The Jake Fonko Series: Books 4, 5 & 6

by B. Hesse Pflingger

  “He said you should go faster. I told him you would as soon as Saddam Hussein sends us a magic carpet to get us over all the cars in our way. He thought that was funny.”

  “Always leave ‘em laughing,” I said. Just like on our freeways, once the merge onto Highway 80 got smoothed out the traffic moved along steadily if slowly. It being a big military convoy with a lot of stolen cars and Kuwaiti buses thrown in, the vehicles spread out across all six lanes and maintained decent space among them. Transporting 100,000 troops and their baggage train up a highway on short notice is a massive operation, and they weren’t handling it badly. It was not a moving parking lot like the Hollywood Freeway morning rush hour (and wouldn’t it be something if L.A. drivers carried automatic weapons!). Any vehicle that faltered was shoved off to the side of the road and left there so as not to impede the flow. One of our passengers dug a bottle of cognac out of his pack, took a swig and passed it around. The other guy dug out some chocolate and offered us some. They meant no harm, just wanted us to drive them home… until we crossed the border and they’d shoot us and steal the car. For the time being they were enjoying their chauffeured ride with the infidels. It was embarrassing, a Ranger and a Spetsnaz-trained KGB agent at the mercy of a couple Iraqi grunts, but they had the drop on us.

  We’d been creeping north for about two hours. We passed blazing oil wells to our left, towering flares belching writhing black soot skywards, and more explosions lit the horizon at intervals. Mutla Ridge rose up ahead. I had Grotesqcu ask our passengers if they had any water. A bottle appeared and I took a few swallows. Then the traffic ahead of us came to a stop. I braked to a halt as well. Now what? Now nothing. We sat there, and sat there, and sat there. I got out of the car for a look around. I saw a fighter jet swooping overhead, and I got back into the car.

  “Emil, do you remember those kites in India, the birds?”

  “Yes, what about them?”

  “You remember how they’d each circle around, riding the thermals, searching for something to eat? And when one found a dead cow he’d dive down on it, and the other kites, who’d been keeping an eye on each other, would quickly converge to share in the feast?”

  “Clever birds, yes. So…?”

  “Our fighter jets do the same. If one finds a target-rich environment, he’s soon joined by a lot of others. Have you ever been in a kill sack?”

  “You mean one of those situations in which the enemy force is shunted into an easily-targeted concentration? Jake, you won’t meet many people who have been in a kill sack. After all, the name implies…”

  “We’re in one right now.” As if to put an exclamation point on it, a jet came down from behind and roared by on a strafing run. Fortunately we sat off to the far left side, because his cannons took out a couple lanes of trucks and armored personnel carriers, and he hit a tank with the rocket he fired as he pulled up. More explosions rocked the road fore and aft, jolting our passengers out of their reverie. Well-trained troops, they piled out of the car to assess the situation. A well-trained espionage operative, Grotesqcu immediately ducked down and snatched up his Uzi.

  “We’re dead meat if we stay here,” I said. Up ahead I saw rockets flash down and then explosions erupt. From the sound delay I judged the range about 1200 yards.

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Wait until the next run, then I’ll find a gap and take off into the desert.” I wasn’t the first to think of that ploy. Cars and trucks on both sides were scattering and making a run for it. Vehicles with machine guns or anti-aircraft unlimbered and their gunners scanned for incoming while their drivers dodged around corpses and flaming debris. Smoke from the oil fields gave us a little cover. The planes didn’t enjoy a clear field of fire with unobstructed visibility. More jets flashed across the sky above us. The kites were converging fast.

  A half mile behind us a salvo of free-fall bombs made a hell of a racket but exploded off to the side of the caravan. That was close enough for me. There was no curb or barrier along the road, so I gunned it onto what looked like a firm surface, then let it roll slower and carefully guided it away from the road. Our ex-passengers were otherwise occupied and didn’t notice our departure. We got maybe 500 yards before I hit a soft spot and got stuck. “No point trying to go farther,” I said. “Let’s grab our gear and clear out.”

  “Where to?”

