I began my advance from the end of the runway with two tank companies, thought Kirov, and a company of motorized infantry. In an advance of 650 meters, I have lost all of the BTRs, and the infantry has to dismount into this fury of fire. I would tell them to withdraw, but where could they go? Most were now taking what protection they could behind the tanks or the knocked-out BTRs, waiting for the battle to end.
And I have lost nine main battle tanks. Four disappeared in the first fifty meters of advance, blown away by a salvo of enormous shells that hit just as the last tanks crawled from their dugout positions and advanced onto the runway. One tank was damaged and another destroyed in the lighter shelling that followed, and three were lost to those damned wire-guided missiles. Kirov felt sadness fusing into anger. He didn’t officially command these men; he didn’t even like them, but they were fighting well against everything the Americans could throw, and Kirov wanted them to win.
Kirov spotted three small, tracked vehicles as they climbed up onto the west end of runway 11/29, behind his lead elements. He recognized them as American Sheridans by their squat shape and their big-bore, stubby gun launchers, and he felt a thrill of fear. He remembered the light tanks he had seen earlier way down the runway toward Asimov. How could the Americans have got Sheridans into the air base? How many were they?
Kirov shouted a warning to the lead elements over the tank net radio, then called his own group and gave them the firing bearing. He doubted the lead tanks would hear over their own excited chatter. He squeezed the grip on his control column and took control of the turret and the gun from the gunner. The range computed at just over 400 meters, point-blank for everyone. The gun had just been fired, so he had to wait precious seconds for the automatic loader to chamber the next round. He watched as the three Sheridans fired together, and cursed as two of his three lead tanks burst into flame. The “Loaded” light in his periscope sight lit up, and he pressed the trigger. The gun bucked and the nearest Sheridan stopped dead, its turret gone. The other two Sheridans immediately reversed and dropped back over the edge of the runway out of sight. “Shit!” shouted Kirov into the microphone. “They have fighting positions off the runway! White Two and Three, turn and go after them! Green Platoon, speed your advance!” White Platoon was Kirov and the two tanks to his left, Green the three tanks on his right.
“Leader, this is White Two. White Two and Three turning to engage.”
“I will follow you. Get off the runway!”
“Green Platoon accelerating, Leader.”
Damn! We had the Americans in the crushing jaws of my tanks, cursed Kirov to himself. Now we will have to deal with the Sheridans first.
Lieutenant Colonel Loonfeather switched from armor to command net. “Thunder, this is Raptor Six. My tanks have engaged; they are my last reserve. Bob, where are my gunships?”
“This is Thunder, Colonel. Four flights of Sea Cobras inbound from five miles out. We had to hold them until the Navy cleared its guns. Two minutes, maybe three.”
“I hope my Sheridans can buy that much time. We’re looking at enemy tanks barely thirty meters from crashing in, Bob.”
“Understood, Rufus. The Snakes are coming.”
Loonfeather pounded the radio with frustration as he switched back to armor net.
Lieutenant John Connelly heard on the armor net that Red Four, Five, and Six had destroyed two of the three Libyans before losing Red Six. They would reload and then pop up and shoot again. “Roger, Four. We’ll get up and take a shot at the second rank now. Red Two, this is Red Leader. Let’s go. I’ll take the nearest.”
“Roger, Leader,” said Sergeant Burnside in Red Two. “Nice of them to be up on the runway for us.”
Connelly switched to intercom. “Huckins, drive us up. Calandra, I’ll fire from my position. You tell Huckins as soon as we’re far enough up for the gun to bare, and then Huckins, you just stop.”
“We’re rolling, Lieutenant,” answered Private Huckins, putting the Sheridan in gear.
Spec 4 Calandra looked through the periscope sight in his gunner’s position. “Roger, sir.”
As the Sheridan advanced up the gentle incline to the edge of the runway, Connelly pressed the palm switch on his control handle to gain control from Calandra, then pushed the handle forward to depress the gun to its maximum of eight degrees below horizontal. As soon as they were up enough to see targets through the sights, they would stop and fire. It had to be a first-shot kill, thought Connelly, and then scoot back down out of sight while Morrow, the loader, reloaded the gun.
