Authors: Richard Herman
“Head south,” Jack shouted over the radio, but Broz’s F-4 bucked again, taking another hit as it turned toward the base. Jack crossed behind the lieutenant while Thunder laid a barrage of chaff and flares behind them, trying to create a diversion for the SAMs and Triple A to guide on.
Now Jack’s bird trembled from another hit and then they were clear. “Hold on, Broz,” Jack whispered to himself, “almost home.” On cue the canopies of the flaming F-4 flew off and the two men ejected as the aircraft twisted into the sea. Jack watched them slip their parachutes onto the northern end of the base, not too far from his old beach camp. Both waved furiously, signaling they were okay. “There go two lucky S.O.B.’s,” Jack said. But how much longer, he silently added.
The crew chief walked around 512, surveying the damage his Phantom had taken. Unable to contain himself he turned on Jack. “There are four, count ’em four, birds left that can fly, and she ain’t one of ’em. Look what you done.” He was shouting now, blaming Jack for the damage. “Engine change, new speed brake and flap for the right wing, gotta seal the wing tank, and more goddamn little holes than Carter’s got liver pills. The hydraulic leaks don’t even count.”
Thunder hung up the phone after reporting their message and joined the two men. When the crew chief slowed his verbal barrage, the wizzo said, “Let’s just fix it.” The crew chief grunted in surprise and darted out of the bunk
er, leaving Thunder and Jack behind. Within a few minutes he was back and opening the blast doors. Waiting outside were a dozen men and an engine on its dolly, still encased in a bright aluminum protective wrap.
“You fine officers believe in getting your hands dirty?”
Stansell ran into the command post just ahead of an artillery barrage, flopped down in a chair next to Waters, exhausted by the long ordeal of evacuating the wing. “They’re persistent mothers,” he said, listening to the regularly spaced whomps as artillery barraged the base.
“How’s the evacuation going?” Waters asked.
Stansell shook his head. “Five hundred and eighteen left. I don’t think we’ll get another C-130 in until after dark. Any chance of evacuating over land?”
“We only have enough vehicles to move sixty, maybe seventy people. The coast road’s been cut for four days and in this heat no one is going to walk very far. It was never an option.” Waters tried to force his mind to work but fatigue was driving him down. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the bottle of pills Doc Landis had given him, wondering if he should take one. He needed something. Not yet, he thought, I’ve never used them and don’t know what they’ll do to me. And then he did something he never believed he could do. Sack out. To him it was like a cop out. “Rup, you’ve got the stick for about an hour. I’m going to sack out in the corner. Wake me if there’s something you can’t handle.” He walked over to the corner, stretched out on the floor and fell into an instant deep sleep.
“Colonel, wake up.” Stansell’s voice cut through the deep fog of his sleep.
Waters sat up, feeling slightly dizzy, glanced at his watch. He had been asleep over three hours and it was almost sunset. He felt alert and rested. Sergeant Nesbit handed him a cup of hot coffee.
“What’s our status?”
“Chief Hartley wants to blow the causeway,” Stansell told him. “He’s starting to take small-arms fire out there. We’ve lost contact with the GCI site and Captain Hauser
never made it in…The engineers never got the runway open and are trying to patch together two thousand feet on the taxiway, enough for a C-130 to get in and out. Single-ship Floggers have tried to overfly us six times. Reccy birds, I figure. The Rapiers got ’em every time. So far. If we can hold on another six or seven hours, the Navy should be able to give us air cover. We’re taking on artillery barrage every fifteen or twenty minutes. Over two hundred casualties now, sir.”
The phone lines had been cut to the Security Police bunker and Waters had to use a radio to establish contact. “Chief, this is Zero-One. I agree. Blow the causeway.”
“Roger, Zero-One,” Hartley answered, “it’s time. We’re taking an occasional mortar round and can see movement at the head of the mine field.”
“How long can you hold?”
“Maybe three or four hours, Colonel. But that’s only a guess.”
The chief signed off then, telling them he would report back when the causeway was down. He listened for a moment, looking at his watch. “These muthas are something regular.” He calculated he had twelve to fifteen minutes to blow the charge under the causeway before the next artillery barrage would start. “Hey, with a little luck they might do the job for us with a lucky shot.” The chief was talking to himself as he strapped on his helmet and closed the front of his flak jacket, then jogged the two hundred yards from his command bunker to the embankment the bulldozers had pushed up on the base side of his big ditch. He kept down until he reached the break in the wall that they had left for the road leading across the causeway. He moved quickly and lightly, darting into the observation bunker set into the embankment next to the road.
