Night of the Hawk, page 39
part #4 of Patrick McLanahan Series
The pilot began a slow, 20-degree bank turn to the left over the security building, then transitioned from his forward HSI to the low-light TV monitor-and-attack-coordinator mounted on the left window. By following the steering cues, the pilot set up an orbit precisely eight thousand feet above ground level.
From this point on, the sensor operators, the navigator, and the fire-control officer picked and attacked targets, with occasional warning messages from the electronic-warfare officer. The two sensor operators had almost complete control of the 25-millimeter cannon, letting loose with one- to two-second bursts at any group of soldiers that might be a field commander or communications crew, heavy-machine-gun nest, mortar crew, or rocket-propelled grenade-launcher crew. The FICO picked targets for the 40-millimeter cannon, alternating control with the sensor operators as they located suitable targets.
The pilot adjusted his orbit over targets designated for the 105-millimeter cannon, attacking tanks and destroying buildings close to the security building that might screen oncoming enemy troops from the Marines. The pilot felt a rush of adrenaline as he watched the incredible sight through his TV monitor. The power unleashed by that simple action of his left thumb was truly amazing. One squeeze of a trigger, and huge armored vehicles thousands of feet below him simply mushroomed into twisted hunks of burning metal. “Target destroyed,” he announced calmly, choking back the urge to cry out an excited “Yes!!!” Instead: “Safeties on. Gun secured, clear for safety check. Gimme the next target.”
“Clear.”
“I got another Zeus-23!” the electronic-warfare officer shouted.
The crew’s attention was diverted instantly—the ZSU-23-4 could easily bring down a Spectre, and the standing order was to destroy or avoid them at all costs. The fire-control officer immediately slaved the sensors to the threat-warning receiver, and four sets of eyes searched for the tiny white dot that might be the deadly tracked weapon. “I can’t see it, dammit, I don’t see it . .
Suddenly, a fast deedledeedledeedledeedledeedle! erupted on the intercom, and a flashing AAA LOCK light appeared on every instrument panel in the plane.
The ZSU-23-4 was just off to the right and close—too close.
“Triple-A lock!” the electronic-warfare officer shouted. “Break left!”
The pilot threw the AC-130 gunship in a tight left turn—with the big cannons hanging out the left side of the aircraft, left turns in a Spectre gunship are always tighter than right turns—and the EWO ejected radar-decoying chaff from the right-side ejectors.
“I see it! Continue left turn . . roll out!” the copilot cried out as hundreds of winks of light and beads of death curled up from below, heading right for the aircraft. The beads swept across the right wingtip, and the entire aircraft shook as if a giant hand had kicked the plane like a child’s toy. “We took a hit on the Hellfire pylon!” the copilot cried out. Flames and bright bursts of light enveloped the right wingtip. “Jettison right weapon pylon!”
The fire-control officer immediately opened a clear cover over an illuminated button that read RT WPN PYLON FIRE, reached in, and pressed the button. The right Hellfire-missile pylon popped off its hardpoint seconds before one of the missiles cooked off and exploded.
“I can’t roll out,” the pilot said on interphone. “I’ve got a jammed aileron … copilot, get on the controls. Help me straighten out ..
Immediately they heard, “Rattler Three cleared in hot, continue your left turn to clear.” One of the four Marine Corps AH-1 Sea Cobras that had stayed behind in the embassy compound had launched from the embassy, rendezvoused with the AC-130, and now dove in on the second ZSU-23-4 mobile gun. With the antiaircraft gunner’s full attention on the bigger target, it was too easy for the Sea Cobra’s weapons officer to find the target from the flash of its four guns, lock on to the target with its laser designator, and fire a single Hellfire, destroying the target instantly. “Target down,” the Cobra pilot reported. “I’ve got a visual on you, Congo Two. I see large sparks on your right wingtip.”
Even a one-second burst from a ZSU-23-4 was menacing—that meant two hundred radar-guided shells as big as a hot dog peppering your aircraft. The murderous fire from the second ZSU-23-4 created a massive fuel leak from the right wing. “Congo Two is hit,” the pilot radioed on the command channel. “No engine fire, but we’re leaking fuel.”
