Tin Soldiers

by Michael Farmer

  Grabbing Gilreath and lifting him, Doc looked the young soldier in the eye. “Sorry about this, Gilreath.”

  The loader looked confused. “Sorry about what? Hey, sir, what’re you—”

  Doc threw the soldier off the tank. The eight-foot drop wasn’t nearly as bad as the alternative of hanging around longer. He and Izzo jumped before Gilreath’s protests had cleared the air.

  As they hit the ground, both the lieutenant and the sergeant threw their bodies on top of the loader, who at the moment was howling. “Sir, that was fucked up! You could have broken my neck.”

  The pressure of C-21 exploding sucked the oxygen from around the three men. As the shock wave cleared, Doc and Izzo began dragging the loader away from the tank.

  Looking down at the boy, Doc Hancock smiled. “You were saying something, Gilreath?”

  The loader, grimacing in pain as his injured leg bumped across the rough desert floor, looked embarrassed. “Forget it, sir.”

  Doc and Izzo hit the ground again as green tracers flashed out of the night toward them.

  “Goddamn it!” screamed Sergeant Izzo in pain.

  Doc looked to where the tracers had originated. The remaining Iraqi tanks were returning. “You hit, Iz?”

  The sergeant was already ripping open the plastic shell of his field dressing with his teeth. “Yeah . . . shoulder. I’ll be all right.”

  Reaching over, Doc helped the NCO cover the wound and tighten the dressing. “Can you drag Gilreath out of here while I hold these guys off?”

  “How the hell are you gonna do that?”

  Doc flared at the sergeant. “Can you drag him?”

  “Yeah . . . I can drag him.”

  Doc held up the loader’s rifle he’d grabbed from the turret roof before jumping from the tank. “When I start firing, get out of here.”

  The NCO looked at his platoon leader as if he were insane. After a moment, he nodded.

  Doc turned his face to the sound of the diesel engines approaching in the darkness. He could just make out the low shapes moving toward them. Pulling himself from the ground, Doc began walking toward the approaching T-72s, attempting to distance himself from his two crewmen. Sons of bitches. Try to rape my girl. Kill my driver. Blow up my tank. Well, fuck you. Switching the weapon’s selector to three-round burst, Doc raised the rifle to his shoulder and opened fire.

  Attack Position Queen, Northern Kuwait

  25 October, 0340 Hours Local

  The company of OH-58D Kiowa Warriors waited patiently at their attack position. They’d been assigned to the brigade as a reserve force to be used if the shit hit the fan. The gap between Steel and Knight threatened to turn 3rd Brigade’s right flank into one smelly mess.

  The OH-58D company commander, call sign Mad Dog, listened intently to the transmission coming from the 3rd Brigade TOC. “Roger, Striker Three. Moving now.”

  “Guideons, Mad Dog, I need a platoon to cut off a potential penetration of the brigade’s northern flank, vicinity TRP Sierra-Five.”

  Sam Matheson listened to the coordinates. She’d talked a set of maneuver graphics off of one of the brigade’s plans officers earlier. Having looked over the mission numerous times, she knew that was the area Steel would likely be operating in at the moment.

  “This is Cutlass. We’ve got it.”

  Before the commander could acknowledge, the four 58-Ds of Matheson’s platoon were speeding north into the night.

  Doc cringed as he heard the rifle hit on an empty cylinder. He was out of ammo. Looking back to check on his men’s progress, he saw Izzo drop to the ground as more tracers sprayed in the direction of the two injured crewmen, Doc’s efforts to distract the enemy tanks failing. The Iraqis could smell an easy kill and were not going to be denied.

  “Shit.” Dropping the rifle, Doc pulled the 9mm pistol from his shoulder holster. Taking a two-handed grip, he again opened fire. “Over here, you bastards!”

  Doc finally managed to draw the Iraqi crew’s attention. The tank’s machine gun ceased firing at Izzo and Gilreath and began firing at Doc instead. The rounds were landing well short, but working their way toward Doc in a straight line that ultimately would not be denied.

