Cobra tsf-4

by David E. Meadows

  Duncan took the handset and told Viper Four Seven they had made the ravine and were moving to the west. Viper Four Seven passed his intentions to fight the helicopters slowly eastward as long as they remained undetected. If, or when, the rebels discovered them, the gunships would return and provide air cover. Duncan agreed, signed off, and tossed the handset to Gibbons, who hung it on his belt, reached behind him, and turned the volume to its lowest setting. Last thing they needed was for the radio to blare out and alert the enemy to their position.

  Thirty minutes later, the ditch widened as the sides decreased in height. The sound of battle continued unabated behind them. Smoke from the explosions around the depression, along the beach, and across the road obscured the desert between them and Algiers. Duncan sent HJ racing ahead to catch up with Chief Wilcox and Mcdonald. He didn’t want them to wander out of the protective cover of the ditch. HJ returned within minutes with news that the ditch ended about two hundred yards from where the Algerian rebels had established their truck pool. She could see three trucks from the end of the floodwater ditch.

  “You two stay here,” Duncan said to the pilots. The two Marine pilots, breathing heavily from the exertion of the rough journey carrying the body of their crew chief, nodded as they fell against the side of the ditch. Duncan knew the Marines were exhausted. Carrying a body or wounded person a few feet to safety was one thing, but to carry one for a long distance required stamina and tenacity. It also required respect, honor, and a sense of duty to one’s fellow warrior. He wouldn’t leave one of his, and he expected nothing less of the Marines.

  “Captain, we got three trucks. Chief Wilcox and Mcdonald are watching. I count three rebels, and they are squatted around a small fire, probably making tea.”

  Bud and Monkey appeared around the curve of the ditch behind Duncan. He motioned the two SEALs forward. The group squatted in the center of the ditch while HJ briefed again the setup at the truck park.

  Ten minutes later, the group joined Chief Wilcox and Mcdonald at the end of the floodwater ditch where it disappeared like a paper fan spread across the face of the desert. This small portion of the Sahara benefited from the sparse rainfall. Scraggy scrubs fought for survival against a burning sun and whipping winds trying to fry or rip every bit of foliage from the ground.

  “HJ, you, Bud, Mcdonald, and the chief take the left side. Watch for the red light on the brick. I want minimum fire. Take out the guards and head for the trucks. Bud, Chief, as soon as the guards are out, see if some fool left a key in one of those ignitions. HJ … No, Bud, you search them for a key. If we find a key, then whichever truck it fits is the one we take. Any questions?”

  Beau raised his hand. “How about the rest of us?”

  “Beau, you, myself, Monkey, and Gibbons will move to the right and take position between the trucks and the highway. We will provide cover in the event the rebels become aware of our presence. Let’s hope they don’t.”

  “Sounds like a plan, boss.”

  “Keep low, everyone, and use the bushes. If you get close enough, you should be able to take them out with minimum fire. I am going to call Viper Four Seven and have them increase their attacks to cover ours.

  Wait until you hear the Cobras’ rockets and cannons increase in tempo and then, at your discretion, HJ, take the rebels out.”

  “Nothing will give me greater pleasure,” she replied, moving off at a fast clip toward the exit.

  Duncan wondered briefly if he had detected a slight tremor in her voice.

  He hoped HJ’s experience at the hands of the rebels didn’t cloud her thinking. Duncan had seen such a reaction in other warriors where desire for revenge and hate for the enemy overrode training and common sense.

  But he said nothing as he watched the four move to the left, keeping their profile low as they moved from scrub to scrub. He glanced at the rebels laughing and chatting as they drank hot tea from small cups.

  Gibbons handed Duncan the handset. He contacted Viper Four Seven and in a whisper told him their position. Viper Four Seven acknowledged the request to increase their attacks to cover the gunfire as they took the trucks. Duncan pointed to the right. The four followed as he led them along a line of scraggly bushes. Along the way, Duncan would point at one of the SEALs and indicate for the person to take position. Several minutes later, the four were spread along a rough, hundred-foot line with their weapons pointed at the unaware Algerians sipping and chatting around the low fire.

  Duncan rubbed his knee as he squatted behind one of the small bushes.

