Fire Arrow

by Franklin Allen Leib

  She shook her head. “Why bother, you bastards are going to shoot me in the back, anyway.” She said it quickly, and the young one looked confused.

  “Not understand.”

  “No, goddamn you! Just get on with it!” She knew she was going to cry. The tall one let go of her arm and gave her a shove toward the open door. She walked out into the cool evening, then turned quickly and looked back. Walid stiffened, watching her fight against the tears that glistened on her cheeks in the harsh lights of the apron. So brave, so beautiful. He closed his eyes briefly and thought again of his sister. Again the bile rose in his throat. He opened his eyes and squeezed the trigger of his AKS. The weapon bucked in his hands, and the girl spun around and fell face down. Walid heard a gasp of anger and anguish from behind him as he stepped out onto the tarmac and made sure the girl was dead.

  Tzafon may Eilat, 1730 GMT (1930 Local)

  “Aren’t you excited?” Leah clung to Stuart on the tangled sheets of his cot, fragrant with the scent of their lovemaking. She stroked the wet skin of his chest gently as she nipped his ear and kissed him. Stuart touched the soft damp curls on the nape of her neck, feeling passion for the woman he could not understand.

  “Right now, I’m exhausted. But, Leah-”

  “I mean about making the jump, tonight!”

  Jesus, thought William, I’d put that out of my mind for a long moment. “Yes, I am.” He frowned. I’m worried about her. I have plenty to worry about of my own, and Leah would think my protective feelings toward her absurd. “Maybe a little . . . nervous, but sure, excited.” Stuart wondered if the word “nervous,” used in like context, meant the same to Israeli soldiers as it did to Americans - scared shitless.

  “Well, I think we’ll be great.” Leah stretched, and once again, William was reminded of a cat. “I can’t wait to see those assholes’ faces the moment before we send them straight to paradise.”

  William looked at her and forced himself to smile. “Bloodthirsty, aren’t we?”

  “Damn right.”

  “I, ah, was a little put off by your breezy ‘if I get killed’ speech of this afternoon, my sweet.”

  “Don’t worry! We are well trained, we will have surprise, I just know it! We will get in, and we will get your people out.”

  “What about the Libyans?”

  “They won’t fight.”

  I hope you’re right, he thought. She rolled on top of him, probing his ear with her tongue. His penis was stirring even before she found it with her hand.

  “What time do we muster for the flight?” he said around her kisses.

  “Twenty-thirty. Lots of time,” she said, pressing her breasts onto his chest.

  “You all packed?” he said, rolling onto his side and pushing himself away slightly.

  She looked at him quizzically. “What’s to pack? Your friend Hooper says everything I need will be waiting at Torrejon, even a special small-size body bag.” She rolled beneath him and guided him into her. “Now stop talking and make me yours for a little time.”

  This is a little like Christmas, thought William as he moved inside her, watching her face. We wait anxiously for it to come, but then we’re sad because it is so soon gone.

  Moscow, 1800 GMT (2100 Local)

  Doryatkin rode with Marshal Tikunin in the back of Tikunin’s black Zil limousine. The glass separating the passenger compartment from the driver and guard in the front was closed. Nevertheless, the two ministers spoke with circumspection. “It is kind of you to give me a ride, Grigori Vladimirovich,” said Doryatkin softly.

  “Not at all,” responded the Defense Minister. “Though I was surprised we have been called together . . . so soon.”

  “There have been developments.”

  Tikunin grunted. “Developments” these days meant changes in the precarious health of the General Secretary. “Will he be at the meeting?”

  “He is at his dacha, with his favorite Jewish quack.” Doctor Shamsky treated the General Secretary’s emphysema with methods the doctors who normally treated very senior party officials found decidedly odd.

  “It is worse, then.”

  “Yes.”

