Short Season

by DJ Scott

  Then McGregor’s name was read.

  He stepped forward and saluted the Colonel whose return salute was quick and fluid. The Sergeant Major opened a folder and began to read: “The Secretary of the Navy is pleased to present the Navy Cross to Petty Officer Second Class Michael Graeme McGregor for services set forth in the following citation: For extraordinary heroism while serving as team corpsman on a highly classified mission . . . ..”

  As he read through the carefully vague descriptions of McGregor’s actions during the still-secret mission, the young sailor’s scars began to sting. His mind was back in Syria reliving the loss of Delgado, the men he killed, the wounds he’d received, and his burning resentment at being left behind. As Ahrens pinned the Navy Cross with its blue and white ribbon and the Purple Heart above his other decorations, the older man smiled indulgently. He knew what McGregor had done to earn these awards and understood he was best left to his own thoughts.

  Castelli walked away from the ceremony next to his father, Vincent Castelli, retired but wearing his uniform—as was his right.

  “You’re not happy about that corpsman getting the Navy Cross are you?” his father asked.

  “Not really. It was my mission—one that had a real impact on the insurgency. And that kid was an insubordinate smart-ass. I’d love to have him on my ship some time.”

  The older man smiled. “Joe, you’re an ambitious young man, and I respect that. Remember, you were recognized for your leadership of that mission and the Marines were the ones who did it. That Bronze Star did not come out of Baghdad, I can tell you that.”

  Joe Castelli looked at his father with raised eyebrows. How did he know that?

  “As for your corpsman, that Navy Cross had nothing to do with your mission. It was about bringing you and that Marine back. And if I recall from the report I read, killing two and wounding one insurgent while he was at it.”

  Again, Joe Castelli tried not to show how surprised he was at his father’s connections.

  “It’s the Marines, Joe. For them ‘no man left behind’ isn’t just eyewash. Frankly, when I was flying missions in Viet Nam I always felt better when the Marines were doing search and rescue—there was no quit in those guys. You’d do well to remember that.”

  Joe reflected for a moment. McGregor was an insubordinate bastard, but he did owe him his life.

  The older man then put his arm around his son and said, “I have dinner reservations at the Army and Navy Club. I happen to know Admiral Yount, who just took command at PACFLEET, will be there, and I think he will be mighty impressed by that Bronze Star, even if you’re not.”

  Chapter 20

  September 3, 2017 1000Z (0730 EDT)

  Navy and Marine Corps Reserve Center, Ann Arbor

  By 0730 the battalion staff, A company 1/28, and B MP Company 4th Marine Division were all standing at attention behind the building. Lieutenant Colonel Jeremiah Walsh, the battalion commander, stood in front of the formation, and the two company commanders were with their Marines. Walsh, a very lean African American of average height ordered, “Stand at ease.” As the assembled Marines and Sailors relaxed, but only slightly, Walsh held up a document and read from it.

  “September 3, 2017

  From: Commanding Officer 28th Marine Regiment

  To: Commanding Officer 1st Battalion, 28th Marines

  SUBJ: MOBILIZATION ORDERS

  As of 0730 this date the 28th Marine Regiment is mobilized under Presidential authority as the Marine Forces Reserve alert regiment. Duration not to exceed 365 days without Congressional authorization.

  First Battalion has been augmented by B MP Company 4th MARDIV. You are now reporting senior for Commanding Officer B MP Company.

  First Battalion has been further augmented by two platoons from 6th Engineer Support Battalion. You will attach these Marines to your command and utilize them where appropriate and at your discretion.

  New York Air National Guard will transport all Navy and Marine Corps personnel mobilized from or attached to Reserve Center Ann Arbor from Willow Run Airport at 1130 this date.

  I am confident 1st Battalion will in every way display the courage, honor, commitment, and professionalism for which the Marine Corps is known. Semper Fi.

  A Mark, Commanding”

  He added, “I share the regimental commander’s confidence. Individual orders will be distributed to the company commanders immediately after formation. Every individual will have his or her orders by 0900, no screw-ups. Busses will depart at 1000, exactly.” He executed an about face and walked away.

