Battleline (2007)

by Jack - Seals 05 Terral

  When the SEALs arrived at the flat area behind the mountain, they headed for the rendezvous point where the Air Force Pave Low chopper would pick them up. A scant two minutes passed before the helicopter's engine could be heard approaching the area. Brannigan sent Ensign Taylor to the front of the formation to lead the way to the pickup point. The SEALs had gone no more than fifty meters when they were suddenly in the midst of incoming rifle fire. They looked back and spotted some two dozen enemy soldiers shooting at them.

  "Where the fuck did they come from?" somebody yelled in loud anger and frustration.

  This was not the time when Bruno Puglisi became vocal; this was a call to action as far as he was concerned. He turned the SAW on the closely packed group, hosing them with short bursts. When the first magazine emptied, he quickly replaced it and continued to fire as he withdrew, walking backward. Suddenly he was flanked by Joe Miskoski and Connie Concord. The mixed fire of bullets and grenades forced the attackers to hit the dirt and scramble for cover.

  Brannigan's angry voice came over the LASH. "You three get the hell out of there. The chopper isn't gonna wait all day."

  The trio turned and rushed toward the waiting aircraft. The firing at them increased until bullets cracked the air around their heads and kicked up spurts of dirt from the ground they ran across. At the same moment that they scurried up the ramp into the interior of the chopper, the pilot worked collective and cyclic to race into a very steep and rapid turn before climbing for altitude.

  Good ol' AFSOC!

  CHAPTER 16

  GLOBAL NEWS

  BROADCASTING LIMOUSINE WASHINGTON, D. C.

  8 AUGUST 1900 HOURS

  THE limodriver/bodyguard Lazlo Czernk followed the orders for that evening's ride as he rolled slowly over the Theodore Roosevelt Memorial Bridge toward Virginia. The window between the burly man and his passengers was up, and although he couldn't hear a word that passed between the two men, it was obvious to him that it was not a pleasant conversation.

  Dirk Wallenger, with his lower lip protruding, looked like a petulant little boy as he sat pressed up against the side of the car. His eyebrows were knitted into a frown, and he displayed his usual body language expression of anger by crossing his arms across his chest. On the opposite side of the seat, leaning toward him with an intent expression, Don Allen, the CEO of Global News Broadcasting, was speaking seriously in an authoritative tone.

  "Dirk, you pay very close attention to what I'm telling you," Allen said. "This is not a situation to take lightly."

  "Mmf!" Wallenger said. "You're caving in, Don!"

  "Oh, no!" Allen snapped. "Don't take that attitude with me, Dirk. There are certain times when reality must be faced up to firmly and coldly. And I must admit that there have been instances in the past when you went overboard on some of your stories, but I've never reined you in before.

  However, I'm going to this time. You can be absolutely certain about that."

  "Am I supposed to believe you've decided to support that stupid war in the Middle East?"

  "I am not supporting the war at all," Allen said. "And what I am telling you to do is not supporting that conflict either. But there is one thing of disagreeing with government policy and another when it comes to turning against the people serving over there."

  "These are not draftees, for Chrissake, like in Vietnam!" Wallenger cried. "They are professional killers. They don't deserve any consideration whatsoever."

  "Let me remind you of something," Allen said through clenched teeth. "I'll be the first to admit that we at Global News Broadcasting have an agenda. I'm a leftist . . . a socialist . . . a nonconformist . . . a Bolshevik, if you will. And I've grown up with an innate distrust of authority. But the bottom line is that GNB is in business to inform and support the American public. Now, supposedly that's the average guy on the street and his wife and kids. Nowadays, both husband and wife have to work to afford a decent standard of living. Understand? They are not members of our particular social class, Dirk. You and I are both from wealthy families. We had opportunities for education and a lifestyle that the average U. S. citizen can only dream about."

  "So what?" Wallenger said. "We didn't choose our families, did we? We were born into advantageous circumstances because of a chance meeting between a certain sperm and a certain egg in our mothers' wombs. I am not going to be apologetic about it. In fact, I am devoting my life to helping that average Joe have a better existence in this unfair world. All I want for him and his family is equality and justice."

  "That's fine, Dirk. But you don't help anybody by attacking them! You help them by attacking the injustices in the system. And that's the key word--the system!"

  Wallenger turned his head to glare in righteous indignation at his boss. "I am not attacking the people!"

  "When you accuse servicemen and servicewomen of atrocities, you are attacking the people," Allen argued. "That's where the soldiers and sailors come from. Our social equals aren't over there in the military. The ones fighting, dying, and getting maimed are the kids of workers--those average Joes we're talking about. I'm sure some of them have committed atrocities, albeit only a minuscule percent. But those who have done so were put in the situations where they lose control by the government you and I hate. When nineteen-or twenty-year-old kids see their buddies killed by a treacherous enemy, some of them are going to eventually lose their heads and strike back most viciously. Instead of condemning those guys, let's take off after the assholes who sent them over there in the first place. Or perhaps I should say the assholes who are making the mistakes that intensify and lengthen this disaster. Does that make sense to you?"

