Red Sands, page 22
He took a quick look around. Captain Howard and his Scots were spaced out along the top of the curtain wall. And with help from the Bradleys, not to mention the machine guns mounted on the tanks, they had things under control. In fact, from the sound of it, the volume of incoming fire was starting to drop off. Finn turned to Pinnick. “Let’s get to the south slope and lend a hand. Where’s Yusef?”
“He left,” Pinnick replied.
“And you let him go?”
The TACP frowned. “I was supposed to stop him? For what? Killing Wali’s son? We should give him a medal.”
Finn stared, considered the possibility of dressing the air force officer down, and thought better of it. “Come on, let’s haul ass.”
Together with Pinnick, and his radio operator, Finn jogged through a series of narrow passageways to emerge on top of the southern curtain wall. An eerie silence hung over the scene. American and British bodies lay everywhere. But there wasn’t a single Afghan corpse to be seen.
That could only mean one thing: None of the attackers had been able to reach the top of the wall. Or so it seemed. Then Finn saw the .50 caliber machine gun and the diminutive form slumped over the weapon’s receiver.
“No, please, no!” Finn said, as he hurried forward to kneel next to Molly Keaton’s body.
Hundreds of empty casings lay scattered about. And there, in front of the gun, was a pile of dead Afghans. Soldiers who had managed to scale the sheer wall, only to appear in front of the reporter who, in an attempt to defend her beloved soldiers, gunned the Afghans down.
Finn wanted to break down and cry. But that was a privilege reserved for others. His job, one of many, was to set an example. And that meant looking strong no matter the circumstances.
Owens appeared at his side. She bit her lip. “They were about to overrun us,” Owens said. “But Molly stopped them.”
Finn struggled for control, blinked the tears away, and wiped his face with the back of a hand. He remembered the sight of Keaton’s naked body. Names, so many names. And now she too would be buried on a hill in a foreign land. But not forgotten, Finn thought. Never forgotten.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Qila Kom, southwestern Afghanistan
The battle lasted until midday, when the men and women of the 53rd made their way down the north slope, driving the enemy soldiers to the bottom of the hill and away from the castle. The withdrawal wasn’t just due to the number of casualties the Afghans had taken, but the brutal heat as well, and a shortage of water.
The all-pervading stench of death filled the air as vultures circled overhead, and the survivors wandered through the sad fleet of abandoned gun trucks searching for vehicles that could carry them to safety. Those who weren’t fortunate enough to find space on a pickup had to walk, their shadows preceding them, as if eager to reach the brigade’s encampment before the soldiers themselves did.
Finn knew that it would make sense to kill them, which the A-10s could easily do, but couldn’t find it in his heart to give the order. I may come to regret that, Finn mused. But maybe the killing is over. One can hope.
“I’ve got Colonel Selton on the horn,” the radio operator said, as Finn lowered his glasses.
Finn put the sat phone to his ear. Maybe, just maybe, Selton would have some good news. “This is Major Flynn.”
“Good morning,” Selton said cheerfully. “Judging from the Reaper’s video feed, it looks like you drove them off. Well, done! Now comes the tricky part. In order to get you out of there we’re going to initiate Operation Run and Gun.
“The plan is for you to head for the Zahedan airbase. We hope Wali will let you go. But, if he tries to catch you, then lagger up and let the A-10s take care of it.
“We figure it’ll be one and done if it comes to that. But, if Mr. Wali persists, we’ll rinse and repeat. Do you read me?”
“Five by five,” Finn answered. “And when we get to Zahedan?”
“The local riff-raff have been looting the place since you left. So, we’re sending a company of airborne troops in to secure it. Then the C-17s will land and take you out. No muss, no fuss.”
Finn sighed. Would it truly work out the way Selton said? He hoped so. “Yes, sir. That sounds good. We’ll crank it up.”
“See that you do,” Selton said. “And one more thing ….”
“Sir?”
“Don’t forget the bombs.” Click.
From Finn’s perspective the bombs were the least of his worries. Dr. Okada said they were ready to load, and that was good enough for him.
