“I’m sorry, Sam. I shouldn’t . . .”
“Shh.” Sitting up, Sam slowly unbuttoned her shirt.
Doc could only stare in disbelief.
Sam continued with the buttons and looked deep into his eyes. “I know this is going to sound silly, Doc . . . only having known each other a few hours . . . but . . . did you feel it? When you opened that door and I saw you for the first time . . . I just knew . . .”
Doc was having trouble breathing. He looked into Sam’s eyes. “You’re right. It doesn’t make sense, none whatsoever. But God help me, I did. I feel like we’ve been together a dozen lifetimes.”
Taking his hand, Sam moved it inside her shirt and settled it onto her breast, gently holding it there. She lay back on the poncho liner, pulling Hancock down with her. “I wanted to make sure it wasn’t just me,” she whispered.
Cold Steel Battle Position, Northern Kuwait
22 October, 1930 Hours Local
The leadership of Cold Steel—Dillon, Mason, and Rider—huddled around a Hummer. Each held a lukewarm cup of coffee. They’d finished chow and were taking a few moments to unwind from the events of the past twenty-four hours.
“Top, how are the troops doing?” asked Dillon. He knew Rider had to be exhausted. Once the battle was over, hell—before it was over, he was the man ensuring that men and tanks that fell on the battlefield were cared for. It was a rough job, and the hours sucked worse than even the combat crewmen’s did. As the senior enlisted member of Cold Steel, Dillon depended on John Rider to keep the pulse of his men. How were they holding up? Were they getting enough rest? What was their morale? They spoke more freely to Rider. And the NCOs could always be counted on to give the first sergeant the straight shit.
Rider tossed the remains of his coffee into the sand. The look on his face told them why. “Jesus, I know we’re in a combat zone, but that tastes like shit. A cup of brown water is all it is—and not very tasty water at that.” Looking to Dillon, he said seriously, “They’re all right, sir. Exhausted, but still too wired to get much rest. The NCOs are forcing them down for some shut-eye, nonetheless.”
Rider was silent a moment, too tired to string together coherent thoughts. “I did speak to the S1 and the S4 about some replacements. We should have a few men and tanks coming forward tomorrow, but I don’t know what kind of shape either of them will be in.” Both men knew brigade was likely pulling clerks, cooks, and fuel handlers to replace the losses sustained throughout the task forces. And any tank that came forward could be a hangar queen with more maintenance problems than it was worth.
Dillon nodded absently. “It’s something anyway.”
The first sergeant stood silently a moment, then spit. “Say, sir, about Third Platoon . . . did Tiger Six mention sending a new lieutenant forward?”
The Steel commander shook his head. “He didn’t say, and I didn’t ask. I think a new face in the platoon, or what’s left of it, wouldn’t help things right now . . . especially if it’s a fresh and untrained lieutenant.” Dillon shook his head. “Nope, I think we’re better off letting the platoon sergeant take it for a while.”
Rider nodded. “Good call, sir. I agree. Changing the subject, any word from headquarters on what’s next?”
Dillon looked into the night sky. He shook his head slowly. “No. Thanks to the Kuwaitis, we’ve gotten a chance to rest for a few hours, maybe a day. The other two Republican Guard divisions . . . I’d guess for now that that fight is thirty-six hours out. I’d guess. We should find out something at tomorrow morning’s update at the TOC. For now, keep security out and let everybody get some sleep.” He turned to Mason. “The tanks pulling security reported set to you yet, Thad?”
Holding a small blue-lensed flashlight between his teeth, Mason flipped through his notebook, stopping once he found the page. He scanned for a moment, then shut the notebook and turned off the light. “Roger. C-13, C-22, and C-32 are forward and set as of twenty minutes ago. The rest of the company’s tanks have pulled back. C-65 and C-66 are alternating covering the backside and are monitoring the task force command net. The whole company’s fed, fueled, and full up on ammo. No maintenance problems to speak of on the tanks we still have.” Mason looked at Dillon. “If it makes you feel better, the mechanics think they found the problem with the transmission.”
