All they want is for everybody to leave them alone, Brannigan said He sighed and shoved his hands in his pockets. It's shitty as hell about Milly, huh?
Everybody's really down, Cruiser commented.
Yeah, Brannigan said. Well, c'est la guerre, as the French say, though that doesn't offer much comfort.
We stymied the bad guys pretty good by hitting their tires, Cruiser said. I wonder why they didn't shoot ours up. We don't have run-flats on the DPVs.
The muzzles on the turret-mounted machine guns don't lower fast enough, Brannigan said. They had to concentrate on shooting at the guys in the vehicles. He took one more look at the battlefield. Well, let's mount up and head back to Shelor Field. Everything's about as fucked up around here as it's gonna get.
The two officers walked toward the detachment to get things moving.
.
SHELOR FIELD
1435 HOURS
THE mood in the hangar was grim. Randy Tooley and his new DPV were present. The enterprising airman had quickly painted the purloined vehicle Air Force blue and stenciled on phony registration and unit numbers to make it appear legal. He had already made arrangements to have Petty Officer First Class Michael Mills flown to Kuwait, where the mortuary center would prepare him for his final trip home. Randy had done this sad duty on numerous occasions as part of his job. He was an emotional little guy, and had seen that the corpse was treated with utmost respect as it was prepared for transport.
This is an American serviceman, he told the C-130 loadmaster, not a piece of equipment.
Now, in the partitioned office in the back of the hangar, the Skipper, Jim Cruiser, and Senior Chief Buford Dawkins sat around a battered desk drinking cold beers. A refrigerator, furnished by Randy as an extra gesture of gratitude for the DPV, sat in the corner of the room. Dawkins lit a cigar, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke. That UN doctor was fit to be tied, wasn't he?
I quieted him down, Brannigan said. As soon as he started bitching about his camp getting ripped apart, I reminded him that he told us the bad guys had three armored cars, but twenty of the sons of bitches attacked us. If we'd known the enemy was that strong, I would have advised him to haul ass like he was told to do the first place. Then I could have made a report to Berringer.
I still can't figure out how they snuck up on us, Cruiser commented in irritation. Not one guy on watch saw them come into the area.
They had to come from the west, Dawkins said.
That's an impassable salt marsh, Brannigan retorted. It would be difficult as hell for men on foot to cross it. It's absolutely impossible for vehicles to negotiate mucky terrain like that.
I wonder what the S-Three at Station Bravo is going to have us do, Cruiser mused.
I sent an AAR to Carey, Brannigan said. I told him we need armor-piercing ammo for the fifties along with some Javelins to give us a solid antiarmor capability. And anything else the headquarters weenies could spare us to help take care of this situation.
Dawkins took a sip of beer, then shoved his stogie back in his face. They'll need about twenty-four hours to digest that report before they take action. Then we'll either get equipped right and given a definite mission, or they'll pull us the hell out of here.
Brannigan shook his head. Let me tell you for sure, Senior Chief, they're not going to pull us the hell out of here.
EVERYONE else was in the hangar, moping and speaking softly among themselves, as Chad Murchison and Penny Brubaker sat together on a bench outside. They could look out past some parked aircraft to the barren desert beyond. Chad was quiet, and Penny sensed his deep sadness over the loss of his SEAL buddy.
Did your friend have any family? she asked.
He wasn't married, Chad said. I think his father is dead, but his mother lives in a small town in Iowa. She works in a bank, he said, a teller or something.
She's going to be heartbroken when she hears the news, Penny said. She glanced over at the dented DPV that he had died in. A large discolored spot caused by his blood was visible. I want to get out of here.
I can't blame you, Chad said.
When is your time in the Navy over with, Chaddie?
Chad thought a moment. My hitch is up in about six months.
Chaddie, you must get out, Penny urged. You've done your duty now. Most boys don't serve at all. Why, there're thousands of families maybe more who don't even have relatives in the armed forces. Nobody is getting drafted like they did in Vietnam.
Chad remained silent.
Penny started to speak again, but sensed it would be better not to say anything. She moved closer to Chad, taking his arm and putting it around her shoulder.
Chapter 8
CHEHAAR GARRISON
EASTERN IRAN
11 APRIL
1000 HOURS
ARSALAAN Sikes nee Archie Sikes strolled among the armored cars, checking out the crews as they painted over the hundreds of pings and scars caused by enemy machine-gun fire during the previous day's fighting. The Brit had been pleasantly surprised the Yanks had no armor-piercing ammunition. They either had not expected armored cars, or did not know how many there were.
Now, as Sikes Bey continued with his inspection, the men's discipline was evident as they snapped to attention when their commanding officer walked up to them. The senior members of each group reported to him with a sharp salute. The actual supervision of the activity was under the company sergeant major, Warrant Officer Hashiri, but Sikes believed in a hands-on approach as part of his command philosophy. After a quick but observant inspection of each vehicle, he decided everything looked fine, and he left the motor pool to go to headquarters.
Chehaar Garrison was far below the sharp appearance of a typical British Army post, and this irritated Sikes to some extent. But he didn't have enough rank to turn things around to his liking. The Quonset huts were laid out in rows all properly aligned and covered down, but the area between the simple buildings was bare and a bit trashy. Sikes would have laid out walks lined with large whitewashed rocks, and prohibited cigarette butts and other litter to be thrown on the ground. When he earned enough rank in the Jihad Abadi to command his own garrison, it would have an appearance that would meet the approval of even the sternest of British regimental sergeants major.
Sikes walked down the front row of huts bordering the parade field. When he reached the headquarters building, he stepped inside. The Iranian corporal at the reception desk looked up casually from the newspaper he was perusing, then went back to his reading. If he had been a trooper in the Armored Car Company, Sikes would have locked his heels and chewed his ass bloody for this military discourtesy of not jumping to his feet. But this careless bumpkin was on Brigadier Shahruz Khohollah's staff, and the captain had no authority over him.
The brigadier's office was no more than a cubicle at the far end of the building. Sikes went directly to it, finding Khohollah and Khalil Farouk waiting for him. The Brit saluted and took a chair pushed toward him by Farouk. Khohollah flipped the ash off his cigarette into an ashtray at his elbow. I have reviewed your report on the battle, he said in English, holding up a single sheet of paper. Sikes had scribbled out what had happened on a piece of notebook paper the evening before, then sent it with a sergeant to drop off at headquarters.
Do you need me to add anything to it, sir? Sikes asked.
Khohollah shook his head. It is all plain enough. And I agree with your decision to withdraw. There may well have been an air strike or reinforcements of American tanks nearby.
Yes, sir, Sikes said. I didn't have no idea there were Yanks or anybody else in the area before I got there. I was pretty surprised when we spotted them little cars o' theirs. I ordered my lads to open up on 'em and charge before they saw us.
Farouk smiled. They were not expecting you to come from the west. The infidels know nothing of the road through the salt marshes.
Well, you suffered no losses, Khohollah said. That is what is important.
