by Jack Terral
All boys and men from twelve to forty years of age dutifully moved forward, crowding around the platform. Their eyes were downcast and they expected yet one more announcement or proclamation that would add even more suffering to their already miserable lives. The Oracle's raspy voice scolded them. "You are under a curse for leaving behind unburied Muslim dead as you made a cowardly flight from infidel devils. You thought more of your mortal lives than the existence you would someday endure throughout eternity after your souls had passed on to either divine reward or retribution. And surely your terrible sins would have caused you to enter Satan's domain and live in fiery agony forever. But Allah the Beneficent, the Merciful, has now provided you with a grand opportunity to save your wretched souls."
The males of the camp felt a sense of hope, but only a faint one. None trusted the Oracle to show them kindness or mercy.
Khatib knew they were pondering his words, and he enjoyed viewing the pitiful pleas in their eyes as they regarded him. He renewed his address in a louder voice. "At this moment the Warlord Hassan Khamami is locked in a mighty struggle with those same unbelievers who disgraced and humiliated you. Allah has decreed that if you join the Amir's army and fight bravely without regard for your lives, He will forgive your great transgression against His laws. If you come back victorious, the married men will once again be allowed to know their wives. If they or any of the bachelors die, they will be granted entrance to Paradise, where the houris will await to pleasure them through time that knows no end."
The men and boys were shocked into stupefaction by the revelation. After a few moments they recovered, breaking into cheers and waving their arms while praising Allah's glory in loud shouts. The horny husbands considered the opportunity for sex with wives or houris particularly attractive.
"You go from here to the other side of the castle," Khatib said. "There you will be strengthened by a great feast, then armed for war. Tomorrow, helicopters will come to carry you to be tested in battle against Satan's warriors. It is there that you will know either the glory of victory or the grandeur of Paradise."
He pointed toward the castle, screaming, "Go! Go now! Now!"
The crowd immediately rushed out of the bivouac, running as fast as they could across the bare, scrubby terrain toward the good food that awaited them. The older men, remaining behind in the company of the women and children, enviously watched them depart.
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BRANNIGAN'S BRIGANDS
THE FOOTHILLS
2145 HOURS LOCAL
THE SEALs were exhausted.
It was more than the physical fatigue of strenuous and continuous activity; they also felt the deep mental bite of nervous weariness that is brought on by a deteriorating tactical situation. They had been forced into a retreat toward safety after the loss of two good buddies whose bodies had to be cached like pieces of equipment. All this while on a mission that had been originally laid on as a simple link-up and extraction operation. But that had deteriorated into a complicated mess in which they battled two warlords without the addition of a single reinforcement. Those are circumstances that do not exactly raise morale.
They had stumbled on relentlessly into the hours of darkness, unspeaking and numb until Mike Assad called back via LASH to inform Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan that he and Dave Leibowitz had discovered a small spring. The Skipper told them to wait at the site, and he brought the rest of the platoon up to join them. He didn't bother to put out security right away. Instead, he and Lieutenant Jim Cruiser, with the two chiefs following, went from man to man checking the status of the platoon's ammunition supply. They seemed to be in reasonably good shape, with each Brigand packing an average of ten magazines holding thirty rounds each. This was backed up by the forty-two M-67 fragmentation grenades they had among them. A few had extras, and the devices were evenly divided among all fourteen SEALs, so that each would have three. With the ammunition check done, the senior ranking men of the platoon withdrew for a confab with the Skipper.
Brannigan summed up the obvious. "These guys are dog tired to the point of almost being fed up with this mission."
"I think in the Army this is a situation they call soldiering," Cruiser remarked.
"Whatever it's called, it sucks," Brannigan said. "The next time we're attacked, the situation could easily deteriorate into something worse than a risky battle. It would be a last stand."
"That's another word for massacre," Cruiser pointed out. "We'll have to be careful, sir," Dawkins said. "The guys are going to need a lot of looking after."
