Instead of answering the question, he said, “This is not the way we are taught to handle prisoners. I want you to . . . to understand that. We are not . . . barbarians.”
Fang lashed out with a foot, kicking the translator in the thigh with a heavily booted foot. His look told both Matheson and Suleiman that his patience was gone.
Suleiman took the weight off his injured leg and glanced at Matheson, pleading. “Tell him something useful. It is the only thing keeping you alive.”
Matheson looked at the soldier questioningly. “I’m just a platoon leader. I don’t know what the plan is, or anything else that would be useful to this buffoon.” She then glared at Fang, adding in a loud voice, “And if I did, I damn sure wouldn’t tell him!”
Switching to Arabic, Suleiman spoke to his superior. “Sergeant, she knows nothing of use. I’ll secure her and we can take her back for a proper interrogation.”
The large man glared at Matheson. His eyes slid down along the length of her torn flight suit, fixating on the patches of flawless white skin exposed by the rips. And her hair. He’d only seen such red hair in pictures and films. Matheson’s, usually shoulder-length and pinned up, now spilled around her face and shoulders in the dark corner of the combat vehicle. It looked afire. He felt something stir deep inside him. The fear that was so clear in her eyes did nothing but add to his desire. She might be an infidel, but she could still prove useful to a man. “Leave us, Private Suleiman. I will continue the questioning on my own.”
Suleiman’s face took on a concerned expression.
Matheson picked up on it immediately. “What did he say?”
Suleiman waved the question off. “But, Sergeant, you do not speak English. It is better to take her with—”
The Iraqi NCO reached out a large hand and grabbed the slight soldier by the throat, yanking him into his face, where his fetid breath was put to its best use. “Leave—us. Get the rest of the men on their vehicles. We depart in ten minutes.”
The private fought to break the iron grip. “Our superiors will be angry! I implore you, Sergeant. . . .” Suleiman didn’t realize his nose had been broken as the fist smashed into the center of his face with the force of a sledgehammer. He only knew that it was the most intense pain he’d ever felt.
“They will not be angry,” said the NCO in a low voice. “They will never know she was here. She died when her helicopter went down, didn’t she?”
The translator, his nose pouring blood, looked to Matheson. Silently his eyes pled forgiveness. Then he turned and stepped out of the armored vehicle.
“Where are you going?” yelled Matheson at the retreating figure.
Private Suleiman turned a final time. “I can do no more for you,” he said quietly, seeing the lecherous glaze in his NCO’s eyes. The soldier had no illusions regarding the lieutenant’s fate. “Make peace with your God.”
The last thing Sam wanted was to be alone with this . . . thing. Deep inside, she knew what was about to happen. The nightmare women feared most—at least from the time they were old enough to realize that God, for whatever reason, at times turned a blind eye to the helpless. She lunged desperately past Fang, making it halfway out of the troop door before her burly captor grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled her back inside.
Suleiman turned at the commotion. The last thing he saw before the troop door closed was Matheson’s hand reaching imploringly toward him.
“Steel Six, Lighthorse Six, over,” called the scout platoon leader.
“Steel Six.”
“This is Lighthorse Six. I’ve got two spot reports. First, we’ve sighted the remnants of the third Tawakalna brigade. Estimate their strength at a little over two battalions. They are ten kilometers north of the task force and moving south, grid. . . .”
Dillon wrote down the grid and marked it on his map. He compared it with his unit’s current location. Shit. The gap was closing between his band of merry men and the final Iraqi unit of the Tawakalna—and one unlucky aviator was stuck in the middle. “Got it, Lighthorse. Send your other report.”
“Roger, one of my OPs reports sighting your aviator. The Iraqis have her one point two north of checkpoint Tango Eight . . . Steel Six, she’s alive, but my team on the ground believes she’s in some serious shit. We saw her being dragged into the back of an infantry carrier, nothing since. . . . It’s a ragtag group that’s got her and it looks like they’re getting ready to move out.”
Dillon found Tango Eight and ran his finger twelve hundred meters north. Jesus, they were practically on top of the position!