  The two ministers rode in silence for a while. Both were thinking about the power struggle that had already begun as to who would be the next General Secretary. The Politburo was badly divided. The younger men, for the most part, wanted a harder line against dissent at home, and a much harder line against the West. The leader of this faction was Nevsky, chairman of the KGB. Nevsky’s group did not command a majority of the Politburo, but it was the strongest single faction. Doryatkin had gradually come to be regarded as the leader of a moderate, even progressive by Soviet standards, group of mostly older members, although Doryatkin himself at fifty-two was a year younger than Nevsky. Doryatkin believed that the most urgent problems of the Soviet Union were the modernization of means of production and the elimination of the stifling effect of official waste and corruption, which paralyzed the economy. To effect such sweeping changes, he needed technology from the West, and therefore, a relaxation of tensions.

  The balance of power rested with several full members, who mistrusted both what they considered Nevsky’s rashness and Doryatkin’s naiveté. Most of these older men would probably have preferred that the current General Secretary, with his caution and reluctance to experiment either at home or abroad, live forever. This last group did not have a leader, and they did not seem to be individually ambitious, but the most influential among them was clearly the Defense Minister, Marshal of the Soviet Union, Grigori Vladimirovich Tikunin.

  The Foreign Minister turned in his seat. The old marshal looked almost to be asleep. “You have heard, Comrade Marshal, that the terrorists in Libya shot another American?”

  “Yes, I heard. Disgusting! They shot a woman, hardly more than a girl!”

  Doryatkin felt the marshal’s anger and was glad of it. “Surely the Soviet Union should no longer aid Baruni while this crisis continues?”

  “I know what you are thinking, Doryatkin, but we just can’t walk away. If he falls, even over something as fucked up as this, we shall be perceived as weak, especially in the Arab world.”

  “I agree,” said Doryatkin, though he didn’t. He had to proceed with extreme caution with the marshal. “But when the Americans attack, as surely they must, I hope there will not be any direct combat between Soviet and American forces.”

  “There won’t be,” answered the marshal firmly. “The Soviet advisers have done their jobs already. General Koslov has given the black-asses a pretty good defensive plan.”

  “And you have instructed Koslov about the Special Unit?”

  “As we agreed. Colonel Zharkov commands it himself. His mission is to seize the hostages from the terrorists, should we order him to do so.”

  Doryatkin was pleased to hear the marshal describe Abu Salaam’s “freedom fighters” as terrorists. “Do you think we should, Comrade Marshal?”

  “Yes. After all, the Soviet Union does have forces on the ground there, Doryatkin. The world knows that, although we piously deny it. We cannot stand by while those black-asses murder women.”

  Good! thought Doryatkin. Yesterday the old man had insisted the Special Unit be held in reserve. “I agree, of course, Comrade Marshal, but I am worried - what will we say if our rescue effort results in heavy casualties among the hostages?”

  The marshal turned and smiled broadly at the Foreign Minister. “My dear Doryatkin! Our Spetznaz forces are highly competent!”

  Doryatkin couldn’t see the humor. “Of course, Comrade Marshal, but it could happen, surely? A single dropped grenade?”

  Tikunin laughed happily and slapped his thigh. “It is true, then, as some of my oldest friends say, that you are too young to understand the lessons of the founders of our revolution!”

  Doryatkin smiled self-deprecatingly. He still didn’t see the humor.

  The marshal leaned close to the Foreign Minister. “Ilya Antonovich, think of Stalin
, think of Khrushchev! If the rescue gets fucked up, we simply blame the Libyans!” Again the marshal laughed enormously.

  Doryatkin felt chilled. This all could go so very wrong, he thought, watching the old marshal settle back into his seat, still chuckling.

  Washington, 1920 GMT (1420 Local)

  The President sat in a deep wing chair in the White House living quarters. He had just risen from a brief nap, and he waved at the Secretary of Defense to begin.

  The President looks tired, thought the Secretary. He favors simple solutions to problems, but there are no easy answers to this problem. “Mr. President, we have identified the second executed hostage.”

  “Murdered,” said the President, softly.

  “Yes, sir, murdered, of course. She was a navy seaman, Barbara B. Cummins, from Zanesville, Ohio.”

  The President rubbed his eyes. “Jesus, Dave! How could they just go and shoot a young woman like that?”

  Wasserstein sat on the edge of a chair opposite the President. “I don’t know, sir, I just don’t.”

