Remington looked to the east where the Syrian armor had rolled through the barricade. All he saw was a roiling cloud of dust lit by tracer rounds and flames from the surrounding gutted buildings. “I’ve got the birds in the air awaiting your go.”
“Affirmative. Preparing to light up the lead target.”
Remington jogged to the building’s edge and peered down. Goose’s plan was desperate, but it had merit. The ability to think on his feet, to assess an unfavorable situation and find leverage within it was only one of the many reasons Remington had kept his friend close after completing Officer Candidate School and working his way up to captain’s bars.
“Nighthawk Leader, this is Control. Are you patched into the loop?” Remington glanced up at the nearest helicopter. He didn’t know if that was the gunship that held the Whiskey team leader. All the Cobra pilots were marines from USS Wasp.
Captain Falkirk, the ship’s captain, and Colonel Henry Donaldson, the commander of the marine contingent on board the seven-vessel 26th MEU(SOC) deployed in the Mediterranean Sea, had given generously of their men and equipment, but they had their own problems. With the rash of disappearances around the globe, the U.S. military had taken severe hits, leaving holes in the supply infrastructure as well as in front lines in all hot zones. Supplies came late or not at all, and Remington knew that the U.S. ships had become targets for terrorist organizations as well as for the Syrian navy.
“Nighthawk Leader reads you, Control.” The radio communications carried the tinny sound of static.
“Phoenix Leader is ready.” Remington checked the Syrian line to the south and saw that the armored division held steady.
“Roger that, Control. Light ‘em up, Phoenix, and we’ll take ‘em down.”
Remington silently hoped the marine pilot proved as able as he sounded confident. Glancing back toward the point the advancing rolling stock inside the city had reached, only blocks from the hospital, Remington said, “You’re greenlighted, Phoenix Leader.”
“Affirmative,” Goose replied. “Nighthawk, the bogeys are running double-stacked, standard two-by-two deployment. Don’t know if you’ll see that from up there.”
“Not a problem, Phoenix. We just appreciate getting to do some good in here.”
The Syrian armor also ran without using the main guns or the machine guns at the moment. Remington knew the teams were conserving ammo rounds, using the forty-ton behemoths to take out buildings, vehicles, and fighting positions. The enemy armor ran silent and deep through the sea of smoke and dust, invisible to the forward-looking infrared and thermal-imaging capabilities of the helos.
“Fire in the hole,” Goose announced.
Remington didn’t see the MPIM squad that Goose had assigned to the task of firing on the lead Syrian tanks, but he saw the halo of fire that ignited between buildings a few blocks over. The dusty haze made clear sight of the area impossible, but there was no mistaking the red ball of fire that leaped up from the MPIM’s target.
Goose had suggested using 40mm red phosphorus rounds to mark the locations of the armor for the aerial units. Red phosphorus was an incendiary, normally used for clearing trenches, bunkers, and buildings with the blazing explosion the grenade meted out. With the action shaping up to take place in the streets of Sanliurfa, the Rangers carrying M-79s, M-203s, and MPIM grenade launchers had taken to the field with the 40mm munitions.
The bright light of the phosphorus contained in the grenades would normally disable infrared devices and throw off thermographic imaging. With the dust and smoke hanging thick in the air, those systems were out of play. Now, however, the phosphorous grenades showed up brightly against the dingy shadows that filled the city.
A bright red bubble of light nestled in the street only two blocks from the hospital buildings.
Remington waited because there was nothing else he could do.
“Phoenix Leader,” the marine helo pilot called with a trace of enthusiasm, “stand clear of that hot zone. We see your target designation and we have the ball.”
“Affirmative, Nighthawk. We’re clear.”
As Remington watched, the Whiskey Cobra twisted in the air and dove, making a run above the street where the invasion had come from. Equipped with a three-barrel, rotary 20mm cannon mounted on the turret that the gunner operated with a chin mount, a pair of LAU-68 rocket-launcher pods on the inside of the stubby wings, and eight TOW missiles on the outside of the wings, the Whiskey Cobras were deadly aerial predators.
But only if they acquired their targets.
Goose’s plan was simple. The 40mm phosphorus rounds did some damage to the Syrian tanks as the burning chemical clung to the tanks, but primarily Goose intended to use the phosphorus to mark the tanks.
As Remington watched, three flaming hulks closed in on the hospital.
“Nighthawk Leader to Nighthawk Two, I have the point tank. Close down the retreat.”
“Will do,” the second helo pilot replied over the headset.
The helicopter decreased speed and tilted down to bring its weapons to bear. In the next instant, the marine pilot unloaded his turret gun and fired rockets into the fiery tank. Explosions ripped across the street. Not all of them hit the tank, but enough did.
Slammed again and again by the 20mm cannon and the 2.75-inch antitank rockets, the Syrian tank crumpled and died. Before the other vehicles had a chance to scatter, the second Whiskey Cobra ripped into their flank and put down the rear vehicle.
“Hoo-ah!” a Ranger yelled over the headset.
Despite the desperate straits his team was still in, Remington couldn’t help smiling. Goose had come through again. The first sergeant wasn’t a master tactician—more of a paint-by-numbers soldier in planning—but he was at his best when his back was up against the wall. He was the most dependable man Remington had.
“All right, Rangers,” Remington said. “Isolate your targets and coordinate the strikes with the marine wing. We’ll see if we can hold the line against the rest of the rabble waiting outside the gate.”
“Affirmative, Control,”
