by Jack Terral
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1 JUNE
0700 HOURS
BRIGADIER Shahruz Khohollah stood in front of his assembled force in the field that once served construction helicopters. To his left, he saw Sikes Pasha and his twenty-man force of al-Askerin-Zaubi. The Storm Troopers looked magnificent and nearly exotic with their keffiyehs as they stood at a strict position of attention. They seemed like a unit from the old British colonial days when white officers, often from working-class backgrounds, turned to the dangers and uncertainties of isolated areas in Queen Victoria's far-flung empire as their only chance for military fame and glory. The old tradition was now being carried out by Archibald Sikes, an English lad from working-class Manchester.
The middle formation of the brigadier's force was made up of Captain Naser Khadid and the twenty Iranian Special Forces troopers. They had adopted the name Shiraane Saltanat: the Imperial Lions. The Shiraane as they were referred to within the Zaheya were clad in camouflage battle dress, sporting the black berets of Special Forces. These were modern empire-builders, drawn into an impending do-or-die war by an overly ambitious government.
And over to the brigadier's right was the fire-support group led by Captain Jamshid Komard. They were dressed in the same uniforms as the Special Forces, except their headgear consisted of small black turbans styled in the manner of those widely worn in northern Iran. This detachment was divided into three two-man crews for the LAG-40 grenade launchers and seven two-man crews for the MG-3 machine guns. These were pragmatic, determined men who had taken no special name for themselves. It was enough knowing that the riflemen would depend on them for covering fire to accomplish assigned missions whether attacking or defending.
Now Brigadier Khohollah called them to stand at ease. Soldiers! he addressed them. You have been brought here as a vanguard. This is a great honor for a small fighting group such as us. There are great plans that will result in our nation and religion avenging the past injustices and encroachments of the West. These are humiliations that have been forced on us for over ninety years. The people of the Middle East will revere you, the people of Europe and America will fear you, and Allah will reward you.
He had chosen his words carefully to placate Sikes Pasha's men. They would be needed, like all their brethren, to advance Iran's ambitions. Later, when that area of the globe was completely dominated by Iranians, the Arabs' native countries would be ruled by military governors sent out from Tehran. This was the colonial modus operandi of the ancient Persian Empire.
Now Khohollah began pacing up and down as he continued. There have been setbacks, as we all know. But such unfortunate instances were expected, and we do not reel from these small defeats. The big attack will begin from here and by you. Are you ready?
Cries of Bale, Satrip and Aiwa, Zaim came from the Zaheya troops as they made affirmative replies in Farsi and Arabic.
Detachment commanders! Khohollah bellowed. Take charge of your commands and move them into their fighting positions.
Sikes Pasha, Captain Khadid, and Captain Komard called their separate units to attention, then faced them to the west to begin marching to what was to become their front lines.
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CORONADO, CALIFORNIA
3 JUNE
1400 HOURS
PENNY Brubaker came downstairs from the expansive two-story home she had leased as a residence for her and her cousin Stephanie and hubby Harrington Gilwright during the wait for Chad Murchison's return. They had one full-time maid for cooking, laundry, and light housekeeping, and an agreement with a maid service that sent over a team of women to clean the large house a couple of times a week. The luxury domicile was located in a gated community on the east side of Coronado looking out over San Diego Bay.
Penny walked across the dining area and out onto the patio, where Stephanie and Harrington sat at the canopied table. When Penny joined them, she could see that Harrington was already well into his cups. A shaker of martinis was by his elbow, along with a bowl of olives already spitted on picks for the many drinks he planned on consuming. He held the long-stemmed glass in his hands, sipping lightly from it. Penny sat down, frowning at her cousin's husband. It must be nice to have a hobby.
Harrington raised the glass. It does make the time go by faster. As a matter of fact, Penny darling, I think it's turned out that I enjoy California better than you or Stephie.
