Tin Soldiers

by Michael Farmer

  Estes turned and began walking away. “Then you’re dismissed. I’m heading back to my tank. It’s going to be colocated with Lieutenant Waters’s tank on the left flank. I will call you when I get there. You will use the time between now and then to get this company to full-alert status. Clear?”

  “Clear, sir,” Malloy said to the retreating figure.

  Malloy watched his commander disappear into the shadows with dawning disbelief on his face. This would ruin his career. Four years at West Point and six years in the army down the drain. And for what? Having a clearer appreciation of the tactical situation than his commander? Well, he’d discuss it with Colonel Jones. Surely he’d understand. For now, he had no choice but to do as Estes said.

  As Estes approached his tank he heard a high piercing noise in the night sky to the west. The artillery impacted in the 2-35 Armor positions to the Iron Tigers’ left. More barrages quickly followed, all in the 2-35 sector.

  No great surprise there, thought Estes. When you intend to attack a position, you prep it first. Of course, the Iron Tigers would receive their share of the shelling tonight as well. The enemy was generally pretty good about not letting you feel neglected. A little artillery, maybe a SCUD or two, hopefully nothing with a chemical payload. Life was interesting enough already without that twist.

  An earsplitting boom directly overhead caused Estes to drop to the ground, thinking some of the artillery was finally coming their way. He felt foolish when he realized it was friendly fighters, heading north into Iraq to take the war to the enemy. Estes stood, silently wishing them good hunting, hoping that the American military had a few goodies to even up the odds for the Iron Tigers and the rest of 3rd Brigade.

  CHAPTER 6

  Night Fliers

  21 October: London (London Times)—Former Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher today publicly blasted Western Europe for leaving the United States to deal with the building crises in the Middle East on its own. Thatcher was quoted as saying, “It is a dark day when Western governments can be bought,” alluding to rumors that Iraq has promised oil concessions and other incentives to countries that stay out of the pending confrontation.

  21 October: CNN News Desk—“. . . We’ve just received word from Pentagon sources that at least one American reconnaissance aircraft has been shot down while overflying Iraq. The apparent mission of the flight was to confirm the latest troop movements by Republican Guard forces north of the Kuwaiti border. . . .”

  21 October: Baghdad (AP)—Abdul Aref has announced that his country is officially declaring war on the United States. The Iraqi leader stated that the United States has been warring on his nation for more than ten years and he will see justice done. This announcement was made just minutes before American positions were shelled by Iraqi artillery, killing two U.S. servicemen.

  21 October: Tehran (USA Today)—The Ayatollah Mohammed Khalani, addressing the Iranian people in a national broadcast timed to coincide with Iraq’s declaration of war, called on all Islamic nations to rally behind the cause of the Iraqi people. Khalani ended the address by saying, “The Great Satan shall be driven from the land of Mohammed once and for all. I implore all true Muslims to support Abdul Aref in his holy quest and not to be tempted by the pleas of Kuwait, whose people have been so long under the Western boot that they have lost their way . . . lost their way past the point of being able to return to the true path on their own. Iran will support Iraq’s mission of cleansing that nation and returning it to the fold to which it once belonged.” So far it appears that the other nations in the region will not join directly in the looming confrontation, instead taking a wait-and-see stance.

  21 October: Presidential News Conference—“The United States will not tolerate the acts of war perpetrated by Iraq. Our ground troops and our aircraft have been fired on and I stand here today to tell the American people enough! I have authorized our forces in theater to take whatever defensive measures they deem necessary and to prepare for offensive operations. Furthermore, in addition to the Eighty-second Airborne Division’s deployment yesterday, I have now issued orders for the deployment of the remainder of the Eighteenth Airborne Corps, to include the Third Infantry Division at Fort Stewart, Georgia. Mobilization is occurring as I make these statements. Mechanized units at Fort Hood, Texas, and Fort Carson, Colorado, are on alert for deployment within the next seven days. I conclude this address by once again impressing upon the American people that I have the utmost faith in our troops currently on the ground in Kuwait. I wish Godspeed to these brave men and women. I’m sure that your prayers, like mine, are with them.”

