Tin Soldiers

by Michael Farmer

  Hearing Dillon clambering off the tank, Estes looked up. “That’s it.”

  Dillon looked around, his gaze surveying every piece of the war-torn desert his men had just fought and died to gain. The blackened and smoking hulks of Iraqi vehicles, most still burning, littered the landscape. “Say again, sir?”

  Estes joined Dillon in surveying the scene of the task force’s latest victory—if ground gained and enemies destroyed at such a cost could be considered a victory. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back. “That’s it. It’s over, unless they start pushing more shit south.”

  Dillon shook his head, clearing it. “You sure, sir?”

  Estes nodded. “The wind shifted north a couple of hours ago. Cleared out the smoke enough for the satellites to get some good shots on their last pass.” He motioned to the dead Iraqi vehicles. “These guys were the last. A few got out, but the JTF commander has attack aviation en route to cut them off.” He paused, then shook his head. Enough fighting men had died in the last few days from both sides. “They won’t make it far.”

  The men stood in silence for a few moments, each lost in his thoughts. Estes finally broke it. “How many did you lose?”

  Voice cracking, Dillon gestured at the burning tanks that littered the battlefield around them. “Shit, sir . . . this morning? Last night? During the defense? I’m starting to lose count.”

  Estes was silent. He knew his subordinate didn’t mean any disrespect, but rather was trying to come to grips with the guilt a combat leader feels when he fails to bring his men home.

  Straightening, Dillon pointed out the tanks in the loose semicircle around them that still sported crossed sabers superimposed over a skull, the symbol of Cold Steel. “I’ve got ten up, sir. I lost two from Second Platoon last night and two of the replacement crews during this last assault.” He stared off into the distance for a full minute before continuing. “I’m not sure how many men actually died from those crews. I’ve found it’s easier on my soul in the short run if I think in terms of number of tanks lost. If you need the casualty figures, I’m sure First Sergeant Rider has them by now.” Turning to his boss, Dillon concluded, “To be honest, I don’t have the guts to call and ask for them just yet, Colonel.”

  Grasping the younger man by the shoulders, Estes stared into his eyes. “Patrick, two things to keep in mind, son. First, you can’t ever save them all, no matter what you do. Believe me, I feel the weight of your men as well—plus a lot more. The second thing”—Estes turned the younger commander to where a group of his soldiers were gathering, breaking out MREs for a hasty breakfast—“you brought back a lot more than you lost. That’s something to be proud of.”

  Dillon nodded. He knew Estes was right. But it was a bitter pill to swallow.

  CHAPTER 14

  Operation Phoenix

  Presidential Command Complex, West of An Najaf, Iraq

  25 October, 0645 Hours Local

  The emergency lighting didn’t extend past the main arteries of the command complex. Abdul Aref and his handful of guards picked their way through the partially collapsed escape tunnel, their path illuminated only by the beams of two dying flashlights. It was slow going. Numerous times the small party had been forced to stop and clear debris from their escape route. Finally, after three hours of effort and setbacks, they approached the concealed door that led to their freedom.

  Lining the stone wall of the mountain into which the outer door was set was a series of storage compartments. Without speaking, the major’s men began drawing out the necessary equipment. Reaching into the nearest compartment, the major removed a stack of clothing and handed it to his leader. “Sir, please put these on.”

  Taking the garments, Aref examined them in the faint light. He smelled the garment and grimaced. “Am I to now pose as a lowly bedouin?”

  “Excuse me for saying so, sir, but the lower the better. We do not know what awaits us outside of this door. Better to err to the side of caution.” Without saying more, he turned to another compartment and pulled out a battery-powered lantern. Turning the lantern on, he hung it from a hook driven into the rock wall and began searching for the other items they would need. Soon weapons, food, water, and a working radio were laid out.

  The president’s heart leaped at seeing the radio was operational. “Call a helicopter immediately. I want to be back in Baghdad as soon as possible. The people will expect me to address them.”

  The major shouldered the portable radio on his back and tightened the straps. “It is not possible inside of this mountain, sir. Once we are outside, I will see to it.”

