by Jack Terral
The head of a young Arab, his eyes open wide and his mouth grinning eerily, lay against a sandbag a couple of yards away.
Dawkins rose to a crouch and went to it, grabbing the severed cranium by the hair. He heaved it over the side of the fighting position toward the ground below. Duncan shuddered. "That's the damndest thing I've ever seen! I'll be having nightmares about that son of a bitch for the rest of my life."
"Well," Dawkins allowed, "it was kind of weird, alright."
ONE of the bombers, a sixteen-year-old who had left school to martyr himself for Islam, had done a good job of getting close to the American positions. He was a skinny little Saudi Arabian, and he used his slight physique to remain out of sight in the scrub brush as he scrambled across the valley of no-man's-land. His mind-set was such that he scarcely noticed all the firing, with bullets clipping the air around him and zinging off rocks. The kid's entire concentration was on staying alive long enough to get up the slopes right under the infidels and yank the firing cord of his explosive vest. When he reached the far edge of the natural growth of thorn bushes, the determined boy stopped and flung himself to the ground.
The sun hadn't cleared the high country to the east, but it had risen enough that the dark orange of dawn had disappeared from the sky. The kid thought of how proud his parents would be, especially his father when they told all the men at the mosque of this great sacrifice made in the name of Allah the Beneficent. Now the night's coolness was gone, and as the day grew brighter, it seemed like the lights of Paradise shined down on the scene. The lad felt a fierce joy grip his heart, and he hollered, "Allah akbar--God is great!"
He leaped to his feet and rushed into the open toward the slope. When he reached it, he clambered upward, tears of joy in his eyes. He managed to go only five yards before the bullet struck his shoulder, twisting him around and causing him to fall face first into a painful slide down the rugged slope to the base of the mountain. An instinctive realization that he had received a mortal blow swept through his fading consciousness. Blood was in his mouth, and he could barely breathe. His life and the time to end it gloriously were fast running out. It took all his waning strength to grab the detonation cord and give it a weak pull. The battery-powered detonator sparked, the cap flashed, and five pounds of C-4 plastic explosive were set off.
The kid's upper torso was vaporized, and the concussion of the blast killed a rabbit in a nearby thicket.
THE SEALs were now fully aware that the attackers--at least those in the direct front of the assault formation-were suicide bombers wearing explosive vests. Everyone concentrated on singling out the crazy bastards, and shooting them down as they charged out into view. Those who escaped the initial incoming rounds ducked back when the volleys of fire from the Americans built up. Occasional explosions still occurred, sending natural and human debris flying upward, along with shock waves that bounced off the hard ground.
Brannigan now issued instructions that all machine gunners, grenadiers, and SAW gunners were to fire hot and heavy, sweeping the areas near the base of the slopes. It was obvious that the bombers' forward momentum had stopped there, and the fanatics were only waiting for half a chance to rush upward toward the SEAL positions. Meanwhile, the enemy backup force of riflemen had been discovered just past the midpoint of the valley. They were undoubtedly waiting for the bombers to disrupt the defenses enough to allow a decisive charge that would carry them to where they could close in for the kill. If they accomplished that, it would pretty much bring Operation Battleline to a halt, with the Iranians being the big winners.
The combined fire from machine guns, SAWs, and grenade launchers was an awesome, rolling thunder of continual destruction. Both human beings and vegetation in the area were smashed and sliced by the incoming slugs, which cleared them away as if some roaring giant weed whacker were being swung through the area.
CAPTAIN Naser Khadid both crawled and rushed from squad to squad among his Iranian Special Forces troops, checking them out. The Imperial Lions had a couple of men lightly wounded, but Khadid knew that when the Americans were satisfied all the suicide bombers had been blown up, they would begin turning 100 percent of their firepower onto his unit and Sikes Pasha's Arabs.
