Phantom Strike

by William H. Lovejoy

  “You want to call Wyatt, or should I?”

  “I’d better do it.”

  *

  Ben Borman woke Wyatt.

  “What?”

  Borman turned the penlight on his own face.

  “Hey, Ben, what time is it?”

  “0223 hours, Andy. You’re wanted on the radio.”

  “Damn. He wasn’t going to call until four.”

  Wyatt rolled over, pushed himself onto his knees, and slipped out from under the Hercules. Now, it was cold. Either that, or he couldn’t adapt to the range of temperature change in this desert.

  He followed Borman through the hatchway into the crew compartment and picked up the desk microphone on the console. A red light for night work had been rigged above the unit.

  “Yucca One.”

  “Paper Doll One, Yucca. I’ve got some new and hot data for you.”

  “How hot?”

  “This is just off the wire. They’re jumping off at 0430 hours.”

  “Okay, we’ll be ready.”

  “That’s 0430, one August.”

  “Goddamn it!” Wyatt said, involuntarily checking his wristwatch. “What happened?”

  “They may have tumbled to you, and moved up the deadline to get a jump on you.”

  “That’s nice to know.”

  “Also, our source thinks she’s been uncovered. She’s going to get on the first plane out of the country.”

  “This only gives us a couple hours,” Wyatt said.

  “Maybe more. The analysts think, because of the distance involved, the transports will leave with the infantry first. As a matter of fact, we can see them loading choppers now. Paper Doll Two has made some calculations here, if I can interpret his handwriting. He thinks the transports have to have about an hour-and-a-half lead over the bomber force, in order to set down somewhere and deploy the choppers.”

  “Hell,” Wyatt said, “they could leave two days early, if they wanted to.”

  “The source thinks not.”

  “Okay, so that puts the bombers on the runway at 0600 in the morning.”

  “At the latest.”

  “If we leave here at 0500 and hit them an hour later, we miss the bombers if they go half an hour early.”

  “I know, Yucca. It’s a judgement call.”

  “They need tankers. Are they coming out of Marada?”

  “We don’t think so. It’ll probably be Tripoli, but we don’t have an eye in the area.”

  “I’m stretching it to get five minutes on-target,” Wyatt said. “I can’t hang around longer than that.”

  “Your call, Yucca. Suggest something.”

  “Hell, we’ll split the difference. We’ll hit the target at 0545 hours.”

  “Go with it,” Church said. “Anything else?”

  “I’ve got as much as I’m going to get, I think.”

  “Hold on. Two wants a word.”

  Embry took over on the other end. “Yucca, I’ve got a request from my asset.”

  “You allow that in your business?”

  “She’s special.”

  “What’s she want?”

  “Don’t shoot al-Qati.”

  Jesus Christ.

  “Don’t shoot him. Damn it, I don’t even know what he looks like.”

  “I’m just passing it on, Yucca.”

  Wyatt signed off.

  Borman said, “You want me to ring the chow bell?”

  “Yeah, Ben, let’s get them up and around. We’re about to go visiting.”

  Fifteen

  One of the effects of Church’s last-minute alteration of their timing, Wyatt thought, was that it circumvented a build-up of anxiety. If they had had to wait around in the heat for another twenty-four hours, thinking about the coming fight, their nerves would have achieved jangled status.

  Everyone rolled out of their sleeping bags, bitching in expected ways, and dove into the chores that had been originally scheduled for later in the afternoon.

  “Flashlights, Andy?” Win Potter asked.

  “Why not? If a roving patrol hasn’t spotted us by now, maybe our luck will hold.”

  Kriswell and Vrdla made a circuit of the aircraft, performing final checks on the avionics, especially the critical data-links and the video-links between aircraft.

  Potter and Littlefield topped off the fighter and transport fuel cells to within a quarter-inch of the caps.

