by Jack Terral
Garth Redhawk unconsciously shed the present and reverted to the past, when his Kiowa and Comanche forebears had existed as warriors, hunters, and plunderers. He truly felt that up in those dense night clouds his male ancestors looked down on him as he moved forward to do what he had to do. It was almost a spiritual experience as he worked himself into position at a point just aft of the guard. He moved silently forward, slapping his left hand around the nose and mouth of the sentry while at that same instant he drove the blade of the K-Bar upward under the man's rib cage. The steel blade slipped in effortlessly and deep, gashing and cutting into vital organs and arteries. Death came fast after only feeble shuddering and gasping, the latter sounds smothered by Redhawk's strong pressure across mouth and nose. He lowered the man to the ground, then stood there looking down at the fresh kill.
"Garth?"
He turned to Matsuno. "Yeah?"
"You're not gonna scalp him, are you?"
Redhawk shook his head. "What makes you think I'd do that?"
"From the way you were looking at him, dude."
"There isn't time anyway," Redhawk said with a slight grin. He turned away, stepping up the trail. "We got to make sure the route is clear all the way to their defenses."
"Lead on," Matsuno said.
.
0415 HOURS
THE strike force was now gathered at the extreme southern flank of the Zaheya defensive line. The Odd Couple had moved forward to keep watch down the parapets where individual sentries gazed out across no-man's-land to the SEAL positions. Bruno Puglisi with the SAW had set himself up on an elevated position that offered a good view straight over the spot where Assad and Leibowitz now hunkered. Puglisi would be able to provide excellent covering fire for the withdrawal after the raid. He began to carefully lay out his magazines where they would be within easy reach. He kept two of the bandoliers around his shoulders in case they might be needed for a running retreat if the situation went completely to hell.
Now Bill Brannigan brought in the rest of the participants. "Everybody put your selectors on three-round bursts," he said, being careful to whisper as softly as possible. "Firepower is gonna be the name of this game." As soon as everyone had complied, he spoke into the LASH: "Brigand One."
"Roger," said Lieutenant JG Jim Cruiser. He was across the valley on the SEALs' MLR. "Everything is ready on this side, Skipper. And I have a happy surprise: Not only did those fifty-calibers arrive here ahead of time, there was also an extra one."
"Alright!" Brannigan exclaimed.
Cruiser continued, "So Chief Gunnarson has four ready to cover you when you need it. I sent Sturgis and Malachenko over to man the extra weapon."
"Okay, sounds good," Brannigan said. "Here we go."
.
THE BATTLE
PUGLISI watched as Brannigan led the way down the defensive line. Mike Assad was just behind him with Joe Miskoski and his M-203. Next came Taylor and Leibowitz, with Redhawk, Matsuno, and Concord bringing up the rear. The attack by the SEALs was a classic maneuver called "rolling up the flank." It consisted of hitting a weak extreme side of the enemy line and smashing down its length.
It took but an instant before the nearest Arab sentry glanced their way. When he saw the Americans easing toward him in the trench, he stood open-mouthed in shock at the sight of the unexpected infiltrators. Brannigan pulled the trigger on his M-16, and the resultant burst of three rounds hit the raghead, kicking him back onto a stack of sandbags. The man, already dead, bounced off and crumpled to the ground.
The door to the nearest bunker opened, but before the Arab could step out, Miskoski fired a grenade into the interior. The resultant explosion and screams gave stark evidence of the effectiveness of the projectile. Now, farther down, other fighters emerged from their bunkers, and Brannigan and Assad kicked out several more bursts as Miskoski fired two grenades over their heads that added to the carnage of the fusillades.
SIKES Pasha came wide awake, leaping from his cot in the al-Askerin-Zaubi headquarters bunker. He grabbed his FA-MAS bullpup rifle and rushed outside just in time to see two grenade detonations tear into a trio of his Arab Storm Troopers. He hosed a long automatic burst in the direction of the attackers, then leaped into a parapet where two of his men were trying to find targets to shoot at. The problem was twofold for the defenders. They had no breadth of an MLR to offer resistance to the assault, and the incoming fire was fluctuating rapidly from light to heavy, forcing them to duck for cover. One Arab stood up to deliver a fire burst but caught a chestful of slugs that hurled him against Sikes. Both men went down, but it was the Brit who was able to get back to his feet.
