The men of Foxtrot Platoon had been in Iraq for five months now, and were well versed in the requirement for acute vigilance in all of their sorties beyond the great walls of Camp Hitmen. And this week was turning into an extremely dangerous time, given the continued existence of the Diamondhead, and the Iranians’ apparent willingness to keep supplying it, United Nations or not.
Lieutenant Commander Bedford spotted the black plumes of smoke rising from the western bank of the Euphrates two miles out. He signaled a halt to the convoy and stood up, fixing a pair of powerful binoculars on the uproar up ahead. From what he could see, there were two tanks still ablaze. He thought he could see US Army ambulances, but the smoke, dust and fire obscured the view.
He signaled for the convoy to continue, flank speed, the SEALs being a branch of the navy rather than the army. “Step on it, Jack, for Chrissakes,” he muttered. “This looks like a real shit-fight.”
All five armored vehicles accelerated, their already hot engines screaming in the grim silence of the Syro-Arabian desert. In front of a billowing dust cloud they surged onward. Inside the tanks, Mack Bedford’s men slammed magazine clips into their rifles, the gun crews staring through the sights of the big swiveling barrels that would almost certainly be turned onto their distant enemy across the river.
As they approached Abu Hallah they could see the gray outlines of buildings on the far bank beyond the bridge. Almost immediately opposite those buildings were the remnants of the morning task force. Two tanks had been hit and destroyed. The only surviving armored vehicle was positioned behind them, away from the river, with its gun pointing directly across at the buildings. The smoke, however, was still so intense that there was scarcely any hope of taking a decent shot at anything.
The closer they came, the more obvious it was that this had been a major disaster. Mack’s warriors could see the ambulances now, and the fire trucks, not to mention the pure hopelessness of trying to carry the dead away from the searing heat and melting metal.
The rescue services were from the US ar-Ramadi base, some fifty miles to the south. They had been on another rescue mission, a roadside bomb farther north, but had turned back immediately when news came in of the attack on the SEALs at Abu Hallah.
Mack Bedford exercised a hard-earned caution about getting too close to burning vehicles when there was still a lot of gasoline in the immediate area. He signaled his convoy to halt, well short of the fires, around fifty feet beyond the bridge. He alone jumped out onto the road and walked toward the disaster area. A young SEAL lieutenant, dressed in battle cammies and carrying a rifle, walked toward him. The two knew each other well, and Lt. Barry Mason said simply, “Thanks for coming, Mack. Afraid there’s not much we can do right now, except wait. We got ’em pinned down in that building over there. But they got us pinned down right here, and I’m not anxious to break cover until we’ve cleared ’em out.
“Jesus Christ. You shoulda seen the missiles they hit us with. Both of ’em went straight through the fuselage of the tanks. Holy shit. Like a goddamned hot knife through butter.”
Mack Bedford could already feel the heat in more ways than one. “These fires start when the explosive reached the fuel tanks?”
“Hell, no. They seemed like part of the missile. Everything ignited right away. The guys never had a chance. They were burned alive. I could see two of ’em trying to get out, but the flames were kinda blue and burned like chemicals. We couldn’t get near them. Christ, it was hot. No survivors.”
“Obviously the Diamondhead,” said Mack.
“No doubt,” replied Lieutenant Mason. “Couldn’t have been anything else. Fucking thing. Never seen anything more horrible than that. And this is my third time in Iraq.”
Mack nodded. For the first time he could see tears streaming down the young SEAL’s face, a certain sign of the shattering cruelty he had witnessed along the south road down the Euphrates.
For a few moments, neither man spoke. They just stood back and stared at the misshapen, seared, and twisted metal of the tank, each of them trying to fight away the terrible thought of their brothers who had been incinerated inside the cockpit. For Barry Mason it was all about sadness, remorse, and, inevitably, self-pity, as the brand-new memories of his lost friends stood starkly before him. For Mack, it was something altogether different. Deep in the soul of the SEAL commander there was a constantly burning flame of vengeance. Mostly, it just flickered and could be ignored. Mackenzie Bedford knew full well that all military leaders need to be free of cascading emotion, because anger and resentment are the first cousins of recklessness. But all of them carry this unseen burden, and they constantly grapple to avoid being forced into hasty decisions.
