Fire Arrow

by Franklin Allen Leib

  Connelly was puzzled. That wouldn’t give them a second chance if the detonator failed. “Yes, sir,” he said.

  The last birds carrying the infantry took off and the marines began to load.

  Colonel Zharkov put on his helmet and pressed the transmit key on tank net. “Radio check, by units,” he said. The two other tanks and the three BTRs answered. “Ready, then. Lieutenant, open the doors.”

  The duty officer nodded and walked over to the switch on the electric door hoists. The overhead motors whined, the chains rattled, and the doors rolled up, impossibly slowly, thought Zharkov. “OK, Spetznaz, let’s go. Move quickly, get close to the helicopters, but show no hostile intent.” As soon as the door in front of his tank was high enough to clear, Zharkov ordered his driver forward. The T-72 lurched and accelerated ponderously onto the sunlit apron.

  Eight CH-53s were on the ground, and the marines started toward them. The SEALs, Lieutenant Connelly’s Sheridan crew, and Loonfeather, Donahue, and the RTOs on the few remaining communications nets stood together, in front of the burning Operations Building, ready to divide themselves among the last two helos. Loonfeather felt rather than heard a heavy rumbling, distinct from the scream of the helicopter turbines and the beat of their rotors. He looked north, toward the whispered warnings of his ancestors, and saw black tanks and BTRs emerge from the maintenance shed 200 meters away on the other side of the apron. The tanks and the faster-accelerating BTRs moved into the open line between the two rows of helicopters. Marines saw the vehicles at the same moment, and the ones not already loaded instinctively dropped to the pavement and readied their weapons. The SEALs and Loonfeather’s staff flattened themselves as well, while the Sheridan crew clambered back into its vehicle.

  “Hold fire. RTOs, all nets, tell everyone to hold fire!” shouted Loonfeather, the only American left standing. The enemy vehicles slowed and eventually stopped under the whirling blades of the helicopters. Riflemen spilled out of the BTRs and formed behind them, their AKM carbines slung across their chests. They all stood very still, their uniforms fluttering in the rotor downblast.

  Major Donahue and Commander Stuart slowly got up and walked, hunched over, to Loonfeather’s side. “He has grabbed us by the belt,” said Loonfeather, more to himself than to the others.

  “What do you mean, Colonel?” asked Major Donahue, his voice as close to a whisper as could be, given the noise of the helicopters.

  “The North Vietnamese used to say that,” said Loonfeather unemotionally, as though delivering a history lesson. “They would try to engage us so close to our artillery fire bases that we could not use the guns for fear of hitting our own men.” Loonfeather turned as he heard the faster beat of the gunships moving in closer, hovering, facing the tanks. “Make sure everyone, including the gunships, gets the word, John; no firing unless fired upon.”

  “Yes, sir, Colonel. What are you going to do?”

  “See the flags on the lead tank? The one with his gun trained out to his right? I reckon he’s telling us two things: first, that he’s Russian, not Libyan, and second, that he wants to talk.”

  “So you’re going to talk?”

  “Yeah.” Loonfeather walked to the Sheridan and climbed up. “Lieutenant Connelly, may I have your seat?”

  “Yes, Colonel,” said Connelly, climbing quickly out of the commander’s cupola.

  Loonfeather settled in. He pressed the palm switch on the control column and traversed the gun out right to the three o’clock position, then rotated the cupola independently of the turret, so it and the .50-caliber machine gun were once again facing forward. “William, get onto Colonel Brimmer and Admiral Bergeron. Find out if we have authority to start World War Three.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” said Stuart, picking up the handset from the RTO on command net.

  “Call me on armor net.”

  Stuart, already talking, gave Loonfeather a thumbs-up.

  “Let’s go, Huckins.” The Sheridan rolled slowly toward the waiting Russian, whose red and white flags flapped in the rotor downwash.

  Come to me, Old Ones, thought Loonfeather, as the distance between the rolling Sheridan and the halted T-72 diminished. He had told Huckins to drive slowly, to give him a few more minutes to think. What manner of trap is this? he asked his ancestors. The Maintenance Building erupted in a shower of sparks and smoke as the roof collapsed. They were forced to come out of hiding by the fire, thought Loonfeather. What would they have done otherwise? Shot from concealment once the helicopters were loaded, and no Americans were in a position to shoot back? Or just stayed in there until we left?

