The Iran War

by Jack Strain

  Like some horrific chain reaction car crash on an icy highway, city after city across the country soon became engulfed in violence. Dozens of cities reported incidents of violence that included fighting, gunfire, and widespread property damage. Violence begot more violence and as if some dam had come toppling down, a deep well of anger that had been brewing for two decades between two warring tribes now brought them against one another in open warfare.

  Police and National Guard forces were hastily called out by two dozen different governors trying to stem the violence. A loud explosion followed by a towering black cloud of smoke on the outskirts of Denver, CO from a car bomb that exploded prematurely added to the general wave of mayhem sweeping the nation. Media outlets who were already covering the protests mobilized their production resources and fed a fearful and angry nation a non-stop stream of footage as the fighting escalated across the nation.

  President Wolfe asked for a fight for the American streets and that is exactly what he got.

  ◆◆◆

  Standing on the steps of the Senate with the great white Grecian columns standing in the background like sentries guarding the gates of the Capital building, a collection of more than two dozen senators from both parties appeared before a throng of journalists who were covering the news conference. A massive police presence closed off the Capital building to the enormous crowds surrounding the Reflecting Pool at the base of the Washington Monument, though every senator and reporter could hear the loud protests carried down Constitution Avenue.

  Standing before the microphones, the fiery duo of Senators John Mitchum and Edith Templeton were speaking. Allowing the senior senator from AZ to speak first, Edith looked off in the distance as her eyes were drawn to several swirling plumes of black smoke from burning cars silently rising towards the low-lying gray clouds as her Senate colleague spoke in his familiar raspy voice, “…we are calling on all Americans to stop the violence and return to your homes. Haven’t we had enough death in this country these past few weeks? Please, my fellow Americans, if you love your country go home, grab your loved ones and count your many blessings. Too many have died today…this madness must stop.”

  Taking her cue, Senator Edith Templeton stepped forward towards the microphone and announced, “Today my Senate colleague and myself originally called this gathering to announce the formation of a joint committee to investigate the president’s handling of this new war on terror that has become a war that is now terrorizing thousands of innocent American citizens. However, all that changed the moment President Wolfe sent that angry, hateful video message to his supporters and ushered in the wave of violence sweeping this great nation of ours.”

  A resolute Senator Mitchum stepped forward and continued, “We have dead Americans overseas at the hands of foreign terrorists, dead Americans here at home at the hand of domestic terrorists, and now we have dead Americans in our streets who died at the hands of other Americans. Today, we have no one to blame but ourselves. Today, we have been swept up in our own brand of extremism and violence. Somewhere along the line, we stopped being Americans and turned into two warring tribes who hate one another.

  “So today with a heavy heart, I must say that our President used this anger, this fear, this hate when he called for his supporters to take to the streets and confront the protesters who had freely assembled to exercise their First Amendment rights to protest. Mr. President, I say to you and to my fellow senators assembled here today that you, sir, are responsible for the death and violence of today. As of twenty minutes ago, we know of more than forty-seven dead and hundreds wounded. You, sir, must answer for these deaths.”

  Senator Edith Templeton then held up high a bundle of papers and said, “In my hands, I have the signatures of twenty-nine senators. This document identifies the president’s crimes against this country ranging from the unlawful arrests of thousands of Muslim-Americans as well as foreign nationals without probable cause - thrown in jails or camps or God-knows-where because he has refused to tell the American people. President Wolfe must be taken to account for the senseless death and destruction today.

  “I am calling on my colleagues in the House to write out articles of impeachment and begin formal proceedings against President Wolfe. This chamber stands ready to try him, to seek justice, and to restore common decency and peace to our great country.”

  A stunned group of journalists began yelling out dozens of questions all at once. Mitchum and Templeton looked at one another and nodded. Today they were neither Democrat or Republican, today they stood as Americans. And come what may, the die had been cast. The United States of America was now engulfed by a political firestorm decades in the making. What comes next was anyone’s guess.