“What was it?”
Mason grinned. “It looks like a big cobra climbed up into the engine compartment to get warm. He toasted up real quick and died in there. Some of his pieces worked around in there and . . . well, you know. It’s all fixed up now.”
Dillon chuckled. “A snake. Ain’t that the luck of the fuckin’ Irish.” Throwing the remains of his coffee out, he looked to the two men he depended on for so much. “Okay. Good work today, both of you. I suggest we all try to get some rest.” He turned to walk back to his tank, then thought of something. “Thad, has Doc made it back yet?”
“He called. They’re en route. Probably be another half hour or so.”
Dillon shook his head as he walked away. “Poor bastard. I hate using him as a taxi service. Give me a call when he makes it in.”
CHAPTER 12
Outside the Fire
The White House
23 October, 0300 Hours Eastern
Still in his bathrobe, Jonathan Drake looked up from his desk as the door of the Oval Office opened. Holding out an arm, he invited Newman and Werner to have a seat. He’d insisted on six-hour updates throughout the current crisis, regardless of the time.
“Gentlemen”—he smiled tiredly—“thanks for coming in so early. Sorry about the jammies.”
Newman returned his boss’s smile through a yawn. “Sir, they don’t bother us.”
Drake saw for the first time that his insistence on staying updated, regardless of the hour, was beginning to impact his subordinates. “Ron, why don’t you and the general send in someone else for the overnights? That would be fine with me.”
General Werner rubbed a tired hand across his face. “Time to rest later, sir. We’ve got a war on.”
Drake looked thoughtful. “Yeah. So . . . any changes? Things are still going well?”
Both men nodded noncommittally. Neither looked particularly pleased.
“What?” asked the president. “Something’s bothering you. Spill it.”
The chairman bit his lip. How do you tell the president of the United States that you couldn’t be prouder of him for having the balls to do what needed to be done, but that since he hadn’t served a day in the military, it was difficult to explain why things weren’t exactly coming up roses. Instead, the general looked to the secretary of defense.
Taking the cue, Ronald Newman looked to the president. “Sir, things aren’t looking bad. Our ground force, Third Brigade, did well against the Tawakalna Division.”
Drake nodded and looked at General Tom Werner for confirmation that he was on the same sheet of music.
Werner, noticing the look, nodded. “Sir, those boys kicked ass. There is no longer a Tawakalna Division in Iraq’s Republican Guard. The Kuwaitis finished off the last of them a few hours ago, which was a pleasant surprise. We weren’t really sure what to expect from the home team, but they came through with flying colors.”
Drake’s confusion was apparent. “So why the long faces?”
Newman continued. “Sir, there’s still a lot of enemy forces across the border in Iraq. Two divisions of those forces are expected to head south again anytime—and we don’t know if more will join them or not. For some reason, Aref has so far minimized the number of units he’s throwing at us. Our best analysis is that he thought he’d roll over Third Brigade and the Kuwaitis, and that we wouldn’t press the issue by sending more troops into the fight.”
“But even assuming that Aref does send those other divisions south, won’t our airpower be able to take them down? Or at least cut back on their numbers before they reach Third Brigade?”
Werner took the burden from Newman’s shoulders. He was the presi
dent’s military advisor, so he would advise. “Sir, airpower is great, and we’ve got the best flyers in the world. But there are two things you need to remember about it. One, we don’t have as much of it in theater as we normally do. Two, it can attrit, not destroy, two heavy divisions . . . contrary to what some folks would have you believe. A lot of shit is still going to make it into Kuwait, Mr. President.”
Drake rubbed his eyes. God, it seemed like he’d been awake forever. And in retrospect, the midnight roast beef sandwich with horseradish sauce from the White House kitchen hadn’t been a great idea. Holding his hand up for his guests to give him a moment, he opened his desk drawer and shuffled items around . . . a beeper for the Secret Service detail, the Palm organizer he had never figured out how to use. He controlled the largest nuclear arsenal remaining in the free world, but he didn’t warrant antacid tablets? He shut the drawer in frustration.
