PointOfHonor

by Susan Glinert Stevens

  During the Gulf War, Duri stood behind hunkered down troops waiting for the Americans. Incredibly, men under his watch began surrendering en masse to the United States Army and Marine battalions as they punched through the berms without slowing. The Iraqi regulars broke under the pressure to fight. They emerged from the holes in the sand throwing away rifles and raising their arms. These men had survived the relentless air war. Day and night without end, the air forces ofDesert Storm pounded their positions. Incendiary and anti-personnel bombs rained from the sky. They never knew a moment’s rest.

  Duri attempted to stop the mass desertion. He took his pistol and fired at men until he ran out of bullets. Stupidly, he yelled himself hoarse, his uniform torn and smoke blinded his eyes, an empty Makarov in one hand. Nothing more than a fool overrun by the Americans. They crisscrossed the sky in theirApache Gunships, and churned the sand with theirAbram M1 Tanks. When dawn finally came during that hopeless night, he found himself a prisoner of war. American and British medics were tending his wounds and plastic restraints held his wrists tight. He still limped from the 5.56mm round he took that day in his leg.

  Iraq’s utter humiliation before the world was complete. For some unknown reason, the Americans stopped after one hundred hours. There was hardly anything left. The road leading from Kuwait to Al-Basra was nothing more than a smoking wreckage of armor and men. Nothing survived the horrendous pounding delivered by the A-10Thunderbolts . Death on land and in the air was complete. Baghdad lay defenseless before the American armies. Oh, there had been token brigades from other countries, but no one doubted the aggressor. The Americans decided to stop before obliterating Baghdad and the Iraqi government. They left them in place as a gesture, perhaps to serve notice to others as to what they were capable of accomplishing.

  Slowly, Iraq emerged from the rubble. Bridges were rebuilt; some equipment restored. The precious secret weapons were dispersed around to special sites. Duri had been repatriated after the war. He was attached to the Data Center security team—another fiasco.

  Iraq’s strategy for hiding banned weapons became a refined shell game. With oceans of trackless sand deserts and sixty-nine Presidential palaces, Saddam had plenty of places to hide things. His chemical weapons labs, two hundred anthrax bombs, and eighty SCUD and modified SCUD al-Hussein missiles were dispersed. The existing infrastructure facilities, such as the central Data Center and the nuclear separation labs, remained hidden beneath tons of rock and sand in buried bunkers.

  The sites were disguised from the air; there were no surface installations besides the simple blockhouses with security teams within a fifteen to twenty kilometer radius. Of course, there were teams inside the installations, but due to the need for stealth and secrecy those teams were limited in size. Iraq had maintained extensive communications during the Gulf War using fiber optic cables buried in the sand. While the arrogant Americans were searching for conventional copper communication cables, Saddam was calmly prosecuting his war from his German made bombproof bunkers. Unless the air assault obliterated a position, Saddam rarely lost contact with his commanders.

  The same fiber optic network remained in place after the war. No one knew for sure whether the Americans could trace the fiber network, but it continued to send data throughout the dispersed weapon centers. The Americans knew there were secret labs, and the Iraqis knew the Americans knew. Saddam relied on the current administration’s lack of political will, and his belief in America’s naiveté to keep his regime intact.

  In 1992, a two-man team penetrated the Iraqi Data Center. Duri had been a captain then. He watched the piecemeal commitment of fire teams to the emergency. In the main computer room, there had been a firefight between one of the internal teams and the intruders. The closed circuit cameras caught most of the action. A great deal of damage resulted from the intrusion. The intruders were obviously from a Western power; they wore body armor and fired American made weapons. One man raged with an M-16 A2; the other blasted with a short-barreled shotgun.