  Chapter Forty One

  October 25th

  Al-Bukamal, Syria

  Resting on the fertile banks of the Euphrates River along the edge of the Syrian/Iraq border, the citizens of Al-Bukamal gathered food and water, filled backpacks with family valuables, and burrowed deep into their cellars and makeshift bunkers. After nearly a decade of war, those native to this city as well as the refugees who swelled this former trading center nearly doubling its population to eighty thousand souls knew that a battle was coming.

  Al-Bukamal was no stranger to the violence that visited nearly every Syrian city and village over the course of the long and costly civil war. Victorious flags were raised in the town center by the Free Syrian Army, the Al-Nusra Front, ISIL, and by Assad’s government forces. Now, Allah’s Avengers flew their own black and green flag with the golden crescent prominently in the center.

  For weeks, the sounds of digging and fortifying fighting positions could be heard throughout the city even though mostly done at night. A fight was coming to this tense border town. The sounds of helicopters and tanks and low-flying jet fighters heralded yet another army was coming. This time it was the Americans, and the citizens of Al-Bukamal wondered what would be left in their wake.

  It was early in the morning, and a light, welcome mist hung in the air after days of unusually warm and humid temperatures. Some residents wisely fled the impending battle days before, most, however, were trapped when American soldiers appeared suddenly in combat formations of desert painted troop-carrying helicopters overnight. Bridges over the mighty Euphrates were seized, main roads and highways were suddenly shut down as American paratroopers from the famed 82nd Airborne Division set up roadblocks and erected fortified outposts.

  Massive dust plumes rapidly made their way in and around the city as squadrons of armored Stryker infantry vehicles and Abrams tanks raced across the Syrian landscape closing off the city from the outside world.

  Inside the city, Bahadur Rahimi’s dedicated fighters waited for the Americans to come while tens of thousands of civilians wondered how long before the bombs began to fall, before the missiles shrieked down from above, before their homes and families would become yet another victim of a seemingly never-ending war.

  ◆◆◆

  A light rap at the door was followed by a quick entrance from a longtime trusted aide. The short, dark-complexioned man whose facial scars and black patch over his left eye often scared those he met for the first time, squinted to see into the darkened room. He saw that Commander Rahimi was finishing his morning prayers and hesitated but decided he could not delay. “Brother Rahimi, the city is sealed. The Americans are everywhere. The city is cut off.”

  On his knees, facing Mecca, the devout Rahimi nodded his assent, but held his hands out and continued his prayers for another two minutes, shaking the nerves of his veteran fighter and loyal aide who he knew was waiting for his direction. Slowly coming to his feet, Rahimi grabbed a nearby dirty towel streaked with the sweat and grime that comes from living in underground bunkers and wiped his face and the back of his neck.

  “Thank you, brother. Is everything in place?”

  Nodding emphatically, he answered, “Yes, it is as you said. The men are in place…ready to show these Americans what it is
to battle true warriors of Allah.”

  Rahimi had been fighting for so very long and knew that this would be his last battle. With an almost serene look in his eyes, the former Quds Force commander approached the tall, fierce-looking man in front of him and grasped his shoulders tightly as one would a beloved brother and said, “Arshad (‘joyous warrior’ in Persian), it has been a long road for us, my brother. You are right, today is the day of days. You have been my fiercest, most loyal warrior, it will be good to spend eternity in paradise together.”

  The burly former street fighter turned devoted Muslim felt his eyes suddenly fill with tears and could feel several droplets slowly slide down and disappear into his thick dark beard. Known as a man who spoke sparingly - much to the relief of his commander who required extended deep periods of silence as he planned missions - Arshad now spoke with deep humility, “Commander Rahimi, thank you for the life you have given me; for helping me find Allah and allowing me to serve both Him and you. If Allah wills it, then I hope to continue serving you in paradise.”

