"Sir, we've just picked up some new action on the island," Manny
Jackson, in the first Apache, said into his radio. He could scarcely
wait to get in and take down the island. These camel-jockey terrorists
needed to be taught a lesson once and for all. He had lost a cousin,
nineteen years old, in the Beirut bombing, and this was the closest he
was ever going to get to a payback. "Guess there were more of the
bastards. Ten to one they're taking up another chopper."
"No way are we going to allow that to happen," Nichols declared. He was
in the lead Huey, two kilometers back. "The first batch may have got
away, but not these. From now on, nobody down there moves a hair. We're
about to teach them a thing or two about air supremacy."
"They don't seem to be going anywhere. Just moving down the island.
What do you think it means?" He was wondering what a lot of it meant.
Why was Souda Bay being evacuated? They weren't calling it that, but an
evacuation was exactly what was under way. A big hurry-up to get the
fleet into blue water, all nonessentials ordered to take a day off with
pay, a sudden token of "thanks" from Uncle Sammy for jobs well done.
Bullshit. . . .
"Probably picking up hostages," came back Nichols's voice. "Who the
hell knows? But our mission is to make sure they don't leave the
ground."
"You've got it, sir." He reached down to the weapons station and
flipped the red switch that armed the Hughes 30mm chain gun. Its twelve
hundred rounds, he figured, should be enough to handle the problem.