Stephie snorted. I'm surprised you remember we're in California. You've been potted every day since we got out here.
I can't wait for winter, Harrington said. They tell me it doesn't snow in Southern California. It's quite warm, actually, even in January and February.
You haven't been out of the house more than three or four times, Penny said. Who did you meet that told you they have mild winters?
Mercedes told me, he said, referring to their full-time Mexican maid.
Speaking of Mercedes, where is she? Penny asked. I want a sandwich.
Harrington replied, She went on a liquor store run for me.
Why don't you give her your liquor wants on regular shopping days? Stephie asked. They sell the stuff in the grocery stores here. That way, she wouldn't have to go out three or four times a week. The poor girl could pick up your weekly liquor needs in one trip.
I don't like to plan ahead, Harrington said. And variety is the lice of spife. Ha! I mean, spice of life.
God! Penny exclaimed. Whatever she buys for you will have the same effect. You'll get drunk on your ass. What difference does it make what you drink? Just tell her to pick up a half-dozen bottles each of vodka and vermouth.
Harrington took another sip of his martini, then pulled out the pick and stripped an olive off between his teeth. I shall require much more vodka than vermouth, darling Penny.
You'll be dead before you're thirty-five, Stephie said.
And you'll be the rich Widow Gilwright, Harrington responded. Think of all the money you'll have.
I can't wait, Stephie said, grinning at Penny.
But even if I die at thirty-five, I'll still live longer than Chad, Harrington said. If he has a death wish, he should find a more pleasant way of getting killed than in some horrible war somewhere. Why pick such an uncomfortable and possibly painful way to leave this mortal coil, as Shakespeare referred to this miserable world? There is an abundance of alcohol and drugs to do the job in a nice, peaceful, civilized manner.
You wouldn't understand, Penny said, so I'm not going to even discuss Chad with you.
I'm having a little trouble understanding him too, Stephie said.
Harrington was curious. Now what could Chad Murchison have done that has confused and disturbed you so?
The other day Penny and I were out at the beach, Stephie said. We saw a mob of military guys running around in groups. Each bunch was holding a big rubber boat over their heads. God! They must have weighed a ton!
Harrington raised his eyebrows. How odd!
Penny interjected, And they were just about exhausted. They would run into the surf, jump in the boat, and row out. Then turn around and come back. They must have done it a dozen times. All this time, some other guys were yelling very angrily at them. Each time those miserable boaters returned to the beach, the ones who must have broken some rule or something had to do push-ups.
And the water is cold here! Stephie exclaimed. They were wearing jackets and pants and boots, but the poor guys were shivering like a blizzard was blowing. They looked like they were about to die!
I'm about to die from just hearing about it, Harrington said with a smirk. Who were they? A bunch of apes from the San Diego Zoo?
We asked a couple of women who were next to us on the beach, Penny said. They told us those guys were volunteers for the SEALs. That was part of their training.
God! Stephie exclaimed. It really blew my mind when I thought of Chad doing that.
One of the women told us her husband had been in SEAL training but quit, Penny said. She said he was in the middle of something they called Hell Week. E
vidently, those guys do all sorts of hard training with very little sleep and no mercy shown to them. She said her husband just decided it wasn't worth it. Evidently, most of the guys volunteering for the SEALs don't make the grade.
Harrington was silent for a moment before speaking again. I'm having a problem picturing skinny Chadwick Murchison not only going through such torment, but actually successfully completing the awful program.
He's not skinny anymore, Harrington, Penny said. Whatever the SEALs did to him was beneficial. I mean, like, spiritually as much as physically.
Harrington drained the glass, then refilled it from the shaker.
And you want to marry him? They must have turned him into an animal!
He is, Penny said with a smile. A hunky animal!
Yeah! Stephie exclaimed. Show me his picture again, Penny!
I wish I had known that was what it took to win your heart, Penny dearest, Harrington said, miffed by his wife's admiring remarks about Chad. I would have become a SEAL myself. It would have been worth the pain and agony to have your heart as Chad has it.
