Tin Soldiers

by Michael Farmer

  Next to the screen, a red light flashed incessantly. No rest for the weary, thought Drake. Blasting a final alien, a particularly unsavory one with two heads and a drooling problem, he switched off the game. CNN’s Web site popped up on the screen, replacing the galactic invaders. Turning to the stereo, he selected a nice compilation of classical music his sister had given him for Christmas the previous year. Now he was ready. “Come in.”

  The door opened and Christopher Dodd stuck his head around the corner. “Has the Secret Service caught on that you’re a metal head yet, sir?” asked the director of Central Intelligence with a smile.

  Drake rolled his eyes. “Their code name for me is ‘Ozzie.’ Does that answer your question? Come on in, Chris.”

  Glancing down, Drake saw one rabbit ear sticking out from beneath the edge of the desk. He quickly moved the flagrant slipper out of sight. It was bad enough Dodd knew about the music.

  Chris Dodd shook his head, chuckling. “Sir, I’m the director of the CIA.”

  Drake looked puzzled. “What?”

  “We know all about the bunnies. Your secret is safe. Did you know Richard Nixon had a Howdy Doody doll he couldn’t sleep without?”

  Drake smiled. “Really?” He quickly threw up a hand. “Never mind. I don’t want to know. Besides, that’s not why you’re here. What’s the latest on our Iranian problem?”

  Dodd turned the high beams on, grinning from ear to ear. “What Iranian problem, Mr. President?”

  Presidential Command Complex, West of An Najaf, Iraq

  23 October, 1200 Hours Local

  Sitting in his private bunker deep beneath the sands of his homeland, Abdul Aref had never felt as isolated as he did at the moment—or as invigorated. The room was small, at least by his normal, opulent standards. And the furnishings were spartan—a desk, a chair, maps detailing his planned military actions, and a table loaded down with communications equipment and telephones.

  Beneath the lip of the desk, a single button was inlaid so that its face was flush with the wood. Someone would have to know what they were looking for to find it. Twenty bodyguards, with no allegiance other than to Aref himself, would come charging into the bunker if it were ever depressed. Aref had drilled them four times over the past week to ensure they performed this duty to his expectations. The first time they were a bit slow. Since he’d made an example of the captain of the guard, their improvement had been nothing short of remarkable.

  Was this how Saddam felt during the closing days of the Gulf War? he mused. And Hitler as he watched the Allies close in on him? He knew the United States possessed satellite technology that allowed them to—what was the popular example?—read a newspaper byline from outer space? They could easily find him if he operated in the open—and no doubt would spare little expense removing him. So he would stay here until his holy war—his jihad—was successfully concluded.

  Aref laughed to himself. Even his closest staff members were convinced of his newfound religious conviction. Idiots. The only person who suspected the truth was the ayatollah himself, but he had been promised such profits that the old fox could hardly say no to their alliance.

  Another nearby explosion caused the overhead light fixture to sway. The bombing had been almost nonstop for the past twenty-four hours. The Americans didn’t know where all of Iraq’s command and control bunkers were, but when they suspected a location, it was heavily targeted. Somehow they must have gotten information on this facility. Should he move? No, better to stay and wait it out. If they had not hit him yet, perhaps Allah truly was on his side. The thought made him smile. Would that not be ironic?

  He had so many decisions to make. As the latest explosions ended, he wondered if he had been wrong. Might he lose this battle of wills against the United States? He admitted to himself that he’d miscalculated the response of the American president—but who would have expected such actions from a teacher?

  Aref shook his head, awakening himself from his reverie. There was no time for second-guessing. It would not matter. Let them bomb. They would not stop him. It was time to make America pay for what it had done to Iraq during the Gulf War, and for the years of humiliation and sanctions that followed. Past time. “General!”

  The door opened. General of the Army Ali Abunimah, the commanding general of Iraq’s military, entered.

