But at that particular moment, there was nothing to do. The Skipper sat on the hood of Alpha One sipping a cup of MRE instant coffee. He glanced around at his men in the vicinity. Mike Assad and Dave Leibowitz were playing a brand of pinochle they called Cutthroat ; Malachenko was using a notebook and pen to explain the pronunciation of the Cyrillic alphabet to Connie Concord; and Guy Devereaux lay on his poncho, reading a paperback adventure novel.
Hurry up and wait.
Chapter 21
THE OPIUM TRAIL
21 MAY
0745 HOURS
THE Iranian Army trucks that hauled the opium powder during the trip to Turkey were now empty of the narcotic cargo. The mujahideen who had endured the first leg of the voyage on top of the bundles could now stretch out comfortably in the backs, enjoying intermittent naps interrupted from time to time as the convoy bounced and rolled across the desert on its way back to the rendezvous site.
Two of the vehicles were filled with food and comfort items that were destined for delivery to the people at the stronghold. These would be packed into containers and placed on the backs of the donkeys that the smugglers thought were waiting patiently back at the rendezvous site.
Some new items were among the goods, such as Oreo cookies, butterscotch candy, and small packages of cheese and crackers. These would make welcome supplements to the usual load of potato chips and Pepsi. Bolts of cotton and woolen cloth, sewing kits, kitchen butcher knives, and miscellaneous items of clothing were also among the things purchased by Husay Bangash from the itinerate Turkish peddlers who had accompanied the buyers of the poppy powders.
These sellers' collective profits soared near 1000 percent, but the isolated Pashtuns, without access to legal markets, had no choice but to meet the outrageous prices. The Turkish merchants had a monopoly that afforded them the advantageous position of not having to bargain with their bucolic customers.
The crews on the Toyota pickups could relax their vigilance a bit during the return journey since their valuable cargo was sold and no cash had been given them. The tremendous amount of money paid for the narcotics delivery was still in Swiss banks, but would soon be transferred through international financial institutions until arriving in Tehran. From there, the profit would go to military disbursement centers to meet the expenses of the Jihad Abadi, the scheme that American intelligence had dubbed Operation Persian Empire. Part of the payout would go to the coffers of Warlord Yama Orakzai for his personal profit and expenses. Orakzai Messer would have been angered if he knew what a small percentage of the overall profits he actually received.
Arsalaan Sikes Pasha was in the cab of the same pickup truck he had ridden from the rendezvous site. But his garb was decidedly different for the trip back. The English turncoat was clothed in the proper battle dress of an Iranian combat arms officer. The epaulets bore the subdued black on olive drab insignia of an eight-pointed star that designated his rank of sargord in the Iranian Army. He had also put away his puhtee Afghan cap and replaced it with his old keffiyeh and its aka. Sikes thought the headdress in combination with a Western-style army uniform made him better fit the proper image of a true pasha.
He also decided that those of his Arabs waiting for him back at the stronghold would also return to wearing their own keffiyehs. He had noticed that several of his men had adapted the puhtee as he did, since it served better than the Arab head coverings in the cooler climate of the Afghan mountains.
Sikes, during the hours of riding in the truck, had turned his daydreaming from fantasies of martial glory to the more practical matters of what he was going to do with his twenty-man force that was the remnant of the former armored car company. The Iranian Special Forces showed every intention of allowing them to remain under his personal intimate command, and Sikes wanted to take advantage of the situation. He had every intention of using them as the cadre of an elite strike force.
The first thing to do, of course, was to make it obvious they belonged to him. The outfit needed an impressive name, and Sikes now knew enough Arabic to come up with something. At first he considered Rafir-min-Sharaf (Guard of Honor), but that seemed too plain and commonplace. Any bunch of soldiers marching at the head of a parade as a color party could be referred to as an honor guard. He needed something that would translate into the English language in a most impressive way; after all, his twenty men would eventually be increased in size to at least a brigade-size unit. That meant it would be reported about in tones of awe by television commentators all over the world for decades to come.