I don't think you appreciate what we've just told you, Harrington, Stephie said. You would have lasted about a minute and a half out there.
If that long, Penny added. You should have seen those guys.
Harrington looked around. How long is it going to take Mercedes to fetch my liquor?
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UNREO CAMP
WEST-CENTRAL AFGHANISTAN
DR. Pierre Bouchier and his relief and education organization were back in business. After going to Kabul, they went through a complete refitting and received a half-dozen new personnel to replace those who had departed. With the reorganization taken care of, the UNREO team had been dispatched to the high desert to set up a camp to serve a new set of Pashtuns.
These people were from the Gharawdara Highlands stronghold. After the defeat suffered by the Iranian SF and smugglers, the Pashtun leader Yama Orakzai could see the handwriting on the wall. Whoever kicked the Iranians' arses would soon be kicking his. Orakzai's big plan for establishing a Pashtun nation in western Afghanistan was not going to happen anytime soon. And if he kept up alliances with a bunch of losers like the Iranians, his dreams of independence would be squashed forever. After kicking out Sikes Pasha, Captain Naser Khadid, and the Arabs, Orakzai turned to a Pashtun custom known as nanwatai.
This is an act of abject submission to a conquering enemy. The loser approaches the victor in unreserved humility, begging for forgiveness and mercy. The vanquisher is expected to be more than merciful because of this humble act; he is expected to be nothing short of magnanimous, restoring the loser's dignity and making no attempts to punish or debase him.
It was in the spirit of nanwatai that Yama Orakzai sent out peace feelers to the Afghan authorities. He wanted to take his people back to their original home site and reestablish their former lives.
The government in Kabul was relieved to react in accordance with the gesture, not so much in kindness as happiness at having this thorn in their sides removed under amicable and honorable circumstances. However, they bent the basic rules of nanwatai a bit by insisting that Orakzai make his clan an open society. He must accept the aid and teachings of UNREO, cooperate with them, and see that his people obtained all the advantages of what the foreigners had to offer. The Pashtun leader agreed to the terms with a great show of gratitude. He was even willing to turn over all heavy weaponry to the local army commander. Some rusty Soviet Dashika machine guns and 82-millimeter mortars were presented to the soldiers. This act was even filmed for local TV consumption to set an example for other warlords. Of course, the authorities were unaware of a vast arsenal hidden deep within the weatherproof caves of the former stronghold.
The government agent who monitored Orakzai's acquiescence the word surrender was never used was a veteran of relations with warlords. His name was Zaid Aburrani, and he was well known by Brannigan's Brigands. It was Aburrani who oversaw the taming of the former powerful warlords Ayuub Durtami and Hassan Khamami after the SEALs had dealt them a proverbial ass-kicking on their first mission. Now he was having an easier time of it.
Orakzai was very happy to deal with Aburrani, whom he knew very well. They had been involved in the opium poppy industry for several years before Orakzai took his people to the Gharawdara Highlands. Now that the Pashtun mujahideen would cease their fighting activities and get back to farming, they would return to poppy cultivation up in the hidden meadows of the mountains above their village. Zaid Aburrani would see that they were not molested and would have easy access to the old smugglers, who had now taken back the opium trail the Iranians could no longer use.
It was like that old song with the refrain: Boy does the money come in!
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THE WHITE HOUSE
THE OVAL OFFICE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
5 JUNE
1015 HOURS
A rapping at the door caught the President's attention. He looked up from the press briefing he was preparing and called out, Come in.
Arlene Entienne entered the office. She was elegant and beautiful as always, but it was obvious she was tired. Good morning, Mr. President.
Hello, Arlene, he replied to the greeting. I heard you came in at four a.m. today.
Yes, sir, she replied. I received a call from Edgar Watson at the CIA a little after three. Operation Persian Empire has kicked up into high gear.