Macon Jefferson, holding the bunker with another man, felt a little better when he saw Hartley. “Time to blow this mutha,” the chief told them. He quickly connected two wires to the actuator, a small box with two guarded switches and a timing dial. He set the dial to zero, lifted both guards and threw the switches. Nothing happened. “Don’t look out,” Macon said quietly. “There’s a sniper out there.” The chief looked anyway, counting seven cra
ters on the causeway. A single shot hit the sandbagged opening inches from his face.
“Mortars must have cut the wires,” the chief growled. “Why haven’t you guys taken the sniper out? He can shoot. Maybe the next bastard won’t be as good.” He scowled at the fresh scar the bullet had left. He picked up an M-16, checked it. “Stick your helmet into the opening in three minutes,” he ordered, jogging out of the bunker. He moved fifty yards down the wall and scrambled up the loose dirt of the steep bank, stopping just below the ridge. Carefully he scooped out a shallow depression that pointed toward the spot he judged the sniper fired from. “I got the angle on you…” The chief took off his helmet, laid his cheek against the stock, looked over the sight, and waited. He saw the flash before he heard the report when the sniper fired at the helmet flashing in the port of the observation bunker. Hartley swung the barrel ten degrees to the left and squeezed off a single shot. He could see the sniper’s jaw and rifle stock come apart in the rapidly fading light. He checked his watch, calculating he still had seven minutes before the next barrage.
He jogged back to the bunker and picked up a fresh reel of wire, telling the men to cover him, then moved along the edge of the causeway to a spot near the middle. He knelt and attached the new wires to the leads coming from the charge planted eight feet in the earth, threw the old wires aside, reeled the wire out as he trotted back. Twenty feet from the observation post a series of shots erupted. Hartley surprised the watching men with a sudden burst of speed as he piled into the bunker. One shot had cut a bloody furrow across the back of his left thigh. “I told you he wouldn’t be as good,” he grunted, handing the new wire to Macon. “So I was wrong. Blow him while I stuff this leak.” He shoved a wadded-up dressing into his wound and bound it tightly with a compress bandage from the first-aid kit on his belt.
The causeway erupted in a shower of noise, dust and dirt. Macon asked him why he didn’t crouch when he ran. “Don’t do any good when you’re my size. Now get some shovels and fill this gap in,” he replied, waving at the
road cut through the embankment. He checked his watch and walked back to his command bunker to call Waters.
“Rup,” Waters was saying to Stansell, “see if the Engineers can get three thousand feet of taxiway open. Enough for an F-4 take off.” Waters hadn’t shaved in two days and his face and flight suit were streaked with sweat. Energy, though, still radiated from him. “After that, get over to the bunkers you’re using for evac and make sure someone is in charge; then get back here.”
6 September: 1710 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 2010 hours, Dhahran, Saudi Arabia
The crew of the C-130 was sprawled out on the cargo deck waiting for the order to launch another shuttle mission out of Dhahran. They were weary from repeated attempts to get into Ras Assanya and discouraged because they had only been able to land once. The overweight major who had taken over running the operation drove up in his air-conditioned truck and walked toward the C-130 with clipboard in hand. “I’m putting you into crew rest,” he said. “Ras Assanya is reporting they have only two thousand feet of runway open. I’m not about to send you into that.”
Toni D’Angelo turned and walked toward the flight deck, the men trailing her, and the major realized they were going to Ras Assanya no matter what he said. “Captain Luna,” he yelled at their backs, “stop using Grain King Zero-Three for your call sign.”
“Screw you,” from Toni, climbing up the ladder.
Captain Luna dropped the Hercules down onto the deck when they were forty miles out of Ras Assanya, hugging the coast line. The moonlit night gave him plenty of visibility, and Dave’s radar navigation kept him on the course he had to fly in order to be recognized as a friendly aircraft by the Rapiers.
Two miles out, Luna popped the bird to twelve hundred feet and dropped his gear and flaps, configuring for an assault landing. When he saw a flashing light at the southern end of the taxiway he queried the tower’s frequency.