  Aref nodded understanding and gestured to the door. “All right, proceed.”

  Walking to the door, the major stopped. The nation’s best engineers had installed this escape route and similar ones in each complex the Iraqi leader might occupy. The doorway was built into the mountainside so that it looked like a rounded rock. On the inside, it was high-tech steel with an electronic locking mechanism. Only the major and a handful of the other ranking presidential guards knew the combinations to each. Without the combination, someone would need a few days and a lot of blowtorch equipment to open it.

  Motioning for his men to get ready to move, the major bent to the locking mechanism and input the numeric combination into its keypad.

  Iraqi Artillery Battalion Position, on the Iraq-Kuwait Border

  25 October, 0800 Hours Local

  After hours of waiting, Colonel Karim al-Hamdani had begun to lose faith. It looked as though his leaders did not have the courage to do what was necessary after all. Very well. He was a soldier, and he would follow orders—or the lack of them.

  The radio that had sat silent for so long began receiving a transmission, startling the officer of artillery. Al-Hamdani listened to the message and silently gave thanks to Allah. Signing off, he walked to the opening of his tent and called for his executive officer.

  The major walked in, saluting. “Sir.”

  Al-Hamdani handed him a slip of paper. “Ahmed, you have an opportunity to redeem yourself. General Sufian and what remains of our division are in trouble—serious trouble.” The colonel nodded at the slip of paper in the major’s hand. “Those are the coordinates where the American brigade has halted. General Sufian has ordered us to strike before they have an opportunity to do further damage to our forces.”

  “Sir, only the president himself can give permission for release of chemical munitions. You know this.”

  The colonel’s face revealed that the thought had crossed his mind. “I am aware of our protocols, Major. However, no one has been able to contact An Najaf since the Americans struck it hours ago. We must assume that the president is dead or injured. All the more reason to carry out General Sufian’s tactical decision.”

  Handing the paper back to his superior, the major came to attention. “Sir, with all due respect, I cannot carry out this order.”

  Pulling his pistol from the holster on his web belt, the colonel raised it and fired a single round into his executive officer’s forehead. “Very well. Then I shall do it myself.”

  AH-64 Deep Attack, Northern Kuwait

  25 October, 0810 Hours Local

  The company of AH-64 Apaches hugged the low ground and sped north at full power. They were part of an attack helicopter battalion ordered north to complete the destruction of the Madinah Division. As the aircraft moved toward a patch of open desert surrounded by rocky hills, something caught the eye of the company commander.

  “Barbarians, Barbarian Six. Can anyone get eyes on what that is to the northwest in that patch of rock? It appears to be a camouflaged position of some sort, possible Iraqi logistical center. . . .”

  At that point, unaware of the danger approaching his position, Colonel Karim al-Hamdani gave his battalion the order to fire. The complexion of the war, which momentarily appeared to have reached a climax, took a nasty change.

  A 152mm round passed close enough to the Barbarian Six’s AH-64 to make it rattle. �
�Holy shit! Those are enemy guns! Barbarians, prepare to engage . . .”

  3rd Brigade Reserve Position, Northern Kuwait

  25 October, 0815 Hours Local

  Things could be worse for Cold Steel. Task Force 2-77 Armor had finally gotten a break. For the next twenty-four to thirty-six hours, they were the brigade reserve. The remaining units of 3rd Brigade had pushed north and established hasty defensive positions in the event that Iraq deployed more forces south. The Spartan Brigade of the 3rd Infantry Division had occupied positions to the east and was likewise covering potential avenues of approach. With the floating stocks of combat equipment in port and being downloaded, both brigades expected to be reinforced within the next few days. But maybe it would be over before then. According to the reports filtering down, Iraq wasn’t expected to continue the war. Rumors were even circulating in the 3rd Brigade rear area that they’d gotten to Aref in last night’s air attacks, but the reports hadn’t been confirmed. The troop grapevine was ever the source of one rumor or another.

