Bright Star

Chapter 16

In the distance the faint drone of turboprop engines cut through the cold night air. Squatting next to the beacon, Sergeant Jackson cocked his head. "Willy, do you hear that?"

Sergeant E-5 Willy Hall stood up. Like Jackson, he cocked his head and listened. For a second the noise faded. None of the pathfinder team moved. Most were hardly breathing. All were listening, waiting.

When they heard the drone again, it was stronger, steady. "C-130s. At least two of 'em."

Jackson listened for a few more seconds, then concurred with Willy's call. "Okay. That's got to be them. Switch the beacon to continuous mode. Lou, get ready to hit the light. Those airborne paratroopers 'bout to make their big jump might need a little help findin' us."

The C-130s approached the Meidob Hills in line, the pilot of the lead aircraft homing in on the beacon's steady signal. In the rear of his aircraft and the one following, the load masters were lowering the ramp to where it was even with the aircraft's deck. Other drewmen prepared the pallets with the fuel blivets for the drop. In the third C-130 Cerro stood postured in the open door, hands gripping the side of the aircraft as the cold wind whipped his face. His eyes were glued to the red light next to the door. In a second it would turn green, and once again he would be expected to throw his body into the black abyss below. As he waited, every reason he hated jumping raced through his mind.

He looked down at the dark, featureless terrain passing beneath the toes of his boots, now hanging out over the lip of the open door. He didn't know the wind direction or speed. Ground cover and composition were unknown. He, and his ad hoc platoon, would literally be jumping in the dark.

"God, this is dumb! This is fucking dumb!" He knew what would happen. He knew every sensation, every pain he was about to experience. Once he was out the door, the prop blast of the C-130's engines would push him back and catch the deploying parachute. By the time the chute was stretched out, he would be almost horizontal. Then the opening shock came. The stiff nylon risers on either side of his neck would suddenly be jerked taut. If a man didn't have his chin firmly planted into his chest, the risers would cut his neck cleaner than a straight razor. When the canopy was open, there was little time for joy. A quick check of the canopy had to be followed immediately by the unlocking of equipment bags and untying of the rifle bag. Without doing either, it was hell landing. Just as embarrassing was accidentally unhooking the wrong thing. As soon as the jumper felt the equipment bag tug at the end of its rope, there was only enough time to put feet and knees together, bend the knees, and prepare for the landing.

In theory, the paratrooper hit with the balls of his feet and twisted. That set him up for a proper parachute landing fall, or PLF. After the feet, his calves, followed by his buttocks, shoulder blades, and finally his head, made contact with the ground in a controlled, orderly manner. That, at least, was the theory — a theory that even in combat Cerro had never been able to make work.

The planes carrying the fuel blivets started their drop. From the rear of the C-130s, large pallets with the fuel blivets and parachutes strapped to them rolled out into the darkness. On the ground, Jackson could see only faint, black forms above him. That was enough, though, to tell him that he and his crew were in the wrong place. Just as a good transport pilot was trained to do, the pallets were being dropped right over the beacon — which was where Jackson and his men were. Hall looked up and yelled to Jackson. "Are those mothers makin' a heavy drop or a bombin' run?"

As if to underscore his comment, the parachutes on one pallet failed. Instead of a slow, controlled descent, the pallet tumbled down, gaining momentum. "Jesus! That one's comin' through! Heads up, it's comin' through!" Jackson began to run at first, then stopped. There was no way to predict where the tumbling mass of wooden pallet, rubber blivet, yards of worthless nylon parachute, and four hundred gallons of fuel would hit.

Jackson's heart, like everyone else's in the drop zone, skipped a beat just before the pallet impacted. The blivet, the heaviest part, hit first, splitting open like a water balloon dropped from a second-story window. And like a water balloon, it spewed fuel all over the place. They were still recovering from the near miss when the paratroopers began to exit.

Like a shock to his system, the flashing green light caused a momentary tension, then an automatic response. Cerro jumped up as best he could and pushed away from the side of the aircraft with all his might. In quick succession he experienced deployment, opening, and stabilization. Still swinging, he checked the canopy as he fumbled with his gear, dropping his equipment bag, untying the rifle bag, and bringing his feet together. Impact, like the good airborne sergeant at Benning used to tell them, should come almost as a surprise. If that was a measure of a good jump, Cerro's jump that night was a howling success.

