Tin Soldiers

by Michael Farmer

  The professor calmly straightened himself, as if his opponent’s outburst had been physical, and then resumed his own attack.

  Shaking his head, he began. “Sir, how you can say that Iraq has nothing to gain is beyond me. You must consider the current situation in its entirety, to include Saudi Arabia directing us to withdraw our military from within its borders. The Middle East is changing rapidly. In 1991, Iraq was alone. No one in the region supported Saddam Hussein’s attempted takeover of Kuwait. The nations of the region requested us to force the Iraqi withdrawal. Such is not the case now. I believe Iraq would have little or no opposition from its neighbors if President Aref chooses to attack, so long as he has limited objectives in mind.”

  The ex-director was turning blue. “Excuse me, Professor, but those limited objectives would include seizing a sovereign nation and killing American troops!”

  “That is correct,” said the professor with quiet authority as he took a sip of his water.

  The other man shook his head as if he were dealing with a child. “The combined weight of the Arab armies couldn’t defeat Israel in ’48, ’67, or ’73. We and our coalition partners sent Saddam packing in under one hundred hours in ’91. Yet you sit there and tell me that Aref thinks he can get away with . . . with . . . with what is tantamount to the murder of our one small unit in Kuwait?”

  The professor placed the cup carefully on the table next to his chair and spoke to the other analyst as he would to a child. “I’m not saying that Iraq can or can’t ‘get away’ with their actions,” he responded. “What I am saying is that I know the Arab mind-set. And that mind-set, especially where Arab unity is involved, tends to blend fantasy and reality. It is that mind-set which for centuries has caused them to attempt feats that are beyond their ability to achieve. Combine with this the fact that we are talking about a country that we disgraced. If in attacking they can regain their honor, seize a piece of territory worth hundreds of billions of dollars, and be the unifying force in the Arab community, I would say it is quite likely that they will attack before we have a chance to reinforce our troops in the theater.”

  Melissa Dillon, arms crossed tightly across her breasts, was watching the debate with such intensity that she didn’t hear the small footsteps approach and stop behind her. Her stomach tightened when her youngest daughter’s voice asked, “Mommy, what does that man mean? Is Daddy in trouble?”

  CHAPTER 3

  Assemble

  Tactical Assembly Area Tiger, Northern Kuwait

  20 October, 1400 Hours Local

  “Guideons, guideons, Steel Six, over.”

  Dillon stood in the cupola of his tank and patiently waited for his platoon leaders to answer. If they did it right, finally, they would respond in order by platoon.

  “Red One, roger, over,” called Wyatt.

  “White One, roger, over.” So far so good, thought Dillon as Doc called in.

  “Blue One, roger, over.”

  Hallelujah and praise Jesus. “Congratulations, gentlemen, on your first successful net call. . . . Meet me on the ground at my fix in zero five minutes. . . . Out.”

  Translated into English the message meant: Great, you didn’t screw it up for once. Get your butts over to my tank . . . now.

  First Lieutenant Thad Mason, Dillon’s executive officer, was standing on the ground in front of Dillon’s tank. Dillon had watched the former West Point nose tackle grow from a green second lieutenant who knew nothing about tanking to a trusted second in command. Mason’s primary role within the company was to ensure that the tanks stayed running and to monitor the task force command frequency. This freed Dillon to do other things—like run the company. Mason, his voice reminiscent of James Earl Jones, was perfectly suited for the job of Cold Steel’s mouthpiece. He could gush pure horseshit, but the voice—it gave everything he said instant credibility.

  Dillon removed his CVC and laid it over the .50 caliber machine gun in front of his cupola before clambering down the tank. He landed in a cloud of dust next to Mason. Looking up—Mason stood over six feet four inches—the Cold Steel commander smiled. “Well?”

  Mason, refusing to have his lunch interrupted, continued to spoon Meal Ready to Eat, better known as MRE, pork and beans into his mouth. Around a mouthful of beans, he finally said, “Well what, sir?”

  “The bet, you big freak,” continued Dillon.

  “Ohhh, the bet. Didn’t you say they’d get it right by yesterday, sir? I think you owe me,” said Mason.

