“Oh, please!” Leah keened softly.
Stuart speeded his rhythm, his breath coming in gasps. Suddenly he felt her muscles contract on him, then release. She bit his shoulder to stifle a scream, and hugged him, and he felt his orgasm surge from him in multiple waves. Gradually their movements subsided together. Stuart kissed Leah lightly, then buried his face in the pillow beside hers. They listened to each other’s harsh breathing, then rolled facing each other, soaked with each other’s sweat.
Leah smiled at him impishly. “Gee, William, I thought you would never ask.”
Stuart grinned sheepishly. “Gee, Leah, it just didn’t seem-”
“I know, you are just shy. Your friend Hooper told me that.”
“When did he say that?”
“Right after he asked me to sleep with him. Within hours of his surly arrival.” Stuart felt a pang of jealousy.
“I told him I fancied you instead. He promised to tell you, but told me I would be disappointed. I wasn’t, by the way, once you finally woke up.”
Stuart smiled, kissed her nose, then her mouth, deeply. Hooper, of course, had told him nothing. “Well, I am relieved to hear that. I may even improve with practice.”
Leah pulled the damp sheet up around her shoulders and nestled against him. “I hope we have time, William. And I hope the SEALs have time; they need practice more than you do.”
“It’s getting better. Another day, maybe two, we’ll be ready.”
“But it is still very rough, especially the entry and assault on the Ops Building. This is a very tricky operation, even if the Libyans are as sleepy as we hope.”
“You sound as though you would like to go along.”
Leah raised herself on one elbow and looked at him. “I’d love to! Wouldn’t you?”
Stuart thought about that. Yes, and no. The operation was difficult and exciting, but it had been too many years. Time had slowed his reflexes, and easy living had curbed his desire to take insane risks. Still. . . .
“I know you would,” said Leah, probing his ear with her hot tongue. “We would be great together.”
“Let’s just stay right here and be great together.” Stuart felt her fingers lightly stroking his chest and stomach. When she reached his groin, his penis had stretched forth to meet her hand.
USS America, thirty-one miles northeast of Tripoli, 18 February, 0815 GMT (0915 Local)
The admiral’s briefing had been under way for an hour when Lieutenant Colonel Loonfeather landed by navy helicopter. He was guided to the wardroom by a “yellow shirt,” one of the sailors who directed aircraft on the flight deck. He sat in the back of the room and opened his briefcase. The briefing in progress was about rotating the various ships of the huge armada through the oilers and other supply ships for replenishment of fuel and stores and, in the case of the combatant ships, special ordnance that would be used against enemy vehicles and formations. When the supply corps lieutenant commander finished taking questions, the rear admiral who was running the brief rose and declared a ten-minute break for coffee. Loonfeather picked up his briefcase and moved down toward the front of the room, where he found Colonel Brimmer.
Brimmer grinned, shook Loonfeather’s hand warmly, and pointed to a seat next to his own. “Good to see you, Colonel. Sit, and I’ll get us some coffee. Black, as I recall from late nights in London?”
“Yes, sir. Thanks, Bob.” Loonfeather sat.
Brimmer returned with two china mugs of very hot coffee. Loonfeather sipped his and found it good. Brimmer spoke softly, “Rufus, you won’t be asked to brief this morning, although the admiral might ask you to say a few words about the status of your preparations. He wants you and me to get together first, define unit boundaries, signals, et cetera, then get with the N-3 Operations people on his staff to work out supporting arms. We will brief jointly either this afternoon or tomorrow. What is the status of your task force, by the way?”
Loonfeather handed Brimmer a single sheet of paper. It was a Table of Organization for Airborne Task Force 14b - “Task Force Bowie.”
“Who is Bowie?”
