Ychengko understood. The KGB wanted a hostile America to strengthen its hand in Moscow against the liberal faction. Ychengko wondered if the General Secretary’s health had worsened again, but was afraid to ask. “How does that affect our plans for Comrade Suslov, Comrade Chairman?”
“Well, he will just have to see that Americans are killed when the hostages are taken, although the Army will probably try to make the Abu Salaam fighters look responsible for any casualties. His only real opportunity lies if the Americans mount an assault on the base while his unit is in control of the hostages, and before my brave Comrade Doryatkin can hand them over to the Americans. It is nothing we can control, Ychengko, but he must be ready, and he must strike when the opportunity presents itself!”
“Are the Americans ready to strike, Comrade Chairman?”
“There is no evidence of it in Europe, but their fleet is way over normal strength. They cannot wait much longer now that that fool terrorist has started shooting women.”
“I will telephone the air base, Comrade Chairman. Perhaps I can remind Suslov of the importance of his mission.”
“Good, Ychengko, but be careful. By now the Spetznaz unit will be getting into position to grab the Americans.”
“When are they going to try it?”
“Marshal Tikunin has told Koslov to have them ready to attack at dawn today. Tomorrow, your time.”
Ychengko looked at his watch. Tomorrow was thirty-five minutes away. “I will try to reach Suslov, Comrade Chairman.”
“Good, Ychengko. A lot is riding on this.” There was a cold menace in Nevsky’s tone.
Ychengko put the phone down, then picked up the local scrambler phone and began dialing the number for the Soviet duty officer at Uqba ben Nafi.
Over the North Atlantic, 2220 GMT
Lieutenant Jason Brown, USN, shifted in the uncomfortable seat and reviewed the problem once again. He had been asleep earlier, but in the last several minutes the steady drone of the engines had been replaced by many changes in thrust, and therefore in level and pitch of sound, and he had awakened. Brown surmised the sound changes were the result of maneuvering the giant aircraft into station on the tanker, and of holding position. A few minutes later the word was passed from man to man that they were indeed refueling.
Brown was sitting in a row of red-webbing folding benches on the centerline of the C-141. There were four rows of benches - one on each side of the aircraft facing inboard, and the two rows back-to-back in the center, facing outboard. Brown and three of his unit’s radiotelephone operators were seated near the forward end of the row, which meant that they would go toward the end of the jump. Gunnery Sergeant Billy Bright, USMC, and the other two RTOs sat right behind Brown in the other centerline row, so the whole team should leave the aircraft at approximately the same time.
Brown had been puzzled at the arrangement, because he would have thought the Army would have split his team into two sections, on separate aircraft, in case something went wrong. Just after takeoff from Pope, he had made his way aft to Lieutenant Colonel Bowie, who was aft of the ANGLICO in the same row, and asked about it.
“Lieutenant, airborne operations are by nature high-risk, and normally we do try to balance loads so that the loss of any one aircraft would not be catastrophic,” answered Colonel Bowie. “The XO is on the other bird, with about half the signals people. But the nature of this operation is such that we just can’t provide properly for losses, at least not until we get on the ground and get formed up.”
“You’re saying, in effect, Colonel, that we can’t lose this aircraft.”
“Basically, yes. In addition to your good people, half the Sheridan crews are on this bird, half with the XO. The tank crews will jump with the first elements, even though the Sheridans themselves won’t come until the drop, some ten minutes after we and the troops on the second bird un-ass.”
“Why is that, Colonel, if you don’t mind so many questions?”
“Not at all! I want you to learn as much airborne as possible. Shit, Lieutenant, if this goes the way it usually does in drills, you may end up in command!” The colonel smiled at the thought, but Brown missed the humor.
“Surely it can’t get that fucked up, sir?”
