Tin Soldiers

by Michael Farmer

  Dillon nodded.

  “Sir, I’d suggest putting the obstacle—three-tiers of concertina, reinforced with antitank and antipersonnel mines—just south of your company target reference point. If that’s here, I’d start it about fifty meters back toward your position and run it from east to west. That way they’ll have to stop here, allowing us to hit them with the company’s combined fires.”

  “Go on.”

  “Yes, sir. Additional engineer effort will be focused on emplacing turning obstacles on the flanks. If we work it right, he’ll think he’s working his way around the obstacle, when in actuality we’re herding him right into our engagement area.”

  Dillon liked the way the lieutenant said “our” engagement area—it was a good sign when attachments thought of themselves as part of the team. The kid would do. “Talk to me about the obstacle effort in the rest of our sector.”

  “Yes, sir. We’re putting out disrupting obstacles starting thirty-seven hundred meters forward of the task force. This obstacle will be primarily composed of the new WAM mines—wide-area munitions that use acoustic and seismic detectors to pick up the movement of enemy armor and then fire a top-down explosively formed penetrator to defeat the target’s thin top armor. Very nasty stuff, sir. The WAMs won’t stop the enemy, but that’s not the intent. They’ll force the Iraqis to slow down and break up their formations as they enter the engagement area. When they try to drive around them, assuming they see them, they’ll flank themselves, allowing the Bradleys better shots at max missile range.”

  Dillon held his hand out to the engineer lieutenant. “You’ve got a job. Coordinate through the XO on the priority of the digging effort and for any help you might need getting those obstacles constructed.”

  Dillon turned to his fire support officer, First Lieutenant Jake Dumphy. “Jake, where are you and your Fire Support Team going to locate?”

  The fire supporter had been with Dillon nine months. They had a good working relationship and Dillon trusted the artilleryman’s judgment. That was why, despite the fact that it was Dillon’s responsibility to plan the indirect fire targets, he based most of the decisions on the recommendations made by Dumphy. While his tanks could kill up to four thousand meters out, the indirect fire provided by the 155mm artillery could strike approaching enemy targets over eighteen thousand meters to their front. Even though the indirect fire wouldn’t kill many enemy armored vehicles, it would definitely upset his timing and execution. It’s hard to get people to do what you want when the ground is shaking as if in the throes of a seven-point earthquake and no one can see as dust and sand are thrown hundreds of meters into the air. If the panic doesn’t kill you, the shrapnel will.

  Dumphy pointed back toward the Cold Steel battle position. “I’ll locate behind that high ground two hundred meters to the rear. My crew has already started making a hasty fire plan for the company position and are working up some recommended targets and triggers.”

  “Good.” Dillon reached out and gave the stake designated as the company target reference point, or TRP, a shake. “I also want you to work up a target here. When enemy vehicles start stacking up behind our obstacle, I want the arty coming in heavy.”

  The FSO made a note and nodded. “Check, sir.”

  Dillon hesitated. “One last thing, Jake.”

  Dumphy looked up from his notebook, pen poised.

  There was a fine line between preparing for the worst and giving his young leaders the feeling of impending doom. Dillon looked at his artillery officer first, then at his platoon leaders.

  “Jake, I want artillery targets plotted over each platoon position.”

  Dumphy understood. “Roger.”

  Dillon looked at his lieutenants one last time. “Gentlemen, I do not expect to fire artillery onto our own positions, but if something happens to me and you see we’re about to be overrun, I expect you to call for smoke to obscure your move, pull out of those positions and call down all of the artillery you can get. Clear?”

  Solemn nods were their answer.

  “Okay, I’ll get with you platoon leaders one on one in a minute to finalize the selection of your positions. Bluto, I’m putting First Platoon in the center, so I’ll be at your position as soon as we get finished here. You’ll be our main effort and have the primary responsibility for overwatching the blocking obstacle. I’ll meet you at your BP in one hour to sight it in.” Dillon looked around at the men. “We miss anything?”

  “What time does the Counter-Recon team go out?” asked Doc.