  Well, now they have us. They can easily kill every one of the helicopters with their machine guns alone, and most of the boys inside them. But we have them, too. If they kill us, the Cobras will shoot, and then the Navy will flatten the base and burn it. None could escape.

  “Colonel, you want a round in the main gun?” Calandra’s question in his helmet interrupted the faint whisperings of the Old Ones.

  “No, but have one ready. Is the demolition charge still set?”

  “In the shell trays, Colonel,” answered Huckins from his driver’s seat.

  Loonfeather watched the Russian vehicles get larger. The men in the tanks were sitting up, hatches open. The riflemen were standing in small groups, hands resting on the stocks of their weapons. They’re trying not to look threatening, thought Loonfeather, but those machine guns and AKMs and grenade launchers could all be in action in less than a heartbeat.

  “Load H-E Frag, Tolkin,” said Captain Suslov in the second Russian tank. He felt his heart pounding inside his chest, hard enough to make his throat feel tight.

  “But Captain, the colonel told us to keep the guns clear!” protested the warrant officer.

  “Load it. We must fire at once if the American does.”

  Once the gun is loaded, the bastard can lay it and fire it by himself, thought Tolkin. He picked up the empty stubshell case the crew used as an ashtray, laid it gently before the ram of the automatic loader, and tripped the ram. The shell case was thrust into the breech and the breechblock slammed shut. Tolkin rose rapidly through his hatch, holding his Makarov pistol just below the rim. He watched as Suslov aligned the gun on a helicopter in the middle of the near row, and saw him squeeze the trigger. Suslov’s eyes were tightly shut, but they opened immediately. “Damn! Misfire! Tolkin?”

  Tolkin leaned across and pressed the muzzle of the Makarov under Suslov’s ribs. “You are under arrest, Captain, by order of Colonel Zharkov.”

  Suslov didn’t speak. He didn’t look at Tolkin, but straight ahead. His teeth were bared in the snarl of a cornered animal, and his eyes glowed between hatred and fear. Saliva gathered in the corners of his mouth.

  “Captain, I repeat, you are under arrest-”

  Suslov grasped the bolt of the 12.7mm machine gun, pulling it back and chambering a round. Tolkin shot him twice, directly through the heart, then quickly pushed the machine gun to the side in case Suslov’s dying thumbs might contract on the triggers. Suslov slumped away from the gun as his eyes glazed. Tolkin climbed down inside the turret and dragged the captain’s limp body inside, forcing it into the gunner’s position. He then climbed back up through the commander’s hatch. He looked around warily, but neither the Russians around him nor the American now slowing next to Colonel Zharkov’s tank seemed to have noticed the little drama.

  Tolkin breathed deeply, slowing his racing heart. I never liked him, the dogmatic, bullying zampolit, thought Tolkin, and now that he has proven himself KGB, I like him less. But I’ll be damned if he didn’t die like a Russian.

  Uqba ben Nafi, 0559 GMT (0659 Local)

  Lieutenant John Connelly watched as his Sheridan, with the broad back of Lieutenant Colonel Loonfeather extending above the commander’s cupola, slowed to a crawl as it approached the lead Russian tank. He heard the colonel’s voice on the armor net, soft but urgent. Connelly touched Stuart on the shoulder.

  Stuart twisted his
handset around his ear, still listening to command net. “Tell him Top Hat approves of his actions, Connelly. They’re looking at options.”

  “Do they know that he’s practically touching the fucking Russian tank?” Connelly said heatedly.

  Stuart smiled gently, still listening to his radio. “Take it easy, Lieutenant. The colonel knows how to horsetrade.”

  Connelly nodded grimly. He thumbed the transmit key and whispered, “Nothing yet from Top Hat, Colonel.”

  USS America

  Rear Admiral Wilson stood over the Sixth Fleet Flag Duty Officer, Comdr. William Daniels. “I ask you again, Commander, to interrupt Admiral Bergeron. We have a situation on the base that is becoming explosive.”

  “Admiral, the admiral has been talking to the Joint Chiefs for nearly twenty minutes. The Joint Chiefs, and I believe the President, have demanded a detailed report of the condition of the hostages, who have just landed aboard Saipan. The admiral told us not to break in on him unless there was a major threat to the force, or the mission.”