“Oh, it truly can, Lieutenant. You see, the infantry must immediately secure the area around the building where the hostages are, and prevent the Libyans from crashing in. If the infantry fails to do that, the mission fails. The Airborne Armor cowboys have to drop at the head of the stick, because they’ll have to form up into crews and disperse along the runway to be ready to unpack the Sheridans and get them moving as quickly as possible. By that time, we may expect to be under heavy fire, but those Sheridans will have to reach predetermined choke points to fight the enemy’s tanks. One Libyan tank breaks through to the hostages, and once again, we fail.”
“What happens if it works to there?”
“We’ll have to knock out all enemy vehicles and all enemy concentrations near us. You, and the naval air and gunnery operating under its own control, will have to kill off tanks and vehicles farther away, or at least make them keep their heads down, because unless and until you do, the marines will not be able to get in to extract the hostages by helicopter. A helicopter landing or taking off is a mighty big target for a tank, or even a heavy machine gun. Some lucky Libyan pots a helicopter full of hostages fifty feet off the ground, and once again, we go home covered with shit and not with glory.”
The colonel seemed amused by his litany of potential disasters. Brown shook his head. “Not much margin for error, sir.”
“Very little. The people who planned this had to assume the Libyans would be taken by surprise, and wouldn’t fight effectively once they woke up, and they had to assume that Supporting Arms from the fleet - we’re back to you, Lieutenant - will be able to do away with the vast majority of the enemy’s vehicles before they get anywhere near us.”
“The ships will shell the tanks on the beach and the ones lined up south of the big runway just before we land,” said Brown.
“Right, and then they’ll have to lift fire so we can land. Navy and marine corps bombers armed with smart munitions will come in with us, and very shortly thereafter, helicopter gunships. Gunfire won’t be able to come back in until all of our people have gotten off the runway and secured our position, but we’ll have plenty of airborne firepower. If we can deal with the threat that’s closest to us, we’ll be all right.”
“Doesn’t the enemy have surface-to-air missiles, and fighter aircraft on the base?”
“The Navy has assured us that they’ll be taken care of,” said Colonel Bowie, still smiling.
Washington, 19 February, 0200 GMT (18 February, 2100 Local)
Admiral Daniels put the handset down and turned to the tall, broad-shouldered man seated in the shadows in the back of the White House basement situation room. “Mr. President, the paratroopers’ aircraft are over the Med. They were all successfully refueled.”
“Good, Arch.”
“I recommend we shift command and control of the operation to Sixth Fleet, sir.”
“We could get it back?”
“Of course, sir, at any stage. But the timing is tricky, and it will be better if Admiral Bergeron and his staff can get the feel of coordinating all the elements.”
“OK, Arch. Give them the ball.”
“Yes, Mr. President.” Admiral Daniels turned to his radioman, who immediately fed the tape with the coded command into the teletype transmitter in front of him and pressed the high-speed transmission key. The signal, double-encrypted, was transmitted from the radio tower on the White House roof to a satellite in geosynchronous orbit over the Atlantic, and relayed instantaneously to the America, where it was unscrambled and decoded. The Communications Chief of the Watch took the short message into Flag Plot and handed it to Admiral Bergeron. The admiral read the message and handed it to his Chief of Staff. “Gentlemen,” said Admiral Bergeron to his assembled staff officers, “i
n all but name, we are now at war.”
The Chief of Staff held the tape up to a red night light and read it:
0219-0211Z TOP SECRET LIMDIS OSCAR/FIRE ARROW FLASH FM: MILESTONE TO: TOP HAT PROCEED FIRE ARROW UNODIR EXECUTE ENDS
United States Air Force Base, Torrejon, Spain, 0210 GMT
The black, blue, and green camouflage-painted B-52 bomber began its takeoff roll along the 13,000-foot main runway. The aircraft was light, with no weapons package aboard, and it used just over half the runway to get airborne. It circled, gaining altitude over the sea before heading nearly due south, crossing the coast of Morocco and flying deep into central Africa. The copilot logged the time of crossing the coast; it was the first of many sovereign airspaces the plane would violate. The top secret flight plan called for the bomber to pass from Moroccan to Algerian airspace deep in the Sahara, proceed east across Niger and finally north, crossing over Libyan territory near the disputed oasis town of Bi’r al War, and then to orbit over the desolate sandy desert of Sabra Marzug. When the final go command was received from the fleet, the aircraft would fly north to make the drop at Uqba ben Nafi and return to Spain flying over the Med. The Spanish government had been informed that the aircraft was on a routine training mission and that it carried no weapons. The Libyans would be looking for trouble to come from the north, it was reasoned, although no one believed the Libyan radars could acquire the bomber flying above 40,000 feet, especially since the aircraft would be using her electronic masking equipment.