Mack Bedford often found it more difficult than most to hold back the demons that urged him to lash out at his enemy with all the uncontrolled violence he could summon. He even had a name for the surge of fury that welled within him. He called it the “hours of the wolf,” a phrase he recalled from some morbid Ingmar Bergman movie. It was a phrase that perfectly described his feelings, mostly in the hours before dawn, when he could not sleep and yearned only to smash his enemy into oblivion.
Right now, standing on this burning desert road, watching the molten iron tombs of his fellow SEALs and three Rangers, Mack entered the hours of the wolf. And deep inside he could sense that familiar burgeoning rage, currently aimed at everything about this godforsaken hellhole in which he must serve.
He turned his head sideways to the hot wind and stared across the river, at the ancient stone dwellings, built mostly on just two floors, all of them pockmarked with bullet and shell holes. Mack could see them clearly through his binoculars. Abu Hallah was an insurgent stronghold, no doubt – a place where Islamist fanatics came and launched attacks on US troops before vanishing once more back into the desert.
“Did you see where the missiles came from?” he asked Lieutenant Mason.
“Nossir. But they came straight across the river, from one of those houses, and they did not swerve. Just came straight at us.”
“Two only?”
“Yessir. One hit the lead tank, clean as a whistle. The second one came in right behind it, smashed into the next tank, just as if they had been individually aimed from two firing posts.”
“Were you stationary at the time?”
“Nossir. We were making about thirty miles per hour. By the time my vehicle had stopped and I hit the ground, both tanks were blazing like a couple of goddamned bonfires. Except with that blue flame I mentioned. Never saw anything catch fire that quick.”
“Jesus Christ,” said Mack. “And we don’t dare flatten those fucking houses across the river, because they’re probably full of unarmed civilians and someone will put us all in jail.”
“And it’s hard to know if the missile men are still in there,” said Lieutenant Mason.
“Tell you what, Barry. I can see a small group of vehicles just beyond the houses. I’m gonna drive back down this road and take a look. I’ll take my guys with me and turn around. If I see one sign of a hostile enemy on that side of the river, I’m taking them out.”
“Probably make us both feel a whole lot better, right?”
“Guess so,” said Mack, who was now conscious of the ever tightening knot of pure anger in his stomach, the old familiar one that heralded the hours of the wolf.
He signaled for his driver to come forward and for the four tanks to follow. He climbed aboard the armored car and led the way down the road for 400 yards, stopped, and instructed the tanks to turn around, back toward the fires, and to aim their main artillery at the buildings across the river.
“Don’t fire. Just be ready.”
Positioned now at the rear of the convoy, Mack trained his binoculars on the small gathering of Arabs and trucks on the other side of the water. There was a stone wall, however, between the SEAL commander and the insurgents, and Mack’s car backed up another fifty feet to improve the angle. Now he could see clearly.
There
were two unmistakable tripods placed in the ground midway along the wall. He could not identify the equipment mounted on top of the tripods, but since he was most certainly not looking at a highway surveyors’ unit preparing for a new freeway, Mack assumed the worst. He was looking at a missile sighting system and a guidance assembly, almost certainly identical to the ones that fired the new and improved French-made MILAN 3.
Mack knew enough about the MILAN to understand it fires in two stages, the first burn being for one and a half seconds, just to eject the missile out of the launcher. The second stage burns for eleven seconds, accelerating the missile to 200 meters per second. The guys in the US tanks never had a chance.
He had every reason to believe the secret Diamondhead may have been a shade faster, with perhaps a tougher cone protecting the warhead. As he stared at the small group across the river he suddenly observed the arrival of a new vehicle. And this was not a rough 4x4 desert truck; this was the sleekest of Mercedes-Benz limousines.
