Red Sands, page 6
“And then?”
“We’ll sell them. More on that later. The first step is to hijack the bombs. Are you in?”
“Yes,” Haatim replied. “You can count on me.”
“Good. Get a map of the Kavir desert. Draw a line east from Natanz and that’s where you’ll find them. But time is of the essence. You must act quickly.”
“I will,” Haatim promised. “Sa’akun ealaa aitisal.” (I’ll be in touch.)
***
A smear of orange-red light was visible in the east. All of Strike Team 3’s personnel, with the exception of those assigned to the security detail, were standing on top of the hill. The bodies had been lowered into the open graves by then, each with its own hand-crafted marker. Finn read from the Old Soldier’s Prayer, by Colonel Lewis Millett:
“I have fought when others feared to serve.
I have gone where others failed to go.
I’ve lost friends in war and strife,
Who valued Duty more than love of life ….
I’ve seen challenged men become even bolder,
I’ve seen the Duty, Honor, Sacrifice of the Soldier.
Now I understand the meaning of our lives,
The loss of comrades not so very long ago.
So to you who have answered duties siren call,
May God bless you my son, may God bless you all.”
As Finn’s eyes came up off the piece of paper in his hand, they came into contact with Keaton’s. Tears trickled down her cheeks. Would she find room for the names? Finn felt sure that she would.
“The burial party will remain,” First Sergeant Dyson ordered. “All other personnel will report to their vehicles. Dismissed.”
The Iranians had insisted on making their own arrangements. And with mosques located nearby would be able to solicit whatever help they needed.
The column of vehicles departed Natanz at 0506. Finn was standing in the WHEELER DEALER’S left top hatch and wearing sunglasses to counter the glare.
Meanwhile, according to the morning Intel report, the three-vehicle convoy believed to be carrying the bombs was still stalled. But for how long?
So, Finn planned to maintain a relatively high speed in order to reach the bomb convoy as quickly as possible. The Strykers could do 60 mph under the right conditions. And so could the supply trucks. But the M-1 tanks would max out at 45 mph. And the Bradleys were even slower.
That meant the American convoy was limited to an average speed of 30 mph. On the plus side however, was the fact that the Strykers could switch to eight-wheel drive if necessary. And the tracked vehicles were ideal for the rough terrain. A guy could hope.
The desert opened its arms wide east of Natanz. The road split the difference between the villages of Arsman and Jazan. And, as had been the case with Kashan, no one came out to oppose them.
All signs of civilization fell behind as the team left the highway and entered the Kavir desert. The bright yellow sun was up off the horizon by then and clouds cast slowly moving shadows onto the parched soil. Mountains waited in the distance. The air was cool at the time. But Finn knew it wouldn’t stay that way for long.
That was the moment when the Iranian surface-to-surface missiles fell out of the sky. They were devastatingly accurate.
The track called Mr. BRADLEY exploded, killing nine soldiers. Then the tank DUTY CALLS took a hit, and began to burn. No one escaped. Seconds later a near miss shook the DAGGER OF ALLAH. Finn saw a man running to help as the ramp dropped, and Saudi soldiers rushed to escape.
It was hard to comprehend. Not just the suddenness of the attack, but how accurate it was. A missile landed where a Stryker had been seconds before, exploded, and tossed dirt high into the air. “This is Six actual … The enemy could be using a drone to assist with missile guidance. Fire on sight. Take evasive action. Over.”
Moments later the Stryker called STEEL ON WHEELS jerked to a halt long enough for a two-man Stinger team to exit the vic, before lurching into motion again. “This is Delta-Three,” truck commander Don Evitt said. “We have a target at ten o’clock.”
The Stinger team fired. Gray smoke trailed the missile as it lanced upwards searching for heat. How much warmth did a UAV produce? Finn wondered. Not much.
But it was, as things turned out, enough. Finn saw the red flash as the Stinger struck its target, followed by a belated bang. Metal trash rained out of the sky.
Finn held his breath. Was that it? Or was another drone circling above?
Seconds ticked away. A minute passed. Finn thumbed his mike. “This is Six actual. Well done.
