They left the office and walked outside to the C-130. When they approached the rear of the aircraft, they could see Randy Tooley in his DPV leading a couple of forklifts across the airfield toward them.
.
MANCHESTER, ENGLAND
14 APRIL
2000 HOURS
EVEN though the man wore civilian clothing, he had the look of a soldier about him. He was lean, with a jutting jaw, and his shoulders were squared as if he were on parade at Buckingham Palace. He had parked his car along a street of working-class houses. The triplexes were narrow two-story structures with backyards that were no more than twenty by fifteen feet in size and bordered by tall fences.
He went up to a dingy residence sandwiched between two others, ringing the bell and stepping back. When the door opened, a middle-aged woman wearing a house frock appeared. Yes, sir?
Good evening, ma'am. Are you Missus Sikes?
Yes, sir.
I am Falkes, ma'am, he said displaying a military ID card. Army Administrative Services.
Oh, yes. Please come in, Mr. Falkes. I'll let me husband know you've come calling. She stepped back to allow the visitor to enter the house, calling out, Charlie! A gentleman from the Army is here.
A man carrying a newspaper he had been reading stepped from the parlor into the short hallway with stairs leading to the second floor. The man gave Falkes a quick study, saying, The Army, is it? Do you have news about our Archie?
Actually, I have some questions to put to you, Falkes said. You are Mr. Sikes, I presume.
Yes, sir, Charlie Sikes answered. I'm Archie's father. Won't you come into the parlor then, sir? Make yourself comfortable.
Falkes followed him from the hall and sat down on the small sofa across from an easy chair. Sikes took the latter seat, while his wife settled down on one of the arms next to her husband. Both had worried expressions on their faces, and they waited nervously for the caller to speak.
Have you heard from your son?
Why, no, sir, Sikes said. Does your asking mean he's alright?
There has been no information, as you know, Mr. Sikes, Falkes said. No insurgent group in Iraq has revealed him as their prisoner. Nor has a corpse been found. He pulled a notebook from his inside coat pocket and looked at it. According to the records, your son Archibald Sikes was an excellent soldier. Worked his way up to the rank of sergeant in record time.
Yes, Sikes said. Archie were a strange lad, I'll not deny it. But when he put his mind to something, he always came out bright as a new penny.
He was approved for a commission, but was turned down when he applied for it in the Royal Regiment of Dragoons, Falkes said. Was he angry about that?
Yes, Sikes said. He was quite disappointed, was our Archie. He felt slighted because the officers said he wasn't good enough to be one of 'em.
Why was he so insistent on serving as an officer in that particular regiment when he could have gone to almost any other?
Now Mrs. Sikes joined in the conversation. I suppose 'cause that was the regiment he had enlisted for. He had recruiting papers and folders and such before he joined up. He chose the Royal Regiment of Dragoons after weeks of thinking about it.
I understand that the very same evening after his interview for officer training, he went into London and got into a drunken brawl, Falkes said. That started a downward spiral and he ended up being a private once again. And he never straightened up after that.
That's a sad fact, sir, Sikes said. Then he went to Iraq.
Did he mention to you before he disappeared that his conduct was so bad there that he was going to be sacked by the Army when they got back to Blighty?
Sikes looked at his wife, then back to Falkes. He never said nothing about that.
And you've not heard from him? Not a phone call nor letter nor messages from him given you by other persons?
Sikes shook his head.
Would you describe his mood as bitter about everything that went wrong?
O'course he was bluddy bitter, Sikes said. He was a noncommissioned officer and recognized for doing a good job; then they same as told him that he wasn't good enough for their officers' mess. I never heard of such a thing! I mean, it's the twenty-first century, ain't it?
Right, Falkes said. He stood up and put the notebook back in his pocket, then produced a card, handing it to Sikes. If you do hear from him, call this number. It's most important, Mr. Sikes.
Mrs. Sikes's voice trembled. Is Archie in trouble, sir?
Believe me, Falkes said, if he does contact you, it will be to your and his best advantage if you let us know straightaway. And if he's deserted, the best thing he can do is turn himself in. Good evening.
Falkes walked from the room to the hallway and out the front door with Sikes and his wife following. They watched the man get in his car and drive off. Sikes looked at the card. The bastard! The goddamn rotter! He's an Army copper, that's what that bloke is.
Then Archie truly is in trouble, ain't he, Charlie?
Yeah, Nancy, Sikes said. Our lad is for it, no doubt. He snorted a sardonic chuckle. Not that I'm very surprised.
.
SHELOR FIELD VICINITY
15 APRIL
0700 HOURS
THE Brigands' desert patrol vehicles rolled across the hard-packed terrain at a steady fifty miles an hour on the new run-flat tires. The Skipper had been forced to work out various groupings for attack, defense, and movement. Unfortunately, he had no experience in motorized warfare. After pondering the problem, he decided to apply the same platoon combat formations used on foot.
