after his death, the commander was kicked violently by three impacts from an M-60. He didn't die for a few minutes, but had immediately gone into shock. He called for his mother, moaning, Umm! Umm! Umm! over and over.
Now another fusillade rattled the car as it took more hits. One of the tracers, still spurting fire, hit a spare fuel can strapped to the inside hull. It ignited with a loud swoosh, sending flames over the driver. He screamed and clawed at the fire, both fascinated and horrified by the sight of the flesh on his hands and arms bubbling and turning black.
Back in his vehicle, Sikes was no longer interested in giving battle. The only thing he saw through his periscope was the sight of his force being battered by the speeding enemy that moved in and out of his battle formation like darting, snarling tigers. His gunner's turret rotated as the man returned fire at the determined DPVs.
There was but one thing left for Sikes to do, and that was to keep racing toward the border and safety of Iran. Raht qawam! he screamed at his driver.
.
0800 HOURS
THE IRANIAN BORDER
THE detachment had halted and everyone unassed their vehicles. They stood looking into the salt marsh to their direct front. The persistent wind was already eroding the tire tracks of the seven enemy armored cars that had managed to escape back into Iran. A total of thirteen of their number, blown apart or riddled with holes, were scattered between there and the location where the Javelins were first fired.
Damn the bastards! Brannigan said.
Jim Cruiser stood next to him. Yeah. I wish we could have gotten all those Arabs.
I wasn't talking about the goat-fuckers. I was referring to the headquarters pukes who ordered us not to go into Iran, Brannigan said. We could've destroyed every single one of those armored cars in another kilometer or two.
Senior Chief Petty Officer Buford Dawkins walked up and saluted, showing a big grin. No casualties, sir. Not as much as a scratch among those magnificent sons of bitches.
Victorious and unbloodied, Brannigan said. That's the way I like it. So let's mount up, Senior Chief. I believe they're having roast beef at the airfield mess hall this evening.
Chapter 12
THE OVAL OFFICE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
22 APRIL
0915 HOURS
THE President of the United States sat at his desk, looking across its expanse at Dr. Carl Joplin, Edgar Watson, and Colonel John Turnbull. The White House Chief of Staff, Arlene Entienne, stood to the side of the massive piece of furniture, her arms crossed in an unconscious gesture of impatient determination.
The President settled back in his chair, tapping his fingertips together. We'll go to breakfast just as soon as we hash this situation out. He nodded to Watson. I think the logical thing to do is commence these proceedings informal as they are with the representative from the CIA.
Of course, Mr. President, Watson said respectfully. He reached in his briefcase and pulled out some papers and a map. He glanced around for an easel to mount the chart, but saw that none was available. Excuse me, please. He spread the map out on the desk and indicated a specific location. The armored car column mentioned in yesterday morning's briefing entered Afghanistan via a camouflaged road constructed across the salt marshes on the international border. This man-made route was discovered during satellite photo analyses.
God bless our space industry, the President said.
Yes, sir, Watson said. According to the after-action report submitted by...er, I can't remember the Special Forces guy's name.
Brannigan, Colonel Turnbull said. Lieutenant William Brannigan, U.S. Navy SEALs.
Carl Joplin grinned with delight. I know him quite well from the operation down in the Gran Chaco in Bolivia. I enjoyed meeting him and his men. They are very impressive.
Well, Doc, the colonel said, you're gonna get some enjoyment again. He's the main player in this OA.
At any rate, Watson said, a bit miffed at the interruption. This armored car unit is commanded by an Englishman. MI5 has informed us he is a deserter from one of their outfits in Iraq. He is, in fact, Private Archibald Sikes of the Royal Regiment of Dragoons.
Hold on! Colonel Turnbull snapped. What the hell is a goddamn buck private doing leading an armored car company?
Arlene Entienne, who had read the dossier on the deserter, entered the conversation. Evidently, Sikes was a noncommissioned officer whose feelings were hurt when he wasn't allowed to take a commission in his own regiment. They're a rather posh bunch and didn't think he would fit into their officer cadre.
Turnbull, whose father was a plumber, snorted. Well, la-dee-dah!
However, he was okayed to go into any other regiment of his choice, Entienne explained. Except the Brigade of Guards, of course.
Of course! Turnbull said. One doesn't want the riffraff hobnobbing with upper-class twits, does one?
Thank you for your input, John, Entienne said wearily.
At any rate, his bitterness caused him to misbehave by going out and getting roaring drunk. He was punished and reduced in rank and was assigned to menial duties in their motor pool. His outfit was shipped to Iraq and it was there that he deserted. By the way, the same day this guy disappeared, one of their civilian employees, a Syrian by the name of Khalil Farouk, also went missing.
So what happened when those armored cars crossed into Afghanistan and met up with this Lieutenant Brannigan? the President asked.
He inflicted sixty-five-percent casualties on them, Watson reported. He and his guys who call themselves Branni-gan's Brigands, by the way knocked out thirteen of twenty vehicles.
The President raised his eyebrows. These fellows actually refer to themselves as brigands?
Turnbull grinned. I suppose it was that or Brannigan's Bastards or Brannigan's Bird-watchers. When an outfit comes up with a name using the CO's moniker, the letters of both have to be the same. He snorted. Brannigan's Beer-Belching Bell Ringers.
No matter what they call themselves, Joplin commented dryly, Brannigan and his men have demonstrated a marked ferocity. They wrapped up that fascist revolution in South America in a very timely and efficient manner.
Turnbull chuckled. That's a nice way of saying he kicked butt.
May I get back to my report? Watson asked sharply.
Sure, Edgar, Turnbull said. Sorry for the digression.
Anyhow, the CIA man said, this Farouk character is an agent for the Iranians. Now here's the big item, Mr. President. The government in Tehran wants to take over all the insurgent movements in the Middle East, consolidate them into one -big-ass anti-West army, and get everybody particularly the Israelis out of that part of the world. Their goal is to rule over the entire area with its massive oil reserves. They have spent the last ten years organizing a handpicked Special Forces unit to get the ball rolling.
Good God! the President exclaimed. What do they want to do? Start another Persian Empire?
That is our assessment, Mr. President, Watson said. This is a grave threat.
How far has this Iranian plot developed? the President inquired.
We're not sure, sir, Watson replied. Sorry.
Mmm, the President murmured pensively. This nuclear flap they've created could be more for distraction away from this power play than for actual implementation.
Watson shook his head. The one ties in with the other. These Farsis want to play with the big boys now. Perhaps the situation can be handled diplomatically at this early stage of the game.
That's my thought exactly, the President said. He looked over at Joplin. Here's where you come on stage, Carl. Who is your Iranian connection?
His name is Saviz Kahnani, Joplin answered. He is posted as a charge d'affaires in their embassy here in
