Short Season

by DJ Scott

  What Kim Stoller had failed to see was the final act of the drama. Six Marines lay dead, four wounded plus herself. All the Yemenis were dead or dying, save one. Captain Ali al-Ahmar was in a rage unlike anything he had ever known. The bodies of his men littered the ground all around him. Killed not only by Americans, but by American women. Had they done this just to humiliate him? Was their arrogance and pride so great? Revenge was all he had left. Not far ahead of him he saw one American still on her feet, moving about looking for . . . what? Ammunition probably; she was out, and so was he. He would kill this one close up.

  Ali al-Ahmar gripped the ivory handle of his dagger and withdrew the curved eight inch blade. He crept forward, silently—she had not seen him yet. At the last moment, he burst out of the darkness and took hold of her throat. Captain’s bars. Their officer! His revenge was even sweeter now.

  The foolish captain grabbed at the arm holding her throat. That was when al-Ahmar thrust his dagger into the side of her chest.

  She gasped in pain. He pulled her close, close enough to feel her warm breath on his arm, feel her curves pressing up against him. So sensuous, so enticing. Perhaps afterwards. He smiled, savoring his victory, about to thrust the blade even deeper.

  He did not really feel the blade pierce the floor of his mouth, slice through his tongue, and traverse his left eye. His immediate reaction was utter disbelief, that he, Captain Ali al-Ahmar, was being killed by this woman.

  Then she twisted the blade, and he felt no more.

  It took them half an hour to regroup and take stock. In total, six MPs were KIA. Six more, including HM3 Stoller were wounded. They would survive, but most required urgent surgery.

  As far as McGregor could see, none of the enemy had survived. The ‘girls’ had held the notch. What would Griggs say now?

  The wounded were evacuated first, and then the truck sent to retrieve the bodies. Back at the road, the medical personnel gave emergency care, but McGregor ordered everyone loaded into the remaining vehicles as soon as possible. The two shot up Humvees were abandoned.

  As soon as the sun was high enough for driving, the 584 Composite Unit headed south.

  Chapter 60

  September 14, 2017 0450Z (0750 AST)

  USS Bataan (LHD 5), Gulf of Aden

  The USS Bataan was cruising west through the Arabian Sea on its way to the Red Sea and the Suez Canal. Accompanying the big amphibious ship were two fleet auxiliaries, the USNS Lewis & Clark—a stores and ammunition ship—and the USNS Pecos—a replenishment oiler. Escorting the three larger vessels were two Arleigh Burke Class destroyers, the Nitze and the Spruance. The ships were deployed in a loose formation making fifteen knots in the gentle swells.

  On the bridge, her skipper, Captain Joseph Castelli, looked out across the flight deck at the placid green sea ahead. Bataan had just participated in a highly successful amphibious raid against a secret Iranian Quds base on Chabahar Bay. Located on the Gulf of Oman, the base was well situated for small boat attacks on shipping headed for the Persian Gulf. It was now smoldering rubble, and almost three hundred of their garrison were dead or wounded.

  Following the raid, Bataan had disembarked the 26th Marine Expeditionary Unit in Dubai, part of the U.S. plan to shore up the defenses of the western gulf states. She had taken aboard a battalion of the 7th Marines and was now heading for home, along with other ships which had seen heavy service and were in need of overhauls. Bataan’s serviceable aircraft had been transferred to other ships or to shore installations, while those aboard were destined for major repairs.

  Castelli had good reason to be satisfied with the results of his mission, but his greatest satisfaction was the result of a decision made thousands of miles away. Several months after departing Norfolk, the Flag Officer Selection Board results were published in an all-Navy message. Captain Joseph Castelli was selected for advancement to Rear Admiral (lower half). All that remained was announcement of the date.