  Swelling had increased in the back of the left knee. Every move resulted in the joints grating where the cartilage had long ago worn away, the curse of old age in a young mind’s body. He waved them forward.

  Carefully, the four SEALs eased slowly from bush to bush as they decreased their distance between themselves and the Algerian rebels. The four reached a position between the first truck and the highway. If anyone arrived from the highway in the next few minutes, there was little Duncan and his team could do to avoid detection. He was amazed they had reached this far without the guards discovering them.

  The noise of the Cobras making fresh attacks against the rebels increased in tempo, and when the attack came from HJ and her team, Duncan could not hear the gunfire. All he saw were the rebels standing to flee and falling over as the SEALs’ gunfire tore through them.

  “Let’s go!” Duncan shouted.

  From the edge of the ditch, the two Marine Corps pilots hurried forward, carrying the crew chief’s body between them. Chief Wilcox jumped into the cab of the first truck, jumped down, and hurried to the second.

  Bud was going through the pockets of the dead men, jerking the pockets inside out and going on to the next one.

  “Got one!” shouted Chief Wilcox, waving everyone toward him.

  “Let’s go, everyone! Get your butts on board,” Duncan ordered, looking around for Gibbons.

  “Gibbons, come here!” Duncan shouted as he walked, carbine in his left hand, toward the truck.

  Mcdonald passed them at a run, stopped, turned, and handed Duncan a canteen. “Found these back there, Captain. Water!” Duncan took it as Mcdonald continued his run to the truck. He tossed the canteens into the bed of the truck. HJ grabbed them and began passing them around to the others.

  “Yes, sir,” said Gibbons as he reached Duncan.

  Duncan took the handset. “Viper Four Seven, this is James One. We have a truck. Two minutes, and we will be on the road.”

  “Okay, James One. Here is my plan. We will stay where we are and watch your progress. As soon as you take fire, we will rejoin and conduct a truck-helicopter formation — a new tactic for a new era.” Duncan clicked the transmit button twice, signing off the air. He handed the handset to Gibbons as they arrived at the back of the truck. Mcdonald had his M-60 across the top of the cab, while Monkey lay across the rear, his heavy machine gun poking through the left side of the wooden rails that lined the bed. HJ and Bud had the right side. Beau leaned down, offered Duncan his hand, and pulled the SEAL captain onto the bed. The dead crew chief’s body lay in the center, and the two Marine Corps pilots, with their nine-millimeter Navy Colt pistols cupped with both hands, squatted on their haunches to the left of Monkey.

  “Does this look familiar, boss?” Duncan asked.

  “Except for the absence of sheep dung and the heavy odor they bring, it could be Bashir’s truck.” These same SEALs, with the exception of Chief Wilcox, had avoided capture by Algerian rebels through the efforts of the overweight Bedouin smuggler and his rusty Volvo truck. It had been Bashir who located a doctor for HJ after she was wounded in a small village somewhere west of where they were now. Duncan doubted they would have successfully rescued President Hawaii Alneuf if it hadn’t been for the big buffoon. He knew they would never have survived the mission without Bashir, and for that reason alone, he felt he owed the Algerian patriot and smuggler some sort of payback. But that was no reason for Bashir to endanger American
lives by holding back information because he would only give it to him.

  “Do they have anything else in Algeria other than old, dilapidated trucks?” Beau asked.

  Chief Wilcox leaned out of the cab. “Captain, what now?”

  “Beau, ride up front with the chief. This plan is a complicated one that you may have a tough time remembering, so take notes. Turn this truck east and at a high rate of speed — if this thing has it in it — head toward Algiers. Once you reach the city, stop.”

  Beau climbed down, cocked his head to one side, and nodded. “Let me make sure I understand this plan,” he mumbled as he walked alongside the truck and opened the door to the cab. “Turn this truck toward Algiers and stop once we reach it. Yeah, I think I may have it,” Beau said, looking up at Duncan with a broad smile on his face. He gave him a half salute and ducked inside the cab, slamming the door behind him.

  Duncan, hunched over at the waist, moved to where Mcdonald stood, his M-60 pointing over the top of the cab. “Gibbons,” Duncan said, straightening. “You stay near me.” He pointed to his right where the wooden rails ended at the cab. “So I can use the radio if I need it.”

