Battleline (2007)

by Jack - Seals 05 Terral

  The Arab boys went into a program where they learned weapons, demolitions, map reading and orienteering, small-unit tactics, and other skills needed for the basics of combat. A crash course in acquiring a good working knowledge of Farsi was included. One pleasant part of the duty was that they were given an abundance of meat, vegetables, and fruit in their mess tents. Only when they were in the field did they go hungry as a preparation for long periods of tough, relentless campaigning.

  After twelve weeks of hard work, they graduated and were assigned to permanent units. From that point on, they went on complicated and demanding FTXs to sharpen the skills taught them. Then Qazi and nineteen other young troopers were chosen for a special assignment in which they would go into a real war. They were issued French FA-MAS assault rifles, ammunition, rations, and brand-new field gear.

  After being equipped, the rookies were taken by bus to a spot near the Iran-Afghanistan border, with maps showing their destination, where they would link with a battle group actively engaged in combat. They set off in high spirits, ready to fight and conquer.

  Then they were ambushed.

  Qazi's buddy, when questioned, gave the same story except that he was a country bumpkin from Yemen who had been recruited into the Jihad Abadi while working as a laborer in Saudi Arabia.

  .

  SEAL BASE CAMP

  1200 HOURS

  PO2C Bruno Puglisi was on Lieutenant Bill Brannigan's shit list.

  The shooting of the snakebitten EPW may have been merciful, but Puglisi had taken it upon himself to perform the deed. He should have waited for orders from the Skipper before taking such a drastic step. Now the Skipper was between a rock and a hard place. The killing of a prisoner was a serious situation, and if the truth came out, Puglisi could be in bad trouble.

  The Skipper had glared at him, speaking in a low tone of extreme anger. "You just better hope nobody gets real curious about this. If they do, you're gonna be in deep shit and I'll be having serious career problems of my own. As it is, I'm going to report that the guy was killed during an escape attempt."

  "That's technically correct, sir," Puglisi happily agreed.

  "Shut up!"

  "Aye, sir!"

  Brannigan then dropped the miscreant into the front-leaning rest, and chewed the SEAL's ass to pieces with loud bellowing. After venting his rage, the Skipper followed SOP and gave him the choice of administrative punishment or a court-martial. Puglisi had completed boot camp a long time ago, and he knew the better of that deal. He chose administrative punishment under Article 15 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. That meant the incident wouldn't go in his personnel record. It also eased the Skipper's problem with keeping the snake-bite incident under wraps.

  Now Brannigan could choose a punishment. If he was less than creative and did something like make Puglisi run up and down the mountain trails with a rucksack full of heavy rocks, it would make a hero out of the erring SEAL. In fact, some of the other Brigands might take on the task themselves to see how they could handle it. So the Skipper assigned the slightly miffed sniper to forty-eight hours of watch-and-watch. But rather than let him rest between stints of duty, he had him report to Senior Chief Buford Dawkins for extra "tasks." Consequently, rather than having four hours of sleep during his off-duty time, Puglisi sometimes got as little as one before having to report back to the watch officer for another tour of duty.

  The senior chief was inspired, almost artistic, in the jobs he thought up for Puglisi to perform during his "free time." He had him count all the sandbags in One Sector and Two Sector, then report the percentage differences between the two areas. Another time he had him transfer a pile of rocks from one of the destroyed fighting positions to another location, twenty paces away. The rub was that Puglisi had to carry each rock over one at a time, place it down, then turn and go back to fetch another. Those chores and other things, such as using a toothbrush to scrub the deck of the Headquarters bunker and cleaning the Fire Support Section's machine guns, kept the struggling SEAL from getting much sleep between watches.

  The rest of the detachment cringed at the chickenshit aspects of the ordeal. The collective feelings of the others were summed up by Joe Miskoski, who said, "You gotta be a real dumb sack of shit to get in a mess like that."

  Bruno Puglisi would have agreed with him.

  GARTH Redhawk and Matty Matsuno had become good buddies.