Now, speeding across the desert, the SEALs were in a platoon line formation that was designed to put all their firepower to the front with the three teams side by side. It was an excellent arrangement to use when attacking a strong enemy in a known location. The commander/drivers all dressed down toward the left, where the Skipper and his Alpha Team rolled along.
Platoon column! Brannigan ordered through his LASH headset. The detachment moved over into line with Alpha in the lead, Bravo in the center, and Charlie bringing up the rear. This was actually a basic formation that simplified overall control during long movements from one point to another.
After knocking off a couple of kilometers of distance, the Skipper called for a platoon vee. Now both Bravo and Charlie teams were side to side to the front, with Alpha centered behind them. This would provide heavy immediate fire in case of enemy contact to the front, but was hard to control at times. The Alpha Team, however, could move back and forth behind the Bravos and Charlies to lend a hand where needed.
Platoon wedge! came over the LASH headsets. Now the Alphas were to the front, with the Bravos to the rear and left and the Charlies to the rear and right. This allowed heavy volumes of fire to the front and both flanks.
The maneuvering continued until the detachment could flow in and out of the various combat formations with ease and speed. The M-2 gunners within their firing positions had a hell of a time, however, as they were up higher than anyone else and caught the blasts of the dust-laden wind straight in their faces as the detachment sped across the expanse of the Afghan desert. Even the goggles and kerchiefs didn't help much at maximum speeds.
At 1030 hours, Brannigan called a halt to the proceedings. The water in their canteens had gotten tepid by then, but felt wonderful to their parched throats. The morning's training was topped off by a lecture from PO2C Bruno Puglisi, who gave a short talk on the proper workings of the Javelin antiarmor missiles. They learned that the CLU was attached to the disposable tube loaded with a HEAT projectile. The whole thing weighed forty-nine and a half pounds. The NVS utilized IR light for the gunner when the weapons were employed during hours of darkness or fog. The missile locked on the target and the on-board processing system guided the projectile where it had to go. With a range of 2000 meters and able to penetrate up to more than twenty-three inches of armor, it was a potent weapon.
When everyone fully understood the workings of the Jav
elins, they each shot off three missiles for familiarity. The SEALs concentrated on the lesson, knowing that the next time the launchers were fired, it would be done in anger and for real.
.
USS COMBS
SATELLITE PHOTO ANALYSIS
1600 HOURS
THE photographer's mate, Ernie, gazed at the cathode-ray tube that displayed satellite and aerial photos in a three-dimensional mode. The space image he now studied had just arrived aboard from Station Bravo. As he perused the screen, his pal Ned typed the labels to put on manila folders the pictures would be stored in.
Hey, Ernie said. What area is this?
Ned looked at the paperwork that arrived with the package. Western Afghanistan and eastern Iran. We've had this piece of ground sent to us before.
Mmm, Ernie said. Can you pull some of the older ones out of the file for me? I want to check something out.
Sure. Ned walked over to the file cabinet and thumbed toward the back until he found what he was looking for. He took them over and dropped them at Ernie's elbow, chuckling. Y'know something? Nobody has ever come down here and asked us for any of these photos. You're the first guy I've had to go to the files for.
As long as they find me on payday, I don't give a shit, Ernie said. He put an old photo in the scanner, sending it to the computer. Then he looked at the new picture. Now the old one again. Now the new one again.
Ned frowned. What the fuck are you doing? You look like you're bobbing for apples.
Come here and check out the Iranian marshes in both photos. Tell me what you see.
Ned walked over and studied them. There's a shadowy strip across the marshes in the new one. Probably the water in the area sank in deeper. Sinkholes or something.
Ernie shook his head. That ain't a natural occurrence, pal. Don't you remember your training? Natural objects are irregular and haphazard. This thing is man-made. It's as straight as a frigging arrow.
You're right! Ned exclaimed. There's some kind of facility a few kilometers away. It looks like a military setup.
Maybe it don't mean shit, Ernie said. But I'm kicking this one upstairs with a note.
That's what they're paying us for, Ned said. I'll fetch you an envelope.
Chapter 10
SHELOR FIELD
SEAL HANGAR
16 APRIL
0200 HOURS
DAVE Leibowitz poured the final five gallons of gas from the jerry can into Vehicle Alpha Two, while Mike Assad sat the Javelin CLU in the back with a couple of loaded launch tubes. They looked up from their tasks, surprised to see Chad Murchison stroll into the large building at that early hour. He was dressed for the field, complete with web gear and a locked-and-loaded HK-416 carbine slung on his right shoulder. His boonie cap was pulled low over his eyes.
Dave put the now-empty fuel container on the floor and began to unscrew the pouring spout in the opening. What the hell are you doing, Chad? Standing watch? I thought the Air Force was in charge of installation security.
Chad shook his head. I was wondering if I could go along for the ride.