  “Further away from the road, further away from the car. No pilot is going to target two guys sitting out on the sand with those juicy trucks and tanks lined up there all pretty like that.” We’d come to a halt on the upslope of the ridge. Looking back down, the traffic jam extended for miles, and the jets were plastering it with gay abandon. We trudged another half mile with our gear and plunked down all by ourselves in the middle of nowhere. Further from the road and nearer to the oil wells, we were under thicker smoke—a little better cover, and I wanted every advantage I could get.

  “I’ve heard so much about your air force, but I’ve never actually seen it in action up close like this,” said Grotesqcu. “It’s amazing. It’s awesome. It’s magnificent.”

  “Just goes to show what you can accomplish with air supremacy,” I said.

  “No wonder your military doctrine insists on it.”

  “Some of these are carrier jets. It helps to be able to deliver them to the battlefield.”

  As the flyboys chewed ‘em up we heard explosions behind us further out in the desert. Beyond the horizon flashes flared through the black smoke and more black smoke joined the oily blanket. The attack lasted ten hours, well into the night, and we had nothing better to do than sit there and watch the rockets and cluster bombs take their toll. We were far enough away from the road that we couldn’t hear the screams of the wounded, of which there must have been plenty.

  The weather was mild, but the acrid clouds from burning oil wells kept it from being pleasant. Our food and water were good for a day or two. Coping with the aftermath of the attack preoccupied the Iraqis. They remained intent on reaching Basrah, so they didn’t make any effort to track down the infidels that had hotfooted it, if they’d even noticed us leaving. We kept a low profile and at nearly a mile away from the road weren’t visible to them. By two days later, the Iraqis had salvaged what they could and vacated Highway 80. We trooped back over to the road and surveyed the damage. Lots of bodies and parts thereof. Vehicles shattered, wrecked and smoldering. Looted items of all descriptions great and small—BMWs, children’s dresses, TV sets, window draperies—lay strewn all over, like someone had detonated a Walmart, including the parking lot, out there in the desert. Bedouins would soon arrive to salvage what they could, and what a time they would have.

  The media later dubbed it “the Turkey Shoot” or the “Highway of Death.” You might think that an onslaught like that would leave nothing alive, but most men on the ground survived it. The death toll was later estimated at around 600 out of as many as 10,000 present on site. Professional sympathizers carped that we had overdone it by savaging an enemy while he was beaten and leaving the battlefield. Others more savvy pointed out that Saddam had never surrendered, which would have given his troops some Geneva rights, and there was nothing in military ethics against attacking an enemy in retreat. I’m sure no Kuwaiti shed one single tear for any of them.

  Eventually an American Marine unit rolled in, and I hailed them. A sergeant came over and asked us to identify ourselves. “I’m Jake Fonko from Malibu, California,” I said as I handed him my fake passport. “I was a consultant to the Kuwaiti government. The Iraqis captured the two of us when they invaded the city. They were taking us back to Baghdad as hostages. We got away when the air attack started. Man, am I glad to see you guys.”

  “I’ve heard of Malibu, great place. Bay Watch, Pamela Anderson, right? I’m from North Carolina, myself. We have some good beaches too. And some pretty fine young ladies. You guys are okay now. We’ll get you back to Kuwait City ASAP. Some of
our vehicles will be heading down there soon. You have some ID, sir?” he asked Grotesqcu.

  “Yes sir,” he answered with a flat Midwestern accent. “Got it right here.” He unbuttoned his shirt, reached inside to his hidden pocket and came out with an American passport. He handed it over, saying, “I’m Earl Groton from Des Moines, Iowa. I work with Jake.”

  Thereafter

  The Marines carted us to their base, where the formalities of being captured on a battlefield delayed our return to Kuwait City. My Ranger history smoothed the process and saved a little time. Grotesqcu and I cleaned up, and I got rid of my beard. We knocked back some sorely missed beers and lounged around between interrogations and examinations for a couple days.

  When we finally rode into the city what I saw sickened me. The Iraqis had done a fair amount of damage by the time they’d nabbed me, but during the ensuing six months they’d trashed the city to the point of desecration. Every monument, every public building, every indicator of Kuwaiti culture and the Al Sabah family had been obliterated. They’d stripped shops, businesses, office buildings, hospitals and private residences bare to the walls of everything moveable and stolen it clean away. How, I wondered, would Kuwait ever recover from this?