“Stryker 3. Trucks 2 and 3 and the medical team will remain onsite to handle first aid and burials. The rest of the unit will follow WHEELER DEALER east. Over.”
It would have been nice to hold position so that everyone in the unit could take part in the impromptu funerals. But that wasn’t possible if the team was going to catch up with the civilian convoy and secure the bombs. Where’s Keaton? Finn wondered. Had she been aboard one of the Bradleys? There was a hollow feeling in his stomach.
He couldn’t ask though … Not without signaling something he didn’t want to signal.
Or was that silly? Checking on the status of a civilian reporter was a perfectly natural thing to do. “This is Six actual … Who has Ms. Keaton aboard? Over.”
“This is Bravo-One-Three,” Bradley commander Roy Garcia replied. “She’s on our track. Over.”
“Roger that,” Finn replied. “Over.”
Finn felt a sense of relief, called himself a “hopeless idiot,” and forced his mind back to the job at hand. If he needed any proof that the Iranians were tracking the nuclear weapons, and determined to keep them, he had it. The immediate task was to move as quickly as possible. The Strykers would catch up within a couple of hours. So, there was reason to hope.
***
Route 44 eastbound from Tehran, Iran
In spite of the fact that the highway had been bombed repeatedly it remained open. And long stretches of the road were undamaged. As a result Borin’s MAZ tank transports and support vehicles could cruise along at 40 mph.
A truly remarkable achievement, and one which was critical to Lieutenant Alexi Borin’s plan to get out in front of the Americans and ambush them. If they had the bombs Borin would take them. But, even if they didn’t, he would ensure that the pindos (a pejorative term for Americans) were dead and buried.
The GAZ Tigr was leading the column. As Borin stared out the passenger side window the remnants of an Iranian convoy slid past. The wreckage included combat cars, trucks, and a couple of Sarir armored personnel carriers—all of which were shot up and burned out.
A disastrous ground action? No. With the exception of the American force, sent to steal the bombs, there were no Americans on the ground. The Iranian convoy had been attacked from the air. By one or more A-10 Thunderbolts most likely. Deadly planes specifically designed to destroy units like Borin’s.
Would they? As with all aspects of war, luck would play a major role in Borin’s fate, and he had no choice but to accept whatever that might be.
Fortunately, Borin could take some comfort from Lieutenant Colonel Yelchin’s parting gift. The self-propelled Pantsir (Carapace) S-1 missile system was designed to defend against aircraft, helicopters, precision munitions, cruise missiles and UAVs. A-10 Thunderbolts included.
But maybe some extra help was in order. Borin wasn’t a religious man, but his mother had been. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. And I have a Pantsir missile system to protect me. Borin laughed.
***
Kavir desert, Iran
The best way for Jafari to make a private sat call was to grab a roll of toilet paper, and leave camp. The toilet paper was like a pass that nobody questioned.
After making a number of clandestine calls Jafari had been able to identify the man most likely to buy three atomic bombs—and clearly rich enough to pay for them. The next step was to make the pitch. But given his circumstances, Jafari couldn’t handle the negotiations himself.
That meant his nephew Haatim would have to act on his behalf. Was the boy up to it? Yes, and no. On the plus side Haatim was twenty-four, an experienced drug dealer, and used to cutting deals. And, since their prospective customer was arguably the largest exporter of drugs in Afghanistan, the two of them had something in common.
On the other hand, Haatim would be dealing with a man twenty years older, who might take exception to the boy’s brash manner, or fail to take the youngster seriously.
All of that was on Jafari’s mind as he topped a rise and followed tracks down into a gully where, judging from the evidence, at least two soldiers had relieved themselves.
Jafari didn’t need to take a dump, but dropped trou anyway, conscious of the old saying, alsahra laha alf ein. (The desert has a thousand eyes.)
Of course, going to the bathroom wouldn’t explain the sat phone. But better some sort of cover story than none. What made the spot so popular was the large shadow thrown by the slab of rock above. Jafari dialed in, waited for a connection, and got one. Haatim was under strict orders to answer his phone day and night. And he did. “Yeah?”
