Echo of Tomorrow: Book One (Drake chronicles)

by Rob Buckman

  What they didn’t know was, that for weeks, units moved back and forth across the desert during the hours of darkness, sometimes stopping for a few hours before turning around and heading back to base. Or that's how it looked to the distant watchers. The giant tank transports drove back and forth, while in the confusion of dust and milling vehicles, tanks, fuel, ammo and personnel would unload and dig in and vanish under a layer of sand and cammo nets. On the way back, a wooden framework and a tarpaulin covered the fact that they no longer carried tanks, and by the end of the third week, Scott had strung out hundreds of tanks, APC's, armored fuel and supply vehicles, along the whole length of the border with no one on the other side the wiser. Intercept radio traffic between the Republic Guard and Baghdad painted a picture of mass confusion at first, with orders and counter orders, sending troops and tanks rushing from one point to another. When it appeared the American were going to do nothing but mill around, the Iraqi's military calmed down and ordered their units to stay put. In the end the radio traffic showed boredom and contempt for the joint military command on the other side of the border, which was just how Scott Drake wanted them to feel. By three o'clock that morning, the Iraqi military found out differently as the massive tank force was within striking range of Baghdad. In the distance, Scott could see the fireworks display of triple 'A' as the defenders tried in vain to shoot down the elusive enemy. Fires raged here and there, lighting up the skyline as JDAM bombs and laser guided missiles hit command and control bunkers, communication centers, and radar installations. Scott split his force two hours before reaching Baghdad and with luck, they would encircle the city by dawn, ready to deliver the first payment on the debt.

  "Task force Alpha Commander is asking for a release code, General." His comm tech called up.

  After the nuke wiped out Washington, and effectively took out the whole Government of the United States, for a short period of time, control of all nuclear weapons had reverted to Scott Drake as next in line of succession. Now he used it before anyone in Cheyenne Mountain could override the system. Opening his shirt pocket, he took out a sealed plastic packet and snapped it in half to extract the trigger release code. The weapon was under the control of the skipper of the subs or surface ships, but they couldn't activate the weapon until they had the trigger release code. Without that, they had nothing but an expensive missile. Scott handed the release code to the Comm tech to relay, and sat back with a sigh, eye itchy from lack of sleep, sun, and sand. Now it was out of his hands, unless he rescinded the order, and he wasn't about to do that.

  "We have confirmation of launch, sir, and the four minute warning just came in." The Comm tech spoke in his earphone.

  "Order all units to face South West and button up."

  As he spoke, Scott lowered the jump seat and punching the hydraulic switch to close the turret hatch, feeling the tank spin on its axis to turn its ass end towards the North. The plan was already set, and those units out of communication had dug in by now, his radio message just an added precaution. It was hot and stuffy in the tank as they sat quietly waiting for 'H' hour, each deep in their own thoughts. Scott’s were of his wife and sons, the driver his mother, the gunner, his darling baby sister who use to drive him nuts. The tank crews sat and thought of the home they could never go back to. Of family, they would never see again. While throughout the force, people thought of loved ones lost, of friend and family, of the Country they loved and the cities destroyed.

  "Now Sir." The radio operator said as he shut down his unit. Although the radios were supposedly protected again EM pulse, he wasn't taking any chances.

  In his mind's eye, Scott saw ships moving into position as B1B3 Bombers dropping into their attack run. The final die was cast. By his calculations that had happened minutes ago, and now they were ticking down the last few moments. The digital numbers on the Scott's watch counted down to Three a.m. and passed it as a moment later the skyline lit up with a pure white light of a man made dawn. This was followed a moment later by a second. Damascus, and Tripoli ceased to exist, as had Pyongyang, the capital of North Korea.

  "Let the fucking assholes try to celebrate now." He muttered, seeing the tank crew nod in agreement hearing his words. They sat in silence again and waited for the shock wave to hit. It did, rocking the tank on its hydraulic suspension as the man made sandstorm swept over them.