He damned the danger and set up rhythmic firing without regard to his own safety.
BRANNIGAN and Assad, with Sikes' bullets splattering around them, moved into an adjacent parapet where a duo of corpses, their upper torsos and heads torn apart by both rifle slugs and grenade shrapnel, were sprawled. Now Taylor and Leibowitz rushed forward, both systematically pulling M-16 triggers to throw out a narrow cone of concentrated fire. With these additional salvos taking some of the pressure off them, the Skipper and Assad joined in with their own bursts.
SIKES felt a heavy blow to his left shoulder that turned him halfway around. His knees buckled and he went down, his numb hands unable to maintain a grasp on his rifle. He immediately felt someone grabbing his collar and dragging him. He looked up to see his faithful warrant officer, Shafaqat Hashiri, pulling him from the parapet and across the walkway toward the entrance to the Headquarters bunker. Hashiri held his own bullpup in the other hand, firing short bursts until he reached the door and pulled his commander inside. Then he quickly slammed the steel portal shut to keep intruders and grenades at bay.
ENSIGN Taylor was now leading the Brigands in their continuing assault, with Leibowitz at his heels. Garth Redhawk and Matty Matsuno were close behind them, with Brannigan and Miskoski following. The latter kept firing the 40-millimeter grenades in short arcs over the heads of the other SEALs to clear the way for them. Detonations, single shots, and automatic bursts of rifles added to the din of shouting, fighting men as the battle continued to evolve.
DOWN on the northern flank, Captain Naser Khadid and his Iranian SF troopers were moving rapidly toward the roar of combat to join in the battle. Suddenly a barrage of heavy machine-gun fire slammed into them. The incoming bullets that missed the men either ricocheted off the metal and concrete of the defenses or plowed into sandbags. Directly above him, Captain Jamshid Komard did his best to set up counterfire against the enfilading volleys, but each time they cut loose with their own machine guns or the automatic grenade launchers, the enemy across the valley would turn their swarms of large .50-caliber slugs on them, forcing the gunners to duck down. Those who didn't find suitable cover died instantly with gaping exit wounds made by the heavy rounds that literally ripped and smashed their bodies, leaving messy piles of meat.
AT that moment Bill Brannigan realized they had penetrated as deeply as feasible and it was time to withdraw. This was not a winnable battle for the Americans, nor was it expectedto be. The mission was to get into the enemy's faces, make 'em bleed, then haul ass while the ragheads were still disorganized and demoralized. "Let's get out o' here!" he shouted into his LASH. The loudness of his voice distorted the transmission, but not enough that the SEALs couldn't understand him. They immediately began a withdrawal down the defensive line, leaping over the corpses of dead Zaheya soldiers. Bruno Puglisi went on the alert, ready to support in case of pursuit, but none was mounted against them.
As Brannigan ran with the others, he raised Jim Cruiser over the LASH. "Call in the Air Force, goddamn it!"
"Aye, sir," Cruiser replied. "Gomez is on the horn right now. Get the hell out of there! Chief Gunnarson's four guns have the area saturated with covering fire for you."
When Brannigan and the others reached the original entrance point, they found Puglisi packed up and ready to move out, with all his bandoliers once again slung over his broad should
ers. Assad and Leibowitz led the way back down the trail, with the others following. Heavy fire from the SEAL machine-gun positions across the valley immediately began pounding the small area, the hail of .50-caliber slugs hitting at a combined rate of twenty-four rounds a minute, or forty bullet strikes per second. It was as if each were a blow from a pile driver gone mad. Any Zaheya soldiers desiring to pursue immediately withdrew from the clobbering thunder.
When the SEALs arrived at the flat area behind the mountain, they headed for the rendezvous point where the Air Force Pave Low chopper would pick them up. A scant two minutes passed before the helicopter's engine could be heard approaching the area. Brannigan sent Ensign Taylor to the front of the formation to lead the way to the pickup point. The SEALs had gone no more than fifty meters when they were suddenly in the midst of incoming rifle fire. They looked back and spotted some two dozen enemy soldiers shooting at them.
