Red Sands, page 9
The facility was still home to Iran’s 77th Infantry Division of Khorasan however, most of which was fighting on the border with Turkey, having left a headquarters element behind. And that was the situation that Lieutenant Alexi Borin had to deal with as his column arrived at Mashhad. The column was, sadly, smaller than it had been when in Tehran.
Two supply trucks, plus a tank carrier with tank, had been lost during the A-10 attack. And nine soldiers had been killed. We destroyed an A-10 though, Borin thought in an attempt to console himself. The gambit didn’t work. It never worked.
Borin was reminded of Mehrabad airport in Tehran, as an Iranian SUV led his column through the devastation to a low-slung building that somehow remained untouched. The sign said: “Food Service” in English and Persian. An Iranian major was waiting to greet Borin as he got out of the GAZ Tigr.
“Welcome to the headquarters of the 77th Infantry Division,” the man said with a smile. “I’m Major al-Habbi. And you are Lieutenant Borin. Our staff in Tehran told me to expect you. Your timing is excellent. A sandstorm is coming this way.” The men shook hands.
The officer’s English was good. Better than Borin’s. “A sandstorm, sir? How long will it last?”
“Two or three days,” al-Habbi said. “But we can work that into our plan. More on it later. First we need to get your soldiers settled.”
Plan? Borin didn’t like the sound of that. But there was nothing he could do other than work with the Iranians to find places to park his vehicles, and structures where his men could weather the storm.
As the sky darkened, and a wall of brown dust appeared in the west, Borin began to understand the severity of the threat. Modest though they were, the accommodations at the Mashhad airport were much better than being trapped in vehicles for the duration of the storm.
Once the unit was settled into its quarters al-Habbi invited Borin to join him for tea. “I’m sorry I can’t offer you coffee,” the Iranian said, as they entered the Food Service building.
“But, due to the war, there’s a shortage in Iran. Fortunately supply convoys arrive from China almost every day. And that means we have plenty of foreign tea, in addition to what we produce ourselves.”
Once seated in al-Habbi’s office a private arrived with a tea tray. “We’re going to have some Sadaf Special Blend, with cardamon flavoring,” the Iranian announced. “It’s one of my favorites.”
Al-Habbi had just finished pouring the tea when the window behind him began to rattle. “Ah, there it is! The shamal has arrived. And that brings me to the plan I mentioned earlier.
“But please, allow me to provide you with some background first. Try the Yazdi cakes. You’ll find that they’re quite good.
“Where was I? Oh, yes … The background information. The Dauletabad–Sarakhs–Khangiran natural gas pipeline runs from the Dauletabad gas field in Turkmenistan, to Khangiran here in Iran, where it connects to the Iran Gas Trunkline system.
“Iran and Turkmenistan have been on good terms for many years. The pipeline doubled Turkmenistan’s export of natural gas to Iran. And it allows Iran to compensate for gas shortages in the north. Gas first started to flow in January of 2010, and continued to do so until a week ago. That’s when a battalion of Turkmenistan renegades shut it down.
“As a result, hundreds of thousands of people are living without heat or fuel for their stoves. It is the source of much suffering.
“The deserters call themselves ‘freedom fighters,’” al-Habbi added. “But that’s a load of goat shit. What they are is criminals, who want fifty-million American dollars plus five-million per month, to turn the gas on.
“And, because most of Turkmenistan’s army is in the south—trying to prevent the Afghans from extending their influence to the north—there’s nobody to stop them. Not for the moment anyway.
“I have a company that’s mainly comprised of clerks. Even so, I would cross the border and attack the criminals except for one thing.”
Borin took a sip of tea. He didn’t like where the conversation was headed. “And what’s that?”
“The criminals have tanks,” al-Habbi answered.
Borin frowned. “What kind of tanks? And how many?”
“Seventeen T-62s,” al-Habbi answered.
T-62s had been around since 1961. Some were still in use, and Borin was familiar with their faults and virtues. The 62s had low profiles, thick turret armor, and smoothbore guns. The latter was a first when the initial machine came off an assembly line.