He watched the chauffeur hold open the door for the man who occupied the rear seat. Out into the desert stepped an immaculately dressed Western man wearing a dark pinstriped suit, with a blue tie and a scarlet handkerchief stuffed into the breast pocket of his jacket. He was essentially bald, with slicked-back dark hair on either side. Even from this side of the river Mack Bedford could see the jutting Roman nose.
The Arabs clustered around the new arrival, shaking his hand and smiling. He walked to the first tripod and spoke briefly. He examined a long tube that had been in the back of one of the trucks. Then he returned to the tripod and stared through the sights. For five more minutes he spoke to the men, all of whom were wearing Arab dress. Then he placed his arm around the shoulders of one of them and steered him to the limousine, which immediately accelerated away.
Mack walked back north, along the line of his tanks, instructing them to move on up toward the fires and to prepare to shell the wall that shielded the missile launchers. All four began to rumble forward, and the commander jumped into his own vehicle for the short ride.
As they came to a halt Mack climbed down from the right-hand side of the vehicle. As he did so there was a roar from the lead driver, whose head was above the hatch.
“INCOMING…! HIT THE…” But it was too late. The missile from the other side of the Euphrates lanced across the water, belching flame, and slammed straight through the starboard-side fuselage of the lead tank, the one that contained Billy-Ray Jackson and Charlie O’Brien.
Mack Bedford watched aghast as the entire thing burst into a bright-blue chemical flame, the inferno in the interior now blasting through the hatch like a blowtorch gone berserk. A blowtorch from hell. Someone was trying to get out, but his entire head was on fire. He never even had time to scream before he died. It looked like Billy-Ray.
The roar of the fire drowned out the next missile that streaked across the river, leaving a fiery tail, and smashed into Mack’s second tank, the one that contained Chief Frank Brooks and the master gunner, Saul Meiers. No one had a prayer. Once more the missile ripped through the steel of the tank and detonated into a sensational fireball, incinerating everything in its path.
Lieutenant Commander Bedford just stood there, as did Lieutenant Mason, both of them in shock at the sudden and terrifying impact of the hit from the insurgents. Again they watched as someone, this time the tank commander, battled to get out, but it was a grotesque charade. Everyone in the tank was plainly on fire, burning alive, caught in the roaring chemical flame that extinguished life instantly. The SEALs, on their rescue mission, were gossamer moths trapped in the devil’s inferno.
Men were leaping from the other two tanks, anything to get clear before the next Diamondheads came in. Mack Bedford stood there, staring, in some kind of a dreamlike trance. He could not quite work out who was dead and who was alive. Was this hell, and had he died with his men?
The roar of the flames drowned out everything. The billowing smoke was rising a hundred feet in the air. No one could even see the far bank of the river. SEAL team leaders were hustling everyone into positions beyond the shattered convoy. Someone rushed up to Mack shouting, “THIS WAY, SIR – WE GOTTA REGROUP – WE GOTTA GET CLEAR OF THIS FIRE!”
Mack joined the rest, running over the rough ground, keeping the burning convoy between his men and the deathtrap missile launchers across the river. Like everyone, he was scared to climb back into the tanks to open fire on the enemy. It seemed nothing could stop the Diamondhead on its chosen course, and its deadly mission.
He assumed a loose command, instructing that no one move until he was certain the insurgents had made an escape. SEALs had already phoned for help from every available quarter. Within fifteen minutes, rescue helicopters would arrive, but there was no one to rescue. It was impossible to live within the periphery of the Diamondhead missile. They waited in silence as the flames crackled beneath the desert sun. And then slowly they rose up from the sands and began to walk toward the pile of tortured metal, which contained the tortured, charred remains of their friends and colleagues.
It was still too hot to get close, but they walked around the outside until, one by one, they saw a strange sight on the far side of the river. There were a dozen robed Arabs, their hands held high, walking toward the bridge. The Americans watched, amazed. One of them yelled, “Don’t do anything, guys! This is the oldest trick in the book. They’ve unloaded their weapons. They’re surrendering as unarmed civilians. They know we’re not allowed to touch them!”