  In a heap of rubble like that, billeting was doubtful. Our Marine driver had heard that the Iraqi brass had stayed in the Hilton Hotel so it, along with a couple luxe hotels in the city center, had been spared major damage. Being the only home I’d ever known here I had him take us there. With Kuwaitis now returning to restart the government and setting about salvaging what they could I figured the Hilton would be jammed, but I hoped that for old times’ sake they could find space in a corner for us. Departing Iraqis had done a little mischief to the entrance and the facade but the lobby seemed not too much worse for wear.

  The manager from before was busy behind the marble reception counter. When he noticed us approaching he broke out a big smile. “Mr. Fonko!” he exclaimed. “How good to see you again. We were very concerned about your disappearance and wondered what had happened to you.”

  “It’s a long story, but I spent a little time in Baghdad.”

  “How ghastly! But now you’re back and praise Allah for that. You’ll find your rooms in order. Having not checked out we thought it best to keep them ready for your return.”

  “You held that suite for me all these months?”

  “Yes sir. Actually it was not registered in your name. The Al Sabah family engaged the room, and since they gave us no further instructions we thought it best to keep it available for you. It is not unusual, sir. A number of Kuwaitis have rooms here that they maintain perpetually in case a need for, er, privacy arises unexpectedly. I’ll have a porter show you to your rooms.”

  Thus after all the chaos, destruction and woe, Emil Grotesqcu and I landed in a suite in the Hilton Hotel. Everything worked—hot water, phone service and all. He racked out on the sofa bed for a couple days, then said to me, “Jake, old friend, it’s been an interesting adventure, as always, but now that your threat to Russia’s interests has been neutralized I must move on. The airport is working again and my agency has arranged a flight out for me.”

  “Thanks for your help, Emil,” I said. “I’d have been in big trouble in Baghdad if you hadn’t showed up.”

  “You in trouble? What about me? I was just protecting my investment. I shudder to think where I’d be if the redoubtable Jake Fonko weren’t causing the KGB headaches all over the world. My immediate task will be to conjure up a yarn about your role in thwarting Saddam Hussein and putting a spanner in Russia’s plans. You’ve given me plenty of material, and I’m sure I can come up with a good one. Rest assured nobody is going to knock you off the top of the KGB’s Most Wanted list. I’ll enjoy this ride we’re on as long as it lasts, but I’m very concerned about the course of events. Your President Reagan viewed the Cold War not as a matter of containment but as ‘We win. You lose.’ He was right, and we’ve lost. That being the case, my career is up in the air. But we shall see. Russia will always need spies and secret police.”

  We shook hands. “Take care of yourself, Emil,” I said.

  “You too, Jake Fonko.” He left and I was sorry to part company. I didn’t have many better friends in the world. If he was a friend. Or was it, as he kept insisting, simply a matter of keeping his cushy job with the Russian KGB going? With Grotesqcu I could never be sure of anything. What the heck—with enemies like that, who needs friends?

  I spent the next several days working on a flight out of Kuwait but it wasn’t easy, especially with the U.S. Embassy still inoperative. One afternoon I sat reading a newspaper over a coffee in the restaurant when someone said my name. I looked up into the face of Fawaz Al Sabah. “Mr. Fawaz,” I said, standing to greet him. “You’re back home now?”

  “Yes, we all returned as soon as possible, but my home is, alas, not as it used to be. So much to do and where does one begin? You’re looking well, and that pleases me. When you and Mamoon Al Bahar didn’t show up in Saudi Arabia as expected we all naturally were deeply concerned. Later his corpse was found in the wreckage of his car and we deduced the rest. I’m sure you have a long story to tell and I look forward to hearing it in total. But I have an interesting story myself that you should hear immediately. It seems that one of our resistance groups captured an Iraqi officer of some influence. They of course sought to find out what they could about Iraqi defense positions around Kuwait so they could relay it to the Americans. Before he expired he told our interrogators that Saddam had gotten the American battle plan from you, something about ‘grasp them by the nose and kick them from behind.’ So the Iraqis were heavily fortifying the approaches to the harbor and the border between Kuwait and Saudi Arabia. What a masterpiece of misdirection you pulled on them. You led them to a totally wasted effort and a state of unpreparedness. Not having any planes in the air, the Iraqis had no idea that the U.S. Army deployed 50 miles to the west along the Iraq border. When the war began, cavalry, airborne assault, mechanized infantry and armored units made massive, unhindered sweeps north into Iraq reaching as far as the Euphrates River. Then they pivoted east and swept across Iraq into Kuwait.

