Firebreak (46 page)

The shrill whistle of friendly artillery passing overhead shattered the fear that bound Hanni and she threw herself onto the floor next to Shoshana, clasping her helmet to her head. The barrage increased its tempo and the APC shook as round after round reached over them, pounding at the advancing Iraqi tanks. “They must know we’re here,” Shoshana shouted.

The shelling halted as abruptly as it had started and they could hear the loud rumble of jets. Shoshana stood and looked out the periscope mounted in the top hatch. “They’re ours,” she announced. She scanned the valley and watched the second phase of a coordinated counterattack. Israeli jets were popping over the southern and eastern ridge for quick runs on the tanks. At the same time, TOW missiles were picking off the lead tanks. Still, the Iraqis came at them. The fires billowing from destroyed tanks and BMPs cast an eerie glow, illuminating the fresh carnage.

The distinctive crack-boom of Israel 105-millimeter tank-mounted guns echoed as the hills on the western side of thevalley flickered with muzzle flashes. Farther north, two Israeli F-4s were working over still more tanks and BMPs at that end of the valley. Shoshana gasped, at last able to see the size of the attack. The valley was filled with tanks and BMPs, all moving southward, taking their losses, pressing forward. More artillery rounds pounded at the tanks and they could hear Iraqi counterbattery fire reaching over them, ranging for the Israeli gun emplacements.

“We’re going to have to run …” Shoshana’s shout was cut off by a loud explosion—a near miss from an Iraqi 122-millimeter howitzer. TWo more rounds impacted, but were walking away from their position.

“What’s happening!” Hanni screamed, mind-paralyzing terror capturing her again. Shoshana wouldn’t tell her that it was a major attack that Levy’s small battalion could not possibly stop. Again she swept the area around her through the periscope, trying to find the best direction to run. Now movement on the western side of the valley caught her attention as Iraqi tanks swung away from the main line of advance and turned toward the Israeli defenders on their right flank. The APCs radio now came alive as Levy ordered his tanks to sortie forward.

Shoshana counted three Merkava tanks that burst over the western ridge and charged down the slope toward the advancing Iraqi tanks. Two APCs were in the protective shadow of the V, moving with the tanks. An Iraqi tank burst into flames, felling victim to the first shot from the lead Merkava. Then more tanks broke from their hides, revealing a flank attack in force. Shoshana knew that every tank Levy Force had was engaged. Then it came to her why no one had answered her radio call—Levy was maintaining radio silence as he repositioned the battalion under the cover of darkness and before the attack started.

Two M60 tanks supported by a Hummer mounting
a
TOW and an APC broke over the ridgeline and headed
for
them. The Israeli tanks cut across the advancing Iraqis at an angle, their main guns firing with deadly accuracy. The APC took a hit and skidded to a halt. The second tank spun on its tracks and went back to help. Shoshana watched in horror
as a
T-72 seemed to fire almost point-blank into the lead M60
at
less than five hundred meters. The side of the M60 spewed fire and sparks, but the tank didn’t stop. The Israeli
“Blazer”
reactive armor had blunted the Iraqi’s round. The M60 turret traversed and fired a round. The Iraqi tank took a direct hit and slued to a halt. The T-72's commander’s hatch flopped open and a figure bailed out. A burst of machine-gun fire from the M60 dropped the man.

The lead tank and the Hummer kept coming. The Hummer disappeared into a depression and stopped. Only its TOW missile was showing. Now the tank was almost to them. Hanni and Shoshana were out of the APC and running for it. The tank slowed but did not stop as its main gun fired again. Shoshana leaped on the front of the oncoming tank, her left hand grabbing the protective bracket that framed the right headlight and her feet scrambling against the front plate. Her left foot caught on a tow ring and she reached back with her right hand and grabbed Hanni to pull the much smaller woman aboard. The tank rocked with a recoil as the main gun fired again.

Hanni slipped and fell down in front of the still-moving tank. Shoshana tried to hold on but felt the woman slip from her grasp.

