Red Sands, page 3
That got the predictable laugh and the GAZ began to move. The rest of the vehicles followed. Borin sipped his tea. Life was good.
***
Kahan, Iran
As before, Finn was standing in the squad leader’s hatch, and WAR GIRL was leading the way. Thanks to the video beamed down from a Raven UAV, Finn knew that the dirt road from Namak Lake to the town of Kashan was clear.
He’d been online in Kuwait and saw that various sources listed Kashan as the location of the Natanz nuclear facility. That wasn’t true however.
The actual location of the plant was twenty-five miles southeast of Kashan, near the small village of Deh-Zireh, which was separated from the facility by a major highway.
So the route to the Natanz complex went through Kashan, which was where Finn expected to encounter resistance, if any. Although—during the initial fly-over of the city—there had been no signs of a military buildup.
The dirt road connected with a highway that led past the villages of Ab Shirin, San-San, and Mashkat to Kashan. Hot air buffeted Finn’s face as WAR GIRL moved along at about 40 mph. That was near the top end of what the M-1s could do on a paved road.
The sun had started to sink by then. And Finn knew that even if things went well, the company would have to lagger up beyond Kashan, allowing the Iranians more time to prepare.
The possibility of a nighttime strike occurred to Finn, but was rejected, because he didn’t want to attack the fortified complex unless the unit was in tip top shape. And his troops were tired.
Finn put those thoughts aside as a scattering of dwellings and businesses appeared on both sides of the mostly empty road. A truck passed in the opposite direction—no other vehicles were visible. It would have been a good spot for a roadblock. There was none.
Finn had done his homework, and knew that Kashan dated back some 9,000 years and had once been the location of a Caravanserai rest stop.
As cities go Kashan was well-kept and home to more than its share of striking monuments, buildings and mosques. But, as WAR GIRL passed through the center of town, only a scattering of people were visible. Why?
The answer was obvious. The citizens of Kashan were scared. And understandably so given the endless anti-American propaganda the Iranian government had churned out since the Shah had been deposed in 1978.
But cowed or not Finn was happy to put the residents of Kashan behind him as the convoy continued on its way. There were at least a hundred acres of empty desert southeast of town, and that’s where Strike Team 3 spent the night. Finn put the usual security measures in place and had the extra comfort of knowing that a General Atomics MQ-9 Reaper drone was circling above.
“It’s like an angel,” a corporal said. “Protecting us from evil.”
Finn saw no reason to dispute that.
CHAPTER TWO
Alborz Mountains in northern Iran
About 300 members of the Kurdistan Free Life Party (PJAK) were camped in a high-altitude valley, ready to attack Road 77 at 0600 the following morning. Dozens of campfires shivered in the breeze and sent constellations of sparks up into the air.
Nine men and two women were seated around one of the fires, sharing a meal. Steam rose from a pot of tomato and bean soup bubbling atop the one-burner camp stove.
There was flatbread too, and Kurdish tea, which was continually refreshed.
In fact, the only way to put a stop to the refills was to drink half a cup and put it down. Pouring tea onto the ground was considered rude. All niceties that SAS (Special Air Service) Sergeant Bill Riley had learned while serving in and around Erbil.
Two of his dinner companions were from Iraq, including a female Peshmerga officer named Sagul Behi. A woman Riley felt drawn to, despite the fact she had no interest in him.
The leader of the group, and the entire force for that matter, were members of the militant Kurdistan Workers’ Party named Gulcan Jiwan. The rest, with the exception of Riley’s mate, Sergeant Jerry Acker, were locals.
Dinner conversation was focused on the effort to take control of Road 77 and, more than that, the rationale for doing so. A subject Jiwan never tired of explaining. “The mountain range forms a natural border between what will become the autonomous state of Kurdistan and the Republic of Iran—may all of its citizens rot in Jahannam (Hell),” he declared.
“But to assert our authority,” Jiwan continued, “we must control the flow of commerce. And that’s where Road 77 comes in. Although it isn’t the only north-south route in and out of Iran, it’s the most important. And once it’s ours the rest will follow.”
