Fire Arrow

by Franklin Allen Leib

  Loonfeather smiled at the shorter man. “You have done much better, Colonel.”

  Colonel Zharkov laughed. “Universal opportunity under socialism, Colonel,” he said with a lilt of humor. “But, forgive me, you do not look like Americans as we know them. Are you a native?”

  “As native as you can get, Colonel. I’m an American Indian. Nation of the Dakota.”

  “Dakota?” said Zharkov, puzzled.

  “Also called Sioux, Colonel.”

  “Ah, the Sioux! We are taught in school that the Sioux were the most warlike of the oppressed nationalities - ah, sorry, Colonel.”

  “No offense taken,” said Loonfeather evenly.

  “Let’s see,” said Zharkov, brightening. “There was Sitting Bull, and Crazy Horse, and, ah, General Custer?”

  Loonfeather laughed, stopped walking, and placed his big hands on the shoulders of the Russian. “Like the Cossacks, no, the Kazakhs, the Dakota were great horse soldiers.”

  Colonel Zharkov felt the pressure of the big Indian’s hands on his shoulders and decided it was friendly, though a message of power was conveyed as well. I must gain the trust of this man, and I must know if I can trust him. “Colonel Loonfeather, may I ask, was your operation a success?”

  Loonfeather looked away. His mind’s eye saw the fierce battle on the runways and the burning tanks, and he heard again the tank commanders’ voices dropping off the armor net, one after another. His face registered the knowledge of the thirty-six dead soldiers and marines as he had last seen some of them, rows of green plastic bags rippling in the rotor wash of the medevac helicopters. Carefully, he controlled his voice. “Colonel, we got our hostages. We accomplished the mission. But like I said earlier, we lost too many good men.”

  Zharkov frowned and felt sympathy for his enemy. Major Gurevich had been a good friend. So had the dashing, humorous Kirov, and even the ascetic Colonel Asimov. How many others had died out there? “I am sorry, Colonel. Sometimes it is very difficult to know why soldiers must also be enemies.”

  “When we see no need,” said Loonfeather, dropping his hands from the Russian’s shoulders. “The officer who planned the inward defense of this airfield was a brilliant son of a bitch.”

  “We never anticipated that you would land armor,” said Zharkov, then immediately realized he had said too much. He braced himself for another outburst from the American.

  Loonfeather looked into the Russian’s eyes, slightly almond-shaped and black like his own. “You managed the defense here, Colonel?”

  Zharkov wanted to lie, but his pride wouldn’t let him. “I, that is, we, Colonel, assisted the Libyan commanders.”

  “It was brilliant, Colonel,” said Loonfeather, looking back at the smoking vehicles and burning buildings. “Any of your three assault columns could have crushed us.”

  Zharkov followed Loonfeather’s gaze across the scarred air base. Again he felt anger press back the diplomatic language inside his head. “I had a superior force, Colonel; I should have won!”

  Loonfeather turned abruptly. “We had total air superiority, Colonel.”

  Zharkov bowed, looked at his trembling hands, and clenched them. “Yes. But even so-”

  “Even so, Colonel,” said Loonfeather very softly, placing his hands once more on Zharkov’s shoulders, “you damn near beat us.”

  Colonel Zharkov forced his head up to look into the dark eyes of the American. “And now we must talk, tovarich.”

  Loonfeather smiled gently. “Yes, Tovarich Colonel, we must talk, as soldier to soldier, one man to another, with no witness other than our own honor.”

  The Russian’s smile disappeared. “You sensed I was uncomfortable speaking freely in front of my men.”

  “I thought you might find it easier away from them.”

  Zharkov’s face darkened. “It is a sad thing, when soldiers spy on each other, Colonel. Is it the same in your army?”

  “No, Colonel. We have no political officers, and no secret police in our army,” Loonfeather noted that the colonel seemed to wince, “although God knows we have plenty of second-guessers, especially when a commander has to make a decision without reference to higher authority, as you and I do now. That’s our situation, don’t you agree?”

  Zharkov looked at the tall American, with his central Asian face, liking him and beginning to trust him. “I agree. What do you suggest?”

  USS America

  “Who’s on the command net, Corporal?” asked Admiral Wilson as Admiral Bergeron entered Flag Plot and sat in his chair.

