them to where they could close in for the kill. If they accomplished that, it would pretty much bring Operation Battleline to a halt, with the Iranians being the big winners.
The combined fire from machine guns, SAWs, and grenade launchers was an awesome, rolling thunder of continual destruction. Both human beings and vegetation in the area were smashed and sliced by the incoming slugs, which cleared them away as if some roaring giant weed whacker were being swung through the area.
CAPTAIN Naser Khadid both crawled and rushed from squad to squad among his Iranian Special Forces troops, checking them out. The Imperial Lions had a couple of men lightly wounded, but Khadid knew that when the Americans were satisfied all the suicide bombers had been blown up, they would begin turning 100 percent of their firepower onto his unit and Sikes Pasha's Arabs.
'This is Khadid,' the captain said in English over the LASH to Sikes. He spoke in that language so none of the Arabs or Iranians could understand him. 'I have lost track of how many of the martyrs have exploded, but I am beginning to feel they may be all dead.'
'Right,' came back Sikes. 'Poor stupid bastards! It looks like they sent themselves to hell without accomplishing a single fucking bluddy thing.'
'They did not go to hell, Sikes Pasha,' Khadid said. 'They are in Paradise this very moment.'
'Right, mate,' Sikes said. 'But it looks to me like all that's melted away to our front. We're gonna end up being out here on our own with them Yanks having a jolly good time shooting the hell out of us.'
'I am in total agreement,' Khadid said. 'It is time to withdraw. And we must do it fast.'
'Right,' Sikes said. 'Are you listening to this, Brigadier?'
Now Khohollah's voice could be heard.
'Yes, Major Sikes. I shall order the support section to begin heavy fire with the grenade launchers and machine guns. As soon as they start, I urge you and Captain Khadid to withdraw from the valley with all haste.'
Khadid responded, saying, 'I am ready, Brigadier!'
Within half a minute the German machine guns and Spanish automatic grenade launchers employed by Iranian soldiers began laying down covering fire that pounded into the American line.
AT the same moment that the incoming barrage plastered the SEAL positions, Brannigan noted that the Zaheya infantry units were pulling out of the valley. That left him two choices; one, duck down and avoid casualties; or two, mount a rapid attack and stream down into the valley and rush across to close with the retreating enemy before they could reach safety. It took him one immeasurably short spark of time to reach a decision.
'All sections, counterattack! Chief Gunnarson, whip those M-sixties up on the enemy support fire elements!'
The SEALs, grabbing extra bandoliers at their feet, slung them across their shoulders and climbed over the positions to scramble down the incline into no-man's-land. The SAW gunners and grenadiers continued to coordinate their efforts, firing across the two hundred meters of space to where the Zaheya riflemen were making a disciplined withdrawal from the battlefield.
NOW both sides were locked in a massive firefight. A couple of Iranians and an Arab dropped to the ground as the exchange of gunfire built up in intensity. Two SEALs-Paul Schreiner of the Second Assault Section and Paulo Garcia of the Third--went down under incoming slugs from FA-MAS rifles.
Sikes and Khadid practiced fire-and-maneuver smoothly, keeping their battlefield formations moving slowly, albeit effectively, toward the slope leading to their fortification. They and the SEALs began to catch glimpses of each other, exchanging bursts of fire. The Americans' initial headlong rush toward the enemy had now slowed to their own careful, coordinated efforts as they continued keeping pressure on the Zaheya riflemen, who resisted with fierce determination and skill. The covering fire from the M-60 machine guns back at the base camp whipped over the SEALs' heads as Gunnarson's men ignored the heavy fire from the other side's support weapons.
The fluid movement of the fighting now came to a standstill as both sides found cover and concealment on their particular side of the valley. The fighting men locked into the battle, settling down to take potshots at each other that were punctuated occasionally with grenade bursts. Out of sheer desperation, everyone was ready to slug it out in the wild hope of victory. Above, on both sides of the valley, the fire support elements had all but neutralized each other. They could not exchange fire without getting into a no-win situation of eventually being blasted out of their fighting positions, and that also meant they could no longer cover their comrades-in-arms below, in the valley. All machine gunners and grenadiers were hunkered down, having thoughts about damning convention and logic to battle it out and destroy each other.
Stalemate.
Unknown to each other, the field commanders of the combatants in no-man's-land reached a mutual decision that the battle had now turned to one of attrition in which there would be no winners. At almost the same instant, Sikes Pasha and Lieutenant Bill Brannigan decided it was time to break it off, and each ordered a withdrawal to their own positions. The two sides put out fusillades of gunfire as they made their retrograde movements, not really trying to hit each other but concentrating on keeping the other guy from showing any tendencies toward aggressive behavior.
The battle that had begun at begun at dawn came to an anticlimactic finish at midmorning as the participants hurriedly ascended the slopes and disappeared over their parapets, carrying their KIAs with them.
CHAPTER 14
WASHINGTON, D. C.
3 AUGUST 1530 HOURS
DIRK Wallenger's spacious home was on fashionable R Street Northwest, and was an old two-story brick edifice with four bedrooms, three baths, living room, family room, dining room, kitchen, den, office, breakfast nook, gym, and solarium, all conveniently arranged in eight thousand square feet.
Wallenger sat behind the desk in his den after deciding that particular spot would give him a psychological advantage as he gazed across its teakwood expanse at his two visitors. One was Liam Bentley, the Federal Bureau of Investigation's White House Liaison Officer, and the other was also an agent from the FBI. He was John Wright, who worked in both domestic and foreign intelligence, and was a profiler, specializing in the shadowy world of operatives, informants, and wannabe spies. After his introduction to Wallenger he had remained silent while his partner did most of the talking.
While Bentley carried on the preliminary steps necessary for a visit of this nature, Wright's mind was busy categorizing Wallenger. The profiler saw that here was a dedicated elitist leftist who thought of himself as the champion of the common man, yet had a family background that included privilege and wealth, with access to educational and professional opportunities that were far beyond that of the average American. Some photos of the journalist riding horses were on the desk.
Wallenger's personal economic situation certainly allowed him to be part of the 'horsey set,' but Wright couldn't see him playing polo. He just wasn't the type.
Wallenger had a keen mind, no doubt, yet his perceptions had been clouded by an inability to fully understand the realities of the typical American life--easy to do when one has an abundance of money and no pressing economic problems. The concept of not being able to afford purchasing something was an alien concept to this man, born with that proverbial silver spoon clenched tightly between his teeth. Here, decided Wright, definitely was a well-placed individual who had done nothing to achieve this advantageous position other than being sired by a wealthy pater.
Additionally, Wright saw Wallenger as a pudgy little fellow who had gone through life trying to make up for his lack of physical attractiveness with a sneering display of intellect. No doubt he had known bullying in his boyhood at boarding schools when larger, more aggressive boys harassed him for no other reason that to have some fun at the little fellow's expense. Wright noted another photo on the desk. This one was also of Wallenger in past years, as a cadet at a private military academy. It was quite evident that his father had sent him there for some discipline and toughening up. Any man who would name his son 'Dirk' obviously expected him to grow up to be an alpha male. And Wright would have bet his FBI pension that that boy had learned to hate the military with an unending passion. Wright doubted if he had spent more than a year at the institution, probably much less before dismissal as temperamentally unfit.