  Once they’d received word to pull south, Dillon had moved back to check on his casualties. He had thought the charred black remains that were formerly men of his command were the worst—until he saw the living casualties. Some had been inside their tanks when the onboard ammunition had exploded. Dying would have been a blessing. With third-degree burns on ninety percent of their bodies, they were in constant agony without the help of heavy sedation. Others were missing arms or legs. Dillon had moved among these men at the casualty collection point as they waited for evacuation to the rear. It was far worse than the battles themselves. Tonight he would have to sit down and write the families of these men. What in the name of God was he supposed to say?

  For now, Steel and the rest of the Iron Tigers had a few hours to lick their wounds and take stock of where they stood. After the past seventy-two hours, they could use it. Dillon, Rider, and Mason were working through the details of getting their men and their machines back to speed. Rider had started a small fire and made real coffee for the first time in two days. The small indulgence was welcome.

  “Okay, Thad, good work,” said Dillon. “That’ll bring us up to twelve tanks if you can get those parts. Top, what are the chances of getting some more people in? Without them, we’ll have to shift a lot of the tanks to three-man crews.”

  First Sergeant John Rider didn’t look hopeful. “Sir, we might get some replacements in, but it’ll be a couple of days. What brigade is telling us is that we’ve got what we’ve got for now, and to make the best of it.”

  The radio in the back of Rider’s APC squawked. Within seconds, the sergeant monitoring the task force command net ran from the back of the track. “Sir . . . they’ve hit the northern task forces with a chemical strike! We’ve been directed to go to MOPP level four, time now!” Three cups of coffee fell to the ground simultaneously as Steel’s leadership scrambled to respond to the latest crisis.

  U.S. Central Command Headquarters (Forward), Bahrain

  25 October, 0820 Hours Local

  “Goddamn it! Are they certain?” demanded Pavlovski.

  The aide nodded. “Yes, sir. The Third Brigade’s mech battalion took the brunt of the hit. Initial reports indicate it was a nerve agent.”

  The general hung his head and closed his eyes. “How many?”

  “One company was hit hard—over fifty percent casualties. Seventy dead so far, maybe more. They received a direct hit on their position. The rest of the battalion received early warning from a Fox section deployed forward. They got suited up quickly and only received a few exposures here and there. The brigade is in the process of repositioning, moving the contaminated casualties back, and conducting decon activities.”

  The bastards finally had to go and do it, thought Pavlovski. It had only been a matter of time. For nations like Iraq, chemical and biological weapons were the poor man’s nuke. Enough of the shit could be manufactured in a family bathroom in twenty-four hours to take out an entire division. “All right. See if there’s anything we can do for them. Whatever they need, they get—period.”

  Admiral Jordan hung up the phone on the far side of the office and approached. “Sir, the Iraqis who fired the strike have been identified and taken out. A company of Apaches was moving north as the strike was fired. The 64s were on them before the enemy guns had time to fire a second volley. We’ve got infantry and chemical personnel airborne to the location now. They’ll secure the site and collect data on the agent.”

  The general pounded a fist into the wall. “But who’s to say that some other unit won’t pop the top on another strike? Or lob a SCUD with a surprise package in the warhead? You know their policies as well as I do. Only their president can authorize the use of chemical munitions.” Pavlovski stood and walked to the window. “Have we heard nothing from An Najaf?”

  “Negative, sir. The Third Battalion of the 325th Airborne is on the ground scrubbing through the rubble. Not many survived inside the complex itself. Aref’s body hasn’t been identified and the few survivors we’ve interrogated aren’t talking.”

  “So we can’t confirm that he was even there? He could be elsewhere and issuing orders to his troops in the field?”

  Jordan nodded. “Correct, sir. Sir . . . has anyone brought up Phoenix yet?”

  CINC CENTCOM shook his big head. “No, but that could change now. I’m scheduled to call the White House in two minutes to give them an update. Go ahead and get the staff together to go over the details in the event that Washington makes the call.”

  Jordan saluted and withdrew, leaving Pavlovski to his thoughts. They’d known this could happen since the Gulf War. Operation Phoenix was one of the United States’ contingency plans in the event that Iraq initiated a weapon of mass destruction—a nuclear, chemical, or biological weapon—against American troops.