  Dillon looked at the massive lieutenant impassively and nodded. “You’re gonna welsh, aren’t you? You’re a fuckin’ mooch.”

  Mason frowned and the spoon of cold beans stopped halfway to his mouth. “I’m no mooch.”

  “You lost another six-pack. No big deal. Definitely no reason to pout like a three-hundred-pound baby.”

  Mason became indignant, folding the slabs of muscle he passed off as arms across his chest. “Sir, when we started this whole betting business, you said we were betting beer. Beer. Being a hail-fellow-well-met kind of guy, I agreed. You didn’t say shit about what kind of beer. Now every time you win, you expect me to pay you off with that eight-dollar-a-six-pack British shit—”

  Dillon interrupted his large subordinate with a warning finger. “Steady, Thad. Not shit . . . Newcastle.” A faraway look came into his eyes for a moment. “Nectar of the Gods, my boy. Nectar of the Gods.”

  Mason shrugged. “Whatever. I ain’t payin’ eight dollars for a six-pack of beer.” He shook his head resolutely, satisfied he’d come up with a course of action he could live with. “Nope, ain’t gonna happen, sir.”

  Dillon looked at him seriously. “So you are gonna welsh?”

  “I ain’t welshing, sir. I just ain’t payin’. . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah, I got it.” Dillon stroked his chin. “I could lower my standards, temporarily, you understand.” He turned to Mason again. “Heineken?”

  A grunt was Mason’s only response.

  Dillon changed the subject, sure that he was making no headway. “I wish to God we’d had time to do some company-level training before we left Carson.”

  Mason nodded. “Yeah, they’re doin’ all right on the platoon stuff, but they’re not used to operating together.”

  The men leaned casually against Dillon’s tank, C- 66, as they waited for the platoon leaders. They had been in the tactical assembly area for a little more than twenty-four hours. Engineers had worked throughout the night on their company position, as well as those of the other company/teams. Currently Steel’s tanks were arrayed in a large circle that provided them 360-degree security. A six-foot wall of sand made up the circle, with the unit’s tanks scattered inside of the perimeter, gun tubes facing outward. In the middle of the defensive position were the company command post, the medics, and other support assets.

  “Thad, run through our current status before the platoon leaders get here. I’ve got to be at the task force operations center in a half hour.”

  “Roger,” said Mason, wiping his hands on his nomex coveralls. He pulled a battered green army notebook from his pocket. “We’ve got twelve of fourteen tanks fully mission capable. C-12 has a hydraulic leak, but the part is on hand and it should be up within the hour. C-34 has a computer malfunction and the mechanics are still troubleshooting it. Every tank has a full basic load of ammunition on board. We’re up on fuel, MREs and water.”

  Mason stuffed the notebook back in his pocket and looked at Dillon. “Now, sir, can I ask you a question?”

  Dillon had been scribbling in his own notebook as Mason dictated. He stopped writing and closed the notebook. “Shoot.”

  “Sir, what the hell’s going on? We deployed here for what I understood to be a show of force. Then they rush us out of Doha as fast as we can draw our equipment. The next thing you know we’re being issued war stock service ammunition instead of the expected training ammunition. I took care of the platoon leaders by telling them we always draw service ammunition when we de
ploy to foreign theaters of operation. But between you and me, I’d like to know what’s really going on.”

  Dillon wondered how to tell Mason that he’d been wondering the same thing himself when the ammunition trucks had delivered the depleted-uranium-tipped main gun rounds.

  “Thad, I have no idea,” said the captain, looking off into the distance at his approaching platoon leaders. “Whatever’s going on, I should find out at the task force briefing. The key for now is to be as close to one hundred percent as we can, because I don’t like the looks of this. I need you and First Sergeant Rider to make sure you check out the platoons while I’m gone. Don’t make the boys nervous. Just keep them occupied and make sure they’re doing the right things.”

  Mason nodded. “Wilco, sir.” He wasn’t satisfied with the answer, but he’d been with Dillon long enough to know that his commander wouldn’t bullshit him. He might tell him he couldn’t talk about the operation, but he wouldn’t lie.

