by Jack Terral
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FORMER SEAL BASE CAMP
IRAN-AFGHANISTAN BORDER
THE Army Rangers had offered to share their bunkers with Brannigan's Brigands, but because of the short time involved in the upcoming mission, the soldiers' proposal was refused with thanks. Lieutenant Brannigan thought it best that they stay out on the LZ and stay in close proximity of the USAF Pave Low chopper and its crew.
Security was no longer an issue in the vicinity, and several campfires made from dried branches of thorn bushes had been lit to heat water for coffee. It was late for a detachment meeting, but there had been a lot to do that day. The checking and rechecking in with Commanders Carey and Berringer at Shelor Field took up a lot of time, as did the breakdown of ammunition, rations, and some other supplies. Only when SCPO Buford Dawkins informed the Skipper that "every swinging dick" was squared away, ship-shape, and ready to go was Brannigan able to take the time to organize for the mop-up of the Iranian Special Forces camp.
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2200 HOURS
LIGHTS from dying campfires flickered off the side of the helicopter. The crew was inside sleeping as the SEALs settled in a semicircle around the Skipper, who stood in front of the aircraft's open ramp.
"There's quite a few less of us than when we started out on Operation Battleline,"
Brannigan said. "So I've worked out the new TO." He pulled a sheet of paper out of a side pocket of his BDU and unfolded it. "Now hear this."
Everyone sat up a bit straighter, anxious to find out the new configuration.
Brannigan looked at the document for a moment before speaking. "Alright! Headquarters and the Sneaky Petes will stay the same. Under these circumstances we can be considered a reinforced fire team." He glanced over at Bruno Puglisi and Joe Miskoski. "Puglisi, you'll go to Alpha Fire Team, and Miskoski to Bravo. That takes care of the First Assault Section."
Ensign Orlando Taylor stood up to receive the word on the changes in his command.
"Okay," Brannigan said. "Here's the Second Assault Section, under Ensign Taylor. Chief Matt Gunnarson takes over Charlie Fire Team. Devereaux goes to that team as a rifleman. Senior Chief Dawkins takes over Delta Fire Team, and Murchison goes with him as a rifleman. Anybody whose name I didn't call will stay in the same place you started out in. Got it?"
"Yes, sir!" answered a chorus of voices.
"Now here's our formation for moving through the enemy camp for mop-up and other assignments," Brannigan continued. "The left flank will be First Section; the center will be Headquarters and the Sneaky Petes; and Second Section will be on the right flank." He took another look at the diagram he'd drawn. "That's it. We won't be moving out of here until we get the word. There's no telling when that'll be, but when the word comes, we're gonna have to move fast. Any questions or comments? Good. We've got an important job to do, so let's make sure we stay on the ball all through the mission. Dismissed!"
The Brigands got to their feet and ambled back to their campfires.
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ARABIAN SEA
VICINITY OF 64deg EAST, 20deg NORTH
15 SEPTEMBER 0205 HOURS
THE twelve-plane squadron had flown close to a thousand miles, violating the airspace of one country for some minutes, then streaking across the entire width of another while being monitored by a foreign but friendly military force stationed there. This small aerial armada was made up of Kfir C.2 fighter-attack aircraft of the Israeli Air Force. And they were loaded for bear. Each carried 12,700 pounds of ordnance that included Vulcan 20-millimeter guns, one heavy general-purpose bomb, and six air-to-ground high-explosive missiles.
With another 700 miles to go, the squadron leader suddenly gave the word to form into a tight orbit. He had reacted to a transmission from a U. S. Air Force E-3 Sentry AWACS aircraft with a very busy seventeen-man crew.
A short distance away, two other large aircraft, these a pair of KC-135 refueling tankers bearing the roundels of Great Britain's Royal Air Force, were being vectored to the orbiting Israelis. Their mission was a simple but vital one, in that they were tasked with topping off the fighter-attack squadron's fuel tanks so they could continue their journey to the objective. Both the E-3 and the KC-135s would be waiting at the same spot to service those same fliers on their return flight.
