bardi and had the radio operator dial the telephone number for him, then connect him with the landline.

  She was waiting, as she always was. Al-Qati thought that a statement in itself. Any time he called, she was waiting. It elated him.

  “Yes?”

  “Sophia, it is Ahmed.”

  “Wonderful! You are here?”

  “Alas, no. I just have a few minutes, and I wished to fill them with your voice.”

  “Ahmed, you are too charming.”

  “That is not the image I have of myself,” he admitted.

  “Nonsense. When will I see you again?”

  “As soon as this exercise is completed. I think that it should be soon.”

  “When does it begin? So that I might count the hours.”

  He almost told her, but then remembered he was on an open radio link.

  Also, a little question mark popped into his mind.

  It was on the path labelled, “Sophia.”

  *

  Wyatt had difficulty getting to sleep. The interior of the Hercules had become stifling, and he had moved his sleeping bag outside, under the transport, and sprawled out on top of it, draping his mosquito net over his head. The heat of the earth seeped through. There wasn’t a whisper of a breeze.

  All around him, others had also unrolled their sleeping bags and wrapped their mosquito netting around them. They had brought tents with them, but no one was eager to erect one.

  Night in the desert brought with it creeping, crawling animation, and several times, he felt, or thought he felt, something walking on his legs. He shook it off, real or imagined.

  He wasn’t alone. Occasionally, he heard someone slapping at clothing.

  A few had given up and gone back into the Hercules, preferring heat to insects.

  The only real positive was that, with no pollution to taint the air, the starscape was a dazzler. He could see infinity, and he could believe in it.

  He was worried about the air strike and all of the things that could go wrong. He was halfway amazed that they had made it to the staging base with only the loss of one tire.

  Though he felt relatively confident in the upgraded F-4s, he didn’t want to become overconfident. The MiG-23 was still a worthy adversary. Barr had made some sense in suggesting they turn the C and D models into strict bombers and use the F-4Es as air superiority fighters, rather than try to accomplish both missions with one platform.

  But he still thought his strategy would work against the MiGs, and that would be their salvation. Zimmerman’s F-4C and Jordan’s F-4D were expendable and would remain that way.

  He rolled over onto his side and pillowed his head on his forearm.

  On the faraway horizon, in the stars, he saw Jan’s face.

  He was glad he had been forced into finally admitting his love to her. He had known it for some time, of course, but he had had as much difficulty making the realization known to himself as he had had in making it known to her.

  If he had a regret, it was that this mission interfered with his emotional awakening. It didn’t help him, and it certainly wouldn’t help her if his Phantom went out from under him. He hated raising false hopes for her.

  He had almost closed his eyes when a bulky shadow crawled across the sand toward him.

  “Andy, you asleep?”

  He whispered back, “Wouldn’t it be better to ask if I were awake, Bucky?”

  “Same coin,” Barr said, scooting around to sit back on his broad buttocks. “Got a question for you.”

  “Is it answerable?”

  “Maybe not.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I’ve been worrying about Kramer.”

  “Don’t. Worry about Ibrahim Ramad.”

  “Go to hell. I know what her problem is.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yeah. I think you’re screwing her over.”

  “Why is that, Bucky?”

  “I mean, everybody knows you two have a thing for each other.”

  “Do they?”

  “No secrets around our place. Now, goddamn it, I want you to treat her right. Either marry her or break it off.”

  “I haven’t heard your question yet, Bucky.”

  “You going to do what I say?”

  “You want to be best man?”

  Barr pored over that one for a full second. “Good night, Andy.”

  “Night, Bucky.”

  *

  Despite his scepticism over the rumour of some silly effort to interfere with his plans by antiquated fighter aircraft, the report had chaffed at Ibrahim Ramad all day long.

  He conceded to himself that it was possible.

  His proposal had been making the rounds of the military and political hierarchy for three months. Someone may have slipped, a loosened tongue dropping hints that analysts loved to manipulate and decode. Perhaps a People’s Bureau minister in some foreign city. He did not know all of those to whom the Leader may have confided the plan.

  It was possible.

  He sat in his office most of the evening, worrying about the possibility and the possible outcomes if it were true. It did not matter who the opposition was. If they knew the date and time, and if he were them, he would certainly attack before Ramad’s aircraft took to the air.

  That meant tomorrow.

  Early in the morning, he would place the interceptors on twenty-four hour alert.

  Or, if they knew the time, and he were them, he would attack while the bombers were on the ground, out of the hardened hangars.

  Six F-4s?

  His pilots would down six F-4s in a matter of minutes. What was he worried about?

  He would order his personal MiG-23 prepared, and he would lead the counterattack. It c
ould not hurt his career aspirations.

  But what if one of the attackers got through and destroyed an Su-24 on the ground, detonating chemical warheads? The gas would permeate Marada Air Base, sucked into the ventilators. He would be remembered, not for developing a successful strategy and forcing the Israelis to cower in their comer of the world, but for his culpability in the deaths of Libyan airmen and base personnel.

  Allow this thought: some clandestine fighter-bombers would attack Marada Air Base between, say, four o’clock in the morning and eight o’clock on the morning of August 2.

  It could happen.

  It might not happen.

  But even the possibility could be circumvented.

  Ramad smiled to himself.

  Then called the sergeant at the duty desk. “I want all wing and squadron commanders in the briefing room immediately. Notify Colonel Ghazi of the meeting. Send a truck to the encampment for Colonel al-Qati and Major Shummari.”

  He made some other calls.

  It was eleven-twenty at night before they were all assembled in the briefing room next to his office.

  Ramad stood at the podium and smiled.

  “I have put my mind to the problem raised by Colonel Ghazi, and I have determined the solution.”

  Some of his subordinates smiled their appreciation. Ghazi and al-Qati waited stoically.

  “This base is now on full-alert. I have ordered tanker aircraft from Tripoli. We will put the first defensive cover squadron into the air within the horn. Given the possibility of information leaks, I have shut down the telephone system. No phone calls may be made from here, or accepted from elsewhere, for the next forty-eight hours.

  “Test Strike is moved up one day. We will launch the C-130s with Colonel al-Qati’s company and Major Shummari’s helicopters at precisely,” — he glanced at his watch — “four-twenty-seven. The bombers will depart at five-forty.

  “I would advise all commanders to leave here now and prepare your units.

  “Are there any questions?”

  There were quite a few.

  *

  Martin Church accepted the call on his secure line. It was the DCI.

  “Martin, I’m afraid I have bad news.”

  “What is that, sir?”

  “We just don’t have enough to go on, and I can’t convince the right people. Icarus is cancelled.”