  U.S. Central Command Headquarters (Forward), Bahrain

  22 October, 0115 Hours Local

  General Gus Pavlovski, commander-in-chief of CENTCOM, was happy for the first time in days. Aref had been firing at American troops long enough. Since Pavlovski and his staff had touched down in Bahrain twenty-four hours earlier, they’d been scurrying to keep up. Now the good guys were about to go on the offensive.

  Still, Pavlovski was pissed. Pissed at having his troops shot at, pissed at the lack of friendly forces in theater, and especially pissed at being this far from the front lines. Like all the other grand plans for the defense of Kuwait that were written after Desert Storm, the CENTCOM Forward Headquarters in Kuwait never came to fruition. The other four divisions of the Kuwaiti military that had been planned and since cut would also have been nice. Fuck it. They’d make do, as always.

  The secretary of defense had called Pavlovski when he heard the CENTCOM staff was mobilizing to move into theater. Per Pavlovski’s guidance, they’d planned on moving the shop to Kuwait—and were in the middle of doing so when the SECDEF had weighed in on the issue. The secretary told Pavlovski in no uncertain terms that he didn’t feel comfortable about the move. In other words: “With the current ratio of good guys to bad guys, it doesn’t seem prudent to give the Iraqis the opportunity to capture a U.S. four star general, so don’t go there.”

  That was fine. But the secretary didn’t say shit about Bahrain, just a stone’s throw away, so Pavlovski continued the movement and merely shifted destinations.

  It was time to give these bastards a taste of what his troops had received. One of the toughest missions for a leader is to have assets available that you know can reach out and touch some asshole, some asshole you want really bad, yet not be able to use those assets on said asshole. It was all about timing. They had to synchronize their assets to do the most damage.

  His staff had dusted off the contingency plans for striking Baghdad, and then updated the plans with the latest assets figures and intelligence. All they had needed was a little more reconnaissance than the satellites had been able to provide. No problem. At least that’s what they’d believed.

  Pavlovski turned to the director of his Joint Search and Rescue Center. The JSRC, comprised of cells from each of the military services in theater, was the responsible authority for coordinating the rescue of any downed pilots or aviators. “Any word on your pilots, Dick?”

  It was obvious the air force officer hadn’t slept lately. He shook his head. “No, sir. We’ve got our ears open to the emergency frequency. They have specified times to signal us, but we haven’t heard a word. I’ve got to assume they’re dead or captured.”

  It was the general’s turn to shake his head. What a fucking waste. When would the bureaucrats learn? You can’t fight modern wars with outdated equipment. They’d lost two U-2 reconnaissance aircraft in the past forty-eight hours. Sent up to fill the holes that satellite imagery couldn’t provide, they’d gotten a couple of pictures each before being shot down by Iraqi SA-2 surface-to-air missiles.

  The United States had long thought that the Iraqi SA-2s were the early versions from the 1960s and would be a minor risk to the high-flying U-2s. Wrong. They’d been upgraded and the U-2 pilots had paid the price for flying a piece of equipment whose defensive suite was just plain outdated. Future recon flights would now include F-16 fighter escorts arme
d with High Speed Anti-Radiation Missiles, better known as HARMs. The thirteen-and-a-half-foot, eight-hundred-pound missile would remind enemy air defense crews that it wasn’t wise to broadcast radar beams at American aircraft. The F-16-fired HARMs would guide in on any radar tracking the U-2s. Their high-explosive warheads would take out the missile sites for the duration of this or any other war—not that this news would be of much solace to the families of the downed crews.

  The general turned to his operations officer. “Transmit Night Fliers.” A grim look of determination set into Pavlovski’s face. “It’s time for those sons of bitches to get a little payback.”

  Pavlovski’s operations officer just had time to give his commander a “Wilco, sir” and transmit the attack order when they heard the SCUD sirens sound.