  The firefight caused the intruders to abort their mission early as self-preservation overrode duty. They fled, leaving supplies and weapons behind. A trail of blood marked their passage until they encountered the second internal team. The cameras showed incapacitation within seconds. The cameras also captured the best photographic evidence of the intruders. The faces were now part of a computerized database designed to match a face to existing graphics. Every Israeli, British, and American Special Forces intelligence officer known to the Iraqi SSS had been entered. It also included rogues like the two who penetrated the Data Center.

  By the time sufficient security teams converged, the intruders had escaped into the desert. Iraq’s computer systems were crippled for nine months. It had cost the General responsible for Data Center security his life. Second chances were not available in the Iraqi security services.

  Duri survived the purges and came to Saddam’s attention during the spring of 1996. He helped uncover a large-scale embezzlement ring inside the Sixth and Fourteenth Republican Guard divisions. Military weapons and material were being sold off to civilians in exchange for gold, hard currency, and sometimes food. Over one hundred fifty administrative officers were arrested. They took up new residence at Abu Gharib prison.

  Abu Gharib had become a holding center for human guinea pigs. As with so many other things, the arrest and punishment of the Republican Guard officers became an object lesson. This lesson was directed both to those who might consider similar actions against Saddam’s regime as well as to those who were the regime’s defenders. Duri was charged with the transportation of the entire group from Abu Gharib—where they might have simply starved to death or received a merciful bullet—to Al Salman.

  Al Salman had become a place cloaked in mystery. It was one of the secret special warfare sites people entered and never came out. It had started out as an agricultural facility. There were even studies published regarding strains of wheat and corn. Most of this information was culled from the Internet and regurgitated for international consumption. Al Salman’s true purpose was to test chemical and biological agents, first on animals, then on human subjects. The stench of urine, feces, and vomit lingered throughout the facility. It was protected by Special Republican Guard troops wearing biohazard uniforms and respirators. Visitors were not issued respirators or earplugs in order that the sites, smells, and sounds from Al Salman would have a lasting impression. Failure could cost much more than death. The lesson was not lost on Duri.

  This night found Colonel Duri rushing towards the waters between Al Faw and Jazirat Bubiyan. He had risen through the ranks to become a responsible and trusted member of the security forces. Responsibility and success now raised the twin specters of failure and disappointment. Duri had no desire to join those he had sent to the chemical and biological warfare labs as test subjects. Even a man who had cut himself off from the pleasures of family and devoted his energies to survival could not erase the sights and sounds he witnessed at Al Salman.

  His particular charge was a delivery from the Red Chinese, and his specific problem was the two idiots riding chained together behind him. While those two would find their deaths this night, Duri intended to see the sun rise many more times. To do that he had to recover what he could of the shipment. Saddam’s precious target list and his goal for revenge would probably cost more lives before it was over.

  The lorry came to a halt on the shoreline of the Gulf. The sound of the surf rolling against the rocks and sand replaced the engine noise. Only a faint light from stars was visible over the sand. Duri got out of the cab and walked around the end of the truck. He pounded on the side of the vehicle. The flap covering the interior flipped open.

  “Bring them,” he commanded and walked towards the surf casually unsnapping his holster.

  His driver remained seated inside the truck. He, too, had learned the object lessons of Al Salman.

  The two sailors were prodded forward at bayonet point. Chains jingled with their
shuffling steps. The divers hung back by the truck, waiting for instructions.

  Once the shuffling stopped, Duri turned from the surf to the prisoners. He looked at both of them. Even in the cool autumn night, these two were sweating. He shrugged. “I will ask these questions one time.”

  Both nodded quickly.

  Fear induced such compliance in people. Certainly, these fools knew what was coming. Their cooperation simply bought them the mercy of a quick death versus a prolonged torture at Al Salman. Duri enjoyed the fear he induced. He understood the nature of accelerated heart rates and adrenaline pumping like a raging river into their blood streams. It would change nothing.

  “Where did you come ashore?”

  Both sets of eyes leaped from his face to the shoreline. A manacled hand rose and pointed down the shoreline. “I think I see the raft we landed in.”

