Rolling Thunder (2007) s-4

by Jack Terral

  Brannigan went to the head of the room as the two staff officers departed. He had some scribbled notes in his hand.

  Okay. Here's the setup. We'll only have two guys in each vehicle. That means the commander is gonna have to also be the driver. The gunner will be concerned only with his weapon, which, you should recall, is an M-Two fifty-caliber heavy machine gun. The detachment will be broken down into three elements. Command Section, Green Assault Section, and Red Assault Section. I'll be in Command One vehicle with Devereaux. Command Two will be the scout car. That will be the Odd Couple Assad and Leibowitz as usual. Command Three will be Gomez as RTO and Doc Bradley in his usual function as our kindly hospital corpsman.

  What about call signs? Gomez asked.

  The vehicle designations I've just given you will fill the bill, Brannigan answered. By the way, everyone will be issued an AN/PRC-One-Twenty-Six radio with LASH headsets. These have a range of three kilometers and will be used for intradetachment yakkety-yakking. Gomez will also have an AN/PSC Shadowfire radio for commo with the Combs or any other longer range contacts.

  How are you setting up Green and Red Assault Sections, sir? Jim Cruiser asked.

  You will be overall commander of the Greens, Brannigan answered. You'll have Chief Gunnarson, Puglisi, Murchison, Redhawk, and Concord. Break 'em down any way that suits you between your three DPVs. He looked over at Dawkins. The Reds are yours, Senior Chief. Take the remainder of the detachment and organize things the way you see fit.

  Aye, sir! the senior chief responded.

  Well, Brannigan said, stuffing his notes into his pocket. We got some packing to do. Take over, Senior Chief.

  On your feet and move out!

  Chapter 2

  CHEHAAR GARRISON

  EASTERN IRAN

  0600 HOURS

  4 APRIL

  CAPTAIN Arsalaan Sikes stepped from the tent, pausing to look out over twenty fully armed Brazilian EE-3 Jararaca armored cars properly aligned in parade formation. The combat vehicles looked formidable and deadly in the early morning sun. Sikes was dressed in a desert-camouflage uniform that was bare of markings except for the British three-pip insignia of captain slipped over the epaulets. He sported a black-and-white-checkered keffiyeh on his head and a pistol belt holding a holstered Beretta Model 92 9-millimeter automatic. The crews of the vehicles, dressed similarly to Sikes, also sported UK insignia of rank. They stood dressed right and covered down beside the vehicles they served.

  Sikes glanced over to the side where the Iranian brigadier and an elderly Englishman in a safari-style uniform stood ten meters away. They smiled and nodded to the captain as he walked toward them.

  Sobh be-kheyr, Sikes said to the Iranian in Farsi.

  And good morning to you, Captain, Brigadier Shahruz Khohollah replied in English.

  The Englishman held out his hand, speaking in a Cockney accent. Good luck to you, Archie.

  Thank you, Harry, the captain replied in the broad speech of northern England. Good job on getting ahold o' them EE-3s, hey?

  I'll admit it took a bit o' doing, Harry Turpin replied. He was an international arms dealer operating out of Singapore and had contacts on every continent on earth. But enough money and a bit o' tweaked paperwork gets the job done, don't it? Them Spick gen'rals worked their own bit o' magic to get them beauties out o' proving grounds in Camp Maior. This particular model ain't been released to the Brazilian Army yet.

  Sikes looked out at the vehicles. Wot'd you say that word Jararaca means in Portuguese?

  Me Portuguese ain't wot it should be, Turpin said. But as it was explained to me, it's a kind o' bad snake. A pit viper to be exact.

  Then it would be called an afa in Arabic.

  Ye're right about that, Archie me lad, Turpin said. I recalls the word from me 'listment in the Foreign Legion. I picked up a bit o' the ol' Arabic lingo during them 'appy days so long ago.

  Sikes turned his eyes to gaze appreciatively at the vehicles. Blimey! Them's real beauties, they are!