Moreover, it allowed the T-62s to fire kinetic energy penetrator (KEP) rounds which could pierce vehicle armor without an explosive payload.
As a result, Borin’s more modern T-72 tanks were equipped with explosive reactive armor, designed to limit the amount of damage that a KEP round could do. And that was typical of contemporary tanks regardless of nationality. “I see,” Borin said neutrally. “I hope reinforcements arrive soon.”
Al-Habbi smiled. His teeth were very white. “Nice try, Lieutenant. But you and your tanks are my reinforcements. Fuel for fuel, Lieutenant Borin. I’ll provide you with all the diesel you can pump once we open the pipeline. Or, you can call Tehran and discuss the matter with Lieutenant Colonel Yelchin. Correct me if I’m wrong, but his mission—and therefore your mission—is to provide my country with military support.”
Borin knew what Yelchin would say: Russia should help open the Dauletabad–Sarakhs–Khangiran pipeline. President Toplin would love it. And so would all the apparatchiks tasked with pumping propaganda into minds all over the world.
All Borin could do was pretend to be happy. “It would be my pleasure to teach those criminals a lesson.”
Al-Habbi laughed. “You’re not much of a liar, Lieutenant. But the people in Tehran tell me that you’re quite competent. So, I feel fortunate to have your services. Here’s my plan.”
The plan was to make use of the storm for cover, take all of his men, plus Borin’s tanks, and attack. Borin listened carefully. And, when invited to share his ideas, was ready. “I think that attacking during the storm will be difficult,” Borin said. “But I also think it’s a gutsy thing to do. And it’s likely to be successful.”
“However,” Borin added, “I suggest that you limit your infantry to a couple of tracked fighting vehicles, and I will take five tanks, rather than all eleven.”
Al-Habbi frowned. “We’re already outnumbered. That would make the situation worse.”
Borin nodded. “I understand your concern, sir … But here’s my argument: The sand storm will make it difficult to see and maneuver. That means there’s a very real chance that my tanks could run into each other, or collide with enemy units, which would be worse.
“Thermal sights are common to modern tanks,” Borin added. “However, the 62s aren’t equipped with them, and neither are my tanks. My unit does have five handheld thermal rangefinders however. Devices that will allow my tank commanders to see the heat produced by the T-62s through the swirling dust and sand.
“Unfortunately, that will necessitate standing in an open turret. In any case, if we can see them and they can’t see us, the advantage will be ours.”
Al-Habbi’s expression brightened. “That’s wonderful! So why only five? Surely each tank should have a thermal rangefinder.”
“They should,” Borin agreed. “But they weren’t issued to me. One of my sergeants borrowed them from a warehouse in Russia. And there were only five to be had.”
Al-Habbi laughed. “I’m a supply officer … I should disapprove. But I don’t! Well, done, Lieutenant. Well, done.
“That explains your desire to limit the number of tanks we take. Yet, why cut back on infantry?”
“Normally your soldiers would try to use Toophan guided missiles and RPGs against the enemy vehicles,” Borin replied. “But they can’t because of the storm. And, by the same token, the enemy won’t be able to use such weapons against us. So less is more.”
Al-Habbi stared at Borin for a moment. “Good … That makes sense. I see no reason to attack during the day. Do you?”
Borin hadn’t considered the time-of-day issue. And quickly came to realize that the other man was correct. The less visibility the enemy had the better. Plus, there was the human factor to consider. The renegades wouldn’t expect an attack during the storm or during the night.
“You know what, sir? For a supply officer you’re pretty damned smart. No offense intended.”
Al-Habbi grinned. “And none taken. What do you need?”
“Imagery of the enemy tanks and troop positions if you have it. And diesel.”
“We have some excellent drone footage,” al-Habbi said. “And I will give orders regarding the fuel. Tell your men to get some rest. We will depart at 2200.”
A noncom took Borin to the improvised command and control center once the meeting with al-Habbi was over. And the Iranian officer was correct. He did have some good imagery.