The tank jerked to the left and accelerated straight ahead, almost throwing Shoshana off, running over Hanni. Shoshana held on to the headlight bracket with both hands as her foot slipped off the tow ring. Her feet were dragging on the ground as the tank slued around to the right, both its main gun and machine gun firing. Shoshana saw an Iraqi tank flare. It was less than three hundred meters away. The M60 kept turning and now she would see Hanni lying on the ground. Shoshana’s spirits soared when Hanni leaped up and ran for the tank. The driver had seen Hanni fall and centered up, driving the tank right over the woman. Now he was coming back for a pickup.

A burst of machine-gun fire from a BMP raked across Hanni as the M60's main gun fired, killing the BMP. Hanni was down again, this time not moving. The tank stopped momentarily and Shoshana leaped off, running for her. The tank was circling them, firing round after round.

Hanni was dead. Two rounds from the machine gun had struck her in the chest, ripping her apart. A third had glanced off the left side of her helmet, shattering the earpiece. Shoshana didn’t want to believe she had lost her friend, the gentle woman who meant so much to her. Tenderly, she pulled herhelmet off and held Hanni to her. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

She was vaguely aware that the tank had stopped. Its gun fired and the hatch on top of the cupola popped open. A man stuck his head out. “Come,” was all he said, not loud, but commanding and urgent. It was Levy. In a daze, Shoshana gently laid Hanni down, and stumbled to the tank, not even aware she was still clutching her friend’s helmet. “Hurry,” Levy said. She moved faster and climbed up the side of the tank, over the tracks. The tank was moving as Levy dropped back into the turret. Shoshana followed him down the loader’s hatch.

The colonel sat behind Mana’s desk, enjoying the power and privileges that went with it. He hoped that his sudden elevation to command of the base at Mosul was not temporary. He picked up the ornate letter opener and fingered it, admiring the gold filigree on the handle. He stared at the two pilots standing in front of him. “Why should I countermand one of General Mana’s last orders?” he asked. “He placed you on standby alert for good reasons. I only have five Cobras left and now you are asking for me to trust you.” He jabbed the tip of the letter opener into the desk. “I’m not a fool!”

“Sir!” Johar barked. “Permission to speak.” The colonel nodded. “Please remember that we were the two pilots fortunate enough to have downed the Israeli F-Sixteens.” The colonel glared at them. He didn’t want to deal with the truth of that matter. “As you know,” Johar plunged on, “that was due to General Mana’s superb leadership and airmanship. It was entirely proper that he received credit for the kills and it was Allah’s will that Samir and I were the instruments of his wrath. Perhaps, with your leadership, Allah would so bless us again.” Johar fell silent, waiting for the colonel’s reaction.

The colonel considered what the lieutenant was offering. If he would allow them to fly, he would get the credit for any kills. And that might earn him permanent command of the base. But why were the two lieutenants so anxious to fly? The Americans had proven themselves to be most dangerous and he personally did not want to have to engage an F-15. What was in it for the lieutenants? After all, they were nobodies.

“Why are you so anxious to fly?” the colonel asked.

“Revenge,” Johar said. The cold look on his face made the colonel believe him.

The phone rang and the colonel picked it up. He listened to the short message and slammed it down. “The Americans are reported taking off again. They are loaded with bombs.” He stared at Johar and Samir, coming to a decision. “You will fly as number four and five.”

The two lieutenants gave the colonel the bow normally reserved for generals and followed him out of the office.

The chain of people were passing 105-millimeter shells up the side of the tank while Halaby worked the hand pump of a refueling bladder, topping up the fuel cells. Shoshana was on top of the turret, handing the shells to Avner who would stuff them into the gray aluminum storage racks that lined the turret. “I wish we had more Imis,” Avner grumbled.

“SHUT up, Avner,” Bielski said. “We were lucky to have gotten these.”

The remnants of the battalion were re-forming in a riverine valley that fed into the main valley where the Iraqis were attacking. Somehow, they had fought their way to safety and were redistributing ammunition while Levy tried to regroup his battalion.