Sikes was completely lost in thought as the Toyota bounced across the desert. After nearly an hour of staring blankly and unseeing out the windshield while his creative mind whirled with ideas, he finally came up with the name he was looking for; and it was simple, direct and impressive: al-Askerin-Zaubi the Storm Troopers. He was ignorant of the fact that Adolf Hitler used that name for his Nazi street thugs during his rise to power in pre'World War II Germany.
Sikes' countenance assumed a smug grin as his imagination once more created the sound of a frightened BBC news commentator beginning the evening news that would be heard all over the UK. The upper-class, cultured voice began dancing through his mind as he sat in the passenger seat: The fanatical and elite al-Askerin-Zaubi, the Storm Troopers of Field Marshal Arsalaan Sikes Pasha, struck today at...
There was naught but glory and fame ahead for Archie Sikes of Manchester, England.
.
NORTHERN OA
0815 HOURS
PETTY Officer Second Class Garth Redhawk leaned across the boulder with his binoculars up tight against his eyes. The field glasses were in perfect focus, providing a clear image of the desert out to the front of his position. The young Kiowa-Comanche from Oklahoma was doing what sailors did better than anyone else, keeping watch on an assigned area of responsibility. For Redhawk, this would be the expanse of terrain across which the returning smuggling convoy would travel on their way to their rendezvous site. He grinned to himself, wondering what they would think or do if they knew their destination was a pile of smashed mud structures filled with the battered corpses of their buddies.
Pech Pecheur, sitting down beside Redhawk, leaned against the boulder. He yawned and stretched. Cain't you see nothing yet, Garth?
Just a few dust devils spinning and hopping around.
Pecheur spit. I hate this place. Man! I come from the swamps where things is wet. Hell's fire! Even the air you breathe is wet. And it's hot, y'know what I mean? Like folks has got boiling pots all around.
Well, it ain't like Oklahoma either, Redhawk said. It gets right warm back home, but if that prairie wind is blowing hot and dry on a summer's day, you feel like you're in a furnace.
In the summer in Louisiana, folks say that it ain't the temperature, it's the humidity that's uncomfortable, Pecheur commented.
In the wintertime back home, they say it ain't the temperature that makes it cold as hell, it's the wind, Redhawk pointed out. He pulled the binoculars from his eyes just long enough to blink a couple of times to get some tears flowing for moisture. Anyhow, I don't like mountains no matter what the weather is like. You can't see far 'cause the terrain gets in the way. Out on the prairie, you have almost an unlimited view all the way to the natural horizon.
Gutsy Olson, trying to snatch a morning's nap nearby, angrily sat up. Will you two guys shut the fuck up? It's bad enough sitting out here in the middle of nothing without having to listen to a couple of dickheads carrying on a boring conversation. I wish to hell you'd-
Target in sight! Redhawk interrupted.
Both Olson and Pecheur jumped up and pulled out their own binoculars. They peered out over the desert as Lieutenant Junior Grade Jim Cruiser and Doc Bradley joined them. By the time Pete Dawson came up, the sight of the convoy could easily be discerned in the distance.
Alpha One, this is Bravo One, Cruiser said into his LASH. The enemy is in sight. I can't get an accurate count on 'em because of their formation. But they're f
ive hundred meters distance, traveling due east at approximately thirty to forty miles per. Over.
Roger, came back the Skipper's voice. Charlie One, did you monitor that transmission? Over.
Affirmative, Senior Chief Dawkins replied. His section was to the east, directly in the path of the approaching convoy. We're ready. Out.
.