The enemy force was located about twenty-five miles east of the Iran-Turkmenistan border which put it just beyond the range of Iranian artillery. The assumption being that the Iranians wouldn’t dare to invade Turkmenistan. And, had it not been for the storm, that might have been true.
The second thing Borin noticed was the way the enemy defenses were oriented. Not toward Iran, and not toward Turkmenistan’s interior—but in a 360-degree circle. And that made sense because either country might attack them.
As a practical matter, this arrangement meant that Borin could attack from any direction, confident in the knowledge that the renegades couldn’t put more than a third of their fire power on his tanks—without repositioning their machines during a blinding sandstorm.
But what scared the shit out of him was a vehicle that had gone unmentioned during his conversation with al-Habbi. Was that because the supply officer didn’t understand the significance of what he was looking at? Or, was the Iranian’s failure to mention the fighting vehicle intentional? There was no way to tell.
The source of Borin’s concern was a GAZ Tigr with a quad launcher mounted in back. Borin knew the unit could launch salvos of two anti-tank missiles less than a second apart. And they could be fired at a single target, or at two different targets simultaneously.
Worse yet, the fire-and-forget missiles were equipped with thermal tracking systems. The very capability he’d been talking about to al-Habbi.
And who made the system? And supplied it to Turkmenistan? Russia, that’s who.
Should he attempt to call the mission off? Or was there a way to counter the threat? Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was professionalism. Or maybe it was a desire to avoid taking shit from Yelchin. But after a moment’s reflection Borin chose option two.
The column of vehicles left for Turkmenistan at exactly 2200. A Russian made BMP-2 tracked fighting vehicle led the way with Major al-Habbi aboard. That was followed by Borin’s T-72B2 tanks, and another BMP-2.
The sandstorm was still blowing, and Borin was thankful that al-Habbi was responsible for navigation, which would involve GPS coordinates and careful timing.
Even though the interior smelled a lot like Borin’s gunner, a soldier named Lukin, the officer was glad to be in the turret rather than the storm swirling outside. The nasty part would come later, when he had to stand in an open hatch, and be sand blasted.
Fear and apprehension soon turned to boredom as the minutes dragged by, the column traveled east into Turkmenistan, then turned north. Their destination was one of the many Pumping Stations that were required to compress the natural gas as it flowed from Turkmenistan into Iran.
Not only did Borin need to defeat the tanks that surrounded Station 12, he had to do it without damaging the station itself, an issue that al-Habbi raised only minutes before departure. “If you damage or destroy the station it will take months to repair or replace it,” the Iranian cautioned. “So, tell your gunners to be careful.”
Another turd, Borin thought. On top of a pile of turds. He had a plan though … One that could make the difference between success and failure. He had to find the missile-equipped GAZ Tigr and destroy it off the top. Then, with no thermal imaging to rely on, the T-62 tanks would be easy meat.
In fact, they were more likely to put a round into the pumping station than Borin’s gunners were, as they fired in every direction, in hopes of getting lucky.
Borin’s musings were interrupted by the sound of al-Habbi’s voice over a common frequency. “This is Hotel-Six. We’re a half-mile out. Tanks will take the lead. Stand by to engage. Acknowledge. Over.”
“This is Agate-Zero-One,” Borin said. “Roger that. We’re taking the lead. Out.”
As Borin opened the top hatch he switched to the tank freq. There was no need for radio procedure. The tank commanders knew who was speaking. Plus, everything Borin said was in Russian. “We’re a half-mile out. Prepare to engage. Don’t shoot each other. And remember … The first task is to kill the GAZ carrying the quad launcher. The T-62s will come next. Over.”
Borin was wearing a helmet, googles, and a scarf around his neck. But the wind driven particles of sand still managed to find patches of bare skin. Each pin prick hurt. And dozens of tiny pin pricks were hard to ignore.
That however, was exactly what Borin and the other tank commanders had to do, as they raised their hand-held scanners to probe the darkness ahead. There was nothing to see at first. Then a line of improvised defenses appeared. It consisted of walls made out of junked vehicles. They were stacked two high and separated by waist high traffic barriers. The renegades could fire from behind the dividers with five well separated T-62 tanks to back them up.
