Uqba ben Nafi, 0548 GMT (0648 Local)

The first helicopters to arrive overhead the air base were twenty Sea Cobra gunships, two flights from Saipan and three from Inchon. The gunships hovered over a broad arc south of the Operations Building in the center of the base. Navy fighters and attack aircraft ranged farther south and watched the roads to the east and west. Airborne and marine units began to assemble on the tarmac as personnel were checked against lists. It was demanded by the plan that if possible no one, alive or dead, be left behind.

Lieutenant John Connelly’s Sheridan rolled into the area in front of the Operations Building, greeted by cheers and a raucous blast from Sgt. Matthew Tucker’s bugle. Connelly felt proud of his work, and of his men, but he wanted most to know the fate of the crews that had been hit. Tucker’s Sheridan had been the first to leave the net, and Connelly’s drawn, almost haggard face lit up to see Blue Two’s commander and two of his men. “Damn, Sergeant, you made it! Climb up here!”

“Yes, sir. We lost my driver, sir, Bobby Henry.”

Connelly felt his chest tighten. “I’m sorry, Matt.”

“Yes, sir. He was good; a good friend.”

“Shit, Sergeant, get up here on top, blow Assembly on that bugle; blow it over and over. Maybe some other guys got through.”

“Yes, sir,” said Sergeant Tucker, climbing up onto the turret and blowing the pure notes, first to the east and then to the other points of the compass.

“Colonel Loonfeather, we haven’t met. I’m Commander Philip Hooper; the SEALs, sir.”

Loonfeather turned from his radio and shook hands. “You and your team did well, Commander. Thank you.”

“Make it Hoop, Colonel, please.”

“OK. Rufus, then.”

“Good,” grinned Hooper. “Have you got a minute to run down this evacuation for me?”

Loonfeather showed him the diagram on his clipboard. “It’s standard Marine Corps doctrine, Hoop. Perimeter defense is the marine rifle company, plus all those Cobras we could have used earlier.” Hooper smiled, but Loonfeather couldn’t; his face was set against the pain of the early casualty reports from the Armor. “We’re doing this as though we’re under fire, which is to say that we evacuate from the inside of the perimeter out, but the last unit to leave has to be strong enough to defend itself against any expected threat.”

“OK, the Marines are the Critical Mass Force, the last out.”

“Right, because their organization is intact - they weren’t dispersed by a parachute jump - and because the helo crews are also Marines.”

Hooper pointed at helicopter pairs flying in from the sea while the CH-53s continued to hover over the beach. “What about those guys?”

“Each pair - a CH-46 and a Cobra - will be vectored onto a downed helicopter, or a knocked-out Sheridan, to look for wounded or remains. Others will search the beach for stragglers from the jump, who were told to walk to the beach if they landed long. The name of every man picked up will be radioed to Major Donahue, who holds the master roster for all the units involved. The units inside the perimeter will be assigned a lift as soon as they’re certified present or accounted for by their commanders. As each unit is ready, we’ll call down a bird, and they’re gone.”

“The first bird picked up the casualties from the aid station.”

“Right. The second will pick up casualties here, and then the hostages go out.”

“And last the marines.”

“Right. The entire rifle company will go in one last lift.”

“What about your little tank?” asked Hooper, looking at the Sheridan.

“Regrettably, Commander, that gets blown up.”

“How about my team, and our distinguished prisoner?”

Loonfeather shrugged. “You’re intact, you can go with the hostages if you want.”

Hooper frowned, remembering Ricardo’s still body on the roof. We are not intact, he thought. “We’ve been watching you guys work for near forty minutes. We’ll wait and go last, with the marines, Colonel, if you please.”

Commander Hooper turned and walked back to his men. Loonfeather watched his back, fighting anger. The SEAL commander wasn’t exactly discourteous, thought Loonfeather, stung by Hooper’s abruptness, but he wasn’t exactly polite either. Loonfeather knew that many would criticize the operation. Surely Hooper would have argued for a quick snatch; commandos liked to strike and be gone. Hindsight would agree with them, since the SEALs had held the Operations Building without the expected opposition from close-positioned Libyan troops before the Airborne had jumped. Hindsight and my casualties will plague me, he thought grimly. Then his mood brightened quickly as he saw Lieutenant Baird and his crew, jumping and cheering, join up with Connelly on the lone surviving Sheridan. Fuck the second-guessers, he thought behind his smile. Fuck Commander Hooper, too.

“That wasn’t exactly polite, Hoop,” said Stuart, following Hooper as he walked away from Loonfeather.

“Oh, fuck you, William!” Hooper stopped and faced Stuart, anger to anger. “OK, no, I suppose it wasn’t, but I think letting the Army run this thing got a lot of people killed.”

“In what sense?”

“It was just too fucking complicated! If we could have had three CH-53s, escorted by a few Cobras, right after we secured the Ops Building, we would have been gone before a single Libyan woke up. Instead, we fight a major battle and damn near get waxed.” Hooper’s eyes were angry and sad. Ricardo had died in his arms, drowned in his own blood.

“Hindsight, Hoop.” Stuart sensed his friend’s grief, and he placed his hands on the big man’s shoulders. “Any moving vehicle, especially that ZSU, and we could have lost everyone.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m pissed about all the casualties, and especially Ricardo. He was a good friend.” Hooper lowered his head, his anger going. “But you know what else, William?”