Mike chuckled. This ain't a drive in the country. We're going on a recon patrol out in the desert. The Skipper wants to find out how them armored cars snuck up on us from the west the other day. We won't be back till after chow tonight.
I know, Chad said. I'd like to go with you.
Sure, Dave said. You'll have to ride up in the M-Two gunner's spot.
Hey, y'know, that's a good idea, Mike said. Another set of eyes will He stopped speaking as a thought leaped into his mind. Ain't them UN folks pulling out later this morning?
I don't know, Chad said.
Dave eyed him closely. Sure you know. There's an aircraft coming to fly them back to Kabul. We all know about it. Your girl's leaving, ain't she?
I suppose.
Don't you want to say good-bye to her? Mike asked.
Chad's temper snapped. No, goddamn it! I don't want to say good-bye to her. I want to get aboard that fucking DPV and go out into the fucking desert. Is that alright with you two guys?
Sure, Mike said with a frown. Don't snap my head off!
Dave got into the driver's seat. All right. Let's go, guys.
Mike settled in the passenger seat behind the M-60 while Chad pulled himself up into the M-2 gunner's spot, settling down for what was going to be a rough ride. Dave started the engine, calling out, Fasten your seat belts.
What the hell? Mike growled. Do you think the CHP is gonna be out there waiting to pull us over like in California?
Just going by the old idea of safety first, Dave said, putting the vehicle into gear. It eased out of the hangar, then gained speed as it crossed the runway, heading for open country.
.
0700 HOURS
SENIOR Chief Petty Officer Buford Dawkins had turned the enlisted men over to Chief Petty Officer Matt Gunnarson. The idea was for the CPO to take them out to do a morning of firing with the HK-416s at a spot a couple of miles east of the airfield. Lieutenants Brannigan and Cruiser had gone to a meeting called by the Air Force base commander to cover the upcoming comings and goings at Shelor Field.
Dawkins stayed behind by himself in the hangar office to catch up on some of the nagging paperwork that was his responsibility. Most of it was administrative nonsense, such as contrived rosters of who attended mandatory annual classes in sexual harassment, drug abuse, ethnic discrimination, and similar topics. All this was to be sent back to the USS Dan Daly, where a staff of yeomen would dutifully enter the information into personnel files as proof of mandatory indoctrination and guidance. This would eventually be pored over by a bunch of incredibly candy-ass headquarters pukes who considered SEALs and Marines one step above Neanderthals.
Excuse me.
The feminine voice startled the old salt, and he looked up to see a young woman he recognized as Chad Murchison's girlfriend. Good morning, Dawkins said, displaying his version of a pleasant smile.
Could you tell me where Chad Murchison is? Penny asked. I'd like to see him before I leave for Kabul.
I'm afraid Petty Officer Murchison is not available, Dawkins said. He's out on patrol.
I don't understand, Penny said.
Dawkins had been warned by Cruiser to expect the young lady. The senior chief also knew that for some reason of his own, Murchison wanted to avoid her. Dawkins cleared his throat. Ahem. Well, now, uh, miss, you see, we got to run patrols. Yep. Got to run 'em. You bet. Normal part of our operations. Routine. But important. Yeah. Patrols are real important.
But couldn't you have let someone else go in his place? Penny asked. I'm leaving the UN when we get to Kabul. I'm going home to Boston.
Have a nice trip.
I probably won't see him again for a long time, Penny said. At least, not until he returns to California. She reached up and wiped at a tear running down her cheek.
Well, yeah, I guess you won't, huh? A crying woman was something Dawkins could not deal with.
Now she began sobbing louder. It was... real mean to...make him go...on a patrol...when you knew ...I was leaving...Afghanistan.
Yeah.
Why did...you send him...out there? Penny asked, sitting down in the chair across from the chief.
I didn't, Dawkins said. Now he seemed to be stuck with a weeping woman who planned on staying awhile.
She pulled a tissue out of her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. I was real mean to Chad a long time ago. I threw him over for another guy. Sometimes, I think he's still upset about that.
He'll get over it sooner or later, Dawkins growled.
Oh, that's all water under the bridge, Penny said. I broke up with Cliff, then got back with Chad. It was here in Afghanistan.
The senior chief made a mental note to get hold of Murchison the instant he was back from the patrol and chew his ass bloody for causing this girl to come looking for him. Dawkins considered her presence an extreme annoyance. And, as everyone should know, it's not nice to annoy a senior chief petty office
r. He opined to himself that the girl was plainly untutored in certain social graces.
Penny's sobbing became more subdued, and she sighed loudly, saying, I just want Chad to get out of this awful Navy.
Look, young lady, I'm really busy right now, Dawkins said.
Don't let me bother you, Penny said. Go right on and work.
At that exact moment, Jim Cruiser stepped into the office. The instant he spotted Penny, he whipped around and tried to retreat, but she jumped from her chair and went after him.
.
STATION BRAVO, BAHRAIN
Rolling Thunder (2007) Page 10
