This attack scored hits on the vehicle park, pulverizing tanks, IFVs, and the self-propelled howitzers as brilliant flashes of explosives and ignited fuel lit the night. The sentry was rattled by the destruction and yelled out as he had been instructed to do in emergencies.
'Sergeant of the Guard, Post Two!'
'Ahmagh--idiot!' the sergeant bellowed. 'I am the Sergeant of the Guard!'
The lieutenant was speechless and seemed unable to move. He stared upward into the moonlit sky at the irregular cover of scattered clouds. He had received no instruction at the military academy regarding airplanes suddenly appearing and dropping bombs in the middle of the night.
Now one of the groups of aircraft came in from the north, sweeping down and firing off a total of eighteen air-to-ground missiles that exploded in a pattern that spread southward. Immediately a second group came in from the west, also cutting loose with the same ordnance. The explosions continued the destruction begun by the heavy bombs as third and fourth attacks were launched from the east and the south. Once again the target was the vehicle park, and a total of seventy-two rockets punched through armor, ripping the vehicles apart until the entire motor pool was burning as if molten lava had flowed across its expanse.
Figures of men could be seen emerging from their tents. Most only stepped outside and stood in stupefied wonder at the hell raining down in their midst. The thought of seeking cover did not occur to them. Then the ammunition dump at the far end of the camp exploded with one roaring boom that was quickly followed by two more as the initial blasts triggered additional detonations.
The aircraft made another run in the same order, but this time they fired heavy 20-millimeter Vulcan ammo at a rate of more than 600 rounds per minute. Their targets were now the rest of the camp, and the heavy shells struck rapidly and hard into the unprotected men and tents. The canvas structures were instantly shredded, and pieces of poles somersaulted through the air. A group of soldiers standing together at the end of a camp street was chopped to pieces in an instant as hunks of their corpses spun off and bounced along the ground.
Panic set in when the living saw the dead. It was pitiful as they ran aimlessly and uselessly in all directions while the heavy slugs swept over them like steel curtains being drawn across the camp. The lieutenant, sergeant, and guard were horrified when they spotted three aircraft flying in a direct line toward them. The officer and soldier stood stupefied as the sergeant dived under the vehicle. The two in the open died immediately as they were rendered into slices of meat, and the sergeant's life was abruptly ended a moment later when the gas tank in the guard car exploded, wrapping him in flames.
And then the detonations ended, and the twelve aircraft once again climbed above the clouds, turning westward, leaving the area quiet except for the crackling of flames, an occasional late explosion, and the screams of the maimed and burned.
.
0445 HOURS
THE instant the two Pave Low choppers set down, the Brigands inside unassed the aircraft and formed up by sections to get ready for a quick sweep through the burning camp.
Brannigan was the last out, and when he stepped to the ground and looked around, he didn't say anything for a moment. The rest of the detachment also stood silently, gazing at the carnage spread before their eyes.
The camp was flattened, with numerous small fires burning throughout the site. Craters from bomb and missile hits dotted the area, giving it the look of a moonscape that had lately been pounded by an immense storm of fiery meteorites. Here and there were recognizable human corpses, but there also were hunks of smoking meat of those dead who had caught the full brunt of a weapon detonation. A smoky, acrid stench hung over the scene, which displayed a nightmarish surrealism in the predawn gloom.
Brannigan turned to the detachment. 'Alright! Let's form up for a sweep through the . . . the . . . well, the mess out there. Remember that time is of the essence, so we have to be back here at the chopper in less than half an hour. A reminder for you! We want items of intelligence value and EPWs most of all.'
Bruno Puglisi shook his head. 'I don't think there's anything living out there, sir.'
'You could be right,' Brannigan said. He waited until the Brigands were formed in a skirmish line. 'Move out!'
The sights of horror in the camp grew more frequent with each step the SEALs took. Things that looked like shapeless lumps evolved into skulls with patches of flesh and hair; arms and legs were scattered helter-skelter among torsos that had been ripped open, displaying scorched entrails. Chad Murchison walked across the remnants of a tent floor, noting some papers in the mess. He picked them up and noted that the scribbling on them was in handwritten Arabic. He surmised them to be no more than letters from home to some Arab volunteer, but he stuck them in his pocket just in case they revealed some gleam of information that would make the intelligence boys dance with joy.
Joe Miskoski grimaced at what he saw as he stepped through the rubble. When he looked over at Doc Bradley, he called out to him. 'Hey, Doc, do you have any training in psychology?'
'Nope,' Doc replied. 'If you need a shrink after this, you'll have to wait until we get back to the Daly. I'll write out a sick slip for you and they'll take you over to the CVBG. They have a small psychology clinic aboard the carrier.'
Dave Leibowitz chuckled without humor. 'Fix up one for me too, Doc.'
Garth Redhawk was walking with Matty Matsuno when he spotted an arm still in a sleeve. He knelt down when he noticed an insignia on the hunk of cloth. He pulled it off the limb, and stood up, glancing at Matty. 'My ancestors mutilated their enemy dead in the belief that they would go to the spirit world maimed and crippled.'
'If that's true, then there had better be a lot of parking spaces for the disabled up there in the Kiowa afterlife after what the Israelis did to these poor bastards,' Matty remarked.
Monty Sturgis and Andy Malachenko stepped down into a dip in the ground where they discovered a flattened pile of corpses. It was impossible to tell how many there were, since they had been torn up and burned to the point where they appeared to have melted together.
'I wonder what happened here,' Andy wondered aloud.
Monty studied the macabre scene for a few seconds. 'I figger them guys dived into this depression looking for cover. They prob'ly caught a combination of concussion and fire from a nearby hit.'
'Ruined their whole day,' Andy commented drily.
Over on the right flank, Ensign Orlando Taylor walked a few paces ahead of his section. He pointed out the few spots of interest for investigation he was able to spot. All that his men found were more dismembered dead and the normal items of trash common in any military installation.
Then Arnie Bernardi yelled out and pointed off to the west.
A lone figure stood up some fifty meters away. He had risen from a pile of rubbish to his immediate front. Everyone swung their M-16s his way. The man yelled out something unintelligible.
'Stay where you are!' Taylor hollered back. 'And raise your hands!'
The man, confused and dazed, hesitated for a moment, than complied with the demand. He stood looking at the SEALs in perplexed puzzlement as they slowly approached him. His face and uniform were stained with smoke and dirt to the extent that the insignia on his epaulets were obscured and impossible to decipher.
'Search him,' Taylor said to Arnie Bernardi. As the SEAL patted the EPW down, the group was joined by Lieutenant Brannigan. The young ensign proudly announced, 'We have a prisoner, sir.'
'So you have,' Brannigan said. 'Well, done, Mister.' He checked his watch. 'We're running out of time. Let's hustle this guy over to the choppers and haul ass.'
The prisoner seemed to recover from his bewilderment. 'Are you Americans?'
Brannigan glared at him. 'We'll ask the questions. First of all, I'm curious as to how you survived this slaughter.'
'I was in a bunker,' the man responded. 'Not a tent.'
'Lucky you,' the Skipper commented. 'And secondly, who are you?'
The man straightened and spoke with an authoritative tone in his voice. 'I am Brigadier Shahruz Khohollah of the Iranian Army!'
.
OVAL OFFICE
WHITE HOUSE
16 SEPTEMBER 0915 HOURS