Everyone on the two Hammer aircraft knew what that meant—the Spectre was going home. An AC-130 gunship was too valuable and too high-profile an aircraft to lose over Lithuania.
LITHUANIAN SELF-DEFENSE FORCE BATTALION FOUR
13 APRIL, 0340 VILNIUS (12 APRIL, 2140 ET)
“Aircraft opening fire on First Battalion artillery units,” Drunga reported. “Heavy cannon fire. One antiaircraft artillery unit destroyed. Rotary-wing aircraft inbound.”
Maziulis felt a flush of fear run through him, but he pushed it away. It was sooner than expected, but they did expect a counterattack. “Where’s Third Battalion …?”
Suddenly the night sky illuminated from the bursts of several large-caliber cannons firing at once, and a few seconds later the ear-shattering reports roiled across the runway. Several T-62 tanks and Lithuanian armored vehicles exploded. The drivers were temporarily blinded and confused as they crossed the path of their own mortars, and the smoke from the mortars screened their gunners from taking aim on the line of Black Beret armored combat vehicles. But as soon as they emerged from the smoke, the Commonwealth gunners had them cold and opened fire.
Many Lithuanian units were killed before they could get a shot off.
Maziulis grabbed the command-net microphone and yelled, “Echo and Foxtrot companies! Fake north, wheel east, and engage! Delta Company, release from the line, stunt circle north, and flank those BMDs!”
He scanned his line with the binoculars. Echo and Foxtrot companies, far to the south, were moving, but Delta Company, located just a few hundred meters away, hadn’t moved backwards yet. Maziulis turned to Drunga and yelled, “Aras, run over to the Rover and have him go over to Delta Company lead and tell him to stunt north and cover Alpha and Bravo. Find out what’s wrong with his radio.”
Drunga threw off his headset, grabbed an AK-47, and jumped off the radio truck and sprinted over to a small four-wheeled vehicle, flagging it down.
He had taken perhaps eight steps away from the radio truck when a scream of compressed air and a terrific explosion threw him off his feet. He flew for perhaps five meters into the air, then was thrown across the ground amidst shards of red-hot metal and waves of superheated air. When he looked back at the radio truck, nothing was there except a blackened metal skeleton with the broken and mutilated bodies of Maziulis and the others scattered around the area like dolls tossed by the wind.
* * *
“Congo Two, can you give us some fire support on the Hammer target area against the heavy stuff before you split?” Captain Snyder asked from Hammer Three.
“Can do easy,” the AC-130’s pilot reported. “Our tanker is heading back to join with us, and our fuel loss is minimal right now. There’s no sign of engine fire. We’ve got about five minutes more on station before we bingo.”
“Copy. Hit the heavy armor first, then soften up the area around the two target areas. After that, give us a sparkler and you’re cleared to depart. Open her up, Congo Two.”
“Copy all, Hammer leader. Watch the sky.”
The OMON Black Berets had its front-line men and equipment protecting the research center, including six BTR-6OPB armored personnel carriers, each fitted with two heavy-caliber machine guns and able to transport fourteen soldiers at speeds up to sixty miles per hour; three BMD tracked combat vehicles, fitted with a 73-millimeter cannon and wire-guided AT-3 antitank missiles; and infantry units armed with grenade launchers and RPK and PKM heavy machine guns. This formidable line of vehicles, arrayed against the advancing Lithuanian forces to the west, became easy targets for the Spectre gunship.
No Spectre crew liked to bring back unspent ammo from a live fire’ mission. This crew was determined not to bring back one round. Using the two rapid-fire cannons, the Spectre began chewing into the Black Beret troop positions. The 25-millimeter cannonfire ripped apart smaller armored personnel carriers and Jeeps, while the 40-millimeter cannon destroyed or disabled the larger armored combat vehicles. They were careful to keep the gunfire away from the security building, where Luger was being held, as well as the hangars where the Soviet stealth bomber was supposedly kept. The sensor operators and fire-control officer also tried to stay away from the troops he felt were the “partisans.”
