by Jack Terral
THIS long trip across the Atlantic and the Scandinavian nations into Russia had been unexpected and quite inconvenient. He had been hoping for a call from Saviz Kahnani, the Iranian charge d'affaires, in regard to the standoff along the border separating Iran and Afghanistan. There was always the possibility of some sort of breakthrough when least expected, but Secretary of State Benjamin Bellingham had summoned him to his office with orders to go directly to Moscow. It was one of those "get over there yesterday" decrees that reminded him that he worked in an atmosphere in which his superiors exercised so much authority over his professional and personal life. To make matters worse, Bellingham had absolutely no idea what was going on.
"All I can say, Carl," the Secretary of State said irritably, "is that you are to meet your Russian counterpart in Moscow. I believe his name is Crash-Sinko or something."
"Krashchenko," Joplin said. "His name is Yuri Krashchenko."
"Oh, yeah, that's the guy," Bellingham said. "He wants you to be available at the usual spot sometime in the evening of the twenty-fifth. So you better hurry."
NOW Joplin was in the "usual spot," and he had been there since ten o'clock that morning. A bit more than thirteen hours had gone by since his arrival, and he was a trifle irritated with the delay. What if Kahnani was at this very moment trying to summon him? It was four o'clock in the afternoon back in Washington. The Iranian might want another one of those sessions at the Bonhomme Richard Club.
A knock at the door broke into the peevishness that Joplin was beginning to actively nurture. He walked from the living room to the hall, past the bathroom to the suite entrance. A glance through the peephole revealed a husky, athletic young man standing on the other side. That most certainly was not Yuri Krashchenko. Joplin opened the door.
"Dobriy vyechyir," Joplin said.
The young man ignored the greeting. "Tih Doktor Joplin?"
"Da," Joplin answered. Then he saw the short, stout figure of Krashchenko standing by the elevator. Joplin grinned and switched to English. "Come on in, Yuri. There are no secret agents here. I'm sure you can cross the hall in safety."
Krashchenko made no reply as he walked over with a briefcase shoved under his arm. He entered the suite, and since the brawny greeter showed no inclination to follow, Joplin closed the door. He took Krashchenko to the living room.
"Nice view, huh?" Joplin asked, gesturing toward the window.
"You have vodka?"
"Sure," Joplin replied. "Right over there, at the bar. All sorts of liquor came with the suite. Help yourself."
Krashchenko walked across the room and pulled a tumbler from the shelf. He filled it from a bottle of Dolgoruki brand vodka, put it to his lips, and downed the whole thing in three gulps. After refilling the glass, he walked to the sofa and sat down.
Joplin joined him, settling into an easy chair on the other side of the coffee table. "What can I do for you, Yuri?"
"We are aware of situation on Afghanistan border with Iran," the Russian said. "We do not want to get involved."
"I think our President already knows that."
"But we can help in this particular instance," Krashchenko said. "Most surreptitious. That I emphasize. You understand?"
"I understand perfectly."
Krashchenko placed the briefcase on the coffee table, opened it, and pulled out a packet of blueprints. "Here. For you. It must not be known you have received this in Moscow."
Joplin opened the package and looked inside. "Mmm. I see. It seems to be a mine or something. And it's all in Russian."
"Is that problem?"
"Not really," Joplin said. "And what are we to do with these?"
"Here for you are complete plans of fortified mountain where Iranian and Arabs are being where you fight them on the Afghanistan and Iran frontier," Krashchenko said. "All bunkers, trenches, entrances, and exits are clearly shown."
"Good God!" Joplin exclaimed. "Yeah! That place was constructed by Russian military engineers, wasn't it?"
"We are hoping these will be help for you."
"They certainly will! Thank you very much."
Krashchenko downed the second glass of vodka and stood up. "Now I am going. Good-bye, Carl."
"Good-bye, Yuri."
Joplin accompanied him to the door, opening it. "Thank you again for the blueprints."
"What blueprints?" Krashchenko said, shrugging. "Da svidaniya."
.
