Tin Soldiers

by Michael Farmer

  Wilcox allowed thirty seconds, then called out, “Cease fire . . . cease fire! Anybody hit?” His men checked in. The lieutenant had been the skirmish’s only casualty so far.

  A voice called in broken English from up the trail. “We . . . sur-ren-der. Do not . . . shoot! We are coming out!”

  Wilcox slowly rose, taking up a squatting position behind the large rock he was coming to love. The Arabs were sprawled along the trail. Most looked dead. The rest weren’t going to be a problem. He couldn’t see the owner of the voice that had called out. “All right, Ali! You come out slow and easy with your hands on top of your head!”

  After a few seconds, the figure appeared. Hands on head, the Iraqi tentatively approached.

  Sergeant Wilcox rose, covering him. “Come on! This way! Real—fuckin’—slow!”

  A minute later, his men had the figure on the ground and cuffed with plastic binding straps. He looked like any other Iraqi to Wilcox.

  The local man raised his face, pleading with Wilcox. “Please . . . we are but simple shepherds—”

  “Then why the hell did you fire on us?” snapped the burly sergeant.

  “We . . . we . . . have had troubles with the soldiers in recent weeks. Sometimes our goats get trapped in the caves and we have to retrieve them.”

  The sergeant stared at the man. “Well, you’re mighty well armed for goat herders.”

  Wilcox turned to his two nearest men. “Smith, Le-French, come with me to check the status of this guy’s pals.” He pointed at the RTO. “Louie, call the C.O. and let him know what’s goin’ on. Tell him we’re on the way down.”

  The White House

  25 October, 0330 Hours Eastern

  From his position next to the Situation Room’s electronic map, General Tom Werner stood. “Sir, as you know, the objectives of Operation Phoenix are threefold. First, to send a message to Iraq and other nations manufacturing weapons of mass destruction that use of such weapons on U.S. troops is unilaterally unacceptable. Second, to cut out the heart of the Iraqi military, which translates to their Republican Guard. And finally, to minimize the civilian casualties resulting from the operation to the greatest extent possible.”

  “General,” said the president quietly, “would you please go through the list of targets a final time?”

  Drake looked at the electronic map. It was set to display real-time information on the current operation. Currently, five areas of Iraq had small circles around them. Werner used a laser pointer to indicate a target in the north. “Allahu Akbar Command Center, headquarters of the Republican Guard’s Northern Corps.” The general continued, indicating the other four targets in turn. “Al Fatahul Mubeen Command Center, their Southern Corps headquarters. Nabukhuth Nussar Command Center, a mechanized infantry division. Al Nedaa Command Center, an armored division. Adnan Command Center, a mechanized infantry division.”

  Moving the pointer south, the general paused when the red light touched on northern Kuwait. “The other three major Republican Guard division centers will not be hit, because these divisions—the Tawakalna, the Madinah, and the Hamourabi—have been rendered combat ineffective during the past week’s fighting by our military forces in the theater of operations.”

  General Werner moved the glowing red light north to the center of Iraq. “One Republican Guard mechanized infantry division will remain untouched because it is headquartered in the vicinity of Baghdad.”

  The chairman turned off the pointer and turned back to the president. “The Guard’s only other remaining forces fall within the Special Republican Guard, a division-sized unit whose headquarters is in Baghdad and whose units are spread out and fall close to major population centers. The Special Guard contains some combat units, but their primary function is to provide protection to Aref, his family, and his advisors.”

  “And the scope of damage from the strikes?” asked the president.

  “Sir, the ADMs—”

  “General, please. Try not to use Pentagonese right now. Just keep it simple.”

  Werner nodded. “Yes, sir. The atomic demolition units, commonly referred to as ‘satchel bombs,’ are the smallest tactical nuclear weapons in our inventory. The weapons were designed for Special Forces to use behind enemy lines to destroy key infrastructure like airports, railroad centers, roads, and as today, command and control centers.”