  “Look at the fool! He fires a pistol at us!” The tank commander laughed. Yelping, he dropped inside the turret.

  The gunner released his trigger and turned to his comrade. “Are you all right?”

  Running a hand across his forehead, the tank commander felt fresh blood from the 9mm crease across his jawline. He was no longer laughing. “He hit me! He actually hit me. Finish him! The other two are going nowhere.”

  The gunner put his face to the sight and squeezed the trigger again, working his rounds toward the American standing defiantly in their path. A commotion behind his intended victim drew the gunner’s attention. Lifting his gaze, he froze. An American attack helicopter hovered over the lone gunman, its wicked-looking missiles aimed directly at them.

  Sam had seen the recognition panel on the back of the M1A1’s commander’s hatch. She knew it had to be the same one she’d given Doc. Fearing the worst, she’d almost lost control. Then she saw him. The idiot was firing a pistol at a charging tank. Like a mother hen, Matheson sped her craft in his direction. On reaching him, she brought the helicopter to hover.

  Matheson lined up her sights and armed the Kiowa Warrior’s weapons station. “Okay, motherfucker. He may not be smart, but that’s my boy . . . and you don’t fuck with him.” Sam released the Hellfire missile and watched it blow into the T-72. The rest of her platoon, hovering off of her flanks, took the cue. Hellfire missiles rippled from the weapons pylons of the OH-58Ds. The penetration was sealed.

  “Mad Dog Six, Cutlass Six. Engaged and destroyed five T-72s, vicinity Sierra-Five. Proceeding back to Queen, over.”

  “This is Mad Dog. Roger. Good work, out.”

  As Sam turned, she looked down at Doc. He was waving.

  Looking up at the helicopter, Doc knew it had to be Sam. “Thanks, honey!” he yelled, waving skyward. The helo did a little wag, then darted south with its sister ships in tow.

  Holstering his pistol, Doc walked back to his men. Sergeant Izzo was working on Gilreath’s leg with his good arm. He obviously hadn’t made much of an effort to leave. The two men were only five feet from where Doc had initially left them. Slapping the loader’s leg, Izzo laughed. “You’re going to be fine, kid.”

  “Damn it, Sarge! That hurt!” yelled Gilreath. Reaching out a hand, he poked Izzo’s shoulder wound.

  “Ow!” yelled the gunner. “Why, you little shit . . .”

  “What are you guys doing here?” asked the platoon leader. “You were supposed to be heading south with all due haste.”

  Sergeant Izzo rubbed his shoulder. “Well, sir, every time we moved, that fucking T-72 started shooting at us. Besides,” he said, winking at Gilreath, “we had to wait and see if you were going to pull a knife on that tank when you ran out of 9mm bullets.”

  The gunner and loader howled. Doc tried to keep a straight face, but finally joined them.

  Slowly the laughter faded. Each of them thought of Cramer, but none spoke of their dead comrade. There would be time for that later. Slowly, the battle moved away from them.

  After a few minutes, Gilreath turned to Hancock. “Hey, sir. Was that Lieutenant Matheson?”

  Doc nodded.

  “Well, I guess that’s all there is to it then,” said the boy seriously.

  Doc looked at him and cocked his head quizzically. “What do you mean?”

  The young soldier looked at Hancock, finally shaking his head in exasperation. “Well, sir, I guess you’re gonna have to marry her now.”

  When First Sergeant Rider came on their position moments later with an ambulance track, he looked at the scene before him in confusion. Their tank burning just yards away, two of the men obviously wounded, the three remaining crew members of C-21 were sitting on the desert floor rocking with laughter.

  Madinah Division Forwar
d Headquarters, Northern Kuwait

  25 October, 0400 Hours Local

  “Get the presidential command bunker on the radio!” screamed General Sufian. “Tell them to relay to President Aref that I want authority to release my chemical munitions. It is the only way we can stall the American attack long enough for us to regroup and counterattack. Also tell them if I do not receive permission for release within the next five minutes, this battle is lost.”

  Iraqi Artillery Battalion Position, on the Iraq-Kuwait Border

  25 October, 0402 Hours Local

  Colonel Karim al-Hamdani turned to his executive officer. “Are the firing units in position?”