SEAL BASE CAMP
HEADQUARTERS BUNKER
28 AUGUST 1000 HOURS
BRANNIGAN had called an officers and chiefs conference, and Lieutenant Jim Cruiser, Ensign Orlando Taylor, SCPO Buford Dawkins, and CPO Matt Gunnarson were all seated on rough-hewn stools waiting for the Skipper to begin the proceedings.
"I'm getting a lot of pressure from Carey about that goddamn DPV I gave to Randy Tooley," Brannigan said. "And Carey in turn is getting leaned on real heavy from Station Bravo supply. The damn thing is on their property books, and they want an accounting--in writing--now! I need some serious intelligent input and advice on this situation."
The senior chief spoke up first. "Lie about it, sir."
"It's going to have to be a pretty clever lie," Brannigan said.
"Not necessarily," Cruiser said. "You can claim it was lost in the normal course of things."
"I'd have to pay for it."
"Tell 'em the enemy stole it," Chief Gunnarson suggested. "Or destroyed it with hostile fire."
"How can I do that?" Brannigan said. "We won all the battles."
"Bad luck," Cruiser said, and then quickly added, "Well, you know what I mean."
Ensign Taylor spoke up. "I have a suggestion, sir."
Cruiser chuckled. "All due respect, Ensign, but I don't think you've been in the Navy long enough to get down and dirty about a situation like this. Figuring out a way to get away with it will take a lot of savvy and experience."
Taylor shrugged. "I suppose you're right, sir."
"C'mon!" Brannigan said. "Let's give the young man a chance. Out of the mouths of babes, right?"
"Well, sir, I've noticed that Petty Officer Murchison has a way with words," Taylor said. "Sometimes it's very difficult to understand him. Perhaps if he wrote up an explanation in an ambiguous way that really didn't say anything but looked impressive, the people at Station Bravo could write off the vehicle easily and quickly. They could attach it as an endorsement to their own report of the affair."
"Great idea!" Brannigan exclaimed. "They really don't want the damn thing back, but they have to cover their asses. That supply officer doesn't want to pay for the vehicle any more than I do."
"Murchison is in my section," Dawkins said. "I'll brief him on the problem."
Monty Sturgis, the petty officer of the watch, stepped into the bunker. "Chopper's coming," he announced. "Two visitors. Can't see who they are from here."
"Right," Brannigan said. "I can't wait to see who they might be." Then he added under his breath, "Not!"
Ten minutes later, Lieutenant Commander Ernest Berringer entered with PO Doug MacTavish. The SEAL who had been wounded was in good spirits as he reported in. His face, which had taken a combined load of shrapnel, rocks, and dirt in the explosion that injured him, still showed the effects of the incident. But it was obvious he was healing nicely. There was none of the tattooing that Doc Bradley had feared.
Ensign Taylor was happy to see his SAW gunner back in action. "It's great to have you home again, MacTavish. We've had need of your expertise. You play pretty tunes on that squad automatic weapon."
"Glad to be here, sir," MacTavish said.
Berringer spoke in his usual somber manner. "He's not going to be here long. And neither are the rest of you. A detachment of Army Rangers is coming in to relieve you. You're to be back at Shelor Field by tomorrow at the latest."
"What's with this shit, sir?"
"All I know is that orders came down to move you guys back to Shelor Field," Berringer explained. "And I don't think it's for R an
d R."
Brannigan pointed over to the informal supply dump just outside Doc Bradley's clinic. "It's gonna take us a hell of a long time to pack all this stuff up."
"Leave it for the Army," Berringer said. "All you lug out of here is your personal weapons and equipment. Leave the fifty-caliber machine guns too."
"Aren't I charged with all that?" Brannigan asked in way of a protest.
"Your name is removed from all supply and ordnance considerations here," Berringer assured him.
"Does that include the DPV?" Brannigan asked.
"There's never been a desert patrol vehicle up here on Operation Battleline," Berringer said. "And you're still going to have to answer for the one that was misplaced during Operation Rolling Thunder."
"Not to worry," Brannigan said. "The paperwork is in the mill." He turned to his section leaders. "You heard the commander. Go round up your guys. It's moving day."