  “Any progress on the diplomatic front, Dave?”

  “Henry is in hourly contact with our allies. The Italians claim they were talking to Baruni just before the girl was shot. Henry says they are very embarrassed at having let Abu Salaam go.”

  “Embarrassed? Embarrassed! Christ, Dave!”

  “Sir?”

  “Go on, Dave.”

  “Well, the Kuwaitis insist they will not release the terrorists who attacked our embassy and remind us that we have always supported them in that position. The issue as they see it is the very control of the Emirate in the face of a restive Shiite majority.”

  The President nodded. “We have told them that very thing.”

  “Henry is also talking to the Russians, but they seem preoccupied with their own problems.”

  “What?”

  “The rumors persist, sir, that the General Secretary is gravely ill.”

  “Yes, I know. So no progress. Where are those paratroopers?”

  Wasserstein looked at his watch. “They departed from Pope Air Force Base just over two hours ago. They should hit their refueling stations in four more hours.”

  “They’ll be able to get in there at dawn tomorrow, then, Dave?”

  The Secretary stood up. “Yes, sir.”

  “Sure, Dave?” For the first time, the President looked straight into his eyes.

  “Yes, Mr. President. We still need, of course, your final approval to refuel and proceed into the Med.”

  “You have it, Dave, as of now.”

  “And to launch the operation itself, of course.”

  “Let’s keep updating, Dave. Come back at four o’clock; bring Henry, Admiral Daniels, and General Elmendorf. I want to think this through.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.” The Secretary of Defense picked up his papers and stood. As he strode across the room, he heard the President’s voice, choked with rage, or grief.

  “Sweet Jesus, they shot a twenty-year-old girl!”

  David turned and saw the President, still seated, with his head in his hands. The Secretary left the room.

  USS Inchon, 2030 GMT (2130 Local)

  “Colonel Brimmer?” the third-class radioman turned from his console. “I have the Flag for you, Colonel; green handset.”

  Brimmer stubbed out his cigarette as he sat down. Loonfeather brought two cups of coffee and sat beside him. Brimmer picked up the green handset and pressed the flashing light. He could hear the hiss-click of the scramblers matching; when the line cleared, he said “Colonel Brimmer.”

  “It’s Admiral Wilson, Colonel. How are things on your end?”

  “Coming together nicely, Admiral. The marines have all been briefed, and the assault units have been divided between Inchon and Saipan, along with their assigned helicopters. Colonel Loonfeather and I are settled in here; the commodore has graciously given us the whole of his Flag Plot to run the landing and extraction.”

  “Where are Loonfeather’s soldiers?”

  “They got off from Bragg at 1700 zulu, sir, just three and a half hours ago. They should reach their refueling rendezvous 200 miles west of Lisbon in less than ninety minutes.”

  “The tankers all set up?”

  “Yes, Admiral. Five KC-1Os from Keflavik on their way to the rendezvous in plenty of time.”

  “Well, it sounds good. I still wish we had all the command elements of this operation in one big room, Colonel.”

  “I agree, Admiral, but we don’t have any rooms that big.”

  “Yeah, I know we had to do it this way, but shit! We have overall command here on America, and the tactical attack aircraft, but that got so big we had to give the Combat Air Patrol to Admiral Bellmon on Nimitz. Naval gunfire assignment is on New Jersey, and the ground assault is with General Morton here, and with you and Colonel Loonfeather. It’s too spread out.”

  Colonel Brimmer shrugged and looked at Loonfeather, who was sitting at the adjacent console, who shrugged back. Brimmer keyed the handset. “Well, Admiral, as long as the commo plan holds up, the troops in the field will be able to talk to any embarked command or supply element they need, and all others will be able to monitor.”

  “OK, Bob, I know. I’m just blowing off steam. I guess I’m getting edgy.”

  “We all are, sir, but we’ll get it done.”

  “Of course. How are you going to coordinate with the SEALs, now that Commander Stuart has become a rifleman?”

