Tin Soldiers

by Michael Farmer

  Estes nodded in silence. Despite Muddy’s words, he could tell the thought of relinquishing the command he’d gained under fire bothered the lieutenant.

  On reaching the Bradley, the two heard voices coming from the rear of the vehicle. Turning the corner, Estes was reminded of his last trip to Kuwait and the oil fires that had burned throughout the desert. Between Jones’s cigarette and Barnett’s pipe, the area resembled an international airport smoking booth.

  Seeing Estes, Barnett took the pipe from his mouth and smiled. “Hello, sir. Good to see you in one piece.”

  “Dave, where the hell did you come from?” asked Estes. “The last time I spoke to you, you were moving up with Team Knight to oversee their emplacement at Lima Two.”

  Barnett waved the pipe vaguely in the air. “Well, sir . . . you’re right. But when I got to Lima Two, it didn’t look like a good position. I decided to move forward and see if there was something better. . . .”

  Estes raised an eyebrow. “And . . .”

  Sticking the pipe back between his teeth, Barnett looked at his commander and folded his arms across his chest. “One thing led to another . . . and . . . I saw what looked like a good position off to the east. Yes! I saw a good position to the east! Funny thing was, as I moved toward it . . .”

  “Dave . . .”

  Barnett ceased his tap dance. “Sir?”

  Estes smiled. “Thanks.”

  Jones broke up the small talk. “Well, gentlemen, as much as I’m enjoying this lovefest, I’m afraid we’ve still got one more Iraqi brigade headed south, so—”

  “Sir,” called Proctor, sticking his head from the back of the Bradley.

  “Yeah, Tom?” said Jones, turning.

  The brigade S3 held up a handset. “JTF headquarters for you.”

  “Excuse me for a minute, gentlemen. The Joint Task Force beckons.”

  As he reached for the handset, Jones turned back to the group of 2-77 officers. “Waters!”

  Muddy looked toward his brigade commander. He’d heard the stories about Jones—the man was a legend amongst the brigade’s lieutenants—but had never actually spoken to him. He was surprised Jones even knew his name. “Sir?”

  “Major Proctor told me about what happened out there. Good work.”

  Waters nodded. “Thanks, sir.”

  “What do you think of Anvil?”

  At the moment, all Waters could think of was that while a higher headquarters stood by on the radio, Jones was making small talk with him. At the mention of his company, though, Waters stood straighter. “They’re a good outfit, sir. Good men. The best.”

  “I’m glad you think so. For now, I’m gonna let you keep it. If all of this shit with Captain Malloy is confirmed, which I’m sure it will be, we’ll make it permanent. What do you think of that?”

  The dust on Waters’s face cracked as he smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

  Jones turned to the radio in the back of the Brad. He yelled back over his shoulder. “You’re welcome . . . Captain Waters.”

  Two minutes later, Jones returned to the small command group. “All right, ladies, here’s the scoop. Between the MLRS and the air, the third Tawakalna brigade has been held up . . . roughly ten kilometers to the north. Our instructions are to maintain our current position for now. It sounds like there’s a plan for them that doesn’t involve us. I also received confirmation that the follow-on Republican Guard divisions will be delayed at least forty-eight hours.”

  Jones gave the men a few moments to digest the information, then continued. “Rob, I know your guys have been busting their asses since we arrived, plus you’ve taken some losses. Your men are exhausted, you’re exhausted . . . hell, I’m exhausted. But I need you to regroup the Iron Tigers ASAP. Take stock of where you stand and give me a call in a couple of hours. Let me know what you need and I’ll do everything in my power to get it to you . . . even if it means paying civilian contractors in Doha triple-overtime to drive a few spare tanks and Bradleys up here. But I need to know where everyone stands as far as readiness goes.”

  “Sir, my men are ready to—”

  Jones held up a hand. “I need solid estimates, Rob, not enthusiasm. I’ve seen what your men can do. They’re a good bunch. Now understand where I’m coming from.” He pointed to the west. “I’ve got the pieces of an armored task force over that rise. I’ve got to bring them back together somehow and replenish them. There’s a force double our size due here in less than two days.” He paused, thinking. “I’m going to try to get the Eighty-second to cut us some attack helos—I found out today how handy those little suckers can be. Shit! Speaking of helos . . .”