  The general paused. By God, the man needed to hear the real deal. “Sir, the devices will do what we need them to do. They’ll destroy the majority of the Republican Guard’s remaining equipment, kill most of their highly trained troops, and hopefully scare the bejeezus out of the bastards—all without putting more of our troops’ lives on the line. There will be some fallout—there’s no way around that—but due to the size of the devices, it will be minimal.”

  President Jonathan Drake turned to the other side of the room. Displayed across twenty different large, flat-screen monitors were the faces of the ranking leaders of NATO, representatives from the United States’ old allies in the Middle East region, and the leaders of Russia and China. “Gentlemen, do you have any questions?”

  The president of Russia, who appeared to have swallowed some bad borscht, was the first to reply. “President Drake, I cannot agree to what you plan—”

  The prim representative from France didn’t give the Russian president a chance to complete his sentence. “Nor, sir, can I. France will not condone—”

  Other monitors began to buzz with broken English and foreign tongues.

  Drake, whose face told of the inner battles he’d struggled with over the past days, wearily raised a hand. Slowly the voices settled. Once the room was utterly silent, Drake began. “Gentlemen, I made an emergency request for all of you to join in this teleconference for two reasons—to tell you what our current plan is and to alleviate future concerns that we might initiate strikes against targets other than those you’ve just seen outlined in this briefing.”

  Drake then turned to the French representative’s monitor and looked at him knowingly. “By the way, Mr. Ambassador,” he asked the French delegate, “how have your intelligence satellites been operating lately? I understand you’ve had some problems with them recently.”

  The president looked over the sea of electronic faces. Some he knew; others he did not. “I will say this, and it is our last word on the matter. When Iraq threatened the border of one of our allies, we responded in an attempt to ensure that ally’s stability and to keep peace in the region. Most of our other allies in the region not only remained neutral while their neighbor was threatened, but stopped just short of aiding the aggressing nation of Iraq by forcing the withdrawal of U.S. troops from their soil—leaving us virtually no base of operations in the region. When Iraq attacked into Kuwait, our forces and those of the Kuwaitis met them in open battle and won. This apparently did not sit well with President Aref. He subsequently ordered chemical strikes on our troops. If that were not enough, our latest satellite imagery shows not only six more divisions of Iraqi tanks and infantry preparing to move south toward Kuwait, but along with them more SCUD launchers—doubtless many of which have chemical or biological payloads waiting to be launched in order to further soften resistance against them.”

  An Arabic man in a business suit accompanied the representative from the Algerian embassy. He had been pointed out to Drake before the conference as a high-ranking Iraqi official. “Sir, you have no proof.”

  Drake, prepared for the accusation, depressed a button on the table in front of him. The targeted areas of Iraq dissolved and were replaced by the picture of an uncovered mass grave in the desert. The bodies belonged to soldiers who’d been in the center of the artillery chemical strike. It wasn’t a pretty scene. Clearly, the men had been exposed to large doses of chemical munitions. Their bodies were contorted into grotesque shapes and to a man the dead seemed to scream in silent agony. A soldier stood silent sentinel in front of the grave wearing a full chemical protective suit and mask. He held in front of him a Stars and
Stripes newspaper. The current date was clearly visible on the front page.

  “We’ll have the full facts on the attack shortly, as we now are in control of the site from which it was launched. For now, that picture of over seventy dead American soldiers will have to do.”

  Drake turned back to the Algerian representative, glancing with meaning at his companion first. “Sir, we have tried without pause to reach President Aref—or any ranking government official in Iraq for that matter—but to no avail. I am asking you now to open the channels available to you and inform them of the planned strikes. The only thing that will stop them is an immediate cease-fire and the unconditional withdrawal of all Iraqi forces from Kuwait.”

  The Iraqi behind the diplomat whispered angrily in the man’s ear. The Algerian looked at Drake from the monitor. “And what, sir, if the government of Iraq, despite the loss of its most elite troops, should decide to continue its attack?”