  Still awed by the devotion of his followers, Rahimi’s own eyes felt moist, but he refused to give in to emotion today. Instead, he broke into a wide smile and said, “Never mind about the Americans, I have been dreaming of warm steaming zoolbia [Iranian dessert delicacy of deep-fried funnel cakes, soaked in a light rosewater-saffron syrup] from that local baker. Please tell me, Arshad, that you made sure our proud fighters meet Allah with stomachs filled with that wondrous slice of paradise.”

  Smiling from ear to ear, Arshad held up his index finger and with a look of mirth on his face quickly sprung into the next room. He appeared sixty seconds later with a plate full of Zoolbia and steaming tea. With a wide grin, the trusted aide said, “I know we are promised seventy-two virgins, but I pray they come bearing unlimited plates of Zoolbia. This Syrian makes them like my grandmother. Come eat, while everything is hot.”

  For ten minutes neither man spoke and simply filled their bellies and drank hot sweet tea and allowed themselves to drift to another time long before they became holy warriors. A series of powerful explosions rumbled from above their earthen bunker sending wisps of dust floating down from the ceiling. Both men looked at one another and nodded…it was time to send their message out to the world.

  ◆◆◆

  Major General DeAndre “the Giant” Moore commanded not only the 82nd Airborne Division but was also named overall ground commander of all U.S. forces converging on Al-Bukamal. Standing six-feet-five-inches and so powerfully built that his West Point nickname, inspired by the former legend of the World Wrestling Federation Andre the Giant, stuck for the past twenty years. Moore was an African-American country boy from a small town in western Tennessee called Spring Creek which was about ten miles from Jackson, the nearest big town.

  Moore had paid his dues over a long and celebrated military career that had taken him to war zones from Kuwait as a 2nd Lt fresh out of ROTC to Somalia, Afghanistan, Iraq, and now Syria. He was a little old for division command, though his near fanatical physical training regimen erased fifteen years from his body. What slowed his promotions came down to the simple fact that DeAndre the Giant was a fighter, loved the field, and would rather deploy to the rugged and forbidding mountain ranges of the Hindu Kush and dodge RPGs than spend a tour as a desk jockey back in Washington or at some command school.

  None of that mattered now. Today Moore had all three of his 82nd Airborne brigades deployed along with the 2nd Armored Cav, the 75th Ranger Regiment, and several hundred assorted Special Forces from Delta to Seal Team-Six. His orders were clear: Isolate and then assault the town of Al-Bukamal, and kill as many of Allah’s Avengers as possible, but mission priority number fucking one was to find Rahimi. Capture if possible or if not kill him and his top people.

  Army Chief of Staff General Mad Max Maxwell summed it up six hours ago in a terse conversation that Moore wouldn’t ever forget. “For twenty years, you’ve made it clear that you were smarter than anyone else you served under. It’s a fucking miracle you weren’t kicked out of this Army years ago. Now it’s your show. Get this right, and you will be a bona fide fucking American hero, a legend. Fuck this up, and I will personally stick you on a desk in assfuck Alaska. You hearin’ me, troop?!”

  Moore’s command post occupied a long since abandoned farm about five miles to the west of the town at the base of a series of rugged ridgelines. The former Army Ranger liked to travel light, and his command post was kept pretty mobile, but now with a wider set of responsibilities, he established a more typical CP. The dilapidated barn had several gaping holes in the roof and was pockmarked with evidence of small arms fire and brass casings all over the place.

  Soon antennas were sprouting up, electric generators going full steam, a Combat Support Hospital was in the process of being established, and dozens of support vehicles were parked throughout the old farming complex.

  He walked deliberately around the bustle of staff officers attempting to coordinate various combat and support units. Managing the flow of intel, maintaining good comms, making sure the troopers had enough beans and bullets was a nonstop effort. The battle plan was already in motion, nearly every unit was at their jump-off points. It was a complex mission, but Moore was confident. The last thing his staff needed was for him to be breathing down their necks and micromanaging, so DeAndre moved from section to section and watched.