  USS Nimitz Carrier Group, Persian Gulf

  22 October, 0120 Hours Local

  The admiral smiled a smile wicked to behold as he watched the black night turn into day for miles around. Moments like this were why fighting men stayed in the service—for that one day when they felt they truly made a difference.

  Within ten seconds of receiving the order to commence his attack, the admiral had relayed firing instructions to his four DDG-51 class destroyers. The Arleigh Burkes had been prepared to fire and were awaiting orders. When those orders came, the Tomahawk cruise missiles fired within seconds of each other, each programmed with targets deep in enemy territory. Most had a rendezvous scheduled with Iraqi military command and control centers in Baghdad. The Tomahawks’ terrain-hugging guidance system made them hard targets to stop. The crews of the destroyers and every other ship in the carrier group jumped up and down on the decks, fists shaking in the air. They were finally getting some. The Night Fliers were running.

  North of Kuwait City, Kuwait

  22 October, 0120 Hours Local

  The two field artillery soldiers observed the bright lights in the north, followed seconds later by the sound of thunder as their tank and infantry brothers forward received the first concentrated fires of the war. It was obvious to these men that the fires weren’t harassing, but planned.

  “Guess the rumors at chow tonight were true,” said the young PFC, turning to his section chief. “They figured out where some of our guys were digging in.”

  The NCO lit a cigarette in the darkness and cupped the glow in his hand. No need in taking chances, even if they were well behind friendly lines. He nodded in the darkness. “Yeah, looks that way. They wouldn’t be pumping that many rounds into one area if they didn’t have a good idea of exactly what they were shooting at.”

  The soldier hesitated before speaking again. “Sarge . . . you think they’re gonna start firing those things back here?”

  The NCO smiled. Sometimes you forgot just how young a lot of these soldiers were. The kid had just that afternoon shown the sergeant a six-month-old picture from his high school Junior-Senior Prom, powder-blue tux and all.

  He reached a hand out and lightly punched the soldier on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Kenny. If they knew where these MLRS launchers were, they’d already be firing on us. That means they don’t know and we’re okay.”

  The MLRS, or Multiple-Launch Rocket System, was indeed a high-priority target if the enemy could locate them. Their capability to fire deep into the enemy rear was well remembered by the Iraqis. Once the MLRS crews fired their munitions, they had to move quickly before their counterparts on the other side of the border could pinpoint their location with radar and fire missiles or artillery back at them.

  The young soldier turned again toward the distant lights flashing in the darkness to the north. “But why don’t they let us fire? We can take out some of that artillery and get it off of those guys’ backs.”

  Another pull from the cigarette, another shake of the head. “They’ve got different plans for us, Kenny. We’re not counterbattery firing. Remember that. We’ve got a mission, and according to the lieutenant, we’ll be receiving firing instructions soon.”

  “Any idea what the mission is?”

  The NCO nodded as he took another pull from the cigarette. “Yeah. I hear the air force found some SCUD sites today. Camouflaged out the ass. Fuckers think they’re going to be able to sit out there, hide, rain scunnion on us, then pick up and run.” The sergeant smiled knowingly, rubbed the cigarette out on the bottom of his boot, and then thumped it into the darkness. “Not tonight.”

  The battery command net suddenly came to life. “All firing units, all firing units . . . Night Fliers, Night Fliers . . . acknowledge, over.”

  “Night Fliers? What the hell does that mean?” asked Kenny.

  His boss smiled as he reached for the radio handset to acknowledge the firing order. “It means, Kenny, that those SCUD site rag heads are about to become permanent citizens of the land of FUBAR.”

  Again, confusion. “FUBAR, Sarge?”

  The NCO nodded. “Yeah, Kenny, FUBAR. Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition.”