  “Dammit, Commander!” exploded Admiral Wilson. “We have a company of marines and a squadron of helicopters pinned down on that base! That’s not a major threat to the force?”

  “Admiral, I do not wish to argue with you, but Admiral Bergeron has given full authority to the operational commanders to deal with any threat to our forces throughout the area of Operation Fire Arrow. Surely-”

  “Commander, the force threatening our marines, directly threatening our men and aircraft, is Russian! Soviet, Commander, not Libyan. I don’t think the admiral’s delegation of authority went quite that far!”

  The duty officer rose quickly, all color draining from his face. “Where do you wish to see the admiral, sir?”

  “If he’s in there on the horn with the Joint Chiefs, I had better go to him.”

  “Right through here, sir. I’m sorry I misunderstood, sir.”

  “I didn’t tell you all of it, Commander. My mistake. Let’s find the admiral.”

  Uqba ben Nafi

  “All right, Huckins, we can hardly delay this any longer. Pull up next to the tank and stop,” said Loonfeather.

  “Yes, sir.” Huckins’ voice came back through the intercom. Loonfeather listened hopefully for Lieutenant Connelly to break in with instructions from the fleet, but the radio remained silent in his helmet earphone. Huckins parked the Sheridan expertly spindle to spindle next to the Russian tank. Like two strange dogs, nose to tail, sniffing each other, thought Loonfeather, and broke involuntarily into a grin. Recognizing the Russian commander’s collar insignia as that of a full colonel, Loonfeather saluted smartly and said, “Good morning, Colonel; I hope you speak English.”

  The Russian officer’s stiff, even tense expression softened a bit at Loonfeather’s incongruous good cheer. Returning the salute, he replied, “Good morning to you, sir. I speak English, though not well. I am Colonel Zharkov, of the Soviet Army. May I know your name, and rank?”

  “Lieutenant Colonel Rufus Loonfeather, Armor, U.S. Army.”

  “Airborne?”

  “Yes, sir. You, also?”

  “Indeed. Well, we will share some understanding, then, I think, Colonel?”

  “I certainly hope so,” said Loonfeather, glancing at the nearby Russian vehicles and at his pinned-down helicopters. “Perhaps the colonel will tell me what is his mission?”

  Zharkov swung his legs out of his commander’s hatch and sat on the turret. The most dangerous phase has passed, he thought. We are talking, and the Americans recognize the stalemate, at least for the moment. He stole a glance past the American colonel to the second Soviet tank, and was relieved to see Warrant Officer Tolkin sitting in the commander’s hatch. So that is over too, whatever it was. “My mission was, Colonel, was, to seize your hostages from the terrorists, and then our government was to effect their return to American control. Your brilliant operation rendered that mission unnecessary.”

  Loonfeather’s jaw dropped. “You’re telling me that you would have rescued our people, then handed them over to us?”

  “My orders were to take control of them, Colonel. I have every reason to believe my government would have proceeded to return them to yours without delay.”

  “Then why in the name of God did you put up such a hellacious fight, once you knew we had them ourselves?”

  “We did not attack you; the Libyans did.”

  “But you control-”

  “Advise, Colonel, merely advise.”

  “Bullshit! Excuse me, sir, but you were holed up in that building. You had to hear radio traffic. You could have told your advisers that you had seen us go in, and to pull the Libyans back! Do you have any idea what casualties have been suffered on both sides?” Loonfeather heard himself shouting and fought for control.

  Zharkov felt his anger swell, anger at politicians who spun their webs and got good soldiers killed, then played it however they liked afterward. “Colonel, I am not a politician-”

  “Jesus, neither am I; I just want to know.” Loonfeather’s voice felt calmer, his rage cooler though no less intense.

  Zharkov waited, arranging his thoughts. He leaned closer to Loonfeather across the gap that separated the two vehicles and spoke softly, though to his knowledge none of his tank crew understood English. “Colonel, it may seem absurd, but perhaps it is not. To the extent that terrorists harmed your people, here, in the territory of a Soviet ally - I am speaking as a soldier, Colonel-” “I understand. We will both speak frankly.”

  “Thank you. We were not able to persuade our Libyan allies to use force to oppose their Arab brothers, but we were prepared to use force ourselves to prevent the slaughter of innocents. Do you understand that, Colonel?”

