In line yamin wa shmal! he ordered. The first and third platoons went to his right and the second and fourth to his left, both coming abreast. Indak! The entire armored car company came to a halt in perfect alignment, facing to the front.
They had just finished two grueling hours of running different battle formations, going from the various echelons along with enveloping and frontal-attack maneuvers. He was pleased with the way the men had performed. They were enthusiastic and eagerly waiting when they could go out on combat patrols to seek out targets of opportunity. But now they were tired. So was the captain. He ordered the engines turned off and gave permission for everyone to prepare the evening meal.
PRIVATE Archibald Sikes deserted the British Army during a routine work assignment he had been given. He was to drive a TM 4'4 vehicle over to the quartermaster depot to pick up a couple of tires for one of the Leyland-DAF four-ton trucks. Instead of following orders, when he left the Royal Regiment of Dragoons compound, he turned in the opposite direction, driving down the main drag of Basra. After going a mile, he turned off onto a side street and drove past startled Iraqis into a poor neighborhood, as he had been directed to do by Khalil Farouk. When he reached the indicated intersection as instructed, a tough-looking guy in an athletic training suit suddenly opened the opposite door and jumped into the left-hand passenger seat. He pointed ahead and said, That way you go! That way you go!
Right, mate, Archie said. That way I go.
They continued on deeper into the neighborhood, making a couple of turns, then stopped in front of a dilapidated apartment building. Now another man appeared. This one took Archie's place, pulling him out into the street none too gently. The vehicle sped off and the first fellow, having disembarked from the truck, took Archie by the arm, leading him into the building. Archie began growing more nervous every second as he was pulled down a long dark corridor. But when they reached a door and stepped inside a room, Farouk was waiting with warm greetings. He even hugged the reluctant Archie, calling him sahib friend. After completing his salutations with a warm handshake, he pointed to a man sitting at a small table. That is someone you will know as al-Zaim for the time being.
How d'you do, sir? Archie said politely, noting a chair on the opposite side of the table from the stranger.
I am fine, thank you, the man replied in English. His accent was not Arabian, yet was close. Will you sit down, please, Mr. Sikes. I wish to make a little test of your military knowledge.
You blokes don't waste time, do you? Archie remarked to the man he would eventually learn was Brigadier Shahruz Khohollah of the Iranian Army.
We certainly do not, al-Zaim replied.
Fine with me, Archie said agreeably. He took the empty chair. Fire away when you're ready, sir.
Let's begin with the subject of ambushes, said Al-Zaim. Would you describe for me, please, that which is known as a deliberate ambush.
Archie quickly replied, That's when you're gonna be hitting a specific target at a location you've picked out because it's bluddy handy.
Mmm. And please tell me two things to consider for a deliberate ambush.
Archie thought a moment. Well, right off the top of me head, I'd say which direction the enemy is gonna be moving he turned thoughtful again and what sort o' formation the enemy is and its numbers.
Al-Zaim seemed to be thinking. Then he suddenly asked, Suppose I were your commanding officer and I wanted you to trail after an enemy unit that had passed through our area. How would you conduct the operation?
The first thing is to find the tracks or trails left by the bad blokes, Archie said. Without that, you ain't gonna find 'em, are you? Then you study the sign and figger out the number o' the blighters, what sort they might be, that sort o' thing. I mean, if it looks like there's a hundred bloody riflemen tramping about the countryside, you don't want to take a dozen o' your mates after 'em, hey? Then, after finding the trail and who they are, I'd go after 'em. O' course, you got to have security all around, since there's always the chance they might figger someone's after 'em and double back or set up an ambush, right?
Al-Zaim nodded his approval. And what would you do once you've got them in sight?
Archie shrugged. I don't know. You're the commander. You tell me what you want me to do with the wankers.
From that point on, questions were thrown at the Brit regarding numerous subjects, including camouflage, preparation of various types of fighting positions, security during unit movement, handling EPWs, urban operations, use of supporting artillery, first aid, mines, and map reading, among others.
After two hours of intense questioning interspersed with conversation, Al-Zaim suddenly got to his feet and walked over to the door where Khalil Farouk stood. He spoke a few words in Arabic, then left the room. Farouk walked over to Archie with a smile. You are doing fine, friend Archie. Now you go to the next step. But first we must get rid of your uniform. We have some civilian clothes for you to change into.
Archie began unbuttoning his jacket, knowing that this was the final gesture of his life as a British soldier. He was saying farewell to his Army, his country, and his ethnicity.
Chapter 4
USS COMBS
ARABIAN SEA
7 APRIL
0930 HOURS
THE CHE-53 Super Stallion chopper eased toward the fantail landing deck of the destroyer, gently touching down. Commanders Tom Carey and Ernie Berringer, carrying heavy briefcases, quickly disembarked and headed forward to the ship's superstructure.
Five minutes later, the two officers entered the SPECOPS commo center. They went directly to the message distribution boxes, and each checked the contents of the ones bearing their names. I don't have a thing, Berringer said. But I really wasn't expecting much this early in the game.
