Short Season

by DJ Scott

  McGregor, though, was the worst of the bunch. Another former enlisted man, McGregor had a flashy University job and friends in high places. Worst of all, he had that damn Navy Cross. At every meeting, there it was, and every single person in the room knew it.

  Of his many life goals, Kenny Barnes put taking Michael McGregor down a peg very close to the top.

  Barnes, a large slab-faced man, strode over to Mike McGregor, put out a big, beefy hand, and shook McGregor’s. “I heard you needed help up here.” Barnes removed his sunglasses as his close set eyes slowly surveyed the aid station and saw only one patient, a Marine who was having a grain of sand washed from his eye, plus a few more awaiting medevac. “Perhaps I was misinformed.”

  “Things will pick up again soon,” said McGregor.

  Barnes gave a dismissive snort. “So you can see the future too.”

  “I do have some experience with these things, Commander.”

  “I thought you would be up at the objective with your CO,” Barnes replied. “Or would that be too close to the action?”

  Nicole Ellis winced at the killing glare which was McGregor’s response.

  The standoff was interrupted by the roar of heavy vehicles coming over the low ridge and heading towards the bridge. The engineers had arrived.

  Chapter 35

  September 13, 2017 0745Z (1045 AST)

  Arad

  Major Khalid Ishmail sat in his command post four blocks north of the warehouse containing the nuclear warheads and cursed Ali al-Ahmar. Where was he? If he had been here with his company, they could have executed a flanking attack on the wretched Americans. If they could damage their heavy transport it was possible that they would abandon the mission. All he could do now was to delay the advance with snipers, small mines and IEDs.

  As he predicted, the Americans expended enormous resources in evacuating and caring for their wounded, and it had slowed their advance. He could see their ambulances shuttle back and forth and could hear their medical evacuation helicopters. One thing he could not have predicted, however, was the enormous strength of the operation. A full battalion of their Marines was methodically grinding up his defenses, and reports showed more of their people deployed along every possible route of escape as well as blocking reinforcements from al-Mukalla.

  “Major,” one of his men called to him. “The Americans have been sighted near the storage building.”

  This was inevitable. His orders at this point were simple—continue to blood the Americans, but to also do everything to hasten their departure once they had actually seized the warheads. The longer they had to poke around, the more likely they were to create an even greater disaster for Abdullah Nazer. He felt fairly confident that he could prevent the kind of thorough search such a discovery would require. He was also confident that, with the half-hour warning from Nazer’s fleet of small fishing boats, their Iraqi expert and the critical elements of the PAL had escaped to the west ahead of the Americans.

  Fortunately, the Americans had done nothing to interfere with the tiny cellular network in Arad, and Major Ishmail was still able to receive reports and issue orders to his men. He felt it unlikely that the Marines would move farther north of the warehouse than they had to in order to secure the area for removal of the warheads. But if they did, his building had a small, well hidden, basement which would allow him to remain undetected.

  Seizing his phone, Ishmail made a quick call to one of his sergeants concealed with nine other men just across the Wadi to the west of Arad. “Their heavy vehicles will be coming soon. Hit them as soon as they come within range. They cannot retreat; they must keep coming. Damage the vehicles. The drivers will be easier to replace.”

  “Yes, Major. We are ready. There is no evidence the Americans know we’re here.”

  “God be with you.” The Major ended the call. He knew that in less than an hour the Sergeant and his men would, in all likelihood, be dead.

  Chapter 36

  September 13, 2017 0800Z (1100 AST)

  South of Arad

  The six Mk-25 trucks, one for each of the weapon containers, made up most of the convoy headed for Arad. Each vehicle was capable of carrying two containers, but for safety, the plan was to load only one in each truck. At the rear of the convoy was a single Mk-36 wrecker, essentially a crane capable of lifting over twenty tons.

  In the lead was one of only three armored vehicles assigned to the operation, an LAV-25. This lethal eight-wheeled light armored vehicle carried a turret with a 25 mm chain gun, two machine guns, and four marine infantrymen in the back. Captain Mark Ernst, commanding both the LAV and the convoy, was in the lead and was looking for the unexpected. Ernst, one of the few active-duty Marines involved in Ocean Reach, was there because there were currently no reserve LAV units. He stopped the convoy, dismounted, and walked the hundred meters to Colonel Mark’s command post. There he spoke with the operations officer, Lt Col Jim Evans.

  “Okay, Captain, here’s the situation,” Evans said. We have the warehouse and secure ingress straight down the main road. Deploy just outside the town. The 1/28 will tell you when to move in. At that point Captain Jenkins of the engineers will take command until the convoy is reassembled and ready to depart. Send the wrecker in first, they’ll use it to drag one warhead out of the warehouse and into the street, where it will be lifted and ready to load. When ordered, send in the first truck. To avoid turning around, the trucks will leave Arad to the east via the cross street in front of the warehouse. There’s enough room for the turn and that route is now secure. The convoy will assemble south of the town on this side of the bridge. Clear?”

  “Completely, sir.”

  “All right, let’s get moving.”

  Ernst nodded and jogged back to the LAV.

