Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 10 Page 32

  “What kind of uniform is that?” the other commander radioed in response. “Could it be one of our men, maybe a survivor from Jaghbub? Maybe that’s a protective suit he’s wearing. Who else would be stupid enough to be walking right up to an armored patrol unarmed in the middle of the day?”

  “Ordinarily I’d say yes—but we just lost contact with one of our scout helicopters, which means everyone’s an enemy until we find out otherwise. Stay back: I’ll go have a chat with him. Everyone else, stay alert.” He ordered his men to dismount. Eight heavily armed Libyan soldiers ran out of the back of the APC and took up defensive positions on either side of the highway. The lead APC then began to roll forward toward the stranger.

  The APC hadn’t gone fifty feet when suddenly two tanks, one on either side of the highway, disappeared in a ball of fire—the dismounts heard only a faint plink sound, and then the tanks exploded. The soldiers had just enough time to dive for cover in the depression on the side of the highway before they were showered with burning debris. Huge gushes of fire fed from ruptured fuel tanks poured across the desert floor, and the dismounts got to their feet in a hurry and retreated back toward the remaining APCs, firing in the general direction from where those projectiles came.

  “Attention, Libyan soldiers,” he said through his electronic synthesizer and translation system. “I am Castor. I order all of you to surrender immediately. Do not traverse your gun turrets or you will be destroyed.”

  “The east tank’s turret is moving toward you,” Briggs reported.

  “Kill it,” Patrick said. Briggs fired a hypervelocity round into the tank, and it blew even more spectacularly than the first two. That’s all it took—one by one, the Libyan soldiers popped hatches and started climbing out of the tanks, hands upraised. “Your Highness, the Libyans are surrendering,” Patrick radioed to Sanusi. “You can move—”

  The helicopter came out of nowhere, popping over the sand dunes only a few feet above the desert floor—a Mil Mi-24 attack helicopter, fully configured for combat with a four-barreled 12.7-millimeter remote-controlled cannon in the nose and two stubby wing pylons filled with a variety of rocket pods, bombs, and missiles. It was firing its machine guns almost as soon as it popped into sight.

  Hal Briggs’s position was hit first, and the gunner’s aim was perfect. The hail of bullets from the gunship was like a massive swarm of fifty-caliber bees—they were beginning to sting, and after enough stings, they could kill. “Motherfucker!” Hal Briggs cursed. “That bastard got my rail gun. Chris has the only one left.”

  The Libyan soldiers cheered and dashed back into their vehicles, ready to resume the fight. Chris Wohl turned and aimed his rail gun at the retreating helicopter gunship—but at that moment, another Mi-24 appeared from the east, no more than fifty feet above the desert, and launched a salvo of rockets at Wohl’s position, while the gunner started hammering at Patrick with the steerable cannons.

  The gunner swung his cannon away from Patrick after only a quarter-second burst, choosing to concentrate fire on the armed stranger and assuming Patrick would go down under the barrage of gunfire. That gave Patrick his chance. As the Mi-24 cruised over the highway, Patrick used his thrusters and leaped at it. He landed on the left side of the helicopter right between the gunner and pilot’s cupolas. Patrick drove his left hand through the bow in the pilot’s forward windscreen, drove his left foot through the gunner’s left window, then punched through the pilot’s left window with his right fist.

  The pilot screamed. Patrick grabbed the pilot’s throat with his armored right hand. “Wa’if! Awiz aruh hena, ala tuli” he said over the roar of the huge rotor overhead through his electronic translator. “Stop and land it right here.” The Mi-24’s flight engineer, seated right behind the pilot in a small jump seat, tried to pull Patrick’s hand off his pilot’s neck—Patrick finally knocked him out with a bolt of electricity from his shoulder-mounted electrodes. Threatened with having his throat crushed, the Libyan pilot set the big gunship down, and Patrick knocked him out too with an electric shock.