  "The guys who killed that wounded prisoner were Army Special Forces," Wallenger said. "They are professional killers. Gangsters! A Mafia in uniform!"

  "I've learned they were Navy SEALs," Allen said. "You're not even going after the right guys." He paused. "And that accusation you made is false. The individual who was killed was a prisoner trying to escape who blundered into a deadly cobra snake. He was not wounded and lying helpless on the ground, as you have intimated."

  "I was making a point!"

  "Oh, my God! That is so fucking lame!"

  "The first casualty of war is the truth," Wallenger said. "Both sides of an issue use propaganda. If one doesn't, they will be at a marked disadvantage.'

  "Now you're being very unprofessional, Dirk," Allen said coldly. "You're lying to back up your own attitudes and opinions. There's no worse sin for a journalist to commit."

  "Good can come out of it."

  "Do you want to end up like Dan Rather at CBS News?" Allen asked. "He wanted to nail President Bush so much that he went after him with the wrong data. He should have checked it out, but he let his own agenda trip him up. Once a journalist's credibility is lost, he's no longer useful. Nobody will ever trust his reporting again."

  Wallenger sank into deeper pouting. "You've been talking to that son of a bitch lawyer Frank Brice, haven't you?"

  "I sure as hell have," Allen said, now at the end of his patience. "And you're going to do just as he says, so listen well, young man. On your next broadcast you will recant your original story. You will say that erroneous information had been given you. You will apologize, saying you should have checked it out more thoroughly. You will make a statement that the Navy SEALs did not shoot the prisoner while he lay wounded on the field of battle. Understand?"

  "I'll need time to write it up," Wallenger said sullenly.

  "Frank Brice has already composed the delivery," Allen said. "And that's the one you'll use." He leaned forward, picked the intercom handset, and spoke into it. "Lazlo, take us to Mr. Wallenger's home now."

  Czernk turned off at the next exit, going under the overpass, then headed back east.

  .

  ARMY GENERAL HEADQUARTERS

  TEHRAN, IRAN

  9 AUGUST 0815 HOURS

  MAJOR Arsalaan Sikes, Brigadier Shahruz Khohollah, and Captain Naser Khadid had arrived in Ira
n's capital city the night before from the OA in Afghanistan. They were given quarters in the transit billets of the local garrison, then picked up by an army sedan and driven to the national army's GHQ that morning. Now they sat in the presence of Major General Nirou Mandji, the Chief of Operations. Sikes had his left arm in a sling from the wound he had taken during the Americans' latest raid.

  The general's office was not as luxurious or fancy as would be expected in the bailiwick of a Western officer of his rank. His desk was not made of mahogany or teakwood. In fact, there was no difference between it and that of his sergeant-clerk, stationed outside his door. Two portraits-one of the national President and the other of the Commanding General of the Army-were on the wall. The Iranian flag was mounted on the opposite side of the room. The floor was simple tile and not laid in too expertly, and the windows needed a wash. Sikes almost grinned to himself at the thought of what a British Army sergeant major would do if he charged into the office and saw its deplorable condition.

  General Mandji was not a happy man, but it had nothing to do with his work environment. When he spoke, it was with a growl, and he expressed himself in fluent English for Sikes' benefit. "The situation at the Afghanistan border is getting entirely out of control. The Americans have made attacks and gotten away with them. We must bloody their noses when they become aggressive. If they manage to withdraw from the field of battle, it should be disastrous for them no matter the results of the engagement. What I am declaring is that those infidels must return to their positions fewer in numbers and badly shot up." He displayed a furious scowl. "They are not afraid of you!"

  Khohollah was not intimidated by the officer, who was one rank above him. "Our opponents are from the strongest nation in the world, Sharlaskar" he protested, addressing the general by his rank in Farsi. "We are not dealing with Pashtun villagers out there. The enemy can keep whatever level of intensity they desire with the ease of raising or lowering flames under a boiling pot. Their supply lines are unlimited and filled with everything they want or need."

  "I am well aware of your opponents in this struggle, Satrip" General Mandji said, returning the form of address. "What you must keep foremost in your mind is that the nation cannot afford a defeat in this operation. If we are unable to establish a foothold past the international border, all our plans will fail."

  Sikes was not impressed with Mandji. His instinctive feelings of superiority over Arabs and Iranians gave him a defiant attitude. "Let's get a bit logical about this, hey, Gen'ral? Wot we need is a bigger punch, yeah? More reinforcements straightaway, and that means no less than a hundred or so blokes to beef up our lines."

  Mandji looked scornfully at the man he knew had deserted from his own army. "You are forgetting that at this time we must keep as low a profile as possible."

  "Then give us seventy-five," Sikes insisted. "But no less than that."

  Sikes' attitude emboldened Khadid. The Iranian captain interjected, "And we need mortars, Sharlaskar. The grenade launchers we have are little help in counterfire against the heavy machine guns the Americans now have."

  "I am not so sure of that," General Mandji said. "The last time the Americans attacked you, they parachuted behind your fortifications. And they were able to penetrate your positions with ease."

