Tin Soldiers

by Michael Farmer

  “I understand,” he ended with a tired note.

  The general hung up the phone and reflected that not only did religion not mix with war—neither did politics. They had before them an opportunity to crush the American military forces in Kuwait and teach the arrogant Western bastards a lesson. Why use just three divisions? If it were up to him, he would send the entire army. What did soldiers care of world opinion? You fought to win as quickly and decisively as possible in order to keep your men alive.

  Standing, the general shouted to the officer sitting at the duty desk outside his door. “Captain, come in here, and bring the latest information on losses to the Madinah and Hamourabi. Also have the operations cell send those divisions warning orders that their movements south have been delayed until we can bring their strength up. Tell them to begin their marches in thirty-six hours.”

  As he sat once again at his desk to attend to the details of reorganizing the second-echelon forces, the general felt the walls vibrate. Staring at the smiling portrait of Abdul Aref that hung directly opposite his desk, the Iraqi officer saw the framed photograph rock back and forth on its nail twice, then crash to the floor. A series of concussions could just be heard from the city above. No surprise the Americans would strike Baghdad—and this headquarters would be a primary target. Knowing that this command center, like the other new command and control facilities spread throughout Iraq, was buried beneath twice the dirt and concrete as was customary in the past gave the general a warm feeling inside. Outside his office, figures scurried for cover. “Back to work! We are secure at this level!” He bent his head to the new fuel figures he’d been working on, then looked up again. “And get someone in here to clean this glass from the floor!”

  A louder crash than previously heard caused him to look up. A fireball erupted across the outer office and spread rapidly in his direction.

  The last moments of his life did not provide enough time for the general to realize that American munitions had improved significantly since Desert Storm. Deep-cover agents in Iraq’s military had provided blueprints of the command and control facilities to the Americans—some at the cost of their lives. With the knowledge from these blueprints stored in their circuitry, the new generation of smart bombs was programmed to plunge into their targets—but not detonate their primary payloads until the designated depth had been reached.

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

  22 October, 0145 Hours Local

  “Sorry, godforsaken sons of bitches.”

  General Pavlovski’s aide silently agreed as they stepped out of the bomb shelter and into a scene lit by the flames of burning buildings and equipment. “Could have been worse, sir. Reports so far indicate that we suffered only minor casualties. The Patriots throughout the theater knocked out most of the SCUDs before they impacted.”

  “How about Qatar? Did they try to hit the prepositioned stocks there?” asked the general. Those tanks, Bradleys, and howitzers would be critical for the reinforcements even now moving toward the Middle East from the U.S.

  “They were hit, sir, but the damage is minimal. Most of the critical equipment was under concrete cover. The units in the field were hit as well, even in the rear.”

  Pavlovski stood motionless, the fires of burning buildings playing shadows across his face. Something kept nagging at the back of his mind. Finally, he turned to his aide. “Think about this for a second. Assume the Patriots hadn’t knocked out most of those SCUDs. How much damage would have been inflicted on our field units?”

  The officer didn’t hesitate. “Considerable, sir.”

  “SCUD Bs, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Pavlovski turned it over in his mind. Pinpointing the location of tactical forces deep behind their own lines was difficult. To accurately strike at them with a missile system whose circular error probability was over a half-mile would be damned near impossible, like finding a needle in a haystack—unless someone was supplying the missile crews with the locations. Carrying it further, if that someone was providing eyes for Iraq, might they not also be passing on advanced guidance systems to lower the SCUDs’ circular error? Some of the Russian variants were accurate to within fifty meters, so how hard would they be to modify? As the pieces of the puzzle began to come together in his mind, Pavlovski nodded. “Okay. Find a radio that’s working and get me SITREPs on our deep attacks.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “One more thing,” Pavlovski added, “whatever equipment was damaged in Qatar, and any other nonessential stuff there, blow it . . . and make sure it’s in the open. The more there is, and the worse it looks, the better.”

  “Sir?”

