Red Sands, page 24
***
Corporal Abu Moradi was a sniper and a good one. That’s why Major Kabiri ordered him to set up his long-barreled weapon on the top of the minaret where, “You can kill an infidel for me.”
And Moradi did his best by putting an armor piercing round into the lead vehicle. But the slug failed to hit anything vital, and before the sniper could fire again, two missiles struck buildings around him—forcing Moradi to duck.
And, by the time he stood, the enemy convoy had cleared the trap. Moradi fired a couple of rounds at the departing vehicles but to no great effect.
Based on the radio traffic Moradi could tell that most of his friends and comrades were wounded or dead. A feeling of despair descended on the sniper.
Moradi was about to pack up and leave, when he spotted movement in the alley below. The scope caused the scene to jump up at him.
Major Kabiri was in the alley, a pack on his back, mounting Corporal Vida’s nearly new TVS Apache RTR 200 4V motorcycle. And as Moradi continued to watch, it soon became clear that the officer had decided to enter Pakistan, rather than stay and take responsibility for the botched ambush.
Grief turned to anger as the deserter sped through the remains of the checkpoint and into Pakistan. “You fucking god damned bastard,” Moradi shouted, as he swiveled the Shaher 14.5mm sniper rifle around. The bolt action weapon could punch a hole through an armored vehicle from 2.5 miles away.
It took a moment to find the motorcycle and place the crosshairs on Kabiri’s backpack. The target was heading away so there was no need to lead it. The very definition of an easy shot. But gravity will prevail, Moradi reminded himself, so aim at the pig’s head.
The sniper made a slight adjustment and the crosshairs floated up onto Kabiri’s head. Then he squeezed the trigger. The bullet fell just as Moradi knew it would, punched its way through the pack, and struck the officer between his shoulder blades.
The impact threw Kabiri’s body over the handle bars. And, as his weight shifted, the bike performed a somersault and crashed.
Moradi smiled, ejected the empty casing, and caught it. A souvenir, the sniper thought, as he slid the hot brass into a pocket. That was for you Corporal Vida. That was for you.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
West of Mirjaveh Ladiz, Iran
It was raining. The convoy was parked along the side of the road. Traffic passed going in both directions; spray flew away from tires. Did the civilians assume that the military vehicles were Iranian? Probably.
Sergeant Major McKenzie was in charge of security while the rest of the team took bio breaks and ran status checks on their vehicles. The vics had taken a lot of hits, but none of the bombs had been damaged, and that was important.
Finn was commiserating with SWEET LIBERTY’s commander regarding the big hole in the top of her truck, when Lieutenant Pinnick approached. “Excuse me, sir … Have you got a moment?”
“Yes,” Finn replied. “If the news is good.”
Pinnick made a face. “It isn’t. Based on the latest from the weather folks, a tropical cyclone is brewing. Thanks to a convection zone over the Arabian Sea, and higher than average sea temps, we can expect heavy rain with winds up to 70mph.”
Finn swore. His first thought had to do with the way flooding could slow the convoy down. Then, as Pinnick watched him expectantly, he realized that Strike Team 3 was going to lose its air cover. And worse yet, might be trapped on the beach in Gavater waiting for conditions to improve. He felt a sense of foreboding. “So, we’re going to lose the hogs.”
“Yes,” Pinnick replied. “And the Raptor.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
It was quite a blow. The team had been forced to fight a long series of battles to reach the point where they were at that moment. But bad as that was, there hadn’t been any need to continually scan the sky.
Of course, the storm will keep the Iranians grounded too,” Finn told himself. And the thought was somewhat heartening. But a very important question had yet to be answered. Finn eyed Pinnick. “Any word from Selton on the evac?”
“Nope. I imagine they’re waiting to see how bad things get.”
“Okay,” Finn replied. “All we can do is keep going. Thanks for the sitrep.”
Pinnick forced a smile. “You’re welcome.”
The break ended with a headcount and an order to “Mount up,” from Owens. Then, with SWEET LIBERTY leading the way, the team was back on the road. The convoy arrived at a junction with the main north-south highway fifteen minutes later, turned left, and drove south.