  In recognition of Castelli’s selection, the Task Force commander, Admiral Mark Garrett, had helicoptered to Bahrain for an early flight home and had turned over command of the small group to Castelli. It was not unusual for the senior captain to also command a small group of ships, especially when the only mission was a peaceful cruise home. Nonetheless, Joe Castelli loved to look out at the ships around him and to think of them as his own Task Force.

  Everything was coming together.

  “Navigator,” Castelli said, “what’s our closest approach to the coast of Yemen? I don’t want to get caught up in this White House mess.” Castelli knew there had been some kind of very secret operation in eastern Yemen that resulted in an order direct from NMCC to stay clear of Yemeni waters and air space. He had also received a personal communication from MARCENT to report any contact with something called the 584 Composite Unit, whatever that might be. He had asked for clarification, but had received none.

  “Eighty kilometers, Captain.”

  Castelli would have been just as happy bypassing the entire area and taking the long route around Africa. That was a lot of fuel, though, and while he had considerable discretion as to routing his small group, he didn’t have that much.

  Castelli’s thoughts were interrupted by one of the petty officers who held out a sound-powered telephone. “For you, Captain. Communications Officer.”

  Curious, Castelli took the handset. “What?”

  “Sir, we just received a call on the NATO aircraft emergency frequency. Low power, and not easy to hear. They identified themselves as the 584 Composite Unit and requested secure communication on a frequency compatible with their SINCGARS HF unit. We did that, and their commanding officer has asked to speak with you personally. Asked for you by name, sir.”

  Who the hell were these people, and how did their CO know his name? His instinct was to ignore it, but there was that directive from MARCENT. “Okay, put him on.”

  After a few clicks Castelli heard the hum and distinctive sound of the frequency hopping FM SINCGARS radio. “This is Bataan.”

  “This is the 584 Composite Unit. We are twenty-six sailors and Marines, twenty-three of us are wounded, some critically. We were left behind when Operation Ocean Reach shut down. You remember what that’s like, don’t you Captain? Being wounded and left behind?”

  Joe Castelli nearly dropped the handset. He had put that day out of his mind. His leg had healed, he had been promoted to Commander, and his career had moved on. Participation in that mission had helped put him on the fast track, but the details were best locked away in some back room of his psyche.

  “Who the hell is this?” But he already knew the answer.

  “Lieutenant Commander Michael McGregor, sir. And we need your help. Sailors and Marines are dying right here on the beach. It’s up to you, Captain.”

  “McGregor? What the hell—.”

  “That’s Lieutenant Commander McGregor. Sir.”

  Castelli took a deep breath. Was this really possible, McGregor an officer? “Well, Lieutenant Commander, you may not know about the orders involving entry into Yemeni territorial waters.”

  “Actually, I do. I also know neither you nor I would be here had Colonel Ahrens been thinking like that. Captain, this is entirely up to you. It’s a shitty position to be in, I get that.”

  “And what part of a direct order from the National Military Command Center do you not get, Commander?”

  “Captain, what do you think your father would do right now?”

  God damn it, did everyone in the Navy know his father? But angry as he was, he had to admit, it was a good question. What would Dad do?

  He thought back to the day at Quantico when the elder Castelli had told him, “It’s the Marines, Joe. They place a high value on ‘no man left behind.’ It isn’t just eyewash; they really mean it, and I admire them for it.”

  Joe Castelli took several deep breaths and looked out th
e bridge window towards Yemen. He had never disobeyed a direct order in his life. And he had a career. He was doing exactly what he had always wanted to, and if he went in and got McGregor, he would be throwing it all away.

  Son of a bitch.

  “Give me your position.” He wrote down the answer and handed it to his navigator. “Wait one.”

  “Navigator, how long to a location from which we can launch LCACs with less than a thirty minute run to the Oman-Yemen border?”

  “LCACs sir?”

  “You heard me. Well?”

  “At flank speed, just over two hours, assuming we leave the auxiliaries behind.”

  Castelli turned to his operations officer, CDR Charlie Anderson. “Get the XO and Lieutenant Colonel Burke. Meet me in the Flag Officer’s sea cabin in two minutes.”