  Borman, with Dave Zimmerman’s reluctant help, retrieved the C-4 plastic explosive from the Hercules and started cutting it into smaller blocks and shaping it into small cones. They carried the small charges from plane to plane, attaching it to the super-secret electronic black boxes, to instrument panels, and to fuel cells. All eight aircraft received a liberal dose of plastique. Then Borman, without a very relieved Zimmerman’s assistance, inserted detonators in each charge and wired them into already installed wiring harnesses according to a schematic he had designed. Two switches were part of the harness. One, controlled by the pilot, initiated either a thirty-second or a forty-five-second timer, hopefully giving the pilot time to eject after he closed the circuit or to get a long way away from the plane if he was on the ground. In the event that a pilot was unable to flip the toggle on his own, an impact switch — requiring five-hundred foot-pounds of force — was installed in the nose.

  If any F-4, or either of the C-130s, was hit or went down, there wouldn’t be enough left of it for salvagers to reconstruct key components.

  The downside of the self-destruct precaution was that flying the aircraft was like piloting a volatile fuel cell while smoking half-a-dozen Havanas. Borman had been thorough in his design, however. All of the charges were in protected spots, behind titanium panels or in structural members, so that a few rounds from a hostile gun was unlikely to set off the sensitive detonators. The plastique itself, Borman liked to say when he was juggling balls of the stuff, was completely harmless.

  Jim Demion and Cliff Jordan spent their time removing the plunger-type impact fuses from the twenty-four Mark 84 bombs slung beneath the E-model Phantoms. There were three bombs on each pylon, six per plane. The bombs on the C and D models would remain in their factory configuration.

  In place of the impact fuses, they installed the nose cones that Kriswell, Vrdla, and Borman had modified in Nebraska and brought with diem. The cones contained the avionic heads from the HOBOS two thousand-pound guided bomb. Though the three designers had not had a MK 84 available as a model, the cones slipped into place perfectly, substituting an electronic impact fuse, and giving the bomb eyes. The nose cone and trailing antennas were taped into place with duct tape. The additional wiring harness plugged directly into a receptacle already installed in the pylon.

  Wyatt, Gettman, Hackley, and Barr preflighted each airplane, paying particular attention to weapons hardware connectors and firing up the computers and radars for software checks.

  Dennis Maal and Hank Cavanaugh installed the final linkages and examined and tested all of the new solenoid-activated controls. They tested the electronic consoles built into the transport and into the backseat areas of Yucca Three and Yucca Four.

  They had completed four dry runs of the procedures while still in Ainsworth, and the live exercise came off without a hitch. They were finished by 0410 hours.

  Formsby, who had not had an assignment, contented himself with tending the radio and positioning the two start carts before Borman rigged them with plastic explosive.

  Then, whether they wanted them or not, they dug into their stash of MREs, heated whatever they drew over flaming Stemo cans, and chased it down with mugs of the hot coffee Formsby had brewed.

  Barr, in standard form, consumed the contents of four of the MRE packages.

  Sitting on the ramp of the transport, Barr said, “You know, I don’t think Yucca Two has more than five or six brake cycles left.”

  “You really think you’re going to need brakes Bucky?” Jordan asked. “You want brakes, I’ll trade you airplanes.”

&
nbsp; “No way, man. Yours flies like a Navy hog.”

  “You haven’t even flown it.”

  “I can tell by looking at it,” Barr insisted.

  Wyatt forced down the last of his biscuit, swigged some coffee, then climbed into the Hercules to find a mirror and a paper cup of water. He discovered his razor in his duffel bag — someone had straightened out all of the personal belongings en route to Africa. The soft rubber seal of his oxygen mask chafed his face red if he had a stubble, and he quickly cut it down.

  Formsby stood next to him, with his own cup of water, sharing the mirror. He probably shaved out of habit, Wyatt figured.

  “Are you expecting to have to impress someone, Andy?” Formsby asked.

  “Not today, unless it’s my Maker, and I’m not planning on that.”

  “Amen.”

  With the chores completed, many of the men were thinking about their future. Or lack of it.

  He shed his jeans, dressed in his dove grey Noble Enterprises flight suit, and went back to the cargo bay to sit on the ramp.

  Cavanaugh, Littlefield, Vrdla, and Potter had started a card game.