  Once it became clear that hostilities were imminent the week before, A-Teams from the 5th Special Forces Group had infiltrated into Iraq and placed tactical nuclear weapons into operation at select targets. While cruise missiles fired from the sea would have proven less risky from a manpower viewpoint, if something happened and the mission was aborted while the missiles were in flight, there was no guarantee they could recover all of the warheads. So the Green Beret A-Teams had then been sent in, left their packages in hidden locations, and then exfiltrated. Now they were on standby to go in and recover the nukes if and when hostilities ended. But now that stupid idiot Aref had gone and done it, contaminating the battlefield. At this point, Washington would make the call whether or not to detonate the packages. Pavlovski himself would send the coded signal to orbiting military satellites. The satellites would authenticate the codes and initiate signals of their own, which would then be downlinked to the packages in Iraq. Clean and simple. Pavlovski shook his head in disgust. Simple anyway.

  The general moved to his desk. He’d done everything in his power to bring this war to a conventional ending. It was out of his hands now. The general picked up the phone linking him to the National Command Authority in Washington.

  West of An Najaf, Iraq

  25 October, 0935 Hours Local

  The soldiers moved in single file up the mountain path. It was their third patrol of the day and it wasn’t even lunch yet. Raising a clenched fist, the sergeant in the lead went to one knee. Behind him, the infantrymen stopped and took up security positions along the rocky trail.

  The platoon leader moved up silently with his RTO and stopped behind the NCO, kneeling. “What have you got, Sergeant Wilcox?” he whispered in the point man’s ear.

  Wilcox pointed to the head of the trail. It ended in a blank wall. “Sir, a piece of that mountain just, uh . . . disappeared.”

  “So? Mountains shift, rocks fall. What’s the big deal?”

  The sergeant shook his head. “I know that, Lieutenant. But they don’t just disappear.”

  “What?” Squinting, the platoon leader looked again. He now saw the area that so intrigued Sergeant Wilcox—a darker pa
tch against the tan-colored face of the mountain. “Cave?”

  Wilcox shook his head. “Sir, ten seconds ago, that was solid rock. Now there’s a big hole.”

  As the men watched, a robed figure tentatively emerged from the opening. Close behind followed another, then another, then more. Both men felt their pulses quicken.

  Wilcox looked at the platoon leader. “Sir, those guys may be dressed like bedouins, but I have a feeling they’re anything but. And I don’t think it’s Ali Baba running out to pick up takeout for his band of thieves, either.”

  The lieutenant nodded. Using hand and arm signals, he had his men establish an ambush position along the trail. Five minutes later, the group of robed figures approached. When they were within fifty meters, the lieutenant started to rise.

  “Sir,” whispered Wilcox harshly, “keep your fuckin’ head down!”

  “It’s okay, Sergeant.” The lieutenant smiled. Rising slightly to be heard, the young officer called out, “Halt!” An automatic weapon answered his directive.

  “Sir, get down!” screamed Wilcox. A number of weapons now fired down on their position. Heaving on his lieutenant’s legs to pull him down, the sergeant felt a gelatinous substance splash his face. Wiping his cheek, Wilcox looked at where the lieutenant reclined against their rock. The upper three inches of his head were missing. “Son of a bitch!” whispered Wilcox to himself. He looked left and right, checking the other patrol members—still in position and down. Pulling two hand grenades from his web gear, the NCO placed them on the ground in front of him. He got the attention of the SAW gunner crouching four feet away.

  “On three,” mouthed Wilcox.

  The gunner nodded and settled down, weapon to his shoulder. Looking to the other patrol members, Wilcox received nods of acknowledgment. He worked the pins from one of the grenades. Finished, he looked at the gunner once more. The sergeant held up one finger, raised a second, released the spoon of the fragmentation grenade, raised a third finger. As the gunner opened up on the Arabs down the trail, Wilcox rose just enough above the boulder to throw the first grenade, then dropped. Pulling the pin on the second grenade, he allowed three seconds of count off and threw it after the first one. The other soldiers of the patrol took their NCO’s lead and contributed a constant stream of lead and grenades up the trail.