Tin Soldiers

by Michael Farmer

  Aref raised a well-manicured hand to halt further comment. “As you say, it is nothing. A poor choice of words. They will be ready.” The president turned from the map. “Of greater concern to me is that we get into position for our attack as soon as possible. I realize it will be difficult to conceal our movement from the Americans, but I do not want them to have more advanced warning than can be helped.”

  The general nodded. He might not think this war was in his nation’s best interests, but if he was to fight it, he knew a few tricks. “Sir, the Americans will rely on two systems to find us—aircraft and satellites. The front that moved into the area of operations overnight has kept most of the American air grounded. We expect it will lift soon, but for now, it continues to aid in concealing our move south from enemy aircraft. Our second concern, the numerous satellites the Americans have in orbit, we have been addressing.”

  Aref was intrigued. “Go on, General. What are you doing about this problem?”

  “Sir, here is the Southern Corps’ axis of attack,” said Abunimah, running a finger down a wide arrow leading south into Kuwait. “I have sent special forces into this area, and areas the same size to the east and west.” The general turned to his president, looking him directly in the eye. “Over the past twenty-four hours, these troops have set fire to every oil well in the region I have just indicated.”

  “You what?”

  The general had expected the outburst. It was why he had not briefed Abdul Aref on his plan ahead of time. “Mr. President, the fires create heat and smoke across that entire portion of the desert. The smoke obscures normal satellite imaging. The heat degrades the thermal satellite imaging. The area of burn is wide enough that the Americans will not be able to pinpoint our divisions or our axis of attack.”

  “Yes, but the oil we are losing . . .”

  “These are controlled fires. We have engineer teams standing by to bring the wells back on-line at the earliest opportunity. Yes, we will lose a great deal of oil, but only a drop in the bucket if we are successful and control the Kuwaiti oil fields. And if we lose . . . will it really matter?”

  “What of the Americans?”

  The general considered the question. “If your question relates to their force in Kuwait, I can tell you that the Americans continue to occupy the same sector with roughly the same number of forces. They have replaced some of their losses, but no reinforcements. My estimate is that they will stay in their current positions and try to hold until reinforcements can arrive.” He now looked pointedly at his leader. “If, sir, on the other hand you are asking about the status of their reinforcements . . . I assumed you still had access to your own channels and that those forces were not an issue.”

  “We will continue as planned, General,” said Aref, a shadow momentarily passing over his face. He was not about to tell Abunimah that the satellite imagery being passed to him by his European friends had suddenly stopped. The plan was too far along at this juncture. “When will you give the order to initiate the next attack?”

  “The Madinah will lead out at twenty-one-hundred hours tonight, sir. They will penetrate the west side of the American sector. The Hamourabi will follow and exploit the penetration. We will outnumber them six to one, more if the Iranians actually support our attack.”

  Abdul Aref raised a warning finger to the general.

  Abunimah’s face displayed no emotion as he corrected himself. “Sorry, sir. When the Iranians support our attack.”

  3rd Brigade, 4th ID TOC, Northern Kuwait

  24 October, 1745 Hours Local

  Jones looked at his watch, then at the sun settling below the western horizon. The rain obscured the orange-red globe, lending it a shimmering and otherworldly appearance. What was that old sailor’s axiom? Red in the morning, sailors take warning? He guessed it didn’t apply to dusk in the desert. Besides, the combination of the rain and the black clouds caused by the oil field fires that had moved in from the north was a problem likely unfamiliar in nautical circles.

