by Dale Brown
Wayne found Captain Evren at the side of the highway, stopped, and gave him a salute. The captain returned the salute, but kept his eyes on the spectacle of the ten-foot-tall CID unit striding up to him and rendering a salute as well. “My God…!”
“Charlie Turlock, Captain Evren,” Charlie said, holding out a large armored hand after lowering her salute. “How are you? Thanks for not shooting.”
Evren was stunned by the robot’s flexibility and lifelike movements. It took him several long amusing moments to take the robot’s hand and shake it. “It…it is a machine, but it moves like a man…!”
“A woman, if you don’t mind,” Charlie said.
Colonel Jaffar approached a few minutes later. Evren rendered a salute, but Jaffar didn’t return it. “So, you command this company, Turk?”
“Yes, sir. Captain Evren, Siyah Company, Forty-first Security—”
“I do not care who you are or what unit you are with, Turk,” Jaffar said. “All I care about is when you will return home and leave my country in peace.”
“That depends on when Iraq stops protecting murderous Kurds that drive bomb trucks into police buildings and kill innocent Turks, sir!”
“I am not here to listen to your political tirades, Turk! I need to know when you will move your goons out of my country!”
Whack glanced at Charlie. She didn’t have to move much, but a ten-foot-tall robot just raising its armored hands in surrender was plenty to get everyone’s attention. “Can’t we all just get along?” she said. She clasped her hands to her cheek. “Pretty please?” The sight of the big combat robot acting like a shy schoolgirl made even the gruff Colonel Jaffar chuckle, and hundreds of soldiers, Turks and Iraqis alike, joined in the laughter.
“This is not the time or place for an argument, guys,” Whack said. “Why don’t we take this back to the base? It’s almost dinnertime, if I’m not mistaken. Why don’t we all sit down, have a meal, and take a load off?”
IRBIL, IRAQ
THAT SAME TIME
“Where’s my damned air?” General Besir Ozek shouted. “They’re ten minutes late!” He grabbed the microphone out of the communications officer’s hand. “Resim, this is Sican One. Your squadron had better get their shit together or I’m coming back up there to kick your ass!”
Ozek was in the cab of an ACV-300 command post vehicle, part of headquarters company of Third Division, which was smashing through eastern Iraq. Ozek’s forces were ordered to proceed only as far as Irbil Northwest Airport, seize it for resupply and to cut off trade and commerce to the Kurdistan capital, and hold, but he had ordered a mechanized infantry battalion to proceed to the outskirts of the city itself.
The battalion had established a security perimeter in a large area that had been cleared of older buildings to make room for newer high-rise housing, northwest of the city itself. He had good visibility all around him for any signs of counterattack from peshmerga, PKK, regular Iraqi forces, or the Americans; so far none of those fighting organizations had meaningfully threatened his army, but it was better to be safe than sorry. The peshmerga was the biggest threat. Reports differed as to the size of the peshmerga, but even the most optimistic estimate made them twice as large as the four divisions Ozek had at his command, and they had some armor as well.
And there had been reports of growing resistance in Iraq. Like good rats, the PKK was deep in hiding, of course, but the Americans were starting to become restless, and the Iraqi units that had mysteriously disappeared right before the invasion were starting to pop up. Ozek had heard some reports of contact with American and Iraqi forces near Mosul, but no word on any casualties so far.
Ozek picked the area for other reasons as well: he was just north of Sami Abdul Rahman Park, a memorial park for a slain Kurdistan Regional Government official and PKK sympathizer; he was also well within mortar range of the parliament building of the Kurdistan Regional Government, so the Kurdish politicians should be able to get a good look at his army advancing on their city.
Ozek exited the command post vehicle and shouted, “Major!” A very young-looking infantry major stepped quickly over to him. “Our air is late, so you’ll have to continue for a few more minutes.”
“We’ve dropped on every target in the list, sir,” the battalion commander said. “We’ve reattacked the top ten on the list.”