  The convoy crossed the bridge, but about two hundred yards south of the town began to receive automatic weapons fire from west of the Wadi Dhahwan. Multiple heavy machine gun rounds pounded into the cab and engine of the first truck behind Ernst’s LAV.

  Ernst responded instantly and pulled his LAV forward, made a left turn, and placed it between the source of fire and the convoy. As the LAV began taking hits, Ernst yelled, “Get some fire on those guns.”

  Even before he spoke, his gunner was already traversing the turret. In seconds he laid the crosshairs of the recently upgraded electro-optical sight on the nearest gun emplacement, and opened fire with 25 mm high-explosive rounds, obliterating the weapon and its crew. He did the same to the second gun position, but not before one of Ernst’s Marine riflemen was killed and one wounded. The remaining two Marines in the passenger compartment scrambled out the rear door and added their fire to that of the LAV.

  The engineers in the other trucks, who understood their mission was to retrieve the warheads and not to engage in combat, quickly turned and headed east away from the assault.

  The ambush, so carefully planned by Major Ishmail and his sergeant, ended a minute later when two circling AH-1Z Viper gunships dispatched the remaining Yemenis with two Hellfire missiles.

  Despite the quick reaction, two Marines were dead and one of the trucks had a smashed windshield and engine damage. The LAV had also taken several hits to the engine compartment and was leaking fuel. Ernst ordered his slightly-wounded gunner to secure the LAV while Ernst himself transferred to one of the trucks. His plan, after obtaining permission from Colonel Mark, was to retrieve the LAV with the wrecker once the warheads had been loaded and were enroute to the beach. The damaged truck was to be abandoned.

  The three wounded were treated at the aid station where Mike McGregor looked up periodically from his work to glance at CDR Kenny Barnes, who was occupying himself watching the village through binoculars.

  Chapter 37

  September 13, 2017 0915Z (0515 EDT, 1215 AST)

  The White House Situation Room

  Despite the early hour, the Situation Room
was packed. Brendan Wallace, wearing jeans and a starched white shirt, was leaning on his elbows and studying a monitor carrying a live feed from a Predator drone launched earlier from Essex which was now circling high over Arad.

  He’d already received multiple updates from Admiral Tucker. He had also taken a call from the Saudi Ambassador who expressed concern about ‘rumors’ of a U.S. operation in Yemen. This, Wallace knew, would be a delicate call, as he had no idea how high in the Saudi hierarchy the nuclear conspiracy went, or its purpose. He had finally told the Ambassador a vague story about a potential security threat, and that a formal announcement would be forthcoming, hopefully within hours. A call from the Russian Ambassador was fobbed off onto Sonny Baker. “Bastard wants to know if this is about their wandering nukes. They probably had no idea they were in Yemen until their satellites picked up our operation. Give him the brushoff, Sonny. He’ll find out what we’re up to when those warheads and their Cyrillic markings appear on the six o’clock news.”

  While Baker and the President were dealing with the Russians, Karen Hiller had taken a call from the White House liaison with the National Security Agency. The NSA had just intercepted and translated a call from Abdullah Nazer to a reporter at Al Jazeera describing an unprovoked American invasion of his small nation.

  “Probably trying to build regional support,” said Wallace. “That will fall apart once we display those warheads.”

  “You may be right Mr. President,” replied Baker, “but he should know that. The fact that he’s speaking up worries me. Could he have something up his sleeve? Could he have moved some of those nukes?”

  “Damn it Sonny,” Karen Hiller exploded. “Didn’t you tell us, just a few hours ago, those weapons were in Arad?”

  “He did,” interrupted the President. “In fairness, though, Sonny gave no guarantee all six were there. Unfortunately, in the grotesque math of nuclear weapons there is a much bigger difference between zero and one than there is between one and six. In a few hours we’ll know.”

  Everyone at the table nodded in agreement, but no one spoke.

  Chapter 38

  September 13, 2017 0945Z (1245 AST)

  Arad

  It had taken some time, but the big Mk-36 wrecker was finally in place outside the warehouse. Inside, Marines from the 1/28 had cleared away a large pile of junk piled around the warhead cases—pipe, block and tackle, cargo netting, and assorted rope and cables. The engineers had attached a heavy steel cable to the lift points welded to the first of the massive warhead boxes and, using the crane on the wrecker, had pulled it out into the street.

  Lieutenant Colonel Jeremiah Walsh was about to radio for the first truck to be brought forward when he heard a muffled blast followed by the clatter of collapsing masonry walls. The air was suddenly filled with a choking dust. “What the hell?”

  First Sergeant Al Johanssen, who had assumed the role of Battalion Sergeant Major when his predecessor had fractured his ankle during a training run, sprinted out the warehouse door and was confronted by an opaque cloud of dust and sand.

  As it cleared, he could see that a building about half-way down the street had collapsed, blocking the route the engineers planned to use to move the warheads out of Arad. He knew that two Marines from the MP Company had been standing guard in second floor windows, and were probably now buried in the rubble.