  Beau stuck his head out of the window. “Boss, is that a right or left turn?” he asked, joking before pulling himself back inside the cab.

  The engine cranked, revving up as Chief Wilcox gave it the gas. The grinding sound of the gears, common to Russian trucks, gave warning to those on the bed to grab hold of something.

  Gibbons slid to a squatting position, his carbine pointed through the middle gap between the three wooden rails. His fingers twitched as he grasped the weapon. The petty officer reached up and pulled his cap down over his eyes, shading them from the sun.

  The truck jerked forward with no warning, nearly knocking them off their haunches. The wheels spun in the sand for a few seconds before finding grip. A minute later, Chief Wilcox turned the Russian truck right onto the potholed asphalt that passed for the major coastal road in Algeria.

  The gears ground as Chief Wilcox fought the awkward transmission to shift from low to second to third and eventually at the great speed of forty kilometers an hour into fourth. Any shock absorbers this truck had at one time had disappeared years ago.

  Duncan pulled his cap down tighter on his head to keep it from blowing off and with the back of his hand wiped the sweat from his eyes.

  Mcdonald started to pull his hat off and tuck it in his back pocket, but Duncan shook his head and made the man keep it on. A few minutes in this sun could bake a man’s brain, he thought, reminding him of his thirst.

  He took another long drink from the rebel canteens Mcdonald had found. A small green flag fluttered from the radio antenna on the hood of the truck.

  “Here it comes!” Bud shouted, pointing forward.

  On the right, the rotors of the crashed CH-53 appeared above the depression. From the vantage height of the truck bed, Duncan saw the Algerian rebel positions along the left of the highway. He waved. He felt foolish, but he waved. Surprisingly, several of the Algerians returned it. Sometimes a friendly wave is the best deception. An Algerian truck flying the green Islamic flag with a friendly wave confused the rebels long enough for the truck to zoom by their positions, continuing toward Algiers. One of the rebels jumped up and began screaming at the others. Uh-oh, thought Duncan.

  Over the noise of the truck caused by faulty mufflers, Algerian rebels poured out of their holes, scrambling onto the hardtop, and firing at the truck. Monkey returned fire with Bud and HJ firing alongside him with their carbines. Duncan couldn’t tell if they scored any hits, but the rebel fire soon stopped as the truck passed down a slight dip and around a corner.

  HJ and Bud grinned at each other, turned, and gave Duncan a thumbs-up.

  Thumbs-up, Duncan thought. This is August, and I am supposed to be retired. Instead, I am in the middle of some godforsaken country, while my wife and her boy toy tear up my house in Reston.

  Two Cobra helicopters appeared ahead and passed down both sides of the truck before turning and taking position about a hundred yards on either side of the truck.

  “James One, Viper Four Seven; good job. We seem to have cleared the pack. Algiers is eight kilometers ahead. Colonel

  Stewart is waiting at the outskirts, so recommend not firing on the desert cammy uniforms ahead.”

  “Roger, Viper Four Seven. Thanks for the escort.”

  “Viper Four Seven, this is Ranger Two Six,” the pilot’s voice flying the Navy’s EP-3E Orion reconnaissance aircraft interrupted. “You have bandits inbound from the south, ten miles. Believe them to be Foxbat fighters. Could be some Sukhoi mixed in with them.” Sukhoi aircraft were vintage ground attack variants made by the old Soviet Union.

  “Ranger Two Six, identify yourself.”

  “Viper Four Seven, James One; we know Ranger Two Niner. If Ranger Two Six any kin, welcome aboard, Friendly Ranger,” Duncan broadcast.

  Ranger Two Six was the only remaining Fleet Air Reconnaissance Squadron Two aircraft left in the Mediterranean after Ranger Two Niner, shot up by rebel fire, crashed in Sigonella two days ago. The EP-3E, a four-engine versatile aircraft variant of the Navy’s AntiSubmarine Warfare ASW P-3C Orion, was the lone remaining signals intelligence reconnaissance aircraft in the United States Sixth Fleet inventory. With only twelve available worldwide when this crisis in North Africa started, the conflict in Korea had taken all from the European Theater with the exception of these two. Two of the original twelve had been destroyed by the Libyan Air Force when they attacked Sigonella, Sicily, and Souda Bay, Crete. Ranger Two Nine had crashed and burned on the runway of Sigonella after being damaged by an Algerian surface-to-air missile. This lone VQ-2 Aries II aircraft was all the Sixth Fleet had to support its intelligence reconnaissance requirements in the Mediterranean. Even the Air Force versatile RC-135 Rivet Joint had been ordered to the Pacific.