  This friendship began during a quiet period after the ambush, when they were sitting in the Sneaky Petes' area, cleaning their weapons. The conversation had been the quiet sort common between young men busy at important tasks. Matty, who was wiping down his bolt, asked, "What's that little bag you wear around your neck, Garth?"

  Garth explained the meaning behind the medicine bag and showed him the trident insignia, the piece of wood from the Oklahoma tree, and the small rock from South America. "I don't really go around looking for things," Garth said, "but if something is right for the bag, I know right away. And so far I only got these three things."

  "It's Indian custom, huh?"

  "Well, I prefer to call it Kiowa or Comanche custom," Garth said. "My dad isn't really into that stuff. He's a petroleum engineer and has a real logical and scientific mind. My grandfather on my mother's side taught me a lot about the old traditions."

  "Is the way you put camouflage paint on your face an Indian, er--Kiowa or whatever-thing?"

  Garth nodded. "My grandfather told me about the different patterns, and I designed the one I use myself. Once when I wrote him, I drew it down for him. He approved." He grinned. "Big medicine."

  "Hell, I have the same situation at home you do," Matty said. "My granddad is into Bushido big time, but my dad couldn't care less. He's a software programmer down in the Silicon Valley. My parents are divorced, and my mom and I lived with my grandparents. My granddad belonged to a society that observed the philosophical and spiritual sides of Japanese martial culture. When I was about twelve or thirteen, he took me down to his club's dojo and signed me up for kendo lessons."

  "Hey, man!" Garth said, laughing. "I know that bushido is the samurai code, but what's this dojo and kendo stuff?"

  "Kendo means 'way of the sword,' and the dojo is the place where they practice and learn about martial arts," Matty said. "In other words, it's a sort of combination school and gym."

  "My grandfather taught me the ways of the Plains Indians warriors with a couple of his old buddies," Garth said. "They even made bows and arrows the traditional way. They used to go down to a creek back home and get flint to make arrowheads. I really learned to respect those old guys. They were pretty good and taught me to hunt. They played up the stealth part, and I learned to move silently."

  "That's like the ninjas, man!" Matty said. "I studied some of that too, but more of the spiritual side than anything else."

  "You know what we ought to do," Garth said, "let's exchange some of the lessons we learned as boys. It could be a lot of help out there on patrol."

  "Yeah," Matty agreed. "It couldn't hurt." He began replacing the sling on his M-16.

  .

  USS COMBS

  1800 HOURS

  CARL Joplin and Commanders Thomas Carey and Ernest Berringer were alone in the wardroom. They had been served cups of coffee by a waiter, and they sat around the table in earnest conversation. The diplomat and the two staff officers had read transcripts of the interrogation of the two EPWs that had been completed an hour before.

  "Well," Carey said, having finished perusing his copy, "once again Aladdin proved his worth when he told us about those Arab reinforcements."

  Berringer, a trained intelligence officer, had a worried expression on his face. "Those EPWs said some things that scare the hell out of me. Evidently the Iranian Special Forces effort is stepping up. They must be running hundreds of Shiites through that training."

  "Mmm," Carey nodded in agreement. "Those prisoners said there were fifty people in their group before twenty were pulled out to go to Afghanistan. And
there were a lot more who seem to be stationed there and going through some rather sophisticated FTXs to get sharpened up."

  He was thoughtful for a moment. "I wonder why they didn't transfer some of their more experienced men instead of the bunch that included our EPWs."

  "I think they're saving their best-trained people for the big push," Berringer said. "There's something sneaky going on with those fucking Iranians."

  "There is one big bit of information lacking," Joplin commented. "We have no idea just how many Arabs are in the Iranians' program, and we need to know."

  "We can't even make an estimate," Berringer said. "They might even have some additional training camps or programs that Aladdin doesn't know about."

  "Damn it!" Carey said. "I wish there was some way we could contact him."

  "Forget it," Berringer said. "He could be sitting right in the middle of the bad guys.

  He sure as hell doesn't want somebody to hear a transmission from us coming in on his commo equipment. I hate to think what they'd put him through to make him talk."

