by Isaac Stormm
Out emerged the man who now carried the future of the Saudi Kingdom on his shoulders. The imam gave him a greeting kiss as did the adjutant who pointed the way toward Al-Bashir walking stiffly toward the man.
“Greetings, Excellency.” He bowed.
“Rise, my friend.” The Prince looked over at a collection of wounded soldiers and asked, “When?”
“The result of our attack. The enemy is entrenched with excellent fighters and heavy weaponry. We managed a shallow penetration of the structure, but suffered too many casualties.”
“I assume you will be successful with your next one.”
“We will be working on that. And since you are here, I would like to include you in the briefing.” He didn’t really want to, but had to play the role of servant right now. He pointed to an Armored Personnel Carrier. “I’m sorry, but it’s the best place right now.” He led them round to its rear and up the entrance ramp into the lighted interior. He waited for the two to sit then began his explanation.
“Thus far the Israelis have countered our actions successfully. In my opinion, we are facing their very best. The one I spoke to earlier so much as looked the part of a seasoned commander. Our last attack failed because of their highly accurate shooting. They’re a step above our Special Forces, I believe.”
“How do you expect to counter it?” the Prince said. “Surely, you didn’t think I came all this way to have a commander on the scene tell me how strong the Jews are.”
Same old blind hatred that always caused problems, Al-Bashir reckoned. He dared not imply that somewhere in his soul he had an ounce of respect for the Israelis. They’d kill him in a second if he even hinted it. “Of course not, the next plan is riskier, but I’ve determined it leaves us with our best option.”
The Prince nodded. He and the imam leaned in as Al-Bashir began his proposal.
“We will be resupplying you within the hour,” Metzer reassured Foxmann. “We still believe we can get through.”
Foxmann didn’t fancy the work the C-130 pilots had facing them. The Saudis would be ready this time. There was going to be a sizable air duel over the desert when the fighters of the two countries engaged. In the midst of that, the C-130 pilots had to fly down an invisible narrow corridor deemed safe all the way into Mecca, drop their load then turn around and fly back through it while the Air Force kept everything in check around them. “We’ll be ready.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The Al Ghawar oil field
June 2
4:26 A.M.
It was the most God-awful assignment Carlson ever undertook. There was no mission. Not even patrolling. But the Army saw fit to place elite fighters such as him in the middle of a desert undergoing a sandstorm in a leaky tent.
Trying to sleep was a whole other chore. The tent was made of old canvas and rattled loudly right by his head which he’d tried to keep under a foam pillow to no avail. The others in the detachment fought their own battles as well, up and down. Sometimes to the latrine, coming back inside shaking the grains of sand that filtered into every crease of uniform and body. Then sitting there alone cursing the conditions of which was entering its fourth hour of torment.
He could take it no longer. He shot up in his bunk, slammed his pillow down and tightened his belt. He slipped on his boots, grabbed his ESS Goggles, fit them around his eyes, and charged out the waving entrance flap into the black and orange night. Wind whistled in his ears like some Hollywood B movie horror flick. He didn’t care. He pointed himself at the dimly lit pumping station serving as the Spec Ops Detachments duty hut. He reached the door, wrapped his open hand hard against it several times and was let in by a squinty-eyed inhabitant awakened from a troubled sleep.
“I need to make a call,” he said heading toward the radio setup.
“Can’t dude, I mean, Captain. Or lieutenant. I mean, I don’t see a rank.”
The young stud running the station wasn’t even Spec Ops. Just some bright-eyed kid from intelligence. He didn’t feel like dressing him down for the oversight so he just said, “It’s Major Carlson.”
“Yes, sir.” He woke up to a stand at attention ready to salute posture.
“Save it. Can you get me General Kohler?”
The kid looked at his watch. “It’s almost 0430. The general’s still asleep.”
The time threw Carlson off. His anger had got the best of him. The general wouldn’t be awake at least for another hour. He had the option to go back and count the minutes down and come back or have the kid send off an urgent message to be read the moment the general awoke. “Let me borrow a piece of paper.”
The kid went to the desk the radio was set up on and picked up a note pad.
Carlson tore off a sheet, produced a pin and began to dictate vocally as words hit the page. “Am requesting urgent withdrawal. We are placed in inactive situation either by mistake or deliberately. Request removal to a more active situation.”
He knew this amounted to nothing more than bitching. He wasn’t getting any action, but out here like fresh recruits driving an armored HUMVEE that didn’t even belong to the U.S. Army up and down sand dunes didn’t strike him as the best way to use Delta Force members.
He handed the message off and made his way back through the swirling winds, the particles of sand grating his exposed skin until he reached the tent muttering a string of expletives when he took off the goggles. “The old man’s gonna know soon enough to get us out of here.”
“Thanks, boss,” Mustin said. “The sooner, the better.”
Just outside Mecca
5:22 A.M.
The two C-130s journey had taken them from Israel over the Red Sea at 50 feet altitude, then climbing to 200, seen them cross the Saudi coast headed for Mecca. Aboard the aircraft the pilots constantly scanned the empty sky for signs of trouble. Their escorts, four F16s had suddenly broken off and engaged a flight of Saudi fighters and could no longer be raised on the radio. Now, alone and vulnerable, the lead pilot called for them to start climbing to the altitude of 20,000 feet to drop the resupply loads to their encircled countrymen.