  The major nodded, obviously not pleased. General Sufian’s warning order had been received moments before. “Yes, Colonel. They are in position. The munitions are still being distributed to the gun platoons. We should be ready for firing missions shortly.”

  The colonel turned to his second in command questioningly. “What is wrong, Ahmed? Something bothers you.”

  The major shook his head and looked into the night, where men frantically moved about, completing precombat activities. “I believe this is wrong, sir. Once we open this . . . this Pandora’s Box, it will not be so easily closed.”

  Al-Hamdani’s face reddened. “You question our authority—more than that, our responsibility—to repel these infidels by whatever means necessary?”

  The major faced his commander, eyes sad. “Sir, I do not question our right or our responsibility. It is the method that I—”

  “Major!”

  The executive officer stood to attention. “Yes, sir.”

  “Because of the faithful service you have shown in the past, I will forget this conversation. Now go to the fire direction center and ensure that all is ready. Dismissed!”

  After saluting, the major left. The colonel walked out of the tent and surveyed his unit’s site. While the remainder of the artillery units supporting the Madinah Division continued to support the attack against the Americans to the south, Colonel al-Hamdani’s battalion of 155mm howitzers had been ordered to go to ground and hide late yesterday afternoon. If President Aref called for chemical munitions to be fired, al-Hamdani’s unit would receive the honor of striking the fateful blow.

  His eighteen-gun battalion would remain to the north, staying just within range of the Americans. If given the order to fire, they would shoot several volleys and displace north. The United States would know what happened, but they would not be able to locate the evidence before the battalion had displaced over the border and disposed of it.

  The munitions had begun arriving four hours earlier from the corps artillery site. The soldiers handling the rounds wore rubber chemical protective suits and masks. Of Eastern European design, the garments and masks were not as effective as the Americans’, so the men worked carefully.

  The agent present in the rounds they prepared was sarin. Originally produced in 1938 by the Germans, the nerve agent’s most recent use had been in the Iran-Iraq War—unless one counted its use against a civilian population in Japan by the Aum Shinrikyo religious sect in 1994 and 1995. Colorless and odorless, a minute quantity of Sarin would prove lethal within one minute of ingestion. The chemical could be breathed in or absorbed through the skin; either way, several things would happen to its victim in short order. The first symptoms would be a runny nose and tightening of the chest. These initial symptoms would quickly be followed by difficulty breathing, drooling, and vomiting. Because the victim loses all control of bodily functions, he would involuntarily defecate and urinate. Twitching and jerking of the entire body would soon follow. Ultimately, the victim would become comatose and suffocate as a consequence of convulsive spasms.

  A sergeant approached al-Hamdani, saluting. “Sir, I have been told to report that all guns are ready and the ammunition distributed.”

  Returning the salute, the colonel dismissed the sergeant and stepped back inside his tent. Fixing himself a cup of tea, he sat down by the radio and waited for the order that would ensure his battalion’s place in history.

  Presidential Command Complex, West of An Najaf, Iraq

  25 October, 0402 Hours Local

  The colonel in charge of Abdul Aref’s action center rushed into his office without knocking. “Sir! This message just arrived from the south.”

  The president, looking annoyed, took the note. After scanning it once, he read it again more carefully. The Iraqi leader looked to the clock on his wall—the message was two minutes old. So . . . it finally had come to this decision. He had told that woman of a soldier, Abunimah, that he was prepared to authorize the release of chemical munitions if necessary. But was he?

  Aref knew that his predecessor had been prepared to use nerve agents and mustard gas on the Coalition Forces during the Gulf War. Hussein had changed his mind at the last moment when the American president, Bush, had hinted that a nuclear response would follow any chemical strike by Iraq. Would Bush have actually pushed the button? Perhaps. Would the current American president—the teacher? That was the question. It was not as if chemical warfare had not been used throughout history. As early as the fifth century B.C. the Spartans had used sulfur fumes to overcome their enemies on the battlefields of ancient Greece. Was one tactical chemical strike on the modern battlefield all that different?