The other Kurds nodded in unison.
Riley had serious doubts about Jiwan’s thesis. But his role was to provide tactical advice not strategic counsel. The blokes up the chain of command wanted the Kurds to succeed for political reasons, plus they wanted to close Road 77 to the Russians, who had been using it to move troops and supplies into Iran. So, providing the Kurds with support was what Sergeant Acker referred to as a “two-fer.”
But while most of the Allied nations were onboard with Kurdish independence, Turkey wasn’t. The last thing the Turks wanted was a Kurdish state which, if Jiwan’s people had their way, would include a chunk of Turkish territory. A prospect so repugnant that the Turks were threatening to leave NATO and the Alliance.
But the Turks had been overruled, the operation was on, and the five member SAS team was there to make sure the effort succeeded. Jiwan’s pep talk was boring, but the soup was good, and Riley was happy to accept a second helping. Behi was the one who offered it to him—and silly though it was—Riley chose to perceive that as a good omen.
***
Near Kashan, Iran
The sun broke company with the eastern horizon quickly as if eager to start the day. Strike Team 3 was up and around, but in no great hurry to depart, since it wouldn’t make any difference. The enemy knew where the Americans were, and knew they were going to attack. That meant the element of surprise had been lost.
And, if the Iranians attempted to move troops and equipment toward the American encampment, Air Force A-10s would have a field day.
Once the team members had eaten, and the vehicles were loaded, the column departed for Natanz. It took about thirty minutes to reach the nuclear facility. A hill lay to the east and Finn hiked to the top of it, along with platoon leader Scott and four soldiers.
The nuclear complex was about a mile square and quite orderly. All the buildings had white roofs, beige paint and, with only a few exceptions, were one or two stories tall.
They were surrounded by well irrigated lawns and orderly streets. An eye-catching smoke stack rose from the middle of the complex. Or was it a cooling tower? The docs would know.
Brightly colored flags drooped here and there, as if already defeated, and waiting for a breeze that would bring them back to life. It was a pleasant picture for the most part. And a far cry from the ominous complex Finn had imagined.
Natanz was well defended too … So long as the enemy attacked from the air.
Long barreled anti-aircraft guns stared impotently at the sky. And the radars associated with the facility’s SAM sites turned in useless circles, searching the sky for planes that weren’t going to come. The last thing the Allies wanted to do was drop bombs on Natanz while Strike Team 3 was in the area, or crack the facility open, and release radiation.
Efforts had been made to improve ground defenses by deploying concrete traffic dividers for cover, stringing lots of concertina wire, and digging WWII style trenches. None of which impressed the newly confident Tim Scott.
Suddenly, overnight, the previously fearful tank platoon leader had been transformed into a twenty-first century John Wayne. “We’ll crush the bastards,” Scott announced, as he eyed the base through his binoculars.
“Maybe,” Finn allowed. “But the people we fought yesterday were armed with Toophan missile launchers. So, exercise caution. Tell your commanders to hide behind walls when they can.”
“Yes, sir,” Scott said obediently. But his confidence remained undiminished. The Iranians were going down.
***
Southbound on Road 77, northern Iran
The night had been spent in a tourist camp. And rather than make his men sleep in their vehicles, Lieutenant Alexi Borin encouraged them to set up tents and heat their IRP (Individual’nyi Ratsion Pitaniya) rations. Sentries were posted. But none of the other campers were foolish enough to interfere with a Russian convoy.
The unit was ready to leave by the time the sun rose. Truck engines roared to life. One by one the Russian vehicles pulled out onto the highway.
Road 77 was exactly what Borin expected it to be. It went up and down, crossed rivers, and wound its way along the flanks of tree clad mountains.
The only thing that surprised the Russian was the condition of the mostly four lane highway. It was in pretty good shape for a road that had been bombed recently. Wrecked vehicles had been pushed off both sides of the highway, craters had been filled, and temporary bridges had been erected next to those damaged by the Allies.
