Battle Djinni, page 2
He relieved the dead Iraqi of his sidearm and rushed forward to find his next victim.
That had been five battles ago, each one bloodier than the last. In each engagement, he let the killing fever sweep him away. How many men had died at his hand? Reza couldn’t even hazard a guess now. He lived. They died. Reza was promoted along the way.
After the first battle, he expected nightmares like so many of his fellow soldiers. Nothing; he slept like a baby.
This feeling that came over him when the shooting started was not normal, he knew that—but there was no one he could talk to. Reza was convinced he was possessed.
His hand sought the golden medallion and he cursed to himself when his fingers grasped empty space across his sweat-slickened chest. He’d given it to Basam. What had possessed him to give a family heirloom to a beggar boy?
His Persian grandmother used to tell him the story of the winged spirits sent to protect the king. She dangled the golden medallion in front of Reza so he could see the image of a muscular, bearded man with his horned helmet and angel wings. Later, in university, he read of the Arabian genies, the tricksters that moved like smoke and granted wishes to humans.
And the other ones, the supernatural djinn who possessed men like him. Reza’s fingers rubbed the empty spot on his chest.
“Captain, we’re moving.” The words snapped him back to the choking dust and the stifling heat of the moment. A gap had opened in front of them and the backs of the forward company were now moving away at a steady pace.
“Fall in!” he called and stepped off. The company followed him in three long ranks.
The ground sloped up as they climbed the low berm that separated the Iranian encampment from the battlefield. Reza’s breath caught in his throat when he crested the rise.
Through clouds of dust, he could see waves of bodies moving across the landscape. The Basij—the religious volunteers in their civilian clothes—went first, acting as human shields and minesweepers in advance of the regular army. The olive-green uniforms of the Revolutionary Guard dotted the landscape before him, pushing the Basij forward.
The sounds of battle rang in Reza’s ear: screams of the men around him, the rattle of distant small arms fire punctuated every few seconds with the sharp report of a land mine exploding, the ear-popping rim shot of a T-55 tank firing.
The scent of freshly turned sand and sweat and smoke . . . and blood.
Reza felt the familiar chill settle over his skin like armor. His senses expanded, and he could hear his own heartbeat. His lips curled into a smile as he threw back his head and screamed.
He came off the hill at a dead run, his M16 at port arms, eyes searching for threats ahead. He was dimly aware of his men following him. He passed into the ranks of the company advancing ahead of him and heard the muttered curses of the soldiers as he pushed them aside in his rush to make it to the front.
Reza ran along ridges formed by bomb craters and down into the craters themselves, scrambling up the soft sand on the other side. One kilometer . . . three kilometers. He ran easily, men forming around him like metal shavings to a magnet. Some were his men, some from other companies. It mattered not; they were all going in the same direction, and they were following him.
The bomb craters disappeared when they reached the minefields, replaced by occasional punctures in the sand from exploded mines, festooned with bodies of the Basij like dismembered bloody puppets. Their ranks had been effective as minesweepers and Reza’s men charged into the space.
Fifty meters in, the zip of machine gun fire sounded overhead like ripping silk and he hit the ground. Reza wormed his way through a shallow depression, scanning ahead for the gunner’s nest with a pair of compact binoculars. Half a kilometer away, pinpricks of light spat from a sandbagged bunker.
He waved his platoon leaders forward. “Concentrate fire on that machine gun—keep him busy. I’ll get behind him and take him out.”
The three men exchanged glances. “But sir, the—”
Reza gripped the nearest one by the collar and hauled him close. “Do what I tell you and maybe we’ll all live to see another day.”
He waited until his men had started to harass the machine gun nest before he moved. The men would fire a short burst, then move before the machine gunner could pin them down. A pattern settled into his mind: listen for the rattle of small arms fire, wait for the deeper punchy answer from the .50 caliber machine gun, then sprint forward.