  He trained these men and women, many were handpicked from previous commands over the years. This was the first team as far as Moore was concerned. Battle-tested. He took everything in, occasionally making notes on a small pad that never left his front left pocket and kept dipping into a pouch of sunflower seeds. He grabbed two or three at a time and methodically popped the shell with his teeth, nibbled the seed, and spit the salty shells. Everyone felt his presence and was familiar with the constant pfff as another seed was spit out.

  There was no need for a pep talk. All knew the stakes, understood that if they fucked up, it could turn into another Bora Bora situation back in 2001 when Osama bin Laden was able to make his escape, forcing the U.S. military to assume a permanent war footing in that backward war-torn nation. Moore made it clear that would not happen here.

  Moore stopped in front of the operations map, looked at suspected enemy bunkers identified within the past twenty minutes from overhead drones, and wiped a glaze of perspiration forming on his large, bald head. He was about to take a second look when an aide handed him a piece of paper. Quickly scanning the contents, he smiled to himself.

  Those Delta boys just sent the green light. It’s time.

  His voice suddenly boomed out, “Major Pratt, get the helos in the air. Move on objectives Sahara, Tropicana, and Mirage in fifteen. Begin the Thunder runs now…I want objectives Treasure Island and MGM secure in two hours.”

  Major Maddy Pratt answered, “Yes sir.”

  Moore added, “What are we doing about civilians? They are going to start flushing out once the shooting starts.”

  Pratt responded without any of emotion, “Sir, we’ve been dropping leaflets since last night and transmitting messages in the clear for hours. We’ve told civvies to stay put and wait for American forces to secure their location. Nothing more we can do. But it’s going to get messy, sir. You know that, right?”

  Nodding, Moore knew the rules of engagement had been loosened for this fight. The President wants Rahimi and his people on a platter, period.

  Moore said with a hint of resignation in his voice, “Major, nothing’s changed. If we can take the city clean then great, if not we light up anything that comes our way. Rahimi and those cocksuckers of his asked for this fight, and the U.S. Army is going to give them one. Tell the Apaches to start launching their Hellfires at identified targets, I want those Thunder runs to storm the city like a desert sandstorm. Start the air assaults, I’m heading out to my command helo…my call sign is Papa Bear.”

  ◆◆◆

  At exactly 0845, all hell suddenly erupted in the s
kies above Al-Bukamal. Four MQ-9 Reaper drones that had been loitering for several hours launched the initial salvos when they each quietly released two GBU-12 Paveway II laser-guided bombs at selected points in the city. They were quickly followed by sixteen Hellfire missiles streaking off their hardpoints towards suspected enemy bunkers below. As the Reapers left to take up station as recon platforms, thirty-six Apaches from the 82nd Division’s “Pegasus” Brigade began ripple launching deadly accurate Hellfire missiles throughout the city.

  Nimble OH-58D Kiowa light helicopters aligned their laser-guided targeting systems at known and suspected fighting positions while Green Beret A teams dressed as locals used their handheld laser target designators to light up targets for the Apaches. The U.S. military’s unparalleled experience in effective targeting enabled it to claim first blood as dozens of explosions rocked the city and thick black clouds of smoke drifted into the early morning skies.

  Wild firing from below only drew more missile fire from the Apache shooters who owned the skies above.

  The streets and bazaars were largely empty as the local townspeople wisely stayed in their homes to avoid the coming battle. Those huddling in basements and backyard bunkers near fortified buildings desperately prayed that the battle would pass them by but with each nearby explosion the sounds of war were unmistakable.

  Overhead, a J-8 Joint Stars (Joint Surveillance Target Attack Radar System) converted Boeing 707-300 series twin-engine jet used its powerful array of radars from the AN/APY-7 radar for wide area surveillance, and its ground moving target indicator (GMTI), fixed target indicator (FTI) for target classification, and synthetic aperture radar (SAR) modes to track up to six hundred targets and provide an unprecedented level overall battle management. A three-star U.S. Army general was tasked with overall command of all U.S. assets for the operation, aptly named Operation Four Horsemen.