Finn was still standing up in the Stryker’s hatch. The wind driven rain stung his face, and trickled down Finn’s neck and under his poncho, as he peered ahead. He was looking for a very important Y in the road. If the convoy veered to the right it would wind up in the city of Iranshahr, where it might encounter an Iranian military unit, or a belligerent police force.
That’s why it was imperative to steer left and head for the town of Khash, and continue from there on a road that would avoid Iranshahr, and take them to the sea.
Some, but not all, of Iran’s directional signs were in English and Persian. Finally, there it was, and in English!
“This is Six. The column will take the left fork. The rearguard will monitor compliance. Out.”
After successfully navigating the intersection, the convoy continued south. No cars were passing the Allied vehicles from behind. But a lot of traffic was flowing north as people sought to escape the path of the storm.
Finn was wet and cold by then. So, he ducked down into the cargo compartment which, consistent with his request, was empty of people except for a single radio operator. That meant there was enough room to stretch across some seats, and take a semi-comfortable nap. Darkness swallowed him up.
After what seemed like seconds, but was actually an hour, the radio operator touched his shoulder. “Captain Owens said I should wake you, sir. We have a problem.”
Rain was pounding the hull as if determined to get in. Finn yawned and accepted the mug of instant coffee which the tech offered him. “Thanks. We’re stopped. What’s up?”
“There’s a bridge up ahead, sir … And the Iranians blew it.”
Finn took a sip. “You’re sure? Is there a possibility that the storm caused the damage?”
The E4 shrugged, as if to say that such matters were above his paygrade, and junior noncoms couldn’t be sure of anything.
It made no difference. Finn knew that the best way to learn the answer was to go out into the storm and look. Owens arrived just as Finn made his way down the ramp. Her head was bare and her hair was wet. “Follow me, sir … The bridge is down. I think it was blown.”
Finn glanced at his watch. The convoy was running more than hour late. And the situation was about to get worse. “All right, let’s take a look.”
The light was fading, but Finn could see the bridge up ahead and the headlights of northbound cars. All were stalled as they waited for some sort of miracle to occur.
Owens led him out onto the bridge deck. Sure enough, a five-foot gap made it impossible for vehicles to cross.
Finn was no engineer, but based on blast damage he’d seen in the past, it looked like what Owens said it was, the work of demolition experts who knew what they were doing.
The Iranians didn’t have the resources required to fight us here,” Finn reasoned. So, they’re trying to delay us. And that suggests that they’ll be waiting somewhere up ahead. Will the storm stop them? Or is that wishful thinking?
Finn went over to the rail to aim a flashlight at the rushing river which, thanks to the heavy rain, was steadily rising. He turned to Owens. “Is there any chance that we can bridge the gap?”
She shook her head. “No, sir. We don’t have the necessary materials.”
“So, we need to find a ford.”
“Yes, sir. I sent scouts up and downstream. The maximin depth our vehicles can handle is four feet. But that would be iffy. Three is more realistic.”
“Good work,” Finn said. “Here’s hoping.”
Company Sergeant Major McKenzie delivered the news ten minutes later. “Ma men found a crossin aboot a quarter mile downstream, sir. The water is aboot three feet deep an risin.”
“Well done. Thank your soldiers for me,” Finn said, before turning to Owens. “Let’s send a HEMTT across first. We’ll use it as a twenty-ton anchor in case other vics need to winch themselves across.”
What ensured was a full hour’s worth of shouted orders, revving engines, and gyrating headlights as vehicle after vehicle made the tricky crossing. But thanks to eight-wheel drives, and on-board winches, all of them succeeded except for WHEELER DEALER.
The river was more than four feet deep by then, and as the current pushed against the Stryker, the vic started to float. But, because the DEALER’s winch cable was fastened to the “anchor” truck, the current pushed the vic over to the left bank, rather than carrying it downstream.
At that point the ROLLER SKATE was able to hook on, and pull the other vic up and over the river bank. Then it was a matter or restoring the convoy to its proper order and getting underway again.