  Over the next few minutes, Johanssen watched as four Yemenis emerged from hidden basements and took the injured Marines’ rescuers under fire. It then took twenty minutes for the MPs guarding the street and a squad from E Company to hunt them down and kill all four in a running firefight. Meanwhile, more Marines and several corpsmen were digging out their buried comrades. Both survived, thanks to their body armor, but both had multiple fractures. In addition, four more Marines had been wounded, two seriously, in the battle with Ishmail’s men.

  Jeremiah Walsh was receiving continuous updates on the action, though at times it was easier to just look out the warehouse door, the gunfire was that close. He turned to his senior corpsman and ordered, “Get on the radio and see if we can get a medevac helo to land in that courtyard out back. We have good access , it’s secure, and moving the wounded back to the aid station will be tough now that we have to move the warheads in and out on the same road.”

  The blood-splattered petty officer spent about five minutes in discussion with the medical regulating officer aboard the Essex. This officer coordinated the movement of casualties, attempting to utilize resources most efficiently. “No can do, sir,” was the response. “First, the Air Boss won’t send his helos north of the wadi if he can avoid it, not while there’s active combat.”

  “For Christ’s sake,” Walsh slammed his fist onto his small portable desk. “They do combat medevac, as long as there isn’t any combat?”

  “Wouldn’t make any difference, sir. Medical regulating wants them triaged by the battalion surgeon. Said the ORs are already full on Essex and Iwo Jima, and there isn’t a surgical team on Ashland.”

  “Very well. We’ll have to carry them by stretcher to the south end of town. Have the BAS send their ambulances to pick them up there. The main road is now totally committed to moving the warheads, and considering what just happened, I don’t want our ambulances driving down side streets next to buildings that might blow up.”

  Changing focus, “First Sergeant Johanssen, keep an eye on those engineers. Keep this thing moving, I want us out of this shithole as soon as possible.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” said Johanssen who headed for the small gaggle of engineers working outside the warehouse.

  As the engineers tried to figure out what to do, Marines from A Company carefully searched the houses looking for more hidden explosives. In one house they came across several Yemenis emerging from another hidden basement. The engagement lasted only a few seconds, but produced two more wounded.

  Meanwhile, the engineers had found they could back their trucks down the main street where the wrecker had successfully extracted the first warhead from the warehouse. Because of the damaged truck, one vehicle would have to carry two of the warheads. They decided it might as well be the first, so another massive steel box was lifted onto the truck’s bed. It rolled out of town, past buildings meticulously searched—and heavily occupied.

  Seeing the potential for delays, Jeremiah Walsh made a quick decision and called Colonel Aaron Mark. “Sir, loading the objective —” he was not about to say ‘warheads’, even over encrypted radio—“is going to be slower than estimated. Request some vehicles be sent up from the beach to escort our trucks individually so they can be embarked as they arrive.”

  Mark rarely second guessed his subordinates. “Can do. No sign of opposition so far along the south road. One Humvee per item? It’s all we can spare.”

  “”Perfect, sir.”

  “I’ll make it happen. Falcon, out.”

  About thirty-five minutes later, Mark saw a long dust cloud moving like a tan snake up the road towards his position. In a few minutes, a half dozen hard-back Humvees arrived, each carrying three Marines, one of them a gunner in the small ring turret manning an M-240G machine gun. Two of them formed up with the first warhead truck and began to move back towards the beach. The others parked just below the crest of the low ridge, about a hundred meters before the bridge.

  Colonel Mark was just beginning to relax when his intelligence officer, Major Ashley Greene, hopped out of her vehicle where she was monitoring as many drone and radio feeds as she could handle, and jogged over to her commanding officer.

  “Excuse me, Colonel. Something you should have a look at.”

  Peering into the window of her Humvee, he watched her replay a thirty second video clip, obviously downloaded from the operation’s Predator drone.

  “The drone has returned to Iwo Jima for fuel, but on the way back it picked up this.” She pointed to a moving dust cloud much like the colu
mn of Humvees that had just come up from the beach.

  “Where is this exactly?” he asked.

  Greene brought up a map on her computer and showed him the location. “Looks like they know we have people holding the road just to the west of us. They appear to be heading down a single lane dirt path that leads to this bridge across a deep wadi. Once across that bridge they can head south and intersect the road to our current location behind the blocking force.”

  “How large is that force, Major?”

  Ashley Greene, a Qeshm veteran and highly skilled at interpretation of reconnaissance imaging, had already anticipated the question. “I did a little image enhancement. The first unit is something like a Humvee. We know Nazer’s forces acquired a number of old French P4s; that’s probably it. The second unit is a small armored vehicle, almost certainly one of their BTR-60 variants. Behind them are two trucks. Being at the back, there is so much dust, I can’t even guess what they are. Best estimate is four men in the P4 and up to a dozen in each truck. The BTR can carry troops, but it’s absolutely miserable in this climate and traveling on a rough road. Best guess is that column has thirty to thirty-five troops. They should arrive at that bridge in about half an hour.”

  Colonel Mark considered this for a moment. Then he turned to his operations officer. “Jim, what air assets do we have that can hit them before they reach that bridge?”

  “Uh Colonel, you may recall that Washington has instructed us not to engage the Yemenis with air assets unless they have attacked us first or present a direct threat to the mission.”