Short Season

by DJ Scott

  Tucker considered this. McGregor hoped that, once Tucker knew the consequences of surrender, he might rethink the rescue option.

  “Thank you for that information, Commander. I’ll pass it along. And let me repeat surrender is authorized.” After a moment he asked, “Do you have any capacity to resist a hostile force?”

  “Sure . . . Hell, yes.” McGregor immediately wondered why he said that.

  “Very well. All I can add, then, is that the hopes and prayers of every man and woman in this task force are with you. Junction out.”

  “Thank you Admiral. One more question.” McGregor paused for a second. “Sir?” He no longer heard the background hiss of the satellite system and received no reply. He looked at Brenda Leach who made a quick adjustment.

  “We’ve lost the satellite uplink. I think they must have cut us off,” she said.

  “Can they disable our system remotely?”

  “I don’t think so. But they can terminate our access at the satellite. I think that’s what just happened.”

  “I guess there’s no contacting NAVCENT, or anyone else for that matter. I suppose that’s the point.” McGregor found that the shock was wearing off and was being replaced by a healthy, satisfying fury. “The bastards don’t want us calling for help that nobody can give. The fact that we’re trapped in this rat hole is going to be their little secret.”

  “Uh . . . you realize that works both ways? No comm, no more orders. You can do whatever the hell you want.”

  McGregor nodded. “You know, in the end they might wish they hadn’t turned off the phone. How about the intel systems. Can we still access them?”

  “Maybe, it’s a different satellite.” She tapped on the keyboard. “Looks like we can still download satellite reconnaissance.”

  “Good. Anything recent?”

  In a moment she brought up an image whose legend indicated a satellite pass twenty-two minutes before. It was a fairly broad area, but they could see Arad, their own position—and most important, about thirty kilometers to the west and a bit north, a small column of vehicles, which appeared to be headed south. McGregor zoomed in and winced when he saw that one of them was a BTR-60. “We can’t be here when that thing arrives,” he said. “Get everyone together.”

  In a minute all the personnel on the ridge were gathered into a loose formation. McGregor surveyed the 584 Composite Unit. His ‘command’ consisted of thirty-six men and women; two medical officers—himself included—a physician assistant, four corpsmen, thirteen wounded Marines, the two Royal Marines—one of them wounded—First Sergeant Johanssen, Corporal Smith, and twelve MPs–interestingly, all of them female. A result, he supposed, of the late Major Griggs wanting to save his women from the rigors of combat. Ironically, they were now left behind on this hilltop in Yemen with a medical officer in command.

  McGregor described their situation. He stopped periodically to let remarks like, “This is bullshit,” and “No fucking way” settle down.

  “It is bullshit, but we’re stuck with it. We have to deal with this situation one step at a time. First step is chain of command. Captain Moore you’re my executive officer.” The MPs all nodded in approval, while Kelli Moore, herself, wore an expression he could not interpret. “Captain Singh is operations.”

  The Royal Marine snapped a boot pounding salute. “Yes suh!”

  “Finally, First Sergeant Johanssen is the unit First Sergeant. No offense to you Sergeant Major”—He nodded at the big Scotsman—“but I think you’ll be more valuable with the Captain.”

  “I believe I will, sir.”

  McGregor went on. “Right now there is a small convoy to our west, probably the same guys who murdered our people at that bridge. They have a BTR-60, which is armored and mounts a heavy machine gun. We have nothing to deal with it out in the open, so we need to move to a better position. First Sergeant, get us saddled up and ready to move in five minutes. Captain Moore, a word.”

  Kelli Moore strode over to Mike McGregor looking as if she didn’t know where to begin. “I can’t believe this. The Admiral is leaving us behind—with no goddamned explanation. He leaves a doctor in charge, and your first order is to prepare to engage a BTR-60. I don’t know if I’ve lost my mind, the Admiral has lost his, or you’ve lost yours.”