  Duncan looked north out to sea, knowing just over the horizon the EP-3E was orbiting. Ranger Two Nine had saved their bacon four weeks ago. He would have felt better if it had been the familiar call sign of Two Niner out there. He had read about the deaths of the aircrew and in a small church in Rome had lit a candle that night in their memory.

  Four weeks ago, Duncan and his SEAL teams had been under attack by the Algerian Navy and Air Force while escaping to sea on an old water carrier with President Alneuf and Algerian Palace Guard units. While F/A-18 Hornets off the USS Stennis had taken out the Algerian fighters, a Harpoon launched from Ranger Two Niner had erased the Algerian warship from the sea. If it hadn’t been for VQ-2, the parent squadron of the EP-3E aircraft, Duncan and his SEALs might still have been treading water.

  “Roger, James One. Enemy aircraft should be coming into sight now!”

  Viper Four Seven broadcast, bringing Duncan’s thoughts back to the current situation.

  Duncan shaded his eyes and searched to the south. “Heads up, everyone.

  Friendly Ranger says we got company inbound from the south.”

  Twenty-millimeter cannon fire stitched down the sides of the truck as two Mig-25 Foxbat aircraft suddenly dove on the bouncing, weaving truck.

  The two Cobras broke left and right, avoiding the cannon fire.

  “Where the hell did they come from?” shouted Chief Wilcox, scrambling to bring his carbine to bear on the enemy aircraft.

  Monkey rolled onto his back. The roar of the heavy M-60 machine gun rocked the truck, the shells filling the air as the two Algerian fighters roared overhead and began to climb.

  Duncan keyed the handset. “Ranger Two Six. We confirm two Mig-25 Foxbats — and they came from the west, not the south.”

  “Roger, we’ll calibrate our radars later. Be advised formation of four Fox 18s inbound your position. Expect overhead in two minutes.”

  “Ranger Two Six, Viper Four Seven; where are the Foxbats now?”

  “Foxbats at altitude two zero,” the EP-3E pilot replied, identifying the enemy aircraft at an altitude of two thousand feet. “
They are in hard left-hand turn, aligning for another pass.”

  “Roger, thanks. Viper Four Five and Four One, hit the deck. Engage Foxbats with Sidewinders.”

  “Viper Four Seven, Ranger Two Six; be advised two F/A 18s inbound.”

  “Roger. And, when they get here, they are more than welcome to this engagement. Until then, we have a truck to protect.”

  Duncan balanced himself against the wooden sides of the truck bed and scanned the skies, searching for the enemy aircraft.

  “There they are!” shouted Beau, pointing toward the sea.

  Duncan looked in the direction Beau pointed. The sun reflected briefly off their fuselages. The two aircraft were nearly wing-on to the ground in a hard left turn and appeared to be descending.

  Static blasted from the radio, followed by the voice of Viper Four Seven. “Lock-on. Fox one!”

  The Sidewinder blasted away from the pylon beneath the starboard wing of the Cobra, dipped briefly before the rocket fuel kicked in, and the missile shot forward. It weaved along its flight path as a sensitive, heat-seeking guidance system corrected the missile flight toward the Mig-25s. The Migs were so close together, it was impossible for Duncan to tell in the few seconds of the Sidewinder’s flight which aircraft was the target. The Sidewinder seemed to oscillate between the two aircraft until its seeker window had only one target, then it drove through the tail of the lead Foxbat and exploded. Enemy aircraft pieces rained on the beach and the Algerian rebels beneath it.

  The other Algerian fighter aircraft circus-rolled to the right, afterburners blazing out behind it as the aging aircraft turned straight up on its tail at a ninety-degree angle and zoomed toward altitude.

  “We show only one enemy aircraft,” said the voice from Ranger Two Six.

  “Good shot, Viper Four Seven. Let me see … there, check mark by your name. One confirmed kill.”

  Viper Four Seven clicked his transmitter button twice in acknowledgement.