They were more than two hours behind schedule by that time. But it seemed safe to assume that Selton didn’t know that, because the NRO satellites couldn’t “see” through thick cloud cover. Should he call in? Or let the situation ride? Finn chose option two.
As the convoy continued south it passed through a long succession of dimly seen villages and towns. Virtually no civilian vehicles were out and about by then, although a police car passed at one point, roof lights flashing as it headed north.
Then, shortly after passing through the town of Bahu Kalat, Selton called in. Finn felt a surge of optimism. Maybe the colonel had good news for a change. “This is Alpha-Six, over.”
“Good,” Selton said. “I was afraid I wouldn’t get through. Where are you? Over.”
“We just passed through Bahu Kalat, and we’ll be in Polan soon. That’s where we turn off for Gavater. Over.”
“Okay, here’s the situation. You’re about to pass through the eyewall of the cyclone. The sky will clear, the rain will stop, and the winds will subside. After it passes by, you’ll be back in the storm. But since the cyclone is traveling at about fifteen miles an hour, we’ll have a couple of hours to work with. Get to the beach. A navy LCAC (Landing Craft Air Cushion) will pick you up. That’s the good news. Over.”
Finn felt a sudden emptiness in the pit of his stomach. “And the bad news? Over.”
“The Paks allowed the Chinese to build a military base in Gwadar, a city located one hundred and twenty miles east of your location.
“According to what we believe to be some excellent HUMINT, they’re about to send troops your way. It’s our assumption that the Iranians requested help and the Chinese were happy to oblige. By recovering the bombs, they can strengthen their relationship with Iran, or keep them.
“Like I said, according to the agency, the Chinese are going to send helicopters loaded with troops. That means they’ll put fighters up once the sky clears. Navy Harriers will be there to greet them. So, get ready for a gigantic shit show. And Sean …”
“I know,” Flynn said. “Don’t forget the bombs. Over.”
“Good boy,” Selton said. “Keep going. The swabbies will contact you soon. Out. Click.”
The radio operator was staring at him as Finn battled to conceal a deep sense of regret.
Even though Selton made no mention of it, Finn knew the truth. In retrospect it looked as though the battalion would have been better off attacking the Iranian airbase. Had they done so, and succeeded, they’d be in Kuwait drinking beer.
Now, as a result of his poor judgement, Strike Team 3 was battling a cyclone on its way to a battle that promised to be worse than whatever had been waiting for them at the airbase. Pull yourself together, Finn thought. You fucked up. Don’t make it worse by fucking up again.
Finn produced a smile for the radio operator. “Get the XO on the horn … We have work to do.”
Time was of the essence, and the convoy continued to roll, as plans were put in place via the battalion’s encrypted systems. The sky was temporarily clear, and the sun had started to raise its fiery head by the time they passed through Polan.
The turn off to Shahrak Maskuni-ye Gavater was only a couple of miles beyond. A gravel road led to the unsuspecting fishing village which, due to no fault of its own, was about to host a bloody battle.
The navy officer, call sign Sea-King, was keeping Finn in the loop. And, as the fishing village appeared up ahead, the officer told him what to expect.
“Thanks to the eye of the cyclone, the NRO has eyes on four, repeat four, Changhe Z-18 transport helos, each of which can carry twenty-seven passengers. That means you have one hundred and eight tangos roughly forty-five minutes out.
“Meanwhile, our LCAC has been launched and is enroute. But, because of the weather, her mother ship is way offshore. ETA on the beach is more than an hour. So, you’ll have to keep the Chinese at bay till then. Harriers will provide air cover. They’ll arrive over your twenty shortly.
“And remember, we need to get you off the beach before the south wall of the cyclone arrives. As it is, the ride out to the amphibious assault ship is likely to be rough. I suggest barf bags all around. Over.”
The naval officer’s cheerful assessment was maddening. More obstacles to overcome. Finn forced himself to focus. “What about weight?”
“An LCAC can carry sixty tons, more in a crunch, but don’t push your luck. Over.”