  They watched the platoon leaders approaching on foot across the desert. Dillon pulled a can of Copenhagen from the recesses of one of his coverall pockets. After popping the lid, he put a pinch of snuff in his mouth. Without looking at Mason, he offered the open can.

  The big XO turned to his boss. “Sir, why do you always offer me that crap? I’ve never once accepted, nor do I intend to.”

  Dillon turned to him. “Always a first time.”

  “Not for that.”

  They continued watching the approach of Cold Steel’s junior officers.

  “Damn but those guys carry a lot of crap,” said Dillon as his platoon leaders moved closer.

  Mason nodded once. “Yep.”

  Two of the lieutenants were loaded down with large wooden map boards and leaders’ bags that carried the majority of manuals the army published. The two platoon leaders, Hancock and Takahashi, were working up quite a sweat when they finally reached Steel’s ranking leaders. Only Bluto Wyatt was traveling light. Dillon looked up at the sky, silently asking for guidance.

  “Dr. Green,” said Dillon slowly and patiently. “Have we had the block of instruction on the proper method of transporting a map on the mechanized battlefield?”

  Wyatt had nicknamed Charlie Hancock “Dr. Green” the day he reported to Cold Steel. His thinning hair, tall and lanky build, and wire-rimmed glasses made him a ringer for the television doctor. Most people went with the more informal version of the nickname, simply calling Hancock “Doc.” Dillon made an exception when he was about to drop the hammer on Hancock, preferring at those times to go with the longer, more formal version.

  Hancock had had this type of question posed to him by Dillon several times over the past few days. The wrong answer would not be good.

  He looked to his fellow platoon leaders for support. Although Doc couldn’t see any low earth orbit satellites overhead, Takahashi and Wyatt appeared to be busily counting them. Obviously, there was no aid forthcoming from that quarter.

  He glanced at the XO. Mason just looked him in the eye and rolled a plastic spoon around in his mouth as if it were a fine Cuban. Definitely no help there.

  Finally he turned back to Dillon, who was smiling at him. Oh God, thought Doc, now I know how Little Red Riding Hood felt at Grandma’s house.

  Dillon’s approach to their training since arriving in Kuwait was 180 degrees different from that morning back in Colorado when he’d sat down with Hancock for their little chat. The junior platoon leader couldn’t begin to count the number of foreign-soil ass-chewings he now had under his belt.

  Hancock cleared his throat. “Sir . . . uh . . . I believe we did discuss it, but I can’t remember your exact guidance.” Doc held his breath, then exhaled a sigh of relief as Dillon’s gaze swung to Ben Takahashi. The fires had shifted and he was out of immediate danger.

  “Ben, can you help Doc out? Or does it escape you as well?” asked Dillon as he turned to his Third Platoon leader.

  Takahashi had a look of utter desperation on his face. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Everyone stared at the gaping orifice, mesmerized. They waited patiently to hear what would eventually issue from the depths. After a few seconds, the mouth slowly closed.

  “Well?” asked Dillon, shaking his head in confusion.

  Takahashi opened his mouth again with the same result.

  Wyatt leaned on the front slope of the tank behind Dillon, grinning at his fellow platoon leaders’ discomfort.

  “Listen up,” said Dillon calmly. “If you haven’t noticed, you’re a long way from home in one of those far-off and exotic places you signed up to see. My concern is that if you can’t get the little things right, what’s going to happen if the proverbial shit ever hits the proverbial fan?” Dillon looked each of his platoon leaders in the eye before continuing. “If you’re cruising at speed across the desert with a plywood map board larger than a Little Caesar’s pizza box, it is going to: number one, get caught in the wind; number two, proceed to beat you about the face; and number three, blow off of the tank. Finally, number four, you will have to turn around, go back, and retrieve said oversize map. This will cause you unwanted embarrassment in front of your platoon. Furthermore, if you begin receiving artillery, how are you going to get the damn thing into your turret?” He looked back and forth at his two young charges. “Does that discussion ring any bells?”

  The two platoon leaders nodded.