"Where the fuck did they come from?" somebody yelled in loud anger and frustration.
This was not the time when Bruno Puglisi became vocal; this was a call to action as far as he was concerned. He turned the SAW on the closely packed group, hosing them with short bursts. When the first magazine emptied, he quickly replaced it and continued to fire as he withdrew, walking backward. Suddenly he was flanked by Joe Miskoski and Connie Concord. The mixed fire of bullets and grenades forced the attackers to hit the dirt and scramble for cover.
Brannigan's angry voice came over the LASH. "You three get the hell out of there. The chopper isn't gonna wait all day."
The trio turned and rushed toward the waiting aircraft. The firing at them increased until bullets cracked the air around their heads and kicked up spurts of dirt from the ground they ran across. At the same moment that they scurried up the ramp into the interior of the chopper, the pilot worked collective and cyclic to race into a very steep and rapid turn before climbing for altitude.
Good ol' AFSOC!
CHAPTER 16
GLOBAL NEWS
BROADCASTING LIMOUSINE WASHINGTON, D. C.
8 AUGUST 1900 HOURS
THE limodriver/bodyguard Lazlo Czernk followed the orders for that evening's ride as he rolled slowly over the Theodore Roosevelt Memorial Bridge toward Virginia. The window between the burly man and his passengers was up, and although he couldn't hear a word that passed between the two men, it was obvious to him that it was not a pleasant conversation.
Dirk Wallenger, with his lower lip protruding, looked like a petulant little boy as he sat pressed up against the side of the car. His eyebrows were knitted into a frown, and he displayed his usual body language expression of anger by crossing his arms across his chest. On the opposite side of the seat, leaning toward him with an intent expression, Don Allen, the CEO of Global News Broadcasting, was speaking seriously in an authoritative tone.
"Dirk, you pay very close attention to what I'm telling you," Allen said. "This is not a situation to take lightly."
"Mmf!" Wallenger said. "You're caving in, Don!"
"Oh, no!" Allen snapped. "Don't take that attitude with me, Dirk. There are certain times when reality must be faced up to firmly and coldly. And I must admit that there have been instances in the past when you went overboard on some of your stories, but I've never reined you in before.
However, I'm going to this time. You can be absolutely certain about that."
"Am I supposed to believe you've decided to support that stupid war in the Middle East?"
"I am not supporting the war at all," Allen said. "And what I am telling you to do is not supporting that conflict either. But there is one thing of disagreeing with government policy and another when it comes to turning against the people serving over there."
"These are not draftees, for Chrissake, like in Vietnam!" Wallenger cried. "They are professional killers. They don't deserve any consideration whatsoever."
"Let me remind you of something," Allen said through clenched teeth. "I'll be the first to admit that we at Global News Broadcasting have an agenda. I'm a leftist . . . a socialist . . . a nonconformist . . . a Bolshevik, if you will. And I've grown up with an innate distrust of authority. But the bottom line is that GNB is in business to inform and support the American public. Now, supposedly that's the average guy on the street and his wife and kids. Nowadays, both husband and wife have to work to afford a decent standard of living. Understand? They are not members of our particular social class, Dirk. You and I are both from wealthy families. We had opportunities for education and a lifestyle that the average U. S. citizen can only dream about."
"So what?" Wallenger said. "We didn't choose our families, did we? We were born into advantageous circumstances because of a chance meeting between a certain sperm and a certain egg in our mothers' wombs. I am not going to be apologetic about it. In fact, I am devoting my life to helping that average Joe have a better existence in this unfair world. All I want for him and his family is equality and justice."
"That's fine, Dirk. But you don't help anybody by attacking them! You help them by attacking the injustices in the system. And that's the key word--the system!"
Wallenger turned his head to glare in righteous indignation at his boss. "I am not attacking the people!"