  Duri followed the raised hands to where they were pointing. A crumpled yellow shape lay some two hundred meters down the beach. Duri started walking towards the spot. The others followed him in the jingling shuffle through the sand. No one spoke over the shuffle, jingle, and surf. Their fear spilled forth like a spreading oil slick on a calm sea. Both were praying to whatever gods they might know that it was the survival raft.

  The divers and truck followed at a distance. Eventually, they arrived at a punctured raft pulled up on the beach. Two life preservers lay in the bottom of the raft. “This is it?”

  “Yes.” They nearly fell over answering him.

  Duri turned to the pair. He considered shooting one of them. His hand fingered the leathered flap on his holster. Perhaps these two could still be useful. After all, no one would want to handle the casks any more than required. Dead men should have no qualms about cleaning up the mess that they had created. The guards tensed, expecting the Makarov to emerge in Duri’s hand.

  The moment passed.

  Duri motioned the divers forward. They were special troops from his SSS command.

  “Where’s the ship?”

  “Out about one hundred meters,” explained the first officer. “It’s about twenty meters below the surface.”

  Duri pursed his lips. He waved the truck and divers forward. He looked back to the two sailors. “Sit.” They dropped to the beach like pair of highly trained dogs.

  Now the wait began. Duri lit a cigarette and paced down the beach towards the surf. He took several deep drags before flipping it into the sea. An entire crew poisoned by the Chinese gift. If the story was to be believed, the entire crew succumbed to the chemical agent—men clawing at their respirator masks while their eyes dissolved at the same time. A toxin so deadly, the Captain made the decision to scuttle his ship rather than risk moving through theShatt Al Arab waterway.

  Instead of a few sailors lying dead at the bottom of the Gulf, an epidemic could have spread on both sides. The Captain could have killed both Iraqi and Iranian citizens. Duri doubted the Mullahs would understand such a mistake. The Captain pulled his ship away from the densely populated banks of theTigris River towards the waters between Iraq and Kuwait. He managed to scuttle the boat before they all died, and more importantly, before dawn.

  Duri wondered about the American satellites and the spy planes. Did they know what had happened? Did they have pictures popping out of their computers and analysts examining the evidence? No one doubted their ability to search for things, but Iraq had developed an even greater ability to hide things.

  A buoy broke the surface. Its tiny red lamp flickered advertising its position. Duri leaned forward. Perhaps he would survive this setback. His own heart rate accelerated as he began to believe his life would continue after tonight.

  A second buoy sprang up two meters closer. Both casks had been found. Duri turned back to his prisoners.

  “You have a chance to redeem yourselves. I want you to get those casks into the truck and make sure they are secure.” He lit another cigarette. “Release them.”

  Incredulous, they lifted their hands to the guards. A key appeared and the manacles dropped to the sand. They galloped towards the surf.

  Duri walked back to the truck and pulled out a map from his tunic. He opened the map for the driver and pointed to a redX . “Do you know how to get here?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. We leave immediately after the casks are secured in the rear. I don’t care how fast you drive, but no accidents; that would be the least of our problems.” He turned back to the surf. His prisoners were gleefully pulling the casks back towards the shore. If they dropped dead from anything other than bullet holes Duri had another problem. They were his canaries in the coalmine. The miners knew enough to leave when the canaries died.

  He walked back to the guards. “I intend to leave you here to clean up the mess. When they have finished with the casks, shoot them. I’ll send another vehicle for you in the morning.”

  Duri turned back to the truck. He climbed into the cab and lit another cigarette. He closed his eyes wondering how much longer he could continue in this present life. Sometime soon, it would be time to get out. He dare not ascend to the rank of General Officer.

