Shadows of War

by Robert Gandt

Bursts of gunfire came from the river. Rasmussen still hadn’t moved. He kept staring at Bronson’s body.

  “Who’s that?”

  “A bad guy,” said Maxwell.

  “An American.”

  “Yeah.”

  Rasmussen seemed to think about this for a moment. “Why did he want to kill me?”

  Maxwell tried to think of a good answer. He couldn’t, so he told the truth. “I don’t know.”

  “And you shot him.”

  “Yeah.”

  It was more than Rasmussen could comprehend. For several more seconds he stood over the two bodies, staring first at Bronson, then Al-Fasr.

  Another staccato rattle of gunfire, this time only a hundred yards away.

  “We have to get out of here, Raz. We’re in Indian country. Stay close and follow me.”

  He picked up Bronson’s SMG, then handed the Glock to Rasmussen. Rasmussen looked at the weapon with disgust, seeming to remember that it had just been used to kill Al-Fasr. And almost used to kill him.

  “C’mon, Raz,” said Maxwell, taking him by the wrist. “We have to catch our ride home.”

  He led Rasmussen out of the courtyard. He retraced his steps back through the village, across the old wall, along the path toward the river. They stayed in the shadows, running from one patch of cover to the next. Sporadic bursts of gunfire along the river broke the morning stillness.

  Around the first bend in the trail, they encountered three NVG-clad men, running at full tilt toward them. Two fanned to either side, kneeling and aiming their M-16s at Maxwell and Rasmussen.

  “We’re Raven Swoop,” Maxwell called. “We’re coming out.”

  “Brick?” Gracie Allen walked up to Maxwell and removed his NVG. He stared at Rasmussen. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “You got him.”

  Rasmussen peered back at Allen, his face filled with disbelief. “Gracie? Is that you? Gracie Allen?”

  “Yeah, Raz, it’s me.” Allen gave Rasmussen a hug. “It’s been a while, pal.”

  Allen turned to Maxwell. “What the hell happened? I’ve been calling you on the transceiver. Where’s Bronson?”

  Maxwell nodded toward the village. “The deal went sour. Bronson’s dead.”

  “Damn,” said Allen, shaking his head. “There wasn’t supposed to be any killing. Now we’re in a world of trouble. The gomers showed up in strength at the LZ and the helo had to bug out. Now we’ve gotta find a new LZ so he can snatch us out of here.”

  As if on cue, another rattle of gunfire erupted nearby, somewhere around the bend in the trail.

  Allen barked several terse commands into his transceiver, then listened to the reply in the earpiece.

  “That was Hewlitt,” said Allen. “His team is behind us a quarter of a mile. They’re engaged with a couple hundred gomers, maybe more. We still have the NVGs and the advantage of darkness, but the sun is coming up. Real soon we’re gonna be in shit city.”

  Maxwell peered into the pinkening sky. “This might be a good time to call for the cavalry, Gracie.”

  < >

  USS Ronald Reagan

  “You wanted to see me, XO?”

  Alexander looked up from his desk to see Splat DiLorenzo in the stateroom doorway. “Come in and close the door behind you.”

  DiLorenzo took a seat at the desk facing Alexander. “What’s up?” He made a show of checking his watch.

  The watch-checking he’d picked up from Manson, Alexander guessed. He’d never had a good feeling about DiLorenzo. Nothing specific, just a faint whiff of hostility that seemed to emanate from him.

  DiLorenzo was older than the other squadron officers, having come up through the ranks as an enlisted man. He was polite enough, but around Alexander he always had an air of frostiness. That probably came from Manson too.

  “I’ve just come across some disturbing information, Splat. I have reason to believe that someone in the squadron has been falsifying aircraft inspection records.”

  DiLorenzo let out a dry chuckle. “Now that’s pretty hard to believe. Why would anyone do a thing like that?”

  “I was hoping you could help me figure it out.”

  DiLorenzo shook his head. “I don’t have a clue. Why do you think I could help?”

  Alexander smiled, remembering how DiLorenzo liked to answer a question with a question. “Well, let’s suppose someone wanted to get an aircraft through the corrosion inspection lickety split, back on the line. They could just pencil in the inspection and be done with it.”