  Jones turned a trained eye to the 3rd Brigade TOC. The area was a hive of activity. He’d seen the routine numerous times through the years, these last-minute preparations for combat. The type of activity differed with the size of the unit. Here at the brigade headquarters, the Taj Mahal was breaking down—the numerous tents, tables, and maps pulled out and set up for planning were now being stored in whatever space was available in preparation for offensive operations. At the task force operations centers, Jones knew the scene would be much the same. At company level, the commanders would be calling for last-minute updates and statuses from their platoons. Within the platoons, crews would be feverishly finishing combat checks, tightening down ammo cans and petroleum products, and making copies of graphics. In a dark and twisted way, it was like watching a football team conducting warm-ups before the big game. Coaches making final adjustments to planned schemes, the receivers practicing the timing of their patterns, the defense popping a few pads to get loose, special teams rehearsing their small yet critical roles—all the seemingly disjointed operations leading up to one unified effort. The difference between the two events, Jones knew, was that if his team’s timing was off, if he made a bad call, if the other team made a big play—a lot of his men were going to die.

  Jones looked down at his coffee cup—empty. Glancing across his rapidly disintegrating headquarters to the spot where the TOC’s industrial-size coffeepot stood, his heart jump-started. “Hey, hold on a second!” Jones yelled to the NCO about to unplug the critical piece of combat equipment. The breakdown was moving right along—the pot was always the last piece of equipment disconnected from the generators.

  Nodding his thanks to the NCO after filling his battle mug—a large travel cup wrapped tightly with OD green military tape—Jones moved to the intel cell. Major Tom Proctor was walking out of the back of the S2’s M577.

  “What’s the word, Tom?” asked Jones, sipping appreciatively from the field cup. “The S2 get any imagery on the Southern Corps position?”

  Proctor shook his head. “Sir, those fires are making a mess of satellite reception. We had good locations on both divisions yesterday as they moved south between An Najaf and Al Kut. Based off their direction of movement and estimated rate of march—the Iraqis are pretty predictable—we know they’re likely somewhere south of An Nasiriyah.” The Three shook his head in frustration. “We just can’t confirm their exact position.”

  “Any chance of getting some blue-suiters over the area to take a look?”

  The operations officer shrugged. “The air liaison officer thinks they might be able to get some aircraft up soon if the weather moves out as predicted. Otherwise we’ll not only be sucking for reconnaissance, but our close air support for the operation will be nil.”

  Jones nodded his understanding. “Well, like I always tell you, Tom—don’t hinge your ground plan on the air force. They mean well, but there’s just too many variables involved in their line of work.”

  Proctor was silent a moment before continuing. “Sir, if we don’t get a pinpoint location for those two divisions, we’re not going to be able to prep them with the artillery and MLRS rockets before our attack. And we’re not going to be able to suppress the enemy air defenses—which means it will be a hard sell getting the air support guys to fly in, assuming the weather clears. It could be a really ugly baby, sir.”

  Jones chuckled. “Well put, Thomas. Okay then, what are our options? It’s almost eighteen hundred hours now. That gives us six hours to come up with something.”

  Proctor shrugged again. “Sir, we’re working on it. My recommendation is to send warning orders to each task force to get their scouts ready to move forward of the brigade, tie their effort in with the brigade recon team and get as many eyes forward as possible. They can take artillery observers with them.”

  Jones nodded “That’s an option—if it comes to it. But I really don’t like the idea of sending lightly armored Hummers with nothing more for night-vision capability
than PVS-7s and some TOW night sights forward to find T-72s and BMPs. For now, send out the warning order, but the plan remains to use the scouts on the flanks and lead with the armor.”

  The major nodded. In the desert at night, he also preferred having tanks as the forward element. They could see and shoot farther than any of the other combat vehicles, not to mention survive better if they stumbled into contact.

  The men’s thoughts were interrupted by raised voices from the back of the S2’s M577. “I’m telling you . . . we can get them up. We’ve flown ’em in worse conditions.”

  Looking into the vehicle, they saw the brigade intel officer and a warrant they didn’t recognize in heated debate. “Hey, Two,” called Jones into the back of the track, “what the hell’s the ruckus about?”

  The major turned to Jones. “Sir, we were discussing trying to get some UAVs up to locate the Madinah and Hamourabi.” The Two threw a thumb toward the warrant officer they’d heard a moment before. “Chief Gailin here thinks he can get his birds up—three of them. If he can, it could be the answer to our problems.”