The 62s had a mottled red-yellow-orange appearance against blue-lavender backgrounds. But the silhouettes were clear and well defined. And none of them looked like a GAZ Tigr with a missile launcher mounted in back.
“Blow through that barricade,” Borin ordered. “The defenses are laid out in a circle. The GAZ is in the middle, near the pumping station and supply trucks.”
Borin was thrown back against the hatch’s rim as Chernoff hit the gas. The topmost car carcass fell inward as Tank 1 bucked up and over the remaining wreck. It tipped sideways as the left tread rode up onto one of the wrecks and spit it out the back.
Borin was only dimly conscious of the pain in his lower back, or the ease with which his tank had overcome the barrier, because nearly all his attention was focused on the area ahead.
The pumping station was a low-lying, red-orange rectangle. A purple supply truck was parked next to it. And yes, off to the right, was the distinctive shape of a ….
The thought went unfinished as two rockets flared and left their launchers. Tank 3 was almost inside the weapons’ minimum range but not quite. Both missiles homed in on the T-72’s thermal image. Though fired at virtually the same time, one weapon was a tiny bit faster, and that was no accident. Its job was to strike the MBT’s reactive armor, set it off, and create a hole for missile two. And it struck with such force, that the pressure created inside Tank 3 not only killed the crew, but liquefied them. Golov, Dyominn, and Ivkin. All dead.
Revenge came swiftly as Lukin fired, waited for the auto loader to do its job, and fired again. The GAZ, plus two unfired missiles, exploded. And, as seen on Borin’s hand-held range finder, a column of fire shot a hundred feet into the air.
Debris was still raining down as Borin gave additional orders. “Kill every tank … And, if one of you clowns puts a shell into the pumping station, you’ll be on latrine duty until we return to mother Russia. Out.”
The enemy tanks were in motion by then. But without being able to see, they were largely helpless. They could fire randomly. But to do so was to risk hitting each other or the pumping station. And, Borin assumed, the renegades had only a limited amount of ammunition to work with.
So as the T-62s blundered about, trying to find the enemy vehicles, the T-72s harvested them like wheat. The explosions were muffled by the storm, and the flashes of light were almost impossible to see from more than a few yards away.
But thanks to the thermal range finders, and the Identification Friend or Foe system resident on each T-72B, the Russians were able score kill after kill without taking a single hit.
The same wasn’t true where the renegade foot soldiers were concerned however. They ventured out into the storm with RPGs, hoping to stop the sudden onslaught. But al-Habbi’s clerks and store keepers were waiting to confront them. A terrible battle raged as men fired at each from only a few feet away, or grappled hand-to-hand, their mouths filling with windblown sand as they struggled to breathe.
Then came the call from al-Habbi. “This is Hotel-Six. We’re inside the pumping station … And we’re in control. Over.”
Borin could have, perhaps should have, felt a sense of jubilation. His unit had performed well. Hundreds of thousands of people would be able to cook and heat their homes. Lieutenant Colonel Yelchin would be ecstatic. President Toplin would be pleased.
But none of that was sufficient to lift Borin’s spirits. Three of his men were dead. We’re bleeding,” Borin thought. Man by man, tank by tank, we’re bleeding out. How long before there’s no blood left to give?
***
The Kavir Desert, Iran
Molly Keaton sat atop the Bradley called the SWORD OF ALLAH as it turned ever larger circles in the desert. The sky was blue, the sun warmed her face, and the shamal was over. The vic’s M242 Bushmaster chain gun was located to her right and gave the reporter something to hang onto as the track descended into a dry wash and churned up the other side.
Keaton didn’t have to be there. But it felt good to be useful. And she hoped to be the one who would spot the SUV carrying Doctor Beech, Doctor Okada, Vahid Nouri, and Ahura Jafari. The Mercedes had been separated from the column during the storm. If the foursome stopped, and stayed in one place, they should be relatively easy to find.
But, if the missing civilians decided to continue driving, they could, in the words of First Sergeant Dyson, “Be any fucking place.”
