“I meant Carrie,” Doc mumbled to himself as he climbed into the commander’s cupola and put on his CVC helmet. Man, he was blowing this one big time. What was it about the woman that flustered him so much? Flicking his CVC’s transmit switch forward, Hancock shook his head and called Dillon. “Steel Six, White One. We’ve got her. She’s a little banged up, but otherwise in good shape.”
The reply was immediate. “Roger, let’s move out.”
“This is White One, moving.”
“Steel Six, roger, out.”
Turning to Matheson, Doc passed her his kevlar helmet as she climbed through the loader’s hatch. “You might want to wear this. There’s a lot of metal to bust your head open down there.”
Sam favored him with a flash of white teeth. “Thanks.”
Doc winced. The smile turned him on. The bloody face kind of scared him. “You’re welcome.”
Hancock watched her disappear into the turret. Shit! The Iraqi driver. Doc swiveled his head to where the young soldier still kneeled. A look of hopelessness crossed the boy’s face at seeing the Americans had not forgotten him after all. He knew he was dead. Doc pointed at him, then pointed north. The soldier didn’t move, not quite trusting his good fortune. Doc pointed north again and the soldier finally stood and began walking. He walked slowly, looked back a few times, and then broke into a trot.
“Hey!” called Doc.
The driver stopped, turning. Hancock threw a collapsible canteen of water as hard as he could in the soldier’s direction.
The boy stared in disbelief.
Doc turned his attention to the vacated enemy vehicle. He wasn’t going to leave it for some asshole to jump in and use against them later. “Gunner, take out the BMP.”
The turret of the M1A1 swiveled toward the Iraqi vehicle. The gunner’s voice came through the intercom. “I’m on . . . and our passenger is clear of the main gun.”
Doc knew that much. He could feel her breasts on his shins, which meant she was in the tank commander’s station. Jesus. “Fire.”
“On the way.”
The tank rocked backward. Doc didn’t take the time to watch the vehicle blow. “Okay, let’s move.”
As his driver accelerated, Doc looked to his rear. Their wing tank was falling in. After a few minutes they reached Dillon’s position. The rest of the tanks and the Bradleys were waiting for them. Dillon waved Doc to the front without a word.
Continuing to move, Doc called to the Steel elements. “White, White One. Wedge, two-hundred-meter separation, gear three. Green, take up positions on the flanks. Let’s get the hell out of here, gentlemen.”
From his position behind Hancock, Dillon smiled. His boy was growing up.
Doc’s body rolled easily with the motion of his tank. Lost in thought, he didn’t at first notice that his loader had grown a fabulous set of breasts. Feeling eyes on him, Hancock turned. Sam Matheson stood in the loader’s hatch wearing a CVC, looking at him with a strange expression. She’d cleaned the remnants of her battle with Fang from her face and clothes as best she could. God, thought Doc, she looks even better. He hadn’t thought that possible. He made up his mind. He was going to marry this woman.
“What?” asked Doc defensively, beginning to wilt under Sam’s direct gaze.
Sam just looked at him for a few moments before speaking, then leaned over to be heard. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For what? What do you think?”
God, but I’m stupid, thought Hancock. “Oh . . . well, you didn’t really need much help. We didn’t do more than provide you with a taxi service. And remind me never to piss you off.”
A dark expression crossed Matheson’s face as she thought of the Iraqi NCO. The man had deserved to die—there was no doubt about that. But still, she couldn’t help feeling that everything had changed. In the back of her mind, she knew she’d taken other lives while attacking the Iraqi company earlier in the day. While that was true, it was different . . . more detached. This time she had seen her victim’s face, felt his blood. She had been beneath his body as it released his death rattle.
Seeing the faraway look in Matheson’s eyes, Doc guessed what was going through her mind. “It’s not your fault. You did what you had to do.”
Sam looked ahead, squinting from the wind in her face. “I know. But . . . it doesn’t change the fact that I . . . it . . .” She shook her head, lost for words.
Doc wanted to reach out, to comfort her, to tell her that everything would be all right. Instead he just settled into the silence, to the sound of the tank beneath them and the desert wind.
