Shadows of War

by Robert Gandt

  Setting the Bayou Queen afire was one thing. It amounted to a small loss of life, a few hundred thousand liters of expendable oil, a replaceable tanker. Nothing more. Same thing with the Kuwaiti border patrol. A pin prick.

  When you killed American military personnel, it became something else. That was the lesson he learned from the Yemen campaign. After he downed three U.S. Navy aircraft, trapped a contingent of Marines inside Yemen, then nearly sank their precious aircraft carrier, the Reagan, the Americans came after him like banshees from hell. His plan to seize Yemen and its wealth of oil went up in smoke.

  He barely escaped with his life. He would always have the pain in his shattered right leg to remind him of the disaster in Yemen.

  But the helicopter was not the true source of his anger. Something else was happening. He could sense it, feel it in his bones. Something troublesome.

  He looked at Abu. “What happened to Akhmed Fayez?”

  Abu did not avert his eyes as the other Sherji did when Al-Fasr turned his gaze on them. He held eye contact with Al-Fasr and said, “He was disloyal. Akhmed defied my authority, and he put the unit in danger. As commander of the mission, I made the decision to eliminate him.”

  For a long moment the two men regarded each other, both knowing that Akhmed Fayez’s loyalty, at least to Al-Fasr and the Bu Hasa Brigade, was never in question. He had fought bravely at Al-Fasr’s side throughout the Yemen campaign, then remained with him during the escape across the Saudi peninsula.

  No, thought Al-Fasr, it wasn’t loyalty. It was something else. “Akhmed was a brave soldier.”

  “He would have betrayed us.”

  “When I assign one of my best soldiers to serve under you, I don’t expect you to execute him.”

  “If I am to be your second-in-command, I must exercise my own authority in such matters.”

  Al-Fasr nodded, not wishing to pursue this argument. Later, he told himself. Whether or not Akhmed Fayez had to be killed was something he would not debate.

  The truth was, he could not afford an open clash with Abu Mahmed, who held the loyalty of at least half the new Bu Hasa Brigade. He would save the clash until after they had secured control of Babylon. For the moment he needed Abu’s support. Despite his fanatical religious fervor, Abu Mahmed was a competent soldier.

  Al-Fasr tried to make his voice conciliatory. “You should get some rest. We will know soon whether the provocation has succeeded. The Americans will either attack Iran, or they will come looking for us.”

  “If they do, we will deal with them.”

  Al-Fasr nodded, wondering where the younger man’s overweening confidence came from. His Islamic faith? Did he really believe that Allah would protect him from the full might of the American military?

  Or did he envision some other scenario?

  He turned back to his desk. The pain shot through his right leg like a hot spike. He longed for the day when he would no longer be in the business of war. Instead of destroying, he wanted to build. He wanted to construct a bright new world.

  Babylon. It existed only in his dreams, but he could see it as clearly as a fresh new dawn. The image of a magnificent domain built on these historic ruins was what kept him alive, gave him the strength to fight his enemies.

  He had to win the next battle. Just one more. Perhaps it would be his last.

  < >

  Abu drove the Land Rover out of Mashmashiyeh, over the ancient bridge and down the narrow road to the Sherji’s eastern defense perimeter. He made a show of checking the positions, the disposition of the forward fire teams, then he returned to the Land Rover and sat alone.

  He pulled out the Cyfonika satellite phone, punched in the twelve-digit code, then waited.

  It took five minutes. After the standard exchange of authentication, a man’s voice came on the line. “You weren’t supposed to kill Americans.”

  The voice sounded tinny, the result of being scrambled, relayed 150 miles into space, then bounced back to Abu’s receiver in western Iran. Still, Abu recognized the voice.

  “The helicopter should not have pursued us. They would have attacked us.”

  “There will be repercussions. The reprisal operation is larger than we expected. An entire battle group will be assigned, including a Marine expeditionary unit.”

  Abu considered for a moment. The stakes were going up. It meant that he would have to be extremely careful.

  “When?”

  “Soon. Probably the morning after next.”

  “Do they believe that Iran was behind the attacks?”

  “No.”