The turboprops strained through the ever decreasing air density until several minutes later the aircraft leveled off with three minutes until drop time. That’s when the first C-130 exploded from a direct hit by an AIM-7 Sparrow fired from the lone F-15. Its debris showered the second aircraft who lowered their ramp and released the bundles of cargo prematurely.
The chutes blossomed over the free falling pallets as the aircraft went into a 70-degree dive scooping up all the power its throttles could provide. The left wing flashed then broke off at the number two engine. The plane inverted and began an uncontrollable roll as the other wing snapped off under the tremendous g-loading. The fuselage twirled like a top before it slammed into a mismash of houses, a huge mushroom of flame rising and rolling into the morning air, signifying its demise.
“Damn it,” Foxmann winced. He saw the distant impact and looking high above, made out the gaggle of pallets swinging under their chutes. They came soaring down below 1,000 feet, still too far off to make it to the mosque. He watched them crash into houses and the chutes go limp as the air billowed from its trapping underneath the canopies.
“Outstanding,” Al-Bashir said, looking over his shoulder, then toward the mosque. “The Jews will have to make every round count now.” He rubbed his beard then looked at his watch. In three hours, they would make their final assault.
The Prince conferred with the imam then said, “After much deliberation, we agree it’s for the best. You can destroy the minarets during your attack.”
“Thank you, Excellency. I realize such a decision does not come lightly, but there really was no other choice.”
He looked at the run-down of units on the tablet. Eleven hundred men allotted. Twenty tanks, six helicopters. He didn’t want to think of what would happen if they failed this time. He knew his course would be to ask for dismissal and calmly walk into a building then kill himself…It woul
dn’t come to that, he reassured himself. They had to win this time. They will.
Foxmann slipped back down in his familiar position against the wall of the minaret and contemplated what was approaching. He doubted they had enough ammo for a sustained attack. Anything they could get over quick would work in their favor. He knew it wasn’t to be next time. He felt in his pocket for the weapon code. Felt its edges and warmth from his body, thinking how much destruction the little piece of paper would bring. He hadn’t really thought about it much since landing, as there were too many things happening at once. He actually felt it would never come to that scenario of his fingers pressing the code into the nukes keypad. Now it was more real than he ever surmised, and still there was not a way for him to escape it. He thought of the things forbidden on operations. His wife. Daughter. Parents. What must they be thinking now as the news filtered from every screen and speaker in Israel of the courageous commandoes holding Mecca. He knew that she knew he was one of those there. If he did escape, he wondered how she would feel knowing it had essentially been a suicide mission? He pledged to make her understand one way or another. Everything would turn out right. First, he had to get out of here.
He turned on the tablet. Its glow illuminated his face. The one on the other end was just the man he wanted to speak to. Michael Philpot.
“Give me a Sitrep,” Foxmann said.
“There is to be no further resupply attempts. The Saudis have moved most of their fighter groups to cover Mecca, not fight us over the desert. It is simply too risky.”
“What about getting us out of here?”
He saw Philpot look down and shrug his shoulders. “All the things we’ve thought up thus far no longer seem feasible.”
“Then this may be one of the last times I speak to you. I will tell you that we will fulfill our duty without any hesitation.”
“I know you will, my friend. If there is any possible way to get you out, we will contact you.”
Foxmann nodded and drew the tablet’s protective cover back over it. He rubbed the tiredness from his eyes and yawned.
“You can go to sleep if you want,” one of the Gill gunners said. “Go back downstairs, find someplace more comfortable.”
“Thanks, but I’m good here.” He knew at first light something major was likely to happen so he decided to nod off for what he wondered would be the last time. He wouldn’t think of it that way or else he’d never catch the rest pestering his body. He drifted off in a couple minutes, head down and body scrunched up against the wall.
The Gill gunner looked a final time through his NVGs at his boss and smiled. Then, he turned his eyes back to the window, and settled in for the remainder of the night and the long wait.
5:45 A.M. Jerusalem time
Tel Aviv
“Thanks for coming in so early, Ariel.”
He and Philpot sat next to each other in the situation room looking at the reports coming in. Fighting in Lebanon continued, Hezbollah kept nipping at them, but not for long. Carefully coordinated airstrikes put an end to any serious counterattacks, and there were no more drones, thank God. Haifa was still in emergency, though most of the population had evacuated by now.
There were not even any recon flights over Syria due to Russian air patrols which seemed to be increasing in size and tempo. That wasn’t the half of it. The latest estimates were that 9 AN-124 Condor flights had deposited Russian soldiers. Among these were those believed to be Spetsnaz supposedly to be used in-country against the rebels. The others, possibly an advisory role, or guarding installations. The Russian meddling was worrisome. Israel needed to hit the Iranians before they advanced further, but doing so would bring them face to face with a new enemy. That’s why Grozner had requested his U.N. ambassador have an emergency meeting with the Security Council take place at 11:00 p.m. Jerusalem time. He would give fair warning to the Russians not to interfere. If they resisted, he would have no choice but to engage their aircraft. He wasn’t going to have several hundred thousand Iranians or even a million be able to march the breadth of Syria unmolested. No prime minister would do that. After the meeting, he wanted to speak with Anderson and reassure him that it would be done in self-defense. And, he also knew Anderson would hit the ceiling and begin accusing him of the dangers of a wider war.
