by DJ Scott
“Believe me, I am not coddling you,” he replied. “Now that we have a way to block the road, that notch is their obvious alternative. Captain Singh is worried they’re going to mount a small diversionary attack down the road, or even over the ridge and then hit us hard through that notch. Or rather, hit you—hard. If they get behind us in the dark, they can attack from any direction and we’re all dead. Kelli,” he put his hand on her shoulder which surprised them both, “if they do that, you and those girls are all that will stand between us and disaster.”
“Right. I see. What are your orders?”
He considered that for a moment. He thought about a number of contingencies, but realized the Moore knew a lot more about those kind of details than he did. “Hold until relieved.”
“They only say that in the movies, Doc.” She managed a quick smile, threw her rifle sling over her shoulder, and was about to go when she added, “I guess that saying is right; if you need a job done, send a man. If you need it done right, send a woman.” Kelli Moore waved to her driver and shouted, “Get that vehicle over here! We have a mission.”
About ten minutes later, Corporal Smith and Sergeant Major Campbell walked up. Smith looked at his watch. “We had to use a long fuse. Going to blow in five minutes. Suggest we get everyone down or behind the vehicles.”
They did and everyone waited.
At four minutes and change, there was the sharp thunderclap of the explosion followed immediately by the rumbling and crashing of rock as a piece of the wall nearly three meters thick and eight meters high crashed onto the road. Instead of falling as a single huge monolith, however, it shattered into hundreds of boulders ranging from the size of watermelons to small cars.
As the dust cleared, the Sergeant Major said, “If they have explosives of their own, some cables or chains, and a BTR-60 they’ll be able to clear that road well enough to get vehicles through with about six hours of hard work.”
“Which is why we need to stop them here,” said McGregor. “If we leave, they will clear that obstruction and be back on our tails. Did you see them while you were working, by the way?”
“Aye, sir,” replied the Sergeant Major. “Headlights obscured by dust coming our way. Best guess is they reach the ridge in half an hour.” He took a moment and appraised the situation further. “That road cut is fairly wide, and if they come through there, they’ll have the high ground.”
“Captain Singh and the First Sergeant are working on that. Can you get into a position to take out that BTR-60?”
Campbell nodded. “Can do sir. We just have to hope they wait to organize themselves. If I was them, I would storm that breach as soon as I arrived. Hitting us before we can prepare a defense will be more of an advantage than full darkness.”
“Probably true,” McGregor said. “But I suspect they’d like us to surrender, and hope we don’t know what happened up at the bridge. Their pals in Arad probably gave them an idea of our strength and that we have two ambulances so we probably have wounded. I’m betting they try some mind games first.”
“You could be right, Commander. It sounds like you have some experience in this part of the world.”
“More than I really care to remember, Sergeant Major.”
“Understood sir. I’d best get moving. I’ll take that Carl Gustav with me and see what mischief I can stir up.” Campbell walked to the truck where he had the weapon already loaded. He put on a rucksack and picked up both the big anti-armor weapon and his rifle. Despite the heavy load, he moved west at a brisk pace. He turned to McGregor and added, “I’ll flash a red lens three times when I return. Try not to shoot me. And Commander, when all this is over I’d like you to visit my family up in Inveraray. We’ll round out your education as a Scotsman.”
“Be my pleasure, Sergeant Major.”
The big man strode across the road and into the barren desert. McGregor was impressed that these two Brits were acting like they were actually going to get out of here. For his part, he wasn’t quite so sure.
“Corporal Smith. Over here.”
The young Corporal trotted over. “Sir?”
“Very good work on the road. I think that’s going to give us a good chance to put together a position that will be hard to crack.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Now I have an even more important assignment for you. I think we’ll get out of here, but in case we don’t it’s vital that the people back home know exactly what happened to us. The ambush and the murder of the Marines you were with at the bridge and how we were left on our own when the task force bugged out.”
“What do you need from me?”