  “Do it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Alone once again, Pavlovski laughed as he contemplated the Iraqi leadership’s reaction to his night fliers. Paybacks are indeed a motherfucker.

  CHAPTER 7

  Contact, North!

  Lead Republican Guard Brigade, Northern Kuwait

  22 October, 0210 Hours Local

  The brigade commander acknowledged receipt of the broadcast and signed off. They’d been waiting for word to commence the ground attack since the artillery preparations on the American positions had started an hour earlier. Hopefully his brothers manning the cannons had saved some of their ammunition to support his attack.

  “Get the battalion commanders on the radio. Now!”

  The radio operator nodded.

  The colonel turned to his staff. “Very well. We are set to attack. Ali, do you have any updates on the Americans?”

  “No, sir. It appears that their repositioning has been minimal.” The intelligence officer shook his head forlornly, the pity of a warrior who knows his opponent is in an untenable position. “Really, they had nowhere to reposition. I recommend we attack the western flank as planned, sir.”

  The colonel nodded. “I concur.”

  Phase Line Sheridan, 2-35 Armor Counter-Recon Screen, Northern Kuwait

  22 October, 0225 Hours Local

  The M1A1 tank gunner scanned back and forth slowly with his thermal imaging system set to its wide-view setting of three-power. When he saw anything remotely resembling an enemy target, he would switch the sight to ten-power magnification to investigate. Thus far, they’d not been able to spot a single Iraqi vehicle or troop.

  The American tank was part of the Counter-Recon Force forward of 2-35 Armor. They’d had a busy time of it over the past two hours. Like Team Knight forward of the Iron Tigers, his company’s mission was to engage the lead enemy elements in their sector, then withdraw on order.

  When the artillery began striking their positions earlier, they’d been forced to move to alternate positions. The Iraqi howitzer gunners soon found them again, however, making it clear that somewhere in the night was an enemy artillery observer watching their every move. The past hours had been spent in a series of movements dedicated to survival, what maneuver fighters had named the artillery dance. While most tankers weren’t known for their rhythm, they perfected this step or died. The objective of the artillery dance was to stay one step ahead of your partner—the enemy artillerymen. If you didn’t—well, it was worse than getting your feet stepped on.

  As the gunner scanned, his tank commander threw him the same question he’d been asking all night, but in a voice that revealed the fatigue shared by the entire crew. “Any movement?”

  The gunner paused his scanning, pulled his face away from the sight, and shook his head. “Negative, boss.”

  The deliberateness with which the tank commander returned his face to the sight gave further evidence of his weariness. The entire crew was ready to drop from the stress of the past two hours. A few minutes of adrenaline-pumping action, followed by a short period of inaction as the crew thought, Maybe, just maybe that’s it, followed by a resumption of the enemy shelling. It had taken its toll on every man in 2-35 Armor’s position. Fortunately it looked as though only a couple of the battalion’s tanks had r
eceived minor damage, although one of the Bradleys had been destroyed when an artillery round impacted five feet from it.

  Staff Sergeant Brady was an experienced tank commander. From his seat behind and above the gunner, he had his eye to his sight extension. This allowed him to view whatever his gunner was observing. To the right of the sight extension he’d Scotch-taped a picture of his children, a three-year-old boy and a five-year-old girl. Their smiling faces watched over their father’s every move within the turret. They were his guardian angels.

  The desert forward of their tank stood out clearly in the tank’s thermals. Nothing moved. The only hot spots, displayed in the sight as brighter shades of green, almost white, were the areas where artillery shells had struck and which had not yet cooled. The hotter the area, the whiter it looked.

  He pulled his head back and shook it. “I don’t see anything either. I’ll take up the scan from my position for a few minutes. Take a break.”

  The gunner acknowledged the message with a grunt and released his power control handles. Looking back, he rubbed his wrists. “Thanks, Sergeant Brady. Give me five minutes and I’ll be as good as new.”