  Meanwhile, Chris Wohl rolled to his feet and checked over his rail gun—still operational. He was going to line up on the second Mi-24, which was wheeling back around for another pass. “Sarge! The tank!” He saw that the Libyan tank’s crew members had almost reached the entry hatch. He fired one shot that blew the driver’s upper torso apart, spattering the entire top of the tank with blood and gore. The other tankers froze and raised their hands in surrender.

  Hal Briggs tried to make a jump for the road, but his thrusters wouldn’t push into the sand, and he could only jump a few feet into the air. But suddenly, behind him, Muhammad Sanusi’s Humvee roared toward him. Without slowing, Sanusi steered right for Hal. With perfect timing, Hal jetted up just before the Humvee reached him, and Hal landed on the Humvee’s hard top. He clutched onto the roof as the Humvee roared toward the highway. Just before reaching the highway, Hal jetted off the roof and landed on the easternmost armored personnel carrier just as the last man was climbing aboard. He took command of the 12.7-millimeter machine gun on the commander’s cupola, swung it around, hit and killed one APC commander who was covering his men, then raked machine-gun fire over the heads of the other APCs beside him until the crews froze with their hands in the air.

  The second Mi-24 was coming around again. Wohl turned to fire at it, but the rail gun was out of commission, damaged in the rocket attack. The Mi-24 attack helicopter’s steerable cannon lined up on Sanusi’s Humvee. Hal fired from the commandeered Libyan APC, but the Mi-24’s armor was too strong and the bullets had no effect. “Chris! Tag that son of a bitch!” But he saw in his own electronic visors that their last rail gun was out of commission. “Look out!”

  Suddenly, a small explosion erupted on the right side of the Mi-24. Another of Sanusi’s Sandstorm warriors in what looked like a World War II-vintage jeep had fired an RPG round at the helicopter, missing the tail rotor and cockpit and hitting only the heavily armored side. The Mi-24 wheeled in an impossibly tight right turn and fired a rocket salvo, and at that range the attack was devastating. The jeep exploded in a twisted, burning hunk of metal. Hal continued to fire on the Mi-24, hoping that his shells would hit something vital, but he couldn’t tell if he was hitting anything at all.

  Then he saw Sanusi’s Humvee stop, and Muhammad as-Sanusi himself climbed out, went into the back of the vehicle, and emerged with a man-portable Stinger missile system. But the Mi-24 pilot saw him at the same time, and he wheeled the helicopter left to line up on him—the nose cannon was already leading into the turn. “Sanusi! Take cover!” Briggs shouted.

  But Sanusi stood his ground. With his men firing rifles at the oncoming helicopter, the king stood calmly, his feet together, and hefted the Stinger to his right shoulder. He activated the battery, powered on the unit, then pulled a lever with his right thumb, uncovering the missile’s seeker head. The Mi-24’s cannon started firing long before the pilot finished the turn, and at less than a mile away, he couldn’t miss. The shells made a rooster tail of sand race across the desert, headed right for Sanusi. The ripple of sand reached the king just as Sanusi pulled the launch trigger and sent the Stinger blasting out of the launch tube.

  The missile exploded on the Mi-24 gunship’s left engine intake, and the force of the explosion followed by the complete destruction of the left engine caused the Mi-24’s main rotor to fly off in a cloud of fire. The helicopter plunged straight forward into the desert floor, then flipped upside down on its back before exploding less than a hundred meters from where the king of united Libya stood.

  It was as if everyone, including the Libyan soldiers, were stunned motionless as they saw the sand and dust settle and King Idris the Second still standing, holding the Stinger launcher triumphantly in one hand, laughing loudly as the smoke and debris from the wrecked helicopter gunship wafted near him—but it was as if even the smoke and flames dared not touch him. His men cheered as they rolled up to cover him, but Zuwayy’s soldiers did
not try to run or fight—instead, moments later, they joined in the cheering.

  “Pretty good shooting, Your Highness,” Patrick said as he and the other Night Stalkers joined him a few moments later.

  “Shukran gazilan,” Sanusi replied. He looked at the other Mi-24 gunship and nodded happily. “Pretty good piece of flying yourself, Mr. McLanahan.” Sanusi’s men were already taking possession of the vehicles that were still intact—one T-60 tank, four armored personnel carriers, and a Mil Mi-24 helicopter gunship.