  The EE-3 armored car, manufactured in Brazil, was a wheeled vehicle that was thirteen and a half feet long by a bit more than five feet in height. It was highly maneuverable with a fully closable hull manufactured of a double layer of three-quarter-inch steel. The fighting wagon was powered by a 120horsepower Mercedes-Benz 4-cylinder turbo diesel engine that could push it up to a top speed of sixty miles an hour.

  A crew of three served the EE-3. The driver entered through a hatch in the roof to his seat in the center of the chassis. The gunner was in the turret above and behind him. In these specially configured models, a Russian DShK 12.7-millimeter heavy machine gun aka Dashika was mounted on top of the turret. The commander sat to the driver's left. He had his own periscope for use when the hatches were closed and a Russian R-108 tactical radio for commo. Additionally, each of the EE-3s packed an RPG-7 antitank launcher with a dozen projectiles, as well as an American Stinger antiaircraft missile. These were stowed as auxiliary weapons.

  The twenty that were now positioned fifty meters from the garrison Quonset huts had arrived through Harry Turpin's efforts. He had legally purchased the vehicles from the Brazilian government using his international weapons export license. But he still had had to grease some palms since the vehicles should have been turned over to regular armored infantry units. When Turpin presented his money for the deal, he showed an end-use certificate that was signed by officials of the Iranian Defense Ministry. The fact that it was genuine impressed the Brazilians, who were shipping them as cargo to an official military warehouse located on the docks in the port city of Bandar-e Abbas. What they didn't know was that Brigadier Khohollah, the receiving officer, was in the Iranian Special Forces. His assignment was the command of a Muslim insurgency group known as Jihad Abadi Eternal Holy War. However, the mujahideen in the organization were not Iranians. Instead, they were Arabs from several different countries who had been recruited by Iranian intelligence as part of a supersecret program to take over all insurgencies in the Middle East.

  The operation was so clandestine that Khohollah had to keep the vehicles out of the army's established intendance system, unlisted and unnoticed. It took him three months of easing them out on commercial transport trucks a few at a time to get them to Chehaar Garrison, where they sat that day.

  Captain Arsalaan Sikes's fast-assault company was a brand-new unit of Jihad Abadi. He and his troops were just beginning a campaign out of eastern Iran. The military post, twenty-five kilometers from the Afghan border on the east, was locked in by a near-impassible salt marsh. However, a well-camouflaged solid road had been built through the marshes that offered a way through the treacherous terrain. The Jihad Abadi, under the command and control of Iranian Special Forces, was now ready to conduct a campaign of harassment and intimidation against the infidel invaders of Afghanistan by making surprise attacks out of Iran. Through the use of the secret route, they would be able to strike fast and hard, then retreat back through the salt marshes to the safety of Chehaar Garrison.

  Now Captain Sikes shook hands with Turpin and Khohollah, then turned to his troops, ordering them inside their vehicles. He walked to his own EE-3 and climbed on top to slip through the hatch and occupy the commander's seat. As soon as he was settled, he grabbed the microphone of his tactical radio. He pressed the transmit button and spoke out the call sign to alert the other nineteen vehicles. Ilhakni min karib follow at close intervals!

  The convoy quickly formed into a column as he led them toward the road that would carry them through the marshes and into Afghanistan.

  IT had been ten years before when Archibald Sikes arrived at the induction depot of the crack Royal Regiment of Dragoons at Ragland Barracks just outside London. Even though he still had that adolescent civilian awkwardness about him, one of the drill sergeants who had been giving the detachment of recruits a critical survey suddenly sighted Archibald. The NCO leaned over to the duty corporal and said, Now there's a lad that's keen as bluddy mustard.

  The
sergeant didn't know the half of it.

  Archie came from a working-class family his father was employed in a building materials warehouse as a stockman and the boy had always hoped for a better life. He disliked school a great deal, being unable to get along with the teachers or his fellow students, who considered him an odd duck. He had ambitions for money and glory, but lacked the maturity to attain his goals through acquiring superior work skills or an advanced education. Through his illogical and senseless thought processes, he decided that becoming a war hero would be the way to go. He fantasized about leading a division or corps of troops to a great victory, then becoming famous and adored by the British public. Of course, after performing these great deeds, he would be decorated, knighted, and given a peerage and a great estate by a grateful monarch.