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IRANIAN AIR FORCE RADAR STATION
SOUTH OF BANDAR-E-BUSHER
THE radar operator yawned and stretched, keeping his eyes on the cathode ray tube to his direct front. The images he studied were confusing and busy, with hundreds of blips indicating ships and planes. All this among the usual activities of a large concentration of naval forces.
The sergeant in charge sat across the room, listlessly reading a week-old sports magazine giving international soccer scores. He glanced up and could see over the operator's shoulder at the radar set. He got to his feet and strolled to where the soldier still watched the blips.
The sergeant laughed. "Ha! It appears that the Amrikayaan are having night training, na?"
"Well, they have no one to bomb at the present," the operator said. He smiled. "Too bad they have to go without sleep."
"They will be allowed to stay in bed late this morning," the sergeant said. "The American Navy sees that their pilots are pampered and well treated."
"Not like us," the operator said. He looked at the screen again. "This is boring."
"But better than being in the infantry," the sergeant commented. He went back to his desk.
The operator dully noted some circling blips, then got to his feet. He walked over to where the sergeant sat and leafed through newspapers and magazines to find something to read. He was happy to discover a photojournal. He picked it up and took an empty chair beside the desk, quickly lost in scanning the photographs and captions.
Across the room, the radar tube continued to display what its antenna picked up out on the Arabian Sea.
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0235 HOURS
THE last Israeli fighter-attack aircraft had been re-fueled, and the squadron turned northeast toward its destination.
The two men in the radar station were engrossed in their reading, while the blips of the departing squadron flitted across the screen, unseen and unheeded by either one.
CHAPTER 23
IRANIAN SF CAMP
15 SEPTEMBER 0335 HOURS
THE little Austrian Haflinger utility vehicle rolled away from the guard tent, with a sergeant at the wheel and a lieutenant as a passenger. They were part of an artillery battalion that had been assigned to serve aboard the self-propelled howitzers lately delivered to the invasion force. The unit was made up of professional soldiers, competent and disciplined, and between stints of learning the proper operation of the big tracked guns, they did housekeeping chores around the camp, such as trash collecting, cleanup, and--like the two men in the Haflinger were presently doing--guard duty.
The lieutenant was a keen young officer only recently commissioned, and the sergeant was an old soldier, grumpy as hell about being rousted off the cot in the guard tent. He would have preferred getting some much-needed sleep rather than making rounds with a puppy out to enjoy his new rank. When they reached Post One, the sentry properly challenged them, then recognized and allowed them to approach. He promptly and correctly responded to the lieutenant's questions regarding the special orders for his post, but was dressed down for having a button undone on his jacket.
With that done, and satisfied that he had given the soldier a proper reprimand about the pocket, the lieutenant jumped back into the vehicle, to be driven to Post Two. The lieutenant was in a grimly determined mood to build a reputation as a disciplinarian.
"We'll catch one of these fellows sleeping yet."
The sergeant said nothing, knowing that the headlights and the motor noise were enough to wake even a dozing sentry, warning him of approaching inspectors. As could be expected, when they reached Post Two, they were once again properly challenged. This time the sergeant also got out of the vehicle, wanting to
stretch his legs. As the officer questioned the sentry about his duties, a growl could be heard in the distant sky. The three men looked at each other in puzzlement.
Then the slight growl evolved into a dull roar, and suddenly burst forth into a fullblown thundering of jet engines that could be felt as well as heard. Several aircraft burst into the moonlight from the clouds, heading straight for the camp. They swept over in four "Vs" of three as a large cylindrical object dropped from each. Immediately a series of explosions worked their way across the camp in evenly spaced rows; then the planes swept back up into the clouds, breaking off into separate groups.
This attack scored hits on the vehicle park, pulverizing tanks, IFVs, and the self-propelled howitzers as brilliant flashes of explosives and ignited fuel lit the night. The sentry was rattled by the destruction and yelled out as he had been instructed to do in emergencies.
"Sergeant of the Guard, Post Two!"
"Ahmagh--idiot!" the sergeant bellowed. "I am the Sergeant of the Guard!"