  First Sergeant Al Johanssen barked, “Dismissed,” and the formation disintegrated into more than two hundred individuals, all seeming to move in different directions.

  Chapter 21

  September 3, 2017 1845Z (1345 CDT)

  34,000 feet over Kansas

  Major Kimberly Granville had her big C-17 Globemaster III transport on autopilot, just keeping half an eye on the instruments while she discussed navigation with her co-pilot. The senior pilot in the three-aircraft mission, Granville had just gotten her orders the previous evening. Less than twenty-four hour notice for a transport mission was unusual in itself, but these orders were unique. Three C-17s from the 105 Airlift Wing of the New York Air National Guard were to proceed from Stewart ANG base just north of New York City to Willow Run in Michigan where they would be met by a senior officer with further orders. Two aircraft were configured to transport personnel while hers was prepared to handle a half load of passengers and half palletized cargo. No explanation why they weren’t using nearby Selfridge Air National Guard Base or why they started the mission with only enough fuel for the short hop to Michigan.

  Granville, a Federal Express pilot in civilian life, was familiar with Willow Run, which served primarily cargo and general aviation while Detroit Metro, located not far to the east, served the major passenger airlines. After touchdown, the three aircraft were directed to park on the ramp, where a black SUV approached from a nearby hanger and an Air Force Colonel hopped out and signaled her to open her rear cargo door. A few minutes later, the Colonel appeared in the cockpit and without bothering with introductions simply handed Granville an air tasking order.

  “We’ve arranged fuel to your next destination,” he said, “which is the expeditionary airfield at Twentynine Palms California. Have you ever put down there?”

  “No sir. Isn’t that one of those interlocked metal runways?”

  “Right. But it’s 8,000 feet and you’ll be coming in fairly light so you should have plenty of room. A bit bumpy maybe, but better than a lot of runways in Afghanistan. They can’t refuel these monsters, so after unloading you’ll head down to March Air Force Base for fuel and any maintenance. Hold there for orders.”

  Granville had indeed handled truly brutal runways in Afghanistan, so if they didn’t run into blowing sand at the desert base, she should be fine. She was a bit concerned about Captain Jim King, her most junior pilot, who had just transitioned into the C-17 from the venerable KC-10 tanker. King had spent his entire active-duty career flying from the luxurious 11,000 foot runways of Travis AFB. She would need to spend some time briefing him and have him last in line when they landed so he could watch his fellow pilots. Her third pilot, Mitch Baxter had started his career in the C-130 and had put down on dirt strips in Iraq, back roads in Africa, and even an ice runway in Antarctica. Twentynine Palms would be no problem for Baxter.

  Behind Granville, in the cavernous cargo space, the Marine Corps—and two Navy—officers all sat facing backwards or sideways, one of the many differences with civilian air travel. Behind the officers, on pallets, were the crew-served weapons—mortars and machine guns, communications gear, and the duffel bags, seabags in Marine speak, for both the officers and enlisted.

  LCDR Mike McGregor was trying to sleep, though without much success. What the hell was all this
about? What kind of mission would require an infantry regiment plus the division MPs and combat engineers? His mind had been chewing on the question since their recall. Finally, he gave up and fell asleep over Colorado.

  Kelli Moore was wide awake for a different reason. She was reviewing her platoon training records on a small tablet computer, noting deficiencies to be made up as soon as possible. Like most ambitious female military officers, Moore believed she had to perform better than her male counterparts just to break even. At least this was true with her current commanding officer.

  James “Jimmy” Griggs was a former Georgia Bulldog linebacker and good ‘ol boy with recruiting poster good looks and a ton of ambition of his own. He was an administrator in the Justice Department personnel division and flew out to Ann Arbor for his unit’s monthly drills. He had made it clear from the beginning that he felt there was no place for women in the Marine Corps, but he was very careful not to openly violate any regulations. Careful, that is, with the exception of several affairs with enlisted women under his command. Moore knew he wasn’t worried that he would ever suffer consequences from this ‘perk of command’. She had also heard he was thinking of adding her to his list of conquests. Apparently he had never bedded a female officer. Something held him back though.