No answer. He did not see the large crater that had been the tower’s bunker.
He brought the Hercules down final with its nose high in the air, carrying as much power as he could. The moment his main gear touched down on the taxiway, he shoved the yoke full forward, slamming the nose gear down, raking the throttles full aft and lifting them over the detent into reverse. He stomped on the brakes, dragging the cargo plane to a halt.
A pickup dashed onto the taxiway in front of them and a figure jumped out with two hand-held wands and motioned them to back up. Luna threw the props into reverse and backed down the main taxiway until he reached another taxiway leading into the bunkers. The lone figure ran down the taxiway motioning him to follow, waved the Hercules to a stop in front of a bunker with open blast doors.
“My God, look at the litters lined up,” Toni said, pointing to the casualties waiting evacuation. “How are we going to get that many on board?”
“We shut down and reconfigure for litters, that’s how,” Luna said.
“Captain, that takes thirty, maybe forty minutes,” the loadmaster complained.
“We’ll do it in fifteen. Get busy.”
Chief Hartley was already in the back of the Hercules directing the offloading of mortar shells and anti-tank weapons they had been waiting for. He told them the base was expecting an attack across the isthmus connecting the base to the mainland at any time. “They been pounding the crap out of us for two hours. We got some gettin’ even to do.” The battle-weary and wounded chief bundled into his truck and went off with the load into the night.
The men tending the wounded swarmed onto the Hercules and helped the crew rig the stanchions that allowed litters to be stacked five-high. The wounded were then carried on board as soon as a set of stanchions were in place, leaving trails of blood across the cargo deck. Bill Carroll helped carry on board one of his sergeants badly wounded in a rocket attack. He strapped the litter into place and checked with Toni D’Angelo, who was standing
at the rear of the cargo bay supervising the loading. “These are the ones our doc says can be saved if we get them to a hospital…The aid stations look like slaughter-houses.”
Toni looked at his name tag and checked the passenger list that had been handed her. She found the captain’s name at the top, indicating he had top priority to be evacuated. “We’ll do what we can, Captain. Why don’t you ride up front with us?”
It was an offer hard to turn down. God knew, Carroll wanted to get out of there, find his sanity again. He even started to pull himself up the steps leading to the flight deck, then abruptly stopped and hurried out through the crew-entrance hatch. “What the hell am I thinking of,” he mumbled to himself.
“Okay, let’s get the hell out of here,” Luna yelled at his co-pilot as Carroll jumped off the C-130 and headed for the Command Post.
Toni snapped the gear handle up as soon as the C-130 lifted off while Luna held the big bird on the deck and pushed the throttles full forward, coaxing as much airspeed as he could out of the tired engines. “Ten minutes, babies, just ten minutes,” he pleaded…
The enemy Flogger was also on the deck, trying to avoid radar-detection and engagement by the Rapiers. The pilot was trying to figure out a cover story to prove he had overflown the base on a visual reconnaissance as the air-group commander had ordered. Those fools, he thought, nothing is impossible for them when they don’t have to do it! Well, let them try once and not take a hit from an American missile. He also couldn’t understand why his superiors were so anxious to learn if the American base was burning. A huge silhouette flashed in front of him, heading south. He pulled up and rolled in behind the escaping airplane, recognizing the outline of a U.S. C-130 and seeing a solution to his problem. A confirmed kill would give any story he concocted the ring of truth.
The pilot carefully positioned his Flogger and closed to within three hundred meters, moving the pipper on his gunsight over the cockpit area. He squeezed the trigger
and held it, emptying his twin-barreled twenty-three-millimeter gun into the Hercules…
The first five shells ripped into the left side of the cockpit, killing Captain Luna and Riley Henderson. A shell smashed into Riley’s chest, tearing apart the upper half of his body. Blood and pieces of the flight engineer splashed over Dave Belfort as pieces of shrapnel cut into his face. Toni wrenched the yoke back, fighting for altitude, managing to control the Hercules and keep it airborne. Belfort unstrapped from his seat and moved across the flight deck, scooping Luna’s remains out of his seat. “I still got it,” Toni called out, and Dave grabbed the wheel and helped her fly the plane while she checked the overhead panel and radioed a distress call.