Strike Force pm-13

by Dale Brown

  “I think the mines on the bridges got their attention,” Sattari said, laughing. The laughter was a welcome break to the decidedly funereal mood that had descended on the roof.

  “Nine BTRs and one Zulfiqar tank per company, still in echelon formation, command vehicles still in the fore. What are they waiting for?”

  “Same formation to the southwest, sir,” Sattari reported. “Command vehicles out front, no flank guards, and just a few scouts. They’ll have us surrounded and within a kilometer of the wall in less than thirty minutes.”

  “A hundred BTRs, nine tanks, a mortar platoon, and a thousand troops — we have to assume the fourth battalion is waiting to the east,” Buzhazi said.

  “It’s only a six to one advantage,” Sattari said. “Normally the Pasdaran doesn’t engage in any battle unless they’re ahead ten to one.” He looked at his commanding general. “I was expecting more. I’m disappointed.” He returned to his scanning, adding under his breath, “We’re still going to get slaughtered, but they could have expended a little more effort to do it.”

  “This is a massive operation for the Pasdaran — they’re accustomed to sabotage, kidnapping, sneak-and-peek, and kicking down doors of frightened civilians in the dead of night,” Buzhazi observed.

  “The radio chatter between those battalion headquarters vehicles must be fierce,” Sattari said. “They’re spread out too far to see each other or use light signals. If we could only destroy those command vehicles, we might have a chance to stall this offensive.”

  Buzhazi thought for a moment — it was obvious he had been thinking the same thing. “There might be a way,” he said.

  Sattari looked at his commanding officer’s face and read it immediately. “I thought you said the spirit of the old Basij was dead, sir,” he said.

  “Maybe not quite yet, my friend.” He outlined his plan to Sattari, who issued orders right away.

  Colonel Ali Zolqadr stepped out of his BMP command vehicle, hands on his hips, and observed the battalion spread out behind him with immense glee. He took a deep breath of already-warm, dry desert air. “A nice morning for a bloodbath, eh, Major?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Zolqadr’s aide, Major Kazem Jahromi, responded. He nervously looked outside the armored personnel carrier.

  “Uh…sir, we’re only at three kilometers range to the wall, sir. Perhaps you’d better get back in the vehicle.”

  “I’ll be up there in the commander’s cupola before too long, Major, but I wanted to step out onto the field of battle before we start to roll in,” Zolqadr said. “This is my first armored field assault — in fact, I believe I’m leading the first Pasdaran armored assault since the American attacks against us over eleven years ago.” He took another deep breath. “This is where every commander belongs, Major — at the head of his forces, leading the charge. This is definitely where I belong.” He looked at his watch. “How long before their deadline to surrender is up?”

  “Just a few minutes now, sir.” A few moments later, from well inside the armored vehicle: “Sir, scouts report trucks coming out of the compound with white flags.”

  “How many?”

  “Six, sir. Covered five-ton delivery trucks. Two approaching each battalion formation.”

  “Six! With…what, twenty men per vehicle? Maybe thirty? Looks like a good percentage of Buzhazi’s rebel forces are deserting him! Excellent news!”

  Soon they could see two trucks moving slowly toward them, a white bedsheet tied to the radio antenna serving as their flag of surrender. For the first time he felt a thrill of panic for being at the head of this column of vehicles as the trucks moved closer. “Don’t let the bastards near the battalions!” Zolqadr shouted to his headquarters unit commander. “Stop them well short of the battalions and have them get out of the vehicles one by one. Make sure the men don’t rough them up. Let the others still inside see how well they’ll be treated, and maybe we’ll draw a few more out. Make them all feel welcome — before we execute their traitorous asses.”

  “Don’t shoot, Zolqadr,” he heard over his radio. “We’re waving surrender flags. May Allah condemn you and your descendants to eternal damnation if you violate a flag of surrender.”

  “It’s Buzhazi!” Zolqadr shouted in glee. He raised his binoculars and, sure enough, saw the general himself driving one of the trucks! “Tell the rest of First Battalion I want Buzhazi alive!” he shouted to his aide. “If he tries anything, disable the truck, but don’t kill Buzhazi!” He picked up his portable radio. “Are you surrendering too, General? How surprisingly wise of you.”