  "I am certainly no expert in this sort of thing," Joplin said, "but it is obvious he is on his own."

  "I don't mean to be disrespectful, Carl," Carey said, "but allow me to say that I've never been too keen on this mission we've forced Brannigan and his men to take on. I'm beginning to feel like we tossed them into a boiling cauldron."

  "If things go wrong it will be all my fault," Joplin said. "I made a judgment based on my experiences in international diplomacy. It just seemed to me that the Iranians don't want to have a showdown at this time and in that place. In my estimation they want to keep it low-key so we won't make a big response to their presence there on the border. They also have the Israelis to contend with."

  "Maybe you played into their hands, Carl," Berringer said. "I hate like hell to say that, but with time on their side, the Iranians could build up a big enough force to roll into Afghanistan and Pakistan both. That would give them a pretty strong foothold on the eastern side of the Persian and Oman gulfs as well as north of the Arabian Sea."

  "Man!" Carey exclaimed. "The former Soviet Republics of Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, and Tajikistan might throw in with 'em. They all have Islamic populations."

  "Hell!" Carey exclaimed. "Even the Chinese Muslims in the west might join their cause."

  Carl Joplin, PhD, sighed and stared into his coffee cup. "Such thoughts have also occurred to me." He raised his eyes to his companions. "Y'know, I've not been sleeping well lately."

  CHAPTER 9

  OA

  IRAN-AFGHANISTAN BORDER

  17 JUNE-1 JULY

  THE operational area had settled down to one of tense observation. The last shot fired had been by Bruno Puglisi on 17 June, when he and Joe Miskoski were in their snipers mode atop the hill over the Headquarters bunker. Joe was acting as spotter, using high-power binoculars to locate possible targets on the other side of the valley. He anxiously scanned the enemy position in hopes of locating a target for his partner. Puglisi rested his eyes by keeping them closed, and was ready to turn to the telescopic sight. He had spent a couple of hours seeing it had been properly mounted and zeroed in on his AS-50 sniper rifle.

  After a quarter of an hour, Miskoski spotted a careless Zaheya soldier with the top half of his head exposed to view. The alert SEAL quickly pointed it out to Puglisi, who immediately sighted in on the man and pulled the trigger. The exact moment the firing pin hit the primer, the intended victim bent over to pick up a dropped pack of cigarettes. The heavy .50-caliber bullet crashed into the side of the fighting position, then ricocheted off with a loud, buzzing whine.

  A prayer of thanks must have been given to Allah that evening.

  Now both sides were cautious and vigilant, keeping low profiles along their defenses both night and day. Off-duty hours in the safety of the bunkers offered the only real security when meals could be consumed, reading materials scanned, and slumber enjoyed. The only thing that kept the combatants from sinking into a state of deep lethargy was the constant danger they faced. Those on watch in hours of darkness peered expectantly through the NVGs, while the watch commanders used night vision binoculars to search out movement within the flora and boulders strewn across the expanse of no-man's-land.

  This was the tedious anxiety of trench warfare exactly as it had been from 1914 to 1918, during World War One.

  .

  WASHINGTON, D. C.

  6 JULY 1000 HOURS

  WHEN Dirk Wallenger returned from the three-day Fourth of July weekend, he had a special message on the answering machine in the den of his home. The communication, delivered in an Arabic accent, was short but important. "This is Ali. Please meet me tomorrow at the regular time. However, please go to the alternate place. Thank you."

  THE next morning following the call, Wallenger walked up to the taxi stand where Constitution Avenue, Second Street, and Maryland Avenue converge. He was a short, dumpy man in his early thirties with a cherubic face that exhibited childlike qualities. This effect was belied somewhat by a pair of eyes that exhibited glints of aggression. Wallenger quickly spotted the driver he was looking for and got into his vehicle. The man, not bothering to ask for a destination,wasted no time in pulling out into traffic. He turned south on Third Street, going down to Independence Avenue, where he made a right turn. Now they were settled into stop-and-go traffic, where it was possible to move along slowly while conversing. The cabbie looked into his rearview mirror at his fare. "How have you been, Mr. Wallenger?"