  “Does anyone use pencils anymore?” Another dry chuckle.

  “The computer network then.”

  “It takes a password to get on the LAN. Whoever did it would have to be authorized.”

  “Unless it was someone who had stolen the password. Someone very clever.”

  For just an instant, he thought he saw a flicker of alarm pass over DiLorenzo’s face. “What are you saying?” said DiLorenzo. “That one of my guys is hacking the computer?”

  “Maybe. Who would be in a position to do that?”

  “Only one or two people,” said DiLorenzo, looking concerned. “If it was true, then I’m to blame. I’ve been told that I’m sometimes too trusting with my guys, but, you know, that’s the way I am. I would just never have thought that. . .”

  “How about Carson? Could he be logging the false entries?”

  DiLorenzo nodded gravely. “I hate to say this about one of my own people, but, yes, I’m afraid it could be Carson. I’ve been worried about him lately. Poor Carson, he always tries to blame other people—me even—for his mistakes. He’s had a bad attitude ever since he got those bad evals and didn’t make chief.”

  Alexander had to force himself to keep his expression blank. This guy DiLorenzo was too much. All torn up inside over what one of his troops had done to tarnish the honor of the squadron. Blaming himself for not reading the danger signals. DiLorenzo deserved an academy award.

  And then Alexander couldn’t hold it any longer. He cracked up laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” asked DiLorenzo.

  “This.” Alexander reached across his desk and punched the play button on the digital recorder.

  For five minutes DiLorenzo sat motionless, his face a frozen mask, as he listened to the recorded voices.

  “Your initials are on the records too.”

  “So what? Everyone knows how the system works. The QA officer doesn’t do the inspections. He takes the word of the petty officer who reports to him that the job was completed. That happens to be you, Carson. If it comes to an inquest, I promise you that you will be hanging all alone in the breeze. You are in this by yourself, and anything you say to the contrary will be denied by me and Commander Manson. You will have no proof.”

  “Okay. I get the picture.”

  “Good. I always knew you were a team player, Carson. Remember that Commander Manson takes care of his team.”

  The recording ended. DiLorenzo still hadn’t moved. He stared straight ahead, not blinking, looking like a wax dummy.

  Alexander tilted back in his chair, enjoying himself. “Okay, Splat, tell me again the part about poor Carson, the one who tries to blame everyone—you, even—for his mistakes. The one with the bad attitude.”

  DiLorenzo looked at Alexander as if seeing him for the first time. “I want a lawyer,” he said.

  Chapter 25 — Maverick

  Haw Umm Qasr, Iran

  0620, Wednesday, 24 March

  “About damn time,” muttered Boyce into his oxygen mask.

  His four Super Hornets were in a holding stack, ten miles northwest of the Raven Swoop site. Each jet carried twelve CBU-59 APAM—anti-personnel and material—dispensers, as well as a standard load of AIM-9 and AIM-120 air-to-air missiles and a full load of twenty millimeter. For extra measure, Boyce and his wingman each carried one Maverick laser-guided missile.

  In the pale light of dawn, Boyce could make out the undulating dark river, the deserted village, and the white smoke that the FAC—F
orward Air Controller—had deployed to mark the bulls eye reference point.

  The voice of Snake Rafferty, the FAC assigned to Hewlitt’s unit, crackled in Boyce’s headset. “Your primary target is dug in, twelve o’clock, two hundred yards from bulls eye. Troops, about two hundred, in a line from ten to two o’clock.”

  “Galeforce Zero-one copies,” Boyce acknowledged.

  “Galeforce Two-one will push in fifteen seconds,” called Rico Flores. His flight of four Super Hornets would leave the stack fifteen seconds behind Boyce’s flight. The result would be a continuous rain of anti-personnel bombs on the dug-in Sherji.

  “Galeforce Zero-one, Sea Lord,” came the voice of the controller aboard the orbiting E-2C Hawkeye. “Picture clear. No threats.”

  “Galeforce copies.” Well, Boyce thought, at least the gomers didn’t bring air defense toys to the party. It meant that the strike three days ago had taken out Bu Hasa’s serious assets.

  He wondered what went wrong. It had been too much to hope for that the prisoner exchange would go without a glitch. There was always a glitch. In the war against terrorists, nothing went as you expected.