  South of Baghdad

  22 October, 0120 Hours Local

  The flight of four F-117 Nighthawk stealth fighters, call sign Wolfpack, were almost at their target. Their flight had originated in Turkey and coincided with other flights going into Iraq, all with the mission to take out the enemy’s ability to wage war. Of immediate concern to American forces were the two Republican Guard divisions preparing even now to move south. The flight’s mission was to delay them.

  The clear night sky made their job easier. The single-seat, high subsonic aircraft that resembled a black bat’s wing was designed for just such missions. Although the 117’s extremely low radar cross-section made it nearly invisible to the radar below, the men of Wolfpack all remembered that a Serbian missile crew had shot down one of their brethren over Europe in the not too distant past. Each man was determined that their craft wouldn’t be the second stealth fighter shot down in U.S. history.

  As they approached the target area, crews checked their systems one final time. The Nighthawk’s capability to provide its own laser designation made delivering its load of two-thousand-pound laser-guided bombs relatively simple.

  The flight leader listened carefully to the radio transmission he had been waiting for as they closed on their target, a Republican Guard logistics depot supporting one of the two divisions below. All members of his flight reported acquisition of their targets as the flight leader received the Night Fliers call. As the transmission terminated he radioed his elements.

  “Wolfpack flight, this is lead, commence attack. . . .”

  Like bats from hell, Wolfpack descended on their unsuspecting prey.

  Iraq Military Headquarters, Baghdad

  22 October, 0130 Hours Local

  The general held the phone, listening to his caller. Sweat ran freely from his forehead. He dabbed at it with a handkerchief.

  “Yes, Mr. President, we are experiencing some losses. . . .

  “That is correct, Mr. President. Most of the damage occurred to our two divisions preparing to move south, the Madinah and the Hamourabi. . . .

  “No, Mr. President. They’re not out of the fight, it will just take some time to reorganize them. . . .”

  As he listened to his leader rant and rave, the general slowly shook his head and lifted his eyes to the heavens.

  “Yes, sir, but if you will recall the briefing you received this morning from General of the Army Abunimah, you were told that the American response would likely be to . . .”

  An aide slowly made his way to the general’s side and waited patiently with a message. The general took the document and scanned it. “Yes, some of our missile sites in the south were hit by the cursed American rockets. . . .”

  Continuing to scan the message he’d just received, the general smiled for the first time. “Yes, sir, but we did have some successful launches. I’m looking at an update on the strikes against the American Central Command Headquarters in Bahrain. The message confirms we scored at least two hits there, and even more on the military equipme
nt stocks in Qatar. . . .

  “Yes, Allah is good.” The general spoke these last words almost by rote and rolled his eyes. He was of the old military order and didn’t like this new mix of religion and fighting. Then he rethought his position. One could argue that Allah had deigned to save his neck for the moment with some positive news.

  “Yes, sir. The Tawakalna Division is ready to launch their attack in the south. Our artillery is already firing on the point General Hamza intends to exploit. That is why I called. Sir . . . we might consider delaying the attack. . . .”

  The Iraqi officer instinctively moved the phone from his ear at the verbal outburst that followed his suggestion. “Why, sir? Well, they would be opening a hole for divisions who are not yet in place to exploit it. If we delay their attack for a day or two, the Madinah and Hamourabi would be able to—

  “Yes, sir, I know the eyes of the world are upon us. . . .

  “Yes, Allah is indeed on the side of the just, but. . .

  “It is possible the Tawakalna Division could succeed on its own. General Hamza says that he can defeat the American brigade and whatever forces the Kuwaitis have in place . . . but, sir . . . it would be wiser to wait. . . .

  “Very well, Mr. President, the attack will continue as planned. If I might make one request. We need to be prepared to send more units into this fight than just the three planned Republican Guard divisions from the Southern Corps. General Abunimah and his staff have been meeting all day. He said to relay to you that in order to ensure the success of this campaign—

  “Of course I do not think I’m privy to all of your information, sir. I’m merely explaining General Abunimah’s concern that the forces currently planned in the fight may not be enough if—

  “Yes, sir, of course these are our very best men and equipment. . . .