The MAZ tank carriers were hard pressed to make more than 30 mph through the uphill stretches. And they had an alarming tendency to pick up speed going downhill, forcing Borin’s driver to accelerate or be rammed from behind.
Still, all things considered, the trip was going unexpectedly well until a traffic jam appeared and the convoy was forced to stop. Borin was not a patient man and wasted little time ordering Junior Sergeant Ledev to launch a recon drone.
Russia was lagging behind the U.S. and other Allied countries when it came to developing and manufacturing drones. Fortunately, AXIS ally China had literally hundreds of inexpensive models to share, and the convoy was carrying a small quadrotor called the X402, which was capable of beaming a live feed to the command vehicle. Borin turned to eye Ledev’s screen as the UAV skimmed just a few feet above the line of stalled cars.
Meanwhile Borin’s driver had gone out to interview the motorists who, after abandoning their vehicles, were streaming north on foot. It took a while to find a Russian speaker, ask the right questions, and return to the GAZ Tigr. Borin was waiting. “What did you learn?”
“According to the man I spoke with, Kurds are blocking traffic, checking IDs and collecting tolls. Those with Turkish passports have been ordered to turn back.”
That squared with what Borin had seen on the UAV screen. Two large trucks sat end-to-end, blocking the highway a mile ahead. Sandbagged machine gun positions were situated so that only two vehicles could get through the roadblock at the same time. One going north and the other south. Scruffy fighters were checking IDs, collecting tolls, and watching for signs of resistance.
So, what to do? The answer was simple. Borin would do what any good soldier would do. He turned to his radio operator. “Give me the mike.”
Borin thumbed the transmit switch. “This is Agate-Zero-One. Unload tanks 1, 2 and 3. I will command 1.
“This is not a drill. Kurdish fighters are blocking the highway and, if we want to arrive in Tehran in time for dinner, we’ll have to kill them. Execute. Over.”
Ledev snickered, as did the driver. A sure sign that Borin’s bravado would be well received by the rest of the unit’s soldiers.
It was SOP for the MAZ tank carriers to stop two truck lengths away from the vehicle in front of them, allowing tanks to be unloaded in any order at any time. That practice paid off as crews hurried to back three T-72 tanks off their carriers.
The first T-72s entered production in 1971. Since that time about 20,000 of them had been produced, many of which had been refurbished, and remained in service.
The T-72B3s, which comprised Borin’s unit, had been introduced in 2010, and were classified as third-generation main battle tanks. As with all weapons, especially Soviet era weapons, the T-72B3s had strengths and weaknesses.
They weighed forty-one tons, making them light when compared with American M-1s, which tipped the scales at sixty tons. And the Russian machines boasted 125mm guns which were significantly larger than the 105mm weapons that American MBTs (main battle tanks) had.
That was the good news. The bad news was that the lack of thermal imaging sights on the Russian machines put their crews at a significant disadvantage during nighttime engagements. Plus, the Russian 500hp diesel tank engines couldn’t begin to compete with the 1500hp all-fuel engines that the American M-1s had.
Once the T-72B3s were on the ground and ready to go, Borin made a show out of kissing Tank 1, before climbing into the turret. Those fortunate enough to witness the moment laughed and applauded. Was there another officer like Borin? No, there wasn’t.
Once inside the turret Borin settled into the fug of body odor, stale farts, and diesel fuel so familiar to any tanker. He was seated side-by-side with the gunner. And that was perfect from Borin’s perspective. Tanks are for killing, gunners do the killing, and commanders tell them who to kill. For that reason, the two men should sit elbow-to-elbow.
The driver’s position was center front. Thanks to the T-72B3’s autoloader the Russian tank required only three crew members compared to the four in American machines.
After donning a helmet Borin thumbed a switch. “Turn into the northbound lanes and proceed south.”
The driver’s name was Chernoff. He replied by restating, and thereby confirming, the order. “Entering northbound lanes and heading south.”
The tanks made good progress at first. Pedestrians, many towing suitcases, scattered as the machines bore down on them. Then, after rounding a curve, the convoy arrived at a spot where north-south traffic was blocked.