  “Answers Black Widow, Admiral,” said the marine RTO. “I think it’s Commander Stuart.”

  “Chief, can you put him on a speaker?” The Chief of the Watch nodded, made the transfers, and pointed to one of the microphones in front of Admiral Wilson. “Black Widow, Top Hat. Is that Commander Stuart?”

  “Roger, Top Hat, over,” came Stuart’s flattened voice through the speaker. Flag Plot was very quiet.

  “This is Admiral Wilson, Stuart. Where is Colonel Loonfeather?”

  “He’s on the apron, sir, on foot. About fifty meters away from the point where he first met the Russian tank. The Russian commander is with him.”

  “Do you have any idea what they’re doing?”

  “The gunner on Loonfeather’s Sheridan talked to Lieutenant Connelly on armor net just after the two commanders left the vehicles. He was inside and couldn’t make out what was said, but at first Colonel Loonfeather was shouting.”

  “Are they in plain sight?”

  “Roger.”

  “Any evidence that the Russians have taken Loonfeather prisoner?”

  “None, sir.”

  “Can you get Loonfeather to come to the radio, Stuart?”

  “Not unless he returns to his Sheridan, sir, or unless I walk out to him.”

  “Have the gunner on that Sheridan wave to him; try to get him back.”

  “Roger. Is that all, Admiral?”

  “For now. For God’sake, don’t you leave the net.”

  “Roger. Black Widow standing by.”

  Uqba ben Nafi

  Spec 4 Calandra stood on top of the Sheridan, making the gathering motions with his arms that were the hand sign for “form on me.” Loonfeather replied with the sign that meant “stay put; stay down.” Calandra reported to Connelly over the radio. Connelly turned to Stuart. “Calandra says the colonel is ignoring him, sir, telling him to stay put. Calandra wants to know if he should fire a flare.”

  “Jesus, no, Connelly!” said Stuart, grabbing the lieutenant’s arm. “God knows how the Russians might react to that! Tell him to sit tight.”

  USS America

  “Well, gentlemen, what do we make of it?” asked Admiral Bergeron.

  The senior staff of the Fire Arrow operation was gathered in a small briefing room adjacent to Flag Plot. Secure radio links had been established with Colonel Brimmer on Inchon, Captain Manero on New Jersey, and Admiral Bellmon on Nimitz, which would allow them to hear the conversation of the staff, though they would have to key in to speak.

  Rear Admiral Wilson spread his bony hands on the central table. “Either Colonel Loonfeather has been taken prisoner by the Russians, or he has separated himself from his command for some other reason.”

  “I can’t believe he would just drop off the net without a word, unless there was a gun to his head,” said Rear Admiral Aarons, the Sixth Fleet N-3 Operations officer.

  Admiral Bergeron leaned forward to the microphone in the center of the table. “Colonel Brimmer, you know Colonel Loonfeather. What do you think?”

  There was a hiss as Brimmer keyed into the net. “My first guess is that Admiral Aarons is right. In my short time with Colonel Loonfeather, he has impressed upon me the need, especially in complex operations, to stay with the set procedure.”

  “Yet he gave no signal back to his RTO?” asked Maj. Gen. Carl Morton, commander of the marine corps forces attached to the Sixth Fleet.

  “Not that the lieutenant
recognized. Lieutenant Connelly is in Loonfeather’s command; he should have recognized any covert attempt at communication.”

  “What was the last thing he did transmit?” asked Admiral Bergeron.

  “He asked for guidance, from you, Admiral, just before reaching the Russian. Connelly had none from Stuart, and relayed that. The next time Connelly called him, the gunner answered.”

  “OK, Colonel, stand by and keep listening,” said Admiral Bergeron. “Assuming, gentlemen, that Colonel Loonfeather is being held by this Russian, what can we do?”

  Staff officers looked at each other uneasily. Admiral Wilson steepled his fingers and began to speak slowly. “Excuse me, Admiral, if I just ramble a bit. The Russians told us that there was a Russian unit on the base that meant us no harm. This may be that unit. If so, they may have come out, after the battle was over, because they feared we might level the base after our people were out.” Admiral Wilson paused, a finger touching his lips. “In that case, Loonfeather may be trying to do a deal with them, but maybe the Russian’s hands are tied. We know well the Russians give field commanders little authority to deviate from detailed orders.”