“That’s enough, Huckins!” said Calandra. Connelly saw three tanks heading for the corner of the runway where Four and Five had retreated. He trained the gun onto the nearest with the control handle. It became huge in the telescope, and he pressed the trigger. The gun roared, and the Sheridan skidded backward in the soft sand.
“Back her up, Huckins!” yelled Connelly.
“You got him, sir!” said Calandra, jubilant. The tracks churned in the sand as the Sheridan dropped from sight. The scavenging system blew the gasses out of the gun and the breech opened.
“HEAT, loaded, up!” exclaimed Morrow.
Connelly switched to armor net. “Red Platoon, Leader. Report, over.”
“This is Two. You got yours; I missed mine, over.”
“Four and Five are ready to pop up, Leader,” said Red Four.
“Go, Four and Five. Be careful, they’re coming right at you.”
Major Kirov saw White Three erupt with flame as it was struck on the left side. He traversed his turret to the left, his head pressed into the padded rest above the periscope. The turret and gun of the Sheridan were just visible, and were gone before he could fire. “White Two, continue on. I am turning to attack another target.”
White Two acknowledged, and Kirov told his driver to turn hard left. The tank dipped and pitched downward as it left the runway and ran down the shallow slope. “Turn parallel to the runway, and slow down, Ali,” said Kirov to his driver.
Sergeant Mamani in White Two saw the Sheridans just as they emerged at the edge of the runway. They were fifty meters apart and moving fast. He trained the gun on the one directly ahead with a flick of the control column and fired. He had only a vague impression in the corner of his eye of the target exploding as he shouted to his driver to turn to the left toward the second target. He had already centered the second Sheridan in his sights and ground his teeth waiting for the bore evacuator to blow the muzzle free and the automatic loader to load. After an eternity of watching the American pull up and swing its big gun to bear, the “Loaded” light appeared in his sight, and he crushed the trigger in his grip. He imagined a flash from the American’s gun just as his gun fired, and then his world ended in a searing blast of heat.
“Red Leader, this is Four. There’s one tank; he just blasted Five. I’m engage-”
The transmission from Four ended in an electronic hiss. Connelly thumbed the microphone. “Red Four, this is Leader, over.” Nothing. “The bastard must have gotten them both,” he said into the intercom.
“Red Leader, this is Blue Leader, over.”
Connelly keyed the mike on armor net. “Go ahead, Baird. Where are you?” “I’m on the taxiway, on the north edge of runway 11/29. I’m moving toward you. My radio went dead when I fired about ten minutes ago, and we just got it back up.”
“What can you see from there?”
“There’s a lot of smoke blowing north from burning buildings and smoke from the battle blowing over the runway and taxiway. I can see two tanks advancing on the Ops Building on the edge of the smoke. Yablonski thinks he sees a third. He’s choking the reticle for the range - Jesus!” Lieutenant Baird let go of the mike switch and traversed the turret violently to the right. They were passing a revetment and Baird, sitting up in the open cupola, found himself looking at the back of a T-72 forty meters away, deep inside the revetment. He saw the startled face of the tank’s commander as the man frantically reached for his contro
l column. Baird depressed his gun and fired, hitting the T-72 just below the engine grills.
“Jesus Christ!” said Yablonski, the gunner. “The motherfucker didn’t detonate!” A cloud of white smoke rose from the engine compartment, but there was no explosion.
“Round never went far enough to arm,” said Baird, awe in his voice. The Libyan tank commander continued to stare at him, then slowly raised his hands. “Doesn’t matter,” said Baird. “His engine’s fucked; he’s out of it.” He swung the turret back toward the tanks advancing across the runway. The radio crackled in his ear. “Take the shoot, Yablonski.”
“Got it, sir. Driver, stop. On the way!”
“We’re loaded, Lieutenant,” said Morrow.
“Two, Leader, you ready, over?” said Connelly, flexing his hand on the control column.
“Roge.”
“Four said one tank. He might have gotten it, but if we see it, we’ll both shoot. Then let’s crank up and go after the tanks Blue Leader says are almost to the Ops Building.”