  An impressive figure, General Abunimah came to attention, staring over Aref’s head. The general was not happy. A survivor of the purges that had savaged Iraq’s military command structure following their defeat at the hands of the Coalition Forces, the only reason he had remained in service was a true desire to make a difference . . . to somehow help his country regain its former strength and self-respect. It had been so long since the world had looked at them with anything other than contempt. Abunimah had over the years turned a blind eye to the actions of his leaders, actions that tore at his moral fabric. He justified this by telling himself it was for the greater good. Stay silent, Ali, you can accomplish more by working from within the system. This military action by his nation’s newest leader, though, was almost too much for the general.

  From the beginning, he had thought that this war was unwise. He did not want to see his men die for nothing—again. It had taken years following the Gulf War to rebuild his country’s forces. To watch this . . . mad man . . . squander them . . .

  But the reason Abunimah had been selected for his position was what held him from doing more. He was a soldier in every sense, and his loyalty would allow him to go only so far. He’d given his opinion in the early planning stages of Aref’s war and been shot down. So he’d executed the plan as directed. Now, as he tried to win a war he had been against from the beginning, he was called here only to be told to sit in the hallway like a chamber servant for two hours until the president could see him. No, the general was not happy at all.

  Abdul Aref motioned to a seat. “Please, General . . . sit down.”

  As Abunimah settled in a seat, the Iraqi leader began slowly. “I have been . . . analyzing . . . the results of our campaign against the infidels. We have not seen a great deal of success.”

  Abunimah tried not to laugh aloud. A phrase he had heard the Americans use came into his mind unbidden. No shit. “No, sir. Things have not gone well thus far.” The general looked at Aref, judging how far he might go, then proceeded. “You might recall, Mr. President, that I tried to discourage you from sending the Tawakalna into the Americans without the rest of the Southern Corps ready to support them. I also encouraged you to prepare the Republican Guard Northern Corps to enter the fight if you truly wanted to defeat the Americans—sir.”

  Aref flared. “General Hamza said they would not present a problem, that he had the forces necessary. . . .”

  Abunimah pushed his point. “Sir, I warned you—Hamza wanted vengeance, and he didn’t want to share it. That blinded him. It had for years.”

  “Be that as it may, we still have a war to fight.” Abdul Aref continued in a quiet voice. “I called you in here for counsel, not to listen to excuses—General.”

  Abunimah saw a flash of the man who had positioned himself so adroitly to step in for Saddam Hussein—who, if there were truth to the rumors, engineered the ex-president’s “heart condition.” No need to push his fortunes further. “Of course, Mr. President. Forgive me if I overstep my bounds.”

  “General,” Aref continued, as if the exchange had never taken place, “will the Madinah and the Hamourabi be able to accomplish what the Tawakalna could not?”

  General Abunimah thought about the question for a moment. “For now, they have the necessary forces for the combat ratio to be favorable to us. But the other American divisions are beginning to arrive in theater. Once they draw equipment—”

  “We must act before then, General,” snapped Aref. “How long until the American reinforcements can move against us?”

  “As soon as they can draw combat vehicles and upload ammunition, sir. Their stocks of equipment in Qatar were damag
ed during our initial attacks, but we’re not sure of the extent. If sufficient materiel remained intact there, they could even now be—”

  Aref dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand. “My intelligence sources, which I cannot share with you just yet, General, tell me the Qatar stocks were destroyed. I have seen the evidence with my own eyes. Their reinforcements will draw from floating stocks of equipment—floating stocks that are not yet in port.”

  Abunimah did not look convinced. “Yes, that would mean a few more days, but if your intelligence is wrong—”

  Aref slammed a fist into his desktop. “Forget Qatar, General Abunimah!” He stood and walked across the room, stopping next to the wall containing the operations and planning maps. “I want to push this while the Americans are still recovering from our first attack. Our Iranian brothers will support us in the effort.”

  Abunimah looked at him dubiously. He had fought the Iranians too many years to place faith in anything they said—much less to use “Iranian” and “brother” in the same sentence. “Do you truly believe so, sir?”