  “Good question. Team Knight will be in position by noon.” Dillon hated the thought of Stuart and the Scout Platoon moving out during daylight hours. It was a cardinal sin, but one that couldn’t be helped given 3rd Brigade’s time line to defend. Lieutenant Colonel Estes needed his eyes forward.

  Dillon pointed to the northern horizon. “They’ll take up station along Phase Line Pickett. Check your graphics and you’ll see that Pickett is six kilometers to our front, running east to west. The scouts will continue north and establish a series of observation posts along Phase Line Sheridan. Sheridan also runs east to west, and is ten kilometers to the north. Remember, Knight will pull back through us, time to be determined. We don’t want any fratricides because of itchy trigger fingers, so place your tanks on TIGHT for direct fires until Knight withdraws. I reserve the final approval to engage any targets prior to that time. If you can’t get me, you guys make the call, but be sure of what you’re shooting at. Anything else?”

  The looks on their faces told Dillon there would be no further questions and that his team was ready to get down to business.

  Cold Steel Six pointed an index finger into the air and twirled it. “Good. Mount up.”

  Phase Line Pickett, Northern Kuwait

  21 October, 1200 Hours Local

  “Tiger TOC, Black Knight Six, over,” called Mike Stewart over the task force command net.

  “Knight Six, Tiger TOC,” the radio operator at the task force tactical operation center answered.

  “Tiger TOC, Knight Six. Lighthorse elements established in observation posts along Phase Line Sheridan. Knight elements established along Phase Line Pickett. Graphics will be at your location within three zero minutes, over.”

  “Knight Six, Tiger TOC. Roger, over.”

  “Knight Six, nothing further, out.”

  Stuart sat in the cupola of his tank and looked over the counter-recon graphics one last time before sending them to the TOC for incorporation into the task force’s plan. Had he missed any avenue that the Iraqi recon forces could exploit? He didn’t think so, but it was a wide sector.

  The scouts, call sign Lighthorse, were arrayed in observation posts, or OPs, forward of Team Knight. The Scout Platoon consisted of six Hummers sporting a mixture of .50 cal machine guns and Mark-19 grenade launchers. Each vehicle contained a driver, a vehicle commander, and a scout in the backseat. When establishing OPs, two of the Hummer teams would consolidate to man one observation post in order to keep fresh personnel on the lookout for enemy movement into the task force’s sector. They were Estes’s eyes and ears forward and therefore an invaluable asset. The scouts’ primary problem was a lack of armored protection, so they only used their .50 cals and Mark-19s in self-defense mode. Their radios were their primary weapons.

  Upon detecting enemy movement in their sector, the scouts would call Team Knight, the Counter-Reconnaissance Force behind them. Stuart would maneuver his team’s tanks and Bradleys into position to intercept and destroy the enemy reconnaissance vehicles before they could report Task Force Tiger’s disposition to the Iraqi force’s headquarters.

  Stuart climbed off his tank and walked to where his XO waited. He handed the lieutenant the graphics he’d been looking over. They, like all military graphics, consisted of a series of alcohol marker notations on clear plastic. These graphic control measures included the positions of Team Knight’s tanks and Bradleys, scout OP locations, and the team’s targets and obstacles. Once at the
TOC, the staff would incorporate them with the graphics of the other company/ teams and then issue a consolidated set so that everyone was operating off the same sheet of music.

  “Randy, take these back to the TOC. And make sure you stay on the specified withdrawal route; we don’t need you getting shot up. I’ll make a net call to all of the companies letting them know you’re en route.” Stuart began to climb onto his tank, then turned back to his XO. “Hell, turn your headlights on to be on the safe side. Just make sure you have them off on the way back up here. And stop at Steel’s command post and let Captain Dillon make a copy of the graphics to forward to his men. They’re behind us, so if anyone gets tasked to come forward and support us, Steel’s the likely candidate. Ask him for a copy of his company’s graphics, to include the obstacles they’re emplacing. I don’t want to stumble into a minefield trying to get back behind friendly lines.”

  “Roger, sir, anything else you want me to tell him?” asked the young XO as he took the graphics and tucked them into his canvas leader’s bag.