Sam broke their reverie after a few minutes. “That was a nice thing you did.”
Doc looked at her quizzically.
“The Iraqi soldier . . . the water.”
“How’d you know about that?” Matheson had been inside the tank. Then it hit him. His gabby loader. “Besides, anyone else would have done the same.”
Her gaze went beyond merely seeing him. It looked through him, seemed to burn into his soul. “No, they wouldn’t,” she said softly.
Doc looked away for a moment. “Well . . . I . . . hey, could you keep an eye out on that side of the tank? We’re still not home yet.”
Sam took him in with her eyes and smiled. “Okay, Doc. I’ve got port side security.”
It was Doc’s turn to raise an eyebrow. She’d already gotten tight enough with the crew to get his nickname? Man, she moved fast.
They were lost in their own thoughts as the steel beast plowed on, heading back to friendly lines. The CVC helmets and the drone of the turbine engine prevented them from hearing the sounds of battle four kilometers north of them.
15th KU Brigade, Five Kilometers South of the Iraq-
Kuwait Border
22 October, 1200 Hours Local
Colonel Hashem al-Behbahani, commander of Kuwait’s 15th Armored Brigade, savored this moment. The remaining elements of Iraq’s once-mighty Tawakalna Division continued south, unaware of the fate that awaited them.
This was the moment for which he had waited over a decade. Al-Behbahani’s 15th Brigade was composed primarily of the American M1A2 tanks. His men would make good use of the cutting-edge fighting machines.
Al-Behbahani smiled as he listened to the reports filtering in. The enemy was not occupying a wide frontage as he attacked south. Excellent. He compared the approaching Iraqis’ projected path against the locations of the two companies of M-84s he’d set forward. They could not help but make contact in the next few minutes. The colonel made a few more calls, ensuring the preparations for their guests were complete. They were.
An aide approached the colonel, a message in hand. “Sir. We have initiated fire against the enemy. As expected, they are attacking enthusiastically.”
The colonel nodded. He’d surmised that once the Republican Guard recognized the M-84s, they’d know they were fighting Kuwaitis. Conscious of the disdain the Iraqis held for his country’s military, al-Behbahani knew the invaders wouldn’t be able to help themselves. The Iraqis would attack with a vengeance, certain of an easy victory with very little effort. He shook his head. They did not realize that the forces they moved to reinforce were dead, wounded, or captured.
He turned to the aide. “Nasir, pass the word to First Battalion to launch their attack. Tell Second Battalion to stand ready.”
The subordinate saluted and withdrew.
Al-Behbahani felt guilty for a moment. He knew what he did, he did out of necessity. Yet . . . how would his God judge him for the sense of joy he felt? Then again, where was his God when his wife needed help? Recovering from simple surgery at the Sulaibekhat Social Care Institution in Kuwait City when the Iraqi pigs invaded there in August 1990, she’d died from a combination of lack of medical care and starvation. The colonel’s sense of guilt departed. He’d face his judgment later—his enemies would face theirs now.
The Kuwaiti M-84s lured the approaching Iraqi brigade in. As the enemy force assa
ulted, most missed the cloud on the horizon to the west. This cloud rapidly materialized into a battalion of M1A2s. The 15th Brigade’s 1st Battalion attacked on line, initiating fires into their invaders at over three thousand meters. By the time the remnants of the Iraqi brigade managed to break contact, little was left of what had at one time been a proud force of over one hundred combat vehicles led by some of the most promising leaders in Iraq’s army.
The ranking officer to survive the Kuwaiti counterattack was a major. He rallied the forces he could and turned north. Facing a court-martial and possible execution was better than certain death. Looking back, he saw no pursuit. The Kuwaitis seemed satisfied with exacting their vengeance on the men who had not made it out of their kill sack. The major led the ragged assembly of thirty vehicles toward the border.
As they approached a rise to their north, a line of dots appeared on the horizon. What was this . . . ? The major pulled up his binoculars. Focusing the lenses, he saw an endless line of M1A2s, each with the red, white, green, and black Kuwaiti flag fluttering from its antenna. Another battalion of the M1A2s.