  Anderson, puzzled, picked up the sound powered telephone and called the XO, currently one level below on what would normally have been Castelli’s bridge.

  “Here’s the thing,” Castelli said. “You all know that some kind of big regimental-size amphibious raid just took place in eastern Yemen. Very high security. The whole thing was shut down yesterday quite rapidly, with orders directly from NMCC going out to all ships and stations in the CENTCOM AOR to stay clear of Yemen, its airspace, and its territorial waters. There was also an order from the Commandant via MARCENT to report any contact with something called the 584 Composite Unit. The raid was carried out by Task Force 58, so it makes sense that some of their land forces could be designated 584.”

  Joe Castelli looked at the other officers, and began to see understanding in their faces. They were starting to see what was coming. Good, he wanted them to go into this with their eyes open.

  “About five minutes ago,” he said, “I received a direct communication from this 584 Composite Unit. They were, in fact, left behind and have succeeded in reaching the beach about eighty kilometers north of here. There are twenty-six sailors and Marines, of which twenty-three are wounded. They want us to pull them out. Given our orders, I want to have them move to the border with Oman where we could get them by LCAC. I need your input. Colonel, it would be your people who would actually have to land and cover their extraction. Let’s start with you.”

  Lieutenant Colonel Isiah Burke was a third generation Marine, an academy grad, and was regarded by many as a good bet to become the first African-American Commandant. “Captain, pulling them out just across the border might not violate orders, technically. But it’s still dicey. And to get to the launch point for the LCACs we would probably have to at least a cut a corner of the Yemeni waters. Nevertheless we all know what’s right. Sir, I will personally lead this mission and can guarantee that every man and woman in the battalion will volunteer as well. The 1/7 does not leave people behind.”

  “I had a feeling you would see it that way.” It was why he’d led with Burke. “Ops?”

  CDR Charlie Anderson, a man of nondescript appearance, but with a sharp incisive mind, was clearly agitated and he spoke rapidly. “Frankly Captain, we have the clearest possible orders directly from NMCC, and have no choice but to obey them in detail. We have no idea why they issued that order or what’s at stake here.”

  Colonel Burke murmured, “Politics.”

  Anderson slapped the table.

  “No, Colonel. You are not going to get this vessel to skate around a direct order then write it off as politics. There may be risks we don’t know about, or we might be putting some other operation at risk. Just because we don’t know the reasons behind our orders doesn’t mean they aren’t valid, or that we can just ignore them. Captain, the simple fact is that we can’t save everyone.”

  Burke glared at Anderson, unblinking. “The real risks, Commander, are being assumed by those wounded sailors and Marines you propose to leave on the beach. Your risk will be purely to your career.”

  “Enough.” Castelli raised a hand. “XO, you want to get into this dog fight?”

  “Captain,” Nick Kelso replied, “I’m here to support you and to carry out your decisions. I think something this big falls squarely on you. Clearly, though, NMCC knows our people are there and the intent of their order seems to be that they want them left there.”

  “We don’t know that.” Isiah Burke was now calm, but intense. “Something is obviously going on in Yemen, sure, but we can’t assume the intent is to abandon our people. I simply will not accept that.”

  “Colonel,” Kelso said, “NMCC had the means to get them, and they chose not to. That’s what we know. What we don’t know is why.”

  “Thanks, Nick.” The XO was a recently promoted Captain, and Castelli relied on him heavily. He was not, however, a guy to stick his neck out. “Okay, give me a minute.” His senior officers stepped out of the small cabin, leaving the skipper sitting alone.

  Castelli leaned back and thought about his father. He allowed his mind to wander for a moment. Two nights before he had watched a movie on his tablet computer, Casablanca, one of his favorites. One line seemed particularly relevant, “Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine.” Now he knew just how Rick had felt.

  God damn that McGregor.