There were enough good targets everywhere below, especially heavy vehicles and armor. A few times the pilot opened up with 105-millimeter howitzer, creating large antivehicle pits around planned pickup zone while being careful to keep fences intact. The crew liberally sprayed the MV-22 landing site with 25-millimeter and 40-millimeter cannonfire in case any troops tried to hunker down in those areas. The Spectre then made another circle over the city, selecting targets C the twelve remaining Hellfire missiles on the left wingtip, destroying heavy armored vehicles identified by the Marines in the embassy compound as threats.
Once again, they headed for the area near the Fisikous Institute to deliver their coup de grâce. …
LITHUANIAN FOURTH BATTALION
More cannon fire erupted—the shock waves and ear-splitting noise all around Major Aras Drunga was like an iron-gloved fist, driving him to the ground. Drunga crawled to his hands and knees, trying to move closer to the bodies, to see if any needed help. Then he saw the rows of Black Beret armored combat vehicles begin to move across the aircraft parking ramp toward him. They were less than three hundred meters away, and they were hammering the Lithuanians with volley after volley of cannon fire. The charge was a failure. General Palcikas’ west flank was going to disintegrate.
Suddenly, it looked as if one of the BMD armored combat vehicles simply lifted straight up in the air, like a frog jumping off a rock. When it fell to earth again, flames and burning fuel were spilling out a gaping hole in its turret. A few seconds later, another vehicle, a BTR-60 armored personnel carrier, seemed to split apart like a ripe melon, spilling pieces of Black Beret soldiers who’d been chopped up by artillery fire. The young officer didn’t know what was happening, but whatever it was, it was accurately and effectively wiping out the best of the Black Berets’ offensive punch.
Every Spectre mission-planning session includes a “sparkler,” a target that is so large and filled with so much explosive or flammable material that it provides maximum shock value and disorientation, allowing aircraft to escape, friendly troops to move in, or helps to demoralize the enemy. Even though a sparkler may not be a high-value target or related to the sortie’s main objective, it is kept in the commander’s “hip pocket”—in this case programmed into the targeting computers—and made ready for use at any time.
Now was the time .
The Spectre swung out of its orbit around the Fisikous Institute compound, headed south, and made a left bank around its final target. The sortie’s sparkler was a fuel-storage area a few miles south of the facility near the railroad yard.
The 105-millimeter howitzer found its mark, and as a final parting shot created a spectacular fireball and a terrific rumbling explosion by sending a dozen high-explosive shells into that fuel-tank farm.
The concussion knocked over tank cars and engines on their tracks and shattered windows ten miles away. Then, with two Sea Cobra helicopters acting as escorts, the huge attack plane climbed into the night sky and was clear of the city a few minutes later.
* * *
The AC-130 gunship orbiting over Major Aras Drunga destroyed half of the Black Berets’ armor in the few short minutes it orbited over the Fisikous compound. With the former KGB and Soviet Troops of the Interior forces being decimated by the gunship, the surviving elements of the Lithuanians’ Fourth Battalion were able to sweep across the runway and rout the Black Beret security force. The control tower and radar facilities were captured intact, as were the underground fuel-storage tanks and aircraft-refueling facilities.
Dominikas Palcikas led one company each from First and Second battalions in a flanking maneuver to try to disrupt the Black Berets’ resupply routes to the east, but it proved to be unnecessary. Palcikas’ forces had surrounded the design center and security facility before he realized how far and how fast he had moved across the base. He met up with the remnants of the Fourth Battalion streaming in from the northwest. Third Battalion was mopping up the survivors of the gunship attack. “Third Battalion reports several vehicles escaping out the south gate,” the radioman reported. “Lieutenant Colonel Manomaitis is pursuing.”
“Tell him to let all but the heavier vehicles go,” Palcikas said. “Setting up the perimeter defense is more critical than chasing down a few platoons. Tell him to set up his security teams along the south highway and seal it up tight. We’ll get Second Battalion to join up with him to the southeast as soon as possible, but he’s responsible for warning us of an immediate Soviet counterattack from the Darguziai Army Barracks.”
A few moments later a driver brought Major Drunga, the deputy commander of Fourth Battalion, up to Palcikas in a Commonwealth Jeep flying a red Vytis. “Good job, Major. Where’s Colonel Maziulis? We need to set up his security team for that runway.” Then Palcikas realized why the deputy was reporting to him: “What happened, Aras?”