  Turning back to the Bradley, Jones yelled, “Tom!”

  A kevlared head detached itself from the rear doorway, handsets in each ear. “Yes, sir?”

  “See if you can get that flight of Kiowas to drop by here later, or at least the platoon leader. By God that was a ballsy son of a bitch! After they took out those tanks, they took off after those pesky BMPs to the north. I want to shake that man’s hand while I’ve still got the chance.”

  Proctor pulled the handsets from his face. “Her hand, sir.”

  A puzzled expression crossed Jones’s face. “Huh?”

  “Her hand. Cutlass Six is a woman.”

  Jones recovered quickly. “Fine, fine. She’s still got a king-size sack on her. See if Cutlass can drop by, all right? And get O’Keefe down here.”

  “Roger, sir.”

  Jones turned back to the three men. A stranger who didn’t know better would see them as dirty, tired, and in dire need of shaves. He saw men who represented what the warrior spirit was all about. With leaders like this, he couldn’t ask for a great deal more. He wouldn’t forget them—the bonds tempered under the fire of combat were strong. The others might not realize that yet, but they would. O’Keefe trudged up and joined them a few moments later, a wet OD green handkerchief held to his mouth.

  “How you doin’, Keef?”

  The NCO looked at the colonel and nodded. The colonel in turn continued to look at his gunner, waiting for elaboration. Rolling his eyes, O’Keefe finally dropped the rag to reveal swollen lips and a missing tooth.

  “You look like shit,” was Jones’s only comment.

  O’Keefe closed his mouth, biting back his response. He refused to be drawn into conversation until the swelling subsided.

  Jones looked at him seriously and put a hand to his shoulder. “Good work today, son. If it weren’t for you, most of us wouldn’t be standing here.” Turning to the others, Jones continued. “Gentlemen, meet Sergeant Matt O’Keefe, my gunner. I’ve never worked with better.”

  O’Keefe, choked up at the genuine affection he heard in Jones’s voice, reapplied the rag to his mouth and nodded.

  “Sir!”

  Jones turned back to the Bradley. “Yeah, Tom?”

  “It’s about Cutlass Six, sir.”

  “Yeah? She stopping by?”

  Proctor shook his head. “Negative. Sir . . . she was shot down five minutes ago.”

  Jones frowned. “Where?”

  “North.”

  Jones reached into his pocket for some Tums. “How far north?”

  “About five kilometers. Her platoon had just finished expending their remaining payloads on the BMPs. As they turned south to head home, a surviving BMP caught her with its 30mm cannon.”

  All of Jones’s attention seemed to focus on the small packet of antacid. He was having difficulty peeling the paper off and extracting two tablets. Finally, he ripped the pack down the side with a thumbnail and dumped all of the chalky tablets into a meaty palm. Popping the whole pack in his mouth, Jones chewed slowly, thinking.

  Proctor continued. “The other three helos stayed on station as long as their fuel allowed even though they were out of ammunition. They saw Lieutenant Matheson pulled from the wreckage by a group of Iraqis. She appeared to be alive.”

  Jones looked to Proctor. “What size force?”

  “
They counted four BMPs.”

  Jones turned his attention to Estes. “Rob, that young lady pulled our collective asses from the wringer. I want you to see what you’ve got that’s REDCON-One. Given the timing before that last Republican Guard brigade is due in here, I don’t think the Search and Rescue guys would have much luck getting there in time.”

  Looking back at the S3, he said, “Tom, I want the grid coordinates to where she went down.”

  Proctor knew his boss was taking the situation too personally. He knew that he should try to talk him out of what he was planning before it went any further. He also knew that he agreed with Jones one hundred percent.

  He held out a preformatted spot report slip. “Here’s all of the information, sir. They were still there at last report, but it looked like they would be pulling out soon.”

  Taking the slip of paper, Jones handed it to Estes. “Go. Rob, I want her back—in one piece.”

  Estes was already moving.