  The truck engine turned over. A noisy putter overpowered the surf outside. The gentle rumble worked its way through the frame and a drowsy Duri barely heard the stutter of two automatic rifles. Another failure was buried in the sand.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  USS Springfield,Persian Gulf

  Saturday, November 15, 1997

  8:30 P.M. (GMT + 3.00)

  TheUSS Springfield slid through the dark waters beneath the Persian Gulf—a black hull on a black night in black water. She was a phantom cruising the sea on patrol. A constant vigil against enemies emanating from Iranian ports or interlopers emerging from lands further away. The United States had made it abundantly clear; they would tolerate no interference to keep oil flowing from the Arab spigots. This was a policy of national survival overriding the leadership vagaries residing at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue

  .

  Designated 761, she was one of the improvedLos Angeles Class fast attack boats. This meant there were more options available in terms of armament coupled with a stealthier sound signature. TheSpringfield was a hole in the ocean constantly searching, listening, tracking—and if called upon—killing. She was a long way from Groton, Connecticut, the homeport of Submarine Group Two, Submarine Squadron Two. Her sister ships escorted carrier surface action groups like unseen terriers, watching and waiting. ThePittsburgh and theToledo were improved 688 fast attack boats as herself—the rest were first generation boats.

  She wore her colors proudly. Her crew of one hundred forty ventured out on six-month patrols, and sometimes longer. This time they were attached to theUSS George Washington task force. TheGeorge Washington was one of the newestNimitz Class aircraft carriers. The aircraft carrier was a symbol of American power. Two carriers working in tandem provided air power totaling one hundred sixty aircraft. They were the forward presence of American authority and might.

  TheSpringfield’s task was to ensure troublesome underwater predators did not come close enough to endanger the 80,800 ton behemoth. She was one of the silent killers that roamed the seas beneath 6000 man boats. If the National Command Authority gave the order, the small one hundred forty man crews in deadly boats would ensure theGeorge Washington could deliver the 4,600,000 pounds of ammunition she carried. While some may question America’s leadership resolve, no one should ever doubt the ability of the American Navy to deliver.

  Considering theSpringfield’s mission, the FLASH message traffic she received tonight disturbed Executive Officer Rob Bremmer. He carried the message folder to the Captain’s quarters. Somehow, a ChineseHan Class boat had penetrated the protective barriers surrounding the carriers. Certainly, the Chinese Boat must have come close to theNimitz or theGeorge Washington . He knocked on the Captain’s cabin door.

  “Come,” summoned Captain Jeff Andrews.

  Rob entered and closed the door behind him.

  And
rews looked up. “Robbie, what’ve you got?”

  Rob set the folder on the Captain’s table and took a chair across from him. “FLASH message traffic from COMSUBGRP2. It seems we have a visitor.”

  Andrews examined the photograph taken by the U-2. He looked at the map plot and let out a long, low whistle. “What’s aHan doing here?”

  “It doesn’t look they were enforcing the UN embargo,” suggested Rob.

  He pulled the photo from the papers and stared at it. “Any idea what they were giving the Iraqis?”

  Robbie shook his head.

  “Okay. It’s too small to be a missile, and no one in their right mind would try a nuclear transfer in the middle of the night on a choppy sea.” He reached behind him and pulled an Intel folder from its rack. “According to this, we’ve found most of the nuclear sites. What does that leave?” He stared at his XO.

  Robbie followed his boss’s thinking. “Chemical or biological.”

  Andrews nodded.

  “It says here they think this boat might be hurt.”

  “Yeah, I saw that too, but I don’t know what they’re talking about. All this photo shows is the sub and the surface ship.” He paused, “You have any idea what this is?” He pointed at the black square barely visible at the top of theHan’s hull.

  “Looks like a hole to me.”

  “Square?”

  “Isn’t this where their missile hatches should be?”

  Robbie traced the square shape backward along the spine of the boat. There were no missile hatches. “Yeah, you’re right. I don’t see anything like what should be there.”

  Andrews picked up the photo again. He tilted his reading glasses forward to get a better look. “If I wasn’t looking at a sub, I’d say this was a cargo hold.”