  The temperature was starting to come up.

  Ben Borman had collected the drag chutes from yesterday’s landings and stacked them on top of the start carts, weighting them in place with pieces of broken two-by-fours from the ruined hangars. When the start carts went up in flames, so would the parachutes.

  Barr emerged from the cargo bay, also dressed in his flight suit, and sat down beside him.

  “Going to miss this place,” Barr said.

  “For how long?”

  “Maybe twenty seconds.”

  “How you doing, Bucky?”

  “Good, I think.” Barr held out both hands, steady as granite. “I hope to hell they stay that way, come bomb delivery time.”

  “I hope to hell the technology substitutes for practice,” Wyatt said.

  None of them had dropped a bomb in years. Their flight skills were still honed by their daily work, but civilian chores didn’t always involve placing MK 84s in tender spots. Kriswell had argued that the guidance system was all they would need. He had run them through some simulations in Nebraska, connecting the HOBOS heads to the aircraft computers.

  “My fear,” Barr said, “is that the technology is soon going to substitute for humans in the cockpit. Hell, it already has. Where am I going to get a job?”

  “Maybe they’ll make you president of Yale?”

  “They should. Look how I turned out. How many of my classmates can be found sitting in the sand of Chad, waiting for some jerk in Washington to say go?”

  “I don’t know. How big was your graduating class?” “I didn’t pay attention. I think most of them are lawyers by now. Either that or cat burglars.”

  Dawn was pinking the horizon now. The drab top-sides of the fighters took on a glow, their silhouettes slowly becoming defined.

  “I like that airplane,” Wyatt said.

  “Me, too, buddy. There’ll never be another like her, or one that acted so many roles.”

  The F-4 had been used as a fighter, a bomber, a Wild Weasel — attracting SAM launches in order to strike the SAM radars, a photographic reconnaissance platform. She had taken to the air in 1958, and she was still flying combat missions in reconnaissance form during Desert Storm in 1991.

  After the work they had put into them, Wyatt was almost reluctant to force them into their next roles. “Andy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You mean what you said last night?”

  “Probably. What’d I say?”

  “You going to ask Janner?”

  “She already said yes.”

  “Damn. I knew I should have called earlier.”

  They sat and waited for the sun to come up or for something else to happen.

  *

  There was not enough space in the subterranean hangars for the C-130 transports, and the six of them were lined up next to the runway. The first four contained Shummari’s helicopters, and the last two were now loading the First Special Forces Company. Al-Qati divided the company evenly between the two transports. If one went down, he didn’t want to lose all of his fighting capability.

  He stood with Shummari near the last airplane, and listened as, one by one, they began to start their engines. The crescendo grew steadily.

  “I do not feel as confident as I should about this mission,” Shummari said.

  “You are in good company, Khalil.”

  Al-Qati had a sudden inspiration relating to his survival. “We should have a contingency plan.”

  “Such as, Ahmed?”

  “Give me a codename.”

  Shummari had to speak louder, as the roar of engines increased. “Moonglow.”

  The colonel grinned. “I am surprised, Khalil. You are a romantic.”

  “I wish that I were.”

  “I will be Sundown. This is in the event that we need to change the plans made for us.”

  “We do not control the transports, Ahmed, and that bothers me. I prefer having my helicopters free to roam.”

  “Is your side arm loaded, Khalil?”

  Shummari patted his holster. “Yes, of course.”

  “That is all the command you need.”

  “But, Ahmed…”

  “Very likely, it will not be necessary. Still, we must think ahead. I will be in the fifth aircraft, with the first and second platoons. I think you should fly with the two Mi-8s.”

  “As you wish, Ahmed.”

  Al-Qati regretted that the mission did not allow for him to bring along any of the armoured personnel carriers. He would hate to be stranded in the Sudan or in Ethiopia without motorized transport.

  Shrugging his shoulders in the web gear, he patted Shummari on the back, then trudged slowly across the tarmac toward the transport.

  *

  Embry yelped, “They’re moving!”