  Abdul Aref looked to the clock once more. Less than two minutes to make a decision. No, he finally decided, the teacher would not retaliate with nuclear weapons. He would not be willing to stand up to the global condemnation that would surely follow such an act. So what would he do? Escalate the bombing campaign currently hitting Iraq? That was impossible—they were already being hit with every platform and missile available to the Americans. His decision made, Aref turned to the colonel.

  “Inform General Sufian he has permission for release of his chemical weapons.”

  The colonel saluted and left. As he entered the hallway, he began sprinting towards the communications room. Halfway to his destination, the officer stumbled as the lights dimmed and the floor heaved beneath him. As he attempted to negotiate what was becoming an obstacle course of falling rock and mortar, the colonel could hear the sounds of bombs overhead. The hall lights went dark, replaced by the sound of an alarm Klaxon. Dimly at the end of the hallway, the officer could see red emergency lighting spilling from the communications room. Focusing on the mission assigned him, the colonel kept moving forward. He died three feet from the communications center, as a piece of concrete the size of a Volkswagen separated from the roof and crushed every bone in his body.

  Abdul Aref stumbled from his office and into the hallway, nearly falling as another concussion rocked his headquarters. “Guards! Guards!” he screamed, trying to be heard over the cries of the wounded.

  The major in charge of the bodyguards arrived moments later, his detail in tow. “Sir! Are you injured?”

  Aref sighed with relief at the sight of his protectors. “I am . . . fine. We must make for the emergency exit at once.”

  The major saluted smartly, then turned to his men and issued orders. Around them, the command and control complex’s infrastructure continued to give way under the massive bombardment.

  U.S. Central Command Headquarters (Forward), Bahrain

  25 October, 0457 Hours Local

  “So were we successful?” Pavlovski asked his assembled staff.

  Rear Admiral Dave Jordan, Pavlovski’s director of operations, nodded. “Yes, sir. If Aref was in there, he’s dead, buried, or running.”

  “Very well. Is our team ready?”

  The ex–naval aviator nodded. “They’re airborne, sir. We had to scramble to find enough Blackhawks to lift the entire battalion on such short notice, but we managed. They’re orbiting now and will move in as soon as the last ordnance hits.” Pausing, Jordan checked his watch. “That should be in about two minutes.”

  General Gus Pavlovski turned his head and slowly looked at each man in the room. “Make no mistake, gentlemen. I
want Abdul Aref’s head. Whether it’s attached to a living, breathing body really doesn’t matter much to me at the moment.”

  3rd Brigade Axis of Attack, Northern Kuwait

  25 October, 0630 Hours Local

  “Hold up, Tommy,” said Dillon in a tired voice.

  Without responding, C-66’s driver slowed the tank to a halt.

  “All Steel elements, Steel Six. Spread out here and hold. Platoons, set up sectors of fire oriented north from ten o’clock to two o’clock. Work up your casualty reports and cross-level ammo as necessary. I’m going higher to get a SITREP. Out.”

  But Dillon didn’t call anyone. He was just too damned tired. The sun had just begun rising when Steel and Anvil had been ordered to assault through this position and destroy what appeared to be the last remaining pocket of Iraqi resistance. They’d defeated the enemy force, but Steel had lost two more tanks in the process. Looking west, he saw Anvil pulling on line to his company’s left—they had lost three tanks in the dawn assault.

  Reaching into his sponson box, Dillon removed his canteen. He rinsed his mouth out and drank. From his pocket he produced a tin of Copenhagen. The silver lid of the tin flashed in the early-morning sun. Dillon began to open the can, then stopped. He looked at it another moment, then threw the snuff over the side of the tank. “Fuck it.”

  As he was about to call Estes, HQ-66 pulled abreast of his tank. Pulling off his CVC, Dillon poured half of the canteen over his head and face. Something had to be going on, he thought, for the commander to meet him here. Well, give them five more minutes and the company would be ready to roll.

  As Dillon hopped to the ground, he found Estes leaning against his tank’s front slope. The man looked ready to drop from exhaustion.