  To Patrick’s surprise, Sanusi’s men and a good number of the Libyan soldiers were greeting each other like long-lost brothers—the Libyan soldiers were tearing off insignia and patches that had anything to do with Zuwayy’s regime, and Sanusi’s men were giving the defecting soldiers imperial insignia to wear. Moments later, they were all lined up before the king and each individually swore loyalty to him in front of the others. They all did so without one moment’s hesitation. The two surviving officers refused to swear loyalty to the true king of united Libya—and were executed on the spot by a knife thrust to the heart, by their own men.

  “Turns out most of these men were from the same town, west of Tripoli,” Sanusi said several minutes later after he rejoined Patrick and the other Night Stalkers. “They are based at Al-Jawf. They were sent out to investigate the reports of nuclear weapons and possible hostile military presence at Jaghbub. They believe that if they made contact with any enemy forces Jaghbub was going to be attacked by attack helicopters and bombers from Zillah or rockets from Al-Jawf.”

  “Strange that the Libyans haven’t sent more troops, Your Highness,” Hal Briggs observed as the day wore on. “They lost three attack helicopters and a light armor scout platoon—I thought they’d be a bit more curious as to why.”

  “They didn’t lose them,” Sanusi replied with a smile. “The platoon has checked in every hour on the half hour, as ordered. The platoon is continuing their search of Jaghbub. They have encountered heavier-than-expected radiation levels, however, and are advising against sending any more forces toward the town.” He was pleased at Briggs’s smile. “Clever, sir. But you realize that won’t last long.”

  “We have extended the fiction another day or two, I think,” Sanusi acknowledged. “But soon the platoon will be relieved, and that’s when Zuwayy will strike with force.”

  “That’s why we need to attack,” Patrick said. “Let’s get back to Jaghbub and get our planes in the air.”

  CHAPTER 7

  OUTSIDE ZILLAH AIR BASE, CENTRAL LIBYA

  THAT NIGHT

  “Grumble Twelve, this is Lion Seven at checkpoint two- nine-three.”

  Dead on course. With all the activity around the base as the division got ready to go to war with the Egyptians, it was a relief to have a helicopter crew where it was supposed to be, especially at night. “Acknowledged, Lion Seven,” the Libyan air defense radio operator replied. “Radar contact, four-eight kilometers bull’s-eye. Verify altitude.”

  “Altitude four hundred.”

  Checked—right on course and altitude, although he was very late checking in. If only all the army aviation guys did it this well, the air defense operator thought, his job would be a lot easier. “Acknowledged. Descend to two hundred meters on course. Are you a single ship?”

  “Affirmative, Lion Seven.”

  The commander of the S-300 surface-to-air missile site stood behind the radar station and optronics officer’s station, listening in. He narrowed his eyes in thought. “He is very late—almost outside the code change time limit,” he said, verbalizing his thoughts to the backs of his crew’s heads. Radio and identification codes were changed daily, and deployed units had to return to receive new ones within three hours of the changeover time or risk getting shot down without warning. “Does his transponder check?” he asked his radio operator.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Something still didn’t feel right. The commander keyed his command channel radio button: “Lion Seven, are you single ship tonight?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Where are your wingmen?”

  “One unit is daeyikh,” the pilot of the inbound helicopter reported. That meant it had been destroyed. “The other unit has stayed behind to assist. We are returning for a code change.”

  “Acknowledged,” the commander said. That was standard procedure: Perhaps an officer aboard the undamaged helicopter had returned with this crew to pick up new decoding documents, because no aircraft could approach Zillah, especially at night but anytime under this wartime posture, without a valid transponder code.

  The S-300 commander, situated thirty kilometers northeast of Zillah, had already alerted his battery and the two flanking missile batteries of the approaching helicopter five minutes ago when it popped up on radar. The S-300 air defense system, one of the best all-altitude long-range surface-to-air missile systems in the world, had managed to pick up the low-flying helicopter ninety kilometers away even though it was only four hundred meters above the desert—the S-300’s powerful multiscan radar could pick up aircraft as low as thirty meters’ altitude or as high as thirty thousand meters and as far as three hundred kilometers away.