"This is Khadid," the captain said in English over the LASH to Sikes. He spoke in that language so none of the Arabs or Iranians could understand him. "I have lost track of how many of the martyrs have exploded, but I am beginning to feel they may be all dead."
"Right," came back Sikes. "Poor stupid bastards! It looks like they sent themselves to hell without accomplishing a single fucking bluddy thing."
"They did not go to hell, Sikes Pasha," Khadid said. "They are in Paradise this very moment."
"Right, mate," Sikes said. "But it looks to me like all that's melted away to our front. We're gonna end up being out here on our own with them Yanks having a jolly good time shooting the hell out of us."
"I am in total agreement," Khadid said. "It is time to withdraw. And we must do it fast."
"Right," Sikes said. "Are you listening to this, Brigadier?"
Now Khohollah's voice could be heard.
"Yes, Major Sikes. I shall order the support section to begin heavy fire with the grenade launchers and machine guns. As soon as they start, I urge you and Captain Khadid to withdraw from the valley with all haste."
Khadid responded, saying, "I am ready, Brigadier!"
Within half a minute the German machine guns and Spanish automatic grenade launchers employed by Iranian soldiers began laying down covering fire that pounded into the American line.
AT the same moment that the incoming barrage plastered the SEAL positions, Brannigan noted that the Zaheya infantry units were pulling out of the valley. That left him two choices; one, duck down and avoid casualties; or two, mount a rapid attack and stream down into the valley and rush across to close with the retreating enemy before they could reach safety. It took him one immeasurably short spark of time to reach a decision.
"All sections, counterattack! Chief Gunnarson, whip those M-sixties up on the enemy support fire elements!"
The SEALs, grabbing extra bandoliers at their feet, slung them across their shoulders and climbed over the positions to scramble down the incline into no-man's-land. The SAW gunners and grenadiers continued to coordinate their efforts, firing across the two hundred meters of space to where the Zaheya riflemen were making a disciplined withdrawal from the battlefield.
NOW both sides were locked in a massive firefight. A couple of Iranians and an Arab dropped to the ground as the exchange of gunfire built up in intensity. Two SEALs-Paul Schreiner of the Second Assault Section and Paulo Garcia of the Third--went down under incoming slugs from FA-MAS rifles.
Sikes and Khadid practiced fire-and-maneuver smoothly, keeping their battlefield formations moving slowly, albeit effectively, toward the slope leading to their fortification. They and the SEALs began to catch glimpses of each other, exchanging bursts of fire. The Americans' initial headlong rush toward the enemy had now slowed to their own careful, coordinated efforts as they continued keeping pressure on the Zaheya riflemen, who resisted with fierce determination and skill. The covering fire from the M-60 machine guns back at the base camp whipped over the SEALs' heads as Gunnarson's men ignored the heavy fire from the other side's support weapons.
The fluid movement of the fighting now came to a standstill as both sides found cover and concealment on their particular side of the valley. The fighting men locked into the battle, settling down to take potshots at each other that were punctuated occasionally with grenade bursts. Out of sheer desperation, everyone was ready to slug it out in the wild hope of victory. Above, on both sides of the valley, the fire support elements had all but neutralized each other. They could not exchange fire without getting into a no-win situation of eventually being blasted out of their fighting positions, and that also meant they could no longer cover their comrades-in-arms below, in the valley. All machine gunners and grenadiers were hunkered down
, having thoughts about damning convention and logic to battle it out and destroy each other.
Stalemate.
Unknown to each other, the field commanders of the combatants in no-man's-land reached a mutual decision that the battle had now turned to one of attrition in which there would be no winners. At almost the same instant, Sikes Pasha and Lieutenant Bill Brannigan decided it was time to break it off, and each ordered a withdrawal to their own positions. The two sides put out fusillades of gunfire as they made their retrograde movements, not really trying to hit each other but concentrating on keeping the other guy from showing any tendencies toward aggressive behavior.
The battle that had begun at begun at dawn came to an anticlimactic finish at midmorning as the participants hurriedly ascended the slopes and disappeared over their parapets, carrying their KIAs with them.