  Jones chastised himself. He’d forgotten about the small, remote-controlled, unmanned aerial vehicles. Usually an asset located at echelons above brigade-level, the UAVs were a last-minute addition to 3rd Brigade’s list of combat multipliers. Measuring just under thirty feet from wingtip to wingtip, they could be remotely piloted deep to send back video feeds of the intel they needed.

  “Your birds can make it up, Chief? What about the winds?”

  “They’re Hunters, sir, we’re good. Crosswind on takeoff right now is ten knots—that leaves us five to play with. The forward-looking infrared package will allow us to get some decent shots for you out past a hundred kilometers.”

  “How long can you stay up?” asked Jones. They had a ballpark idea of where the Iraqis were. They’d have to find them and then keep the birds on station long enough to relay back the information the brigade needed.

  The chief considered. “At least eight hours, ten at the outside.”

  Jones nodded. “Two, give the chief your estimated location for those divisions. Focus on the Madinah first—that’s our fight. Once we’ve got what we need, we can work on the Hamourabi for the Spartans.”

  The major gave a thumbs-up. “Got it, sir.”

  Turning his head toward the fire support track a few feet away, Jones bellowed for his FSO. “Buck!”

  A kevlared head stuck from the rear of the track and looked their way. “Sir?”

  “Buck, we’re getting some UAV support up in the next few minutes. Have your guns ready to respond. The Two estimates the enemy is one hundred kilometers out—well outside our artillery and MLRS rocket range.” Jones paused, looking thoughtful. “Does the reinforcing MLRS battalion have ATACMS?”

  The Army Tactical Missile System, or ATACMS, was the army’s only truly deep attack missile system. Fired from MLRS missile launchers, the ATACMS were designed as a tool for the ground commander to shape the fight deep and early.

  Major Sheldon nodded. “Yes, sir. And they have the Block Two models. Range out to one hundred forty kilometers—antiarmor, top attack submunitions. Acoustic and infrared seekers working in tandem. Good shit, sir. FUBAR City for the bad guys. You’ll need to call the JTF headquarters for permission to use ’em, but it won’t be a problem. They’ll work out the airspace issues.”

  “Roger, I’ll make the call in a minute. You start working it with the guns.”

  Sheldon nodded and disappeared into his track.

  “Chief, how long for you to get your birds prepped and airborne?”

  The warrant officer smiled. “Sir, I’ve got a ground control station REDCON-One at our runway now with the birds preflighted. We can start sending them up inside of five minutes.”

  “By God! I like you, Chief,” roared Jones. His slap to the warrant’s back nearly knocked the smaller man off of his feet.

  Recovering his balance, Gailin looked uncertainly at Jones. “Thanks, sir. I, uh . . . like you too.”

  The old warrior turned serious. “Chief, if this works, I’ll owe you big.” Jones turned his attention back to his S2. “I want to keep at least one of the birds on the Madinah all the way till showtime. As that division moves into artillery and MLRS range, I want to know, and I want those boys on the guns to start earning their money. Got it?”

  “Roger, sir.”

  Jones put his hands on his hips and visibly swelled. “I do love it when a plan comes together. Let’s get to work, gents. We’ve got a war to win!”

  Ten minutes later, from a small dirt airstrip two thousand feet long and a hundred feet wide, the first of the three Hunter UAVs sped to takeoff speed. Its two 750cc Moto Guzzi engines whined as it climbed to an altitude of fifteen thousand feet. Any higher and it wouldn’t be able to see through the clouds, any lower and it would be a ripe target for any enemy vehicle that spotted it. As its two brothers joined its orbit, the small formation flew off to the north at a cruising speed of seventy knots. The Hunters could dash at one hundred ten knots for short periods, if necessary.

  The ground control station crews felt elated as the falling darkness enfolded their small craft. The soldiers knew over four thousand men and women depended on their ability to find the Republican Guard forces located somewhere to the north. They also knew they were equal to the task.