  CHAPTER 11

  The Rescue

  Forward of Cold Steel Battle Position, Northern Kuwait

  22 October, 0855 Hours Local

  Dillon followed Hancock’s platoon north. Ten minutes earlier the five Steel tanks had moved into noman’s-land in response to Estes’s call. As the group of tanks cleared the protective obstacle belt to their front, Dillon looked back. The engineer squad responsible for the obstacle was already placing antitank mines across the cleared passageway they’d just negotiated. When they came back, the engineers would reopen the lane for his tanks. Still, Dillon felt a cold shiver run down his spine despite the Middle Eastern sun. They were entering Indian country and he and his men were the only cavalry for miles around.

  “White One, Steel Six.”

  Hancock responded to the call. “This is White One, over.”

  “Spread it out some. Wedge formation, two hundred meters between vehicles. Traveling overwatch. I’ll follow behind you, over.”

  “White One, wilco.”

  Dillon looked at his map, holding it steady as the wind blew around him in the cupola. “Orient on checkpoint two one and keep to the lower ground.”

  “Roger, sir.” From the sound of his voice, Dillon knew Hancock felt he was being given a little too much guidance. Well, maybe he was right.

  “Good man. You’ve got the con. Steel Six, out.”

  Seconds later, Dillon watched as his newest platoon leader, if you didn’t count the platoon sergeant of Third Platoon who had taken over for Takahashi, orchestrated his unit’s movement. The four vehicles spread out in a formation resembling a flight of migrating geese. Hancock took up the lead at the point of the formation, while his platoon sergeant slid off his flank and slightly behind him. Their wingmen took up positions on the outside.

  “Tommy,” Dillon called to his driver.

  “Yes, sir,” came Thompson’s reply from his driver’s hole.

  “I want you to keep us in the middle of the First Platoon wedge, about two hundred meters behind Lieutenant Hancock’s tank.”

  “Wilco.”

  “Bick.”

  “Sir.”

  “Take up a nice slow scan. And no offense, but make sure you’ve got the main gun in safe. The last thing Hancock needs is a sabot up his ass.”

  Bickel couldn’t help laughing at the mental picture of an impaled Lieutenant Hancock. “Roger. I confirm main gun in safe.”

  Dillon turned in his cupola and spoke to PFC Hunter. “You keep up a good sagger watch, Hunt. I don’t want some Hero of Allah deciding we’re his ticket to Paradise and plucking at us with an antitank missile.”

  Hunter’s features were hidden behind the OD green “drive-on” rag protecting his face from the dust and wind. He gave his usual thumbs-up from behind his 7.62mm machine gun. “Got it, sir. One of those fuckers jumps up with an AT, I got something for his ass.” The loader rubbed his machine gun lovingly.

  “Good man. Just make sure that thing’s on safe as well.” Loaders were the least experienced members of the crew and tank commanders generally tended to get a bit nervous when they got within six inches of a loaded machine gun, despite their training.

  Dillon finally had a few minutes to relax—at least to the extent possible under the circumstances.

  Cold Steel had pulled the mission of recovering the downed aviator. It had come down to them or Team Mech. Anvil was still adjusting to new leadership. Knight was too far south. Nelson Bowers’s mech infantry team was better suited for the mission—with their infantry troops they could put men on the ground if necessary—but they’d been in the middle of refueling. Tiger Six had wanted someone moving, time now, so Steel pulled the mission. Dillon had left Mason, First Platoon, and Third Platoon at the B.P. to man the company’s sector while he took Second Platoon with him for the rescue mission.

  Dillon smiled, recalling how disappointed Wyatt had sounded when notified he was staying behind. The man’s appearance belied the knight in shining armor hiding within him. Dillon would love to have his most experienced platoon out here with him, but from their position in the center of the Steel BP, First Platoon could cover the entire company sector if necessary. Besides, Doc had done all right when the shit hit the fan. He’d kept his cool and done nothing stupid to get any of his soldiers killed.

  “Steel Six, Mech Six.”

  “Mech Six, this is Steel Six.” Dillon wondered why the Team Mech commander was calling now.

  “Steel Six, Mech Six. How are you looking for manpower, over.”