  He wanted to ask whether they’d gotten Rasmussen, but he didn’t. Better not put it on the radio, just in case. He’d wait until the team was in the helo, on the way home.

  “Galeforce flight, check knockers up,” he called. In sequence, two through eight, the Hornet pilots confirmed their master armament switches selected to the armed position.

  Also inbound were the Cobra gunships, still ten miles away. They would stay low and out of the fight until Boyce’s Hornets had laid down the cluster bombs. Then they would move in with their own rockets and Vulcan cannon.

  The eastern horizon was glowing orange with the new dawn. Down below, Boyce could see the dark, marshy landscape punctuated by ribbons of morning fog. The smoke of Snake’s marker was curling straight upward like a wispy white ribbon.

  Through his HUD he saw the Sherji positions. Tiny sparks of light were already winking at him as he slanted down toward the target.

  Good, he thought. Small arms fire. A few suicidal Sherji were popping away with light assault rifles. That was fine with Boyce. It made their positions easier to spot.

  He felt the low, purposeful heat of anger warming his insides. The Sherji were playing the same game as they had in Yemen. Use someone on the ground as bait, suck in a recovery team, spring the trap.

  Sorry, gomers. Game over.

  The target swelled in his Head-Up Display. He eased the CCIP—Continuously Computed Impact Point—cross in his HUD over the winking muzzle flashes and pressed the pickle button on the stick. Through the airframe of the Hornet he felt the thunk of the ejectors kicking off the CBU canisters.

  Seconds later, “On target, on target. Good hits. Galeforce Zero-two, move your aim point thirty yards left.”

  Boyce pulled, grunting against the four Gs on his body. Over his shoulder he could see the next Hornet sweeping low over the target, laying a fresh swath of cluster bombs. He could visualize the destruction on the ground. Each dispenser deployed hundreds of BLU-77 bomblets that sliced through everything in its path—trees, vehicles, troops—like tiny machetes.

  One by one, Boyce and his wingmen circled for their second and final pass.

  “Galeforce Zero-four off target, Winchester.” Winchester meant that all of his ordnance had been expended.

  By the time Flores’s Hornets arrived over the Sherji positions, it was over.

  “Galeforce Two-one checking in as fragged.”

  “Hold fire, Two-one. The gomers are running,” called Snake. “The survivors are heading for the marshes. Looks like CAG’s flight got most of the job done.”

  “Galeforce is off target, Snake,” called Boyce. “You can call in Cleaver.” “Cleaver” was the call sign of the lead Cobra gunship pilot. With their high-velocity Gatling guns, the Cobras would chase down the retreating Sherji like hawks chasing mice.

  Thinking of the slaughter on the ground, Boyce felt one fleeting moment of regret for the loss of life. The moment passed. His thoughts were replaced with images of the ambush they had tried to set.

  The trapped Marines in Yemen.

  The torpedoing of the Reagan in the Gulf of Aden.

  The attack on the World Trade Center. On the Pentagon.

  “Stick it to ‘em, Cleaver,” he called.

  The new sun was spreading a pale glow over the landscape, casting shadows behind the ridges and levies of the marsh. Gazing down from five thousand feet, Boyce saw the three other fighters of his flight in a climbing rendezvous turn, rejoining the formation.

  The target area looked like a wave of lava had flowed through it. All vegetation had been removed. A gray veil of smoke hovered over the ground. To the north, the Cobras were pursuing the escaping Sherji, flying in a line abreast formation low over the terrain. Boyce could almost smell the stench of death.

  And then he spotted something. To the west, concealed behind the low shrubs along the river.

  A plume of dust.

  As he arced his Hornet around to the west, peering down sun, he got a better glimpse. A truck of some kind, drab green, canvas top, driving on a levy concealed by weeds and foliage. It was kicking up a barely noticeable rooster tail of dust.

  Interesting.

  “Snake, Galeforce One-one. Do you have a vehicle exiting the target area to the north? Maybe three miles?”

  “Negative, Galeforce. If he’s leaving the party in that direction, he’s one of the guests. You’re cleared to engage. Cleared in hot.”

  “Galeforce copies.”

  He studied the vehicle as it sped westward. In another minute it would reach the high foliage of the marsh and be out of sight.