  “Technically, my first order was to make you XO.” McGregor tried to smile, but could not quite manage it. Despite the desperate circumstances, he still wanted to convince the Captain that he deserved this command, or perhaps to convince himself. “I suppose he put me in charge because Colonel Mark made the choice for him. And I don’t think I’ve lost my mind quite yet. You and the Admiral, hard to say.”

  “Dammit, this is not a joke.”

  “No, Captain, it isn’t.” McGregor’s pale grey eyes fixed hers. “And as crazy as it all sounds, this is the situation, and we have to deal with it. There is, in fact, a BTR-60 out there, and we may have to deal with it too. Now my question is, what do we have that can disable an armored vehicle?”

  “I’m not sure,” she answered after a moment. “Let’s check the truck that came up with the weapons company. One of my people mentioned they had a Carl Gustav, probably brought by those Brits. Maybe we still have it.”

  “Isn’t that one of those Swedish rocket launchers?”

  “Technically a recoilless rifle, but definitely Swedish.” A recoilless rifle is a type of tube artillery in which some of the gasses were exhausted to the rear, greatly reducing recoil and allowing some versions to be man portable.

  They walked towards the small group of vehicles, each of which seemed to have plenty of water, fuel, and ammunition. Ocean Reach had consumed resources at a slower rate than expected—except, of course, for people.

  When Kelli Moore saw Sergeant Major Campbell in the back of the truck, she grabbed a handhold and pulled herself in. “Sergeant Major, is that Carl Gustav in here somewhere?”

  “Aye Captain”, said Campbell, sounding for all the world like Scottie in the old Star Trek series. “Over here.”

  He opened a case and pulled out something that looked a lot like the AT-4 used by U.S. forces, only larger and heavier. While the AT-4 was a single-use launcher, the Carl Gustav could be reloaded and had a wide variety of projectiles. “Most of our projectiles were in one of the Humvees that left with the 1/28. All we have here is one anti-structure munition, an area defense round—basically a big shotgun shell—and a few illumination rounds.”

  “Will that anti-structure round take out a BTR-60?” asked Kelli Moore.

  “Their armor is very light except on the turret. Probably. Why, will we have to?” The Sergeant Major’s question was matter of fact.

  “We might,” said Mike McGregor. “Sergeant Major, keep that thing ready to go. XO, you’re with me. We need to get moving.”

  As they walked away from the truck, McGregor heard his new XO whisper to Sgt Leach, “Up until a few months ago, this would have been impossible. Now he’s not just in command, he’s acting like Patton.”

  Within ten minutes of McGregor’s addressing his people, the 584 Composite Unit was loaded into seven vehicles, four Humvees, two field ambulances, and the truck. Kelli Moore, in the lead vehicle, put her arm out the window and waved forward. With only one working radio, they were communicating as they did in the cavalry days, with hand signals.

  As the little convoy snaked its way south over the rough, hard-packed sand, the MP in the turret of the rear vehicle rode facing backward, her eyes fixed on the road behind them looking for the pursuing Yemenis. Periodically she put a pair of binoculars to her eyes, but they offered little help. The bouncing of the Humvee’s non-existent suspension combined with the fading daylight and the thick dust kicked up by the vehicles in front of her offered little opportunity to see anything more than a hundred meters behind. Even her goggles and headscarf offered only limited protection from the dense cloud.
But she peered as best she could into the tan haze, all the time praying she would see nothing more than sand.

  Having no advance scouts or overhead Predator surveillance, they proceeded slowly and carefully. Periodically Captain Moore signaled a stop when the convoy passed near a hill or rock formation that offered a better view to the rear or if she sensed a potential ambush location. During one of these forays up a small hillside, she thought about her family. Her Dad and her brother, Bill, would be in their upscale suburban office right now while Mom was probably at a meeting of one of her boards, or maybe she was on the golf course. Did they wonder where she was? Would they believe it? Would they care?