  “I have the assurance of the ayatollah himself.” Walking to the map, Abdul Aref pointed to Iran. “The two Iranian divisions outside of Abadan have only a token force of American marines opposing them. Even with close air support, the marines will not last long.”

  Moving his hand west and into Iraq, the president pointed to the city of An Nasiriyah, one hundred kilometers northwest of the Kuwait border. “I want the remainder of the Southern Corps, the Madinah and Hamourabi divisions, in staging areas south of An Nasiriyah by tomorrow afternoon. They will refuel and make final preparations for an attack on the battered American forces in northern Kuwait.”

  Aref pointed to the west of the Kuwaiti border city of Abdali. “They will move at night and begin their attack on the American positions before dawn of the following day. The Iranians will synchronize their attack on the U.S. Marines in such a time frame as to aid us in our attack. Together, we cannot fail. Four divisions of Allah’s chosen against a brigade of devils and a few marines.”

  Moving his hand south, Aref pointed west and north of Kuwait’s capital city. “By noon of the day after tomorrow, I want the infidels dead and our forces through the Al Jahra pass northwest of Kuwait City. The Kuwaiti forces, if they are still willing to fight, will go down quickly trying to keep us from entering their capital. The American reinforcements”—Aref favored his general with a smile—“will not present a problem without any tanks or mechanized infantry to field against us. Then,” he said, raising his arms, “the city is ours.”

  General Abunimah had listened in silence. The president . . . had he learned nothing from his predecessor’s example? It was never as simple as it seemed . . . and Aref was no tactician, though he apparently thought differently. “And once we successfully destroy the American mechanized forces, what of the airborne division they have in the city?”

  “We’ll offer the American government an opportunity to evacuate their remaining military forces—less their equipment of course. The Ayatollah Khalani and I agree they will take the offer. If not, we will send in fresh forces that can take their time cleaning the Americans from the city. Many of our men will die—urban combat is such a tedious and bloody affair—but we will ultimately win. By the prophet, Kuwait will finally be ours!”

  The general had had enough. “Sir, why did you call me here? You have already made your plan of attack.” The frustration in his voice was evident. Aref had allied himself with the devil, and together they had planned the war that he, if anyone, should be planning. A sense of foreboding fell upon the old soldier, a feeling that this time his nation might not survive the rash acts of a mad leader. Sooner or later, the Americans would tire of putting the wild dog back into his cage and opt instead to put the animal down.

  “Not my plan, General,” Aref replied. “Your plan. You will execute it accordingly, working out the necessary details. I want you to keep me informed on the movements of the Southern Corps. And remember, they are to be in An Nasiriyah before tomorrow night, prepared to attack.”

  So that was it. Aref wanted a scapegoat in case his plan did not work. General Abunimah stood, bowing. “It will be done, sir. If I may be excused, there are details which need tending immediately if your—my plan is to have a chance.”

  Aref stood. “That is the spirit, General! Very good. You are excused.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Attack

  3rd Brigade, 4th ID TOC, Northern Kuwait

  23 October, 1200 Hours Local

  “Son of a bitch,” said Lieutenant Colonel Rob Estes, looking at the 3rd Brigade’s plans map. He and the other task force commanders of the 3rd Brigade Combat Team had just received the order for the upcoming mission.

  Standing next to his commander, Major Dave Barnett stroked his mustache and nodded. Looking to Estes, he uttered a single word: “Ballsy.”

  The other task force commanders, S3s, and fire support officers grouped around the map nodded in agreement with Barnett’s insightful observation.

  Jones stood behind the commanders, wreathed in smoke, prepared to answer questions. Once he’d completed the briefing, he had given his commanders thirty minutes to look over the graphics and order and discuss it with their primary staffs. They were now twenty minutes into that period. At the end of the half hour, each commander would brief Jones on his role in the upcoming mission. Called the brief back, it was a good method of ensuring everyone was on the same page before the commanders proceeded back to their units to plan their pieces of the fight.

  In a few hours, Jones would drop by the task force headquarters to hear how each commander intended to accomplish his assigned portion of the brigade mission. He hoped to God that time allowed for at least a quick rehearsal, but it didn’t look good.