  “I’m only doing this to be sure my men who wish to surrender will be treated fairly, as you promised, like Iranian soldiers and not criminals,” Buzhazi radioed. “I intend to return to the library after I drop off these brave men and continue my fight for freedom, and if you try to capture me, the whole world will know what a coward you are.”

  “Fine, fine. I’ll let you live — plenty of chances to kill you or see you hanged in Shahr Park, along with the other criminals,” Zolqadr said. The trucks were too close for binoculars now. “Stop right there and let the men out. I promise they will not be harmed.”

  “I want to be close enough to look at you face to face, Colonel,” Buzhazi said. “I want to look you in the eye before I kill you, just like I did to Badi.”

  “I said, stop right there, General,” Zolqadr radioed back, “or my men will open fire!” He whirled around and screamed, “Get two BTRs and their dismounts up here and cover those trucks, now!” His aide relayed the order.

  Buzhazi’s truck slowed, and at that moment there was a tremendous explosion to the north, followed by a second explosion seconds later. “What was that?” Zolqadr cried. Two massive mushroom clouds of black smoke rose into the sky. “What’s happening?”

  “Suicide bombers!” someone screamed. “The trucks are packed with explosives! They’ve destroyed one command vehicle and a tank!”

  Zolqadr nearly tripped over his own feet in confusion as he whirled around and returned to his own armored vehicle. “Don’t let them any closer!” he yelled to his aide. “Open fire! Open fire!”

  “Look out!” someone cried. “Take cover!”

  Zolqadr turned. The two trucks heading toward him had not stopped but had accelerated — they were less than a hundred meters away now! “All units, open fire!” he screamed. “Stop them!” A machine gun immediately opened fire right above his head so close that he thought he had been hit, and he ducked and dodged left around the BMP.

  The second truck weaved and dodged as it barreled toward them, and it appeared as if it was going to keep on coming, but soon its engine compartment hood blew open when its engine block was shredded by the twenty-three-millimeter cannon shells. It weaved a few more times, then its front tires were blown out and it half-collapsed, half spun to the ground. “Good shooting!” Zolqadr said. “Do the same to Buzhazi’s truck — try to take him ali…”

  And at that instant the second truck detonated, the force of two thousand pounds of high explosives — part of an immense weapons cache found on the grounds of the Khomeini Library, brought in by the Pasdaran when the clerics and politicians from Tehran arrived — bowling over the Pasdaran infantrymen like clay jars hit by a whirlwind. But Buzhazi’s truck was not far away, and the force of the blast knocked the truck completely off its wheels and over onto its right side.

  “Cease fire! Cease fire!” Zolqadr shouted — not just to relay the order but because he couldn’t hear his own voice very well from the ringing in his ears caused by the detonation of the second truck. He drew his sidearm. “I want Buzhazi alive!” He turned to his aide. “Grab a rifle and follow me, Major!” The aide blanched at first by the order and then by the smug, amused expressions of the Pasdaran infantrymen around him; he almost dropped the AK-47 rifle offered him, and he grasped it like it was a snake waiting to bite him.

  Zolqadr flinched at the sound of yet another explosion to the south, and the chatter on his
portable transceiver told him another BMP command vehicle had been hit. His was the only command vehicle to survive this cowardly attack! Buzhazi was going to pay dearly for this! He aimed his nine-millimeter Zoaf pistol at the driver’s door as he approached. “Buzhazi!” he shouted. “Come out of there! You are my prisoner!”

  “Sir, be quiet!” his aide shouted, ignorant of the fact that half the battalion could hear him just as loudly. “He might hear you!”

  “I don’t care!” Zolqadr shouted. “I want the great Hesarak Buzhazi to know that I think he is a craven coward to order a suicide bomb attack against the Pasdaran! I hope to personally pull the lever to drop you in the gallows, you worthless piece of shit! Can you hear me, Buzhazi? Your attack has failed, and now I’m going to execute each and every survivor in that library, and I’m going to have you watch each execution. I’m coming for you!”