  Abu shook his head. Just as he predicted. “Why is that?” he asked, knowing the answer.

  “Because the U.S. military intelligence community has a very reliable source of human intelligence in the area.”

  “And that is. . . ?”

  “You’re talking to him.”

  Abu nodded to himself. “And where will the Marine unit land?”

  A pause. “Wherever they can best engage Al-Fasr.”

  “I understand. You will receive that information tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  Abu punched the yellow Cancel button. The Cyfonika went dead.

  Chapter 10 — Terrible Swift Sword

  USS Ronald Reagan

  Quebec Station, Persian Gulf

  0925, Wednesday, 17 March

  Lt. B.J. Johnson knew she shouldn’t be having these thoughts. She couldn’t help it. Walking up behind Maxwell, watching him fire his ancient Colt .45 at the paper target suspended on a boom behind the Reagan’s fantail, she felt the familiar old stirrings inside her.

  Get over it, she commanded herself. He’s taken.

  Actually, she had gotten over it, at least the silly schoolgirl crush she once had on him. It was not only unprofessional, it was a guaranteed career-trasher to get emotionally involved with a senior officer in your squadron. Especially if the senior officer was your skipper.

  Anyway, it was common knowledge that Maxwell had a romance going with a high-profile broadcast journalist named Claire Phillips. She was a beauty with a long-legged willowy figure, chestnut hair, and the kind of face men would die for.

  Everything, thought B.J. Johnson, that she wasn’t. Men like Maxwell didn’t fall for girls in baggy flight suits and klunky boots and oxygen mask outlines on their faces. But she was okay with that now. She was over it.

  Right. So why did her heart still skip a little beat like this when she was around Maxwell?

  Well, maybe she wasn’t completely over it. It didn’t hurt to fantasize that maybe, just maybe, Maxwell might someday be free and available. In the meantime she wasn’t going to get all google-eyed and fluttery like she used to when he gazed at her with those icy blue eyes.

  He was holding the Colt in both hands, taking his time, popping away at the silhouette on the target. B.J. had to suppress a laugh. He was a klutz with the pistol. Maxwell’s ineptitude with the old Colt .45 had become a squadron legend.

  He fired the last round, and the slide remained open. The seven-round clip was empty. As he lay the pistol down and removed the ear protectors, he saw B.J. standing behind him.

  “Good thing you fly better than you shoot, Skipper.”

  “What do you mean?” said Maxwell. He reeled in the target from the boom. “Hell, I’m a marksman with this thing.”

  “Yes, sir. But you’d do better if you’d trade that antique in for one of these.” She pulled out her Beretta. The Beretta nine millimeter had long ago replaced the oversized Colt automatic as the Navy’s service pistol.

  “Old dogs like old toys,” he said. “It’s a family thing. My dad hauled it around for two tours in Vietnam, then gave it to me. It’s kept me out of trouble.”

  “More or less.”

  “You don’t believe me? Look at this.” He held up the target. Daylight was showing through several holes in the black silhouette.

  She nodded in appreciation. “That’s good, Skipper, because you may
get a chance to shoot it again.”

  “How’s that?”

  “CAG sent to find you. He wants all commanding officers and strike leaders in the flag briefing space. He said to tell you it was show time.”

  < >

  “So?” said Craze Manson on the phone. “Why not get a replacement radio from the parts pool.”

  “That’s the problem,” said Splat DiLorenzo. “They say they don’t have one, at least one they can get their hands on in time.”

  Shit, thought Manson. He was due to brief in ten minutes for an air intercept training sortie. He and Jasper Johns, a nugget lieutenant, were going against a pair of F-14s on a radar exercise.

  Leroi Jones had just landed with his number one radio inoperative. He’d used his “back” radio, the number two radio, which worked okay. But the aircraft was scheduled for an immediate turnaround. And no replacement radio was available.

  “Do something,” said Manson. “Whatever it takes.”

  They both knew what that meant. The replacement radio would come from one of the “rob” birds—airplanes that were already grounded and were being cannibalized for parts. Parts like radios.