  "I beg your pardon, sir," Sikes said. "It wasn't easy for 'em. Not for one bluddy second it wasn't. We fought back hard." He patted his arm in the sling. "I didn't get this for having tea with 'em, did I?"

  "I have no doubt about your collective bravery, Major Sikes," General Mandji said.

  "Well, that's good to know," Sikes said. "Anyhow, if we'd had more men, we could've covered our back door, but it just wasn't possible to keep an eye on them bastards over across the valley with so few while trying to repel a surprise attack."

  Khohollah decided that he had better take over the conversation, since Sikes could easily upset Mandji. The Brit didn't realize that he could be dragged from the office and taken to a firing squad with just a snap of the general's fingers. The brigadier spoke in a calmer tone. "It is in my opinion that we are reaching the limit of our ability to continue our mission under the present circumstances, Sharlaskar. I say this respectfully, and it is my ardent hope that you take my statement seriously. I offer it as both a tactical and a strategic revelation as a professional soldier and a general officer."

  Mandji nodded and took a deep breath of frustration. He sank into thought, and the three visitors knew he was considering the big picture of both their mission and how it would affect Iran's imperial ambitions. He finally sighed, raised his eyebrows, and spoke in a much softer voice.

  "You have made your point, gentlemen," the general said. "It may surprise you to know that at the meeting of the General Staff two days ago, we discussed the possibility that it was time to change our objectives there on the border. Your candid statements this morning have shown that we must go in a different direction in this initial phase of the invasion of Afghanistan."

  Sikes started to speak, but Khohollah put his hand on his arm to stop him. Then the brigadier turned to the major general. "We are anxious to hear what you will expect of us, Sharlaskar."

  Mandji leaned forward. "We are going to pull all the stops out now. The velvet gloves are going to be taken off, and we'll hit the Americans so unexpectedly and hard they will be sent reeling. Arrangements have been made for close air support to back you up. Additionally, there will be a heavy armor punch, complete with tanks and self-propelled artillery. All that will be followed by platoons of infantry fighting vehicles filled with brave Iranian soldiers." He now leaned back and smiled. "Within seventy-two hours of that big push, we will be halfway across Afghanistan, and the government there will sue for peace while the Pashtuns flock to our colors."

  Khohollah chuckled. "And our terms will include kicking the Americans and other coalition forces out of the country, na, Sharlaskar?"

  "Exactly," Mandji said. "It will take at least a month for all preparations to be made. In the meantime, you will go completely defensive. Be on your guard for more attacks. We will send you another fifty men and some mortars. But do not make any aggressive moves. Use your additional personnel and weapons to mount a strong, unyielding defense. You must hold that fortress! It will be an anchor around which the invasion will flow." He studied their reaction to the news, liking what he saw. "You are dismissed. Transportation has already been arranged to take you back to the Afghanistan border."

  The three officers of the Zaheya snapped-to and saluted.

  .

  BONHOMME RICHARD CLUB

  ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

  11 AUGUST 2130 HOURS

  NOT even the oldest members of the club knew why it had been named after John Paul Jones' famous Revolutionary War ship. Various rumors and conjecturing had gone on for decades until the passing of time made the point moot. For more than two centuries the social group had been a little-known part of life in old Arlington, where it was organized by well-to-do merchants, politicians, and military and naval officers, along with other notables who used the facilities to draw off and be among their peers in society. The club was so exclusive that only members and the staff were allowed into the building. Later, as politics and commerce became more complicated, members were allowed to invite associates for clandestine sessions regarding their various political and commercial concerns. Small rooms were made available for these meetings, where a good number of consequential agreements and deals had been made.

  The club had been at its present location near the Potomac River since 1856, and as the world entered the twenty-first century, it remained restricted but without regard to race or religion. The membership, however, was still made up of important, influential men who wielded power and wealth.

  DR. Carl Joplin, in the company of Mr. Saviz Kahnani from the Iranian Embassy, walked from the cab up to the steps leading into the club. Jacob the doorman opened the glassed-in portals. The African-American wore a rather unique garb that had been tradit
ional for the greeters at Bonhomme Richard since the 1890s. It consisted of a top hat, a bright red, gold-trimmed jacket, and navy blue trousers with a wide red stripe down the outside of each leg. The hot summer weather did not disturb Jacob, since he stayed inside the air-conditioned foyer and peered through the glass door for arriving members. When he spotted the two diplomats, he stepped out to hold the door open for them.

  "Good evening, Dr. Joplin."

  "Hello, Jacob," Joplin said, gesturing to Kahnani to go in ahead of him. When they entered the lobby, Joplin stopped by the desk to check in. The clerk, a dignified sixty-year-old with thick white hair and a neatly trimmed beard, informed Dr. Joplin that his reserved conference room on the second floor was waiting for him.

  Joplin took the lead, and Kahnani followed him up a flight of stairs. From there they went down a long hallway to a spot where a door stood open. When they entered the fourteen-by-fifteen-foot room, they saw a couple of plush leather chairs with a small table between them. The American had already called in to make sure a pot of fresh coffee and a selection of pastries were waiting. Each man served himself in turn, then sat down to sip the coffee and enjoy sweet rolls, making light conversation.