“All Steel elements, Steel Six, stop where you are! Pick up a scan from ten o’clock to one o’clock and tell me what you see.”
Jumping back to task force command, Dillon called the scouts. “Lighthorse, we’re almost there. Can your OP come up on my net to guide us in, over.”
“This is Lighthorse Six, roger. Call sign Two-Six. Stand by.”
Thirty seconds later, the NCO in charge of the scout observation position contacted Dillon. “Steel Six, Lighthorse Two-Six. I’ve got eyes on you. I’m a kilometer to your northwest, over.”
Dillon’s men monitored the call. For a mission such as this, with only a few tanks to command and control, Dillon’s SOP was to put everyone on company command. Gun tubes moved slowly back and forth, looking for the friendly scout.
“This is White One. We see him.”
Dillon continued searching with his binoculars. Movement caught his eye. An arm had separated itself from the surrounding desert floor and waved slowly back and forth. A rag cut from the pink backside of a VH-17 aerial recognition panel could clearly be seen.
“I’ve got you, Two-Six.”
As fast as the hand had appeared, it now disappeared. The desert was once again empty of all life.
“Two-Six, where’s the enemy force, over.”
After a moment the arm reappeared, an M16 rifle in hand. The rifle barrel pointed due north, signaling the direction of their quarry. “North, roughly two thousand meters from your current position. If you move forward five hundred meters, you’ll see them, over.”
Dillon formulated a plan. They didn’t have time for subtleties. “White, move up . . . slowly. Don’t kick up dust. When you spot the BMPs, stop where you are. Green, be prepared to secure the area with your dismounts when I tell you. Two-Six, I need you to mark the vehicle holding our aviator when I give you the signal. Can you do that?”
Lying in the sand, the scout looked around his position. His eyes settled on the M203 grenade launcher attached to the underside of his M16 rifle. A forty millimeter smoke grenade? He shook his head, answering his own question. No. Smoke could obscure the friendlies’ sight pictures. He continued looking around, finally gesturing to his assistant. “Hand me your SAW, Greeber.” The assistant handed the 5.56mm squad assault weapon to his NCO. “This is Two-Six. Follow my tracers. I may not have the range to reach the vehicle, but I’ll point a finger at it.”
Dillon nodded to himself in the turret of his vehicle.
“All right, gents. Here’s what we’re going to do. . . .”
Private Daoud Suleiman was not happy about the current turn of events. Sergeant al-Sahaf was an animal. If only he could persuade some of the other men to aid him—but no, they were even more frightened of the brute than he was. Since their leaders had died, the others did exactly what al-Sahaf said, no questions. Besides, what was one American woman to them? Had not their own women suffered due to the embargoes sanctioned by the Americans and their pawns in the United Nations?
For Suleiman, it was different. Although he’d never tell his fellow soldiers, he had family in America. New York City. They’d brought him his prize possession—a New York Yankees cap—during their last visit. And they’d told him with pride of how everyday Americans had become heroes on September eleventh, sacrificing themselves to aid those trapped in the World Trade Center. No, they weren’t all godless infidels. More than that, what al-Sahaf was doing was wrong. Wron
g by regulation, wrong by the Koran, wrong by every moral code ever written. He looked around in frustration. But what could he do? He looked at the BMP in the distance. Al-Sahaf had ensured his vehicle was separated from the others, probably to keep them from hearing the screams he’d known would come.
The private shook his head. I cannot allow this to happen, he finally decided. Reaching into the rear compartment of his vehicle, Suleiman withdrew an AK-47 assault rifle. Take care of the beast and then the others would listen to reason. He hoped.
Suleiman walked toward the vehicle, feeling like an American cowboy in the films he’d seen during his childhood. He ignored the looks of his fellow soldiers. They were already mounted on their vehicles with engines started. They were anxious to head north, toward the promise of home. Didn’t the idiots realize they’d just be thrown into another military unit? They wouldn’t be seeing home for a long while yet.
Halfway to his destination, Suleiman saw puffs of dust kick up in a straight line a hundred meters in from of him. A second later he heard the report of the machine gun. Someone was sending a steady stream of fire directly at Sergeant al-Sahaf’s BMP.