“Corporal Smith, you look like a survivor. And you’re in damn fine condition if you could run all the way back from that ambush. I have written in this notebook—” He pulled a small green note pad from his breast pocket,—“the names of all the personnel currently with the 584 as well as what I know about the circumstances. Add whatever you know about the ambush and whatever names you know of the Marines killed. Take some MREs and as much water as you can carry. Move at night. I want you to head east into Oman. The Omanis are generally friendly, and there are British troops there. Avoid contact with the enemy if at all possible. Do whatever it takes to get this information back home. Make as many copies as you can before turning it in to the chain of command. If they sit on it, and we haven’t been heard from, then go public.”
“With respect, sir, I would really prefer to stay and fight. I’m a Marine.”
“And a damn good one. I don’t think one man is going to make a difference in this fight, but you could be the only hope for our families to know what really happened here. We owe that much to our people. We’re counting on you to be sure it happens.”
Smith saluted. “I’ll get ready and start right away. I’ll do my best.”
“I’ll see you back in Ann Arbor, Corporal.”
It was a little shocking how easily he was sending people out on missions from which they might never return. The MPs, Campbell, and now Corporal Smith. His thoughts, as they often did, turned to Danielle. Was it better that he had to endure the pain of her death, than her enduring his?
He was brought back to reality when First Sergeant Johanssen walked up and announced, “Looks like the party has started. I put a couple of scouts up in the road cut, and they just reported a small column led by a BTR-60 has pulled up about a hundred meters north of the rock pile. I thought about having them fire a few shots, but decided against it. We know they’re here, so I pulled them back.”
McGregor nodded. “Kick-off.”
Chapter 53
September 13, 2017 1840Z (2140 AST)
North of the Ridge
In the dwindling rays of sunset, Ali al-Ahmar saw the rubble blocking the road when his column stopped to look for signs of the Americans.
“What do you think, Sergeant?” he asked his driver. “Is that intended to slow us down while they escape, or are they waiting for us on the other side?”
His driver thought for a moment. “We would stand and fight, no question. Without their drones and helicopters, the Americans won’t have the stomach for battle. All we will see is a cloud of dust heading towards the coast.”
“Perhaps. The Americans we encountered at the bridge fought hard, but they were ill-prepared and poorly positioned. Even if they are here, I doubt they will put up much of a fight. Let’s go have a look.” Captain al-Ahmar picked up his radio handset and gave orders to his company, now consisting of seventy-six men. Major Ishmail had been able to send him four men, all he could spare.
They had parked about a hundred meters from the roadblock with the BTR-60 in front in a position to take under fire anyone coming through the gap. Five men were dispatched to scout ahead. As they crawled among the rocks, al-Ahmar could tell they saw something up ahead.
“The Americans are there, sir,” r
eported his sergeant. “Their vehicles are parked a few hundred meters ahead, just west of the road.”
One of the privates climbed on top of a large boulder for a better look. He shouldered his AK-47, but before he could fire, the back of his head blossomed red, and he was thrown backward.
Four hundred meters away Al Johanssen, lying on top of one of the ambulances, turned from the night vision scope of his M-25 sniper rifle and said to Mike McGregor, “They know we’re here now.”
“Yeah, welcome to the party. Bastards.”
“Get those men back. Right now,” al-Ahmar shouted. In a moment, he was walking towards the rocks holding a bullhorn. “Americans, listen to me. I am Captain Ali al-Ahmar, and I am telling you that fighting us is suicide. We have superior numbers and are fighting on our own soil. We will soon be reinforced while you have no hope of rescue. Surrender now, and we will take you to Mukalla where you will be held as prisoners until our leader and your President can negotiate your release. You have five minutes to send your commander bearing a white flag to the top of those rocks. After that, you will all surely die. American women: your presence here is an affront to my soldiers. I cannot protect you from them. Surrender. Now.”