  “Yeah,” said Stuart. “Tell him that we intend to withdraw after we’ve destroyed the lead recon forces, but before their main body attacks. It could be a fine line so far as timing goes. I don’t think we can count on the Iraqis using the established recon time lines we’re used to seeing at the National Training Center, so we may be in a big hurry when we move back through Steel’s position. Coordinate the recognition signals with him or Thad Mason.”

  “Roger, sir.” The XO gave Stuart a final wave and moved off.

  Stuart climbed back into his cupola and put his CVC on.

  Holding the transmit key down, he began his message. “Guideons, guideons, Black Knight Six. My Five element is en route to the task force TOC. He is moving on Route Dagger with white lights on. Please do not shoot him as he just got laid for the first time the night prior to deploying and he’s really looking forward to trying it again. . . .”

  CHAPTER 4

  Probes

  Phase Line Sheridan, Northern Kuwait

  21 October, 1345 Hours Local

  The battered four-wheel-drive truck trudged slowly through the desert. The two bedouins inside exchanged glances. They knew they were getting close to the Yankee lines.

  “Lieutenant, are you sure the Americans will not shoot us when they see our truck moving toward their position?” asked the driver.

  The man in the passenger seat turned toward his younger companion with a smile. “Taha, how many times must I to tell you? The tales of American soldiers killing and eating babies are highly exaggerated. Besides,” he laughed, “why would they shoot a pair of lowly bedouins? I tell you, it was a stroke of genius by the reconnaissance company commander. The Americans are looking for armored reconnaissance vehicles probing their lines, not old rusty trucks carrying shepherds in search of their missing sheep.”

  The scout lying prone in the observation post tracked the truck’s movement as it proceeded bumpily across the desert to his front. Positioned on a slight rise, dug in, with a desert-patterned camouflage net pulled over his hole, he was invisible unless someone stumbled onto his position. Pulling his radio close, he began transmitting while keeping watch on the vehicle through his twenty-power binoculars. Even though he was much too far away to be heard, out of habit the scout whispered into the handset. Too often Scouts had to send their reports as the enemy was passing close enough to touch, so it was an SOP derived from necessity.

  “Lighthorse Six, Lighthorse Two, over.”

  “Lighthorse Two, this is Lighthorse Six, over,” answered the scout platoon leader.

  “Lighthorse Six, I have a civilian four-wheel-drive truck containing two men. I say again two men, northern section of Sierra-One, moving south, over.”

  At his position three kilometers to the east, the Scout Platoon leader looked at his map. He annotated the details of the spot report. “Lighthorse Two, any weapons visible? Over.”

  There was a slight pause. Lighthorse Six could see the scout in his mind, straining through the binoculars to see every detail of the reported contact.

  “Negative. They appear to be civilians, but I cannot see clearly into the truck, over.”

  “Roger Two, stand by. Going higher.”

  The lieutenant selected by the battalion commander to lead the Scouts is generally an experienced tank platoon leader who has shown he can think fast and make smart decisions. The current Lighthorse Six was no exception, but at the moment, he wasn’t sure what to do. He didn’t want to scream, “The sky is falling,” because two Arabs were riding around in a truck. Then again, he didn’t want to take any chances. Since he was attached to Stuart and Team Knight for this mission . . .

  “Knight Six, Lighthorse Six, over.”

  “Knight Six,” answered Stuart.

  Lighthorse 6 glanced at his map as he sent the report higher. “Roger, Knight Six, I have a civilian truck . . .”

  After signing off from the scouts, Stuart sat back and thought about his current predicament. The Rules of Engagement, or ROE, clearly forbade them from interfering with the local population. If he called the TOC, there was a better than even chance some knucklehead pulling radio detail there would tell him to let these guys go.

  But what if they weren’t locals? One thing he’d learned at an early stage of his military career was that it was easier to beg forgiveness later than ask permission now.

  Stuart marked the reported location on his map in red to indicate a possible enemy vehicle in sector. He looked at the blue marks on his map indicating the locations of his own elements. It looked as if his closest reaction force was his attached mech infantry platoon.