  Chapter 61

  September 14, 2017 0505Z (0805 AST)

  On the beach

  Accompanied by Sergeant Leach, Mike McGregor sat by the radio. Leach, one of only three people in McGregor’s small command who had not been wounded, asked if she could get out and help with the casualties.

  “Now that we’re in contact on the SINCGARS, I should be okay. I’ll call if I need you. Report to Sergeant Major Campbell—he and Singh are setting up a perimeter, and you’re one of the few left who is still fully functional.”

  She headed towards Campbell, who was digging in one of the surviving M-240 machine guns. McGregor looked at the two ambulances where Russell and Ellis, along with the surviving corpsmen, were doing their best to care for the seriously wounded. McGregor wanted to be with them, but the radio was their lifeline, and he needed to be where he was.

  Several times people looked his way. Every face, except perhaps for Singh and Campbell’s, showed individuals at the end of their endurance.

  Singh strolled over and sat next to McGregor in the shade of the Humvee. “We have a reasonable perimeter set up. Or as good as it can be with so many wounded. They are good lads though. They’ll hold up.”

  “Lasses too, Captain.”

  He smiled and nodded. “Oh, I’m not about to forget that.”

  “We have the vehicles arranged so we can bug out to the east if the need arises. They all have enough fuel to reach Oman.” He paused, “If it comes to that.”

  The thought of loading their wounded and making another run for it through the heat and dust of another desert day was almost too much to bear. They were nearly out of pain medication, as well as IV fluids. If they had to make a run for Oman, they would lose people on the way. “I’m hoping it won’t come to that. Do you really think we can just pack them up and head for the border?”

  “Yes sir, I do. One thing you must learn if you’re to lead people in battle is to expect extraordinary things from them.”

  Chapter 62

  September 14, 2017 0510Z (0810 AST)

  USS Bataan (LHD 5), Gulf of Aden

  “Cheng, how’s the plant?”

  His chief engineer, a salty former Warrant Officer replied, “We just finished swapping out that feed pump. Second boiler should be coming online in about ten minutes.”

  “Good work. We may need flank speed very soon. Make it happen.”

  “Sir? Flank speed? May I ask . . . ”

  Castelli was already gone. He walked down several levels to the intelligence spaces. He decided that circumstances required him to be open and direct with his intel staff.

  “May I have your attention please.”

  The quiet chatter
around the darkened space dropped off.

  “There are wounded American sailors and Marines on the beach about eighty kilometers from here.” He pointed towards a large map display and handed the position McGregor had given to his senior intel officer. “As you know, we have direct orders forbidding us to go get them. In five minutes I need to know what Yemeni forces are in a position to threaten them as well as what opposition they might face if they move east towards Oman. My hope is that they can reach Oman where we can pick them up by LCAC.”

  The petty officers operating the large computer terminals began to pull up satellite images and hi-res maps. Several of his intelligence officers asked rapid fire questions. While he waited, Castelli considered putting through a call to MARCENT, who had ordered them to report contact with the 584. He decided against it. Neither MARCENT nor the Commandant was about to condone his bending orders, even a little. This was on him.

  In less than five minutes his intel chief—in Castelli’s opinion the best in the business—said, “Sir, this is on the fly, but we do have a ton of satellite data, including a real-time feed. Someone other than us is obviously very interested in that stretch of desert. Heading east towards Oman there’s nothing for about eighty clicks, but then there’s trouble. Looks like two companies of infantry at the small city of Al Ghaydah, one at the airport and the second at the east edge of town. Each has a BTR-60. It would be a long, hard trip to get around them, and that’s assuming those Yemenis just stay where they are. Can our people deal with that kind of force?”

  “Doubt it. There’s only twenty-six of them and twenty-three are wounded.”

  “Jesus. That would fit with what we saw to the north. There were something like seventy-five dead, presumably Yemenis, scattered on the south side of this ridgeline —” He pointed at the computer map display –“and a damaged BTR on the north side. Our people have already been through a hell of a battle.”