Jackson watched as the first man came in. Instead of a PLF, the man hit the ground like a rock, right in the middle of a newly created pond of fuel left by the impact of the blivet. Running over to see if the paratrooper needed help, Jackson heard the sounds of splashing and cursing. Jackson stopped at the edge of the pool of fuel. "Hey, you— you need help?"

The figure rose to his knees, shaking his outstretched arms. "What the fuck makes you think I need help, whoever you are?"

"Staff Sergeant Jackson, Special Forces. I figured you might need some. It's just that I've never seen a man hit the ground so hard and live."

The figure rose to his feet, his arms still held out to his side. "Well, Staff Sergeant Jackson, the first thing you need to do is pass the word that the smoking lamp is definitely out." Slowly the figure started to shed his parachute and retrieve his gear, mumbling and cursing as he did so. Jackson stood and watched until the figure was done and advanced toward him. Sticking out his right hand to shake Jackson's, he introduced himself as Captain Harold Cerro, B Company, 1st of the 506th Airborne, Air Assault.

Surprised, Jackson started to salute but stopped and grabbed the captain's hand instead. "Glad to see you made it, sir. Captain Kinsly sends his compliments."

Cerro stopped shaking. "Kinsly? Jesse Kinsly? Big black guy with muscles from ear to ear?"

"Yes, sir, that's him. You know him?"

"Know him? We were in Iran together. He was my XO when I took over our company. Where is he?"

Jackson pointed south. "Still at the airfield."

As if there were some chance of seeing him, Cerro looked south, over the dark rim of the Meidob Hills. Cerro couldn't believe his incredible luck. After almost two years they were going to be back together again.

Moving down the ditch that ran along the road, Senior Lieutenant Shegayev led the squad of men into position. Despite the cold breeze that was beginning to whip at their backs, Shegayev was happy and excited. After weeks of doing nothing but the administrative work of the company, his commander, Captain Ilvanich, agreed to allow him to lead an ambush patrol. Ilvanich, involved in assisting the battalion operations officer plan for a new operation, was unable to lead the patrol himself. Rumor had it that the new operation would be somewhere in southern Egypt against the airfield at Abu Simbel.

Besides, to date there had been no contacts during any of the nightly patrols. Ilvanich saw this as a good opportunity to give Shegayev some practical experience in independent command and small-unit operations. For the most part the ambush patrols had become nothing more than training exercises. The platoon leaders, in fact, had been complaining to Ilvanich that it was becoming difficult keeping the men alert and awake. Without the element of danger or even the hint of contact, the men were getting careless. Ilvanich's answer to that problem was unique. He formed a special squad of those soldiers who had been reported for neglect of their duties. He then personally led them out on foot patrol for two consecutive nights. After that, simply the threat of another such training session was able to motivate even the most slovenly soldier in the company.

Reaching the road junction, Shegayev paused. He could make out a stand of trees across the road. He gave the signal to the men behind him to halt and drop down. Shegayev crouched, surveying the terrain around him as he pulled his map out. With the aid of a small pen light, he checked the map. If he got lost leading his first patrol and set up in the wrong place, there'd be no second chance — not with Captain Ilvanich.

Satisfied they were in the right place, Shegayev put away his map and began to deploy his men. As in any peacetime training exercise, one man inevitably was slow and had to be told everything twice. But he was the exception. In less than five minutes the squad was settled into position and set. Security was out, and the road junction was covered. Now came the waiting.

On the screen of his heads-out display, or HOD, Mennzinger could see a cluster of hot spots on the horizon to their west. Looking at his watch, he noted the time, then checked his map: they would be the dwellings in and about the oasis called Bir Milani. Their route, the westernmost of the two, was marked in black on his flight map. At selected points along the line were tick marks and times. The number next to the tick mark at Bir Milani read 2047Z, the "Z" standing for ZULU time. The actual time in Sudan was 2247 hours, but they were on time. Although the operation was taking place in Sudan and Egypt, which are in the BRAVO time zone, the planners and units participating in the operation were spread throughout different time zones. The F-111 bombers were coming out of Britain, which is in the ZULU time zone, or two hours behind Egypt and Sudan. The naval demonstration off Ethiopia and the coast of Sudan was taking place in the CHARLIE time zone, one hour ahead of Egypt and Sudan. Surveillance and communications satellites being used to support the operation were being controlled from Virginia in the United States, which is in the ROMEO time zone, seven hours behind Egypt and Sudan. In order to avoid confusion and ensure complete synchronization of the operation, ZULU time, popularly known as Greenwich mean time, was used by all participants.