Finn did the math in his head. The HEMTT was roughly thirty-five tons, including the bombs and related gear. His troops might mass at something in the area of fourteen or fifteen tons with weapons, so if the total was fifty tons, the battalion would be well under the max.
SWEET LIBERTY led the rest of the vehicles down a muddy street. One – and two-story tall mud block structures lined both sides of the throughfare, and all manner of wires crisscrossed each other overhead.
Runoff was still rushing through drainage ditches and, after being trapped inside during the storm, children had emerged to watch the military vehicles parade by. They had no notion of who the soldiers were, but their parents knew, and hurried to hustle them back inside.
As SWEET LIBERTY arrived on the flat area above the beach Finn saw what he estimated to be a one-hundred-foot-long boat, with a high bow, and a three-story super structure in the stern. It was propped up by a complicated system of scaffolding. Waves lapped around it.
Other vessels were visible too, fishing boats mostly, which had been hauled up slope to avoid the storm surge the cyclone was likely to cause.
“All right,” Finn said over the radio, as SWEET LIBERTY jerked to a halt. “You know the plan … Execute. Out.”
“The plan” called for four HEMTTs to be parked in a partially open square where they would surround and protect the bomb truck. A Stryker was to be positioned at each corner facing out.
Meanwhile the fifth Stryker was to operate within the perimeter where it could circle the bomb truck firing its belt fed, 40mm grenade launcher as needed. And, with a range of one thousand six hundred yards, the Mk 47 would be a very potent weapon in the coming firefight.
Once the vehicles were properly positioned, pumps would be used to remove fuel from the “wall” trucks. Then the diesel would be transferred to the Mk 47 to minimize the possibility of what could be disastrous gas tank explosions. All of which had to take place before the Chinese helos put down.
Owens was in charge of constructing the fort and was shouting orders as Finn pushed himself up out of the hatch and slid to the ground. Captain Howard and Sergeant Major McKenzie were supervising the efforts to distribute Javelin and grenade launchers, create firing positions with HEMTT spare tires for cover, and preposition back-up ammo dumps.
Finn made the rounds pausing to help every now and then, poking fun at soldiers he knew, and tweaking preparations here and there. Meanwhile the sun was climbing, moisture was being absorbed into the air, and everything was wet. Including their camos.
“Here they come!” someone shouted. And sure enough, Finn could hear the sound of helicopter rotors, and see specks racing in from the east.
That sight was accompanied by the scream of jet engines as American Harriers went one-on-one with Chinese fighters high above their heads. ‘Heads doun!” Sergeant Major McKenzie ordered. “Ye have jobs tae dae.”
The words were punctuated by the clatter of four helicopters passing within a mile of the newly constructed “fort.” Two Stinger missiles leapt into the air and trailed smoke as they chased the helos.
But the Chinese pilots were blowing chaff and the tactic worked. Both weapons were lured away and detonated uselessly in midair. Then the helicopters sank behind a cluster of palms and disappeared.
“Take your positions!” Finn bawled. “Aimed fire only … And remember, the swabbies have ice cream! And they’re coming to pick us up. So, hold the line.”
A reedy cheer went up. Then shots were exchanged by snipers, semiauto fire followed, and grenades started to fly. The Chinese troops were advancing through the trees, firing as they came. Finn concluded that they hadn’t been in combat before, judging from the way they were bunched up. But they were dangerous nevertheless.
The moment the enemy troops were in range the ROLLER SKATE’s gunner started to fire what she called “boom-booms” into the crowd. They went out in bursts of three. Bang! Bang! Bang! It was a lovely sound. To Finn’s ears anyway, as the explosions tossed soldiers into the air, and tore others apart.
But the battle was far from one-sided. Experienced or not, the enemy troops were armed with Type 69, 85mm, rocket propelled grenade launchers, and knew how to use them.
There was a loud BOOM, as the HEMTT named BIG ALVIN took a hit. The force of the blast caused the truck to rock. But its wheels never left the ground. And, because a trail of smoke led back to the point where the rocket had been fired, a sniper from the 53rd was able to drop the gunner before he could move to a second position.