Then they were finished and ready to move again. Shoshana sat on the fender and carved at the side of Hanni’s helmet, cutting away the jagged edges of the earpiece so she could wear it inside the tank. She had banged her head numerous times during the last wild ride out of the valley and didn’t want to repeat the experience. She tugged the helmet on but it was too small to fit over her heavy mass of hair. Disgusted with her vanity, she pulled a pair of surgical scissors die carried in the pencil pocket on her left arm and backed at her hair. She felt better when she threw the last ofher heavy tresses to the ground. “I should’ve done that years ago,” she muttered, feeling better. So much of her past was cut away with her hair.

Levy was finished talking on the radios and motioned for the tank commanders from the seven remaining tanks to huddle up on him. “It’s not good,” he told them. “We’re cut off here.” He pointed to the spot on his map where they were hidden. “The Iraqis spearheaded a major attack right down the valley and overran our old position. Northern Command is bringing reinforcements up but the situation is extremely critical. We’ve been ordered to counterattack and slow them down.”

“What the hell with?” one of the tank commanders grumbled. “We’ve got eight tanks and six APCs”—he waved his hand to the west—“and no artillery and no air.”

“The Iraqis are hurting bad too,” Levy said. “We don’t have a choice. We’ve got to keep the pressure on until we can be reinforced."?

“How do you plan to do that?” the same tank commander asked.

“By breaking out,” Levy answered. “We cross the valley again and head for the coast. We make it a running battle.” He sketched the axis of attack on his map and their objective. He deliberately folded the map.

“You must be feeling lucky today,” the tank commander said. “Well, let’s do it.” There was resignation in his voice.

Shoshana tried on Hanni’s helmet. It fit. Well, she thought, Matt’s flight suit and now Hanni’s helmet. My friends still help me. The thought reassured her. And there really was Levy’s Luck.

Mad Mike Martin was in his element, doing what he had trained for his entire career—leading fighters into combat with a chance to take on a truly good adversary flying a plane equal to his own. He had elected to fly single-ship armed only with four AMRAAMs, four Sidewinders, and 940 rounds of 20- millimeter high-explosive ammunition. He would fly a one-man CAP so the eight F-ISs following him in flights of two could go after the targets. The AWACS was feeding him information over the Have Quick radio and he was confident he could do a “hit-and-run” on any bandits that got in their way.

He didn’t have to wait long. “Viper Zero-One,” the AWACS transmitted, “five bandits airborne out of Mosul. Duster reports Kirkuk on a hold for launch. Bandits now zero-nine-zero degrees at sixty nautical miles from your position. Angels eighteen.” Martin made a mental note to get on the tactical controller’s case for being too wordy.

“Aldo,” Martin replied, “say bandit’s formation.”

“Three are in a bearing of aircraft,” the tactical controller answered. “Two are one mile in trail flying line abreast. Ah, stand by-” A moment later, he was back. “Viper, those two trailers are below five hundred feet.” His voice was full of disbelief.

Martin’s jaw hardened—it was what he wanted to hear. The earlier kills had been too easy and whoever he and Leary had stuffed had not been “Joe.” “Gotcha,” Martin said for his backseater to hear. “Aldo,” he transmitted, “the two trailers are the threat, don’t lose ‘em. I’m engaged.” With that he put the five bandits on his nose. “Okay, Meatheads,” he mumbled to himself, “do your thing while I do mine.” He slammed the big jet down onto the deck, barely two hundred feet above the ground, and stroked the throttles as his airspeed touched 500 knots.

Martin had never been so alive. He concentrated on the HUD, focusing on the gray holographic images coming from the Nav FLIR that let him see into the night. He ignored the shadows that served as ground references and gave him a sense of ground rush. He was not even aware of the sweat streaking his face and soaking his back as ground turbulence jolted the Eagle and pounded at his body.

While Martin flew to the east, the other eight birds continued to the southeast, still in the old corridor they had opened up on the first attack. Martin had reasoned that any “raghead missiler who values his cajones won’t be anxious to get our attention.” Besides, they had learned the location of the SAM sites from die first attack and were flying around them.