"Right," Gunnarson agreed. 'This is one of those times when a word of encouragement or a joke does more than putting a boot in somebody's ass:'
"I can't argue with your logic, Chief," Brannigan said. "So here's the skinny. We're going to drink water from this spring until our bellies slosh. God only knows if there're any more sources available to us. We'll bunk down here on fifty percent alert until oh-five-hundred hours. At that time we want all canteens filled for the ordeal ahead. Then we'll saddle up and move out. Any questions? All right then. Get back to your guys:'
The team leaders walked down the ravine to their men to pass on the word.
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THE KHAMAMI'S FIEFDOM
29 AUGUST
0830 HOURS LOCAL
THE disabled senior mujahideen, taken from active campaigning because of a leg crippled by a Soviet sniper, yelled angrily as he formed up two dozen men for transport in the pair of Mi-24 helicopters coming back for another lift. Forty-eight of Durtami's former mujahideen had already been flown out to the battle area and dropped off. It would take another five lifts to get the rest of the group out.
Every man was armed with an ancient British bolt-action Lee-Metford Mark II rifle. Although the magazines were designed to hold ten cartridges, this group had been issued only three for each weapon. They had no additional ammunition, and after discovering that they would be sent against an enemy with modern automatic weaponry, the men knew that within a short time they would be bedded down with houris in Paradise.
One of the riflemen's buttocks flared in pain. He was a newlywed who had been impetuous enough to ask Khatib the Oracle if he could visit his new wife one more time before going off to battle. The enraged mullah had him given a caning of fifty strokes for his weakness of the flesh.
Now, as the choppers came in, the two groups were sent out to cram themselves into the troop compartments for the flight out to join Major Karim Malari's field force.
Chapter 17
THE FOOTHILLS
30 AUGUST
0500 HOURS LOCAL
THE platoon had been on the move steadily since leaving the area of the spring twenty-four hours previously. Lieutenant Bill Brannigan reluctantly came to the conclusion that they had reached a point where the forced march had to be brought to a temporary halt. The men had done about as much as could be expected of them. The Skipper called for a seven-hour rest break. In reality there was only three and a half hours of actual relaxation per man since they were on a 50 percent alert. The exception was the Odd Couple--Mike Assad and Dave Leibowitz--who had been excused from standing watch. The two point men had been constantly on the go during unit movements, going forward then returning to make periodic reports to Brannigan. Consequently, they walked almost twice as much as anyone else during each day's movement.
Under Senior Chief Buford Dawkins's less than gentle leadership, the men on watch turned to waking up the sleepers.
One indication of a man's excellent physical conditioning is the ability to make a rapid recovery from prolonged and demanding activity. The SEALs were much better rested than the average human male would have been after long hours of pushing himself through ravines with all possible speed. But there is a limit to even superbly conditioned individuals, whether they are professional fighting men or athletes. And the one person with this on his mind was Hospital Corpsman Third Class James Bradley.
James began going from man to man as they prepared for the co
ming day's activities, making inquiries about how each was doing. Naturally all put on shows of manly vigor, saying they felt absolutely froggy and ready to jump, but James wasn't buying that line of bullshit. He knew the extent of their fatigue, and advised each to eat an energy bar as quickly as possible. These high-calorie bars of sustenance would get some nutrients flowing through their badly used bodies. The corpsman augmented his field therapy by passing out pep pills from his medical kit to each SEAL. These amphetamine derivatives not only gave bursts of energy and a feeling of well-being, but also suppressed the appetite. That might prove a blessing later on if the rations ran low. Unfortunately, the drug also caused dryness in the mouth. The water acquired at the spring would last only so long, and they would soon be running low on the precious H2O.
Brannigan slipped into his combat vest and glanced up and down the column. He turned to the radio operator, Frank Gomez. "Turn on the PRC-112's beacon."
"It's always on, sir," Frank replied. "I've hoarded some extra batteries for it."