  “All right, get yourselves some map cases and get rid of those boards. You’re not at the Armor School anymore, so don’t worry about pretty—worry about functional.” Dillon spun around. “Lieutenant Wyatt, why the hell are you smiling?”

  Wyatt’s considerable bulk went two feet vertical.

  Dillon jabbed a finger into the big man’s chest. “You should have helped them out before they got to me!”

  Bluto Wyatt went to the position of attention without thinking about it and looked straight ahead. “Sorry, sir.”

  Dillon took a deep breath and sighed. “At ease, Bluto. Relax.”

  Wyatt, not sure if Dillon was being literal or not, moved his arms behind his back and went to the position of parade rest. Better safe than sorry.

  Dillon looked seriously at Wyatt. “Damn it, Bluto, you’re a good platoon leader, but I need you to start sharing your knowledge with these guys. This isn’t a contest. I’m counting on you. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Wyatt, finding sudden interest in the sand around his boots.

  Dillon backed up and put his hands on his hips. Slowly he surveyed his young leaders. “All right, listen up. I’ve got to get to a briefing at the task force tactical operations center. While I’m at the TOC, I expect you to conduct precombat inspections. I also expect you to get your tanks boresighted. Ensure you enter the computer data for service ammunition, not training ammunition. And get your perimeters squared away—I will be looking at them when I return. Questions?”

  Dillon looked at each of his lieutenants in turn. Each responded with a negative shake of the head.

  “All right, get to it.” Dillon put on his kevlar helmet and other equipment, grabbed his map and notebook, and walked toward his Hummer where it sat in the center of the assembly area. As he and his driver departed in a cloud of dust, the lieutenants could just make out strains of “Friends in Low Places” from the stereo Sergeant Almo had smuggled into Dillon’s Hummer.

  “Is it me, or is that about as close to a father-son talk as the CO’s had with us?” asked Takahashi, watching the vehicle recede into the desert haze.

  Doc nodded. “Yeah, Ben, something weird’s definitely going on.”

  “All right, you heard the man, you chuckleheads,” said Bluto. “We’ve got work to do. I’d make sure it gets done right before Captain Dillon gets back.”

  The big man began walking toward First Platoon’s perimeter. Abruptly he stopped and turned. “I’ll be by in an hour to check you out, so have your shit wired tight.”

  As the other two lieutenants stared after their counterpart, Mas
on returned to his pork and beans, a smile on his face. Yes, the worm was definitely turning.

  Central Command Headquarters, Baghdad, Iraq

  20 October, 1455 Hours Local

  “Are you sure, General?” said Abdul Aref into the secure phone. “You know the price of failure. . . . Very well, proceed with phase two as scheduled. Rest assured the other divisions will reinforce you within six hours of your attack.”

  Ending the call, Abdul Aref dialed another number from memory. He patiently waited until a noncommittal voice answered.

  “Tell your master that his nephew wishes to extend his greetings.” While the Iraqi leader had confidence in his own intelligence section’s ability to hinder American eavesdropping efforts, he was not so sure regarding his new ally’s equipment.

  The wait was not long.

  “Yes, nephew?” said the papery voice on the other end of the line.

  “Hello, Uncle. I thought you would want to know. My staff has completed preparations for our banquet and the festivities will begin shortly.”

  Khalani listened to the news with a smile. “I’ve received information indicating that our guest list is growing—have you heard of this?”

  Aref had been briefed on the American reinforcements earlier. His voice was dismissive. “Yes, yes, I’ve heard. We will take care of the visitors already here for now. Be sure that we are also considering appropriate entertainment for our new guests.”

  Abdul Aref’s staff felt, and he agreed, that America would hesitate to send more of her sons to their deaths after seeing how quickly the U.S. brigade currently in Kuwait was annihilated. Particularly when regional and world support was not with them. If they did choose to send more troops into the fight, he would make them pay dearly. One thing the United States had never been wrong about—his nation’s supply of biological and chemical agents was extensive, and he was prepared to use this arsenal if necessary. No, he did not believe the Drake administration had the stomach for that type of war, despite their apparent commitment to Kuwait. By the prophet, had the man not selected a woman as his vice president? That alone told him much about his opponent.