No, the more pressing concerns had to do with prepping vehicles to carry wounded soldiers, creating a new TO (table of organization) to reflect the casualties the team had suffered, and burying the dead.
“Leave no man or woman behind.” That was the ideal. But when it came to an extended mission, with no helicopters to take bodies out, commanders had no choice but to bury the fallen—making sure to record where the graves were.
Would Wali respect the graves? Finn had doubts. But it was the best he could do.
The graves were dug and the bodies were placed in them. One was for Molly Keaton. Finn fought back tears as he read the second stanza of the poem “I Have a Rendezvous with Death,” by American French Foreign Legionnaire, Alan Seeger:
“It may be he shall take my hand
And lead me into his dark land
And close my eyes and quench my breath—
It may be I shall pass him still.
I have a rendezvous with Death
On some scarred slope of battered hill,
When Spring comes round again this year
And the first meadow-flowers appear.”
Finn gave a nod to the sergeant in charge of the burial detail, and came to attention as the Scottish piper played Amazing Grace. It was hard to believe that First Sergeant Sam Dyson wasn’t standing beside him, eyes searching the ranks for slackers, even at funerals.
As the final strains of music died away, Company Sergeant Major McKenzie gave the necessary orders. “At ease! Company dismissed!”
Finn managed to grab a nap from 1500 to 1700. Not in Wali’s apartment, but in the back of a troop transport, with noise all around. Then it was time to eat half of an MRE, and supervise the leadup to the battalion’s departure. There were dozens of things to check on. And there were moments when Finn thought he’d never be able to accomplish all of them.
But thanks to Owens and Howard, the necessary elements came together, and Strike Team 3 departed Qila Kom at 1800 hours. The order of march was the reverse of what it had been previously. That was because, once the convoy was underway, Finn expected pursuit from the east as his vehicles drove west.
And when it came time to “lagger up,” as Selton put it, the soft targets like the fuel tankers and supply trucks would stop first. Soon to be surrounded and protected by the Bradleys and tanks as they caught up.
The “softies” would have some protection however in the form of the three Strykers. They were on point and prepared to engage any gun trucks that Wali had prepositioned to the west.
As for the decision to depart at night, that had to do with the battalion’s night vision goggles, thermal sights, and the night vision imaging systems on the A-10s.
Rather than ride in one of the lead Strykers, Finn chose to accompany the crew of the SWEET LIBERTY, which had joined the unit at Zahedan airbase. LIBERTY, along with WHEELER DEALER, would comprise the unit’s rearguard.
The journey began with an attack by two A-10s designed to neutralize the Afghan scouts, snipers, and RPG teams that had been infiltrating the area. The pilots could “see” where the tangos were hiding, and with some guidance from Pinnick, made quick work of the Afghans.
Then it was time to roll. The lead Strykers departed first, quickly followed by the transport vehicles, the Bradleys, and the tanks in that order. The second supply truck in line was carrying the bombs, Okada, and a squad strength security team.
Finn was standing in SWEET LIBERTY’s noncom hatch, as the machine’s driver followed the WHEELER DEALER down the switch backing road to the desert. The air was starting to cool by then and, even though the vultures had eaten their fill, the vics still had to thump over dead bodies.
Finn thumbed his radio. “Delta-Four and Delta-Seven, this is Six. Keep your speed down until the rest of the column is about a mile ahead. We need some pad. Out.”
Finn heard two double clicks and felt SWEET LIBERTY slow. There was no reaction at first. Then Finn heard a new voice over his headset. “Dixie-Chick to Alpha-Six. My Raptor is circling at two thousand and the bad guys are beginning to mount up. My guess is that they’ll catch up to you in fifteen or twenty. Over.”
“Roger that,” Finn replied. “What are you packing? Over.”
“Four Hellfires. Over.”
“Good to know. Out.”
The Hellfire missiles were going to be Finn’s ace in the hole. The real work would be carried out by the A-10s. “Alpha-Two, did you copy?”
“Affirmative,” Pinnick replied. “Over.”
“And the hogs?”