"All right!" Brannigan said approvingly. He turned his attention back to the men, satisfied that they were ready to renew the trek. He glanced up and sighted the Odd Couple looking back at him from the point. He spoke into the LASH. "Let's go."
Mike Assad and Dave Leibowitz turned and led the platoon out for that day's travel.
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WARLORD KHAMAMI'Sl CP
WEST RIDGE
0515 HOURS LOCAL
A complex of a half dozen tents had evolved in the area the SEALs had used as a temporary home when they first arrived in the OA. The field headquarters of Warlord Hassan Khamami hadn't been this well organized since the war against the Soviets. The reason for the enhanced efficiency and attention to detail came from the fact that Khamami had developed a special respect for the men he now fought. The ambush sprung on Tanizai's troops the day before had been skillfully planned and executed, and the warlord had no doubt that he faced a determined and expert enemy.
Now, in the early hour of dawn, Khamami climbed from his blankets and walked to the front flap of his tent. His instincts, developed during years of fighting in this sort of rugged, isolated terrain, gave him a solid feeling of optimism. Somehow he did not think he faced an enemy that was particularly numerous. He could tell by their actions that there was no chance they could overwhelm him. That was the reason for the ambush and sudden withdrawal. Had they been a stronger force with support weapons, they would have stood fast and slugged it out with the mujahideen.
On the other hand, they were well practiced in the type of warfare the Westerners called unconventional. But with both Major Karim Malari and Captain Lakhdar Tanizai in the field, Khamami was confident that victory was only a matter of time. Malari and Tanizai were veteran combat commanders and were now using every tactical trick they knew to track down the foreign devils who had intruded into this land. The situation his foes faced reminded him of what he had learned about a certain infamous American general who fought Indian warriors in that country's West many years before. The commander's name was Custer. Good luck in past battles had made him reckless, and the day finally came when he paid for that overconfidence with his life and those of his men.
A servant scurried forward with a hot bowl of chat tea for the warlord. Khamami took it, treating himself to a sip of the stimulating brew. He glanced over to where his air force of two helicopters stood waiting for the day's activities to begin. Just beyond them were the one hundred men of the disgraced Ayyub Durtami. Their former warlord had joined the ragtag group in time to come out on the last airlift. He and his mujahideen lay sleeping with their ancient rifles, eager to atone for their past actions, both in Khamami's eyes and those of Allah.
This was one of those times that Khamami was most appreciative of religion. Not because of any personal devoutness on his part; but because such beliefs made it easier for him to send men to their death on his behalf. There was nothing like a good jihad to pep the lads up. He took another drink of tea as he looked at the sleeping men who faced a battle they could not possibly survive.
Their bodies would soon be soaking up bullets as sponges do water.
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WADI KHESTA VALLEY
0800 H0URS LOCAL
WHEN the Odd Couple rounded a sharp turn in the ravine, they came to a sudden stop. Stretched out to their direct front was a large valley that appeared to be at least an eighth of a kilometer wide. Although it did not have a lot of cover along the tops, scrub brush grew abundantly on the gentle slopes of the sides.
Mike Assad stayed as security while Dave Leibowitz went back to the column to report to Lieutenant Bill Brannigan. When he met the platoon coming toward him, he went straight to the Skipper.
"Sir, we've just run out of ravine," Dave said. "There's a pretty big valley about fifty meters ahead. It ain't the Grand Canyon, but it's maybe a hundred meters wide. We don't know the length of the place, but there's lots of vegetation on the sides. That could be a sign of water."
"I sure as hell hope so," Brannigan said. "We're about to start having a great big fucking problem with thirst if things keep going the way they have been." Most of the men had popped at least one pep pill, and the resultant dryness in their mouths was becoming uncomfortable. They were forced to resort to the old Apache Indian trick of sucking on a couple of pebbles to keep the saliva flowing. Brannigan felt a little better now. "Let's take a look at this magnificent terrain feature you and Assad discovered."