  “So?” asked Admiral Bergeron impatiently.

  “If so, we have to let Loonfeather make the best of it. So far, there has been no shooting.”

  “Excuse me, Admiral,” broke in General Morton. “Suppose the opposite; perhaps the worst case, but to me plausible. The Russians lied to us about their unit and its mission - set us up, even though Loonfeather never got the word. Loonfeather is theirs. We have a military and a political disaster on our hands. After much bloodshed and multiple acts of war, we have exchanged a group of military dependent hostages, embarrassing enough, for a fully armed marine company and a squadron of marine helicopters!”

  Admiral Bergeron took a cigarette from the pack in front of Admiral Wilson. He hadn’t smoked in six years. “And if that is true?”

  “We can’t wear it; we just can’t!” boomed General Morton, slapping the table with a callused palm. “We have to fight those boys out of there, no matter what the cost!”

  Admiral Bergeron let out his breath with a whistle. “Who is the senior marine officer with that unit?”

  “Captain Roberts, the company commander, is the senior grunt officer,” broke in Colonel Brimmer on the speaker. “He’s already on one of the helicopters; we can talk to him on the helicopter control net.”

  “We could run it from here, Admiral,” said General Morton, looking at the plan of Uqba ben Nafi taped to the bulkhead.

  “What do you think would happen?” asked Admiral Bergeron.

  “Some helos would get up and away. The marines on the ground would have to fight, with small arms and whatever Dragons and LAWs they have left. The Cobras would kill the Russian tanks. There would be many casualties on both sides.” General Morton’s expression was grim.

  “Well, for now, we watch. Give Loonfeather a few more minutes. Plan it, gentlemen, as best you can. Colonel Brimmer, get in touch with Captain Roberts; see what he thinks he can do.” Admiral Bergeron rose. “I’ll go tell the Joint Chiefs.”

  Uqba ben Nafi

  Lieutenant Colonel Loonfeather looked at the Russian colonel carefully, weighing the man. I have to convince him with my first words. To do that, I have to be open and fair. If he even suspects a trick, he’ll fight. “Colonel, we want to pull out of here. Our mission is complete; we wish no conflict with you.”

  “And we wish none with you.”

  “Good. If you’ll pull your men and vehicles back a safe distance from the helicopters, we’ll take off, leaving the base in your hands.”

  Zharkov smiled faintly. Good, he thought, he wants to negotiate. Will his superiors in the fleet, counting up the casualties, go along with him? “We are concerned, naturally, that your helicopters and aircraft could make quick work of us once we let you depart,” said the Russian slowly, as though his English had begun to fail him.

  That’s it, thought Loonfeather. That’s the deal he wants. “I’ll call the fleet. I’ll get their guarantee that none of our aircraft will fire on you once we’ve departed, unhindered, and that all our forces, both air and naval, will leave Libyan territory as soon as we’re safe.”

  Colonel Zharkov looked at the dark, rugged features of the American officer. I want to trust this man, but can I? He is my enemy. Given what has gone on here today, his helicopters could kill us all, and Moscow could very well choose to ignore it, rather than acknowledge the presence of a Soviet combat unit in Libya, by implication a party to the crimes of the terrorists. Yet what he offers is the only solution. How can I know he is telling the truth, or even that his commanders would be bound by his word? In his position, I would give such an oath to save my men, and I certainly wouldn’t trust a general far away not to ignore my promise and shoot my enemy’s defenseless tanks. “Forgive me, Colonel. I feel I may trust you as an officer and a man of honor. But what guarantee can you give that some other commander, senior to you, might decide to attack us once you have gone?”

  A bloody good question, thought Loonfeather. By accident or design, some hothead could order an attack, or some helo pilot with a dead radio could pickle off a missile. “Colonel, I will make sure that the operation’s overall commander instructs all subordinate commanders. And I will remain with you as you move your force. If it would give you comfort, I will seek volunteers from among my officers to disburse themselves among your people. If our forces attack, they will kill us by your side.”

