In his haste to lay hands on the antiaircraft missiles, he had neglected to consider one of the most important factors of all. He had thought that six of the very reliable “Skidder” missiles would be more than adequate to shoot down three planes. In any case, he had little choice, for six was the maximum number his small raiding party could load aboard the two jeeps without leaving one of the men behind. But one “Skidder” had already been fired. Worse,
he could only guess the direction from which the enemy planes would be coming at the iceberg. Five missiles would be enough to shoot them all down, but shooting them down wasn’t his only worry. The enemy had to crash into the sea with their deadly cargo instead of on the Alamo or Sun King.
If they were shot down over either the Alamo or the Sun King, his crew would be fatally contaminated. To be sure, they could be administered anti-anthrax serum or antibiotics–and Joe Mansour had promised to send medical teams and serum winging south immediately–but what about the berg’s own ice? No matter how meticulously the Alamo was decontaminated, some microscopic spores would penetrate the Ultravac shield and poison the pure crystalline water beneath.
The Alamo came into sight. Aboard it, two helicopters were standing by. Forte had still not made his decision. He delayed it until the Piper was on deck. Hedging his bet, he ordered two of the five men Jackson had checked out in the missile’s operation to get aboard one of the choppers. The other three with their missiles climbed aboard the other.
He borrowed a coin from someone–he’d almost forgotten what money looked like, it was so long since he used any–and flipped it.
Heads.
He nodded to the helicopter pilot who would take the three missile men to support ships already fanned out west, five kilometers ahead of the Sun King, in case the enemy should attack out of the sun.
“Max, I want you to put one man down on the Blaney, another on the Cochrane, and the third on the St. Vincent.”
To the men, his orders were equally simple: “If they approach in echelon, the man on the right takes out the plane on the right, and so on. If in line, the man on the right takes out the first plane, the man in the middle the second, and the man on the starboard ship hits tailend Charlie. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” said the three in unison. “But how do we know they will be attackers and not on some peaceful
errand?” added one.
“If they come in your sights, they’ll be hostiles. Shoot ’em down!”
He gave similar instructions to the men in the other helicopter and ascended the Alamo control tower, where he could gnaw his fingernails in solitude, awaiting the moment. From the glassed-in eyrie he could observe the cargo helicopters loading personnel for transfer to the ships that would take up station well off the flanks of the Sun King and the Alamo. No one would be left aboard either craft who wasn’t absolutely indispensable to their operation. Within half an hour, the Alamo was nearly deserted.
At 3:18, a blip appeared to the east on the radar screen, followed a moment later by two more. They were sixty kilometers away, coming in slow–no more than five hundred kilometers per hour.
Forte flicked on the IBS–talk-between-ships. The laser’s line of sight beam would be impossible for anyone in the planes to intercept.
“Max!” he said, calling the helicopter pilot he had sent forward. “Where are you?”
“Aboard the Cochrane,” came Max Cooley’s immediate reply.
“Get Bob Schooner and his missile aboard on the double and transport him to the Carle ton Wright astern. Got it?”
“Roger.”
Forte left the TBS channel open so that everybody listening would be informed about what was going on and flicked on the 8150-kilohertz guard band.
“This is Ripley Forte, aboard the iceberg Alamo, calling three unidentified aircraft on a course of 272° true, present position”–he squinted to read the coordinates off the radarscope–“0°7′ North, 0°55′ East.”
There was no reply.
Forte repeated the message and added: “This is to inform you that the Alamo and the Sun King are sovereign territory of the Republic of Texas and as such interdict all intrusions on their territorial waters, which extend for twelve miles on all sides in accordance with international law. Any penetration of these waters or airspace will be considered a hostile act, and you will be shot down. Acknowledge.”
Silence.
On the radarscope digital readout, Forte observed that the planes, while maintaining their course, had speeded up. They were now making 580 kph.
Forte shut down channel 8150 and requested a position report from Max Cooley aboard the Cochrane.
