The V-12 diesel engine roared as Halaby buried his foot in the big gas pedal and the tank dropped over the crest with a jarring crunch as the torsion bar suspense absorbed the impact. The lead T-72 fired, but it was too late and the range too far. Now they were on the back side of the ridge heading for a deep wadi in front of them. Levy planned to take a hull-down position and drill any tank that came over the crest of the ridge after them. Halaby slowed as he nosed the tank down the slope, across some difficult terrain. Then the tank stopped.
“I threw a track,” the driver shouted.
Amos Avner grabbed a long communications extension cord, popped the loader’s hatch over his position, and scrambled out of the tank before anyone could say a thing. Shoshana was surprised at how fast the young man could move and plugged her com cord into the station Avner had been using. She could hear him talking.
“Nazzi, it’s the right track. The top has driven off underneath the fender and is still on the rollers and the front idler. It’s partially on the sprocket.” There was none of the harsh tones that usually accompanied exchanges between the driver and loader. “The right track is on the down side of the hill. You’ve done this one before.” There was triumph in his voice. “Start backing up.”
Shoshana stuck her head out the loader’s hatch and saw Avner beside the tank, holding on to the com cord and guiding Halaby as he backed up. She felt him steer to the right, which stopped the right track. The nose of the tank inched slowly to the left.
“TANK ON THE RIDGE!” Levy shouted and the turret traversed to the left.
Shoshana dropped back into the turret but left the hatch open for Avner. Still the tank inched backward and she could hear Avner’s voice directing Halaby. “Easy, easy, Nazzi. You’ve almost got it.” The tank was turning back onto the track.
“GUNNER! IMI! TANK LEFT!” Levy ordered, going through the firing sequence.
“UP!” Avner shouted, still doing his job while on the outside of the tank. They had been battle-carrying the hyper-velocity armor-piercing round.
“IDENTIFIED!” (Bielski)—“FIRE” (Levy)—“ON THE WAY!” (Bielski).
The loud crack-boom of the main gun echoed through the open hatch and the tank rocked with the recoil. The round hit the underside of the T-72 as it came over the ridge.
“The track’s on!” Avner shouted. “You did it, Nazzi!”
“GUNNER, IMI, TANK!” Levy had seen a second tank coming over the ridge at them, its nose still high in the air. But Avner was outside the tank. Shoshana had watched Avner load the main gun and knew where he stored the different types of rounds. She pulled an Imi out of its storage canister and shoved the fifty-pound round into the open breech with her fist. The breech automatically snapped closed, almost catching her hand. “UP!” she shouted.
Again, they went through the firing sequence and the spent shell casing automatically ejected out of the breech and rolled on the floor of the turret.
“Amos!” Levy shouted over the intercom. “Where are you?” No answer. The loader had been scrambling up the side of the tank when it fired and the recoil had thrown him off.
Again, Levy called out another tank and Shoshana went through the loading routine. But she lost her balance and dropped the fresh round. Rather than scramble for the round, she reached for another one. The delay was too long. The T-72 had crested the hill and got off the first shot. Bielski shouted “IDENTIFIED!” as the round hit the left side of the turret. It was a glancing blow and the reactive armor detonated, sending an explosion out, canceling the explosion coming in.
“FIRE!”
“ON THE WAY!”
The tank rocked and Shoshana could hardly believe they were okay. The turret traversed as they looked for other tanks. Only three burning hulks were on the ridgeline above them. Levy popped his hatch, looking for his loader. But Avner had taken the full force of both explosions and had simply disintegrated. There was nothing left that could be called a body. Levy keyed the radio and checked in with his small force.
In the silence, Shoshana could hear a low moan from Halaby. “Are you okay?” she asked. The driver turned and looked at her, grief, not pain, written across his face. He told her that he was not hurt.
Shoshana looked at Bielski, not understanding. “They were friends,” the gunner told her. “They just didn’t know it.”
“We’re moving out,” Levy said. “We got them all.”
Levy’s Luck had held again, but this time at the price of Amos Avner.
Matt was talking to Sean Leary, his wingman, over the Have Quick radio, telling him how die flak trap at Mosul had been set up. “Al Sahra is probably the same so stand off as far as you can.”
A cool “Roger” answered him.
“I hope he doesn’t press it too hard,” Matt told his wizzo.
“You know Sean,” Furry answered. The attack sequence called for Leary to make a low-level run at Al Sahra and toss a GBU at max range, break off and move outside the range of the SAMs and AAA circling the field. Hopefully, the air defenders around Al Sahra would be concentrating on Leary while Matt ran in, right down the runway.
“I’m in,” Sean radioed, starting his attack run.
“Don’t press it,” Matt mumbled to himself.
Leary’s voice came over the radio: “Thirty seconds.” He was thirty seconds away from pickle, the cue for Matt to start his run. He shoved the throttles into Mil power, touching 600 knots. Now the defenders started to react and the TEWS lit up with numerous threats.
“Bomb gone!” Leary yelled. “I’m outa here.”
Matt could see numerous missile plumes, all on Leary. He concentrated on his run, sweat pouring down his face. Now he could see the runway. A hangar disappeared in a bright flash — Leary’s bomb. “Come left,” Furry said. He had their target on the Target FLIR — six Transport aircraft parked on the ramp.
“Tally,” Matt replied. He could see the aircraft. One was starting to move.
Now they were over the edge of the ramp and Matt felt the six Snakeyes ripple off as the aircraft on the ramp disappeared under his nose. He shoved the throttles into full afterburner and went through the Mach. Furry hit the button that popped flares and chaff in their wake while he twisted around in his seat, checking on their bombs. “Got ‘em!” he shouted. Now they were running for safety, overflying a gun pit and two SAM launchers. Then they were clear.
“Sean,” Matt transmitted, “say position.”
“North of target. Battle damage.” Every word of the short transmission was strained.
Matt turned to the north and used his radar to find the F-15. He had a single, slow-moving target on his nose at thirty miles. “I’m coming,” he told the stricken pilot. “Can you push your airspeed up?”
“Negative,” came the reply.
“Say damage,” Matt transmitted.
“Controllability problems. Smoke and fumes in cockpit, on emergency generator, MPDP out.” The MPDP was the Multi-Purpose Display Processor that controlled the HUD and video screens in both cockpits.
“He’s blind and flying on backup instruments,” Furry said. “He must be hurt bad.”
Matt felt a coppery taste in his mouth. Leary was in a world of hurt because of him. He had planned the attack. He had determined who would lead the attack. Now it was hisresponsibility to get Leary out. “Hold on,” he radioed. “I’m on the way.”
“Got him on the Target FLIR,” Furry said. Matt looked down and saw the greenish image of an F-15 on the screen. They were still beyond visual range, but the FLIR was imaging the stricken plane. Most of the right rear vertical stabilizer was gone and smoke was streaming from under the right engine. Matt’s resolve hardened.