  There were only three security ingress routes into Zillah, and they changed daily. All flight crews were required to cross a route entry point and then fly a designated ingress track until positive visual contact was made. The S-300 system also employed a powerful target-tracking low-light telescope, normally used in high-radar-jamming environments or when the radar was down, but was used routinely for aircraft identification. While the aircraft stayed on course, the S-300 optronics operator could easily locate and track it. Each aircraft had an identifying infrared- fluorescent code stripe on its nose and sides to aid in long- range identification; the stripes were changed on a random basis, usually once every week.

  The commander stood over the primary radar engagement officer and his assistant, frowning at his own confusing thoughts. While the radio operator verified the authentication codes, the radar officers checked the transponder identification codes, which showed up on the radar screen along with the target’s speed, altitude, and call sign. Everything checked okay. So why was he so nervous about this inbound?

  “Air defense alert,” the commander said suddenly. He looked at his watch, then made a note in his log. “All units, prepare to repel airborne attackers. This is not an exercise.”

  His crew members turned to look at their commander in surprise, then snapped their necks around, frantically checking their indicators and screens for any sign of an intruder, something they missed. There was nothing. But they responded anyway: the deputy pressed a button on his control panel, which sounded a Klaxon throughout the battery that an attack was imminent; reload crews began making preparations to load another four-round missile rack onto the transporter-erector-launchers; and a warning was sent out to all aircraft and all air defense units in the region, warning of an impending attack.

  The brigade command phone rang almost immediately: “Lieutenant, what do you have?” the air defense brigade commander asked.

  “Inbound Mi-24 attack helicopter, Lion Seven, sir.”

  “Does he authenticate?”

  “His codes are almost invalid, but as of right now, he has been verified.”

  “Any other targets?”

  “No, sir”

  “Then why did you issue the air defense warning, Lieutenant?”

  The commander swallowed but did not otherwise hesitate: “Sir, Lion Seven left his wingman behind, even though he reported another wingman destroyed. All of our aviation units understand the importance of returning to base to be issued up-to-date authentication documents—they must do so unless they are actively engaging the enemy.”

  The brigade commander hesitated. The lieutenant was a prior noncommissioned aviation officer, well experienced in both air defense and aviation procedures—at least, the lieutenant hoped the brigade commander remembered.

  But it came down to onl
y one thing, which the brigade commander pointed out moments later: “That’s not a violation of procedures or a cause for issuing a general air defense warning. So ... you’re saying you have a hunch, is that it, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, you’re allowed all the hunches you like, Lieutenant—it’ll keep the men on their toes,” the brigade commander said after another lengthy, agonizing pause. “But may I remind you that your battery will have to reposition to another location after the alert is over, so your men will be up all night.”

  “I am aware of that, sir.” Once the missile batteries turned on their radars, spy planes and satellites could map their location easily, so it was important to move the missiles and radars around to make it more difficult for the enemy to find and target their radars. Fortunately, the S-300 missile system was very easy to relocate—it took less than a half hour to set up again after finding a suitable spot. The units were moved several times a week—no more than a few hundred meters, but far enough where garbage pits, latrines, and launcher anchor points had to be redug each time out of the desert. That was usually the hardest part, and the aspect of the move that caused the most grumbling.

  “Very well.” The lieutenant was one of the best battery commanders in the entire brigade. The lieutenant started out as a conscript after dropping out of high school at the age of fifteen. By the age of eighteen, he had accepted a regular enlistment, and just two years after that was made a noncommissioned officer. Being prior enlisted himself, he could handle his enlisted men, conscripts, and noncommissioned officers just fine. “Report your threat assessment and engagement to the brigade operations officer immediately after you’ve called off the alert.” There were a few clacks in the net; then, on the brigade-wide channel, the lieutenant heard, “All units, all units, Twelve has issued a general air defense warning for the brigade. Report and correlate all contacts now. This is Brigade, out.”