  About an hour into their journey, Moore climbed a rock pile on top of a small ridgeline and peered through binoculars after the dust had settled. She walked back to McGregor’s Humvee. “Dust barely visible to the north and slightly west. My guess is they’re heading towards the position we just left.”

  “A reasonable assumption,” McGregor said. “We have a decent start on them. More would have been better, of course.”

  Kelli Moore was getting tired of the doctor’s cryptic remarks. “May I ask what it is we’re going to do with our head start? Or where it is we’re going for that matter?”

  “You remember that very sharp, high ridgeline running east/west not far south of here?” He pointed to the place he was referring to on the electronic map that sat between him and his driver. Looking down the road, the ridge was just visible beyond a gentle rise.

  “Yeah, we drove through the road cut on the way up to Arad.”

  “That ridge will make a perfect defensive position. If we can hold that road cut, or block it somehow, it will be extremely difficult to cross, even on foot. We still have to take out the BTR, of course.”

  “So your grand plan is for a few MPs and a bunch of wounded to take on an enemy force large enough to have overwhelmed Griggs and his detachment?”

  McGregor nodded. “What the hell else can we do? We’ll have the advantage of a prepared position, and most of the wounded can handle a weapon. Besides, Griggs was an idiot. He probably walked into an ambush. The satellite photos did not show a force so big that we can’t handle it.”

  Moore bristled at the remark about her dead commanding officer, even though she had thought exactly the same thing, especially after speaking with Corporal Smith. “Okay. And after that?”

  “After that we get the hell out of here. Now let’s get moving. We have a lot to do.”

  Back in her Humvee, Kelli Moore began to think about her talk with McGregor. She had rarely talked to Griggs that way, even though he was a sexist pretty boy who spent most of his time in the gym. And he was an incompetent to boot. But he was her commanding officer. But then so was McGregor. Was it that he wasn’t a Marine, but just a medical officer pushed into command by their bizarre circumstances? Those two Royal Marines didn’t hesitate to take his orders, and they were clearly hard professionals. Did they know something she didn’t?

  “What is it about our new CO that gets under my skin?”

  She must have said that out loud, because her driver, Lance Corporal Sarah Fletcher, said, “It’s pretty obvious Captain. I think you like him.” The two MPs in the rear seats smiled and nodded in agreement.

  Chapter 51

  September 11, 2017 1730Z (2030 AST)

  Mukalla

  Abdullah Nazer had recovered from the flood of rage which had overtaken him after he learned of the American seizure of his warheads, and the havoc created in Arad. There was one positive—he felt his talk with the American President had cowed the man, an obvious weakling. The construction of a fake warhead from photographs of the originals emailed to his operatives in New York had worked even better than he had expected. By now there would be a NEST operation underway. They would quickly detect the tiny grains of radioactive materials his people had scattered around New York and Washington. An expanded search would turn up similar deceptions in Boston, Norfolk, and Atlanta. It would not take long for the public to become aware of the search.

  He was considering his options when he received the call from his nephew. The young man described in detail his ambush of the Marines at the bridge. For a moment he was irritated that the hot-headed Ali al-Ahmar had shot his prisoners—such men could be valuable hostages. On reflection, however, he realized such an action would further convince Washington of their resolve.

  “Well done, nephew. They will see the bodies with their satellites and will know they are dealing with men who will stop at nothing to achieve their aims.”

  “Thank you uncle. I have called to ask for instructions. Major Ishmail has informed me that the Americans have withdrawn. My original intent was to reinforce him at Arad, but the bridge has been damaged, and we cannot access Arad with our vehicles. What are your orders?”

  “It is possible that not all the Americans have gone.” Abdullah Nazer spoke slowly and with emphasis. “Their President agreed to no overflight or entrance into our waters as of two hours ago. Two large transport helicopters were heading north and were shot down when they crossed the beach at Qishn. Major Ishmail saw the last American vehicles leaving from south of the bridge only an hour ago. I think those helicopters were intended to pick them up and that they planned to abandon some of their vehicles to meet the deadline I set. They may be on that road even as we speak.”

