Rufus became a second lieutenant in the Army Reserve in the summer of 1965, receiving his commission through the ROTC program at the university. He had never thought to make a career in the military, but he had enjoyed the training and the spartan life, and he had done well, first commanding a cavalry platoon in Vietnam and later an Armor company. He found that in the Army, his race was an advantage; it made him a curiosity. In Vietnam, Loonfeather had a reputation for knowing where the enemy was and where he wasn’t, and when he told other soldiers that the sensitivity came from the Old Ones, they didn’t understand, but respected it, because it worked. Rufus’s sureness had allowed him to dash across places where the enemy wasn’t and concentrate his tanks and his men where the enemy would be.
He discovered another fact of life in the military: An officer or man who did his job well could pursue other interests without regard to any military peer pressure to conform. Rufus Loonfeather left Vietnam in 1974 a very young major with important battlefield decorations. It was recorded in his service record that he had learned, and could speak fluently, Spanish, French, and German. It was not recorded that he wrote poetry and played the piano exceptionally well. Rufus Loonfeather had applied for transfer into the regular Army and was one of not many Vietnam-era reserve majors to be accepted and promoted thereafter. Rufus Loonfeather was an achiever, and he knew that it had all come down to Fire Arrow and the deadly challenge of Uqba ben Nafi Air Base. For as long as he had commanded the 3d of the 73d, he had pored over maps of air bases in Poland and Czechoslovakia and European Russia, training himself and boring himself to distraction, and now he had a shot at a real live air base, defended by enemy tanks.
Loonfeather opened his eyes, yawned, and picked up the top secret op-order. His eight Sheridans would be carried by eight C-130s. Two larger C-141s would drop the paratroopers. Marine Sea Cobra helicopters and navy carrier-based bombers were receiving additional antitank munitions, and a squadron of air force A-10 Warthog antitank aircraft was already at Rheinmain, awaiting permission from the Italian government to move to the Italian air base at Brindisi, close enough to attack inside Libya. The German government had quietly given approval for use of its facilities for assembly, but not for the launching of the actual attack, unless the hostages were seen to be in imminent danger of harm. Same with the Italians. So where the hell else do we launch from? wondered Loonfeather. Still, he figured that unless the politicians pulled a rabbit out of a hat, the Abu Salaam crazies would begin killing the hostages, and that should be enough “imminent danger” for the most squeamish NATO government.
Loonfeather had briefed his officers on the operation at morning officers’ call. The briefing had taken less than an hour. They had been over it so many times, they just had to learn the locations of the objectives and the specific assignments of the individual units. There had been few questions and many smiles.
Rehearsals on the mock-up of the area of operation (AO) of the mission, which had been set up on the western end of Pope, would begin at 1300.
Damn, thought Loonfeather, shaking his head to clear the fatigue, we can do this!
He emptied his mind and called out to the Old Ones.
USS Inchon, fourteen nautical miles northeast of Tripoli, 1500 GMT (1600 Local)
Colonel Rob Brimmer left Flag Plot, the compartment just below the bridge on Inchon. He had gone over the operation minutely with the commodore of the four-ship amphibious squadron. It had been decided by Sixth Fleet to land one rifle company from Inchon, holding her other rifle companies and the entire battalion landing team aboard Saipan in reserve. The marines would hold an expanded perimeter around the Operations Building as the Army moved out and fought the Libyan tanks. The marines would carry a large assortment of antitank weapons, but would have to depend on the Army to keep most, if not all, of the Libyan tanks well away from the helicopter operations.
The carrier air groups, now two, with Nimitz joining America earlier in the day, promised to clear Libyan aircraft from the skies above Wheelus in the first few minutes of battle and to shoot up any that tried to move toward the runways. Navy bombers from the big carriers and marine helicopters operating from Saipan and Inchon would be able to range inland, identifying and attacking Libyan vehicles and troop concentrations.