“This is Steel Six, all elements confirm you identify the BMP containing our package, over.”
“White One, roger.”
“Two, roger.”
“Three, roger.”
“Four, roger.”
“Green Four, roger. We’re standing by.”
“This is Bick, sir. I’ve got it.”
“White, Steel Six . . . Fire!”
Private Suleiman found himself knocked to the ground. As he struggled to rise, he saw the three infantry carriers containing his comrades in flames. The sound threatened to tear his eardrums apart. He got to his feet and continued to struggle toward the BMP containing the woman. He might die, but he would fulfill this one last mission. Suddenly Suleiman felt a stinging sensation in his legs. After falling to the ground again, he looked down his body. His legs were bloody and torn from multiple bullet wounds. Looking up, he saw two armored vehicles rushing at him. Stopping just outside of his company’s position, the vehicles disgorged American soldiers. The soldiers quickly spread out. Systematically the Americans checked the area, paying particular attention to the burning vehicles.
Hearing a diesel engine kick over, Suleiman looked up to see Sergeant al-Sahaf’s BMP move out at maximum speed. The private reached a hand toward the receding vehicle. Noooooo . . .
“Steel elements, Steel Six. SITREP,” called Dillon, binoculars glued to the lone surviving BMP.
He could hear the wind whistling in Doc’s boom mike as the platoon leader called while on the move. “This is White One. Three BMPs destroyed. My platoon is moving north to the far side of the enemy position and establishing security.”
“This is Green Four. Enemy position secured. I only see one guy alive. He was moving in the direction of the target BMP and my wingman shot his legs from under him. Moving to target now with my dismounted element. Shit! Target vehicle is moving, Steel Six!”
Dillon had stayed on the backside of the enemy position for rear security with his vehicle. He was in the wrong position to intercept and knew it. Looking north, he could just make out Second Platoon. “Doc!”
A voice Dillon wouldn’t have recognized a month earlier responded confidently. “I’ve got him.”
“Move, move, move, you son of a swine!” screamed Sergeant al-Sahaf. Standing in one of the two rear troop hatches of the BMP, he rubbed the scratches lining his eyes. It was but by the grace of Allah that he was not blind. He’d have killed the she-devil—despite the tasty promise of the white flesh—if events hadn’t turned. Instead, he’d had to settle for knocking her unconscious. The woman was the last thing on his mind at the moment, however.
He looked back, seeing nothing but the cloud of dust in his vehicle’s wake. He was trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and the Americans. Looking forward he saw something. His goggles were coated with so much dust that he was having a difficult time determining what the object was. Ripping them from his face, he looked again. “Driver! Turn left! Keep moving! Faster, faster!”
An M1A1 tank, the devil-beast he’d seen during the Gulf War only at a distance, was bearing straight at them. Was the crazy American tank going to ram them? He could see the commander standing in the turret now. He was gesturing. What was he trying to say? He seemed to be telling them to pull over, much as a traffic officer would in downtown Baghdad. Al-Sahaf threw a gesture of his own.
Without warning, a stabbing pain shot through the Iraqi NCO’s groin. Reaching a hand below the level of the hatch, he touched the area from which the pain emanated. As he pulled the hand back into the light of day, it looked like a bloody claw was attached to his arm. Another pain ripped through his midsection. Before the big Iraqi could climb into the troop compartment to stop his attacker, his legs collapsed beneath him.
Sam Matheson was waiting. Her father had given her the razor-sharp Tanto knife just before she’d deployed for the Gulf, along with the sheath that kept the small, thin blade neatly hidden between her shoulder blades. Once she’d regained consciousness following her attack, Matheson had pulled the hideaway weapon. Seeing her tormentor’s legs and crotch in front of her had been too good to ignore. After delivering two cuts that ensured he’d never again try to take advantage of a woman, Sam had sliced both of his hamstrings. In the split second it took the Iraqi to fall through the hatch, she had glimpsed the fear in his eyes. Good. The bastard. She swiftly delivered one final cut—straight across his throat.