The plan, as laid out in the operations order and its time schedule, was the only controlling element for the operation. All participants were expected to follow both, without exception. Any margin of error was already factored into the plan. Because of tight planning, there was no need to use the radio or to coordinate the various elements of the operation until just before the actual attack. Since their departure from Abu Simbel, there had been no radio transmissions from either group of Apaches. Even the C-130s that had dropped the fuel blivets and paratroopers under Cerro had not reported that event.

That night, participants in the actual raid on Al Fasher were ordered to report by exception only. In English, that meant that only someone who missed a scheduled check point or event would report. Silence meant all was going well. It was a simple concept and very effective. But to the participants in the operation, it had the tendency to be unnerving at times. Reporting — positive confirmation that something has actually happened — was far preferable. Despite training and incessant drilling, there was always the nagging fear that perhaps something had gone wrong and the reports hadn't gotten sent or couldn't be sent. Perhaps the other guy's radio was out and he couldn't transmit. Or maybe his battery power was low and he didn't know that his transmission wasn't reaching anyone. And what if he walked into an ambush and everyone was taken out before anyone could report. There could even be a problem with the station intended to receive the message. The receiver could be out, or he could be in dead space when the message was sent. Chatter on the radio, though frivolous at times, is a useful means of relieving tension and building confidence. Like the lonely truck driver using his CB on the highway at night, soldiers sometimes talk on the radio to relieve fears, real and imagined.

Radios, however, are dangerous. The enemy operates on the same wavelengths. That leaves the sender open to accidental detection through the sheer bad luck commonly referred to as "mutual interference": it would not take a genius to figure something was wrong when radio broadcasts in English started to bleed over onto Soviet radio nets in Sudan. Additionally, electronic warfare units, operating with sophisticated scanning and detection equipment, sweep the electronic spectrum, looking for radio, radar, and other electronic signals, locking onto whatever source they find. They then can locate it, study it to determine who or what is generating the signal, and block or jam it. If the resources such as artillery or aircraft are available, the source of the signal can also be attacked.

Though the pilot and the copilot-gunner in Apaches were hooked in by intercom, conversations between Mennzinger and his pilot were short, often confined to functional necessity. They were within feet of each other and operating within the same environment. Both were deprived of any news from the outside world other than what their instruments and sights provided to them. The copilot-gunner had the same displays as the pilot, so there was no need for the exchange of even basic information. And, like most copilot-gunners and pilots, Mennzinger and his pilot had little new and exciting to discuss: after all, they had been together for three weeks, living under the same conditions, in the same tent, eating in the same mess hall for the past twenty days. Idle chatter just to make noise can also have the effect of heightening loneliness and the sense of isolation.

So the crews of most of the Apaches flew on in silence. The crews could control their aircraft but, at that point, nothing else. Inside their cockpits they had the soft glow of instruments and the green images of the world as seen through the eye of a thermal imaging device to provide security and relief from their fears. Outside, there was only darkness and the unknown. In that darkness outside the canopy, the enemy sat at Al Fasher, perhaps alerted and ready, waiting for their arrival. Refuel crews were on the ground, busily gathering up the fuel blivets and setting up their refuel points, maybe. F-111s would be landing at Cairo to refuel, if they had made it from Britain. It was conceivable that the Navy's demonstration was drawing Soviet surveillance aircraft and fighters off to the east. And the Special Forces team at Al Fasher was watching, preparing to send their final report on the situation there, provided the team could still do so.

These things, and many more, Mennzinger could only guess at. What he did know was that his Apache was moving due south along its prescribed course at a rate of 120 knots and at an altitude of 100 feet. Everything else rested in the hands of others, who, like him and his pilot, were speeding forward in time toward the same point.