“The light colonel who gets to take this lash-up to war, the lucky bastard! I’ll go over the T/O with you later, but to answer your first question, we’re in good shape. All the troops, an infantry company from the Five-Oh-Deuce, and my armor troops from the 3d of the 73rd are assembled at Fort Bragg. The gear, including the eight Sheridans we plan to drop, are positioned at Pope Air Force Base, next door to Bragg. Also at Pope are ten C-141s from the Twentieth and the Seventy-sixth Military Airlift Squadrons, Four-Thirty-Seventh Airlift Wing from Charleston AFB, fueled up and ready. The troops have been over it, have practiced the drop and assault on a mock-up we built at Pope, and are rarin’ to go.”
“How soon will you be moving to Europe?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure which of our gallant allies has volunteered to take us, but we could fly today if we had to.”
“Good. Ah, Captain Adams, he’s the Sixth Fleet N-2, is about to start briefing on the supporting arms plan. I think you’ll find this interesting.”
At 1015, the full admiral’s briefing ended. Brimmer and Loonfeather found a quiet corner of the America’s wardroom lounge and sat. Several other small conferences were occurring in other parts of the room.
Brimmer accepted two cups of coffee from a passing steward as Loonfeather spread plans of Wheelus and recent recon photos in front of them on the small table. Brimmer spoke first. “What did you think of Captain Adams’s rundown of this task force’s firepower?”
“Awesome. I never dreamed the old battleships could throw so much metal,” said Loonfeather, sipping coffee and trying to remember his last full night’s sleep,
“Not to mention the cruisers and destroyers, plus the naval and marine aircraft, Rufus.”
“Yeah. I hope they know how to shoot tanks. I could wish for some Warthogs or an AC-130 gunship.”
“We may get them, if the Italians go along.”
“Yeah, Bob, we will for sure hope, but if a pig could-”
Brimmer interrupted. “Rufus, if we have to, we’ll handle it entirely from assets on these ships. That’s why it’s imperative that I fully understand your requirements and, therefore, what you plan to do.”
Loonfeather grinned. “Good. Let’s run it down. Bob, who do we work for in this operation?”
Colonel Brimmer smiled. “You work for me.”
“OK,” said Loonfeather.
“And I report to Fleet Marine Force, Sixth Fleet. Major General Morton.”
Loonfeather detected the worry in Brimmer’s voice and expanded his grin. “Good guy?”
Brimmer swallowed. “Nail-eating marine, Rufus. His radio call sign is ‘Hammer.’ And I have to tell you, he’s no fan of your participation in this.”
“Colonel Brimmer.” The voice was gravel, slowly stirred.
Brimmer leapt to his feet. “General!”
Loonfeather got to his feet. General Morton was about five feet six inches tall, built like a fireplug. His complexion was red and his eyes were beady-black beneath bushy gray brows. His hair was gray and cut a quarter inch from his skull. “General,” said Loonfeather, standing at rigid attention.
“This is Colonel Loonfeather, General. He’ll control the Airborne.”
General Morton gazed up at the tall Indian without apparent interest. “I hope you’re comfortable here, Colonel.”
“Yes, sir. Colonel Brimmer is taking good care.”
“Just so there’s no misunderstanding, Colonel, I want you to know that I see no use for your paratroopers in this operation.”
“Sir,” said Loonfeather, looking at a point ten inches above the marine general’s head.
“Nor your tanks,” continued General Morton.
“General,” said Loonfeather carefully, “may I offer a comment?”
“By all means,” said General Morton evenly.
“General, my paras can land faster than heliborne marines, and the
y are less vulnerable to ground fire while doing it.”
“Go on, Colonel,” said General Morton.
“The Sheridans are insurance, General. If the Libyans get close, the Sheridans will be worth their weight in gold. If not, I’ll offer the general dinner at Bragg, at a time of his choosing.” Loonfeather smiled his most winning smile.
General Morton allowed a shadow of a smile to tilt the corners of his mouth. “Very well, Colonel. You’ll prove your point, and I’ll acknowledge your necessity. Fair enough?”
“Done, General,” said Loonfeather, stiffening to attention.
General Morton squeezed Colonel Brimmer’s shoulder. Morton was unable to suppress a grin. “Watch this officer, Colonel.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” said Brimmer, trying to control his face.