Before the whining sound had even registered, al-Ahmar dropped prone to the ground. And it was just beginning to register when the rocket shell tore through the armor of his BTR-60 and exploded inside.
Chapter 54
September 11, 2017 1955Z (2155 AST)
South of the Ridge
Mike McGregor wondered if Captain Moore’s people had heard the threat from their position just over a kilometer away. He hoped they did; they needed to know what they were dealing with. As he surveyed the tired, sweaty faces around him he could see a gamut of emotions. Some were obviously fearful—and rightly so. Some were angry. Many looked determined, but everyone was clearly waiting for him to make a decision. It seemed incredible that only a few hours before they were part of a powerful landing force that could have swept these bastards away with little effort, but not now. Now they were outnumbered, outgunned, and manning their fighting positions with corpsmen and wounded Marines. Despite all this, they were his people. HIS people.
Johanssen broke the silence. “Orders, sir?”
McGregor stood quietly for a moment. Al Johanssen understood that he was struggling with some kind of inner dialogue. Finally, he spoke, slowly and clearly. “We are going to kill every fucking one of them, and then we are going home.”
The effect on the Marines and sailors gathered around him was electrifying. Everyone scattered, and now committed to battle, resumed their preparations. Ammunition boxes were broken open, rounds distributed, and magazines loaded. McGregor was grateful that the truck from the weapons company with all their extra ammunition was the one they left behind. Probably a screw-up, but a lucky one for the 584.
Chapter 55
September 11, 2017 1930Z (1430 EDT)
The Pentagon
While the other participants from the meeting in the Situation Room were now writing memos and reading reports in their White House offices, Commandant of the Marine Corps Daniel Forrest was back at the Pentagon. The thought of leaving sailors and Marines behind on his watch was repugnant to every fiber of his being. Nonetheless, he’d been given orders directly from the President. He was not about to disobey them.
But he intended to take whatever action was available to him.
He began by calling Isaac Keen at MARCENT. He was not surprised to find Keen at his desk on MacDill AFB Florida.
Keen had been monitoring Ocean Reach and had just taken an angry call from Colonel Aaron Mark, who had reported aboard Essex only to discover his MPs, doctors, and wounded had been left on a hilltop in Yemen. Mark and Admiral Tucker had what Keen described as a ‘difficult conversation’, which Tucker had then kicked up the CENTCOM chain of command, a move which had finally ended with MARCENT.
Keen was in an awkward position. Technically, he reported to Central Command, four star Army General Robert Cunningham, but the Commandant was the Commandant, and to every Marine he was the top of the food chain. “Sir,” he began, “Colonel Mark is as unhappy as you are, and I’m not happy either. The idea of leaving people behind on our watch is something no Marine wants to live with. But I don’t know what either you or I can do.”
“Look, Ike, I know we’re in a bind, at least for the moment. Just get the word out to our people to keep their eyes and ears open. I want to hear about any communications from that unit, and I mean anything. We can’t restore their satellite uplink; that order went straight from the White House Chief of Staff to NMCC. But have your intel staff examine satellite data from the area—I want to know exactly where our people are. And see if NAVCENT can keep something available to pull them out in case the White House has a change of heart.”
“Can do, sir. I’ll keep you informed.”
“And Ike,” the Commandant went on, “you have good connections with the Omanis; see what assets they have near the border. If we can establish contact, maybe we can direct our people to a rendezvous with Omani forces.”
Keen thought for a moment . “I’ll look into that. Getting another nation involved though . . . Hold on. Wait one”
After a few minutes MARCENT was back on the secure line. “My intel staff just brought me a satellite photo, infrared, taken about halfway between Arad and the coast forty minutes ago. It looks like our people are deployed in a defensive position on the south side of a long ridge. We can identify the Humvees pretty well, particularly the ambulances. On the north side, there’s a gaggle of about seventy-five with four vehicles, presumably some of Nazer’s men. One of the vehicles looks like an old Soviet BTR-60. It has a big heat plume coming from the back. Do our people have some kind of anti-armor weapon?”
