The leading six scout cars grounded within seconds of each other and ran into a storm of machinegun and mortar fire. The few survivors stumbled ashore and started across the short strip of land, only to set off the freshly planted land mines. The brief opposition to the landing was not meant to be a resistance in the force, and the momentum behind the landing forced the second echelon ashore as the defending fire stopped.
The puzzled attackers worked their way across the deserted beach, setting off an occasional mine but not encountering any more ground resistance. Two phantoms roared overhead, strafing the beach and dropping CBUs. One of the Phantoms exploded as a SAM from a landing ship found its mark.
Four fast patrol boats started a run toward Ras Assanya eleven miles to the south, trying to bring their small-caliber guns and rockets into range. The boats were two miles offshore when the lead struck a mine. The remaining boats withdrew, not stopping to rescue the survivors.
A reprieve.
Stansell checked his watch: 3:15. He figured he could get in two more shuttles before sunrise. He watched the shadowy image of the C-130 as it took the Active. At first the lieutenant colonel thought a lightning flash had illuminated the base, but the loud concussion that followed warned that the base was coming under an artillery barrage. He dove into a slit trench, raised his head to check on the C-130. As the cargo plane began to move down the runway a flash followed by an explosion swallowed it in smoke. And like a dragon poking its ugly snout out of a misty cave, the Hercules emerged, accelerating out of the smoke, rolling down the runway and lifting into the air.
Stansell waited for the barrage to end, counting forty explosions. “So they’ve got a BM-21 ashore,” he muttered to himself. And that worried him. If the PSI had managed to get the truck rocket-launcher within its nine-mile range, they could also hit the base with heavy artillery. He dusted himself off and keyed his brick, calling for the next round of men and women to report to the evacuation bunker. He ignored the fires burning at the far end of the runway and the wailing sound of the crash trucks that had rushed to the north end of the runway as soon as the barrage had ended. Now they found the burning hulks of four Phantoms on the taxiway, where they had been caught in the open during the rocket attack. As best they could tell, a rocket had scored a direct hit on the second bird in line and its exploding ordnance had destroyed the other three. An NCO ripped off his silver helmet, throwing up as the smell of burning flesh washed over him. Another fireman keyed his radio and called for a bulldozer to clear the taxiway as the trucks started to put out the fires.
The board posters in the command post erased the four tail numbers from the shrinking list of mission-capable aircraft. Waters counted the thirty effective aircraft now available to him. The board posters had started another list, marking up the total people evacuated. As one list grew shorter, the other increased. He turned to Farrell. “Steve, match one aircrew to each of those thirty birds. Round up the extra crews and take them out on the next shuttle.”
“Colonel, I’m not going—”
“Steve, don’t argue. Just do it. Artillery and rockets will eat us up. You know that.” Waters walked through the command post ordering people out on the next shuttle. When he got to Nesbit, the sergeant told him that since he had just arrived at Ras Assanya he should be among the last to go. He also pointed out he was the only one who knew how to activate the self-destruct on the command-communications console. Waters accepted that, not knowing there was no self-destruct installed on the equipment…
Shaw handed Waters the latest message he had received. “I’ve been ordered out by Cunningham.” He felt he needed to justify his leaving. “The President has ordered a full-scale evacuation since the UAC is hardly opposing the landing. They’ve only thrown one regiment against the beachhead. Maybe two thousand men. I wonder how long they can hold? Probably don’t want to upset negotiations. Great allies, the pricks. All they have to do is hold on long enough for the Navy to get back in the Gulf. A day or two. Maybe. Anyway, it doesn’t matter to them what happens to us.” He shook Waters’ hand, gathered seven men together and headed for the evacuation bunker.
Waters picked up the phone to the Security Police bunker. “Have the GCI controllers made it in yet? I ordered them in an hour ago.”
Chief Hartley answered: “Sixteen of them have made it across the causeway. They say Captain Hauser is right behind them with seven more. Colonel, they reported seeing troops and scout cars. I think we may be cut off. Everything is awful quiet here.”
Sid Luna told his crew to wait outside the Airlift Command Element while he went inside. He was amazed at the number of people wandering around the ramp in the early morning, most of them wearing flak jackets and helmets like a badge of honor. The C-141 they had come in on was already taxiing out with a full load of people and he could see one C-130 on the ramp. The place — known as ALCE — was deserted except for one angry-looking chief master sergeant behind the high-topped desk counter.
“Say, Chief, if you’ve got a Herky bird, I’ve got a crew.” Luna handed the chief a copy of the flight orders that identified his crew as available for staging out of Dhahran.
“Where were you when I needed you?” Pullman snapped, then angrily explained what was happening at Ras Assanya, how he could have used Luna to replace a crew that had been flying for over twenty-four hours, how they had received two messages, the first from the Pentagon declaring Ras Assanya to be evacuated, the second from headquarters MAC forbidding all flights into Ras Assanya since the base might be attacked.
“Chief, you’ve been on duty too long,” Luna said. “My old man was a chief and he would have handled this one… like this. Get communications to request a retransmission of the message you don’t like, claim it was garbled. Then get on the phone to the com center where the message came from and make sure they really garble it on the second transmission. Any chief worth his salt can do that.”
Pullman nodded his thanks, surprised that he could learn from a trash-hauling captain.
“Relax. Chief, you’re doing them a favor,” Luna said. “MAC will get it all straightened out in about twenty-four hours. That’s their normal run-around-with-their-heads-up-their-ass time. Now, you got a bird for us? We want to go allying.”
Twenty minutes later Toni D’Angelo was reading the start-engines checklist while Dave Belfort plotted a course into Ras Assanya.
Jack stood defiantly in front of Waters. “Don’t evacuate me out, Colonel. I’m the freshest pilot you’ve got. I’ve flown once; you know I’m ready. I can pound the bastards into the ground… ” For Fairly and the rest, he silently added.
“Jack,” Waters said, “you’re still recovering; you’re bound to be weak. In a jet that could jeopardize—”
Jack shook his head. “This is what I’m all about, what I’ve trained for. Colonel, you know I’m the best pilot you’ve got, and I’m not bragging. I’m ready for this… ” He searched for more words to convince Waters. Finally: “Colonel, I’m at least good enough to get through this. Isn’t that all that counts here?”
The words struck home. Besides, maybe he’d been overprotective of Jack. And if not the best, Jack was close to it, certainly the best technician in the wing. And with Bull Morgan, it was a helluva team… “Okay, okay, you’re with Bull. Good luck—”