  “Meanwhile, Saudi and Pan-Arab task forces, supported by U.S. Marine units, bulldozed their way through Iraqi barriers and entrenchments along the coast and to the west—it was thought best that Arab troops should be the ones to liberate Kuwait City itself. Rather than mounting a to-the-death defense, Iraqi soldiers surrendered en masse as soon as they saw American armored bulldozers approaching their trenches. The few that didn’t jump out and wave white flags were buried alive.

  “So you see, even as a captive of Saddam Hussein, you helped Kuwait. You completely misled them and disrupted their planning. We all know how the Iraqis treat prisoners. How did you withstand the torture?”

  “With a little help from my friends,” I said.

  “As modest as ever, Mr. Fonko! I won’t even ask about the aid you rendered to my cousin Salah Melik and his resistance unit. He’s already told me the whole story. In any event, when I heard you had returned to the Hilton Hotel I hastened over to greet and thank you. In case you had concerns I also wish to reassure you that the remainder of your fee has been deposited in your account, and I hope you don’t mind that I added a little more in appreciation of services later rendered.”

  “I don’t mind at all,” I said. “Thank you very much.”

  “Think nothing of it. After such a long absence you must be anxious to return home. The airport is now operational and Kuwait Airline flights are resuming. How soon do you want to leave?”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Consider it done. I’ll put you on a flight to Paris. My secretary will send you the ticket and the details. There’s plenty of time to take care of that. I’d like to hear your story now.” He summoned a waiter and ordered two coffees. I put my brain in high gear, arranging events so as not to mention Emil Gr
otesqcu’s role. The yarn I spun for Fawaz had a distant relationship to reality and made me out as more heroic than I was. That’s been the essence of Jake Fonko’s legend all along.

  *

  My forged passport, being a faithful duplicate of my real one, got me by, and I flew out of Kuwait City the next afternoon. I changed planes in Paris and headed directly to Los Angeles. So concluded my Kuwaiti consulting gig, eight months after it commenced. The finale to the saga happened in a relative eye-blink. The “One-Hundred-Hour War”—or as Saddam proclaimed it, “The Mother of All Battles”—lasted from February 24 to 28. The preparatory air bombardment of course shortened the decisive engagement considerably. By the time U.S. ground forces moved across the Iraq border under the command of General “Stormin’ Norman” Schwarzkopf, the Iraqi Air Force was out of the picture and their army already was blooded, reeling and staggering.

  Some perspectives:

  Iraq losses in that war have never been accurately tallied. Estimates ranged from 22,000 deaths to several hundred thousand. American losses totaled 376 throughout the entire campaign, including accidents.

  In the largest tank engagement since the Nazis and the Russians had at it in the World War II Battle at Kursk, U.S. and British forces engaged the Republican Guards’ armor. The Iraqis lost more than 200 tanks, the Americans none. Part of the difference was in their cannons. U.S. tanks had longer range, so they retreated beyond where Iraqi guns could reach them, then knocked them off at will. Having attack helicopters, fighter jets and laser-guided anti-tank rockets didn’t hurt our cause either.

  According to our Environmental Protection Agency, Iraqi forces, beginning on January 16, blew up more than 700 oil wells, refineries and storage tanks. At its peak this incinerated six million barrels of petroleum per day as well as dirtying the desert skies with vast clouds of noxious black soot reaching as far away as India (and let’s not forget all that nasty CO2!). Red Adair, Safety Boss and other American oil well fire experts were brought in. Experts estimated two to five years to complete the job. In fact, thanks to good old American know-how all fires were out by November, 1991, most of them extinguished with sea water channeled through repurposed oil pipelines.