Allah have mercy . . .
Two minutes later, the Tawakalna Division ceased to exist.
3rd Brigade, 4th ID TOC, Northern Kuwait
22 October, 1615 Hours Local
Doc Hancock felt uncomfortable. He’d never been to the rear far enough to see the task force operations center, much less the brigade’s.
Man, this place is a fucking palace, he thought.
Interconnected M577 command and control vehicles were everywhere, all under the largest camouflage net Hancock had ever seen. Clusters of vans pulled side by side and backed up to one another, extensions thrown between them. Scores of staff NCOs and officers raced between structures, bundles of overlays and maps in hand, intent on completing their missions. Between the structures, what seemed like miles of cable linked generators to the various structures. The generators’ constant hum and the smell of diesel fuel permeated the area. It reminded Hancock of the sound and smell behind the booths at the county fair that used to visit his hometown every autumn when he was a kid.
This was an unplanned trip for Doc. On reaching friendly lines, Captain Dillon had passed on to Hancock that Striker 6 wanted Lieutenant Matheson in the rear, ASAP. Something had fallen through with the Hummer that was supposed to be waiting for them on the other side of the obstacle, so Dillon had told him to continue moving and drop his passenger off at the 3rd Brigade headquarters.
They’d reached the 3rd Brigade TOC in the middle of chow. Seeing Colonel Jones’s Bradley near the center of the compound, Hancock guided his tank in that direction. As he pulled to a stop, a tall figure emerged from the vehicle’s shadow. Not waiting for the tank to cool down and shut off, the figure jumped on board and climbed onto the turret.
Jones reached a hand out to Doc. “Son, Colonel Estes told me about the job you and your men did today. Tell Dillon and the rest of his miscreants that I appreciate it. God knows it’s a sorry excuse for a company you’ve been assigned to, but you boys do get the job done.”
Doc felt his hackles rise at the words, then realized from the look on Jones’s face that he didn’t mean a word of it—in fact, just the opposite. “Yes, sir. I’ll pass the message on to Captain Dillon.”
A figure emerged from the loader’s hatch. Sam had climbed inside on reaching the brigade’s perimeter, not wanting to become the center of attention.
Jones held out a hand. “Cutlass Six, I presume?”
Sam blushed and took the hand. “Yes, sir.”
“Lieutenant, I . . . ah, fuck it.” Jones leaned over and gave the aviator a huge bear hug. He released her and stepped back, leaving the young woman breathless. “By God! If I’d known it was that nice warming up to junior officers, I’d have tried it a long time ago!” He looked at her, seriously now, but with a twinkle in his eye. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Your platoon saved some fine men today. You ever need anything—anything—you call me. Understood?”
Sam blushed. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“All right then. You young folks climb down and grab a plate of chow. I know you’ve worked up an appetite. We’ve got spaghetti, garden peas, and chocolate milk. Yummy.”
Doc shifted uncomfortably. He and Sam exchanged looks. “Sir, I should really be getting back to the company.”
Jones, having been around the block a few times, couldn’t help but see that something was going on between the two young officers. He looked at Matheson, then back to Hancock. Fuck it, he thought. They’ve been through hell and were likely to go through more of the same before this were over. He could give them an hour or so to work out whatever it was. “Hell, son, you’ve got time to throw down some grub.” Jones looked at Doc with his most dour scowl. “That’s an order.”
“But, sir, what about the brigade that was closing . . . ?”
Jones shook his head. “Don’t worry about them, son. They’re a nonissue. The Kuwaitis had a visit with those boys while you were on the way in.”
“The Kuwaitis?” Hancock had never worked with the Arab soldiers, but he’d heard enough that he found the news surprising.
Jones nodded once. “Yep, the Kuwaitis. And they did fine work from what I’ve heard.” He turned back to Sam. “Thanks again, Cutlass. I’ll see you two over at the chow truck.” With that said, he climbed down from the tank and disappeared into the gathering twilight.