  “Not a problem.” Brady took the commander’s power control handle in his right hand. With it, he could traverse the turret, lase targets for range with the built-in laser range finder, and fire the tank’s main gun or coaxial machine gun. Brady traversed the gun slowly left to right, then back again, scanning the sector assigned to his crew. Occasionally he’d ask the gunner to switch the sight to high magnification when he saw something that looked suspicious.

  The gunner looked up and back at his tank commander as he continued rubbing his wrists. “So you think they’re coming tonight, Sergeant?”

  When Brady looked down and into his gunner’s face, the plea was clear—just lie to me, Sarge, and tell me this will all come to nothing. The blue interior lighting lent the gunner’s upturned face an eerie cast, corpselike. Brady shrugged. “Who knows, kid? Maybe not—shit!”

  Their tank shook with the violence that only another tank could enforce on it.

  “Driver! Back up, back up, back up! Gunner, take up a scan and tell me what’s engaging us! Loader, make sure that the main gun is armed!”

  The loader, with a sabot round already in the gun tube, reached forward and grabbed the arming handle. He slammed it into the firing position. “Up!”

  The crew was thrown forward as the driver kicked their vehicle into reverse and gave it full throttles.

  The driver’s voice screamed out over the intercom. “I’ve got a shit load of flashes to our direct front!”

  “Oh, fuck! Contact, north! Multiple enemy tanks and PCs!” said the gunner.

  Brady threw his face to the sight extension. As his eyes focused, he barely had time to register the twenty-odd enemy tanks on line and rolling straight at them before a round exploded immediately to their front right, blinding him for a moment. The driver’s wild maneuvering had thrown the enemy tank gunner’s aim off just enough to cause him to miss.

  “Good work, driver! Keep moving us back until we can hide behind something and take up a firing position!” He quickly keyed the CVC helmet’s radio switch to give his platoon leader a report on their contact.

  “White One, White One, White Two. Contact north, twenty-plus tanks, out.”

  Brady turned his attention back to keeping him and his crew alive. “Gunner, fire and adjust! Engage the lead tanks!” As the tank commander, Brady was responsible for designating which target his gunner was to engage, but right now that would just take up more precious time.

  Immediately the gunner acknowledged. He had a T-72 in his sight and a reading of 1460 meters in his range display. “On the way!”

  Their tank rocked back as the 120mm smooth-bore cannon fired. The inside of the turret filled with the smell of cordite.

  “Target!” yelled the gunner. “Continue loading sabot!”

  The loader had already engaged the ammunition door switch with his right knee and was pulling another sabot round from the ammo storage compartment at the rear of the turret.

  The gunner screamed at the loader as he waited for another round to be slammed into the breech, his eye glued to his thermal sight and another enemy tank. “Give me another fucking sabot!”

  The loader was trying to get the round into the breech as the tank raced backward in a zigzag pattern. “I’m trying, damn it!”

  Finally the round was loaded and the gun armed. “Up!”

  “On the way!”

  The main gun boomed again and the turret of an enemy T-72 tank fifteen hundred meters forward blew into the night sky.

  Brady observed the explosion. “Target! Get on the one to the right! He’s got his gun tube on us!”

  The sound of metal on metal overrode all else as the enemy tank fired and hit.

  “Crew report!” yelled Brady, wanting to know the status of his men.

  “Gunner up, sabot indexed! I’m on the fucker!”

  “Loader up! Sabot loaded!”

  “Driver up! I see flashes all over the goddamn place! We need to—”

  The driver’s scream was overridden by the sound of the M1A1 exploding.

  “Shit, they’ve been hit!” said Mike Stuart as he watched the 2-35 Armor tank burn in the distance. That was the second 2-35 tank the Knight commander had seen destroyed in as many minutes. While Stuart had never doubted the Guard’s ability to fight, an M1A1 still shouldn’t have blown that easily. In past combat the American main battle tanks had sustained dozens of direct hits without being destroyed. There was something new in the Iraqi arsenal. He’d have to pass that piece of intelligence up to Estes at the first opportunity.