  The problem was, Maxwell had given the order to stop cannibalizing the squadron’s jets. There weren’t supposed to be any rob birds. But what the hell did Maxwell know about being a maintenance officer? He didn’t have a clue what it took to keep airplanes flying.

  Well, damn it, this was the real world, not Rocket City. If the supply and logistics system didn’t work for you, you had to get creative. You took parts where you found them.

  DiLorenzo knew what he meant. “Consider it done,” he said, and hung up.

  Manson put the matter out of his mind and headed for the ready room to brief his flight. Jasper was waiting for him in the briefing cubicle at the back of the ready room. The two Tomcat crews were there too, eager as usual to prove that their aging fighters could still kick some serious Super Hornet butt.

  Ten minutes into the briefing, the duty officer summoned Manson to the phone again.

  “Ops just threw us a curve,” said DiLorenzo. “You know the rob bird we took the radio out of? They just made it a go bird for the next sortie—the one you guys are flying.”

  Manson moved away from the duty desk, over to a corner where he couldn’t be overheard. “No big deal,” he said. “Someone will have to fly it with one radio, that’s all.” Technically, the Hornet required two functioning radios to be cleared to fly, but Manson didn’t mind pushing the rules. One radio was all you really needed to fly the mission. “Just make the paperwork look right, that’s all.”

  “That’s the problem,” said DiLorenzo. “Someone already cannibalized the front radio. It’s not in the maintenance record, of course, but now the sonofabitch doesn’t have any goddamn radios. And it’s already on the elevator headed for the flight deck. Our asses are in a sling, Boss.”

  Manson noted the our. Falsification of maintenance records was a career-threatening offense, and DiLorenzo was not about to be a martyr. “Okay, I’ll handle it. The jet will launch, and nothing goes on the squawk sheet until it comes back with a multiple failure. Got it?”

  “If you say so.”

  Manson returned to the briefing. When they were finished, he followed Jasper Johns into the flight gear room. He made sure they were alone, then said, “Listen, Jasper, you’re new to this game, but I can tell you’re a team player. This squadron is trying its damnedest to win the Battle E, and we do what we have to do, understand?”

  “Ah, understand what, sir?”

  “That your jet may have a radio problem. If it does, I want you to discover the fact after you’re airborne. All you have to do is stay welded to my wing until the fight starts, then blow straight through the merge. I’ll join you on the opposing station, and we come back to the ship together. I’ll do the talking for both of us.”

  Johns looked dubious. “Ah, I don’t know, Craze. That doesn’t sound like a good—”

  “Look, Lieutenant, this isn’t a discussion, it’s a briefing. Just fucking do it, understand?” With nuggets like Johns, sometimes you had to use a little intimidation to make them get it.

  Johns got it. “Yes, sir.” After a moment, he said, “But how am I supposed to fill out the training matrix? Since I won’t be actually doing anything. . .”

  “Put down exactly what I put down.”

  “But what about my training?”

  Manson was already headed for the door. “What about it?”

  < >

  As usual, Boyce was pacing the flag briefing space like a caged bear. His gnawed cigar jutted at a rakish angle from his clenched teeth. He looked up and saw Maxwell come into the room. “I hear you were out on the fantail punching holes in the air with that blunderbuss of yours.”

  Maxwell held up the target. “Six out of seven in the black.”

  Another voice boomed from across the room. “Pretty good for a squid. Of course, any self-respecting Marine would put all seven in the bulls eye.”

  Maxwell turned to see a man in sharply creased BDUs with a graying buzz haircut, wire-framed spectacles, and colonel’s eagles on his collar. “Colonel Gritti. We heard you were going back to the Pentagon to put on a star.”

  “The Pentagon can wait. So can the star. If you guys get your asses in a wringer again, I’ll have to bail you out like I always do.”

  Colonel Gus Gritti, CO of the 43rd Marine Expeditionary Unit, was a legend not just in the Marine Corps but throughout the military. He was a mud-crawling infantry commander who held a masters in humanities from Stanford, spoke four languages, and, without prompting, was prone to vocalizing snippets from Puccini arias.

  Maxwell shook Gritti’s hand, then endured a rib-bending bear hug from the burly Marine.