  Brimmer and Loonfeather grinned at each other. They had taken great delight at Stuart’s earlier protestations that he didn’t really want to make the jump. “I’ll take them, personally, Admiral,” said Brimmer. “Stuart and I ran down the entire coded sequence - which is very simple anyway - and we’ll talk again when the SEALs reach Torrejon to link up with the B-52.”

  “When will that be?”

  “The SEALs should land before 2300 zulu. The bomber is already there.”

  “Good, OK. Anything for me?”

  “Admiral, Lieutenant Colonel Loonfeather, sir,” Loonfeather broke in. “Any new word from Tripoli, or from Washington?”

  “Not in the last hour. We have a go from JCS for the Airborne to refuel and to enter the Med. JCS expects to have a full go for us shortly after that.”

  “OK,” said Loonfeather.

  “Apparently the President is really torn up about the woman they shot.”

  “I guess. Well, I hope we get there before they shoot any more.”

  “That the only thing you’re worried about, Colonel?”

  “Just about, Admiral, just about.”

  “Everybody stay on this net. Top Hat out.”

  “Aye, aye, sir. Thunder, out,” said Brimmer, putting down the handset.

  Over the central Mediterranean, 2100 GMT

  Stuart sat next to the window and listened to the pitch of the engine noise change as the aircraft reached cruising altitude. The air force C-140 Jetstar had picked the SEALs up from the Israeli desert base half an hour ago, exactly on schedule. Leah was curled up in the aisle seat next to him, sleeping soundly. The rest of the SEALs were bunched in seats in the front of the aircraft. Hooper had been in the cockpit since takeoff, talking on the secure radio.

  Stuart looked out the window into the rainy blackness. The SEALs had been boisterous as they gathered their gear and waited for the plane, and then Hooper had come out of the communications shack and announced that another hostage had been killed. Everyone on the team asked angry questions; Hooper had few answers. Stuart noticed that while Leah had shown anger at the terrorists and sympathy for the Americans in their shared loss, she showed no surprise and no particular outrage that the latest victim was a woman. The woman had been military, and as such, a more legitimate target than a civilian male, she said in a sharp, whispered response to Stuart’s question as they boarded the aircraft. The people we go to kill, she added, do not play boys’ games.

  Stuart looked at Leah, as peaceful in sleep as a child. How quickl
y we Americans must grow up, he thought bitterly. These peoples, Arabs and Israelis, are more like each other than either is like us. Our codes of chivalry and just war, rooted in our northern European roots, are as alien to them as they would be to any other Asiatic people.

  And maybe as absurd. Boys’ games.

  Stuart closed his eyes and slept.

  Moscow, 2200 GMT (0100 Local)

  The chairman of the KGB waited impatiently as the phone rang in the Soviet Embassy in Tripoli. When the duty officer answered, Nevsky barked at him, demanding that Colonel Ychengko be brought to the phone. By the time Nevsky had waited fifteen minutes, he was fully enraged.

  “Yes, Comrade Chairman?” said the sleepy voice Nevsky recognized as Ychengko’s.

  “Ychengko, have you been able to get your man into the Spetznaz unit Koslov has set up on that air base?”

  Ychengko reacted to the angry tone of the chairman’s voice and shook himself fully awake. He had shared a bottle of vodka with Petrovna after dinner and fallen fast asleep an hour ago with his head in her lap. “Yes, Comrade Chairman. Captain Suslov commands one of the tanks.”

  Nevsky relaxed a bit. “Good. He has his orders to ensure that any action by that unit results in direct conflict with Americans? Casualties, if possible?”

  “Yes, Comrade, I told him myself.”

  “Does he understand his orders, Ychengko?”

  “Well, Comrade, he will carry them out. I am not sure that I myself understand why this must be done.”

  “Ychengko, even though this is a secure line, I cannot go into detail, but I will tell you that that Spetznaz unit has been ordered to wrest control of those hostages from those absurd Abu Salaam fighters. They may get away with it, and if so, our liberal colleagues in the Foreign Ministry propose handing the hostages over to the Americans as a gesture of our political responsibility and trustworthiness.” Nevsky spat out the last three words.