  "Now let's go kick some ass." He could have ordered a similar strike on Bagdad and Tehran, but the living wanted the blood price of their vengeance delivered in person, up close and personal as they say.

  "Ho-rar! Right on!" The driver called back, gunning his engine to life. “Payback time!”

  Four thousand armored vehicles moved into position, as did the heavy artillery with their 'Excalibur' and 'Land Warrior' systems while the MRL's crew deployed their multiple rocket launchers. At 0315 hour's local time, the barrage began, turning night into day with a continuous rain of destruction. It came from all sides, as 500 artillery pieces, 200 MRLs and countless tanks opened fire. There was no escape, and they gunned down those that tried to escape the dying city. The fleeing inhabitants found no compassion or mercy from the 'soft' Americans, as men, woman, and children died by the thousands. The sword of retribution had come and, like the hand of god, the walking barrage flattened the city, working from the outskirts to the center, crushing, splintering, and burning everything in its path. Half an hour later it stopped and the silence of the desert returned like a thunderclap while a giant column of smoke, fire and dust lifted into the sky to mark the immolation of the ancient city. Scott Drake watched for a moment, feeling a certain sense of satisfaction before giving the order to advance. Nowhere could he find any feeling of compassion for the dead and dying in his heart, just a sense of justice.

  Four thousand tanks started their engines, and turned their guns towards Tehran. Skirting the burning remains of a once proud city, they headed westwards, crossing the only remaining bridge over the Tigress River. The company of hard faced Marines who'd secured bridge during the bombardment guarded the bridge, but the price was high. The column rumbled passed the grim faced men and women as they mounted their waiting APC's and trucks to follow, setting off the demolition charges as the last vehicle passed. This was a one-way trip, and they'd just slammed the back door shut. During the remainder of the night, giant transport helos ferried fuel and munitions to supply points along the route of march, as unit by unit they peeled off to rearm and refuel before re-joining the column. By the time they reached the first pass and the border of Iran they were ready. Pulling hull down just before the military crest of a rise the lead tank stopped, the top hatch sliding back. Scott stood up, scanning the horizon with his high-powered binoculars, the morning sun not yet above the mountains before him, but that didn't stop him seeing into the darkness.

  "We've got company." He muttered into the microphone.

  "Air assault has them, sir."

  "Are they painted?" He asked.

  "Yes, sir. Special forces and SAS has a laser designator on the main targets."

  "Then tell Air Command to have at it."

  "Aye-aye, sir." In the foothills of the Zagros Mountains, the first elements of the Iranian army waited.

  Even as he watched the Iranian artillery opened up, but their 105-mm Howitzer shells fell short. Turning, he looked behind him and up, seeing the vapor trails of the high-flying bombers, bright sparks in the dawn sky. As he watched they turned, heading back to Kuwait and Dhahran to reload, bomb loads already on their way. The laser-guided bombs fell towards the designated targets to explode a hundred feet overhead. Thousands of sub munitions rained down, plowing a swath of destruction through the enemy ranks. Iraq and Iran had fought for years, but they had never experienced anything like this. 'Steel rain' was what the Iraqi army called it during desert storm but development hadn't stopped there. Now it was ten times more lethal and covered a wider area. Wave after wave of bombers came in, followed by the British Tornado Fighter-bombers, F16E Falcon fighters, an
d finally the AH68 (D) gunships. They reshaped the mountain as no other army in history had, killing, or burying the remaining defenders under a thousand tons of rock and dust.

  "Let's roll.” Scott shouted over the thunder. "We don't want to keep our host waiting."