“The Ax and Birdman are on station. Over.”
Finn recognized the “Ax” call sign as one he’d heard before. And felt a resulting surge in confidence. After the shit hit the fan, the Ax would fly through it. The minutes continued to tick away.
***
President Akhtar Wali was disappointed. Fayez was dead. Had it been otherwise his son would have called in. That was to be expected of course. The plan to behead the snake had been a longshot at best. But the bombs were important. And if it was necessary to sacrifice his son in order to recover them, then it was the price that had to be paid.
Now, according to Major Hashmi, the infidels were trying to take the bombs back into Iran. Why? Because they planned to exfil via the Zahedan military base, that’s why. The very location from which the bombs were stolen. But there’s still an opportunity to stop them, Wali thought, as he left his tent. And we shall.
The presidential MRAP was ready to depart—and Hashmi was onboard. The major’s job, insofar as Wali was concerned, was to pass orders to the troops.
And, after what happened to Colonel Zazi, Hashmi had proven himself to be very cooperative. Even eager to receive orders and avoid responsibility for whatever transpired next.
“Gather a force of gun trucks around us,” Wali ordered. “The rest of our combat vehicles will follow. We’ll catch up with the Allies and swallow them tail first.”
Hashmi thought that was very unlikely given the presence of American aircraft circling above. But maybe Allah would intervene. Hashmi had written a goodbye letter to his wife, and left it in his pack. There was nothing more that he could do.
The up-gunned MRAP could theoretically do sixty-five mph, but fifty was more realistic over broken ground, and consistent with its escorts’ capabilities.
With the MRAP leading the way, an armada of Toyota pickups spread out in a line abreast and gathered speed. The immediate targets were two fighting vehicles which, according to the division’s Chinese made drones, were following the Allied column at a distance.
The radio squawked. “Leopard, this is Mongoose and Goalie. We’re in from the south with guns and Thunderbolt missiles. Please notify your troops. Over.”
Hashmi looked to Wali for instructions. “Help has arrived,” Wali told him. “Pakistan wants Afghanistan to join the Axis. So, they sent fighters to destroy the American A-10s. Give me the mike.”
Wali thumbed the transmit button. “This is Leopard. Welcome to Afghanistan, and good hunting. Out.”
***
“Shit!” Birdman said. “I have a fighter on my tail. “Watch your six. Over.”
Captain Linda Axeton heard a tone from her Radar Warning Receiver, knew she was being tracked by enemy radar, and spoke in the matter-of-fact monotone favored by pilots everywhere. “Roger that. Over.”
But that belied the way the A-10 pilot actually felt, which was stupid, because she’d been so focused on the ground game that she’d neglected her radar.
The pilot experienced a sense of doom as she put her plane into a maneuver called “the scissors.” Not because she had doubts regarding her skills, but because A-10s were notoriously slow compared to jet fighters, and therefore vulnerable. A situation made even worse by the fact that her hog wasn’t armed with air-to-air missiles.
The scissors was typically used for defensive purposes and consisted of a series of short turns toward the attacking aircraft. Axeton heard a tone and knew a missile was tracking her. But whose? The Russians? Probably. If so, it was in all likelihood a short-range, infrared homing weapon. She blew chaff and felt a sense of satisfaction as the enemy missile chased it.
Time to go on offense, Axeton thought grimly. I may be slow, but I can turn a lot tighter than you can, and I have a BFG. (Big fucking gun.)
As Axeton brought the nose of her plane around, she knew it was all about the radius of her turn. In an all-out race the fighter jet would win. But if the enemy pilot wasn’t familiar with hogs, and their capabilities, he was likely to underestimate how much danger he was in.
And sure enough, as Axeton continued to turn in on him, the fighter filled her sight. She chose to fire a short burst from the Avenger 30mm seven-barrel cannon.
That was partly due to a desire to conserve ammo. But also, since the target was only in her sight for a few seconds, there was no reason to fire more than that.
High explosive shells tore the other plane apart as Axeton exited the turn. Her mind was on Birdman. And, more than that, the other pilot’s adversary.
