“We still saving this lousy world?”
“Last thing I heard, we are.”
Murdock sipped at his coffee. It had turned cold. He drank some anyway so he wouldn’t have to answer. At last, he gave a sigh.
“Let’s go over the whole damn problem in my compartment. I’d guess this isn’t for the ship’s loudspeakers.”
Stroh stood.
“Sit down, I’m not going anywhere until I have breakfast or lunch or whatever the hell time it is. I’m a bear before breakfast.”
U.S. Air Force Captain Smarthing led a flight of six F-16 Fighting Falcons across the northern reaches of Saudi Arabia, heading for the fighting in Syria twenty miles inside Syria from the Iraqi border. The United States had answered the call from Syria for assistance, and the quickest and most effective way was to provide air cover and attacks on the Iraqi tanks that boiled across the border.
The lines between nations were ill defined in this desert area, but far ahead, Captain Smarthing could see signs of smoke.
“Falcon Flight, this is Falcon One, approaching target area. Keep a check on any Iraqi air, then pick out your tank target and do what you can. We’ll split up about now. Two, three, and four take the northern sector. The rest of us the south. Break.”
The three other Falcons broke off to the left and raced toward the ground. They needed at least three thousand feet altitude to fire their Maverick missiles. Each of the Falcons carried four of the tank busters. The 637-pound missiles housed a 300-pound warhead and could destroy any tank in this small war.
The big tank killers had IIR, imaging infrared guidance systems, that usually produced an 80 percent to 90 percent hit rate.
“Three tanks to the left,” Smarthing’s radio reported.
“Roger that, I’ll take the first one,” Smarthing said. He cranked in the scope and turned to get the tank squarely in a lock in his sights. He had it. He punched the firing button and felt one of the heavy missiles drop off the plane and jet forward at Mach l and gaining speed. Below, the tank maneuvered, but the missile’s guidance system kept locked on the target.
In the tank below, Major Hadr watched with satisfaction as his company of tanks rolled through light infantry resistance toward the small hill a mile away that was the goal for today. It had been an exciting two days of battle. Thrills of the chase and the battle with two smaller Syrian tanks, which he had won. Now there seemed little to stop his company from taking the small hill.
He had no warning as the heavy Maverick missile bore straight into its target and the 300-pound warhead penetrated the tank’s armor before exploding, disintegrating the tank and killing Hadr and its crew at once.
In the air, Captain Smarthing held up one finger and nodded. He had three missiles left. By that time, two of the tanks below had ceased to exist. The hatch popped open on the third, and a man stood up just as another Maverick blasted his armored tin can into scrap metal and a disemboweled and widely scattered crew.
Captain Smarthing and his flight accounted for fourteen tanks that afternoon and finished the day with strafing runs on rear areas behind the lines, looking for fuel dumps and vehicles. They hit one gasoline storage area that erupted in a tremendous gush of flames that spread to tents and a few small buildings.
“Damn, you see that?” his wingman shouted in the radio. “Bet we discouraged a lot of trucks from running any farther.”
“Fuel check,” Captain Smarthing called. The five others reported in that they had 55 percent of their fuel supply left.
“Better head back, unless some of you want to walk the last fifty miles through the desert,” Captain Smarthing said.
They turned, formed up, and headed back to their field in Saudi Arabia.
“Why didn’t we get more tanks?” Captain Smarthing asked.
“Damn, that was all there were there, Captain. We clobbered the whole damn tank company. Near as I can figure, we had only two misses with the Mavericks. What a sweetheart.”
Smarthing felt better. But on the way back to their base, he still remembered the last words of his friend and former wingman when they patrolled the no-fly zone in Iraq. Nothing would erase those words from his mind. The ache and the empty place would always be there. Today helped make up a little for losing his friend over the skies of Iraq.
Sergeant an-Numan had watched the jet fighters come out of the sky and kill the tanks that were about to overwhelm his platoon. His lieutenant had been killed the first day of the war. He had been leading the platoon since. They should have forty-two men, but two days of furious combat had cut his troops down to twenty-two. At this location, the men had dug in, throwing up quickly whatever protection they could. Now the men looked at him.
They had been told to hold this area at all costs.
“Hold your positions,” an-Numan shouted. He had no radio. He received instructions by runners, when they could get through. He peered over the dirt parapet toward the still-burning tanks. Where was the Iraqi infantry? The foot soldiers always followed the tanks. Perhaps they had fallen behind the growling monsters.
Sergeant an-Numan had hated it when the tanks came over the small rise ahead of them. They had retreated here early this morning and been told to dig in. There were only a few men behind them. They had to hold. Now they had, thanks to the pilots who killed all but one of the tanks, which turned and sped back the way it had come.
He thought of sending two men up to the dead tanks to see what they could salvage. There might be some useable weapons. He dismissed the idea.
A moment later, he saw the first Iraqi soldier come over the hill. He dropped to the ground at once. He had seen the burning tanks. The figure slithered backward and vanished over the rise. How many men were behind him?
Sergeant an-Numan waved at his machine gunner. The weapon was the best they had, and there was plenty of ammo. He signaled the squad leaders to be alert.
The sergeant watched the top of the hill. It was six hundred yards away. He saw movement. A pair of men crawled up to the top of the hill and looked over. An-Numan sighted in with his AK-47 and fired a single shot. Yes. He saw one of the men rear up, then fall. The other man dragged him back out of sight.
A small cheer went up down the line.
“Hold your fire,” an-Numan called. “If they come, they will be charging fast. We will make every round count.”
Nothing happened. For an hour, the men of the First Platoon, Second Infantry Regiment, sat in their holes, waiting. An-Numan wanted to send a scout to the crest of the hill and see who was on the other side. He didn’t have a good scout left. He had one machine gun where he should have three. He had no snipers. There were only two submachine guns. The rest had AK-47s, the old ones.
Movement.
He checked with his binoculars. Another scout. Before he had a sight on the man, the Iraqi slid back out of sight.
The Syrian soldiers heard the machine before they saw it. When it came over the brow of the hill, it spat lead at them. The rig was a half-track with a .50-caliber machine gun mounted on a pedestal.
“Get down,” an-Numan shouted. The heavy bullets slammed a line across their earthworks. One man shouted, but the sergeant grinned, knowing he was a clown. When the bullets walked down the line the other way, an-Numan lifted up and looked at the skyline. He shivered. Eighty, maybe a hundred men came over the top and began running forward.
“Hold your fire,” the sergeant bellowed. “Wait until they get closer.”
His heart thumped hard in his chest. His eyes watered. He coughed. He’d coughed when he became nervous since he was in school.