The Russians’ response is what worried him at this moment. They would make quick work of the air patrols, to be sure, but beyond that he was looking at the very real possibility of a provoked Moscow sending its forces to confront Israel. That is why he intended to use only air power and not any type of ground invasion into Syria, though he knew it would end the conflict quicker if he did.
“Foxmann, I thought, sounded a bit fatalistic with our last chat,” Philpot interrupted the thought. “Not quite like him.”
“The man is going to die. I think he is entitled.” Grozner tapped his finger on the table. “Here we are. Israel and the rest of the world. Waiting to see who blinks first.”
“The Iranians, the course of events rather, gave us no choice.”
“I know. In the end, history will justify our actions. It’s just that the historians and not the world leaders of today will be the ones that do it. A pity.”
In walked two orderlies carrying trays of steaming eggs, biscuits and coffee.
“I took the liberty of having our breakfast served here. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No. Wish I’d thought of it myself.” Grozner took the coffee before the orderly set the tray down and muttered, “Thank you,” and took a cautious sip of the hot brew. He said nothing until the orderlies left, then added, “I just thought of something. Remember that writer, Clancy?”
“You mean, Tom Clancy?”
“Yes. That’s the one. I thought about how this whole event is reminiscent of stuff in his novels. Eerily similar.”
“But in his novels, the Israelis never took Mecca.”
“True.”
Philpot straightened his shoulders. “I do have to say, that was the boldest move I‘ve ever seen a world leader make.”
“I had no choice. And though it was the right move, I never had to send our soldiers on a suicide mission. That’s what nags at me. Which leaves me with my final demand.” He paused and dug a fork into his eggs. “That is, find a way of getting our people out.”
“So far every scenario we’ve come up with shows it can’t be done. Not without losing more people and that’s being conservative.”
Grozner took another bite then set his fork down. “Find a way.”
Al-Gawhar Oil Field
6:47 A.M. Jerusalem Time
“General Kohler sends his apologies,” the Black Hawk crew chief explained. “You got lost in the bureaucracy, he says.” The chopper lifted past the thousand foot mark leaving the rinky dink collection of tents and sorry pumping station behind. It couldn’t have come soon enough.
“He’s got a job for you. Wants to explain it to you in person. The HQ is where we’re headed.”
Carlson nodded and looked out at the sun beginning its arc. It was a red ball climbing an aqua-colored sky and was still definable this early and not blinding at all. Save for the untamed desert below, the sight was beautiful.
Mustin tapped him on the shoulder. “I wonder what Kohler has in store for us,” he hollered over the turbines roar.
“Don’t know, but it’ll probably be hot.” That explained the reason a chopper was sent especially for them and so quickly. Carlson didn’t care. He wanted back in the shit more than anything else and hopefully Kohler was giving him the ticket.
He looked into the cockpit at the instrumentation. He’d flirted with the idea of being a chopper pilot if he hadn’t made it in the Special Forces. He always liked the feeling of levitation and figured he would have been a good candidate. But that was history. The Special Forces was his life and he would have it no other way.
The chopper sat down still within the boundary of the oil field. This time it was a parking lot of some sort. The men made
their way toward a building with an American flag draped above the entrance. A man walked out of a room and saluted Carlson. “You can leave your stuff here for now and go in. The general is expecting you.”
Carlson returned the salute and they went into a room with several rows of seats with a desk at the head and giant map of the Middle East behind it. Kohler was in a corner with an enlisted man looking over some papers. “Have a seat, gentlemen,” he said without looking.
The enlisted man walked out as they took seats. Kohler moved to the front of them and folded his arms. “How was your day?” he chuckled.
“Rotten,” Carlson smiled back.
“It was a clerical error that put you guys at that pumping station. But you didn’t miss anything. All Spec Ops in this region have been on stand down since Mecca was taken. We couldn’t even send you guys out on recon missions because the situation in this region is so delicate. But we’ve made headway. I’ve got permission to launch a few missions and I’ve got one for you. It’s a recon mission into Syria to monitor Russian movements at an airbase. Don’t worry, we’ve checked the area around it and its mostly deserted. There’s a good vantage point from several of the hills. You see the reason we need info is that the Russians are up to something. This base is the center point for nine AN124 Condor flights that have been coming in at short intervals. We need to find out what is being offloaded. Satellite pictures can only show so much, and it looks like the Russians have figured out when our satellites orbit to space the flights in between. Hell, this data came from a CIA ground source. But we view it as credible and worth checking out. And I’ve got another surprise for you. You’ll go in by parachute disguised as Syrian soldiers. You’ll get out by chopper. Now, I know that’s enough to overload anyone so I’ll take your questions.”
Wilson cleared his throat. “Do we have to walk?”