“Roger, Leader, we’re rolling.”
Connelly’s Sheridan jerked into motion. Two was barely visible in the swirling dust fifty meters away to his left and a little ahead. “Speed it up a little, Huckins.”
Stuart crept sideways into the alley between the burning building and the Ops Building, pressing his back against the wall, which was warm even though the fire was on the upper stories. Machine gun bullets swept the alley in thick bursts. Soldiers, some carrying unfired Dragons in canisters, were pulling back. Stuart grabbed a red-headed paratrooper who looked about fifteen years old and pulled him down next to him. “What’s going on, Troop?”
“There’s a tank comin’ around the end of this building, sir, shooting the shit out of everyone. He’s too close for the goddamn Dragon to arm.”
“Anybody got a LAW?”
“No. Just Dragons,” said the kid, trying to pull away.
“Are there any marines down there?”
“No, sir, just Airborne.”
“Hustle your ass back to the Ops Building. Find marines and tell them to bring LAWs.”
“Yes, sir.” Stuart sent him on his way with a gentle shove. The wall behind him was growing much hotter. There was a break in the machine gun fire as the tank’s cannon roared. Stuart sprinted out of the alley and sprawled behind a metal shed. He felt a stinging sensation in his left shoulder and saw he was bleeding through a neat slit in his jumpsuit. He rolled and looked back into the alley. He could see the tank, huge and black, swinging its gun back and forth, searching as it ground its way through the crude barricade the soldiers had made, drawing ever closer to the Ops Building, impervious to the stings of small-arms fire raking it from all sides. A people-killing machine, Leah had said. Stuart shrank behind the shed as the coaxial machine gun swept the alley.
Uqba ben Nafi, 0543 GMT (0643 Local)
“Red Leader, this is Two,” called Sergeant Burnside as his Sheridan topped the ridge. “Looks like Four got the guy.” There was a burning hulk off to the left, past the one Connelly had shot on the first attack. Connelly looked left and right through the vision blocks. He saw a bright flash from the edge of the runway and heard a crackling roar in his earphones. To his right, he saw the shape of a tank turret and long gun backing away down the slope. He looked quickly left and saw Red Two stopped and burning. One man jumped clear.
“Floor it, Huckins!” said Connelly, his voice swollen with rage. “Drive over the edge of the runway! We have to get that motherfucker before he reloads!”
Kirov watched the baby tank tilt over the edge of the paved runway into the dirt, coming straight at him, 300 meters away. The automatic loader of the T-72 took 7.5 seconds to cycle, and he didn’t have that long. His tank was still reversing, and he heard the driver scream in panic. It didn’t matter. He watched the American slow, sure of his shot, and fire. The concussion of the HEAT round killed him instantly. He never even saw the flash.
Lieutenant Baird’s Blue Leader Sheridan bucked as the gun fired. He watched the target tank in his telescope and saw the shell explode on the front of the track. “Nice shot, Yablonski-” He was interrupted by a roar that shook the vehicle violently. He heard a scream of breaking track, and then the engine died. He opened the hatch above his head and stood. There was a black smudge and a shallow crater in the cracked concrete next to his left rear, and flames were starting from the engine compartment. “Everybody out,” he shouted. “We’re burning!”
Private Huckins had Connelly’s Sheridan swaying along at forty-five miles an hour on the smooth taxiway. Through his periscope, he could see two Libyan tanks pulling away from the burning hulk of a third, Blue’s last target. Lieutenant Connelly’s voice came over the intercom. “Shoot the one in front, Calandra. He’s practically on the apron.”
Roger. Range is in, four-four-three meters.” The gun fired, slowing the vehicle abruptly.
Connelly watched through the vision blocks. The big HEAT round opened the black tank up like a melon. “One to go, guys,” he said softly.