Ozek pulled a slip of paper out of his jacket. “I made up a new list. The defense ministry was talking about targeting businesses in Irbil that support the PKK…well, until they give me the official go-ahead, I found a bunch of them myself. Those are their addresses. Find them on the map and drop.”
The major studied the list, and his eyes widened in surprise. “Uh, sir, this address is inside the Citadel.”
“I know that,” Ozek said. “It’s a bazaar that has shops owned by some of the same guys we’ve already been bombarding. Why should they be left out?”
“But it’s inside the Citadel, sir,” the major repeated. The Citadel of Irbil was an ancient stone wall in the center of the city encircling the archaeological ruins of the original city, which dated back to 2300 B.C. Although the city had been occupied by many nations over the centuries, the Citadel had been considered sacred ground to all of them, and some sections of it were a thousand years old. “What if we hit the archaeological sites?”
“I’m not worried about a few mud huts and cart paths,” Ozek said. “I can look out there and see a Kurdistan flag flying from inside that place, so I know the PKK hides out there. I want those shops brought down. Do it.”
“With respect, sir,” he major said, “our job is to root out the PKK. They may run and hide in the cities, but they don’t live in Irbil. Our scouts and counterintelligence units tell us the peshmerga have been shadowing us, but they haven’t dared make contact. We shouldn’t give them a reason to do so. We’ve already shelled targets in the city; bombing the Citadel might be the last straw.”
“I understand you are afraid of the peshmerga, Major,” Ozek said. “I’ve encountered them more than once in my career in the border areas. They are good in the mountains and the outback, but they are nothing but glorified guerrilla fighters. They’re not going to come after a regular army unit in a frontal assault. They have never fought as anything other than tribal enforcers. They’re just as likely to fight each other as us. In fact, I would welcome the chance to get a few of their battalions to engage us—destroy a few of their braver units, and the whole Kurdistan conglomeration might fold once and for all.”
“Yes, sir,” the major said, “but may I recommend we fire only smoke into the Citadel? You know how some revere that place, especially in the Kurdish region. They—”
“I don’t need a history lesson from you, Major,” Ozek snapped. “Get going on that list immediately. Same procedures as before: smoke to disperse the residents and mark for accuracy, high explosive to bring down the roofs, and white phosphorus to burn the place down. Get on it.”
Just as he dismissed the artillery commander with a wave of his hand, a soldier ran up to him and saluted. “Gunship is moving into position, sir.”
“About damned time.” He went back to the command post vehicle and grabbed the radio microphone. “Resim One-Eight, this is Sican One, how do you read?”
“Loud and clear, Sican,” the pilot of the AC-130H Spectre gunship reported. “One minute to on station.”
“Show me Tango One,” Ozek said. A television monitor flared to life, showing the sensor image being transmitted from the gunship. It showed a wide-angle image of the southern part of Irbil, about eight hundred yards south of the Citadel. The sensor operator switched to narrow field of view and zoomed into an overhead view of the Irbil bazaar. He followed the main highway south along the edge of the bazaar until crossing a major avenue, then started counting buildings as he continued south. “Just south of the bakery, north of the apartment building…that’s the one,” Ozek radioed. The sensor operator had locked onto the headquarters of the Masari Bank of Kurdi
stan, one of the largest banks in northern Iraq…and widely known to support the PKK through money laundering, international money exchange, and collecting donations around the world.
“Resim is locked and ready, Sican,” the pilot reported. The AC-130 began a left orbit around the target, with a side-mounted heads-up display and Instrument Landing System–like director needles showing the pilot exactly where to position the plane.
“Proceed, “Ozek said, then stepped out of the command vehicle and looked to the southeast. This was his first time seeing an AC-130 attack in person…
…and he felt a little disappointed. Most AC-130 attacks take place in darkness, where the muzzle flashes of the aircraft’s 40-millimeter cannon and 105-millimeter howitzer lit up the night like nothing else. He saw the howitzer round hit and a column of smoke arch into the sky before he heard the BOOM! of the gun and the explosion on the ground, and he wished he had stayed to watch the hit on the screen—he was going to have to wait for the video replay.