From his desk in the center of the war room, Dixon looked up at the cluster of clocks. There were four of them hanging over the operations map on the wall opposite him. He scanned them, from left to right, looking at the times they showed. Each one told Dixon something different. On the far left the clock, set on ROMEO time, showed 1605 hours. Under it hung a sign that read "Washington, D. C." The masses of office workers in that city would be preparing to leave their offices to brave the commute home. Paramount in their minds would be what was for dinner and getting that last-minute Christmas shopping done. The next clock, showing 2105 hours, was labeled "ZULU," representing the base time used for the operation and the actual time in Britain. The wives of the F-111 pilots now landing on a military airfield outside Cairo would be putting their children to bed in Britain. As far as they knew, their husbands were on another training flight, buzzing about in the darkness wherever pilots go to do such things.

The third clock was passing 2305 hours. Labeled "BRAVO/ LOCAL," it showed the time for Egypt and Sudan, the eye of the storm. And like the eye of a storm, things were, for the moment, deceptively quiet. Forces, however, were in motion. The 3rd Brigade of the 16th Armored Division had just begun its move from assembly areas it had occupied for the last eleven days. It was headed west down the coastal road to a new assembly area on the high ground south of El Imayid. The three infantry and one artillery battalion of the 2nd Brigade, 11th Airborne Division (Air Assault) were already there, flown in by their own aircraft earlier that evening. A nice, clean one-by-two-inch blue symbol on the operations map showed where the 3,500 soldiers and 1,500 vehicles of the 3rd Brigade were at that moment.

A thousand miles south of the symbol for the 2nd Air Assault and 3rd Armored brigades was a blue circle north of the Meidob Hills with the letters FARP written in it. There, the fuel handlers of the 1st of the 11th Attack Helicopter Battalion would be finishing setup of the refuel point within the next twenty-five minutes. The Apache strike force, represented by a blue box with a symbol that looked like a bow tie with a nail driven up through the center of it, was eighty-five minutes out from the refuel point. Further south, another symbol just east of Al Fasher, a blue box with "SF" in the center, showed where the Special Forces team was. They would be preparing their final report on the situation at the airfield.

The last clock showed five minutes past midnight. In Moscow and Addis Ababa, it was now December 19. Passing from the Gulf of Aden into the Red Sea just after dusk, ships of the 6th Fleet's Mid-East Squadron were increasing the tempo of their operations. The ships, carrying a Marine amphibious expeditionary unit, had just turned west and began their run in toward Port Sudan on the Red Sea. Aircraft launches from the carrier USS Hornet were increasing. Radio traffic, all part of the deception plan, was beginning to crowd the airwaves over the Red Sea as well as the coastal regions of Sudan and Ethiopia. Within thirty minutes, Dixon had no doubt, phones would be ringing throughout Moscow.

That was, Dixon thought, provided everyone was hitting their marks. Lifting his right arm with an exaggerated motion, he checked his own watch. As usual, it was two minutes ahead. To those who had known him as a second lieutenant, the two-minute difference was a joke. Always worried about being late for a meeting, Dixon maintained his watch ahead of the official time. Not that it ever made a difference. Knowing he had two extra minutes, Dixon normally procrastinated them away, arriving at his appointed meetings and duties just in time. With nothing better to do than wait, he wondered how many people out there were using his own personal time zone.

Swiveling about in his chair, Dixon looked at a small enclosed area on a raised platform behind him. Nicknamed "the bridge," it was where the generals and primary staff officers watched and conferred. At that moment General Horn, General Darruznak, and Colonel Benton were sitting on the bridge, drinking coffee and discussing some matter or another. Odds were, Dixon thought, it had nothing to do with either the deployment of the 16th Armored Division or the raid on Al Fasher. There were operations under way, being executed by the commanders on the ground. Though the monitoring of their progress was important, the 2nd Corps could no longer reach out and effectively influence what was happening out there. Instead, the proper focus of the commander and the staff of the 2nd Corps was what would happen in the next forty-eight to ninety-six hours.

Like a chess player, the corps commander had to look where his pieces and those of the enemy sat on the board. With the assistance of his staff, he had to plan not only his next move but a whole series of moves in advance. These moves became a campaign, a series of battles and operations designed to achieve a defined goal or objective. At 1425 hours eastern standard time, the President of the United States invoked the War Powers Act. Subsequent orders from the Joint Chiefs of Staff authorized General Horn to use the 2nd Corps, in cooperation with Egyptian forces, to defend the Nile delta. Campaign planning could begin in earnest while those forces were deployed forward.