SMUGGLER CONVOY
THE dozen vehicles, consisting of six transports and six armed pickups, moved at fifty kilometers an hour at a slight east-by-south course across the firm terrain. The layer of fine dirt was thin in the area, and they kicked up a minimum of dust clouds as they rolled toward their objective. The Iranian drivers were thinking about the cold fruit juices and hot food awaiting them, and the Pashtun mujahideens' thoughts were of getting back up into the Gharawdara Highlands and how happy their families would be with the delicacies and other items on the donkeys' backs.
The transports were in the middle of the formation, while one pickup traveled on point at the head of the group. Two other of the small vehicles were on each side of the convoy, while one Tail-end Charlie brought up the rear. Military discipline was being observed in a haphazard manner, and while the gunners were in proper positions by their weapons, most had their minds on other things besides security. They stood up in the backs of the smaller trucks, keeping an inconstant vigilance in their areas of responsibility. Some were close to falling asleep, but having to stand in the swaying vehicles prevented even short naps.
Arsalaan Sikes Pasha, the commander of the fierce al-Askerin-Zaubi Storm Troopers, still sat in a contented frame of mind as he fantasized about his coming fame back in Blighty after the Iranian Army's conquest of the entire Middle East.
.
BRAVO SECTION
JIM Cruiser had gotten his two vehicles moving as soon as practical. He kept the Skipper informed of his progress as he tailed after the smugglers, remaining out of sight to their rear. The lieutenant junior grade drove the DPV carefully, making sure he followed the tire tracks left by the bad guys. Pech Pecheur, up above at the M-2 .50-caliber, cautioned him when they drew too close to their quarry. His weapon, like those of his gunner partner, Dawson, along with Doc Bradley and Garth Redhawk in Bravo Two, was locked and loaded, ready to spit out the armor-piercing tracer ammo when the confrontation began.
.
CHARLIE SECTION
CHARLIE One and Charlie Two, fully manned and ready, were parked side by side on the east side. They faced due west on the guesstimated azimuth of the approaching enemy. Senior Chief Buford Dawkins, the section leader, listened through his LASH at the conversation between Cruiser and the Skipper, ready to order his two DPVs into action as soon as they were needed.
CAPTAIN Naser Khadid sat in the cab of the front Toyota, gazing through the windshield as they rolled across the desert. His thoughts were of his wife and children back in the city of Shiraz in Iran. He missed them, but was consoled a great amount by his Pashtun bride Mahzala. She had become more than a source of sexual relief as she evolved into an agreeable little companion, her skills at cooking and other aspects of housekeeping increasing rapidly. The best thing, of course, was how she had also begun responding enthusiastically to his lovemaking; in fact, his experience with his Iranian wife had convinced him that women did not enjoy sex particularly, but the youthful nymph of the muta marriage was teaching him an entirely difference aspect of the matrimonial bed.
The Iranian Special Forces captain began to feel a strong urge to get back up into the highlands for a coupling with Mahzala. He felt a flush of desire as he glanced at the passenger-side rearview mirror. He could plainly see the lead transport truck to the direct rear. He watched it in an absentminded way for a few moments; then suddenly an explosion erupted from its gas tank beneath the cab.
The large vehicle veered both left and right, then turned over and was completely engulfed in flames. A couple of Pashtun mujahideen emerged from the inferno, running blindly in circles with their clothing on fire.
Now the machine gun mounted on the cab above his head began firing, its expended cartridges bouncing off the right front fender.
.
THE BATTLE
ANDY Malachenko in Alpha One, after hosing the lead transport with his M-2 heavy machine gun, swung the barrel toward the truck to its immediate rear. Even before he squeezed the trigger, his M-60 partner Guy Devereaux was already splattering the new target with well-aimed bursts of full-auto 7.62-millimeter slugs. When the heavy .50-calibers of the M-2 joined the fusillade, the target vehicle exploded in a fiery burst of ignited gasoline, bouncing completely off the ground. The two Iranians in the cab were enveloped in flames, but several Pashtun mujahideen managed to get out the back. They turned and ran south for the sanctuary of the foothills.