Looking at the two men, he folded his hands across his desk. “Okay, I hear the problems. Recommendations?”
Newman gestured for the chief to summarize the course of action they’d agreed on.
Werner looked steadily at his commander-in-chief. “Attack, sir.”
Drake sat up straighter, looking from one man to the other. “Attack? Third Brigade attack? Aren’t they outnumbered something like five to one by those two divisions we were discussing?”
Well, at least the man had been listening during Tactics 101, thought Werner. “Yes, sir . . . actually more like six to one, considering the losses they’ve sustained. But we’ve been discussing something with the special operations folks. . . .”
Drake listened thoughtfully to the plan. It was bold, but a lot could go wrong. If it worked, though . . . “All right, gentlemen. I approve in concept. Show me something on paper in an hour.”
Werner nodded. “Next note, sir. Regarding General Pavlovski’s theory that someone is supplying real-time satellite imagery to Iraq . . .”
Newman grunted. “How could I forget? Did we confirm the CIA’s information regarding the culprit?”
Werner’s face twisted as if he’d tasted something rotten. “Yes, sir. It was them all right.”
Drake closed his eyes and nodded his head wearily. If he held this office long enough, maybe it wouldn’t surprise him what some of the U.S.’s “allies” would do for money. “Is space command ready to prosecute the contingency plan we discussed?”
“Affirmative, sir.”
“Do it.”
Newman nodded. “The final touches are being put on it now. We’ll be ready. Sir . . . there’s a final aspect of this mess that we haven’t talked about. Iran. Right now they’re just sitting across the border, but they are a threat that cannot be ignored. The marines we have facing them are good men, but there’s not a hell of a lot of them. The Iranians could throw a wrench into this plan if they decide to become players and back up Aref.”
Drake stood. “Chris Dodd called a few minutes ago. He’s got something cooking that he believes will take care of the Iranians. Continue your planning. I’ll have him here to fill you in when you come back.”
Werner smiled at the SECDEF as he moved toward the door. “When the CIA has something cooking, somebody had better be nervous.”
Presidential Command Complex, West of An Najaf, Iraq
23 October, 1010 Hours Local
President Aref loosened the collar of his shirt. “Explain this to me again, General. I’m not sure I understood you correctly the first time. Just over twenty-four hours ago, you said that your force was well capable of handling the Americans—with or without reinforcements. Now the first message I receive from you since that time tells me that you have managed to lose your entire command?”
General Hamza, commander of the elite Tawakalna Division, sighed on the other end of the line. Striking the Americans had been his chance to exorcise the demons that had haunted him in the years following his son’s death. In a detached way, he was sorry for the loss of his men, but it was not what weighed on his soul. He’d had his chance, had bided his time over the years, waiting for the opportunity . . . and he’d wasted it. The last thing he needed at the moment was to listen to a Saddam Hussein clone berate him. “You understand perfectly, Mr. President. I have failed—failed you, my nation, my men, myself . . . my son. The fault is mine.”
The Iraqi leader’s face reddened as he screamed into the receiver. “I know where the fault lies! I want you here within the next twenty-four hours. I will deal with you then. Do you understand me?”
Yes, thought Hamza, I understand all too well. He knew the fate that awaited him once he reported to Aref. A quick trial before a military tribunal, an even quicker conviction, followed by a firing squad. “With all due respect, Mr. President, I do not think that will be possible.”
“General Hamza, you will—” A shot rang out on the other end of the line. “General Hamza! General . . . answer me!”
A few moments later an unsteady voice replied. “Hello?”
“Who is this? Tell General Hamza to get back on the phone this instant!”