  Zolqadr jumped up onto the truck and pulled open the driver’s door. He saw Buzhazi crumpled up against the passenger side door, his head bleeding from a half-dozen wounds, his body covered with soot and broken glass, his hands…

  …were repeatedly pressing a switch — and he realized with shock that it was a detonator switch! Had it not malfunctioned, Zolqadr and anyone within fifty meters would’ve been blown into a million pieces! He immediately but carefully climbed off the truck, stepped away from the vehicle as if moving to join his aide, then radioed for men to get Buzhazi out of the stricken truck.

  “Your attacks failed, General,” Zolqadr shouted triumphantly as the semi-conscious former chief of staff of the Iranian military was dragged before him. He made sure Buzhazi was awake, then pointed back the fifty meters toward his BMP and the three armored personnel carriers that had moved up to guard it. “See? My battalion is intact, and we have more than enough firepower to…”

  At that instant there was a blinding flash of light, several globes of smoke in the sky directly above his command vehicle…and then a massive series of explosions as his BMP and all three BTRs blew apart like firecrackers. The shock waves and the surprise of the sudden attack again knocked them all off their feet. When Zolqadr looked up, he saw several more armored vehicles in his battalion on fire…and the rest turning and racing madly in the opposite direction! Echoes of still more explosions rolled across the ground from the other battalions’ directions. The Pasdaran infantrymen around him didn’t know what to do, until finally they simply ran off toward Qom. Soon only Zolqadr, his aide — frightened into complete immobility — and Buzhazi remained.

  “What…in…hell…happened?” Zolqadr muttered. He turned to Buzhazi, his face a contorted mask of fear, confusion, and blinding rage. “What did you do, Buzhazi?” But the general was in absolutely no condition to respond. Zolqadr drew his pistol and aimed it at Buzhazi’s left temple. “Answer me, you traitorous piece of filth! What happened here? Whose work is this? Who are you working with?”

  “The…devil,” moaned Buzhazi. “Or maybe the angel of death. Let’s go visit her together, Zolqadr.”

  “I’ve changed my mind, Buzhazi,” Zolqadr cried. “I’m not going to turn you over for a public trial and execution — I’m going to kill you right here, right now, for what you’ve done!” Zolqadr grasped Buzhazi’s jacket, pulled him up off the ground, pressed the muzzle of his pistol against his head…

  …and suddenly there was a dark blur of motion. The Zoaf pistol was snatched out of his hand, and Zolqadr was sent flying backward by an iron-like blunt object as if he had been hit by a speeding car. Dazed and with his breath knocked out of his lungs, he struggled to a sitting position and looked up…

  …and saw two figures standing over Buzhazi, clad in dark gray outfits. Their arms, legs, and torsos were covered in some kind of structural framework; they wore thick belts around their waists, large fairings on their shoulders and calves, very largecaliber long weapons resembling oversized sniper’s rifles, and large bullet-shaped helmets that completely covered their heads, necks, and shoulders. One figure stood guard, aiming his rifle toward the battalion, while the other attended to Buzhazi.

  “Who are you?” Zolqadr shouted. “Who are you?”

  The figure with Buzhazi turned to look at the Pasdaran colonel. “Be quiet,” the figure said in some sort of electronic voice in Farsi. “This battle is over.”

  Zolqadr heard a creak and rattle of heavy metal, looked to the west, and smiled. “Not quite, my friend,” he said. The figure looked around. One of the Zulfiqar main battle tanks was racing across the desert toward them. Zolqadr started to half-crawl, half-stumble backward as the tank’s coaxial machine gun opened fire, and the ground erupted into hundreds of bursts of smoke as the shells hit home. “Looks like your battle is over, bastards!”

  But when the shooting paused, Zolqadr was shocked to see…the two figures still standing! They had been directly hit by twenty-three-millimeter cannon fire and were still in one piece! Then, the second figure calmly raised his big rifle and fired. There was no recoil and no sound, just a laser-straight line of orange-red fire. The round looked as if it had missed the tank because Zolqadr could see the orange-red line go right past the tank as if the tank was nothing but a desert mirage…but the tank suddenly shuddered to a halt as if its driver jammed on the brakes. Seconds later smoke began billowing from the tank, and moments later fire was billowing from several blow-out ports and through melting steel.

  “Who are you?” Zolqadr screamed. But the two figures ignored him. The first picked up Buzhazi as easily as if he was a doll and headed toward the Khomeini Library, while the second covered their retreat with the big tank-killing weapon, swiveling it in all directions as if it was weightless as well.