Carey had one missive and he opened it, scanning the three typed words it contained:
NO FUCKING FUEL
Berringer glanced over Carey's shoulder and read it. He showed a rare grin. That's one thing about Brannigan, he remarked. The guy can sum up frustration and rage in just one simple phrase.
Carey was in no mood for flippancy. He stormed out of the center and strode rapidly down the passageway to the logistics office. When he stepped inside, he found a lieutenant junior grade and a yeoman sorting through requisitions. Carey dropped Brannigan's message in front of the officer. Operation Rolling Thunder has nine DPVs sitting at Shelor Field without a drop of gasoline for them.
The lieutenant looked over at the yeoman. Check that out, Densmore.
Aye, sir. The yeoman went to a box marked suspense and pulled out a set of forms. The requisition for fuel, gasoline, unleaded in ten fifty-gallon drums, hasn't been filled yet. This includes fifty gallons of motor oil as well.
Goddamn it! Carey cursed. When did you send it in? An hour ago?
No, sir, Yeoman Densmore answered. It's been at Station Bravo for a couple of weeks now.
Then why hasn't it been filled?
The lieutenant answered, It's a matter of priority, sir. Operation Rolling Thunder is way down the list. The operations in Iraq have first call; then a half-dozen missions in Afghanistan come next. Rolling Thunder is at the bottom.
Priorities be damned! Carey protested. Rolling Thunder was officially alerted on four April. That was three days ago.
I'm sorry, sir, the lieutenant said. I don't set the schedules. He was used to complaints and screwups, considering them as normal as breathing, eating, and sleeping. I suppose operations and logistics just aren't on the same page. He shrugged. The best I can tell you is that Rolling Thunder will get that requisition within ten days or so.
What about their chow? Carey demanded to know. Are the poor bastards going to starve to death?
Under the present SOP, the staff at Shelor Field handles that since the guys involved are billeted there.
Yeoman Densmore interrupted. Even if the mess situation gets screwed up, Rolling Thunder has two weeks' worth of MREs.
Yeah, okay, Carey said
, irritated. He left the supply office and returned to the commo center. When he walked in, he shook his head to show Berringer it was useless. He grabbed a message pad and scribbled a word on it. After ripping out the page, he carried it over to the nearest RTO and dropped it in front of her. Transmit this to Operation Rolling Thunder.
Aye, sir. The young woman quickly tapped out the transmission. It contained but one word:
SNAFU.
.
UNREO CAMP
SOUTHWESTERN AFGHANISTAN
1100 HOURS
DR. Pierre Bouchier was the chief of the UN mission stationed in that area of Afghanistan. Now, after a frustrating morning of nonattendance at all the scheduled classes, he had called his entire staff to a meeting outside his tent. Most had brought camp chairs with them, while others were content with either standing or sitting in the sand. Even a casual observer could have noted that their collective morale was low.
The Belgian MD gazed sadly at the people he supervised in the humanitarian effort. I know you all feel the same frustration I do. But I ask you to 'keep the faith' as les americaines say. I suppose our assignment with Warlord Khamami's people spoiled us with its ease and success.
One of the nurses, a young Spanish woman, spoke up loudly. That was because those American soldiers were there.
They weren't soldiers, Penny Brubaker interjected. They were Navy SEALs.
An Italian dentist laughed. You should know, signorina. One of them was your sweetheart.
He still is, Penny remarked, while thinking, I hope he still is.
I think we all remember those particular Americans, Dr. Bouchier said. And I admit it is true that their presence helped us. Especially when one takes into consideration they had defeated the warlord's bandits.
They helped those poor girls too, Penny reminded him. The ones that were sex slaves.
And I am most grateful for that, Dr. Bouchier said. They saved a dozen lives that memorable day. He lit a cigarette. But now we have the problem of having to make what we offer in aid appear helpful and attractive to the people of this village on this day and at this time. Frankly, I am unable to figure out exactly what we must do. Surely, some of you ladies have ideas since you're the ones in the closest contact with the native women.
Before any of the females could respond, a shout was heard in the near distance. They all turned to see one of their Afghan security guards gesturing wildly and pointing out into the desert. A quick look showed a cloud of sand swirling near the horizon. After a minute or so, it was obvious it was coming closer. They all stood up, the apprehension on their faces evident by tightened jaws and instinctive frowns of concern.
It appears we have visitors, Dr. Bouchier said.
I hear motors, someone announced.
A French surgeon cursed. Merde! It must be some sacres americaines!
Everybody be calm, Dr. Bouchier urged them. He glared at the Frenchman. If they are Americans, we can be grateful. They will have candy for the children. That will bring everybody out from the village and maybe ease the tension here. Perhaps a little levity is what is needed.
Everyone walked around the tent to watch the approaching visitors. As they drew closer and appeared plainer in the desert haze, the UN people could see that three vehicles made up the group. Look! They are tanks! a young Polish X-ray technician cried.