“And make sure he gets our total support,” said Morton. The general turned and marched out of the wardroom.
Brimmer looked at Loonfeather, who exhaled sharply, then smiled. Brimmer pressed Loonfeather back into his seat. “First, Rufus, let’s discuss equipment. You mentioned earlier you intended to drop eight tanks-”
Loonfeather took a slow, deep breath. Hammer had taken his wind. His grin returned. “Not exactly tanks, Bob. Have you ever seen an M-Five-Five-One Sheridan?”
“No. I’m a verticle envelopment jarhead, man. Light weapons, only what a man can carry.”
“OK. The Sheridan is a hybrid, not tank, not tank destroyer. It has two strengths: It’s fast and it has a humongous 152mm gun. It also has two major weaknesses. It has very light armor; it will likely be damaged by concentrated fire from a .50-caliber machine gun and almost surely knocked out by a 23mm antiaircraft gun firing either armor-piercing or high explosive. A hit from any tank’s main gun and the Sheridan is history.” Loonfeather took another sip of coffee and looked at Brimmer.
“So what’s the second weakness?” asked the marine colonel.
“The gun. It’s so big, it has to have a naval screw-type breechblock. It’s difficult to load and lock, and the rate of fire is not much over three rounds a minute.”
“Doesn’t it have a missile capability?”
“Yeah, but it’s a missile called the Shillelagh, which has to be fired through the gun tube. Huge fucking missile, and very effective; indeed, one of the reasons why the screw-type breechblock is needed. We won’t be carrying any Shillelaghs, however.”
“Why not?”
“Well, look at the photos, Bob. We figure there’s a battalion of tanks there, plus what may be an additional independent company. Forty-plus tanks. The Sheridans are going in only to waste the tanks that get very close to the hostages, and to the Sheridans themselves. Anything far enough away from a Sheridan to require a missile will be delegated to supporting arms, whether that means air, naval gunfire, helicopters, or all three.”
“So what will the Sheridans be carrying?”
“Some Cannister anti-personnel rounds, but mostly HEAT rounds. High explosive antitank.”
“I know. We even have those.”
Loonfeather grinned. The Marine Corps always complained with pride that they got new equipment long after the Army, but HEAT rounds had been in both inventories since the 1960s. “The infantry company will be carrying extra Dragon antitank missiles, and a whole extra antitank section.”
Brimmer was scribbling notes on a yellow pad. “What kind of vehicles does the enemy have?”
“The tanks in the photos are Russian T-72s. Good tank, 125mm smoothbore main gun, fires a very effective antitank round called a hypervelocity, fin-stabilized, armor-piercing sabot, also HEAT and HE rounds. Two machine guns, layered armor, good rate of fire with its automatic loader. An all-round excellent medium tank. The Libyans also have a variety of armored personnel carriers, including a dozen or so BMP-76s, which can fire SAGGER antitank missiles. Again, if we’re working in close, the SAGGERS won’t be of much use, since they need to fly about 800 meters before their guidance system picks the missile up. Vehicles or individual soldiers - the SAGGER can be carried in a man pack - firing SAGGERS at us will have to be dealt with by supporting arms.”
Brimmer filled a page with notes and readied another. “So tell me how eight of these slow-firing, light-armored Sheridans will deal with forty tanks.”
Loonfeather grinned. “That’s the beauty of this operation, Bob! We don’t, because we’ll be landing inside of them. Most of the enemy tanks and APCs will be guarding the very long perimeter of the base, a long way from us, and, therefore, easy prey for naval gunfire and air-launched missiles. Look again at the photo. Our biggest problem will be these two platoons of tanks on the beach just on the western edge of the north end of runway 03/21. Six tanks. Our plan is to chew them up piecemeal as they come in. Believe me, Bob, as slow as that 152 mike-mike gun is, it do hit ‘em to leave ‘em!”
Brimmer looked at the date-time group on the photo. “This picture is eight hours old.”