To his left, half a kilometer south, a mass of Basij had moved through a cleared lane in the minefield and was advancing on another machine gun nest. Reza watched in fascination as the bullets cut down row after row of men and women like a scythe through tall grass—and still they came. But the Basij were unarmed, and when they reached the machine gun nest, they could do little besides pull at the sandbags to expose the Iraqis inside. The machine gun stopped and two soldiers leaned out of the bunker, shooting at the Basij with handguns.
Still the Basij came. When the Iraqi soldiers ran out of bullets in their pistols, the Iranian volunteers dragged them from the bunker and beat them with rocks.
Reza was nearly at a point where he could sprint to the Iraqi lines and work his way behind the machine gunner that had his men pinned down. He squirmed through two bodies of land mine–shredded Basij and came to a squat in a small depression. One more exchange between his men and the machine gun and he would make a break for it.
Next to him, one of the bodies moved. And whimpered.
Reza tried to ignore the whimper. The Basij were nothing but human shields. Not his concern. They knew that when they signed up; ignorant people were not his responsibility.
“Captain?”
The nearest bundle of rags moved and Basam’s face poked out from where he’d been hiding, curled up underneath the body of one of his fellow Basij. There were tear tracks running through the filth on his cheeks. The golden medallion gleamed dully on his bare chest.
Reza had been ready to sprint forward and checked himself.
“Basam! What are you doing here? I told you to stay with me.”
“They just . . .” The boy put his hand on the partial corpse next to him. “We were running and he just landed on top of me. I was so afraid, I just . . .”
The boy’s eyes were wide and he took in sharp, shallow gasps as if he could not catch his breath. Reza placed his hand on the boy’s forehead. The skin beneath his palm was hot and quivering with nervous energy. He shot a glance at the next bit of shelter, a short dune twenty meters away. He couldn’t leave Basam here. He slipped his hand behind the boy’s neck and drew him close.
“Do you want to be a soldier, Basam?” he whispered. The boy nodded. His neck felt painfully frail in Reza’s grip. “I need you to stay with me this time. Do you understand?”
The boy nodded again. Reza pointed to the dune. “Do you see that? When I tell you, you need to run as fast as you can to that spot. Beat me if you can. Understand?” Basam blinked and gave him a series of quick nods. Reza listened for the exchange between his men and the machine gun. “Now!” he said, sprinting into the open.
They dove into the dirt together next to the little rise in the sand, but instead of a dull thud of solid ground, Reza heard a hollow thump. He brushed aside the earth to reveal rough-sawn lumber. A tunnel . . . the Iraqis have dug a trench system.
Tunnels indicated a level of fortification that his side was not expecting. This would have taken the Iraqis weeks to build—long before the Iranian army had massed on the other side of the border.
“What is this, Captain?” The machine gun ripped another volley at his men.
“It means they knew we were coming, Basam.” He tapped on the boards. “I need to go down there. You stay here until I come to get you.” If I come to get you.
Reza unsheathed his knife and used it to pry up the boards. Then he dropped into the darkness.
Rouhani
13 July 1982 – 0630 local
The war room came to attention when General Kharrazi entered. Following in the general’s wake, Rouhani caught the eye of his most senior aide and gave a slight shake of his head. The man responded with a tightened lip and a barely contained frown.
Rouhani threw imaginary daggers into Kharrazi’s back with his gaze, but he was angrier with himself. What had he really expected? As the newest member of the Supreme Council, he carried a rank that made sure the general gave him an audience, but the leader of the Revolutionary Guard was not obligated to follow orders from Rouhani. The general knew the Supreme Council was divided on the issue of the Basra strategy, and the silence of their Supreme Leader on the issue made everyone default to the status quo: a face-to-face clash of armies that was sure to register casualties in the tens of thousands on both sides.
In another war at another time, the general’s strategy might have been sound. By focusing all of their forces on Basra, Iran would capture a portion of the neighboring country and promote a Shia uprising in the Iraqi population as they marched on Baghdad. Even the timing of the battle—the first day of the holy month of Ramadan—was significant. The result was an unholy alliance between military and religion: a bastard child of military strategy clothed in holy robes.