Jafari didn’t waste time on preliminaries. “After speaking with a number of contacts I think an Afghan warlord named Akhtar Wali is our best bet. According to the people I spoke with he’s determined to control all of Afghanistan.
“If Wali had three nuclear bombs,” Jafari continued, “it would boost to his reputation and prevent the central government from waging war against him. And once in power Wali could use the weapons, or the threat of the weapons, to keep Afghanistan’s neighbors in line.”
“Like China and Pakistan,” Haatim suggested.
“Exactly,” Jafari said. “They wouldn’t be scared mind you … But they’ll take Wali more seriously if he has three nuclear weapons.
“Now, given the fact that you and Wali are in the same line of business, it’s logical to suppose that you know somebody, who knows somebody, who can put you through to him. True?”
“Yes,” Haatim replied. “I think so.”
“Good! Move quickly boy. How soon will you attack the convoy?”
“I have the team and the vehicles. Thanks to one of my customers, we know where the convoy is, and will attack it tonight. I would prefer to wait for dawn. But soldiers are on the way with a replacement for the bomb truck.”
So Haatim had a customer in the Iranian army. And a highly placed one at that. Things were coming together. “Good work, son … And remember, Wali is twice your age. Treat him with respect or he will squash you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Haatim replied. “I will kiss his Afghan butt.”
Jafari laughed. “Good! See that you do.”
A soldier entered the gully. Jafari slipped the sat phone into his canvas bag, pretended to wipe himself, and stood. Once his trousers were back up, Jafari waved to the soldier, and turned toward camp. Go ahead, he thought. Shit on my country. I do.
***
It was early morning and the temperature had started to rise. Finn and his direct reports were gathered in the shade next to a hulking HEMTT tanker truck. A pump purred as fuel was transferred from the HEMTT to a Bradley.
A map covered most of the folding table. Finn brought his right forefinger in for a landing on a black X. “The bombs are here,” he said. “It appears that one or more of the Iranian vehicles broke down. That’s the latest from the NRO. If we push hard, and drive through the night, we’ll reach this point by dawn.
“In order to increase the odds of success I’m sending the Strykers ahead with a full complement of troops. If necessary, they will engage and secure the bombs on their own. Do you have any questions?”
“I have a related question,” Owens put in. “We’re starting to run low on fuel. And by the time we secure the bombs, the convoy will be running on fumes.”
“Yeah,” Finn agreed. “That’s a problem alright. The NRO is trying to identify a flat area where a C-17 can land. Barring that, we can expect an airdrop. I’ll pass the word once the decision comes down.
“Is there anything else? No? Recall your people, mount up, and be ready to leave in fifteen mikes. We’ll eat lunch on the go.”
Finn was folding the map as Owens and most of the other officers left. Captain Talha al-Awan was the single exception. Finn looked up. “Yes?”
“I am here to speak for my men,” al-Awan said stiffly. “They are unhappy.”
Finn raised an eyebrow. “Unhappy? About what?”
“Respect,” al-Awan said. “Or the lack of it.”
Finn sighed. “Please be more specific.”
“My platoon is never selected to lead the column.”
“You are equipped with Bradleys,” Finn replied. “They’re slow. You’ll notice that the American Bradleys don’t lead the column either. Is there anything else?”
“Yes, the other officers don’t talk to me.”
“Maybe that’s because you have a personal servant, sleep in a two-room tent, and brag about how much money you have.”
Al-Awan looked hurt. Finn felt sorry for him. “The best thing you can do is discontinue the prince stuff,” Finn said. “Sleep with your men. Eat with your men. The other officers will see that and attitudes will change. As for your unit, respect has to be earned. Look for a chance. And, when it comes, take it. Do you understand?”
The prince nodded, then said, “Thank you,” and did an about-face.
Finn watched him go. Polished boots in the desert. Now he’d seen everything.