Matt checked his TSD—they were across the border and approaching the split point. The jet banked hard to the right when they overflew the point and his wingman followed him through the turn. The horizon to the east was lighting with the
first
glow of sunrise and Matt had no trouble picking out
his wingman
two thousand
feet to his left as they headed
south for Al Sahra. The second element continued straight ahead for Mosul while the third and fourth elements headed south for the ferry.

“Damn, I hope this works,” Matt muttered.

“Keep the faith, babes,” Furry said.

“Bandits now zero-nine-zero at forty-five, angels eighteen,” the tactical controller aboard the AWACS radioed Martin. “The threat is still in trail.”

“Roger,” Martin answered. His eyes narrowed as he considered his opening move. While Martin’s fangs may have been out and his hair on fire, he was no fool nor did he have a death wish. Surprise was his number one tactic and he had every intention of sneaking up on the bandits unobserved. To accomplish that, he hid down in the weeds at two hundred feet and had his radar in standby. Martin had no illusions about what he was doing; it was the work of the assassin, not bold knights jousting in the lists of combat. “Aldo, say bandits’ heading.”

“Turning to the south,” Aldo answered. It was what Martin wanted to hear. Now the Flankers’ radar was pointed away from him and couldn’t paint him. He doubted if the Iraqis’ ground-based search radars could find him and with the AWACS serving as his eyes, he had the advantage of situational awareness over his opponents.

The colonel was almost in AMRAAM range. Should he turn on his radar and launch one of the highly sophisticated missiles or press for a close-in opening attack? He decided to keep his radar off and close. One of the Flankers would certainly detect his radar so why tell Joe he was out here? He uncaged the seeker head of a Sidewinder and let it search for a target. Almost immediately the comforting growl indicating a lock-on filled his headset. He pressed closer, now deciding to use his gun and do a hit-and-split followed by a reattack.

“Aldo, say position of trailing two aircraft,” he radioed. He still didn’t have a visual contact.

“Viper Zero-One, the bandits are now in a wheel on your nose at six miles, I cannot break trailers out.”

“Are they still on the deck?” Martin asked, his voice still calm and measured.

“Unknown. Stand by,” Aldo answered. The radar on the AWACS could differentiate altitudes but had to change itsmode of operation and that took a few seconds, which Martin no longer had.

“Tallyho,” the colonel called. He could see the bandits high in the sky, still in front of him, silhouetted against the reddening dawn. He pulled back on the stick and climbed, hooking into the six o’clock of the nearest Flanker. He had hidden, now it was time to be quick. The Flanker was still four thousand feet above him when he hit the weapons select switch, bringing his radar out of standby. The radar did as it was commanded and locked on the nearest target. The symbology on the HUD switched to air-to-air and he followed the steering dot. The pipper centered on the target and he squeezed the trigger, sending a short burst of 20-millimeter into the Flanker.

Now he skidded violently to the left and did a Split S, heading back for the deck. Joe had to know he was out here now. “Splashed the bastard,” his wizzo told him, confirming that he had his fourth kill.

“Shit hot!” Martin shouted, not because he was one kill short of becoming an ace, but because his radar had just found two aircraft down on the deck below him. One of them had to be Joe. “One pass, haul ass,” Martin promised his backseater.

Johar’s head was twisted to the right as he scanned the sky above him, looking for the fighter that he knew was out there. He could see the falling dart of fire that had been a Flanker, the latest commander of Mosul. How many are out there? he wondered. Don’t panic, take them one at a time. They’ve got to find me. Now his radar warning gear growled at him. He glanced inside the cockpit and saw a single symbol for a fighter at his six o’clock position. “Samir,” he radioed, “bandit six o’clock, closing, no tally.”

“No tally,” Samir answered. They drove straight ahead and waited. Both men strained to see the fighter they knew was slashing down on them.