He went back to the command vehicle and looked at the sensor image. Smoke still mostly obscured the view, but the bank building looked obliterated, as did parts of the bakery and apartment building facing the bank. The precision of that gunship was amazing—that shot was from over twenty thousand feet overhead!
“Looks like a good shot, Resim,” Ozek radioed. “No signs of antiaircraft response. If you’re good to go, we’ve got quite a few targets on our list. We’ll be firing some mortar rounds from our position into the north part of the city; they should be no factor for you. Let’s have a look at Tango Two.”
OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT, THE PINK PALACE, ANKARA, REPUBLIC OF TURKEY
LATER THAT EVENING
“It’s the first encounter with an Iraqi military unit,” Minister of National Defense Hasan Cizek said as he entered President Kurzat Hirsiz’s office. “Report from Tall Kayf, north of Mosul. The brigade based at Nahla has reappeared and reoccupied their base.”
“Any contact with our forces?” Hirsiz asked.
“Yes, sir. A helicopter pilot and a crewmember were injured when his aircraft was shot down by an Iraqi man-portable air defense missile.”
Hirsiz waited, but that was all Cizek had to report. “That’s it? No other casualties? What about the Iraqis?”
“No casualties, sir.”
“What did they do, throw water balloons at each other? What do you mean, no casualties?”
“They didn’t fight, sir,” Cizek said. “Our unit let the Iraqis and the American engineers who were out at their reconnaissance plane back into Nahla Air Base.”
“They let them back in? The Americans, too? I ordered that plane dismantled and brought back to Turkey! The Americans were allowed back onto the base with parts from the plane?”
“The unit commander was going to stop them, but the armored commando and the robot threatened retaliation with their weapons and from an orbiting unmanned aircraft. Then the Iraqi brigade arrived. The unit commander saw he was outnumbered and decided not to engage. The Iraqis and Americans did not engage as well. They went into the base, and the security unit went back to their posts.”
The anger Hirsiz felt at having his orders ignored quickly subsided, and he nodded. “That was probably a good decision on the commander’s part,” he said. “Send a ‘well done’ to his parent unit.”
“Our unit there reports the Americans launched an unmanned combat aircraft to support their detail examining the plane,” Cizek said. “The American private security chief, McLanahan, explained it was a long-range loitering aircraft capable of releasing multiple types of precision and area munitions. It was apparently brought in on that Boeing 767 freighter that evaded our interceptors.”
“McLanahan. Yes,” Cizek said. “He is the wild card in all of this. Remember he commanded a very advanced bomber unit in the United States Air Force, and he was known for quite daring and successful operations—many of which were apparently done without official sanction, if we can believe the American media pundits. Now apparently he works for the Iraqis. I would guess if he says he has a cruise missile, he does, and probably more than one. The question is: As a tool of the Iraqis now, would he use it against us?”
“Hopefully we’ll never find out,” Cizek said. “I would have liked to get a look at that reconnaissance aircraft, though. The American secretary of state said our plane was disabled by a laser self-defense system, not a radiation weapon. That had to be a powerful laser. If we could get a peek at that system and cross-engineer it, we’d be decades ahead of most European and all of the Middle Eastern armies.”
“I agree,” Hirsiz said. “Have another try at bringing that plane back to Turkey. Fly as many troops as you can in tonight by helicopter. Send the entire First Division in if you have to. They don’t seem to be having any trouble in their area of responsibility; it’s the Kurdish regions that have me concerned, not the Arab ones.”
“But what about the Iraqi Nahla brigade?”
“Let’s see if they want to risk a fight over the American plane,” Hirsiz said. “I think they might think twice. We may have to deal with the American robot and armored commando, but how many of those things could they have? Let’s find out. I think the plane and its technology will be worth it.”