  “Blue One, Knight Six. Did you monitor Lighthorse’s message? Over.”

  The mech infantry platoon leader answered quickly. “Roger Six, monitored. We just got eyes on the contact. The truck’s moving slowly and continuing south. He’s coming straight at us, over.”

  Stuart nodded to himself, his decision finalized. “Blue One, I want you to stop that truck with as little force as possible. See what type of equipment they have on board, over.”

  “This is Blue One, wilco.”

  The Iraqi recon team pulled around the corner of a wadi and stopped cold. Directly in front of them was a Bradley Fighting Vehicle. The barrel of its 25mm gun was locked onto them and it looked hungry. The sergeant in the top of the Bradley motioned with an open hand for them to halt.

  “Sir, what are we to do?” screamed the driver. “I thought you said we wouldn’t be stopped!”

  “Do not go to pieces on me,” the team leader said through the forced smile he was directing toward the Bradley’s crew. “Now do as I say. Back up slowly. Very slowly.”

  The driver joined in smiling and waving as he started backing the truck up.

  The Iraqi lieutenant’s smile was real now. “You see, Taha? The stupid Americans sit there. Now we know where their front lines are. The idiots are going to just let us leave. . . .”

  The officer was suddenly thrown forward into the windshield as the driver slammed on brakes. He reached a hand to his mouth and felt the bloody stump that used to be a front tooth. “You stupid son of a crippled goat, I told you to move slowly! You are driving like a madman! Why have you stopped?”

  The driver’s head was turned toward the Iraqi lieutenant, but not by choice. His left cheek had the barrel of an M16 rifle pressed to it. Despite the seriousness of the situation, the lieutenant couldn’t help thinking that his driver resembled a man who had partaken of sour milk.

  Behind the rifle stuck in his driver’s face stood a soldier in desert fatigues whose face was painted light green and tan. The soldier looked at the Iraqi lieutenant and smiled. “How y’all doin’ today? If it’s not too much trouble, how ’bout just staying put till my sergeant gets over here, all right?”

  The man looked like a smiling fiend from hell, and sounded like one of those country-western singers he’d heard on the Yankee Armed Forces Network radio station.
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br />   A slight pressure on his back caused the lieutenant to look slowly over his own shoulder. A similarly clad figure stood next to his door with an M16 rifle. This one wasn’t smiling. Looking the Iraqi in the eye, the figure spoke. “Yeah. What he said.”

  The lieutenant turned back to his driver. “Be still, Taha,” he said in Arabic. “I will handle this.”

  “Sir . . . there are more of them behind us.”

  The team leader turned in time to see six infantrymen fanning out around their old Toyota.

  The Mech Platoon sergeant was on the ground with his platoon’s dismounted element. He took a small squad radio off his belt and keyed it. “Blue One, Blue Four. SITREP follows. We stopped the truck. Truck attempted to leave area. We have stopped it again. I’m preparing to search it now, over.”

  The Iraqi recon lieutenant thought he was beginning to get through to the Americans. He described a camel with his hands, exaggerating the hump. Following this, he put a hand to his forehead and looked in every direction. Some of the American soldiers were beginning to smile at his antics. Fools, thought the recon team leader.

  He looked at his driver and a cold shiver ran down his spine. The frightened soldier was slowly reaching between their seats for the lightweight machine gun hidden there. If it was found, it could be easily explained. Many of the locals carried firearms. Some Bedouin trucks even had large-caliber machine guns mounted in the rear. But if the idiot pulled the weapon on these soldiers . . .

  Feeling sweat bead between his eyes, the lieutenant spoke slowly and quietly. “Taha, listen to me. Release the weapon. If you pull it out, we are dead.”

  The driver was sweating profusely and his hands shook. “No, Lieutenant, they know. They are m-m-merely toying with us. If we surprise them, we may be able to g-g-get out of here before the rest can react.” Warm fluid had begun flowing down his leg into a pool on the floorboard.

  “Do not pull that weapon out! Do you hear me!”