The SEAL team sat in jump seats in a small compartment just aft of the flight deck. The compartment was pressurized, so they did not yet need their oxygen masks, but it was kept cold so they would not overheat in the thick “poopy-suit” immersion suits. Before making the drop, they would have to help each other into tanks, close the body bags, and belt on ammo and weapons packages and, finally, parachutes and the small chest-pack oxygen tanks. For now, they sat talking quietly, sometimes looking at the plan of the apron and the Operations Building of Uqba ben Nafi, which was covered with many different-colored lines.
There was a secure voice radio in the little compartment, and Stuart called Top Hat and then Thunder to check the frequency and the reception. Before the aircraft turned toward Libya, they would go radio-silent, communicating only by “breaking squelch” in agreed codes. Each time an operator pressed the talk key, the background hiss would be momentarily interrupted. It would be virtually impossible for anyone trying to locate the aircraft to home on a break squelch signal.
Stuart sat down next to Hooper. “Well, Hoop, we have a go from the President.”
“Yeah. Like the old days.” Hooper’s fingers drummed on his carbine in a nervous rhythm.
“The very old days, Hoop.”
“You know what I’m afraid of, old buddy? That they drop us in the soup, and then the President gets cold feet about the whole thing and calls the main operation off.”
Stuart nodded. “It’s happened to us before.”
“Jesus, don’t I remember! Operation Bear Trap, in 1968.”
Stuart remembered. He and Hooper, in separate Pathfinder units, had crossed the Ben Hai River from South Vietnam into the North, to scout enemy positions immediately in advance of a multi-battalion attack, partially from below the DMZ and partially by amphibious assault south of the North Vietnamese port of Dong Hoi. After the Pathfinders had crossed the river, forbidden to communicate by radio, President Johnson had decided that an invasion of North Vietnam was politically unacceptable, and the main assault was canceled. Very few of the Pathfinders had returned.
“I don’t think that will happen this time, Hoop,” said Stuart softly.
Hooper shifted in the jump seat. For the first time since he had joined Stuart in the Negev, Hooper was genuinely worried. “William, you were in on the planning of this whole thing. Do you think it can work?”
Stuart realized he really had no idea, but he felt he had to sound reassuring. It surprised him that Hooper would voice doubts in front of his team at this late hour. “We’ll need to get most of the breaks, but yes, I think we’ll accomplish the mission.”
“Hm,” said Hooper. Stuart couldn’t see his expression in the dim red light.
“Hoop, what I worry about is not so much getting the hostages; I really think we’ll blow by the terrorists,” said Stuart quietly. “I worry about the paratroops and marines.
Once the shooting starts, they’ll be much more exposed than us.”
“Yeah. William, no matter how fucked up the Libyans are, there are going to be serious casualties. And then there could be pictures on Libyan television of American soldiers and marines held in a Libyan prison.”
“You can’t possibly leave anyone behind,” interrupted Leah with some heat, “not even the dead!”
Hooper looked at her and at the other members of his team, all of whom were listening intently to the conversation. “Captain, of course, we wouldn’t leave anyone we could find, but do you have any idea how many people will be running around on that airstrip? Some will just flat get lost! Christ, in a normal paratroop practice jump, a fifth of the jumpers usually land outside the primary drop zone!”
Leah frowned. “At Entebbe-”
“Entebbe was a brilliant operation, Leah, but your people didn’t jump in,” said Stuart softly. “The aircraft landed. There was no significant Ugandan military support for the terrorists.”