Hamza’s aide looked at the figure lying over the desk, pistol in hand, a pool of blood slowly spreading from the head wound and saturating the reports scattered about desk. “I’m . . . I’m afraid the general is dead. Who is this?”
Tehran, Iran
23 October, 1110 Hours Local
The servant approached a figure reclining on the plush cushions of a balcony overlooking the city. Although he had been in the man’s service for two years, he still got chills when in close proximity to the Holy One. When the leader was in thought, it was generally not advisable to bother him. Still, the visitor in the adjoining room had assured him that the ayatollah would want this message.
“What is it, Ahamad?” Khalani had not opened his eyes or turned to the servant.
“Father, you have a visitor. . . .”
“Did you tell him that I was indisposed?” asked Khalani, still not turning.
“Yes, Father. It is the director of security. . . .”
The ayatollah stood. “Very well. Send him in.”
Bowing, the servant left the balcony.
Moments later, the director of internal security for the Islamic Revolutionary Council entered. He bowed his head. “Holy One.”
“What matter is of such importance that my meditation must be interrupted?”
The man said nothing, but proffered a manila envelope.
Khalani looked at the parcel disdainfully. “Open it.”
The director did so, then removed the contents and extended them, eyes averted.
A yellow sticky note was affixed to the top of a thick stack of photos. It read simply, “Stay out of it”, with a telephone number written below the message.
Khalani removed the note and looked at the first photo. It was of very high quality. He quickly turned and walked to the edge of the balcony. Shuffling through the remaining photographs, he saw that he was prominently displayed in all. He recognized the other person in the photos as well, his guest following a social gathering earlier in the week. “Where did you get these?” he asked slowly.
The director of security did not look at the ayatollah. As was his duty, he had checked the contents of the package before bringing it to Khalani, and thus had seen the photos—a fact his leader would be well aware of. He walked a fine line. “They were delivered to the Algerian embassy in Washington. I assure you that no one has—”
Khalani raised a hand in resignation. “Enough. I have a phone call to make. Leave me.”
The visitor nodded, bowed, and turned to depart. Khalani’s voice stopped him. “Tell me, Abbas, who was in charge of security the night these photographs were taken?”
The tone of Khalani’s voice sent a chill down the director’s spine. He turned. “One of my best men . . .”
The ayatollah gazed from the balcony over the nation of people who turned to him for all of their answers. Better to betray a new friend than his followers. “Obviously no
t. He will be sent before the Council—today.”
The director bowed again. “As you say, Father.” Another shiver rippled down his back. Stoning was not uncommon for those who failed the Revolution.
The White House
23 October, 0320 Hours Eastern
President Drake sat at the desk in his personal office. Set within the Oval Office itself, the small space wasn’t much larger than a walk-in closet. Still, it was the only location within these hallowed halls he truly felt was his own.
Before becoming president, Drake had not realized just how heavy the burden could become . . . occupying the office previously held by such men as Lincoln, Truman, the Roosevelts, and all the others. Had they felt as he did when nations and lives were at stake, dependent on the wisdom of their decisions? As if the spirits of their predecessors watched their every move, silently passing judgment as to whether or not they were worthy to guide this great nation?
Pushing himself back from the desk, Drake looked at his feet and the fuzzy bunny slippers wrapped around them. What would the Founding Fathers think of them? The slippers had been a gift from the first lady. He couldn’t wear them around the White House proper, but this was his personal space and—the president wiggled his feet, making the ears flop—they were damned comfortable.
Drake had been in dire need of a reprieve from all that was going on after Newman and Werner departed. He had come here to his inner sanctum. Turning to his PC, he inserted a CD into one of the drives.
Turning to his ministereo, Drake selected his favorite music for these therapy sessions—AC/DC Live. Slipping on his headphones, the president turned the volume up and hummed along as “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap” reached its crescendo.
In time with the music, Drake blasted alien invaders from outer space on the computer monitor. The rabbit ears flopped madly back and forth as the presidential foot kept the beat.
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