  The big figure with the large, unidentified rifle said, “Salam aleikom. Have a nice day, sir,” in Farsi to the dazed and confused Pasdaran commander as he walked by.

  The cheering inside the Khomeini Library could be heard from half a kilometer away as the two strange figures approached. Men came running out to join their leader. The first gray-clad figure put him down on the ground just inside the walls. “Are you alive, Buzhazi?” he said in Farsi through his electronic speakers.

  “Yes, thanks to you,” Buzhazi said weakly, still dazed but able to rise up on one knee, then motioning for his men to pull him to his feet. He noticed two more similarly clad and equipped figures entering the compound. “I think I recognize you.”

  The first figure ignored Buzhazi and turned to the others. “Report,” he ordered in English.

  “The northwest battalion scattered,” another figure responded. “No further contact with them. We downed two Mi-35 Hind attack helicopters attacking from the north; three more turned away toward Qom. Systems reporting sixty-three percent and thirty-five percent ammo.”

  “The southwest battalion departed as well,” another reported. “They have reassembled near the city center about seven klicks away and they are reporting the situation to their headquarters. I count a force of six APCs and one T-72-sized main battle tank. We’re at fifty percent power and thirty percent ammo.”

  “Very well. The west battalion has left the area but appears to be rendezvousing with the southwest survivors,” the first figure said. “They had five APCs and a number of men on foot. I still have contact with the mortar team that set up — they’re still in place but I haven’t detected any rounds headed our way, yet. We can expect some sort of counterattack or probe shortly. Me and the sergeant major are at fifty-seven percent power and seventy percent ammo left. All of you, stop wasting your ammunition. Those aren’t machine guns you’re firing.”

  “You are Americans, the so-called Air Battle Force ground units, the ones who helped the Sanusi liberate Libya,” Buzhazi said.

  The first figure handed his rifle over to his comrade, then quickly removed his helmet, revealing the angry face of a rather young black man. He stepped over to Buzhazi and grasped him by his jacket, pulling him toward him until they were face to face. Buzhazi’s men moved as if they were going to help him, but backed aw
ay when the other armored figures shifted their weapons to a more threatening port-arms position. “I’ll tell you who I am, Buzhazi,” the black man spat. “I’m the guy who swore if I ever found you alive I’d twist your head right off your shoulders with my bare hands, orders or no orders to the contrary.”

  “Briggs,” Buzhazi gasped. “Harold Briggs, the American commando and leader of the Tin Men. I thought so.” Hal’s face was a mask of pure rage. “You still mourn your woman, even though she died as a spy serving her people, trying to assassinate me.”

  “Go ahead, Buzhazi. Say one more word to me. Give me a reason to rip you limb from limb.”

  “Sir, let’s get the hell out of here,” the second figure said.

  Briggs tossed Buzhazi out of his hands and into the arms of his men surrounding him. “The message is, General,” Briggs said, “that you asked for our help, and you got it. If it was up to me, I’d shove you headfirst into the sand up to your ankles and call it self-defense. But General McLanahan seems to think you have the ability to turn this country around. Personally I think he’s insane, but he thinks differently.”

  “Tell him thank-you from my men and myself.”

  “He can hear everything you say and has been monitoring this battle, and he will continue to monitor what you’re doing from now on,” Briggs said. Buzhazi’s eyes drifted up to the sky as if he was searching for the eyes watching them. “He convinced a lot of very powerful people that you were going to bring down the theocratic regime and help stabilize the region. If he’s found wrong, he will be extremely embarrassed, and I will take great pleasure in removing the source of that embarrassment — you.”

  “He shall have no fear — the theocracy will die, or I shall,” Buzhazi said. “Iran is done sponsoring death and destruction in the name of the religion of peace. If I am successful, I shall pursue peace with the rest of the world — Arab, Westerner, Zionist, Asian, and European, as well as Persian, I swear it. Again, I thank you for your help.”

  “We’re done helping you, General — we’re outta here,” Briggs said. “Your promises don’t mean shit to me — only your actions matter. Make sure no one tries to follow us east of this place, or we’ll come back and finish the Pasdaran’s job.”