  "Fine, Ali," he replied. "I take it you have some news for me."

  "Yes, Mr. Wallenger," Ali replied. "Some most interesting information was sent to my mosque. It is saying that a mujahideen taken prisoner by American Special Forces was shot dead. Executed without provocation."

  Wallenger had already taken his notebook out and was poised to scribble. "May I have some details?"

  "Of course," Ali said. "This has happened in the western part of Afghanistan. There was a fight and the Americans were hidden. They shoot and kill everybody but three mujahideen, who are surrendering and begging for mercy."

  "Can you be more specific than just the 'western part' of Afghanistan?"

  "It was most close to the Iran border, sir," Ali said. "It was part of the mountains called Gharawdara Highlands. I am told that is the correct manner in which to be pronouncing it."

  "Can you spell that?"

  "Alas, I am unable to do so in either the Arabic or English alphabet, Mr. Wallenger."

  "Never mind, I can look it up on a map," Wallenger said. "Where did this news come from?"

  "It is coming from Bahrain, sir."

  "Ah, yes!" Wallenger exclaimed. "It must be out of the prison at Station Bravo."

  "Yes, sir."

  "What was the date of the incident, Ali?"

  "It was on fifteen of June, sir, in the morning when the battle is taking place," Ali said.

  "Mmm," Wallenger mused. "Okay. Tell me the circumstances in which this information was discovered by the person who reported it."

  "He is talking to one of the men in one part of the prison and he tells him about the shooting," Ali explained. "Then the man in prison is saying his friend who was with him is also in the prison." He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, slipping it through the slot in the shield behind him.

  Wallenger took the scrap and read the names printed in block letters. "Let's see. We have Hamza Qazi and Rahmat Nahayan. And they are both confined in the prison at the American base in Bahrain, true?"

  "Yes," Ali answered. "That is true. At Station Bravo."

  "Very good," Wallenger said. "Did this person making the report talk to both these men?"

  "Yes. And they are telling the same story, Mr. Wallenger."

  "Do they know the reason the one man was shot?"

  "Yes, Mr. Wallenger. He was hurt and the Americans did not want to carry him. So they killed him."

  "Alright," Wallenger said. "Are there any more d
etails?"

  "No," Ali replied. "I am assured that this is the whole story."

  "Very well," Wallenger said. "I guess that's everything I need. If you get any more information about this, please let me know." He settled back in his seat, feeling very good about the revelation. "You can take me back to the cab stand."

  "Yes, sir, Mr. Wallenger."

  Ali pulled into the parking lot driveway of the Department of Agriculture and turned around, going back to Independence Avenue for the return trip. Twenty minutes later he pulled up to the cab stand and stopped. Wallenger leaned forward. "I appreciate this information very much, Ali, and I know what to do with it."

  "I am most pleased, Mr. Wallenger," Ali said. "We at the mosque know you will use it to be proving the Muslims are innocent victims of American military aggression."

  "I certainly will," Wallenger said. "You can depend on me." He pulled five hundred dollars out of his wallet and passed it over to the driver, then got out to return to his office.

  DIRK Wallenger worked for GNB--Global News Broadcasting--a cable TV network headquartered in the nation's capital. It was carried by some three hundred independent stations around the country, with a total viewing public of several millions. GNB was known for its antiwar, anti-American government agenda, and Wallenger was its prize commentator. He gained the confidence and admiration of the network's staff on a story he brought out of South America about American Green Berets massacring innocent villagers in the Gran Chaco territory in Bolivia. Demonstrations of rage broke out in all the major urban areas of Latin America as condemnations of the crime were voiced in the United Nations. Even some elements in the U. S. Congress called for special hearings. The usual group of shock jocks, Hollywood stars, and television personalities and journalists with agendas voiced their opinions and assessments of the situation, both pro and con in loudly argumentative segments on special news programs. And, of course, the usual bevy of pundits made up of retired lieutenant colonels from the U. S. Army and Air Force were also on hand to expound on their opinions and assessments of the incident.