  “The wind here has been strong, and the sand prevents us from seeing very far. We are just a few kilometers west of the Arad bridge right now. Shall we pursue them?”

  “Yes. Those Americans have no place to go. If they reach the ocean, there will be no ships to come for them. If they take the coast road, they will encounter our forces in either direction. I want you to find them, take a few prisoners and treat the rest as you treated the others. The Americans were as easily manipulated over a small number of prisoners as a large one, but a few would be easier to secure, and displaying dozens of corpses on satellite television would convince the U.S. President that he was deadly serious.

  “An order I will carry out with zeal. We will slaughter their arrogant Marines. Perhaps even better, some of their women soldiers would be with them.”

  Chapter 52

  September 13, 2017 1800Z (2100 local)

  South of the Ridge

  The vehicles of the 584 were parked in a loose semicircle about two hundred meters south of the cut through the high ridge which ran like a jagged tan ribbon across the desert of western Yemen. There was a slight whistle as the hot northwest wind resonated through the rocks. To the east, barely visible in the illumination of a full moon, was the semi-circular defect in the ridge referred to on the maps as ‘Simpson’s Notch’. Below the notch were strewn boulders, some so large they could be picked out from the road in daylight, even a kilometer away. There was also the tail section of a large aircraft.

  McGregor had been approached by Corporal Smith shortly after they arrived. The young Marine pointed to the road cut. “See the split in the rock on the right side? Looks like that fissure extends down twenty or thirty feet. If we can get some C-4 down near the bottom, we can blast loose a good-size piece of rock and block the road.”

  “Good thinking Corporal,” McGregor said. “Do we have enough C-4?”

  “We brought fifty kilos in that Humvee.” He pointed to the one Kelli Moore had been using. “And I just checked to see what’s left. We have about thirty, plus some fuses and detonators.”

  “It’s the best idea I’ve heard so far. See if Sergeant Major Campbell can give you a hand. He seems to know his way around explosives. And you better get moving. If those guys you met at the bridge are on their way, they’ll be here soon.”

  Smith’s face turned somber. “Sir, if that bastard who shot our people shows up, I want to be the one who cuts his throat.”

  “I think you’ve got a lot of competition for that honor Corporal.”

 
Smith nodded and jogged away to find the Sergeant Major.

  McGregor watched for a moment as Captain Singh began to lay out firing positions, and tried to team the least wounded Marines with those who, though less mobile, could still fire a weapon. McGregor knew that at least six of the wounded were in no shape to fight, and that there would be more casualties. He decided to station Lieutenants Ellis and Russell—along with the seriously wounded—at the ambulances to run the aid station. Neither had much experience with weapons and had never seen combat. His corpsmen, on the other hand, were mostly experienced, and he would need them pulling triggers if they were to have any chance to survive.

  He approached his Humvee where Sergeant Leach and Captain Moore were trying to raise any U.S. unit on the HF radio, without success.

  “Nobody in range right now,” said McGregor. “I think we’ll do better once we reach the coast.”

  “Why’s that Commander?” Kelly Moore asked.

  He ignored her question and led her away from the Humvee.

  “I have an assignment for you. We need to defend that notch.” He pointed toward the defect in the ridgeline. “Take your MPs down there and set up the best defensive position you can. I’ll need Sergeant Leach with me, but you can take one of the corpsmen. Take the two Humvees with the M240s. There are a few more machine guns in the truck, and you can take one of them, plus as much ammo as you need. We have a ton. There are some pop-up illumination flares in there too; they might be useful.”

  Captain Moore’s bright green eyes were wide and fixed directly on McGregor. “So you’re just like Griggs after all,” she said. “Send the girls away where they won’t get hurt. You need us Commander, we are as close as you’re going to get to a cohesive fighting unit. And we’re a lot tougher than you think.”