Sergeant al-Sahaf’s driver wasn’t aware of his vehicle commander’s plight. When he called for directions, all he could hear was gurgling over the intercom. The Soviet equipment could never be counted on—especially their communications systems.
Seeing the American tank heading straight for him and easily countering every evasive move he made, the driver quit. He didn’t want to die for lack of a swifter vehicle. Stopping the BMP, the driver jumped from his hatch. Throwing his hands in the air, he walked toward the enemy vehicle rapidly closing on him.
The American tank stopped fifty meters from his BMP. The tank commander deftly positioned it out of the Iraqi vehicle’s 30mm gun’s line of fire on the off chance that their stop was a ruse, while at the same time laying the M1A1’s main gun on their own vehicle. The loader on top of the vehicle pointed a machine gun directly at his chest. He looked like a bandit, face covered by a rag, not moving.
The tank commander hopped down from his vehicle, landing in a cloud of dust. To the driver, he presented a threatening picture. Tall, and ironically more sinister-looking because of the wire-rimmed glasses he wore, the American moved slowly toward the nervous soldier. The tank commander never moved between the Iraqi driver and his loader’s machine gun. Pulling a pistol from his shoulder holster, he walked behind the driver and stopped.
Stopping behind the Iraqi, Hancock patted down his prisoner—clean. He grabbed the Iraqi’s shoulder and spun him around.
The driver looked up and saw the American loader’s machine gun now orienting on the back of the BMP.
“Haal . . . haal taataakaalaam . . . Englizi?” Hancock asked the Iraqi. He was glad he’d read through the country handbook during what little down time they’d had since arriving, but he feared he was butchering the Arab language so badly that the kid wouldn’t understand him.
The driver shook his head. “Laa.” No.
So much for that. Hancock put a hand once more on the driver’s shoulder, applying just enough pressure for the boy to understand he was to kneel. Doc gestured for him to lock his fingers behind his head. Once he saw the driver comply, he moved to the back of the vehicle. Grasping the rear door handle of the infantry vehicle, he yanked it open, thrusting the 9mm Beretta in front of his face in a two-hand weaver stance.
As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw a woman’s figure, covered in blood, eyes open and staring at him. On top of her was the largest Ar
ab Hancock had ever seen. Oh, Jesus, he thought, we’re too late.
The corpse spoke. “Hi there, Lone Ranger. If you’re not too busy, could you get John Wayne Bobbit here off me? He weighs a ton.”
Despite the circumstances, Doc couldn’t help but appraise Lieutenant Matheson as she climbed on board his tank. Her hair was a mass of tangles, she was filthy, and her flight suit was unrecognizable. She was . . . simply the most desirable creature he’d ever seen. Sensing his stare, Sam turned. She said nothing, merely arched a lovely eyebrow. Doc turned his head, embarrassed.
It was Matheson’s turn to look Doc over. “Anyone ever tell you that you look like that doctor on television . . . ?”
Trying to recover some dignity, Doc shook his head and snapped a reply. “No. Never heard that one. Keep moving, please, Lieutenant. There’s a brigade out there heading this way as we speak.”
Sam held her ground, continuing to look over the tank platoon leader. You know, he was actually kind of cute, in a boy-next-door sort of way.
Doc, having followed her up the front slope of the tank, gestured toward his loader. The soldier offered a hand to their passenger.
“Glad to see you’re all right, ma’am,” said the loader.
Taking the proffered hand, Sam climbed onto the turret. “Thank you. It’s good to know some tankers have manners.”
“Lieutenant,” said Doc, “climb in the turret. We really do have to get out of the area.”
Again Sam lifted an eyebrow at him, smiling. “You’re a regular knight in shining armor, aren’t you?”
“Just get in the tank. And take this,” Doc said, handing her a canteen of water. “We’ve got some rags in the turret to go along with the water. You really need to clean all of that blood from your face. You look like Sissy Spacek in that movie. . . .”
“I’m not much of a country music fan, but thanks.” She smiled, took the canteen, and lowered herself inside the tank.
Tin Soldiers Page 23