“Tallyho!” Johar shouted. He had finally seen the dark silhouette of Martin’s F-15 against the morning glow. “Turn and hook … Now,” Johar commanded. The “turn-and-hook” was a low-level tactic they had worked out while sitting standby alert. Since Johar had called for it, he would make a level turn to the right as low to the ground as possible. At the same time, Samir would reef into a hard climb, maintaining his airspeed. The goal was to make the attacker commit on one of them. It didn’t matter which.

“He’s on me,” Johar called, watching for a missile, extending his speed break and slowing below 200 knots. As expected, a Sidewinder leaped off the F-15 and tracked on him. At die same time, Samir was ruddering his bird over to hook into the fight from above. Johar watched the missile close. His left hand dropped behind the throttles and bounced off a big button, laying a string of flares and chaff behind him to decoy the missile while he honked back on the stick. His airspeed was below 140 knots. Now his tail was turning away from the missile, presenting a reduced heat signature for the missile to home on. His angle of attack increased to above forty units as the nose came up and he slowed even more. The missile homed on a flare.

Johar watched the F-15 do exactly as he had planned. The American pilot had obviously seen Samir coming down from above and had to think about disengaging. The F-15 headed directly for Johar and accelerated for one last snap shot with his gun—something to keep Johar occupied while he ran for safety. It would have worked beautifully with an average pilot.

Now Johar honked back even farther on the stick and the Flanker mushroomed above a thousand feet, its nose high in the air. It resembled the head of a cobra rearing back to strike. Now the F-15 pilot had no chance for
a
snap shot and was in full afterburner as he flashed by underneath Johar’s cobra, now disengaging, worried more about Samir. Johar had been counting on the American to see him as a sitting duck—a pilot who had let his airspeed decay and gotten himself into
a
stall while trying to avoid a missile.

But the Flanker was nowhere near a stall. Johar pushed the stick forward and retracted his speed brake. The nose of his Flanker dropped, the head of a cobra striking at its victim. Johar’s timing was perfect and he sent an R-60 dogfight missile at the escaping jet. The F-15 pilot saw the missile and jinked to the left. Then he turned harder to the left, keeping the missile and the two Flankers in sight. Flares popped out behind
the
Eagle. But the missile NATO called Archer ignored
the
flares and followed the F-15 through
the
turn.
It
was still accelerating when it flew up Martin’s left exhaust and exploded. The F-15 pitched into the ground.

“Samir, say position,” Johar radioed. He was in a left turn, orbiting the burning wreckage.

“At your six, joining on your right.” The two Flankers flew one 360-degree turn over the destroyed F-15. Johar tried to reconstruct the engagement from the dead pilot’s point of view to analyze the effectiveness of the turn-and-hook tactic. The American had engaged using hit-and-run tactics and opted to “hit” on him when it looked like Samir had zoomed out of the fight. Johar’s slow speed had tricked the American into closing for a guns solution after launching a Sidewinder. If the pilot had been less aggressive, not so sure of himself, and had turned away and disengaged immediately after launching the Sidewinder, he would still be alive. Would it work again? He didn’t know.

The radio crackled with commands from their ground controller, demanding they report in. “Go common,” Johar said, changing to a frequency where they would not be disturbed.

“What now?” Samir asked when they were established on the new frequency.

“Our controllers are worthless,” Johar said. He checked his fuel, thinking. The Flanker carried more than twenty-two thousand pounds of fuel internally and could stay airborne for long periods of time. “We know the corridor the Americans use,” Johar told his wingman. “Let’s wait for them to come to us.”

Michael Cagliari and General Cox were huddled over the Teletype operator in the small room that housed the Hot Line to the Kremlin. After being off-line for days, the machine was spitting out a message. Someone in the Kremlin wanted to talk to the Americans. The Teletype operator was fluent in Russian and read out the text a line at a time as it scrolled up. “Get another translator,” he told his supervisor. The woman motioned for another Teletype operator to read the message. The two men conferred, wanting to be absolutely sure they had it right. An English language translation of the message started to type out. “The Russians want to be sure we don’t botch the translation,” the first operator said.