  Archie used to sit at his desk in the classroom, completely oblivious to what the teacher was saying, writing over and over in his notebook: Field Marshal Lord Archibald Sikes, VC, DSO, GCB, GCMG. He would have added more to that abbreviated list of the Victoria Cross, Distinguished Service Order, Knight Grand Cross of the Order of the Bath, and Knight Grand Cross of the Order of Saint Michael and Saint George, but those were the only ones he knew about.

  Eventually, as his inattentive moments lengthened in time and frequency, Archie flunked out of school completely, and his exasperated father got him a job as a helper in the warehouse. The young man endured that existence with the same amount of carelessness he had given his studies, and he proved to be a slow, inefficient worker. If it hadn't been for his dad, he would have been given the sack straightaway. When he turned eighteen, he did everybody a favor by announcing his plans to enlist in the Army.

  The decision of which regiment to join was something that Archie had already given a great deal of care and attention. In the end, he chose the Royal Regiment of Dragoons for some surprisingly intelligent and mature reasons, and not because of their bearskin busbies and fancy blue uniforms with red facings. While the unit was not a member of the Brigade of Guards, it was a prestigious organization with a long and glorious history in the service of the Empire. The officer cadre were all upper-crust chaps from the right families who could supplement their Army pay to meet the considerable expenses of serving as rankers. These included their privately owned mounts in the regimental stables for polo, individually tailored and fitted uniforms, very high mess dues, correct costly civilian attire, special subscriptions, mandatory social functions, and other outlays required of officers and gentlemen of the Royal Regiment of Dragoons.

  Rather than operate as a tank outfit like other cavalry units in the British Army, the regiment closely followed the traditional mission of dragoons, who in bygone days were horsemen who dismounted to do battle. However, in these modern days, armored personnel carriers were used in lieu of mounts. These state-of-the-art dragoons, in fact, were armored infantrymen superbly drilled in the procedures of dismounting APCs to launch well-coordinated attacks against the enemy. These operations were performed while being covered by fusillades from machine guns mounted in turrets on the vehicles.

  This was the military environment that Private Archibald Sikes moved into as he began his Army career. And his military goal was to earn an officer's commission in the regiment and eventually become its commander before moving upward into the cadre of general officers to the rank of field marshal.

  As it turned out, the daydreaming misfit quickly evolved into a dedicated soldier. Although he developed no close friendships with his fellow dragoons, Archie impressed his superiors enough to earn his way up through the ranks. After five years of service he was a sergeant, efficiently bossing a platoon under the command of an appreciative lieutenant. In fact, it was this approving subaltern who happily signed Archie's application for admittance to officer training.

  Unfortunately, this was where Archie's devotion to the Royal Regiment of Dragoons went into the toilet.

  When he went before the commissioning board of officers, the aspirant's record was looked on with great approval. His verbal skills in the question-and-answer part of the interview increased the board's collective opinion. After the session went on for a couple of hours, the officers withdrew to consider the application.

  Meanwhile, Archie went outside for a smoke, nervous and apprehensive. When the corporal-clerk called him back in, the candidate went back to his chair. A quick look at the faces of the board members showed he had scored big. He fought back a triumphant grin as the chairman, a major who commanded one of the companies of another squadron, looked Archie straight in the eye. We have approved your application, Sergeant Sikes, he said in the usual clipped, no-nonsense style of the British Army. You are to be congratulated.

  Thank you, sir, Archie said. I promise you won't be disappointed in approving me.

  We're certain of that, Sergeant, the major said. Which regiment have you chosen to be assigned to after you've completed your officers' training?

  Archie frowned in puzzlement. Why, this one, sir. The Royal Regiment of Dragoons.

  The officers looked at each other with amused smiles. The major spoke in a kindly but firm tone. I'm afraid that is not possible, Sergeant. You must choose another regiment. Actually, it can be either infantry or armored.

  But why can't I choose this regiment, sir? Archie asked.