Connie Concord swung Alpha Two over to a more diagonal route toward the enemy column, allowing the Odd Couple to turn their own individual weapons onto the third truck. It came to an abrupt halt an instant before a loud swoosh announced its fuel tank turning into an impromptu bomb. The men in the cab managed to get out as the mujahideen in the rear bailed over the tailgate.
GASHTEE junub! Captain Naser Khadid shouted at the Iranian driver next to him. Turn south!
The man whipped the wheel to the right, almost rolling the Toyota. The machine gunner in the back, who had just started firing at the attackers to their direct front, almost fell out. He grabbed the weapon mount on the cab and held on with all his strength as the centrifugal force of the violent maneuver threatened to throw him off the pickup truck. As soon as the vehicle was on a southerly route, the pressure faded and the guy slid to the bed of the truck. He had no reason to use the machine gun now. The attackers were to his rear, well out of his arc of fire.
Over to the left of the smuggler formation, Arsalaan Sikes had already made his own tactical decision as rounds from four enemy machine guns swept up and down the convoy. He pointed to the south and slapped the driver across the side of the head. The soldier was not angered by the blow that shook him out of shock and instantly obeyed his passen-ger's frantic gestures. Sikes turned and looked out the back window, sighting the dead machine gunner sprawled and shaking on the deck as the vehicle bounced across the ground in its wild run.
Now the other three Toyotas, carrying Husay Bangash, Malyar Lodhi, and Jandol Kakar, also headed away from the attack. The drivers sighted Sikes' and Khadid's trucks, and hit the accelerators to catch up with the two officers. The sixth pickup had been riddled and sent rolling a couple of minutes before when DPVs appeared from the east and cut loose with sweeping volleys of machine-gun fire.
THE Bravo Section, after disposing of the rear pickup, closed in on the scene of the burning transports. All six were now dead hulks, spewing out obscene orange flames and black, oily smoke. Corpses with smoking clothing were scattered around the vehicles. Jim Cruiser's section immediately began receiving fire from mujahideen on the ground. These were the lucky Pashtuns who had managed to escape the infernos of the big trucks. They were skilled fighters, and had assumed kneeling and prone positions, squeezing off well-aimed bursts from their AK-47s.
Cruiser spotted one group of almost a dozen who had gathered from two of the destroyed transports. Gunners! Turn your weapons on those ragheads at ten o'clock! The quartet of SEAL gunners responded immediately, cutting down the resistance with a close-packed combined volley of 7.62 and .50 slugs. The Pashtuns were kicked down into undignified positions of death in the short space of three beats.
The Alphas came to a stop. From their vantage point, they had clear fields of fire into the area of the burning trucks where scattered groups of mujahideen still offered resistance. Brannigan did not have to give any orders as Devereaux, Malachenko, Assad, and Leibowitz did what had to be done with their weapons. Now the Charlies closed in and added their firepower to the scene. The men on the ground died fast in the hail of fire bursts.
Alpha One, this is Bravo One! Cruiser transmitted through his lash. There're five pickups h
eading south for the foothills. Let's go! Brannigan said, being economic with words since everyone was able to quickly figure out what was going on.
BOTH Sikes and Khadid had sighted the chase vehicles. Although unable to communicate, they both issued the same orders for their respective drivers to kick up to the fastest speed the vehicles could possibly attain. The other three quickly caught on and joined in the run for safety. The pickups were much faster than the DPVs, easily increasing the distance between themselves and their pursuers.
The quintet, now out of range of the SEALs after three full minutes of flight, continued to speed crazily toward the Gharawdara Highlands. After they went some five kilometers, the ground grew rougher as the terrain evolved from the sandy soil of the desert to the rocky expanse that led to the hills. Another few minutes and they had reached the first stands of boulders. The drivers hit the brakes and all ten occupants unassed the trucks, running toward the natural cover with their AK-47s and bandoliers of ammunition in hand.
Rolling Thunder (2007) Page 23