But not this war. Not this time.
To Rouhani’s mind, the strategy of telegraphing their attack on one city did nothing but give Saddam time to prepare his defenses. And the promised Shia uprising? Hope in warfare was not a strategy, it was a way to get thousands of people slaughtered.
The simple truth was that the Iranian forces were nowhere near ready to face the Iraqis. Rouhani had spent the last three years buried in the details of reorganizing Iran’s army. He knew firsthand the undermanned ranks, the WWII vintage weaponry—when they had weapons at all—and the woefully inadequate command and control infrastructure. He watched in disgust as Kharrazi’s staff shuffled colored blocks that represented both armies on a table-sized map. He knew the Iraqis had the latest in weaponry from France, East Germany, and the Soviet Union.
And Iran? They had bodies. As he stared at the table, he shuddered to think about the Basij volunteers who would march willingly into the Iraqi minefields and machine guns. Waves of humanity against the latest in killing technology. He swallowed down the sour taste in his throat.
The general was nodding in satisfaction at a muttered report from one of the aides manning the table. They moved a line of blocks toward the Iraqi defenses. Where was the strategy? Rouhani wanted to shout. Were we refighting World War I by advancing live men across no-man’s-land into the teeth of the enemy?
“Minister, let’s get a firsthand view of the action,” Kharrazi was saying, his smile wolfish in the overhead light. Rouhani noticed the general still had a smear of egg yolk in his mustache. Not trusting himself to say anything, Rouhani nodded.
They were several kilometers behind the main army and they made the ride to the front in the back of an air-conditioned Land Rover. Rouhani looked out the tinted windows, gritting his teeth as the rows of deserted tents faded into the rough campfires and shanties of the Basij volunteers. The vehicle ground to a halt and the door opened to the dust and heat of the desert.
Kharrazi snapped a hasty salute as he made his way up to the observation post. A very young-looking captain waited for them, sweating under the strain of having a general and a member of the Supreme Council visit his post at the same time.
While the officer briefed the general, Rouhani made his way forward to where the spotters were peering through binoculars. A private offered Rouhani his field glasses.
It was difficult to see anything with all the dust in the air. Then a wisp of breeze cut a swath through the clouds of dirt and he dialed in the focus.
The sight made his stomach clench. It was clear where the Iraqi minefields started. The area was littered with bodies of the Basij where they’d marched in shoulder to shoulder. As he watched, a wave of Basij who’d made it through the minefields was making a run at a machine gun nest. Tiny pips of light spat out of the bunker and the row of men crumpled as if they’d just melted in place.
“We’re getting reports of extensive defensive networks on the Iraqi lines, sir,” the captain was saying to the general. “Tunnels they can use to travel between the machine gun emplacements. We’ve not been able to breach their lines yet.” He hesitated. “Our losses have been very heavy, sir.”
“The day is young, Captain,” the general replied in a breezy voice. “Our superior numbers will prevail, and as soon as Saddam’s men break, the Shia uprising will begin. You’ll see.”
One of the spotters called to the captain, who hurried forward. The private pointed to a thick cloud of white smoke hugging the ground. The Iranian troops were falling back as the cloud moved toward them. The captain spoke rapidly into the radio.
“What is going on?” the general demanded.
“It’s a chemical cloud of some kind, sir. Maybe tear gas, maybe worse than that—we don’t know yet.”
The general made a grunting sound and held out his hand for the field glasses. Rouhani watched the spotters.
A new sound entered the muffled din of the battlefield noise: a sharp punch followed by the zip of a projectile breaking the sound barrier. T-55 tanks firing. Half a kilometer away, an observation post blew up in a ball of flame.
Kharrazi’s head snapped up, his eyes wide. “Where did that come from?” he demanded. “Intelligence reports have the Iraqis tanks massed west of Basra.”
“They must be dug in, sir,” the captain replied. “Camouflaged.”