  “Captain, are you with us?” asked Drake, interrupting the diplomat.

  A previously dark screen lit up, displaying a naval officer. From the array of equipment around him, it was clear he was operating from a tactical location. “Yes, sir, Mr. President.”

  “Gentlemen, this is Captain Young. Captain, please tell these gentlemen who you are, what you do, and more important, your current instructions.”

  There was a slight delay as the satellite relaying the voice and video signals caught up, then a nod. “Yes, sir. I’m the commanding officer of the USS Connecticut, a Seawolf-class fast attack submarine. The Connie carries a mix of Harpoon antiship missiles, Mark 48 ADCAP torpedoes, and Tomahawk cruise missiles. All that should really be important to these gentlemen is that right now we have three Tomahawks with nuclear payloads ready to fire on word from our National Command Authority, the first of which are targeted on Baghdad.”

  “Thank you, Captain Young.”

  “Aye, sir,” said the figure, and the interior shot of the sub disappeared.

  After a few moments of consultation with his associate, the Algerian diplomat smiled. “Mr. President, I believe we can help you work out a compromise of some sort. I believe that within two days we can negotiate the withdrawal of most—”

  Drake shook his head and bent to shut down the transmission from his end. “You have two hours.”

  There was a commotion behind the Algerian. The Iraqi official had disappeared.

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

  25 October, 1100 Hours Local

  The assembled staff of United States Central Command sat silently in the spacious conference room. Around them, steaming cups of coffee and silver platters of delicate pastries went untouched.

  At the head of the table, General Gus Pavlovski stood. “Gentlemen, I have just spoken with the President.” The general paused, then with great deliberateness continued. “We have been ordered to prepare the final phase of Operation Phoenix. Call the commanders of our forces in theater to inform them of the decision. As it stands, the operation is a go at twelve hundred hours local.”

  The officers looked at their commander, knowing that something had to follow . . . some chain of events or alternative response that would cause the order to be rescinded.

  An air force colonel cleared his throat. “General . . . can we do this?”

  Pavlovski looked at the colonel sympathetically. “You know, Al, ten years ago the answer would have probably been no. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it, things have changed. In the past, we’d have had to clear this through all of our allies in order to ensure we didn’t lose their support. Therein lies our problem. Our allies have abandoned us. We could beat these guys conventionally—once we managed to get enough troops on the ground. But we don’t have enough troops on the ground, and this maniac has already shown that he’s willing to throw chemical agents at the few we do have in theater. Which brings up the second reason. If we don’t do something now before the horde starts south, you can write off every American service member still alive in Kuwait.”

  The air force colonel stood. “Sir, I respect you a great deal, but I cannot in good faith condone this action.” The officer saluted and held the gesture. “Request permission to be dismissed, sir.”

  Pavlovski returned the salute. “You’re dismissed.”

  As the colonel dropped the salute and headed for the door, Pavlovski called after him. “Al.”

  The officer turned, hand on the conference room doorknob. “Yes, sir?”

  “You’ve still got a job tomorrow, son . . . and frankly I don’t blame you a damned bit.”

  The colonel smiled sadly and left the room.

  Turning to the others in the room, the CINC looked over their faces. “Anyone else?”

  West of An Najaf, Iraq

  25 October, 1155 Hours Local

  The patrol had made it down the trail five minutes before. Now as Abdul Aref watched from a kneeling position twenty feet away, an officer approached the body of the American lieutenant who had been killed. The officer lifted the poncho and stared for a few moments, then gently replaced it. Standing slowly, the man turned and walked toward him and his guard.

  “Hold his head up again, Sergeant Wilcox,” said the officer, a captain.

  The NCO gladly complied and twisted his prisoner’s head painfully upright.

  The American looked at him so long and hard that Aref tried to turn his head, but the grip in his hair wouldn’t allow it. As he was forced to look at the officer, fear crept up his spine.