  The room was filling with flight-suited strike leaders and the squadron skippers from the Reagan’s air wing. In one corner a cluster of intelligence specialists, military and civilian, was huddled over a stack of briefing material.

  Maxwell was about to take a seat on the second row when he recognized one of the civilians. He wore a short-sleeved, button-down shirt and tie, and he had an unmistakable look about him. Spook.

  Ted Bronson. He was deep in conversation with a man with shaggy red hair and a wrinkled bush jacket.

  Bronson caught Maxwell staring at him. He turned and mumbled something to the man in the bush jacket, who peered across the room at Maxwell.

  “Look who’s here,” said Chris Tyrwhitt. “Small world, isn’t it?”

  < >

  Too damned small, thought Maxwell.

  He took a seat with the other skippers in the second row, a jumble of unwanted thoughts flowing across his mind. Tyrwhitt had a knack for showing up at the worst possible times, like a pimple on prom night. First he wouldn’t stay dead, then he wouldn’t stay away from Claire. Now he wouldn’t stay away period.

  Maxwell couldn’t see Tyrwhitt’s face without thinking of Claire. Tyrwhitt having breakfast with Claire. Tyrwhitt married to Claire. Tyrwhitt in bed with Claire.

  For an instant Maxwell imagined throwing Tywhitt off the fantail of the Reagan. Using him for target practice.

  Knock it off, he told himself. Jealousy wasn’t one of his usual weaknesses. He forced the image from his mind as Boyce strode to the podium to begin the strike briefing.

  In the front row sat Adm. Jack Hightree, the Reagan Battle Group Commander, flanked by Capt. Sticks Stickney, the Reagan’s captain, and Capt. Guido Vitale, the Battle Group Operations Officer. Col. Gus Gritti sat with another Marine, a lieutenant colonel, at the end of the row.

  Most strike briefings were conducted by intel specialists or operations officers, but Hightree usually yielded the stage to Boyce, who liked to keep the focus on tactics. Neither he nor Hightree had any use for long-winded intel officers.

  Standing at the side of the compartment were the two civilians, Bronson and Tyrwhitt. Tyrwhitt kept glancing in Maxwell’s direction, giving him that annoying g
rin.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” said Boyce. “This briefing is classified Top Secret. Neither the subject matter nor the contents disclosed herein may be repeated or revealed to anyone outside this room without specific written clearance.” The standard classification and disclosure spiel.

  On the screen behind Boyce appeared a back lighted map of the Persian Gulf. Boyce whapped the map with his pointer and said, “Last night, in this vicinity—” he pointed to a spot off the coast of Kuwait “—a pair of gunboats approached the tanker Bayou Queen. One of them, filled with explosives, rammed it and lit off three hundred thousand gallons of crude oil, killing thirteen sailors. When a Seahawk from the Richmond went chasing after the second boat, the bastards shot down the helo with some kind of SAM, probably an SA-16. Three Navy crewmen lost.

  “At almost the same time, another bunch came across the border in Kuwait and took out a Hummer with three border guards and an American special ops advisor in it.

  “Both attacks came from the east, in the direction of Iran, with whom, as you know, we’ve been having some serious disagreements. The gunboat escaped back to the coast of Iran. The shooters in Kuwait got away in some kind of helo, back across the Iraqi border, then the Shatt-al-Arab waterway, also into Iran.”

  Boyce paused and examined his cigar while the pilots stared at him.

  “So what’s it mean, CAG?” said Rico Flores, the VFA-34 skipper. “Iran is begging us to hammer them like we did Saddam?”

  “Looks like it, doesn’t it?”

  “So we’re gonna turn Teheran into a gravel pit?”

  “We’re not gonna turn Teheran into anything. Much as the Iranians might hate us and cheer the ragheads who are shooting at us, they didn’t pull this one off, despite the way someone wants it to look.” He paused for a moment and looked over at Bronson.

  The CIA officer gave him a tacit nod.

  Boyce went on. “Courtesy of the CIA, we have solid intelligence on who really did it and why.”

  The map of the Gulf on the screen vanished. In its place appeared the smiling face of a handsome Arab man with black hair and mustache, wearing a military uniform with wings on the breast.