"The chopper will be here at fourteen hundred hours," Berringer said.
The officers and chiefs left the bunker to muster their sections and teams.
.
SEAL HANGAR
SHELOR FIELD
30 AUGUST 1300 HOURS
BRUNO Puglisi sat next to his buddy Joe Miskoski among the other SEALs scattered around on folding chairs. The last two days had dragged by very slowly. Puglisi whispered, "They might as well leave this meeting stuff set up permanent."
"Yeah," Miskoski agreed. "I'm beginning to feel like I've spent half my Navy career getting briefed in this freakin' hangar."
Mike Assad, in the row just behind them, leaned forward. "Yeah. But this time we're gonna really be able to go at the bad guys down and fucking dirty, man!"
"Sail on!" Puglisi agreed with a wicked grin.
Brannigan, Jim Cruiser, and Orlando Taylor were in the cubbyhole of an office with Commander Tom Carey and Lieutenant Commander Ernest Berringer. When the latter two officers had shown up at Shelor Field after the Brigands' impromptu transfer from the OA, they had kicked up everyone's adrenaline with the revelation of the blueprints of the Zaheya mountain fortress. A well-hidden and skillfully camouflaged rear entrance was plainly shown on the plans. Now they knew how the ragheads had managed to get out and catch up with them during the exfiltration after the HALO attack.
The officers came out to join the rest of the detachment. The Skipper, Cruiser, and Taylor went behind the chairs and stayed on their feet for the briefing that was about to be delivered. Carey and Berringer tacked a blown-up reproduction of the fortress layout on the wall. Then Berringer stepped aside while Carey took the floor.
"I can see the eagerness in your eyes," Carey said. "It's show time! You're going into that goddamn place via that hidden entrance. We're going to issue a vocal OPORD to you this afternoon, and when that's done, you'll draw some concussion grenades to take the place of the M-two-oh-threes. There won't be any machine-gun support per se, but the fire support section will all carry individual SAWs. That procedure will be explained later."
"When do the festivities start?" Pech Pecheur asked.
"HALO insertion will be in the early morning of one September," Carey said. "You will launch your attack immediately after landing. You're not going to have a lot of room inside that damn fortress, so you can forget the fire-and-maneuver drill. I'm not going to try to fool you guys. This is gonna be tough and deadly. Figure some hand-to-hand in the deal. And also keep in mind how confined it's gonna be in those tunnels and bunkers." He turned and indicated the layout on the wall. "The one thing you won't have to worry about is having the bastards come at you from all directions. When the Russians built that place, they kept it simple and orderly. For all intents and purposes there is only one passageway, but it leads to each separate bunker."
"Man!" Pete Dawson exclaimed. "The few guys in front are going to catch all the hell."
Brannigan interjected himself into the proceedings. "We've taken that into consideration. Fire teams will be rotated as we progress through the place. That will be the section commanders' responsibility. And as soon as the last team of a section has put in its time, the next section will immediately take over."
SCPO Dawkins turned in his seat and looked at the Skipper. "Sir, what about a rear guard? Those Zaheya guys can send some of their own riflemen around the back and come in behind us."
"That's going to be Chief Gunnarson's responsibility," Brannigan responded. "His fire support section with those SAWs is going to set up a perimeter around the area of that rear entrance. There'll be half a dozen of 'em with beaucoup ammo."
Gunnarson now spoke up. "I've been wondering about that, sir. We could end up getting hard-pressed out there in the back. SAWs are great, but I'm sure gonna miss those beautiful fifties we left them Army guys."
"That's been taken into consideration, Chief," Brannigan said. "Gomez is going to be with you. He'll bring along his faithful Shadowfire radio for long-distance transmissions. He'll also have his AN/PRC-twenty-six to keep in touch with me. So if things get real hairy back there, he can call in CAS from Shelor Field. There'll be half a dozen F/A-eighteens from the local CVBG standing by if needed. They're due to arrive here early this evening."
"What about medevac, sir?" Doc Bradley asked.
"That won't happen until the show comes to an end," the Skipper said. "You'll set up an aid station at that rear entrance close to Gomez and the SAW gunners. We'll bring any wounded down to you during the fighting. You'll have to do your best with 'em there until the situation is under control."