“Yeah, there’s weather; low clouds and wind. Rough ride in here. We’ll have clearer pictures tomorrow morning.”
Brimmer set the photos down. “Tell me again, how you get this force into Wheelus.”
“Uqba ben Nafi,” grinned Loonfeather.
“Precisely, Colonel.”
“We’d better get some more coffee, first. Are we bunking here on the America?”
“I’m over on Inchon, the helicopter carrier, with my battalion landing team. I can get you put up here, with the main staff, or with me.”
“I better go with you. When this thing goes down, you and I should be in the same room.”
Uqba ben Nafi, 0900 MGMT (1000 Local)
Colonel N. I. Zharkov stood on the crest of a low sand hill overlooking the huge air base from the south. He had been driven slowly around the perimeter, stopping several times to look at features that would have a bearing on how he planned to defend the air base. Every time he stopped, he left the Military Advisory Group car, telling the driver to remain with the vehicle. Colonel Zharkov liked to talk to himself while he thought things through, and he didn’t want to be overheard. The KGB tried very hard to recruit army drivers, for what they might overhear their officer-passengers discuss.
General Koslov had explained the rest of Moscow’s instructions during their walk on the previous evening. He was to supervise the organization of an effective defense for the base and put Military Advisory Group officers into key command positions to “advise” the Libyans. He had also established a small maneuver force, under his personal command, which could act independently of the Libyan command. If Moscow’s demands on Colonel Baruni to take control of the American hostages and end the crisis were not met, Zharkov might be ordered to seize the hostages from the terrorists. Zharkov knew without being told that the KGB had a major stake not only in Baruni but in the Abu Salaam faction, and that he must keep the mission of the special unit, if not its existence, secret from the KGB for as long as possible. That meant he had to do all the planning himself, since he didn’t know the identity of the Third Directorate spy in his Spetznaz company, though he suspected the zampolit, Captain Suslov.
Zharkov had a plan of the air base on his clipboard. He had marked the positions of Libyan tanks and armored cars, as well as the SA-3 antiaircraft missile batteries and the S-60 57mm antiaircraft guns as he made his tour around the perimeter. He now looked at his marked-up plan and shook his head. Tanks and infantry in BTRs were deployed around the entire base and on the beach facing the sea. Security in the immediate area of the Operations Building was established around two BTRs in front of the building and another in the rear. The antiaircraft guns were placed near the ends of the two runways, and the four quad launchers for the SA-3 missiles were deployed in two clusters near the intersection of the two runways. SA-3 launchers were not mobile; they could be put on trucks and moved, but not quickly. Zharkov would have bet they had not been moved in months, and he was sure that American photoreconnaissance data on their positions, as well as positions of most of the tanks, were alread
y in the fire-control computers of the navy ships he knew were waiting just beyond the horizon.
Zharkov frowned. “I don’t expect much from these black-asses, but there are Russian officers assigned to these units,” he said to himself. The defensive layout seemed designed to repel a perimeter assault by light forces from the desert, or perhaps beat back an unsupported landing on the beach. “The Americans will blast the shit out of the vehicles on the beach before sending a single boat!” said Zharkov. He looked across the base with his binoculars. Except the Americans won’t be sending any boats, he thought. The beach along the entire north side of the base sloped steeply upward to a height of between ten and twelve meters. It would be too slow to come across that beach, and the soft sand would trap the vehicles. “The enemy will come in helicopters, clouds of them, following bombers and naval gunfire. And he will not be trying to take the whole base, just the center, where the hostages are. The only safe place to be will be right next to the hostages; any units on the perimeter will be destroyed.” Zharkov smiled; it was an interesting problem. He knew where his enemy had to go. Because the enemy had naval artillery and would have complete superiority in the air, Zharkov did not have the wherewithal to prevent a landing, but if he used his tanks well, he could make sure that very few of the enemy soldiers, much less the hostages, ever left Uqba ben Nafi.
“The question is, Kolya,” said Zharkov to himself, “is that what Moscow wants to happen?”
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