CHAPTER 14
WASHINGTON, D. C.
3 AUGUST 1530 HOURS
DIRK Wallenger's spacious home was on fashionable R Street Northwest, and was an old two-story brick edifice with four bedrooms, three baths, living room, family room, dining room, kitchen, den, office, breakfast nook, gym, and solarium, all conveniently arranged in eight thousand square feet.
Wallenger sat behind the desk in his den after deciding that particular spot would give him a psychological advantage as he gazed across its teakwood expanse at his two visitors. One was Liam Bentley, the Federal Bureau of Investigation's White House Liaison Officer, and the other was also an agent from the FBI. He was John Wright, who worked in both domestic and foreign intelligence, and was a profiler, specializing in the shadowy world of operatives, informants, and wannabe spies. After his introduction to Wallenger he had remained silent while his partner did most of the talking.
While Bentley carried on the preliminary steps necessary for a visit of this nature, Wright's mind was busy categorizing Wallenger. The profiler saw that here was a dedicated elitist leftist who thought of himself as the champion of the common man, yet had a family background that included privilege and wealth, with access to educational and professional opportunities that were far beyond that of the average American. Some photos of the journalist riding horses were on the desk.
Wallenger's personal economic situation certainly allowed him to be part of the "horsey set," but Wright couldn't see him playing polo. He just wasn't the type.
Wallenger had a keen mind, no doubt, yet his perceptions had been clouded by an inability to fully understand the realities of the typical American life--easy to do when one has an abundance of money and no pressing economic problems. The concept of not being able to afford purchasing something was an alien concept to this man, born with that proverbial silver spoon clenched tightly between his teeth. Here, decided Wright, definitely was a well-placed individual who had done nothing to achieve this advantageous position other than being sired by a wealthy pater.
Additionally, Wright saw Wallenger as a pudgy little fellow who had gone through life trying to make up for his lack of physical attractiveness with a sneering display of intellect. No doubt he had known bullying in his boyhood at boarding schools when larger, more aggressive boys harassed him for no other reason that to have some fun at the little fellow's expense. Wright noted another photo on the desk. This one was also of Wallenger in past years, as a cadet at a private military academy. It was quite evident that his father had sent him there for some discipline and toughening up. Any man who would name his son "Dirk" obviously expected him to grow up to be an alpha male. And Wright would have bet his FBI pension that that boy had learned to hate the military with an unending passion. Wright doubted if he had spent more than a year at the institution, probably much less before dismissal as temperamentally unfit.
As Wright analyzed his subject, Bentley spoke in a friendly tone, showing a smile that was almost apologetic. "This is purely an informal call, Mr. Wallenger. I hope you understand that."
"I understand perfectly," Wallenger said coolly. "And please don't think me stupid enough to believe that two FBI agents have called on me to spend an amicable afternoon in pleasant chitchat."
"Well, Mr. Wallenger," Bentley said, "I certainly don't want to give the wrong impression either way. I think you'll agree that these are difficult times we're going through. The whole world is in turmoil because of situations our Western civilization has never faced before. This means that those of us in law enforcement and national defense services must leave the comfort of our offices to go out and speak to people. We are seeking help, and we can only get it by communicating with those we wish to serve."
"How very noble."
As the conversation between the two continued, Wright let his gaze slowly take in the bookcases around the room. Most were political tomes that covered recent history. This could be expected in the library of a contemporary journalist. He also noted that other subjects, such as biographies of Mao Zedong, Che Guevara, and Josef Stalin, were included. A couple of shelves down from that were books on Adolf Hitler, Francisco Franco, and Benito Mussolini. A further search revealed Karl Marx, Heinrich Himmler, Ralph Nader, and William Buckley. Wright smiled slightly to himself; the little guy seemed to be covering all bases in his research. His ultimate decision to lean politically to the left must have been genuine.