  “I’ll be damned,” said the giant officer quietly. “It’s him.”

  The Iraqi leader felt a sense of vertigo. He’d hoped to be marched away and grouped with the other prisoners of war. He knew that if that happened he’d soon be back at one of his fifty presidential palaces. It looked as though it was not to be.

  The American squatted in front of him. “My name is Captain Jack Kelly. I am the commander of C Company, Third Battalion of the 325th Airborne Infantry Regiment. You are my prisoner and will be accorded rights as stated by the Geneva Convention.” Kelly leaned closer, almost into his face. “But so help me God, you give me an excuse, and I’ll cut your heart out myself. Clear?”

  Aref squinted as he looked into the man’s face. He was but a word or a gesture from death, and he knew it. “Yes.”

  Standing, Kelly called to his radio operator. “Get me the battalion commander on the line. ASAP.”

  Kelly stared at the prisoner as the RTO made the call. His fingers brushed the handle of his bayonet as he thought of his father, of the young lieutenant lying behind him beneath a dusty poncho, of all the lives this one man had impacted in such horrible ways.

  “Sir, the battalion commander said we have to get to the pickup zone now. Choppers are on the way.”

  Kelly turned to the corporal. “What’s going on, Midtlaen? Did you tell him who we had here?”

  The young soldier shook his head. “I tried. He cut me off and said to get the fuck out of here, time now.”

  “Give me the radio.” Kelly took the handset. “Put me on division command.”

  The RTO looked incredulous. “Sir?”

  “Just do it, Middie!”

  The corporal turned a switch on the radio a few positions and nodded. “Go, sir!”

  Kelly wasted no time. “All stations this net, all stations this net, this is Wolverine Six. We have secured the target. I say again, we have secured the target, over!”

  A pompous voice immediately answered Kelly. “Wolverine Six, you and the other units have orders to clear out. I’m giving you . . .”

  There was a ten-second pause, and then a different voice came over the radio’s speaker. “Wolverine Six, we understand your transmission. Are you certain it is the target? Over.”

  Captain Jack Kelly looked at the man in question. Since his father’s death, he’d memorized every line, every blemish, every hair of the individual he held responsible for that death and so many more.

  �
��Affirmative.”

  “Roger, stand by.”

  In the division CP, the colonel speaking into the radio grabbed a different handset and screamed into it: “We have Hannibal in hand! I say again, we have Hannibal!”

  An answering voice confirmed the call.

  Turning to the dumbfounded major from whom he’d taken the radio handset, the colonel smiled coldly. “Well, Wally, how does it feel to be the man who almost single-handedly ensured the first nuclear strikes since World War II?”

  CHAPTER 15

  Homecoming

  25 October: CNN News Desk—“This just in . . . American forces in Kuwait have captured Iraqi President Abdul Aref as he was attempting to escape from an underground complex. White House sources further inform us that the Iraqis have requested a cease fire while they attempt to sort their government. . . .”

  05 November: Baghdad (Reuters)—In a brief ceremony this afternoon, General Ali Abunimah was sworn in as Iraq’s interim president. Abunimah, the former head of Iraq’s military, said that his first official act would be to take custody of former president Abdul Aref from the United States. He added that Aref will be placed on trial for crimes against the state. The rumors in Baghdad are that Abunimah severed diplomatic relations with Iran within minutes of taking office.

  19 November: Kuwait City (AP)—Sheikh Jaber Al-Ahmed al-Jaber al-Sabah, the emir of Kuwait, today made a rare public appearance. In a prepared statement, Kuwait’s ruler announced formal relations with Iraq. Since taking over Iraq’s government two weeks ago, President Ali Abunimah has gained the confidence of the emir by turning over hundreds of Kuwaiti political prisoners previously reported by the Hussein and Aref governments as missing or dead. These prisoners, held since late 1990 in Iraq, said on being released that the changes Abunimah has already brought to Iraq are startling.