The young officer, barely thirty years old, was covered with blood. His jacket was missing, his hands were trembling uncontrollably, and he was bleeding heavily from a cut on his left temple. “Medic!” Palcikas shouted as he took off his jacket and threw it around Drunga. “Talk to me, Aras.” No reply—only a stunned, vacant expression. Palcikas raised his voice and shouted, “Major Drunga! Report!”
That shook Drunga out of his catatonia. He straightened his back by force of habit and even tried to salute, but Palcikas held his hand down as a corpsman began treating his head wound. “We were hit by a round from one of the BTRs, sir,” Drunga said. “The shell sliced the whole top off the Colonel’s armored car. The Colonel … he lost … the shell took off … my God, the Colonel’s blood was everywhere!”
“What’s the status of Fourth Battalion, Aras? Give me a report.”
“Fourth Battalion … the battalion is heavily decimated but currently on station, sir,” Drunga said shakily. “Alpha Company… Alpha Company was nearly wiped out in the initial assault. Colonel Maziulis ordered Bravo to sweep north to flank the MSB armored line and break it, and they were nearly cut down as well before the aircraft came in. That aircraft saved us, sir. It saved us.”
“Yes, it did, Major,” Palcikas agreed. “Major Knasaite …?”
“Dead, sir. Everyone in Alpha Company … almost everyone … dead.”
“Major Balzaraite?”
“Dead, sir. Captain Meilus commands Bravo Company, but he’s hurt, too … God, he lost his left hand…”
Drunga finally realized that Palcikas was gently coaxing a full report out of him, that he was in effect commander of Fourth Battalion, so he straightened his shoulders a bit as he continued. “Bravo Company is about thirty-five percent manned, sir; they are regrouping to surround the design center and security facility as ordered. Major Astriene of Charlie Company is leading the security team to seal off the south gate. I recommend … I’m sorry, sir, but I recommend that he be placed in charge of Fourth Battalion.”
“Only until you are better, Major Drunga. Only until you are better.” The medic was easing Drunga down and wrapping blankets around him to ward off shock. “Take care of him, and find Captain Meilus and tell him to report to the aid station. Find Lieutenant Dapkiene or Lieutenant Degutis and put them in charge of Bravo Company.” Palcikas rubbed his eyes wearily and turned to Zukauskas. “My God, I’m having to put my lieutenants in charge of entire infantry companies. Three weeks ago their biggest concern was filing a report in the right folder—now they command hundreds of men.”
He paused, willing the numbness and exhaustion away. The officers of Iron Wolf Brigade were the only family he had had in many years, and to see them decimated like this was difficult. He called them by their rank and surname when speaking with his subordinates, but he knew them as Anatoly, or Danas, or Vytautas, or Karoly. He knew their individual quirks, their leadership style; their strengths and weaknesses. Maziulis had eight children back at his home in Siauliai. Drunga was Mister Spit and Polish. Meilus was the ladies’ man, the peacock strutting around the bars and cafes of Kaunas showing off his awards and medals to all the young ladies …
They were all dead now, dead or horribly maimed or shocked into virtual catatonia by a civil war that he, Palcikas, had started. He could do nothing else but replace them with an even younger, probably more scared officer, and when he died he would have to be replaced by someone Younger and even less experienced. When the officers died out, then he would have to promote noncommissioned officers to company grade rank, and the cycle would start again.
“Sir … General Palcikas, Fourth Battalion is awaiting orders. Shall we proceed to the security building in the aircraft-design area?”
“Hold off on the assault on the security building until we get the command straightened out,” Palcikas said. “The building is surrounded—they are not going anywhere.”
“Sir, what was that aircraft? Why did it first attack us, then attack the Black Beret armor?”
“Either it was a Commonwealth Air Force strike aircraft that made a horrible mistake,” Palcikas speculated, “or some other power has gotten itself involved in our battle. I think it detected the ZSU-23-4 because it detected its tracking radar and judged it to be a threat, but then it judged the armored units defending the aircraft-design compound to be a threat as well—it left our armor alone. It doesn’t matter, though. It saved our lives tonight, and we don’t want to anger the powers that control it.