In spite of Wallenger's surliness, Liam Bentley remained cheerful and friendly. "I was just wondering something, Mr. Wallenger," he said. "You work for Global News Broadcasting. I'm curious about your employer. That's not a network, is it?"
"No," Wallenger replied. "But we hope to be someday. We're an independent broadcaster and distribute our programs to stations by way of syndication."
"Well, your viewing numbers are very impressive," Bentley said. "You reach one hell of an audience."
Now Wallenger smiled. "Yeah! We're doing quite well, actually. Our president, Don Allen, just announced the addition of stations in Minneapolis, Atlanta, and Phoenix. That's brought us an additional three million viewers."
"Quite an accomplishment," Bentley said.
As their conversation eased over into a discussion of GNB, Wright turned his thoughts to Wallenger's wife, whom the two FBI men had met when they first arrived at the lavish home. Quite a looker. Latest trendy hairstyle, expensive clothing that emphasized a nice body and large breasts, plenty of jewelry to wear that she displayed even there in the house when they were introduced to her. Her name was Linda, and she had given the two FBI men bold looks, not at all intimidated by the fact that they were federal lawmen. Here was a woman who had a lot of experience with men, and that was more than likely done by her in a search for someone to provide her with a luxurious lifestyle. Wright also noted that she was beginning to get a few wrinkles around the eyes, so she was probably in her late thirties or early forties, just a couple of years short of her first plastic surgery. That also meant that she had decided it was time to latch onto a wealthy husband before it was too late. Who better than a short, plump little man who obviously had not had any deep, meaningful relationships with women. He would be easy to manipulate for fun, money, and gifts, and he was gone from home a lot. Wright figured she had a lover by now, and in a decade or so would turn her attention to much younger men who would appreciate the goodies she would lavish on them. All financed by Dirk Wallenger.
When Wright turned his attention back to Bentley and Wallenger, Wright noted that the conversation had segued to a less friendly tone. The journalist's patience was at an end. "This inane conversation is very entertaining, but let's get down to the real reason why you're here, shall we?"
"If you insist, Mr. Wallenger," Bentley said. "We are curious about how you acquired your knowledge of the incident in which a wounded enemy prisoner of war was allegedly executed."
Wallenger crossed his arms across his chest in a defiant manner. "I will not reveal my sources! Period!"
"I'm not asking about your sources," Bentley said. "I would like to know about your personal knowledge of the facts of the case."
"I've nothing to s
ay."
"That sounds pretty final," Bentley said. "I don't wish to waste my time or yours. By the way, we already know your source, Mr. Wallenger. He is a cabdriver called 'Ali.' "
"I don't know any cabdrivers by that name," Wallenger said.
"Of course you do," Bentley said. "He's known to be part of a terrorist cell in the D. C. area. He's actually been under surveillance for quite a long time, and you've been seen getting into his cab on numerous occasions."
"Oh, God!" Wallenger exclaimed. "This is so lame! I don't pay any attention to what cab I get into when I want one."
"You pass up others and go directly to his taxi," Bentley said. "And it's always at one of three cab stands. The last time you went for a ride with him, it was from one located where Second Street, Constitution Avenue, and Maryland Avenue all come together."
"This conversation is terminated," Wallenger said. "If you wish to speak to me again, you'll have to give me time to contact my attorney. Now I am asking you to leave."
The two FBI men stood, and Bentley said, "That's your right, Mr. Wallenger. Thank you for your time."
Wallenger led them out of the den and down the hall to the front door. He opened it and stood aside. Bentley and Wright stepped through to the small front porch, then Bentley turned. "By the way, Mr. Wallenger, Ali's real name is Daleel Guellah. I thought you might be interested in knowing that. He's been talking a lot about you lately--to us. Good afternoon."
Wright nodded to their reluctant host. "Have a nice day."
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SHELOR FIELD, AFGHANISTAN
4 AUGUST 0845 HOURS