  Church was reclined in Embry’s high-backed desk chair, his shoeless feet propped on the desk, and his head lolling from side to side as he drifted in and out of sleep.

  He sat up abruptly, slid his feet off the desk, and stood up. He nearly fell down when he determined that his left leg had gone to sleep without him.

  Rounding the desk, he reached the table and leaned on it, shaking his leg to get the circulation going again.

  With a ballpoint pen, Embry pointed out a silver airplane on the screen. “That’s the first one airborne. The others are moving into take-off position.”

  “Let’s keep track of them.”

  Embry grabbed the blue phone, and someone on the other end answered immediately.

  “We want a fix on their course, speed, and altitude,” he told the desk person on the NSA end of the line. “Don’t lose them.”

  Church picked up the green phone.

  “Captain Murphy, sir,” the man at the Pentagon said.

  “Captain, hook me into Yucca, please.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  Several minutes went by before a voice with a British accent came on the air. Church figured it was Formsby, though he had never met the man.

  “This is Paper Doll One. Who is this?”

  “Yucca… oh, I must be about Fifteen. Give or take a digit or two.”

  “The transports are taking off now, Yucca.”

  “Roger that,” Formsby said. “We will be going shortly, then.”

  “Give me a rundown, please.”

  “Time to target at selected cruise is fifty-seven minutes, and we need eleven minutes from engine start to take-off. We plan to reach the target at 0545 hours.”

  “You’ve got it calculated that closely?” Church asked.

  “Who in the world knows? The boss feels good if we use odd numbers.”

  *

  Formsby came through the hatchway from the crew compartment into the cargo bay and yelled, “Andy!”

  Wyatt turned to look back.

  “The C-130s are off.”

  Wyatt climbed
to his feet. “Anything else, Neil?”

  “That’s all the man gave me.”

  The pilots and technicians began to stir out of their resting positions on the ramp and in the bay.

  “Okay, guys, we’re on,” Wyatt said. “Let’s do it like we drilled it.”

  Demion said to Kriswell, “Come on, Tom. You can play with the throttles while I see if this big mother will start.”

  The two of them headed forward to the flight deck with Kriswell saying, “I want to see if I can retract the wheels this time. Would that be okay?”

  “I’ll tell you what, Tom,” Demion said, “I’ll think about it.”

  Dennis Maal and Hank Cavanaugh headed for the Hercules tanker.

  Wyatt walked out to Yucca One with Win Potter, who carried a ladder. When they reached the plane, Wyatt slipped into his G suit, then checked his survival pack. The survival packs had been specifically provisioned for this mission, and he took out the most important item, the radio, and checked it for operation. He made certain he had extra batteries for it. Uncomfortable under his left arm was the holster for his Browning 9-millimetre automatic. He didn’t plan on using it.

  “Good luck, Andy.”

  “Thanks, Win. I’ll be seeing you soon.”

  “Maybe we can have lunch,” Potter grinned.

  “Plan on it.”

  Wyatt went up the ladder and into the cockpit. He strapped into his parachute, then into the seat. Potter came up and helped out with the umbilicals.

  Lifting his helmet from the floor, he slipped it on and fastened the chin strap. Potter grabbed the comm cord and snapped it in place.

  Wyatt gave him a raised thumb, and Potter went down the ladder.

  Borman was ready with the start cart, and, in three minutes the twin turbojets were turning.

  They waved at him, and moved the start cart over to crank Gettman’s F-4.

  In a short time, the turboprops of both Hercules aircraft were idling, as were all twelve turbojets.

  “Formation lights,” Wyatt said.

  The dim wingtip lights started popping on.

  Wyatt sat in his cockpit watching the ballet.

  After extending flaps to the full-down position and synchronizing the engines, Maal and Cavanaugh climbed out of the tanker and ran for the transport scrambling up the ramp.

  Dave Zimmerman and Cliff Jordan slid out of their F-4s, Yuccas Five and Six — the C and D models, and scampered up the ladders and into the backseats of Yuccas Three and Four. They left their jets idling with the flaps down.