  Stuart’s team was tied into the 2-35 Armor team’s counter-recon line. Thus far his team had received none of the Iraqis’ attention.

  “All Knight elements, Knight Six. Is anyone in contact? Over.”

  “Red One, negative.”

  “White One, negative.”

  Stuart waited patiently for his Third Platoon leader, Blue One. He’d give him a few more seconds. Time was a valuable commodity right now, and he had to get a report higher before Estes started prompting him. The task force commander would have to be deaf and blind not to know that something was going on, and he’d want answers.

  “Knight Six, Blue One, over.”

  “Knight Six, over.”

  “Knight Six, my three-one element is reporting sporadic movement forward of his position. Just west of TRP Bravo-One, moving south-southwest, over.”

  Bravo-One was the target reference point at which Team Knight and the 2-35 team were crossing fires. The Iraqis were trying to split the seam and Third Platoon was there to watch. “Roger. Understand vicinity Bravo-One. Stand by.”

  Stuart turned on his blue-lensed flashlight and looked at his graphics. He’d penciled in the enemy’s likely attack routes with a red marker. Those routes led straight into the 2-35 Armor position to his left. What Third Platoon was seeing made sense.

  Stuart reached up and thumbed his CVC. “Blue One, Knight Six.”

  “Blue One.”

  Stuart continued looking at his map, feeling the rhythm of the battle begin to flow within him. “How many tanks can you re-orient toward the contact?”

  “Knight Six, Blue One. All four tanks, over.”

  Out-fucking-standing. “Roger, do not reorient fires yet. Be prepared to shift from current orientation to the west. New orientation, TRPs Mike-Four to Mike-Five, over.

  “This is Blue One, roger, understand Mike-Four to Mike-Five.”

  “Make sure your crews have their hatches in open-protected or closed position. Expect artillery in your area anytime.”

  If the Republican Guard unit facing them was attempting a penetration into 2-35 Armor’s sector, they would want to separate the 2-35 combatants from other units who could support them. Artillery was a good way to do that. When an M1A1 tank commander closed his hatch to the open-protected position, only a two-inc
h crack remained. This small gap allowed him to squat and still be able to look outside to command and control his tank and at the same time offered some measure of protection against artillery and sniper fires.

  “This is Blue One, roger, open-protected or closed, over.”

  “Roger. Red One, White One, Knight Six. Be prepared to shift your fires west. Red, look at orienting Bravo-One to Bravo-Three. White, Bravo-Two to Bravo-Four. Acknowledge, over.”

  The First Platoon sergeant answered the call. “This is Red Four. Red One is on platoon net sending SITREP. He monitors. Understand be prepared to shift fires west, Bravo-One to Bravo-Three.”

  “This is White One. Understand west, Bravo-Two to Bravo-Four.”

  “This is Knight Six, roger. Going higher.”

  Anvil Battle Position, Northern Kuwait

  22 October, 0235 Hours Local

  Estes sat in the cupola of his tank, waiting for word from Stuart. He’d heard the firing forward and knew an enemy push had begun.

  “Tiger Six, Knight Six, over.”

  Estes pulled his map out and turned his flashlight on. “Send it, Knight.”

  “Roger, we have twenty-plus enemy vehicles attacking on Avenue of Approach One, I say again twenty vehicles, Avenue of Approach One. T-72s and BMPs. They’re cutting the corner of our sector and attacking southwest into adjacent sector. My Blue element is prepared to engage. My other elements are maintaining coverage of our original sector, prepared to shift fires to the west, over.”

  Estes looked at the map and considered the options. Stuart was requesting permission to engage the Iraqi flank as the enemy force attacked 2-35 Armor. He made his decision quickly, but he’d have to clear it with Jones before issuing orders. . . .

  “Knight Six, Tiger Six. Be prepared to have your Blue element support the rest of your team’s withdrawal on Route Dagger, over.”

  “Roger.”

  “Tiger Six, going higher.”