Swinging back toward the map board, Dixon watched as a sergeant moved the symbol for the Apache strike groups further south. That move was based on a time hack, not a report. Dixon was wondering to himself how accurate their tracking of the raid was when Sergeant Major London caught his attention. Standing in the doorway leading into the war room, London motioned to Dixon to come over to the door. Nodding to London, Dixon stood up, turned to a captain seated next to him, and told the captain to hold the fort until he got back.

Making his way to the door through the crowded room, Dixon walked up to London. "Vee gates, Sergeant Major?"

London leaned toward Dixon and whispered. "There's a Ms. Jan Fields here to see you."

Dixon made a funny face. He thought for a moment. "Does she want me or the public affairs pukes?"

"She insists on seeing you."

Dixon thought for a moment. He turned to look at the bridge for a moment. The generals and Benton hadn't moved. They were still deep in heavy discussion. He turned back to London. "Okay, Sergeant Major. Captain Kronauer has the helm. I'll be back in a few minutes. If someone starts looking for me, cover me."

Outside the guard room at the entrance to the command post, Dixon saw Jan leaning against the frame of the guard shack doorway. Looking out into the night, she didn't notice him. Even from a distance he could see she was exhausted and troubled. Her clothes were dirty and stained. Dixon walked up to within a few feet of her and waited till she saw him. When she did, he could see her eyes were red and puffy. Their soft warmth was missing. He had considered jumping all over her about Fay's staying, but decided against it. In an instant he knew not only that this wasn't the time or the place but that something was wrong.

"Are you all right, Jan?" There was true concern in his voice. That made it harder for Jan.

Reaching out with both of her hands, she grasped his right hand and pulled it to her chest. "Scott, it's Fay."

He waited, but Jan did not finish. He looked into her eyes. There were tears beginning to well up in their corners. She couldn't finish. She didn't have to. Her eyes told him everything. For a moment Dixon felt nothing — neither remorse nor regret. Perhaps the numbness he felt was the result of too many hours without sleep. There should have been something. But what? A twinge… an empty feeling… something.

They stood there, both at a loss as to what to say or do. Jan's warm, soft hands on his were the only sensation he was aware of, the only conscious feeling he allowed. He was spent, physically, mentally, and emotionally. He had no more tears to give, no more feelings. Finally, reluctantly, Dixon pulled his hand free. As he did, he averted his eyes from Jan's. "I have to go." He pivoted and began to walk away.

Jan took a step toward him. "Scott, I love you."

Jan's soft plea struck at Dixon's very soul. He stopped, but he didn't turn back. Instead, he looked at the sand between his feet and took a deep breath. He fought back an urge to cry, a desire to turn around and go back to Jan. Once he had regained his composure, he continued without a word back into the command post.

Activity at the refuel point came in spurts that night. The pathfinders, alone in their vigil for so long, had watched the blivets and paratroops come. Then another hour of waiting. Next, the Blackhawks with the equipment and men to man the refuel point came thundering in. For better than an hour there was frenzied activity as everyone on the ground pitched in and laid out the refuel site. The scattered blivets, already marked by the pathfinders and Cerro's men, were hauled in and set in place under the direction of the sergeant in charge of the refuel team. As soon as a blivet was set, crews began to lay yards of connecting lines from blivet to blivet and to the pumps. Once these were set, the sergeant in charge had his fuel handlers crank up the system and test it by refueling the Blackhawks already on site.

When he was satisfied that all was ready, the Blackhawks moved off, away from the refuel point and the incoming Apaches. Lights were set out to guide the Apaches. Then there was another lull as everyone waited. Each man settled into place, resting and listening for the approaching Apaches. The only break came when the final intelligence weather report from the Special Forces team at Al Fasher came in. Cerro and Jackson put the information together for the commander of the attack force.