“Just lifting off, sir,” came the message.
Forte groaned. They’d never make it in time.
“Flank speed, Cooley,” he ordered.
“Roger,” said Cooley, who had been redlining ever since takeoff.
Forte checked the enemy on radar. They had descended to five hundred meters and were now making 610 kph. “What’s your altitude, Max?”
“One triple zero meters.”
“Maintain that. Our friends are at five hundred. Ask Schooner if he thinks he can hit his bird on the wing.”
“Don’t have to, Mr. Forte. He’s already opened the door and buckled up his harness. When we get within range, I’m going to cut power, turn broadside, and drop like a rock. I’ll level off at five hundred meters. After that, it’s up to Bob.”
Max was going to put his chopper in the path of the enemy. If Schooner managed to shoot it down, well and good. If he missed, then the enemy would ram him, and they’d both go down in flames. Forte wouldn’t forget what Cooley and Schooner were doing. But he hoped their reward wouldn’t be posthumous.
“Tell Bob not to hurry his shot,” Forte said, keeping his voice steady.
“Whites of their eyes, eh, boss?”
“Right.”
Forte switched back to the international frequency and repeated his message to the three intruding planes.
Still no reply.
“Okay, men,” he said, shutting down the 8150 channel for the final time, “it’s all yours. They’re coming in at five hundred meters. Wait until they are within fifteen hundred meters and let ’em have it.”
He swiveled the tripod-mounted Questar around to the east. He could just make them out, three black spots coming toward them, low and in a loose echelon formation. That could make things difficult for his missile men. If the first plane was shot down before the others came into range, they could peel off and attack from another angle. And the other angles weren’t covered.
Forte bit his lip and kept his eye on the lead plane.
Suddenly it blossomed like a Fourth of July rocket in the sky, and its smoking carcass spiraled in a graceful curve into the sea.
The other two aircraft wavered.
Then the first straightened out and resumed its deadly course.
A second shot, a second sunburst.
Forte stopped breathing.
Two down, one to go.
But that one was peeling off to the south.
It did a shallow wingover, and in doing so exposed its inviting underside.
Max Cooley’s helicopter slewed in midair. From its open door came a flash, followed by a streak of smoke in the sky. The missile curved in a smooth arc toward its target. A third sunburst lit the sky, and the enemy plane distributed its flame-blackened pieces upon an indifferent sea.
The helicopter did a little victory dance in the air.
29. POSTMORTEM
22 FEBRUARY 2008
CHAIRMAN CHAIM SHITRIT DIDN’T NEED TO TELL HIS eleven fellow members of the Planning Organization the bad news. It was written in the deepened lines of his face and across his slumped shoulders.
After some minutes he looked up. There were tears in his eyes. One rolled down his nose. He rubbed it aside with a soil-stained hand. “The news has been confirmed,” he said. “All the Hercules were lost.”
The other men looked at one another grimly.
“And all the crew?” asked Rabbi Israel Cohen.
“Yes.”
“And the Alamo?”
“Untouched.”
“But how can that be?” asked Moshe Davi, the former Israeli Air Force vice-chief of staff. “There were no anti-aircraft defenses aboard the ships of Forte’s support force.”
“Nevertheless, the planes did not return to base,” said Shitrit. “Perhaps Moshe can entertain us with alternative hypotheses, having eliminated the possibility that the Alamo shot them down.”
Moshe Davi nodded. Who could say that the Nigerians who had taken the bribes to allow three C-130s to disappear did not sell the information to the Russians? Russian forces, including fighter aircraft, were based in every one of Nigeria’s neighbors: Benin, Togo, Ghana, and the Ivory Coast to the west, and Cameroon, Rio Muni, Fernando Po, Gabon, and Congo to the south. All were within fighter range of the Alamo’s position the day before.
“True,” Shitrit agreed. “And there is no question that KGB agents are operating in Nigeria. They are everywhere.”