The whole thing is just so fragile, thought Brimmer; everything has to work, and on time. Twenty years in the Marine Corps had taught him to expect problems, even in simple operations, and this one was as complex as he could imagine. The SEALs had to get into the Ops Building, kill the terrorists, and hold. They also had to blow up enough aircraft and vehicles to create confusion and panic. The Airborne had to get down, get their vehicles down, and shoot the tanks before the tanks could shoot up Brimmer’s helicopters. If it worked, the hostages and the SEALs would fly out within three minutes of the first marine helicopters landing, and then the marines would coordinate their own extraction with the Airborne, by helos back to Saipan and Inchon. If nothing went contrary to the careful planning.
Brimmer wondered just how much would go wrong and whether there was anything else he ought to have thought of. He knew what he didn’t anticipate would cost American lives.
Washington, 2300 GMT (1800 EST)
The Secretary of State stood up from behind his large Louis XV desk and moved to greet the Soviet Ambassador. Anatoli Dobrynin had given his coat and hat to an aide before entering the Secretary’s cavernous office, and he smiled thinly as he shook hands with the American. The Ambassador was a big man, with a perpetually jovial expression from behind steel-rimmed glasses, but he could look dour or severe when the diplomatic necessities arose.
The Secretary ushered Dobrynin to a comfortable, intimate place in front of the low-burning fireplace. There were deep, comfortable chairs, and on a low marble table between them glasses, ice, vodka, scotch, and a pitcher of water. The Secretary prepared scotch and water for them both, measuring carefully the Ambassador’s drink the way he knew Dobrynin liked it. The Ambassador’s sunny expression became composed as he polished his glasses on a pocket handkerchief, put them on, and accepted the whiskey glass.
“Thank you for coming to talk privately, Anatoli,” said the Secretary of State.
The Ambassador smiled and held up his glass, to be touched by that in the hand of the Secretary. Dobrynin appreciated the tact, since it had been he who had requested the private meeting. “Thank you for making time to see me, Mr. Secretary, in these difficult times.”
Holt leaned back in his deep chair and sipped his drink. He knew the Russian would begin when he felt ready.
Dobrynin sighed, put his drink down, and once again began to polish his glasses. “Henry, this afternoon, you made some pretty strong demands upon us, in the matter of this affair in Libya.”
“Our people are in deadly peril, Anatoli.”
“Perhaps, although you have not, apparently, convinced your allies in NATO of that.” The Ambassador spoke very softly.
Holt leaned forward, his brows arched. “If the intent of this gambit is to divide NATO, Anatoli-”
Dobrynin raised his hands, palms toward the Secretary. Holt stopped speaking in mid-sentence. “Henry. Henry! There is no intent, from our side. No gambit. We don’t control this; even Baruni does not. That you must believe!” The Ambassador lowered his hands to his knees. His expression said sorrow.
The Secretary looked at the veteran ambassador, wanting to believe him, yet inevitably suspicious. Holt had come to Washington two years before, expecting to be able to use his natural instincts of honesty and candor; it hadn’t taken him long to learn he was routinely lied to by friends as well as adversaries, and worse, he had learned to lie himself.
Only in the national interest, he reminded himself, suppressing a grimace.
“There must be something you can do to help us get those hostages out of there, Anatoli.”
Dobrynin shrugged. “We have refrained from any but the most moderate expressions of support for Baruni, and said nothing about
Abu Salaam. We are not countering your buildup in the Mediterranean, despite the fact that it violates previous understandings-”
“Dammit, Anatoli. Baruni is your client! He belongs to you. Without your support, even his own people, even his own military, wouldn’t put up with him!” The Secretary fought back the heat in his voice.
Dobrynin leaned forward in his chair, picked up his drink, and sipped it. “Henry, things are not that simple. The Politburo is divided as to how we should handle this situation. Powerful forces want to help you with Baruni, to the extent that is possible; other powerful forces want to prolong your embarrassment.”
The last word stung like a whip. Holt sipped his own drink, buying time. “Where does the General Secretary stand on all of this? Surely he wants better relations?”