No seas pandeja, a Spanish medical orderly scoffed. They are armored cars. See? They have tires, not tracks.
Five minutes later, a trio of EE-3s pulled up to a stop. Nine men wearing desert camouflage uniforms and Arab keffiyehs rapidly and efficiently appeared from hatches in the tops of the vehicles. They jumped to the ground and one took the lead, striding toward the UN crowd with the others respectfully following. Dr. Bouchier stepped forward to greet the visitors. He noticed the lead man wore the three-pip insignia of a British captain.
How do you do, Monsieur le Capitaine? he greeted. I am Dr. Pierre Bouchier, the chief of this UN mission.
The man stopped. Good morning, sir. I am Captain Arsalaan Sikes of the Army of Jihad Abadi.
Bouchier, alarmed by the word jihad, looked closely at the man. He spoke in an English accent and, except for the headgear, looked like a typical Brit with brown hair and blue eyes. But he conducted himself as if he were an Arab officer. I fear I am confused, Monsieur le Capitaine.
Sikes suddenly turned and barked orders in Arabic. Six of his men immediately trotted toward the Pashtun village, and he turned his attention back to Bouchier. You are in territory controlled by the Jihad Abadi. And I want to know what you're about, yeah?
We are a relief mission, Monsieur le Capitaine, Bouchier explained. We offer these people medical care and instruction in sanitation.
You'll put a halt to your operation straightaway, Sikes said. Do not have no further contact with the Pashtuns here. Me men are already in the village warning them buggers that they ain't to have nothing to do with foreigners. And that means you, mate!
But we are here under an agreement between the United Nations and the Afghan government, Bouchier protested.
Such agreements don't mean nothing, Sikes said. You got three days, yeah? He checked his watch. It's getting close to noon, so I'll be back here on the tenth. And this place better be bare and empty. Got it? You'll be bluddy sorry if you and these people are still hanging about.
The half-dozen men he had sent into the village now reappeared. On his command, they reboarded the armored cars.
Bouchier's people crowded around him. What are you going to do, Docteur? the French surgeon asked anxiously.
I'm going to contact the UN office in Kabul and ask them how we are to respond to the threat, Bouchier said. He shook his head. I cannot believe what just happened. We are in the middle of a most frustrating situation when an Englishman dressed like an Arab officer appears out of nowhere and orders us to cease our operations and depart.
Out in the desert, Captain Arsalaan Sikes led his three vehicles back to join the rest of his armored car company, waiting some five miles away across the sandy terrain.
WHEN Archie Sikes left Iraq through the courtesy of the Jihad Abadi, he went first to Syria in their E&E net. After a three-day stay in Damascus during which he was given a quick but comprehensive indoctrination on the terrorist group, he was transported to Saudi Arabia in a private civilian airplane. At that point, the deserter was taken to a place where he began classes in the Arabic language as well as the tenets of Islam. Archie, who hadn't attended church much as a youngster, had never received any serious religious schooling whatsoever.
First, an earnest young cleric told him the story of how the angel Gabriel had come to a man called Muhammad to inform him that God, i.e., Allah, had chosen him to be his final prophet. From that point on, Muhammad received divine revelations that made up the Qu'ran, which was the Muslim Bible. At that point, the Qu'ran was brought into Archie's life, and he received intense daily instruction in what it contained. His preliminary response was lukewarm, but as the subject matter deepened, it became all-encompassing to the young Brit. He began to feel a pull toward the religion. His instructor noted this, and put the pressure on.
Meanwhile, between religious classes, his Arabic lessons continued, with a heavy dose of the Muslim side of current world events involving international politics and diplomacy. With no opposing views being expressed, Archie began to feel that the Western nations he came from were indeed decadent and evil, and the United States and Israel were supporting the causes of Satan with the help of Europe. He began to reason that the Royal Regiment of Dragoons had declined to have him commissioned in their ranks because of the ingrained prejudice of the wealthy upper classes who wanted to keep the common man from improving his status in society. In other words, they perceived a serious threat in Archibald Sikes. Even if he had received a commission in another regiment, they would have seen to it that his career went nowhere in the British Army. These were the same people the mullahs accused of conducting Satan's campaigns against
Islam.
While the religious and political aspects of the lessons were winning over Archie Sikes, it was the rules about women that brought about his total conversion. He had gotten along even less well with girls than he had with boys when growing up. His first attempts to establish relationships with his feminine classmates during his teen years were rebuffed. This spurning of his artless, clumsy advances made him angry and frustrated, and he found it humiliating that not only did the girls not seem to like him, but they demonstrated a marked disapproval of him as a person. Many seemed to consider him a buffoon. An angry inferiority complex developed out of this, and the lessons of Islam turned that all around to a feeling of superiority and even divine authority where the fair sex was concerned. Those English girls had not been properly subdued and indoctrinated.
Rolling Thunder (2007) Page 4