The President got up and walked over to the side of the room where a coffeepot was plugged in. He poured a cup of the brew, then brought it over to Entienne. Here, Arlene. You need this.
I sure do!
Did we hear from Aladdin again? the President asked, sitting back down.
Edgar said it was a quick transmission, Entienne answered. Evidently, he is in a particularly dangerous area. At any rate, he informed us that a compact group of Iranians and Arabs are occupying a fortified area in the far west of the Gharawdara Highlands. When the time is right, they'll make their move. Their objective, of course, is to gain control of the Gharawdara Highlands in western Afghanistan.
A 'compact' group, hey? the President remarked. They evidently don't want to make a big fuss. That's good. We don't want to either.
Mr. President, Entienne said, you gave me authorization to put your special executive order into effect. I did so at a little past five this morning.
Alright, he said. It's amazing when one considers the fact that this sensitive international crisis is going to be settled by dozens rather than thousands of troops.
It's a mind-boggler, alright, Entienne stated.
And now our own so-called compact group will answer the challenge. They will go into harm's way. The President sighed. The worst part of this job is having to put the lives of our finest young people at risk. He stood up and walked to the window, gazing out pensively. I cannot describe how much it distresses me.
Entienne got to her feet and went over to him, standing close to the Chief Executive. Would it make you feel better if I reminded you they were all volunteers?
Not really.
EPILOGUE
SHELOR FIELD, AFGHANISTAN
7 JUNE
1430 HOURS
TWENTY-THREE men arrived on the latest flight from Kuwait to be added to the roster of Brannigan's Brigands. However, one was not exactly a reinforcement. Petty Officer Second Class Arnie Bernardi was a Brigand reporting back from Kuwait, where he had been TDy on a training mission. Bernardi's initial joy at being reunited with his old outfit was dashed when he learned of Milly Mills' death. His mood spiraled rapidly down as he experienced a combination of sadness and guilt at not being with the detachment during the battles out on the desert. He truly felt he had let his buddies down, and nothing they said eased his feelings of regret.
Bernardi's fellow passengers had been dispatched into the OA for this one specific operation, of which they knew absolutely nothing. They would have been surprised to learn that their new commander was as uninformed
as they. This new mission had evolved out of an earlier one titled Operation Rolling Thunder, and was renamed Operation Battleline by the powers-that-be who ran Special Operations in the Middle East. The Skipper found it irritating to be moved laterally from one tactical situation to another without feeling the first had been satisfactorily wrapped up as an undeniable victory. The ever verbose Bruno Puglisi felt the same, and was not bashful about expressing his disenchantment: The whole thing is too fucking half-ass to suit me, he stated candidly and loudly. It's like changing opponents at halftime in a football game.
The C-130 that brought the personnel to Shelor was one of a quartet that had been arriving since the day before. The earlier trio was crammed with ammunition, equipment, rations, and other war-making material. Randy Tooley had been going crazy coordinating unloading, storing, quartering transit personnel, and all the other headaches that go with the preparatory activities for a campaign in the mountains.
Randy's basic attitudes remained unchanged; the senior airman still found it inconvenient to wear a uniform, salute, use the title sir or ma'am when speaking to commissioned officers, or observe any military protocol whatsoever. Because of this new set of circumstances that had evolved into a problematic turmoil, Colonel Watkins, the base commander, became even more tolerant of Randy's unconventional behavior. The kid was fast, efficient, keeping the operations of the facility going along smoothly and in a timely manner through his totally dedicated efforts. Packing him off to the stockade for insubordination would not only accomplish nothing in reforming the young guy, but would create a loss to the Air Force during his incarceration. Things ground to a standstill badly enough when Randy became upset by a dressing-down from some chickenshit NCO or officer and went off by himself to sulk for a day or two. There was an unofficial standing order that he was never to be carried AWOL on base personnel reports.
