27
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 headedsouth 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.