  The Two looked at his map. Unlike the operations map, which showed primarily friendly units and only the broad strokes of the enemy situation, the intel map showed known and suspected enemy locations. Unfortunately, right now the vast majority of the graphics were suspected—or unknown. Looking at his watch, he saw that it was a little after twenty hundred hours—four hours before the brigade was due to move out. Damn it, where are they?

  “Sir! Sir! We’ve got ’em!”

  The major turned to the UAV imagery analysts huddled over their workstation. The duo was excitedly pointing at the near real time video playing across their monitor. Looking over their shoulders, the major felt a thrill of triumph. The Madinah.

  “I’d kiss you, Sergeant,” he said to the team leader, “but my wife’s funny about that kind of thing.” Turning to one of his one men, the S2 pointed at the display. “Get the relevant grid coordinates and call Major Sheldon. Tell him we’ve got his ATACMS targets.”

  Taking a deep breath, the major turned the handle to open the back of his M577. As the latch disengaged, the vehicle’s interior white lights cut out and were replaced by blue lighting. As he stepped outside, he paused a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness. An orange glow two feet to his left gave away the brigade commander’s location. As the Two had suspected, Jones had waited outside for the critical intel piece he needed to fight his battle.

  “We’ve got ’em, sir.”

  The sound of a fist slapping into the palm of a hand was heard distinctly. “Fucking A!” The orange glow had disappeared with the slapping sound. “Oooww! Shit, that’s hot! Did you notify Sheldon?”

  “Roger, he’s on the way over to get the coordinates. We’ll pass them off to the ALO so the air force has got them as well.”

  “For all the good it’ll do them,” said Jones, looking up into the wet night.

  After they had stood in silence for a couple of minutes, the rain slowed, then stopped. Looking up, the two officers saw a patch of stars appear overhead. Jones was the first to speak. “You know the good thing about things going wrong, Two?”

  “No, sir. What’s that?”

  The major could almost hear Jones smiling. “When they start to go right, they really go right.”

  Republican Guard Southern Corps Headquarters, Vicinity

  An Nasiriyah, Iraq

  24 October, 2015 Hours Local

  Staff Major General al-Tikriti, commander of Southern Corps, paced impatiently within his headquarters van. With the weather clearing, he knew that his forces would soon be vulnerable to American aircraft. Walking across the room, the general stopped next to his air defe
nse headquarters commander. “What is the status of your systems?”

  The colonel stood and came to attention. “Sir, both the Corps and division air defense sections are ready.”

  The general arched an eyebrow at the colonel. “Indeed? We shall—”

  Within the shelter of the van, all activity stopped. Ears tuned outside to a strange shrieking sound that seemed to be moving toward them. In the distance to the south—the direction of the Corps’ two divisions—a series of explosions sounded.

  Al-Tikriti wheeled on his communications officer. “Get the commanders of the Madinah and the Hamourabi on the radio. Find out their status and tell them not to wait until twenty-one hundred hours—they must move out at once. I repeat, tell them to get out of their staging areas now!”

  Overhead, silent to the Iraqi soldiers running in the darkness to defend against an unseen foe, a Hunter UAV filmed the Southern Corps headquarters and relayed the imagery south, across an invisible datalink capable of handling ten megabits per second, to the UAV’s ground control station at 3rd Brigade headquarters.

  3rd Brigade, 4th ID TOC, Northern Kuwait

  24 October, 2015 Hours Local

  Chief Gailin watched the imagery coming in from bird number two. Well, hello there. . . . He quickly jotted the figures on a message pad, then double-checked the coordinates. Satisfied the information was accurate, Gailin ripped the note from the pad and stuck it in his NCO’s hand. “Get this to the targeting cell. I think they’ll want this one moved to the top of the hit parade.”

  Republican Guard Southern Corps Headquarters, Vicinity

  An Nasiriyah, Iraq

  24 October, 2020 Hours Local