Four Marine Sea Cobra gunships from Saipan raced in from the sea, then spread out to hover above the middle of runway 11/29. The Cobras were the first of four flights that would soon be over the air base. The helicopters were directed by a marine lieutenant in a dugout to the east of runway 03/21. Their targets were three tanks, one advancing across runway 11/29 toward the apron from the south, one emerging from a revetment 400 meters to the southeast of the Operations Building, and another still in an adjacent revetment, which was smoking but appeared intact. The flight leader assigned the targets. The moving tank nearest the apron was assigned to two aircraft, and the four helos each fired a TOW missile.
“Jesus, Gannet Six, just three tanks?” queried the flight leader, Capt. Ted Edwards.
“You shoulda been here two minutes ago, Copperhead Leader. There were a lot more of them, and they were beating the shit out of us.”
The flight leader smiled as his gunner guided the slow missile toward the target. None of the tanks had seen them, and none were shooting back. All four missiles guided flawlessly, and all struck their targets. The tank on the runway was stopped barely 150 meters from the Ops Building. “Gannet Six, this is Copperhead Leader. Scratch three tanks.”
“Nice shoot, Snake Leader. Wish you had been here earlier, out.”
What’s he pissed off at? wondered Edwards. “Copperhead Leader, standing by, out.”
Sergeant Abdul Hasaffi had been following the progress of the Libyan tank attack on the radio. He wanted to time his arrival on the apron to coincide with theirs, so that the Americans would neither see nor hear his approach. The original mission of his company, as explained by the Russian major before he had been killed, was to capture the hostages and keep the Americans from getting them, but that was before so many of his friends and fellow soldiers had been killed. Now Hasaffi wanted only to hurt, to kill.
From the chatter on the radio, he knew the battle was going badly for the Libyan side, as the voices on the net dwindled to two, and then there were only the futile calls of one remaining tank, poised to take the Operations Building from the rear, entreating the silent network for orders. Hasaffi keyed his intercom and told his driver to pick up speed as they passed out of the barracks area and into the street that led past the Maintenance Building to the apron.
The red-headed paratrooper Stuart had spoken to in the alley found a marine captain on the apron next to the Operations Building, and repeated Stuart’s request for LAWs. The captain collected a fire team of three riflemen and three men armed with thin green tubes the paratrooper assumed must be LAWs. He asked one of the marines as they started back to the alley, “What’s a LAW, anyway?”
“Light antitank weapon,” said the marine, a skinny Mexican with a big grin.
“Like a Dragon?”
“Yeah, but no guidance. You just point it and shoot.”
“Oh, so no minimum range!”
“You got it, Troop. They’r
e old, but us jarheads are always getting too close to things. We got Dragons, too, but we kept a few of these.”
Stuart watched as the burning building collapsed inward in showers of sparks and smoky flames. The Libyan tank continued its slow advance, sweeping the alley with its coax machine gun. It seemed somehow wary, uncertain.
Stuart twisted and looked behind him as a marine captain and his fire team reached the shed in a ragged rush. Stuart crawled out of the way of the marines with the LAWs. “All yours,” he said, feeling immensely relieved.
The first man pulled back the slide to arm his missile. Then he waited for the machine gun to sweep to the other side of the alley, and twisted himself into the alley and fired. A long jet of flame roared out the rear of the tube. There was a dull explosion in the alley. Discarding his tube, the marine rolled back behind the shed. “I hit the fucker in the right track. I think it stopped.”
“Rose, take a shot. Aim just below the turret.”
“OK, Captain.” The marine named Rose rolled into the alley. The machine gun fire was chewing methodically into the metal shed now, but it was well over their heads. Stuart admired the calm way the marines went about their work. Again the jet of flame from the launcher and the dull boom of the warhead, but this time a much larger explosion followed, with the sharp, high-pitched sound of tearing metal. Rose rolled back, grinning. “He swung right from Billy’s shot. I put it in right through the left track, below the turret. Blew the mother away!”
Rose’s voice sounded unnaturally loud in the sudden stillness. His fellow marines congratulated him. Stuart heard something else, and then they all did and became quiet. The clank of tank tracks and the crack of a cannon from north of their position. “Jesus,” said Stuart. “One got through from the rear, somehow. What defense do we have to the rear of the Ops Building?”
“We’re it,” said the captain grimly. “Let’s hustle, guys!”
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