  Turning to Jones, Estes spoke what was on all of their minds. “Kind of all or nothing, isn’t it, sir?”

  Removing himself from the cloud surrounding him, Jones stepped up to the map and looked at the blue lines flowing north. “Yep,” he finally answered.

  The gathered leadership waited expectantly for him to expound on the reply. Instead he looked to each of them. “Okay, who’s briefing first?”

  The officers continued to stare at Jones. Reaching into his pocket, Striker 6 pulled another cigarette out and flicked his Zippo. “All right, gentlemen, let me tell you how it is. Right now we’re sitting pretty well thanks to the replacements sent forward to backfill our losses. The brigade is at ninety-five percent strength—over one hundred of the most lethal tanks in the world, about half that many Bradleys, some shit-hot artillery, and all of these assets manned and supported by the finest military men and women in the history of the civilized world. If we sit here and defend”—Jones pointed north to the Republican Guard divisions identified as the Madinah and the Hamourabi—“these guys will be down to see us soon. And there’s nothing to say that more Iraqi divisions won’t start moving south in the meantime.”

  Barnett pointed at the closest Guard division. “And the Madinah is ours, sir?”

  Jones nodded. “Yeah. And if all goes according to plan, they’ll be hammered by bombs, fixed-wing air, and rocket and artillery fire before you ever get a shot off.”

  Major Jon Porter, Task Force 2-35’s old XO and acting commander since the death of Mace 6, pointed south on the map at a blue icon. The unit symbol had popped up only four hours ago. “And these guys are going to be ready, sir?”

  Jones shrugged. “I spoke with Spartan Six at the JTF briefing. I know the man well. If he says they can do it, then come hell or high water he’ll get the mission accomplished.”

  Jones looked around at his leaders, the men who would have to push this plan to the soldiers of the 3rd Brigade, who would have to make their men believers. First he would have to make them believe. “Gentlemen, here’s the bottom line. We can sit here in our prepared positions waiting for these guys. We’re dug in, have plenty of ammo, and can probably hold out for
a while. Long enough for the Third Infantry Division to move up and support us? Those ships are still two days out, so not likely. Or . . . we can take the fight to him and maybe end this thing. The CINC has given us a mission. By God we will accomplish it. Besides,” he added, “I’m tired of letting these assholes make all the moves. It’s time to take it to them.”

  From around the headquarters, approving shouts went up. Others picked up on the whooping until the noise level was almost deafening. Jones inwardly sighed. Well, they’d bought it. Now if he himself could only be as big a believer.

  Sensing someone next to him, Jones turned to see Dave Barnett. Barnett lit his pipe and let a few smoke rings rise before speaking. “Sir, that was”—he waved the pipe in the air, searching for the right words—“fucking inspirational.”

  Jones looked at the mustache, felt its now-familiar hypnotic tug. He looked away from Barnett, shaking his head to clear it. “Thanks, Dave.”

  Presidential Command Complex, West of An Najaf, Iraq

  24 October, 1645 Hours Local

  General Abunimah knocked on the door to Aref’s inner sanctum. Hearing a voice calling for him to enter, he opened the door and proceeded inside.

  “Sir,” he said on entering the room, “you wanted an update on the Madinah and Hamourabi. The Southern Corps commander, Staff Major General al-Tikriti, reports that both units are in their staging positions, roughly forty kilometers south of An Nasiriyah.”

  Abdul Aref walked to his map and moved two pins, each representing one of his prized Republican Guard divisions. He looked east, to the Iranian divisions also marked by pins on his map. “Have you spoken with your Iranian counterpart?”

  Abunimah nodded. “Yes, sir. He says we are to proceed as planned. That his forces will accomplish their assigned role. Sir . . .” The general hesitated before continuing. What he was about to say was based on pure instinct, with no proof to back it up. “This may be nothing, but the Iranian’s choice of the word ‘role’ instead of ‘mission’ bothers me. . . .”