“Henry, the General Secretary is dying.”
Holt inhaled a sip of his drink and almost choked. The General Secretary’s poor health had been known since before he had taken office, but there had been no intelligence to indicate that the man was close to death. The Secretary fought for composure, struggling within himself to understand how this would impact on the hostage situation and the larger relationship between the two nations. “Anatoli, I am saddened to hear that, truly.”
“Henry, I am telling you this, because it is imperative that you move with care, and that you interpret reactions of my government with caution.”
Holt looked at his hands. “You are telling me you cannot predict the reaction of your government to actions we may feel compelled to take.”
“That is correct.” The Ambassador’s despair seemed genuine.
“And we won’t know whether your government will help us with Baruni, whatever they may say.”
“I am sorry, Henry.”
“Even what they may say through you?”
“I am sorry, Henry.”
The Secretary of State sighed. He knew that the Ambassador was identified with the moderate, pro-detente faction, thought to be led by the Foreign Minister and the younger members of the Politburo. He also knew the Ambassador would serve well whomever he believed to be his masters in the Kremlin. “Can you tell me who in the government takes the hard line against us in this affair?”
“No, Henry, I have said all I can.” The Ambassador rose. “Thank you for seeing me, in private, and at such short notice.”
The Secretary rose and offered his hand. The Ambassador took it. “Thank you for coming, Anatoli. I’ll walk you to the elevator.”
Tzafon may Eilat, Israel, 17 February, 0400 GMT (0600 Local)
The SEAL team stood in front of the operations bunker, marveling at the overnight transformation of the Israeli base. The desert sky was black, changing to gray-blue in the predawn. Haze on the eastern horizon was turning pink.
The men were dressed in their parachute gear, minus the chutes themselves. They were glad for the lined immersion suits, as the desert air was cold. Leah Rabin was equipped the same as the SEALs, including the CAR-15 carbine and the mixture of M-67 fragmentation and MK-3A2 stun grenades. Stuart stood next to Hooper, pointing out the newly constructed buildings, light towers, revetments, and the truncated fire-fighting pond across the runway. Stuart was wearing desert utilities and a warm, quilted Israeli Air Force jacket.
“Your guys actually built this overnight,” said Hooper.
“Yeah, and it looks good, down to the last detail.” Stuart was comparing locations to the blueprints he had laid out on the hood of a parked IDF pickup truck. “When the lights are on, the angles of the shadows here should relate to the pond and to the buildings exactly as they will in Wheelus.”
Hooper tapped the operations plan summary on his clipboard, which described how his team would carry out its mission after landing in the reservoir. “We never did anything like this, man,” said Hooper, shaking his head.
“Want to give it to the Delta Force?” grinned Stuart.
“Fuck, no. This will make history.” Hooper ran his fingers over the chart, then looked at the Ops Building. It was built of plywood, its windows roughed out but without glass. A framed control tower poked up on top of the building, but there was no roof. Hooper pointed to the empty windows. “We go in there, right?”
“Right,” replied Stuart. “We work this morning on getting from the pond across the apron to the building and in. We’ll also train at shooting terrorists inside and not shooting hostages. Captain Rabin has had useful experience in this area, which she’ll share with us. We’ll take the control tower, and we’ll work out how to take out the ready APCs. This evening we’ll jump into the pond and do it from beginning to end, over and over.”
“And then?” Hooper was grinning his maximum crazy grin.
“Tonight we’ll do it with glass in the windows and Israeli crews in the BTRs. We’ll practice until we go or are told to stand down.”
“Bet, Stuart,” said Hooper, moving his grin up close.
“What, Commander?” Stuart smiled in return.
“Bet you a dinner at Simpson’s on the Strand when this is over that we in actual fact run this drill for real on the sands of Libya!”
Stuart laughed, but he felt cold inside. “You’re on.”