Carey said, "I might add that those carrier guys will also be able to plaster the front of the fortress, if it becomes necessary. However, don't forget the Army Rangers in your old trenches. They'll be keeping an eye on the enemy's front lines, so if you need their help, let 'em know. Any questions or comments about the air or fire support?
Okay, then. I'm going to jump to the exfiltration phase, since Lieutenant Brannigan will be covering the procedure you're going to use inside the fortress." He checked his notes. "When it is decided it is time for you to withdraw and you've pretty well shot the place up, you'll make a careful exit and head out the same way you entered. The AFSOC choppers will be in to pick you up. If things didn't go real well and you're under pressure, you'll have to fight a delaying action while you pull back. Once you're out in the open, those F/A-eighteens will be there to turn the back part of the mountain into molten lava. And, of course, the Air Force will make their usual timely appearance. So! I'll let your esteemed commanding officer take over now."
Brannigan walked to the front of the room and gave his men a solemnly proud look. "Guys, this is gonna be a fucking load. So be mentally prepared for it." He walked to the wall, turning his laser pointer on the blueprint. "Now you can tell there are eight--I say again, eight--bunkers inside this place. Each has two entrances, or exits, depending on which way you're going. One leads to the trenches and fighting positions outside and the other to that connecting tunnel within the mountain. It's those interiors we'll be wading through first. That means when you charge into one of those rat holes you'll be exposed to fire coming from outside. The advantage at that point is they'll be firing through a narrow opening."
Matty Matsuno raised his hand. "How's us headquarters weenies gonna be organized, sir?"
"Puglisi and Miskoski are gonna be my goons," Brannigan replied. He looked at the two SEALs. "That means you stick close to me. I'll be directing things and I'll need you two to cover my ass while my attention is directed elsewhere."
"Aye, sir!" the pair responded.
Brannigan swung his eyes to Connie Concord. "The Sneaky Petes are gonna be under your direct command. You'll be the last in the assault column. We'll let Assad be your grenade toter. I'll get to that part of the operation in a minute."
"Understood, sir," Connie acknowledged.
"Now, our basic procedure is going to be simple and calls for everyone to think fast and clearly," Brannigan said. "We'll all have to be adaptable because each time we hit a bu
nker the situation is gonna be different. Basically, here's how we'll do it. The team grenadier may not have his M-two-oh-three, but he'll be carrying four concussion grenades. These are something we normally don't deal with, since our application of handthrown explosive devices is to tear up living meat. However, Station Bravo sent some down from their prison."
"What do they do, sir?" Puglisi asked, disappointed that they wouldn't necessarily "whack" anybody.
"They have a stunning capability," Brannigan said. "The reason we chose them was to keep from having our own shrapnel whip back on us. I'd rather we got headaches then a bellyful of pellets or fragments. So each time the lead team comes to a bunker entrance, the grenadier tosses one in, and as soon as it goes off, the entire team charges into the interior. The backup team will then move to the entrance for support, being ready to rush in and lend a hand if necessary."
Jim Cruiser was thoughtful. "If each team has four concussion grenades, then we'll be carrying in a total of twenty-eight. That's more than enough. Hell, with eight bunkers that means we'll have more than three for each one."
"Not if we have to take and retake some of those bunkers four or five times," Brannigan said.
"Oh, shit!" Cruiser remarked.
"Yeah," Brannigan said. "Oh, shit."
Ensign Orlando Taylor was leaning forward in his chair, his concentration and attitude showing he was looking forward to the coming action. "You said we were going to do some battle drill, sir. What was that all about?"
"The Air Force has some unused storage sheds east of the landing strip," Brannigan said. "We'll use them as simulated bunkers and work out the best way to get the job done." He looked at his watch. "Well, we'll start right away. There's only about forty hours before we jump into the OA. Tomorrow we draw ammo, supplies, parachutes, and other goodies." He nodded to Dawkins. "Senior Chief, get the detachment outside."
"Aye, sir!" Dawkins said. "Off and on! Move it!"