  “I’ve got five tanks with full crews. I can put about five men plus a leader on the ground if I need to.”

  “Roger, that’s what I thought. Check your four o’clock.”

  Dillon turned in his cupola, looking back and right. He made out two vehicles—Bradleys—heading his way.

  “Merry Christmas, Steel. You’ve now got a section of dismounts. That’s my Bravo section, First Platoon. He should be on your command push now and will answer to call sign Green Four, over.”

  “This is Steel Six. Thank you much. I’ll bring ’em back in one piece. I just don’t know if they’ll want to go back to the infantry after a ride with Cold Steel.”

  Bowers’s laugh was subdued. He was worried about his men. Mech Six didn’t have to send them out, but he knew Dillon might need the dismounts. “Roger. Just bring them home and I’ll worry about how to get them back into the real army.”

  Dillon felt much better about the situation now. Five M1A1s and two Bradleys against four BMPs. And he had a dismounted capability. Things were definitely looking up. Now they just had to protect against a case of the stupids. That and reach the bastards before they made it to the remnants of the Iraqi brigade heading south.

  Lieutenant Sam Matheson didn’t want to get out of bed. She threw an arm out. “Just a few more minutes,” she mumbled.

  Jesus, she didn’t want to get up. The stench in her face reminded her that she was overdue giving Fang, her big German shepherd, a bath. He must have crawled into bed with her and boy did he reek. And why was she so sore?

  Finally, Sam forced her eyes open. A round swarthy face with a lazy eye was the first thing she saw. Less than six inches from her, the man smiled darkly, revealing rotten teeth. Without thinking, she threw a stiff punch into the face hovering over her.

  A hand the size of a country ham swung forward, slapping Sam Matheson viciously across the mouth. Her assailant screamed at Matheson in a language she couldn’t understand.

  Oh, God. It all came rushing back. The Iraqis . . . the tracers rushing up to meet her craft . . . oh, Jesus, her copilot looking at her with blank eyes, guts spilling onto his lap. . . .

  Again the stinking figure struck Matheson. He repeated what she could only assume was a question.

  Matheson reached a hand up, wiping the blood from her mouth. “I don’t understand you!” She looked around to try to get a grip on the situation. She was lying in the back of an armored vehicle. It was a cramped space—and dark. The desert sky shone brigh
tly through the troop door at the rear of the vehicle, four feet and an eternity away, promising false hope. And even if she reached it, then what? Outside she could see more armored vehicles and more Iraqi soldiers. And from the look of things, they were getting ready to move. The last thing she wanted was to be a prisoner. As an aviator, she’d had survival training—very realistic survival training—but all it had taught her was that getting captured would really suck.

  A short, thin soldier approached the back of the vehicle and stopped, reporting to the man squatting next to Matheson. After exchanging a few words, the small soldier looked at Matheson, then turned away. The man—a boy really—appeared nervous and agitated. Matheson suspected she wasn’t the reason for his discomfort as she caught the fearful glances the soldier directed toward the brute whom she couldn’t help thinking of as Fang. She sent a silent apology to her loyal pet of so long ago for the comparison.

  “Bisor’aa!” yelled Fang. Hurry!

  The smaller soldier finally spoke. “Hello. My name is Private Suleiman . . . Daoud Suleiman. How . . . are you?”

  His English was broken but not difficult to understand. It was obvious he either had never mastered the language or had rarely made use of it.

  Matheson stared straight ahead. “Matheson, Samantha. First Lieutenant. 346-33. . . .”

  Fang quickly spit a question at Suleiman. The soldier replied nervously. Fang made a short, deliberate statement, glaring at Sam while he said it.

  “The sergeant wants to know what unit you’re in and what their plans are . . . and he says to warn you that what little patience he has is wearing thin.”

  “Matheson, Samantha. First Lieutenant. 346—”

  In a flash the Iraqi sergeant cuffed Matheson once again, more viciously than before.

  Private Suleiman winced. “Please. . . . He is not . . . a very good man. Your helicopters killed our officer . . . and our ranking sergeant. This man”—he indicated the sergeant with a slight movement of his head—“bullied the others into following him.”

  Finally, Matheson relented. “What does he want?”