The answer was that the B-man was on the run with the bandit in hot pursuit. There was no telling how that situation came to be, and it didn’t matter. What mattered was the need to cancel the enemy pilot’s ticket. “I’m at three and turning north,” Axeton said. “Lead him past me. Over.”
Birdman blew chaff, made the necessary change in course, and allowed the enemy fighter to ride his six. That was a trusting thing to do. And a wise one, because Axeton was waiting. And when the enemy aircraft entered A-10’s sight picture it ran into a steady stream of 30mm shells.
Unlike the previous kill, when Axeton had been too busy to watch the action, she had a brief moment in which to witness the orange-red explosion before banking away.
“Thanks, Ax,” Birdman said. “I owe you a beer. Over.”
“Sounds good,” Ax replied. “Come on … It’s time to mow the lawn. Out.”
***
Finn was surprised when the Afghans started to close in on the Strykers. Where were the A-10s? Then a call from Pinnick came in. “Alpha-Six, this is Two. Jet fighters jumped the A-10s. We’re on our own for the moment. Over.”
Finn swore. Fighters? How was that possible? Focus, he thought. What is, is. Deal with it. “This is Six actual. Tanks will turn and fire on targets to the east.
“The rearguard will exit the target area, turn, and fire. Watch your angles … Don’t fire on each other. Execute. Out.”
***
Suddenly 105mm cannon shells began to fall on lead elements of the Afghan pursuit group. Explosions lit the night, a pickup truck flipped end-for-end, and a near miss shook the presidential MRAP. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, the American Stryker vehicles opened fire from the north and south. More vehicles were destroyed. Wali was left with no choice but to give the order Hashmi had been waiting for. “Order all units to break it off, turn back, and regroup at our encampment.”
That was when the A-10s reentered the fray, the destruction increased exponentially, and Wali knew that the Pakistani planes had been shot down. His spirits plummeted. No matter what he tried to do it failed. There was only one possible explanation, and that was Insha’Allah (God’s will).
For some divine reason Allah opposed his plan. If so, there was nothing more that Wali could do. Forget the bombs, Wali told himself. You’re the President of Afghanistan! There’s much to do. Turn your attention to that. And make another son. All will be well.
Casualties were being brought into the encampment as Wali arrived. Dozens of them. Some crying out in pain. But Wali felt nothing as he passed by. His mind was on the political situation and how to manage it.
The presidential tent was open and waiting to take Wali in. The lighting was dim, as it should be at night, and it felt good to shed his clothes and armor.
Then naked as the day he’d been born, Wali took a sponge bath. It was a blessing. A fluffy towel was waiting once the ritual was complete. And Wali was about to use it when a red dot appeared on his bare chest. It wavered slightly. But not much.
Wali felt a stab of fear as a voice spoke. “Don’t move. I’m a good shot. You know that. And I’m using a silencer. That means I could shoot you six times and no one would hear.”
Now that Wali knew where to look, he could see a barely visible form seated in a dark corner of the tent. “Yusef? Is that you?”
“Yes,” the Nigerian said, as he emerged from the shadows. “I’m here to kill you … The same way I killed your son. With a bullet.”
It had been many years since Wali felt terrified. That’s what money could do for a man. It could build a wall. And Yusef had been a brick in that wall. But the wall was crumbling and Wali had reason to be fearful. He struggled for control. “Why? Is this about money?”
“No,” Yusef said. “I know you loved your son. I know you will want revenge. And I know that you’ll send assassins to track me down. Unless you’re dead, that is. You may recite the Salat al-Janazah if you wish.”
The Salat al-Janazah was the Islamic funeral prayer. Wali had no desire to recite it. But he did want to buy time. Maybe a red hat would enter. Maybe anything. He knelt, thereby putting himself a little closer to his holstered pistol. Wali hadn’t uttered the words in many years and struggled to summon them.
“O God, forgive our living and our dead, those who are present among us and those who are absent, our young and our old, our males and our females.
“O God, whoever You keep alive, keep him alive in Islam, and whoever You cause to die, cause him to die with faith.