***
Two-thousand feet above the Kavir desert, Iran
Captain Linda Axeton, AKA “The Ax,” was in her happy place. And that was the cockpit of her U.S. Air Force A-10 Thunderbolt II. A plane that many pilots referred to as a “flying tank,” because it could take a lot of damage and stay in the air. The A-10, also called a “Warthog,” had a lot of redundant systems and could be flown without computer support in a pinch.
Unlike fighters designed to provide speed and maneuverability, the A-10 was built around a 30mm 7-barrled Gatling gun, the purpose of which was to kill things on the ground.
And as Axeton and her wingman Captain Ed “Rowdy” Eastwood followed Route 44 east, that’s what they were looking at—the ground. “Hey Ax,” Eastwood said, “The Iranians gave us a convoy! It’s party time. Lead the way. Over.”
“Roger that,” Axeton replied. “But I’d like to take a look-see first. Over.”
“Yes, ma’am. I can grok that. Out.”
As the two Warthogs got closer Axeton began to fire decoy flares. Now she could see that the convoy included eleven tank carriers, plus an equal number of tanks, and half a dozen support vehicles. But one of the vehicles wasn’t a tank carrier, and it wasn’t a supply truck, it was …
That was when the Pantsir surface-to-air missile system fired. Not just one missile, but twelve missiles, all in a single volley. Followed by sustained fire from two autocannons.
Rowdy’s Warthog took two hits, lost a wing, and twirled into the ground where it exploded.
Too many fucking missiles for the decoys to handle, Axeton concluded, as she battled to control her emotions. Rowdy dead. And so quickly.
Axeton blew chaff and banked away. How long will it take the bastards to reload those tubes? And can they do it while underway? I don’t think so.
Axeton circled and made her approach from the west. The challenge was to maintain a ten-degree dive angle, hold the A-10’s wings level, and visualize the point at which she should fire. All at the same time. The key was to place the reticle short of the target so the aiming point would drift up and onto the enemy vehicle as it came into range.
The Gatling gun seemed to fire itself. Supply trucks loaded with munitions exploded. Four trucks suffered minor damage as Axeton pulled back on the stick, and put her sight on a tank carrier. One of her AGM-65 air-to-ground missiles was ready. Axeton hurried to pickle it off.
The explosion caused the tractor-trailer rig carrier to veer off the highway, roll, and explode into flames. Scratch one tank. That was good. But the Pantsir’s dual cannons were still firing. And, since cannon shells can’t be fooled by chaff, they found the A-10.
The Warthog shook like a thing possessed. The port engine shut down. Red lights flashed, and buzzers buzzed. But, thanks to A-10’s legendary durability, Axeton escaped.
Another gun run was out of the question, so Ax turned to the west. I’m sorry Rowdy, Axeton thought. I wanted to cremate the whole fucking column for you, but I failed. I’ll see you in Valhalla. Save a beer for me.
CHAPTER FOUR
Kahak, Qom, Iran
The meeting took place in a rental house on the outskirts of Kahak, population 2,766. The town was located west of the Kavir desert, and only 127 miles from the point where the Unimog had broken down. And, thanks to information provided by an Iranian army staff officer for a gram of cocaine, Haatim knew an army relief column would reach the stranded soldiers early the next morning.
Haatim al-Mian’s team consisted of eight men, all of whom were part time enforcers for the cartel he was employed by, and all were heavily armed. Their pay was coming out of Haatim’s pocket. As was the money paid for the vehicles required for the mission.
Would his uncle pay his share if things went poorly? Of course, he would. Uncle Ahura was family.
The only light in the mostly bare room came from a dangling light bulb. The men were sitting on mismatched chairs, a stool, and a wooden box. One was sharpening a knife. Two were smoking marijuana. The rest looked bored.
Haatim knew the enforcers had short attention spans, and was careful to keep the briefing simple. “Okay, here’s the deal … We’re going to load up, drive south for three hours, and hit the almutasakieun (assholes) hard. Kill them all. Understood?”
“Get on with it,” the man with the knife said. “You sound like my mother.”
“What?” another man demanded. “You have a mother? How is that possible?”
The rest of them laughed, prompting the man with the knife to throw it. The weapon flashed past his tormentor to vibrate in a wooden post.
