mean to be unneighborly, buddy.'
'It's all right. I'll have it checked for sure.'
'Why all the way from Montana?' the cop inquired again.
'Well, uh, we bought it there, and bringing it east for our business, y'know?'
'Hmmm.' Attention returned to the TV.
'Yes, they were coming south, and we drove right into them!' a Kuwaiti officer was telling another reporter now. He patted the gun tube of his tank with the affection he might have shown a prize stallion, a little man who'd grown about a foot in the last day or so, along with his country.
'Any word on when we can get back to work, Smoky?' Coots asked the cop. The highway patrolman shook his head. 'You know as much as I do. When I leave here, I go up to the line to play roadblock some more.'
'Yeah, all that good ticket money you're losin', Smoky Bear!' a driver commented with a chuckle.
'I didn't notice the tags. Why the hell drive a cement truck in from Montana?' Coots wondered. Those guys just didn't fit in.
'Maybe he got it cheap,' the cop thought, finishing his coffee. 'I don't have anything on the sheet about a hot one. Damn, I wonder if anyone ever stole one of those?'
'Not that I heard of—zap!' Coots said. The current shot was of smart bombs. 'At least it can't hurt much.'
'Y'all have a good one,' the cop said on the way out. He entered his Chevy patrol car and headed back to the highway, then decided to give the cement truck a look. Might as well run the tag, he thought. Maybe it was hot. Then he smelled it, too, and to the cop it wasn't the diesel… ammonia…? It was a smell he'd always associated with ice cream, having once worked a summer in a plant which made it… and also with the smell of propellant in his National Guard cavalry unit. His curiosity aroused, he drove back to the cafe. 'Excuse me, gentlemen, is that your truck parked over on the edge?'
'Yeah, why?' Brown asked. 'We do something wrong?'
It was his hands that betrayed him. The cop saw them twitch. Something was definitely not right.
'Would you gentlemen come with me, please?'
'Wait a minute, what's the beef here?'
'No beef. I just want to know what that smell is. Fair enough?'
'We're going to have it looked at.'
'You're going to have it looked at right now, gentlemen.' He gestured. 'If you would, please?' The cop followed them out, got back into his car, and drove behind them as they walked to the truck. They were talking back and forth. Something just wasn't right. His fellow highway cops were not terribly busy at the moment, and on instinct he called another car for backup, and told his headquarters to run the truck tag. That done, he got out and looked up at the truck again.
'You want to turn it over?'
'Okay, sure.' Brown got in and cranked the engine which was noisy enough.
'What is going on here?' the cop asked Holbrook. 'Could I see some identification, please?'
'Hey, I don't understand what the beef is.'
'No beef, sir, but I do want to see your ID.' Pete Holbrook pulled out his wallet as another police car arrived. Brown saw it, too, looked down to see Holbrook's wallet in his hand, and the cop's hand on the butt of his pistol. It was just the way cops stood, but Brown didn't think of that. Neither Mountain Man had a gun handy. They had them in their room, but hadn't thought to carry them to breakfast. The policeman took Pete's driver's license, then walked back to his car, lifting the microphone—
'The tag is clean, not in the computer as hot,' the lady at the station informed him.
'Thank you.' He tossed the mike back inside and walked back to Peter Holbrook, twirling the license in his hand—Brown saw a cop with his friend, another cop, they'd just talked on the radio—
The highway patrolman looked up in surprise as the truck jerked forward. He yelled and pointed for the man to stop. The second car moved to block him, and then the cement truck did stop. That did it. Something was just not right.
'Out!' he shouted, his pistol in his hands now. The second officer took control of Holbrook, not having a clue what this was all about. Brown stepped down, and felt his collar grabbed and himself thrust against the body of the truck. 'What is the matter with you?' the cop demanded. It would take hours to find out, and then a very interesting time at the truck stop.
THERE WAS NOTHING for him to do but scream, and that, uncharacteristically, he did. The video was undeniable. There was an instant respectability to global TV, and he couldn't stop it from going out. The affluent m his country had their own satellite dishes, and so did many others, including little neighborhood groups. What would he do now? Order them turned off?
'Why aren't they attacking?' Daryaei demanded.
'The Army commander and all corps commanders are off the air. We have some contact with two of our divisions only. One brigade reported it is heading north with enemy forces in pursuit.'
'And?'
'And our forces have been defeated,' Intelligence said.
'But how?'
'Does that matter?'
THEY CAME ON north. Buffalo came on south. UIR III Corps didn't know what lay ahead. The discovery took place in midafternoon. Masterman's 1st Squadron had so far eliminated a hundred or so fuel and other trucks, more than the other two battalions. The only question now was how much resistance the enemy would display. From air coverage, he knew exactly where the advancing force was in what strength and concentration, and in what direction. It was much easier than the last time he'd seen action.
A-Troop was screening in advance, with B and C three klicks back, and the tank company in reserve. As fearful a pounding as their UIR forces were taking, he decided not to use his own artillery yet. No sense warning them that tanks were close by. With contact less than ten minutes away, he shifted A-Troop to the right. Unlike the first— and only previous—battle in his career, Duke Masterman wouldn't really see this one. Instead, he listened to it on the radio.
A-Troop engaged at extreme range with both gun tubes and TOW missiles, and crumpled the first ragged line of vehicles. The troop commander estimated at least battalion strength as he engaged them from their left-front, approaching obliquely in the planned opening maneuver. This UIR division was Iraqi in origin and recoiled the other way, without realizing that it was being herded right into two more cavalry troops.
'This is GUIDON-SIX. Punch left, say again punch left,'
Masterman ordered from his command track. B and C turned to the east, sprinted about three kilometers, then wheeled back. At about the same time, Masterman let his artillery fire into the enemy's second echelon. There was no surprise to lose now, and it was time to hurt the enemy in every possible way. In another few minutes, it was clear that he was engaging at least a brigade with the 1st Squadron of the Buffalo, but the numbers didn't matter any more now than they had during the night.
For one last time, there was a mechanistic horror. The gun flashes were less brilliant in the light of day, and tanks drove through the dust of their own shots as they advanced. As planned, the enemy force recoiled again from the devastating effects of B- and C-Troop, turning back, hoping to find a gap between the first attacking force and the second. What they found were fourteen Ml A2s of the squadron's tank company, spaced two hundred meters apart like a breakwater. As before, first the tanks were destroyed, then the mechanized infantry carriers, as GUIDON rolled into the enemy formation. Then it stopped. Vehicles not yet engaged stopped moving. Crews hopped out and ran away from them. It was the same, Masterman heard, all the way west on the line. Surprised, running, their exit blocked, the soldiers lucky enough to see what was rolling toward them in time decided that resistance was surely fatal, and the Third (and last) Battle of KKMC stopped thirty minutes after it had begun.
It wasn't quite that easy for the invaders. Advancing Saudi forces, finally in heavy contact, fought a deliberate battle, grinding their way through another brigade, this one Iranian and therefore getting more attention than an Arab unit might have, but by sunset, all six of the UIR divisions that had entered their country were destroyed. Sub-units with some lingering fight in them were ordered to surrender by senior officers, before enemies on three sides could enforce a more final decision.
The biggest administrative headache, as before, was the prisoners, all the worse with the additional