Hooper gave a bark of joyful laughter and punched Stuart on the shoulder hard enough to sway him sideways. He turned to his seven big men and the tiny Israeli woman. “All right, children, let’s get into the pool.”
The SEALs drilled all morning, with Stuart watching and taking notes. They taped black plastic over their dive masks to simulate total darkness and practiced getting each other out of the pressure suits under the turbid water. Leah had a difficult time at first, as even the smallest pressure envelope was much too big for her. The suits, affectionately known as “body bags,” were not meant to fit tightly, so hers was huge, but the SEALs worked patiently with her. By midmorning, Hooper was satisfied that his team would be free of the encumbrances of the drop itself, and ready to emerge from the pond, less than three minutes after hitting the water.
The SEALs could not drill properly for the crossing of the runway and the apron until they had darkness, and the lights on, to create the pattern of bright light and deep shadows. They spent an hour lizard-walking across the vast open area, moving from one point of presumed shadow to another, to get a rough idea of the timing. Osborne and Miller had been detailed to emerge from the east side of the pond, away from the Operations Building, and set charges around the fighters in the revetments north of runway 11/29 and on the transverse taxiway. They practiced their approach, which would be in almost total darkness, measuring distances, angles, and heights of the revetments. Feeney and Jones had responsibility for disabling the two BTRs they expected to find in front of the Operations Building. They crawled up to and around the high-wheeled vehicles while amused Israeli crewmen either sunbathed or looked on.
The actual assault on the Operations Building would be undertaken by Hooper, Goldstein, Ricardo, and Cross. Ricardo and Cross carried the unit’s two radios. The central tower of the building extended onto the apron like a large bay window, with high, narrow windows on either side of the main doors and on each angled side of the bay. The control tower rose above the flat roof of the building.
Immediately inside the main doors was the only large room in the building, which had been used as a ready room for military flight operations and as a passenger waiting room for personnel flights. It was in this room that Baruni had been shown on television talking to the hostages some eighteen hours earlier.
The doors in the mock-up were solid plywood and couldn’t be opened. Original specifications for the building indicated steel doors strong enough to be easily barricaded, so the entry into the building would be made through the windows, one man each through the bay-side windows and one through the window to the left of the doors. The fourth man, Cross, would climb an iron staircase in the back of the building and reach the control tower at the same moment Hooper, Ricardo, and Goldstein tossed stun grenades over or through the windows
and then crashed through after them, helmets strapped tight and high-impact plastic visors closed over their faces, their CAR-15s held in front of them to deflect the breaking glass.
“Are we sure the windows have just plain window glass, Stuart?” Hooper was scribbling on the margin of the op plan.
“That’s what the original specs called for. No laminate, no wire core.”
“I’m not going to be pleased if we slither all the way to these windows and find nice, strong wire screens.”
“Photo interp claims they could pick out screens, Hoop, but how will you get in if you find screens or reinforced glass?”
“We’d better take some extra C-4 and detonators. I guess we’d have to blow both the front and back doors, but that’s sure to take more time, and let the terrorists have a few bursts at the hostages, and at us.” Hooper flipped a page on his clipboard, to his equipment list, and made a note. “We’re going to be jumping in really heavy.”
Hooper stepped through the window to the left of the door and paced the distance to the door at the back of the big hall. He made several more notes on the op plan, then stepped back into the sun, shaking his head.
“You look worried, Hoop,” said Stuart as he removed his jacket and tossed it into the pickup truck. The day had grown warm very quickly once the sun popped up over the haze.
“This is going to be a bit close, my civilian friend,” said Hooper as they walked around the mock-up with the three other men of the penetration team. “We really need four more guys; two to cover the back with Cross and two to cover our tails as we go in.”
“I know, but we don’t have them,” said Stuart. “Hopefully, Feeney and Jones can set their charges in the BTRs, and at least one can help Cross.”
“‘Hopefully’ was not one of Clausewitz’s favorite words when he wrote about the importance of military planning,” observed Hooper, measuring the height of the windowsill. It was about thirty inches above the tarmac.
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