The lieutenant was speechless and seemed unable to move. He stared upward into the moonlit sky at the irregular cover of scattered clouds. He had received no instruction at the military academy regarding airplanes suddenly appearing and dropping bombs in the middle of the night.
Now one of the groups of aircraft came in from the north, sweeping down and firing off a total of eighteen air-to-ground missiles that exploded in a pattern that spread southward. Immediately a second group came in from the west, also cutting loose with the same ordnance. The explosions continued the destruction begun by the heavy bombs as third and fourth attacks were launched from the east and the south. Once again the target was the vehicle park, and a total of seventy-two rockets punched through armor, ripping the vehicles apart until the entire motor pool was burning as if molten lava had flowed across its expanse.
Figures of men could be seen emerging from their tents. Most only stepped outside and stood in stupefied wonder at the hell raining down in their midst. The thought of seeking cover did not occur to them. Then the ammunition dump at the far end of the camp exploded with one roaring boom that was quickly followed by two more as the initial blasts triggered additional detonations.
The aircraft made another run in the same order, but this time they fired heavy 20-millimeter Vulcan ammo at a rate of more than 600 rounds per minute. Their targets were now the rest of the camp, and the heavy shells struck rapidly and hard into the unprotected men and tents. The canvas structures were instantly shredded, and pieces of poles somersaulted through the air. A group of soldiers standing together at the end of a camp street was chopped to pieces in an instant as hunks of their corpses spun off and bounced along the ground.
Panic set in when the living saw the dead. It was pitiful as they ran aimlessly and uselessly in all directions while the heavy slugs swept over them like steel curtains being drawn across the camp. The lieutenant, sergeant, and guard were horrified when they spotted three aircraft flying in a direct line toward them. The officer and soldier stood stupefied as the sergeant dived under the vehicle. The two in the open died immediately as they were rendered into slices of meat, and the sergeant's life was abruptly ended a moment later when the gas tank in the guard car exploded, wrapping him in flames.
And then the detonations ended, and the twelve aircraft once again climbed above the clouds, turning westward, leaving the area quiet except for the crackling of flames, an occasional late explosion, and the screams of the maimed and burned.
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0445 HOURS
THE instant the two Pave Low choppers set down, the Brigands inside unassed the aircraft and formed up by sections to get ready for a quick sweep through the burning camp.
Brannigan was the last out, and when he stepped to the ground and looked around, he didn't say anything for a moment. The rest of the detachment also stood silently, gazing at the carnage spread before their eyes.
The camp was flattened, with numerous small fires burning throughout the site. Craters from bomb and missile hits dotted the area, giving it the look of a moonscape that had lately been pounded by an immense storm of fiery meteorites. Here and there were recognizable human corpses, but there also were hunks of smoking meat of those dead who had caught the full brunt of a weapon detonation. A smoky, acrid stench hung over the scene, which displayed a nightmarish surrealism in the predawn gloom.
Brannigan turned to the detachment. "Alright! Let's form up for a sweep through the . . . the . . . well, the mess out there. Remember that time is of the essence, so we have to be back here at the chopper in less than half an hour. A reminder for you! We want items of intelligence value and EPWs most of all."
Bruno Puglisi shook his head. "I don't think there's anything living out there, sir."
"You could be right," Brannigan said. He waited until the Brigands were formed in a skirmish line. "Move out!"
The sights of horror in the camp grew more frequent with each step the SEALs took. Things that looked like shapeless lumps evolved into skulls with patches of flesh and hair; arms and legs were scattered helter-skelter among torsos that had been ripped open, displaying scorched entrails. Chad Murchison walked across the remnants of a tent floor, noting some papers in the mess. He picked them up and noted that the scribbling on them was in handwritten Arabic. He surmised them to be no more than letters from home to some Arab volunteer, but he stuck them in his pocket just in case they revealed some gleam of information that would make the intelligence boys dance with joy.
Joe Miskoski grimaced at what he saw as he stepped through the rubble. When he looked over at Doc Bradley, he called out to him. "Hey, Doc, do you have any training in psychology?"