  Colonel Zharkov managed a small smile. “They would name you a hero, and give a grand medal to your widow.”

  Loonfeather’s stomach rolled. If our positions were reversed, would I trust him? No way. “Colonel, they will not attack you if they say they won’t. I’m giving you the only extra guarantee I can.”

  “And you think they will let you remain as my hostage? Here, in Libya?”

  That’s better, thought Loonfeather. He’s thinking of accepting me alone. “I was hoping you would give me your guarantee that you would see me safely to a neutral country, or to the Swiss Embassy.”

  Zharkov hesitated. It was everything he wanted, if it worked. The American was playing all his cards, face up. He wasn’t trying to bargain. And he was betting his own life. “Suppose I agree, Colonel. How do we proceed?”

  “We go back to my tank and call the fleet commander. If he agrees to arrangements satisfactory to you, we part friends.”

  “Your word on this?”

  “My word.”

  Colonel Zharkov unbuttoned the pocket of his uniform blouse and produced a flat silver flask. “I regret I have no glasses, Comrade Colonel, but I think we should drink to the success of your withdrawal.”

  “And to your long life, and health, Comrade,” said Loonfeather, taking the flask and tilting it back. The vodka burned in his dry throat, and he coughed as he handed the flask to the Russian.

  Colonel Zharkov drank. “And to your long life, and health, Colonel Loonfeather.”

  “To life,” said Loonfeather, as they started walking back toward the tanks and the noise.

  Admiral Bergeron reentered the conference room. The officers sat quietly around the table, watching him expectantly. He sat, feeling weary. His conversation with Washington had consisted mostly of angry outbursts from the Secretary of Defense, demanding to know what had gone wrong. The admiral had noticed that the Secretary’s voice sounded slightly strangled, a bit like Donald Duck. After two minutes of useless wrangling, the voice of the President had been briefly heard, though too far from the microphone for Admiral Bergeron to understand his words. Then Admiral Daniels had given Admiral Bergeron his orders: avoid conflict with the Russians if at all possible, but do not surrender the marines.

  Admiral Bergeron looked at the officers in the small conference room. “The Joint Chiefs agree we have to fight if the Russians will not let us withdraw. Have we a plan?”

  “A very simple one, Admiral,” said General Morton. “Captain Ro
berts has four LAWs in his helicopter, and he’s fairly close to three of the Russian vehicles. He’s ready, if we give the word.”

  “Top Hat, this is Black Widow,” Stuart’s voice sounded from the bulkhead speaker. “Loonfeather and the Russian have started walking back toward the tanks.”

  Admiral Bergeron leaned toward the mike. “Start walking to them, Stuart. Don’t stop unless the Russians shoot. We have to talk to Colonel Loonfeather.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Loonfeather walked briskly toward the parked tanks, aware that the shorter Russian beside him was practically running to keep pace. Now to sell this up the line, he thought. He saw a figure in black, humping a radio, approaching from the knot of men in the far assembly area. He waved, then circled his hand above his head and pumped his arm sharply. Come to me; hurry.

  The helicopters continued to sit beneath their whirling rotors, seeming to poise for flight. Stuart jogged to meet Loonfeather and the Russian officer just as they reached the tanks. Loonfeather smiled and pointed to the radio on Stuart’s back. “Command net, White-Eyes?”

  Stuart was puffing in the heat of the brassy morning. “Set, Injun. Anxious to talk.” Stuart dumped the heavy PRC-77 radio on the tarmac in front of Loonfeather and handed him the handset.

  Loonfeather keyed into the net. “Top Hat, Thunder, this is Raptor Six, over.”

  USS America

  Admiral Bergeron and his staff officers listened in silence as Lieutenant Colonel Loonfeather reported his status and laid out the deal he had struck with the Russian. The Sixth Fleet commander took another of Admiral Wilson’s cigarettes and lit it as Loonfeather’s voice came over the speaker, distorted and partially masked by the noise of rotors and tank engines behind him. The deal sounded reasonable, but Admiral Bergeron felt that Loonfeather was reluctant to tell all of it. The admiral keyed into the net as Loonfeather stopped speaking. “Colonel, this is Top Hat himself. You’re telling us the Soviets will pull back and let you extract if we agree to leave them alone after you’re out.”