The column began moving again, going on down the ravine. They turned the same corner of the big gully as Mike and Dave had, stepping into an extremely wide valley that had a varying depth of between ten and fifteen meters. The feeling of security the platoon had formerly enjoyed in the ravines quickly evaporated. They felt positively exposed, and instinctively went on the alert, hoisting their weapons to high port.
Senior Chief Buford Dawkins trotted up to the Skipper. "Sir, what do you make of this?"
Brannigan shrugged under his combat vest. "I was hoping we'd find some water, but the farther we go the less I think that's going to happen."
"This ain't a place for water, sir," the senior chief commented. 'Them thorny shrubs around here is the type of bushes that don't need a lot of water. That's why it's growing so good up on them dry slopes."
"I was afraid of that," Brannigan said. "You better pass the word to the men to take it easy with the canteens until further orders."
"I already did, sir," Dawkins said. "But most of 'em had figgered that out already."
"All we can do is keep moving and hope for the best. And suck those pebbles."
"Right, sir. See you later."
Dawkins turned and headed back down toward Bravo Fire Team.
THE WADI KHESTA VALLEY
ABDULLAH and Ashraf were veteran mujahideen who had spent their entire lives in the wilds of Afghanistan. Both were small men, wiry and illiterate but possessed of a natural intelligence and cunning that made them the best scouts in Warlord Hassan Khamami's army.
As Pashtun boys they had been raised in the warrior traditions of their people, living hard lives of deprivation and poverty in an unforgiving country where the weak and unwary succumbed early in life. Their nameless home village was precariously perched on the side of a mountain, the crude homes built of the natural rocks that abounded in the area. A single well served the population of ten families, and three out of five babies, born to women worn by cruel toil, died before attaining three months of age. These were people who took nothing for granted. Bad weather was more than an inconvenience; it could herald natural disasters such as drought, howling windstorms, and thunderclouds that sent immense sheets of water to splash down across the mountains, causing avalanches and flash floods. Additionally, an injury that would only be bothersome in gentler living conditions could kill the unlucky with infections and gangrene. However, anybody reaching the age of ten could reasonably expect to live to the ripe old age of thirty-five or forty, since their bodies had proven to be resi
stant to all the illnesses and diseases of that environment.
Abdullah and Ashraf, like all the boys, were introduced to firearms early in life. They took their turns standing guard at night, watching for marauding bandits who might raid their village. Their weaponry consisted of old flintlock smoothbore muskets, a few percussion muzzle-loading rifles, and bladed instruments of war that included Indian shamshirs, Arabian scimitars and even some heavy British cavalry sabers taken during a nameless battle over a hundred years before.
Hunting was not a sport for the Pashtuns. It was a way of obtaining protein. The favorite game in those barren mountains was gazelles, but the meager herds had been hunted to near extinction. Now the most numerous animals were hares that had stringy, hard-to-chew meat on the haunches and back legs. Another, better source of meat was the domestic animals of other villages obtained through outright thievery. It was this latter activity in which Abdullah and Ashraf developed their skills in reconnaissance and raiding.
By the time the big troubles with the Soviets came along, the two friends were in their teens. They joined Warlord Khamami's band to fight against the invaders, and found themselves in a world of constant warfare. One of their main jobs was to dog Russian patrols to keep track of the activities and whereabouts of the infidels. Even though they were daring to the point of recklessness at times and had many close calls, Abdullah and Ashraf were never discovered by their prey, and guided many detachments of mujahideen to successful ambush and attack sites.
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0830 HOURS LOCAL
ASHRAF moved slowly down the valley, at times bending over almost double as he studied the spoor he had picked up more than two kilometers back. He noted dislodged rocks, a bent twig on a bush or a scrape along the ground where a misstep had left a boot mark. It was Abdullah's turn to carry the R-100 pack radio, and he watched his friend doing his best to pick up clues of the men they tracked so relentlessly.