At 0015 hours Jackson turned the beacon on. Shortly thereafter, at 0028, the sound of helicopter rotor blades beating the cold night air could be heard over the blowing wind and sand. There was again a flurry of activity as the fuel handlers scrambled into place. Some of Cerro's men turned on the lights, then scurried out of the way. Soldiers stood by the generators for the fuel pumps, prepared to crank them up. Within minutes, the black outline of the approaching Apaches could be seen against the dark sky. A man at the farthest fuel point flicked on a pair of flashlights with red filters. Though the pilot could clearly see the man through his thermal viewer, the lights served to guide the Apache to its proper refuel point. A soldier at the next refuel point did likewise as soon as the first Apache had passed his location. At each of the five points the same procedures were followed, with the lights on only when necessary to reduce confusion.

On the ground, as the pilot of the aircraft shut down the right engine, the fuel handlers moved forward to the aircraft's right side. While one soldier held the nozzle, another opened the fuel serving port, then opened the refueling panel and switched the fuel indicator and refuel valve switches to the "on" position. In the meantime, the soldier with the nozzle hooked it onto the refuel port, locked it down, and waited. When all indicator lights on the panel were lit, the soldier at the panel gave the word to crank up the generator and begin passing fuel. Under fifteen-pounds-per-square-inch pressure, fifty-six gallons of fuel a minute were shot into the internal fuel tanks of the Apaches. The external fuel cells, emptied during the flight south, would not be refueled. It had been decided that it was better to go into combat with them empty. They would be topped off only after the attack, on the return trip.

As their aircraft were being refueled, the copilot-gunners gathered off to the left of their aircraft. A few, stopping to relieve themselves first, were slow in rallying. While they waited for everyone to gather, there was the customary stretching and yawning of men confined in a tight space for a long time. There was little talk. The battalion commander conferred with Jackson and Cerro while Mennzinger and the C Company commander counted their people as they closed up on the group. When all were ready, Mennzinger, designated second in command for the operation, gave the battalion commander the high sign.

The briefing was short. The battalion commander informed them that as of 2300 hours local, there had been no changes in the composition or location of the airfield's air defense weapons. Therefore, there was no need to change the plan. The four aircraft from C Company had kept the mission of taking out the air defense positions. Pausing for a moment, the battalion commander introduced the C Company commander to Sergeant Jackson. He told them to get together after the briefing to make sure C Company understood everything there was to know about the enemy. After that there was a weather update.

With the winds coming from the southwest, the battalion commander decided to take the Apaches that would designate for the F-111s to a position southeast of the airfield. From there, they would mark the targets with their lasers, hitting those to the north and northeast first, then working south and southeast, so that smoke and debris from the first load of bombs dropped from the F-111s would not interfere with those following.

The briefing was over in fifteen minutes, and each crew went to its own aircraft. Those who had not done so earlier stopped on their way to relieve themselves. By the time they reached their Apaches, the fuel handlers were disconnecting the nozzles and preparing the aircraft for departure.

From one side Cerro watched with Duncan. "Well, First Sergeant, so far so good. Ten Apaches planned for and ten in."

Duncan grunted. "If you don't mind me saying so, sir, I'll be a damned sight happier when there's ten sitting here at 0430 pointed the other way. I'm not exactly keen on being this far out in bad-guy country."

Cerro didn't respond. He only watched. As the aircraft began to crank up, he prepared to leave. "Well, First Sergeant, I'm off."

"You sure you want to do this? I mean, you're already six hundred miles inside somebody else's country. I really don't see the need to go any further just to be there when the Blackhawks pick up your buddy."

Cerro put a hand on Duncan's shoulder. "First Sergeant, not only do I feel honor-bound to do so, I'm bored shitless sitting here listening to the wind blow and smelling fumes from aviation fuel. Besides, you know I never pass up a helicopter ride."

Duncan shook his head. "You're lucky you're an officer, sir. Otherwise I'd tell you how stupid that kind of thinking is."

"That's what I like about you, First Sergeant — you have tact. Well, adios." Cerro turned and walked over to where the two Blackhawks designated to follow the strike were cranking up. The Blackhawks would recover both the Special Forces team, under Kinsly, and any Apache crews that went down before, during, or after the raid.

At 0130 hours, without any signals or radio calls, the lead Apache lifted off and started to head south. In a staggered line the other nine rose up and followed. Two minutes behind them, the Blackhawks followed. By 0135 hours the refuel point was quiet again. There'd be a slight readjustment of blivets, a relaying of fuel lines, and then three hours of waiting.