The two lieutenants found themselves once more in conversation with Jones over dinner. Someone at the TOC had found a set of fatigues that were a bit on the large size to replace Matheson’s ripped-up flight suit. She’d also had an opportunity to scrub what remained of Fang off her under an Australian shower—a canvas bag of water with a pull-spout attached to the bottom. As the water, still warm from the day’s sun, had run down her body, Sam had tried to scrub the memory of her attacker from her mind. While she hadn’t been entirely successful with that part of it, at least she felt human again.
The “hot” chow was served out of mermite cans on paper plates. True to the colonel’s word, it was spaghetti, peas, and chocolate milk. Hancock marveled that an army that was so technically advanced could come up with such combinations of cuisine. It was a wonder America wasn’t a Cuban colony. The plates sat at an awkward angle on the hood of Jones’s Hummer. The desert sky was dark now and they used blue chem-lites to dine by. The effect of the colored light sticks—blue-tinted spaghetti and purple peas—added to the ambiance of the meal.
“Well, Lieutenant Matheson, guess you’re about ready to go,” Jones said.
Her unit was sending a helicopter for her in two hours. Sam felt sad at the thought. She missed her platoon, but the men of Third Brigade had made her feel at home, like part of a family. “Yes, sir. I’ve enjoyed my stay, but I really need to get back to my guys.”
Hancock said nothing. He seemed to be preoccupied arranging his purple peas with a plastic knife.
A group of men walked over, wanting to meet Matheson before she took off. Her actions in the air had earned her the respect of the men of the brigade. All of them knew that it was thanks to her efforts that their beloved Jones was still around. A few had found out that she could take care of herself one-on-one. As the story of her encounter with the Iraqi NCO continued to circulate, it was beginning to take on epic proportions. She’d wanted to spend a few moments alone with Doc before he returned to his unit, but she couldn’t ignore the friendly group of soldiers. Sam talked to them, shook hands, and listened to stories of home and family. Even today, she thought, with women all over the battlefield, something about talking to a strange female while in harm’s way caused men to reminisce about loved ones and the hearth. After a few minutes, she looked up and noticed that Doc was no longer present.
“Looking for our young firebrand?” asked Jones. Sitting on his camp stool and sipping a cup of coffee, he’d noticed the look of alarm in the young woman’s eyes.
Sam was flustered. “Oh . . . no, sir. I was just
, uh. . .”
Jones blew gently on the coffee. Looking into the cup rather than at Sam, he nodded and smiled. “Doc went that way a couple of minutes ago,” he said, pointing to the perimeter.
Matheson blushed. “Oh, well . . . thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome, my dear,” Jones said quietly. Sam didn’t hear him. She was already twenty feet away and moving quickly.
She found Doc sitting on a rock a few minutes later, just past the perimeter. It was so dark she almost stumbled over him. “So there you are!”
Doc looked up, startled. “Sam . . . what are you doing out here?”
Sam Matheson smiled, saying nothing.
“What?”
“You called me Sam.”
“That is your name, isn’t it?”
Matheson ignored the question. “Do you mind if I sit?” she finally asked.
She could hear him sliding over on the stone. “Wait . . . sit on this,” she said, handing him a soft nylon blanket.
“Where’d you get the poncho liner?” he asked, standing up to make room.
She nodded in the direction of the headquarters as she helped spread out the liner. “A sergeant back at the TOC gave it to me, said it would be getting chilly. I guess he felt sorry for me, no clothes and all.”
Now that’s not the line of thinking I need to hear right now, thought Doc.
They settled down, looking at the sliver of moon on the horizon.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Sam asked.
Hancock looked closely at Samantha Matheson. “Yes, you . . . yes, it is.” Doc hung his head, dying.
You idiot.
“Doc,” Sam said quietly.
He continued to look at the ground. “Yeah?”
“Doc.”
Doc slowly lifted his head and looked into her eyes.
They came together slowly. Everything else that day had happened so quickly, they were drawing out this moment as if by mutual assent. Their lips touched, gently at first. Doc felt Sam’s warm tongue slip into his mouth, questing. As their breathing became heavier, Doc slipped his hand from behind her back and moved it slowly up the front of her blouse, then stopped.
Tin Soldiers Page 24