  His one hundred and eighty-ton M2B3 Abrams tank roared to life, cresting the hill. Left and right similar units did the same to form a broad spearhead that forged forwards until they were moving across the rough terrain at better than fifty miles per hour. The T88 and 89 were no match for the multi-targeting computer system of the M2's, nor the twin 90-mm pulse cannons. They didn't fire conventional shell, but one pound depleted uranium boron balls. These exited the barrel at Mach 7 and could penetrate or shatter any known armor. Iranian tanks simply ceased to exist when hit with one of these rounds. Within minutes, the tanks that escaped the initial onslaught of the air assault were gone, and for a moment the spearhead slowed, main guns sweeping the battlefield for targets. High above, the remainder of the Iranian air force joined in battle with the waiting air umbrella in a futile effort to slow the invader, screaming 'Allah Akbar', but Allah wasn't listening. He'd turn and hid his face in shame for what had been done in his name. In less than half an hour the Iranian air force ceased to exist.

  The column ground its way up and over the mountains, here and there meeting pockets of resistance, but nothing to slow the advance. Twice Scott's tank took hits, losing a track the first time, the second jamming the turret. Each time other tanks immediately surrounded it, forcing Scott to switch to another, yet once repaired the tank bulled its way back to the head of the column and he transferred his flag back. The lead tank had the most dangerous position, as it was the first to come under direct fire, yet none of the crew thought of that. Theirs was the tank the General had chosen to lead the assault, and therefore was ‘Command One’, and General Scott Drake led from the front. If that meant that they'd die, so be it. The other commanders of the forces tried in vain to get him to move back, away from the front, but he refused. If he died, they were ordered to carry on and complete the mission or die trying. In the end they held their peace, resigned to the fact that he wouldn't change his mind. Moving out of the pass, they came face to face with the main Iranian army.

  Out in the desert before them were over one million men, tanks, armored Personnel carriers, artillery pieces, rocket launchers, and assorted military hardware. The Iranians were determined to crush him, no matter the cost. The Ayatollah’s voice boomed out over loud speakers, screaming his hatred, promising each man entrance to paradise should he die in battle. The assault force all heard the Iranian battle cry of Akbar, Allah, the will of God, as they drew closer. If they were in so much of a hurry to get to paradise the Americans were more than willing to help them on their way. Scott waited for his main force to catch up, taking incoming fire from the enemy artillery but he didn't hurry. His main artillery took up position in the hills above and began exchanging counter battery fire, but the Iranian army didn't attack. The Iranian army waited for him to come to them, thereby making one of the greatest mistakes ever. Attack is always better than defense, and to take the fight to the enemy.

  "Message to all units and prepare for WMD’s. All units to button up, or get into protective clothing now." He expected these fanatics would throw everything they had at him, and he was right.

  "Flash message." He said an hour later. "Plan Zulu is now in effect, I say again, Plan ‘Zulu’."

  "Aye-aye, sir. Plan 'Zulu'." The tank units maneuvered around him, taking up position. Twenty slow minutes went by as the spearhead spread out into a one-mile front by one mile deep square, as row after row of armored vehicles lined up behind him, awaiting the order to advance.

  "Let’s do it, Mike." He called to the driver. The moment he said the words, the radio operator flashed the signal to the rest of the Battalion.

  Together the blunt head of the spear moved forward at an ever-increasing speed. The columns drove straight at the enemy tank force at thirty miles an hour. The gunners brought their electromagnet generators up to maximum and tightened the chinstraps of their sighting helmets, praying to God for the chance to avenge the dead. Even inside their tanks, they could hear the opposing army and the Ayatollah’s voice booming out over loud speakers as a million voices screamed 'Allah Akbar' over and over again. Then a new sound started to swell, and for a moment, Scott Drake wondered if he was hearing things. Then he let out a barking laugh!

  "Oh yeah!" He shouted. "Put that out on the external speaker." He ordered.

  Within moments all the tanks, Bradley's and APCs were broadcasting the same thing. Over the roar of the approaching army the enemy heard music, gradually swelling in volume until there was no mistaking the song. The strains and driving drumbeat of 'The Yellow Rose of Texas' boomed out over the battlefield. They stopped chanting and stood opened mouth in wonder. Overhead three different spy satellites changed attitude and zoomed in on the battlefield, and a billion unblinking eyes the world over stayed glued to TV sets and monitors as the TV stations relayed the scene from the on-board cameras.