“What, Hoop?”

“Maybe it was because I had nothing to do once the Airborne took over. Maybe it was because I felt like a spectator. But when those tanks came through that smoke, I was scared shitless.”

William smiled at his friend. “It did get loud.”

Hooper looked up and recovered his grin. “Precisely. Look, I’ll make it right with Colonel Loonfeather.”

The fire inside the Maintenance Building spread quickly, racing up the walls and igniting the dry wooden joists and beams. Colonel Zharkov had his men in their tanks and BTRs with the engines running. Outside on the apron, he could see huge helicopters landing by twos and threes and troops loading up. Nice and orderly, he thought, but too damn slow. We are going to have to drive out of here before the building starts to collapse, and the Americans will not be gone before that happens.

Zharkov climbed down the ladder from the narrow window above the bay doors. Even though the fire was at the other end of the long building, the heat and smoke were becoming intolerable. Zharkov gestured for the duty officer to join him. “Lieutenant, get the flag from the duty office.”

“Yes, Comrade Colonel!”

“Is there a sheet on the bunk in there?”

“Yes, Comrade Colonel!”

“Bring that, too.” The officer looked puzzled, but he hustled away.

Zharkov climbed up onto the turret of his tank and waved for the men’s attention, shouting to be heard above the rumble of the diesels. “We are going to have to show ourselves. We have been ordered to avoid direct conflict with the Americans. I wish to reemphasize that point.”

He looked at each tank and BTR commander. Each nodded his understanding. Zharkov looked hard at the zampolit, Captain Suslov, who nodded gravely. Behind Suslov, out of his view, Warrant Officer Tolkin nodded vigorously. “Good.” The duty officer had returned with the Soviet flag, on its wooden staff, and the wrinkled sheet from the bunk. Zharkov handed the flag to his gunner, who stuck it upright in his hatch. Zharkov draped the white sheet over the barrel of the tank cannon and fastened it with wire. He climbed into the commander’s hatch and trained the gun out right to the three o’clock position.

Stuart watched Leah as the hostages jogged single file toward the three CH-53s assigned to pick them up. She waved them onward, urging each one to hurry, but the women and nearly all the children wanted to stop, to touch her, before they proceeded to the helicopters. At last, the three helos were loaded, and they lifted off under their screen of Cobras and A-7s flying above. The hostages waved from the open doors of the helos until they could no longer see the apron. The slim Israeli officer waved back, her face streaming with tears.

“Leah,” whispered Stuart. She looked up at him, stripping the tears from her eyes with the back of an angry hand. She turned from him, and he felt pain beyond imagining. “Leah, please,” he began again.

She whirled and threw herself into his arms, sobbing, beyond words. He held her, fiercely tight, and he felt a tightness in his throat. “Leah.”

Leah pushed her face up gently past his chin. “William,” she whispered, her breath short from crying, “I have never seen such bravery as among those people.”

“They’re safe, now.” It seemed an inadequate thing to say.

“There were so many casualties!”

“Too many. But you were very brave.”

Leah pushed him back, looking at him. “Brave? I didn’t feel brave.”

“Brave, Leah, and beautiful.”

Leah wiped away the last of her tears and seemed to stiffen in William’s arms. “Are you talking of love to me, Commander?” There was the edge of forced humor in her voice.

“Yes. Please don’t laugh, Leah.”

Tears streamed from her eyes again, and she pressed her face into his chest. “Oh God, Stuart, I can only cry now.”

“I love you, Leah.”

Leah sobbed so deeply that Stuart felt his body rocked as he held her.

“OK, Rufus. The lists are complete. Last Airborne units all present or accounted for,” said Major Donahue.

“Load ‘em, John.”

“Yes, sir.” Donahue swung his arm in a circle above his head, then pumped it once. Knots of soldiers ran crouched to waiting helicopters in orderly rows, holding their weapons at port arms, across their chests. Lieutenant Colonel Loonfeather tapped Major Donahue on the shoulder. “What was the casualty total, John?”

“Thirty-six KIA, Rufus, including the aircrews picked up at sea or lost at sea.”

“How many of my Sheridan crews?”

“Fifteen, Colonel. I’m sorry.”

Jesus, thought Loonfeather. Fifteen killed out of a total of thirty-two who jumped. “Well, John, we knew they’d catch hell if they had to fight.”

“As near as we can tell, Colonel, the seven who fought killed nine T-72s.”

Loonfeather smiled between pride and pain. “Yeah, John, the hard way, too. In the open, tank to tank.”

“Brave men, Colonel.”

Loonfeather watched as the last of the Airborne loaded up and the CH-53s began taking off. The marines moved to the assembly points near the landing spots that had been marked on the tarmac in white paint. Such brave men, thought Loonfeather.

“Colonel?” asked Lieutenant Connelly, at his side. “Shall we blow the Sheridan?”

“Is it charged?”

“Yes, sir, but it’s safe. We should back it away from the helicopters. Huckins has the radio detonator.”

Loonfeather had the sudden image in his mind of danger lurking unseen. He once again heard the whispers of the Old Ones, so long dead. The feeling was so strong that Loonfeather trembled, as he had earlier. The warning had something to do with the Sheridan. “Lieutenant, let’s leave it where it is. The detonator has enough range; we’ll kick it off when we’re airborne.”

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.