2200 HOURS
LIGHTS from dying campfires flickered off the side of the helicopter. The crew was inside sleeping as the SEALs settled in a semicircle around the Skipper, who stood in front of the aircraft's open ramp.
'There's quite a few less of us than when we started out on Operation Battleline,'
Brannigan said. 'So I've worked out the new TO.' He pulled a sheet of paper out of a side pocket of his BDU and unfolded it. 'Now hear this.'
Everyone sat up a bit straighter, anxious to find out the new configuration.
Brannigan looked at the document for a moment before speaking. 'Alright! Headquarters and the Sneaky Petes will stay the same. Under these circumstances we can be considered a reinforced fire team.' He glanced over at Bruno Puglisi and Joe Miskoski. 'Puglisi, you'll go to Alpha Fire Team, and Miskoski to Bravo. That takes care of the First Assault Section.'
Ensign Orlando Taylor stood up to receive the word on the changes in his command.
'Okay,' Brannigan said. 'Here's the Second Assault Section, under Ensign Taylor. Chief Matt Gunnarson takes over Charlie Fire Team. Devereaux goes to that team as a rifleman. Senior Chief Dawkins takes over Delta Fire Team, and Murchison goes with him as a rifleman. Anybody whose name I didn't call will stay in the same place you started out in. Got it?'
'Yes, sir!' answered a chorus of voices.
'Now here's our formation for moving through the enemy camp for mop-up and other assignments,' Brannigan continued. 'The left flank will be First Section; the center will be Headquarters and the Sneaky Petes; and Second Section will be on the right flank.' He took another look at the diagram he'd drawn. 'That's it. We won't be moving out of here until we get the word. There's no telling when that'll be, but when the word comes, we're gonna have to move fast. Any questions or comments? Good. We've got an important job to do, so let's make sure we stay on the ball all through the mission. Dismissed!'
The Brigands got to their feet and ambled back to their campfires.
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ARABIAN SEA
VICINITY OF 64deg EAST, 20deg NORTH
15 SEPTEMBER 0205 HOURS
THE twelve-plane squadron had flown close to a thousand miles, violating the airspace of one country for some minutes, then streaking across the entire width of another while being monitored by a foreign but friendly military force stationed there. This small aerial armada was made up of Kfir C.2 fighter-attack aircraft of the Israeli Air Force. And they were loaded for bear. Each carried 12,700 pounds of ordnance that included Vulcan 20- millimeter guns, one heavy general-purpose bomb, and six air-to-ground high-explosive missiles.
With another 700 miles to go, the squadron leader suddenly gave the word to form into a tight orbit. He had reacted to a transmission from a U. S. Air Force E-3 Sentry AWACS aircraft with a very busy seventeen-man crew.
A short distance away, two other large aircraft, these a pair of KC-135 refueling tankers bearing the roundels of Great Britain's Royal Air Force, were being vectored to the orbiting Israelis. Their mission was a simple but vital one, in that they were tasked with topping off the fighter-attack squadron's fuel tanks so they could continue their journey to the objective. Both the E-3 and the KC-135s would be waiting at the same spot to service those same fliers on their return flight.
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IRANIAN AIR FORCE RADAR STATION
SOUTH OF BANDAR-E-BUSHER
THE radar operator yawned and stretched, keeping his eyes on the cathode ray tube to his direct front. The images he studied were confusing and busy, with hundreds of blips indicating ships and planes. All this among the usual activities of a large concentration of naval forces.
The sergeant in charge sat across the room, listlessly reading a week-old sports magazine giving international soccer scores. He glanced up and could see over the operator's shoulder at the radar set. He got to his feet and strolled to where the soldier still watched the blips.
The sergeant laughed. 'Ha! It appears that the Amrikayaan are having night training, na?'
'Well, they have no one to bomb at the present,' the operator said. He smiled. 'Too bad they have to go without sleep.'
'They will be allowed to stay in bed late this morning,' the sergeant said. 'The American Navy sees that their pilots are pampered and well treated.'
'Not like us,' the operator said. He looked at the screen again. 'This is boring.'
'But better than being in the infantry,' the sergeant commented. He went back to his desk.
The operator dully noted some circling blips, then got to his feet. He walked over to where the sergeant sat and leafed through newspapers and magazines to find something to read. He was happy to discover a photojournal. He picked it up and took an empty chair beside the desk, quickly lost in scanning the photographs and captions.
Across the room, the radar tube continued to display what its antenna picked up out on the Arabian Sea.
.
0235 HOURS
THE last Israeli fighter-attack aircraft had been re-fueled, and the squadron turned northeast toward its destination.
The two men in the radar station were engrossed in their reading, while the blips of the departing squadron flitted across the screen, unseen and unheeded by either one.
CHAPTER 23
IRANIAN SF CAMP
15 SEPTEMBER 0335 HOURS
THE little Austrian Haflinger utility vehicle rolled away from the guard tent, with a sergeant at the wheel and a lieutenant as a passenger. They were part of an artillery battalion that had been assigned to serve aboard the self-propelled howitzers lately delivered to the invasion force. The unit was made up of professional soldiers, competent and disciplined, and between stints of learning the proper operation of the big tracked guns, they did housekeeping chores around the camp, such as trash collecting, cleanup, and--like the two men in the Haflinger were presently doing--guard duty.
The lieutenant was a keen young officer only recently commissioned, and the sergeant was an old soldier, grumpy as hell about being rousted off the cot in the guard tent. He would have preferred getting some much- needed sleep rather than making rounds with a puppy out to enjoy his new rank. When they reached Post One, the sentry properly challenged them, then recognized and allowed them to approach. He promptly and correctly responded to the lieutenant's questions regarding the special orders for his post, but was dressed down for having a button undone on his jacket.
With that done, and satisfied that he had given the soldier a proper reprimand about the pocket, the lieutenant jumped back into the vehicle, to be driven to Post Two. The lieutenant was in a grimly determined mood to build a reputation as a disciplinarian.
'We'll catch one of these fellows sleeping yet.'
The sergeant said nothing, knowing that the headlights and the motor noise were enough to wake even a dozing sentry, warning him of approaching inspectors. As could be expected, when they reached Post Two, they were once again properly challenged. This time the sergeant also got out of the vehicle, wanting to stretch his legs. As the officer questioned the sentry about his duties, a growl could be heard in the distant sky. The three men looked at each other in puzzlement.
Then the slight growl evolved into a dull roar, and suddenly burst forth into a fullblown thundering of jet engines that could be felt as well as heard. Several aircraft burst into the moonlight from the clouds, heading straight for the camp. They swept over in four 'Vs' of three as a large cylindrical object dropped from each. Immediately a series of explosions worked their way across the camp in evenly spaced rows; then the planes swept back up into the clouds, breaking off into separate groups.