  * * * * * *

  "What the hell is that stupid idiot doing?" The President screamed. "Why won't he answer my radio message?" He glared at the grim faced joint chiefs sitting around the war room.

  "We don't know, Mr. President." One answered, his jaw muscles working as he held back the urge to cheer. He was from Texas and knew how that song made him feel.

  "Then fucking well find out." The President roared. His eye flashed back to the giant monitor, sweat poured down his face. "The man's crazy, he can only make matters worse. Can't he see that?"

  "I don't think General Scott cares sir." Admiral Jensen said in a soft voice. "His wife and two sons were in Los Angeles when the bomb went off."

  "That's no excuse to disobey orders?" He screamed.

  "Every man out there had lost someone, Mr. President." The Secretary of the Air force said softly, as if he was explaining something to a rather backward child.

  "I don't think any of them expect to come back." He paused a moment. "What you are looking at is an army of the dead, Mr. President." He revised the thought from backward, too stupid, but not retarded. That would be an insult and an injustice to the less fortunate.

  "If he survives, I'm going to have him shot!" The President snarled. Foam flecking the corners of his small, thin lipped mouth, his beady black eyes looked suspiciously at the group.

  "I don't think a threat like that would worry General Drake. It would probably be a blessing to him."

  "Good God! That's insane." General Nicholson yelled, jumping out of his seat. "He pulling the sacred horn maneuver!"

  "The what?" The President asked, looking at the monitor.

  "The Zulu! The sacred horn." General Nicholson repeated, receiving only a blank look from the President.

  "It's a battle formation that the old Zulu nation used way back in the eighteen hundreds. Watch!" He snapped angrily at the President, waving him to silence, his eyes glued to the screen. It was so outrageous that the President obeyed, sinking into his seat at the head of the table spluttering in outrage.

  The head of the column smashed into the main force of the Iranian army, tanks milling back and forth in apparent confusion. Dust and smoke filled the air as men and machines died. The fog of war shrouded everything as Armageddon strode across the dark sky. Bright flashes of exploding shells and tanks strobed through the dust and smoke as the stench of burning rubber and bodies filled the air. The enemy commander thought that he had them and committed his reserves at that point. The moment he did, the tanks at the rear of Scott's column split left and right, swinging out and around the Iranian army, encircling them in the sacred horn maneuver. People the world over watched in stunned silence as the circle drew tighter, some hoping they'd see the Americans defeated while others held their breath hoping and praying they’d survive. The main echelons engaged the main enemy, forced into a one on one slugging match as the tanks inside the ti
ghtening circle pulled back to join the others. From the air, it looked something like an old Hollywood western as the 'Indians' rode around the outside of the circled wagons, shooting in. Slowly the circle became smaller and smaller until at last they slowed to finish off the last of the Iranian armor. After that, it was just a question of mopping up small pockets of resistance.

  The Iranian infantry waited behind the main battle line, expecting any moment for the order to move forward. It never came. Instead, they sat there and watched in stunned horror as the enemy destroyed over ten thousand tanks in less than two hours. That horrible music played over and over again, like some death chant, and in the face of that shouting 'Allah Akbar' seemed futile. Then it was their turn. In desperation the commander ordered his troops forward in a human wave attack to engage the infidels with massive amounts of anti-tank weapons, only to watch in horror as they drop dead the moment they ran into their own bio and chemical weapons cloud. The tanks kept circling, drawing the Iranian army closer with the hope of a prize. Instead, the American’s pulled back to permit the ‘Specter’ gunships and artillery dropped steel rain on them. By sunset silence had returned to the desert with the cry of ‘Allah Akbar’ nothing but a faint distant echo on the wind. The tank column moved on over a carpet of dead, the rustling wind blowing sand across the bloody corpse and shattered equipment to mark the passage of time. Behind them lay the shattered remains of a once proud army, the blood soaked sand mingled with those that had fought and died here before.