  “Yes, so far.” Loonfeather watched the Russian’s face closely, and saw something he felt might be candor.

  “However, we could not stand apart from our Libyan ally, and let you violate his sovereignty in such a massive way!” Zharkov felt his anger showing. This is still a dangerous situation, he thought, calming himself. I must not be misinterpreted.

  “Even though your mission, and mine, were essentially identical - rescue innocent Americans.”

  “Yes!” cried Zharkov, giving vent to a sadness that added to his anger. “As a soldier, I beg your pardon, Colonel,” he whispered, leaning still closer across the gap.

  “As a soldier, I understand, Colonel. But that tidy bit of political doublethink cost me the lives of thirty-six brave men, and many wounded. Do you know how many you lost, you and your allies?”

  “Not yet. Losses were heavy.” Zharkov felt his anger dissipate, leaving only the sadness.

  Loonfeather climbed out of his commander’s cupola, removing his helmet and setting it carefully on the seat. “Colonel, let’s you and me climb down and walk a bit. I think we can settle the rest of this, one soldier to another.”

  Zharkov smiled for the first time. “Yes, Comrade Colonel! An excellent idea, let us walk together.”

  USS America

  Rear Admiral Wilson explained the situation at the air base to Admiral Bergeron, who, after first protesting the interruption, sat still and silent, listening intently. The secure link with the situation room in the White House basement remained open, but silent. Wilson finished his short description, and was surprised that the commander, Sixth Fleet, merely stared at him. The speaker from the link to Washington hissed, and the thin but recognizable voice of the Secretary of Defense broke through the decoder. “Admiral, we sent you a signal-”

  Admiral Bergeron pressed his transmit key, interrupting the Secretary. After a second, the admiral spoke. “Permit me, Mr. Secretary; we may have very little time. Thirty minutes ago, we received a signal calling our attention to a possible friendly Soviet force on the air base, and instructing us not to engage it. Does that order still stand?”

  “Christ! Yes, Admiral! The situation with the Soviets is very fluid! Short of jeopardizing your mission, you must avoid engaging Sov-”

&nb
sp; Once again the admiral depressed the transmit key, covering the voice of the Secretary of Defense with hissing static, then broke in. “We understand, Mr. Secretary. I’m leaving Commander Daniels on this net. Admiral Wilson and I must get in touch with Colonel Loonfeather at once.”

  “But Admiral,” squealed the voice of the Secretary, “what the fuck happened?”

  “Time to figure that out later, sir. Right now we have to prevent a tragedy.” Or a world war, he thought, his heart racing.

  Admiral Bergeron handed the microphone to Commander Daniels, who stared at it with horror. “Wilson, come on, we have to talk to Loonfeather. Apparently he either didn’t receive, or didn’t get time to read, my relay of that message.”

  Admiral Wilson stopped dead. “You relayed a message to Loonfeather?”

  “Yes, of course! He had just taken command of the assault-”

  Wilson felt fastened to the deck. He managed to nod, but couldn’t speak.

  “My God,” whispered Admiral Bergeron. “Some signalman sent that to Loonfeather on Inchon, got a proper acknowledgment, and Loonfeather was already ashore!”

  “M-must be,” said Wilson, regaining his voice and running for the ladder to Flag Plot.

  “Find him and tell him, Wilson. In the clear, if necessary, but tell him!”

  Wilson burst through the hatch into Flag Plot and pointed to the RTO seated under a red sign lettered “COMMAND NET-THUNDER.” “Get me Colonel Loonfeather! Raptor Six!” he shouted.

  “Can’t, sir,” said the marine corporal, startled by the admiral’s outburst. “He’s off the net.”

  Lieutenant Colonel Loonfeather and Colonel Zharkov walked west, toward the center of the apron, away from the beat of the helicopters and the rumble of the heavy diesels. Loonfeather had an idea forming, but he needed a little time. “Where are you from, Colonel Zharkov?”

  “From Moscow. Originally from farther east. On my mother’s side, we were Kazakhs - your books called them Cossacks.”

  “Great warriors.”

  “Yes, cavalrymen, like us, Colonel. The men of my mother’s family all went into the Army of the Czars. They were hereditary majors.”