  He had probably heard about that broken jaw from friends who had attended the academy. Moore was determined that such a move by Griggs would be the biggest, and possibly last, mistake of his life.

  In any case, Griggs had decided the best way to deal with Moore was to marginalize her. Which is why all the enlisted women in the company—sixteen as of today—wound up in her platoon. That way, when requests came in for an MP platoon to augment a deploying unit, Griggs could simply pass over hers and shove all the women to the sidelines at once. Moore had several discrete discussions with the Headquarters Battalion commander who was sympathetic, but unwilling to take on the politically well-connected Griggs, especially since that would have meant challenging other senior officers who quietly agreed with Griggs. So for now she was running her platoon as sharply and as professionally as she could while waiting for Griggs to either screw up or get promoted out.

  Chapter 22

  September 4, 2017 1440Z (1640 CEST)

  Zadar Croatia

  The crane was just loading the last of the shipping containers onto the deck of the MV Milos Tethys, where a group of crewmen in sweat soaked shirts was securing them with heavy chains. The oil pump was repaired and the ship would receive fresh provisions and depart the following morning.

  The master was not entirely happy with his stay at Zadar, but what could he do? The harbor master had required an additional two-hundred-fifty euros for his ongoing cooperation, and the diesel mechanic was unsure if the replacement part would fit without expensive modifications. When he discovered a case of American Jack Daniels whisky in the back of his truck, however, the part seemed to fit perfectly. But Mr. Theologides understood how the game was played for small operators working out of small ports. He would be happy the Milos Tethys was getting underway and that the delay and the added expense were just part of doing business. The master was confident that the remainder of his voyage would be uneventful.

  Chapter 23

  September 5, 2017 0645Z (0945 AST)

  Al Mukalla, Yemen

  Abdullah Nazer gazed out his office window at the smooth turquoise of the Gulf of Aden, leaned back, and smiled. The message from his freight agent relieved the anxiety of the last few days. That the package would be delivered in three to five days was even better. Nazer was finding the delays less and less tolerable, but he forced himself to remain patient lest he do something that would betray his plans.

  Now that the primary shipment was moving, he could concentrate on his other problem, the permissive action links. Janos had included the technical diagrams, but actually building one was much harder than he had expected. The obscure Russian parts were hard to find and the Iraqi ‘expert’ he hired to build it could not read Russian, so another technical expert had been brought in, creating yet another security risk. The only good news on that front was a message from Janos that he could acquire a PAL operating manual translated into Arabic. The price of two-hundred-fifty thousand British pounds was modest, considering what he had already invested.

  Though ‘the project’, as he liked to think of it, was still uppermost in his mind, Abdullah Nazer had other responsibilities. Variously described as a warlord, transformational Arab leader, or a Saudi puppet, Nazer’s official title was Military Governor of Hadramawt and Al Marah—the two eastern, sparsely populated, administrative divisions of Yemen. Son of an army officer, Nazer had risen through the ranks of the Yemeni military and had served throughout the country. The greatest day of his life, so far at least, was the day he succeeded to his father’s old post as commander of the military district based in al-Mukalla, his home. It got him away from the capital, Saana, a filthy hole which teemed with corruption, violence, and intrigue. And it put distance between him and his country’s political leaders, petty and self-serving thugs who had forgotten their distinguished history as home to the Arab peoples.