And this assessment was accurate. The jihadists knew the rules well. Rather than retreat into the desert and face an aerial bombardment from US aircraft, they chose to deny what they had done and pose as a group of local Bedouins, going about their peaceful, lawful business, innocent of any form of attack on the forces of the United States of America.
Mack Bedford looked back at the dying flames of the tanks, and tried to hold back his tears for Charlie O’Brien and the rest. He stared again at the bridge, and the anger welled up inside him – But these fucking bastards crossing the river… Jesus Christ…! They’ve just murdered my guys!
The silence seemed to cast a mantle of unreality over this tiny corner of Iraq, a land of such unaccountable hatreds. There was no movement among the stone-faced SEALs as they watched the little group of wraithlike figures still walking toward the center of the bridge. Still with their hands held high.
From here their sandals made no scuffing sound on the sand-swept flagstones of the bridge. It was as if the Americans were watching through a long-range slow-motion camera lens, watching the advance of this murderous little cabal that had caused lifelong heartbreak for these serving US troops.
But the Arabs kept coming, kept walking. Only the Foxtrot Platoon commander recognized them as the missile men he had watched through his binoculars across the river. And once more he raised the glasses and stared at the oncoming killers, unarmed now, but still with that unmistakable loathing etched on their faces.
There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that these were the perpetrators of this shocking crime, committed in cold blood with four of the internationally banned Diamondhead missiles. And now there was a murmur of restlessness among the Special Forces as they watched the bizarre scene on the Euphrates Bridge.
Team leaders, fearful of the rule-book consequences of attacking men who carried no weapons, were muttering softly. “Steady, guys… Take it easy…. Let ’em keep coming…”
Now, as the twelve Arabs reached the center of the bridge, their footfalls could be heard in the hot, shimmering air. It was a flat, subdued, yet poisonous sound, and still they held their hands high. On the far bank, women and children were gathering to watch as the twelve men walked quietly toward the infidels of the US Special Forces, their sworn enemy.
Everyone on the western side of the river would remember the quiet. And every one of the Americans standing there would recall the sudden sharp metallic snap, as Lt. Cdr. Mackenzie Bedford rammed a new magazine into the breech of h
is M4 automatic rifle and began to run hard, straight at the bridge. These were not the “hours of the wolf.” Mack Bedford was the wolf, an all-American wolf, snarling, bloodthirsty, right out of the deep forests of the great state of Maine.
Lt. Barry Mason reacted first. He swiveled around and set off in pursuit of the SEAL team commander. “NOSSIR… NOSSIR… FOR CHRIST’S SAKE, STOP… DON’T SHOOT!”
Mack reached the bridge first, a full twenty yards in front of the lieutenant. There was a desperation in Barry’s voice as he yelled, “DON’T DO IT, SIR… FOR CHRISSAKES, DON’T DO IT!”
He was racing across the ground now. But not fast enough. Mack Bedford’s gun spat fire, cutting down the four leaders in a hail of well-aimed bullets. The big SEAL stood facing them, his rifle leveled straight at his enemy. Lieutenant Mason was almost on him, arms outstretched, but Mack rammed his finger on the trigger and sprayed bullets into the oncoming group. No one had time to run. No one had time to plead. The SEAL commander just kept firing. And one by one the Arab missile men fell dead into the dust, until they formed a ghostly white shallow hill, their robes fluttering in the hot, dusty southwest wind.
Lieutenant Mason hit his boss with a full-blooded block about one hundredth of a second too late. They both crashed to the ground, and as they did so the Americans stampeded forward, shouting and cheering. From across the river there was a sound of weeping and wailing, as the women ran toward their fallen loved ones.
Lieutenant Mason helped the boss to his feet, and the Americans engulfed the two officers. One young SEAL, with tears rolling down his smoke-blackened cheeks, kept repeating, over and over, “Thank you, sir. Thank you. My brother was in that tank.”
There was no voice of dissent among the thirty Americans who had cheated death that morning. Several of them came up and offered a handshake to the SEAL commander. Others said loudly, “Those bastards had it coming!” or “’Bout time, too!” or even, “We ought to do that a whole lot more often!”
Diamondhead Page 3