Judging from appearances a south bound passenger car had been struck by a north bound car while trying to execute a U-turn. And, since the southbound lane was at a standstill, all four lanes of traffic were closed. Chernoff brought the tank to a stop.
That set Borin off. “What the hell are you doing? I give the orders! Keep going.”
Chernoff clenched his teeth and steered the T-72B3 toward the wrecked cars. He thought the tank would push them aside. But, to Chernoff’s surprise, the treads found purchase, and the tank bucked wildly as it growled up and over a Paykan sedan. People ran every which way.
The car collapsed, unable to support forty-one tons of steel. If any individuals were still sitting in the sedan they were crushed. Borin laughed. “Flat as a pancake! That’ll show them.”
***
Sergeant Bill Riley was looking through a pair of binoculars. “Uh, oh, it looks like trouble is on the way.”
“What kind of trouble?” Sergeant Jerry Acker inquired, as he brought his binos around to look.
“Tanks,” Riley replied. “T-72s. Coming this way. The bastards squashed a car!”
“I’ll warn our friends,” Acker said. “Although I suspect they have eyes-on.”
And the Kurds did have “eyes-on.” As became apparent when the machine guns at the roadblock opened fire on the lead tank, quickly followed by a volley of rocket propelled grenades, none of which had any visible effect.
“That won’t work Sergeant Riley,” Acker said solemnly.
“No, Sergeant Acker, it won’t.” Riley agreed.
No sooner were the words out of his mouth, than the tank fired a HEAT round, which scored a direct hit on a machine gun emplacement. Sand, body parts, and metal confetti were still raining down from the sky when a second gun was destroyed.
The Kurds were brave. Everyone knew that. And they were smart. The rebels knew they couldn’t defeat three T-72B3s with the weapons on hand. So, they began to exfil. Something the Kurds could do with impunity because the Russian tanks weren’t accompanied by infantry.
“I suggest that you call our chaps and tell them to meet us at rally point two,” Riley said.
“I will, Sergeant Riley,” Acker replied. “Provided that you hand me that LAW (Light Anti-Tank Weapon).”
“Of course, Sergeant Acker, so long as I am allowed to assist you,” Riley answered formally. Both men grinned and laughed.
Acker passed the word to the team. Then careful to stay low, the noncoms left their observation post for the highway below. The LAW was a short-range, line-of-sight weapon. The closer they could get to the target the better.
The pile of boulders at the bottom of the slope offered an excellent place from which to fire. The men watched the lead tank clank past, followed by a second machine. “Don’t be shy, mate,” Riley said, as Acker aimed the weapon. “Right in the bum. That’s where their armor is thinnest.”
Acker fired. Not at tank one, but at tank two, and scored a solid hit. That was no accident.
By disabling tank two Acker made it difficult for tank one to turn back, and equally hard for tank three to advance. All of which was intended to buy more time for the Kurds.
The noncoms saw a flash of light, followed by a resonant boom, and the sight of a hatch twirling high into the air. It was starting to fall when an ammo bin went off and a column of fire shot up through the open hole. “Just like Guy Fawkes Day,” Riley observed. “The Queen would be pleased.”
“Yes, she would,” Acker agreed. “Bless her heart. Come, Bill. It’s time to leave.”
***
The Natanz Nuclear Facility, near Kashan Iran
The attack on the Natanz Nuclear Facility began with a barrage of 105mm HEAT rounds from Lieutenant Scott’s tanks. The Bradleys were positioned a scant quarter mile to the east of the complex behind a low-lying hill.
That location made the M-1s invulnerable to Iranian Toophan missiles, but not the larger Fateh Mobin missiles, that could be launched from afar. The tanks were well separated for that reason.
However, if the Iranians fired short to medium range surface-to-surface weapons, they would reveal the location of their launchers. And, since the Allies owned the sky, retribution would be swift. Which was why they left the tanks alone.
Finn and his radioman were standing on the hill, with shells arcing over their heads and falling on predesignated targets. The first task was to weaken, if not destroy, the facility’s ground level defenses.