  A small historic city on the southern coast, al-Mukalla was far from the ongoing fighting among the northern Zaidi Shia minority, with their Houthi militants, and the majority Sunnis. The relentless infiltration of foreign fighters from al Qaeda, the influence of the fanatical Islamic State, and the corruption of the central government were challenges, but ultimately manageable ones. Inspired by the relative peace of his small domain, two years ago the cunning and far-seeing Nazer had simply declared himself in full command of his region and expelled representatives of the national government. Supported by weapons and ‘volunteers’ arranged for by wealthy Saudi relatives, he had repulsed the half-hearted attempts of the central government to reassert control. Using a combination of local tribes and his own troops—and supported as needed by the Saudis—Nazer relentlessly killed or drove out the foreign militants. The presence of a stable ally on their southern border won Nazer great favor with the Saudis who then poured development funds into his small kingdom.

  The central government, to the extent there really was a central government, settled upon a simple face-saving solution. They appointed Abdullah Nazer the Military Governor. They pretended they were still in control, and he let them pretend. So far, this charade had worked surprisingly well.

  A relative calm had descended upon the eastern provinces and Nazer had not objected when the western press began to refer to his region by the name used by the Romans, ‘Arabia Felix’, Happy Arabia.

  Understanding that Saudi cash could allow his small kingdom both independence and a degree of economic prosperity, Nazer worked with his cousin Muhammad Nazer, a senior official in the Oil Ministry, to buy out the local assets of Petro Masila, the Yemen-based oil company. The Saudi investment was not so much for the modest oil output of the Yemeni fields, but for access to the oil terminal. So long as the Iranians controlled the Strait of Hormuz, the Saudi’s oil, and thus their entire economic base, was hostage to the whims of the mullahs in Teheran. The Saudis intended to revitalize the proposed pipeline from their own oil fields down to Ash-Shihr.

  This realization was also the seed which grew into ‘the project.’

  Muhammed Nazer loathed the Iranians as much as he loathed the Americans, who had killed his beloved father—a man who bore the same name as his cousin, Abdullah. The two men convinced the King that security lay in an alternative option for oil shipment, a pipeline to the Gulf of Aden ending at Ash-Shihr. It would be a way to serve their customers in a crisis and would send Teheran—and Washington—a powerful message that the Kingdom was taking a more active role in its own future.

  At this point only a road had been constructed, but that served as a direct link between eastern Yemen and Saudi Arabia.

  So during a meeting between the cousins Nazer in Riyadh, both men had lamented th
e fact that, while their pipeline would enhance Saudi economic security, the cursed Persians still loomed as an oppressive reality to all the Arab nations of the Gulf. Despite entreaties from their King—and paradoxically from the Israelis as well—the Americans had refused to take the measures required to disarm the mullahs. And even if they did, doing so would only solidify American domination of the Arab Middle East for decades to come. How to rid themselves of both of these burdens?

  Then Janos called.

  Janos had worked with Muhammad Nazer’s father on several small deals for arms destined for the Sunnis of Iraq’s Anbar Province. The son maintained contact after his father was killed by an American bomb in 2005. In the last few years there had been some contacts related to arms for the Sunni insurgents in Syria, but Janos had apparently graduated to much bigger projects than a few cases of AK-47s or a thousand kilos of Semtex.

  This was much bigger.

  When an encrypted satellite phone was delivered to his home, Muhammad Nazer took the call and was intrigued to hear the aging arms dealer describe the possible delivery of ‘unique and extraordinary weapons capable of changing world history.’ When the sum of one-hundred-fifty million euros was mentioned, Nazer realized it had to be nuclear weapons. Negotiations went on for several months over a succession of encrypted phones. Once he understood that Janos was referring to six Russian thermonuclear warheads, it was his nephew Abdullah who suggested their target.

  “Uncle,” Abdullah began, “imagine if Teheran and Qom, home of the mullahs, as well as their largest military bases, all disappeared in a few seconds. Also imagine if half their oil infrastructure was also vaporized. Now imagine if the Americans were blamed.”

  He sat back in his chair and smiled. “The Persians would be critically weakened for a generation or more, and the Americans would be driven from the Gulf. During the period of chaos in Iran, the Arab states of the Gulf would enjoy a substantial increase in oil revenues. We could expand our militaries, oil infrastructure, and economic base. We, not the Persians, would be the regional hegemon. All for one-hundred and fifty million euros.”