  Sergeant Sikes, the major said sternly. You would hardly fit into our officers' mess, would you? You haven't the background, the education, the money, or the social graces. I fear we would not find you or any other NCO suitable for either professional or social interaction.

  But I know for a fact that Major Brewster was an NCO right here in this same Royal Regiment of Dragoons, Archie argued.

  Major Brewster is the regimental quartermaster, the major explained. He was given a commission in that capacity because being a quartermaster is not a gentleman's position. It has to do with the handling of supplies much like a shopkeeper. We, because of our stations in society, will not perform such low-class work. He was chosen for the posting because of his experience as the regimental quartermaster sergeant.

  Another board member, a slim captain who was considered the regiment's best polo player, spoke up. He, of course, is not a member of the officers' mess. I suppose the fact he receives a major's pay is compensation enough for being an outsider.

  A complete outsider, the major added. Since accepting the commission, he can neither associate with the officers nor the noncommissioned officers on informal or social occasions.

  Would you be interested in becoming the regimental quartermaster when the position opens again? the captain asked.

  In the meantime, you would have to transfer from your company to regimental staff as a corporal to learn supply procedures. Then, you must wait for Major Brewster to retire. His place will be taken by the present quartermaster sergeant, of course. Then you could take his place when he retires.

  All that would take some fifteen to twenty years, the major said. If you accepted a commission in one of the lesser regiments, you would quite possibly be captain or major by then.

  I'll have to think about it, Archie said.

  Another thing to consider is your manner of speech and deportment, Sergeant Sikes, the captain said. You will need polish on your grammar and etiquette even for a lesser regimental posting.

  Archie was dismissed and told to put in his application within two weeks if he still harbored ambitions to become an officer. That evening Archie, despondent and disappointed, went into town, got roaring drunk, and was arrested for brawling in a local pub. This brought about a reduction to the rank of corporal and a cancellation of his appointment to officer training. Within six months, he was a private after being broken down again for drunken misbehavior, and he ended up in the regimental motor pool as an assistant mechanic. This was a misleading job title given to the poor sods assigned to wash and clean the unit's trucks and APCs.

  Then the Royal Regiment of Dragoons was sent to Iraq.

  Private Archibald Sikes' standing
in his regiment was so low that he worked with civilian Iraqis assigned to the humble tasks of keeping the unit's vehicles cleaned up and topped off with fuel. Although he still had no friends among his fellow dragoons, one of the Iraqis became friendly with him. The Arab's name was Khalil Farouk, a thin, scholarly man who appeared to be in his mid-forties. He seemed to sense a smoldering resentment in the Englishman Sikes, and began engaging him in conversation. Archie at first resisted these overtures of friendship, until one afternoon when both were in the troop compartment of an APC cleaning up a hydraulic leak. They worked on their hands and knees, sopping up the sweet-smelling liquid. Even though all the hatches were open, the smell of the spill was unpleasant. Since the hydraulics were out, Archie couldn't lower the rear hatch to allow more fresh air into the interior.

  Farouk, who spoke excellent English, dipped his cleaning rag into the bucket of water they shared for the task. As he wrung it out, he said, This is not such pleasant work, is it, Mr. Archie?

  It's the bluddy shit, Archie growled.

  Why do you do this? Farouk asked. Are your officers mad at you?

  Archie's first inclination was to tell the Arab to mind his own fucking business, but he said, Yeah. They're good and mad at me. I told 'em to sod off. That's wot I did.

  Oh, you were defiant to them, were you?

  Archie stopped working and straightened up, still on his knees. Right. I wanted a fucking commission, yeah? I was a sergeant and a damn good one, let me tell you that straightaway, hey? But they wouldn't let me be an officer in this regiment. Suddenly, the words began tumbling out and he voiced all his bitterness at the system in which the enlisted men were not only considered inferior in rank, but also in worth. Everything that had gone wrong in his life, from school days to the monotony of the warehouse job, was gone over. The gist of his complaints was that none of this was his fault. He was never properly understood. He was a good man who was not being allowed the opportunity to perform at a superlative level; thus, he was unable to make a name for himself.