"When you accuse servicemen and servicewomen of atrocities, you are attacking the people," Allen argued. "That's where the soldiers and sailors come from. Our social equals aren't over there in the military. The ones fighting, dying, and getting maimed are the kids of workers--those average Joes we're talking about. I'm sure some of them have committed atrocities, albeit only a minuscule percent. But those who have done so were put in the situations where they lose control by the government you and I hate. When nineteen-or twenty-year-old kids see their buddies killed by a treacherous enemy, some of them are going to eventually lose their heads and strike back most viciously. Instead of condemning those guys, let's take off after the assholes who sent them over there in the first place. Or perhaps I should say the assholes who are making the mistakes that intensify and lengthen this disaster. Does that make sense to you?"
"The guys who killed that wounded prisoner were Army Special Forces," Wallenger said. "They are professional killers. Gangsters! A Mafia in uniform!"
"I've learned they were Navy SEALs," Allen said. "You're not even going after the right guys." He paused. "And that accusation you made is false. The individual who was killed was a prisoner trying to escape who blundered into a deadly cobra snake. He was not wounded and lying helpless on the ground, as you have intimated."
"I was making a point!"
"Oh, my God! That is so fucking lame!"
"The first casualty of war is the truth," Wallenger said. "Both sides of an issue use propaganda. If one doesn't, they will be at a marked disadvantage.'
"Now you're being very unprofessional, Dirk," Allen said coldly. "You're lying to back up your own attitudes and opinions. There's no worse sin for a journalist to commit."
"Good can come out of it."
"Do you want to end up like Dan Rather at CBS News?" Allen asked. "He wanted to nail President Bush so much that he went after him with the wrong data. He should have checked it out, but he let his own agenda trip him up. Once a journalist's credibility is lost, he's no longer useful. Nobody will ever trust his reporting again."
Wallenger sank into deeper pouting. "You've been talking to that son of a bitch lawyer Frank Brice, haven't you?"
"I sure as hell have," Allen said, now at the end of his patience. "And you're going to do just as he says, so listen well, young man. On your next broadcast you will recant your original story. You will say that erroneous information had been given you. You will apologize, saying you should have checked it out more thoroughly. You will make a statement that the Navy SEALs did not shoot the prisoner while he lay wounded on the field of battle. Understand?"
"I'll need time to write it up," Wallenger said sullenly.
"Frank Brice has already composed the delivery," Allen said. "And that's the one you'll use." He
leaned forward, picked the intercom handset, and spoke into it. "Lazlo, take us to Mr. Wallenger's home now."
Czernk turned off at the next exit, going under the overpass, then headed back east.
.
ARMY GENERAL HEADQUARTERS
TEHRAN, IRAN
9 AUGUST 0815 HOURS
MAJOR Arsalaan Sikes, Brigadier Shahruz Khohollah, and Captain Naser Khadid had arrived in Iran's capital city the night before from the OA in Afghanistan. They were given quarters in the transit billets of the local garrison, then picked up by an army sedan and driven to the national army's GHQ that morning. Now they sat in the presence of Major General Nirou Mandji, the Chief of Operations. Sikes had his left arm in a sling from the wound he had taken during the Americans' latest raid.
The general's office was not as luxurious or fancy as would be expected in the bailiwick of a Western officer of his rank. His desk was not made of mahogany or teakwood. In fact, there was no difference between it and that of his sergeant-clerk, stationed outside his door. Two portraits-one of the national President and the other of the Commanding General of the Army-were on the wall. The Iranian flag was mounted on the opposite side of the room. The floor was simple tile and not laid in too expertly, and the windows needed a wash. Sikes almost grinned to himself at the thought of what a British Army sergeant major would do if he charged into the office and saw its deplorable condition.
General Mandji was not a happy man, but it had nothing to do with his work environment. When he spoke, it was with a growl, and he expressed himself in fluent English for Sikes' benefit. "The situation at the Afghanistan border is getting entirely out of control. The Americans have made attacks and gotten away with them. We must bloody their noses when they become aggressive. If they manage to withdraw from the field of battle, it should be disastrous for them no matter the results of the engagement. What I am declaring is that those infidels must return to their positions fewer in numbers and badly shot up." He displayed a furious scowl. "They are not afraid of you!"