"Nope," Doc replied. "If you need a shrink after this, you'll have to wait until we get back to the Daly. I'll write out a sick slip for you and they'll take you over to the CVBG. They have a small psychology clinic aboard the carrier."
Dave Leibowitz chuckled without humor. "Fix up one for me too, Doc."
Garth Redhawk was walking with Matty Matsuno when he spotted an arm still in a sleeve. He knelt down when he noticed an insignia on the hunk of cloth. He pulled it off the limb, and stood up, glancing at Matty. "My ancestors mutilated their enemy dead in the belief that they would go to the spirit world maimed and crippled."
"If that's true, then there had better be a lot of parking spaces for the disabled up there in the Kiowa afterlife after what the Israelis did to these poor bastards," Matty remarked.
Monty Sturgis and Andy Malachenko stepped down into a dip in the ground where they discovered a flattened pile of corpses. It was impossible to tell how many there were, since they had been torn up and burned to the point where they appeared to have melted together.
"I wonder what happened here," Andy wondered aloud.
Monty studied the macabre scene for a few seconds. "I figger them guys dived into this depression looking for cover. They prob'ly caught a combination of concussion and fire from a nearby hit."
"Ruined their whole day," Andy commented drily.
Over on the right flank, Ensign Orlando Taylor walked a few paces ahead of his section. He pointed out the few spots of interest for investigation he was able to spot. All that his men found were more dismembered dead and the normal items of trash common in any military installation.
Then Arnie Bernardi yelled out and pointed off to the west.
A lone figure stood up some fifty meters away. He had risen from a pile of rubbish to his immediate front. Everyone swung their M-16s his way. The man yelled out something unintelligible.
"Stay where you are!" Taylor hollered back. "And raise your hands!"
The man, confused and dazed, hesitated for a moment, than complied with the demand. He stood looking at the SEALs in perplexed puzzlement as they slowly approached him. His face and uniform were stained with smoke and dirt to the extent that the insignia on his epaulets were obscured and impossible to decipher.
"Search him," Taylor said to Arnie Bernardi. As the SEAL p
atted the EPW down, the group was joined by Lieutenant Brannigan. The young ensign proudly announced, "We have a prisoner, sir."
"So you have," Brannigan said. "Well, done, Mister." He checked his watch. "We're running out of time. Let's hustle this guy over to the choppers and haul ass."
The prisoner seemed to recover from his bewilderment. "Are you Americans?"
Brannigan glared at him. "We'll ask the questions. First of all, I'm curious as to how you survived this slaughter."
"I was in a bunker," the man responded. "Not a tent."
"Lucky you," the Skipper commented. "And secondly, who are you?"
The man straightened and spoke with an authoritative tone in his voice. "I am Brigadier Shahruz Khohollah of the Iranian Army!"
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OVAL OFFICE
WHITE HOUSE
16 SEPTEMBER 0915 HOURS
THE President of the United States had only one item on his agenda for that morning's meeting--the incident at the Iranian Special Forces camp.
Those in mandatory attendance were Dr. Carl Joplin, Undersecretary of State; Arlene Entienne, White House Chief of Staff; Colonel John Turnbull of SOLS; and Liam Bentley, the official liaison between the White House and the Federal Bureau of Investigation. If Edgar Watson from the CIA's Iranian desk had not been in the Middle East, he would have been present too.
"Well," the President began, "it seems our Israeli friends did exactly what they told Carl they would do. I received an official report via Colonel Turnbull's SOLS office on the result of that aerial attack." He paused, then muttered, "Devastation. Pure devastation!"
"Iran is already raising hell," Arlene said. "There's going to be a special session of the UN later this afternoon."
"I imagine they'll suspect we're involved right off the bat," Joplin remarked.
"Yes," the President said. "Even when the Israelis eventually claim responsibility, the rest of the world is going to figure we were behind it."
"As long as nobody is aware of the guidance and protection provided by our Air Force AWACS aircraft, we should stay in the clear," Arlene said.