“And it’s those goddamned Libyan tanks that make it impossible for the assault aircraft to land, then let the troops walk off the aircraft in nice organized bunches, with all their equipment intact,” said Hooper. “Look, I’m not saying this to worry you. I just want all of you to remember that this is a very difficult operation, and that the plans could change many times before we’re safely at sea with the Navy. All our training has been focused on getting into that air base and that building. Think contingencies for getting out.”
Hooper fell silent, and the others gradually began to talk again, and to look at the base plan again. Stuart leaned close to Hooper and whispered, “Is this just to keep them alert?”
“I tell my people everything.”
“OK, but are you really worried?”
“You bet your ass. Remember how we all felt before Bear Trap? We knew that Johnson would never let us invade the North; we knew the operation would be canceled. We couldn’t believe it when they dumped us in the DMZ and told us to start walking north!”
Stuart remembered. His unit had been ambushed twice, and when he had broken radio silence to call for medevac, there had been no response. The invasion had already been denied. “We have a different president, Hoop, with different ideas of what’s politically possible.”
Hooper slapped Stuart on the knee. “As brother Napoleon said, ‘Always have two plans; leave something to chance.’“
The intercom phone buzzed and lit up. Hooper reached over and picked it up, grunted acknowledgment, and put it back. “AC has a coded signal from the fleet. Everything is still go.”
Washington, 0245 GMT (2145 Local)
The large-screen computer display in the front of the White House situation room showed an outline of Western Europe, the Mediterranean, and Africa north of the equator. Different-colored arrowheads showed the position and direction of the various units; the Sixth Fleet thirty miles off the Libyan coast, the air force transports carrying the Airborne passing south of Sardinia en route to their orbit area east of the fleet, and the B-52 carrying the SEALs flying slowly east across southern Algeria. A light point in central England began to glow and pulse.
“What’s that?” asked the President, pointing.
“That means the Air Force is about to launch the F-111s, Mr. President,” answered Admiral Daniels.
“Shit!”
Heads turned toward the source of the expletive outburst, loud in the quiet room. “Mr. President, Admiral, we have a problem,” said the Secretary of State, rising from his console and walking hurriedly across the room.
&nb
sp; “What is it, Henry?” said the President.
“That was the French Ambassador. The French government has denied us permission to overfly France.”
“Jesus!” said the President. “How in the hell can they do that?”
“Their position is that since there is no evidence of official Libyan involvement, Libya should not be attacked. Apparently the Libyan Ambassador has convinced them that Colonel Baruni is doing everything he can to gain control of the hostages.”
“But surely they understand we’re only attacking in order to free our hostages!”
“They do, Mr. President, and they wish us well, but they do not wish to be associated with bombing raids on two Libyan air bases far from Uqba ben Nafi.”
The President looked a question at Admiral Daniels. The Chief of Naval Operations nodded. “That’s the One-Elevens’ mission, Mr. President.”
“Do we need to attack those bases? Really need to?” asked the President.
“If we don’t, sir, the Libyans will be able to launch massive air attacks on our fleet, and maybe penetrate the Combat Air Patrol and disrupt the assault and extraction itself.” Admiral Daniels tapped his computer console, and a new display came up, showing the Libyan air bases at Benghazi and Tobruk, with symbols denoting aircraft on the ground. “Our best intelligence is that both these bases have more fighter and attack aircraft on the ground than usual; we presume they have been redeployed from Uqba ben Nafi.”
“So what can we do? Fly our F-111s around, through the Straits of Gibraltar?” There was an edge of sarcasm in the President’s voice.
“That is, in fact, what the French suggest,” said the Secretary of State softly.
“That isn’t possible!” the President thundered, pounding his console. “Is it?”
General Vaughn broke away from his air force staff officers, all of whom were shaking their heads, and walked to the President’s table. “Theoretically, it is, Mr. President. We would have to refuel them twice en route. The problem is we simply do not have nearly enough time, even if we had such an operation already planned, which we don’t.”
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