“I don’t really know how well armed they are,” Forrest said. “Given how they’re deployed and that they have somehow disabled an armored vehicle, they’re obviously not thinking about surrender. Even with the BTR out of the picture, though, they’re outnumbered more than two to one. God help them. Dammit Ike, our people are going to go out fighting, and so will I. We have to find a way help them!”
“It may already be too late.”
“Let’s not count them out yet, Ike. Keep me informed.”
Chapter 56
September 13, 2017 2115Z (Sept. 14 0015 AST)
South of the ridge
McGregor and First Sergeant Johanssen were sitting on rocks about two-hundred meters from the road cut, which they could see fairly easily in the moonlight. McGregor wished his people all had night vision, and while everyone’s helmet had the small attachment for NVGs, none were available at Twentynine Palms. The old mantra of supply, “We ran out.” Assuming the operation would conclude before dark, no effort was made to find the devices elsewhere. In all the 584, only the wounded LAV driver, who was active duty, had them, plus Singh and Campbell.
So far, there had been three minor forays into the rocks. Each time four or five men, using the deep moon shadows for cover, had advanced far enough to have a clear field of fire and had emptied one magazine each in the general direction of their positions. Captain Singh, who had taken over the sniper position from Johanssen, had killed two and wounded one. Despite his wounded hand, his marksmanship with the night scope was superb.
A shattered bullet had hit one of the Marines, already suffering from a shrapnel wound to the leg, in the left shoulder. One of the fragments had also hit HM2 Courtney Kales in the left cheek, a mirror image of McGregor’s own facial wound. McGregor had applied a quick dressing, not wanting to take the time to close the wound with sutures. The big dressing made the wound look worse than it was.
“I’m sorry, that’s going to leave a scar,” he said. “They can do a nice scar revision later, though.”
“I don’t think so, sir. I think yours is kind of distinguished. I’ll live wi
th whatever I get.”
“One might be distinguished, but two is just tacky. Be sure to keep your head down.”
She nodded and headed back to her fighting position, loaded down with her rifle, magazines, two canteens, body armor, and aid bag.
Half an hour later and still waiting, McGregor and Johanssen were munching MRE crackers, the modern equivalent of hardtack, when McGregor heard a faint scratching. He looked down and saw a jerboa, a small desert rodent that looked like the kangaroo rats of the American southwest. The jerboa became part of military history as the symbol for the British 7th Armoured Division, the ‘Desert Rats.’ McGregor grinned, broke off a small piece of cracker and dropped it on the sand. The little creature snatched it and scurried away. “At least he’ll be alive tomorrow.”
Before Johanssen could respond, Sergeant Leach, who had been checking their perimeter to the rear, pointed south. “Look Commander.”
He turned just in time to see three pale red flashes. After five seconds, the signal was repeated. And then again until they heard footsteps.
“Sergeant Major Campbell, I presume?”
“Aye. Back from the other side.”
“We heard the results of your work,” Johanssen said. “Glad to see you made it back.”
“Piece of cake. There’s a spot about three clicks west of here where the top of the ridge isn’t quite so steep. I was able to get over then haul this beast —” He held out the Carl-Gustav—“into a decent firing position about a hundred meters north of the BTR. They have the north side of the ridge guarded pretty well, but no patrols out to their rear. Bloody amazing! The round penetrated into the engine compartment, no problem. Killed one, wounded another of the buggers as a bonus. Had to make a bit of a detour before heading back.”
“We heard a lot of small arms fire,” McGregor said.
“Aye, they were spraying rounds all over the place. Then they sent a couple of lads after me. I used the same trick as young Corporal Smith—got into a little wadi and let one of them go by, then dispatched him with this.” He held up a wicked looking weapon that McGregor recognized as the legendary Sykes-Fairbairn fighting knife. “The other one got lost in the dark. So what have I missed?”