“We have more information about the robot and the armored commando; we won’t be as surprised as our smaller unit was, and we’ll be on the lookout for their supposed unmanned attack plane,” Cizek said. An aide hurried in with a message and handed it to him. “I was able to get some details about the plane, the XC-57,” he said as he read. “It was in a next-generation bomber competition but was not selected, so it was converted into a…lanet olsun!” he swore.
“What?”
“Third Brigade shelled Irbil,” Cizek said, dumbfounded. Hirsiz did not react. “General Ozek, in personal charge of a mortar battalion, moved to the outskirts of Irbil less than a mile from the Kurdistan parliamentary building and started firing mortars into the city,” he went on. “He even fired shells into the Citadel, the ancient city center. For the targets he couldn’t reach with mortars, he called in an AC-130 gunship and destroyed numerous targets in the south of the city with heavy cannon fire from above!”
Instead of anger or surprise, Hirsiz smiled and sat back in his seat. “Well well, it seems our skeleton-faced berserker has made the decision to strike at Irbil for us,” he said.
“But how—” Cizek stopped, the concern spreading across his face. “The proposed target list the intelligence directorate drew up…?”
“I gave it to Ozek,” Hirsiz said. “He did exactly what I was hoping he’d do.” The look of concern on Cizek’s face turned into one of sheer disbelief. “The Security Council was undecided if we should escalate the conflict by attacking the capital of the Kurdistan Regional Government; Ozek has done it for us.”
“This is a serious matter, sir,” Cizek said. “Irbil is a city of a million people. Even with precision firepower—which mortars are definitely not—innocent civilians will get hurt. And the big howitzer on those AC-130 can destroy an entire building with one shot!”
“A few civilian casualties will only help us,” Hirsiz said. “This battle has been too easy, too sterile. The PKK and the Iraqi army run and hides, the peshmerga stay out of reach, the Americans lock the gates to their bases, and the Iraqi people turn on their televisions and watch us roll down their streets. It’s not a war, it’s a parade…until now.” He then wore a worried expression. “Ozek didn’t hit any schools or hospitals, did he?”
Cizek called for a more precise list of targets struck and received them a few minutes later. “A Kurdish bank…a small shopping center…some shops inside the Citadel…a memorial park…one mortar even landed near the parliament building in a parking lot, close enough to break some windows—”
“That was on the list—the parking space of a pro-PKK politician,” Hirsiz said. “He followed the list to the letter. The Citadel hit…that was his idea, but he got the idea from that
list. I’m sure the shop was owned by the same businessman that owned the other shops in the city on the list. Ozek is scary and a little crazy, but he’s a fast learner.”
“The Security Council was undecided on attacking Irbil because we wanted to see the reaction of the world first as the operation progressed,” Cizek said. “Up until now, the reaction has been very quiet…remarkably quiet. A few cries of outrage, mostly from militant Muslim groups and human rights organizations. It was tacit approval of what we are doing. But now we’ve attacked the Iraqi people, the Kurds, directly. You should have sought the approval of the Security Council before ordering this, Kurzat!”
“I didn’t order anything, Hasan,” Hirsiz said. The minister of national defense looked unconvinced. “Don’t believe me if you wish, but I did not order Ozek to shell Irbil. I gave him the list, that’s all. But I knew he would not disappoint.” He looked at his watch. “I suppose I should call Washington and explain things to them.”
“You’re going to tell them a rogue general did those attacks?”
“I’m going to tell them exactly what happened: we had discussed attacking businesses and organizations known to be friendly to the PKK, and one of our division commanders took it upon himself to do just that.” Hirsiz waved a hand at Cizek’s disbelieving expression and lit a cigarette. “Besides, you and the rest of the council have deniability now as well. If it doesn’t bring the Americans and the Iraqis around to helping us, you can blame it all on Ozek and me.” He turned serious once more. “Make sure Ozek pulls back to the airport. If we give him too much encouragement, he’s likely to try to take the entire city.”
“Yes, sir,” Cizek said. “And we will get Second Division moving on that American aircraft.”