  During the mission planning back on the Reagan, it had occurred to him that hauling a 670 pound anti-tank missile amounted to gross overkill. There wouldn’t be any suitable target for a weapon like the IR-guided AGM-65F Maverick. But something—a nagging voice from his subconscious—told him to load it anyway.

  What the hell, you never knew what you might find.

  < >

  Sanctuary.

  It was so close he could taste it. The stagnant redolence of the decaying swamp grass filled the cabin of the Land Rover, mixing with the dry dust smell coming up from the levy. Ahead lay the thick foliage and hiding places of the marshes. In this watery wilderness he would be safe.

  Abu Mahmed felt almost giddy with his success. Again he had dodged the bombs and guns of the infidels. Behind him lay the ruins of the old Bu Hasa Brigade—the brigade commanded by the incompetent dreamer, Jamal Al-Fasr.

  Al-Fasr was a martyr. In death he would be a greater figure than at any time in his life. Abu Mahmed was now the unquestioned leader of the new Bu Hasa Brigade. Under his direction, the Brigade would reform here in the ancient ruins of Babylonia. The holy war against the Great Satan would resume with greater fury than ever before.

  It had been necessary to cooperate with the Americans—to let them think he was cooperating—in order to gain leadership of the holy war. The Bu Hasa Brigade had to be purified in order to save it. In one violent episode, Allah’s vengeance had been dispensed on both Al-Fasr and the American CIA operative, Bronson. And, unfortunately, Omar.

  In his overweening arrogance, Bronson had assumed that it was he who was manipulating events, using Abu Mahmed to his advantage. It was typical American insolence, thinking he was superior to his Arab counterparts.

  He had been stupid.

  Abu was driving the Land Rover. It was difficult keeping the vehicle on the narrow path atop the levy, trying to peer through the dawn mist and flat light. In the seat beside him was Ali, the Sherji who had witnessed the shooting of Al-Fasr by Bronson, and then the killing of Bronson by his fellow American.

  That was the part that perplexed Abu. He knew that Bronson wanted Al-Fasr dead—that had been their bargain. The secret that Bronson had kept from Abu was that he also wanted the American prisoner, Rasmu
ssen, dead.

  Why? According to Ali, Bronson had been about to execute the prisoner when his fellow American shot him.

  Very peculiar. But the Americans behaved in peculiar ways. They were a godless and barbaric society that would soon—

  His thoughts were interrupted by Ali’s frantic gesturing.

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  Ali was a brave but ignorant Uzbek peasant. He was pointing behind the Rover. “Back there, something. . .”

  Abu kept one hand on the steering wheel as he craned his neck around. He had only a small picture window view through the enclosure in the back of the Rover.

  The hairs on his neck stood up.

  Framed in the rectangular opening was a smoke trail. It was zigzagging like a bat in flight.

  Abu slowed the Land Rover, his attention fixed on the object behind them. What is it?

  In the next instant he knew. The object swelled to fill the rectangular opening.

  More from instinct than deliberate choice, he swerved the Land Rover, knowing as they careened off the levy that it was a futile move. He was vaguely aware of the scream that erupted from Ali’s throat.

  Abu Mahmed’s last flash of awareness was of the cataclysmic ball of flame that transformed his body into molten protoplasm.

  < >

  Mustafa heard the sounds of the jets fade in the south, replaced by the whopping noise of helicopter blades. The Americans had routed the Sherji, and soon they would be leaving.

  The Sherji were stupid. Those that survived the air attack were running like rabbits to the northern marshes. Like most terrorists, they trusted too much in Allah and gave too little credence to the strength of their enemy. At least two hundred, perhaps more, had kept their appointments with Allah this morning.

  He had remained concealed at the edge of the village courtyard while the tableau played itself out—each of the warring parties slaying the other until only two were left. When the two Americans departed, the courtyard was littered with the dead.

  He was not surprised. After meeting Abu Mahmed and his lieutenant, Omar Al-Iryani, during the mission with Tyrwhitt, he knew what would happen. He had seen it in their faces. They were the same self-assured, dark-eyed fanatical faces he had seen in the other terrorist groups—Al Qaeda, Hamas, Hezbollah, Abu Nidal. They were men who worshiped death.