The general slammed the glasses into the chest of the nearest soldier. “Find those tanks, Captain, and call in whatever you need to destroy them.” He spun on his heel and stalked away.
Rouhani noted the quickness in the general’s step as he raced toward the waiting vehicle.
Reza
13 July 1982 – 0830 local
Reza crouched in the dirt of the tunnel, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Touching the walls, he could feel the spade marks. He stood up with plenty of headroom. It must have taken them weeks—long before the Iranians arrived—to dig this tunnel. He felt his insides twist as the reality sunk in.
His men were marching into a slaughterhouse.
This went far beyond minefields and machine guns. If they had time to dig this kind of tunnel, they would have had time to dig in tanks, and—
As if to punctuate the point, the ear-splitting sound of a T-55 tank firing rang through the tunnel.
First things first. Reza ran down the tunnel toward the sound of the machine gun. He needed to get his men freed. The machine gun was firing in short bursts like someone pounding on a door at random intervals. He flattened himself against the dirt wall and took a quick peek into the bunker.
Three men. One firing, one spotting, one handling ammunition. All etched sharply in the light of the bunker opening.
He took a deep breath and gripped his Ka-Bar knife tighter, merging his fingers in the stacked leather hilt. Reza felt the chill settle over him and his senses sharpen as he stepped into the bunker. The ammo man saw the shadows shift and looked up. His mouth opened, his hand reached out to slap at his comrades working the noisy gun, but Reza’s blade sliced across his throat in a single sweep. Reza spun around, using the momentum of the move to bury the knife in the ribcage of the gunner. The Iraqi arched his back and his finger clamped on the trigger.
The Iraqi spotter was a burly man with a wild beard and lightning-fast reflexes. He launched himself at Reza, slamming him back into the wall. The wind rushed out of Reza’s lungs as he gasped for breath. He clawed at the Iraqi’s eyes, but the man had him pinned. The muscled forearm across Reza’s throat pressed tighter.
In the background, the machine gun ran out of ammunition and a sort of silence descended on the bunker. Reza could hear the grunted curses of the Iraqi and see his clenched yellow teeth. Reza’s fingers scrabbled to reach his sidearm, but everything was getting dark. His muscles were refusing to cooperate. Reza was losing consciousness.
The man on top of him let out a sharp grunt and slumped forward. Using the last of his energy, Reza bucked him off and dragged in a deep breath. Then he drew out his Colt and shot him point-blank in the chest.
“Captain, are you alright?” Basam’s voice seemed very far away. He opened his eyes to find the boy hovering over him holding a shovel.
“Basam,” Reza rasped. “I told you to wait.” The boy’s dark eyes were round with fear and his knuckles white where he gripped the spade. The blade of the tool was edged with red. Reza took his arm. “It’s okay, Basam. Thank you.”
The boy relaxed. He dropped the shovel onto the sandy floor of the bunker.
Reza crawled to the front of the bunker and peered out onto the battlefield. Clouds of heavy white smoke hugged the ground beneath the dusty atmosphere. As he watched, a shell dropped from the sky, spewing more white smoke. The prevailing winds were pushing the white smoke away from the Iraqi lines, but Reza felt a slight burning sensation at the back of his throat. Tear gas. He stood up in the bunker and waved his arms at his men.
Another round from the T-55 tank somewhere behind them slammed through the small bunker, causing Basam to clap his hands over his ears and cry out. As his men reached the face of the bunker, their eyes red and wet from the chemical irritants, Reza called in his two remaining platoon leaders. He showed them the tunnel system connecting the Iraqi defenses.
“We’re going to split up and cause as much damage as possible. First platoon goes north, second platoon south. Clear out the tunnels. Kill the machine guns. Third platoon is with me.” He flinched as the Iraqi tank fired off another round at the Iranian lines. “Our first job is to stop that tank.” He paused and looked at his men. “I’m worried. These defenses are very lightly manned. Intelligence estimates were that the Iraqis had eighty thousand troops and three hundred tanks—where are they?”
