Rolling Thunder (2007) s-4 Read online

  Bruno Puglisi was outraged. What're them motherfuckers doing in Iran?

  We don't have that full story down at our level, Berringer, the N-2, interjected. And frankly, I don't think all the facts are known even at the Pentagon.

  Brannigan was more than just a little pissed off himself. What about that fucking Limey or whatever he was? The UN doctor was positive about that.

  This information was passed on to my counterpart at British Army intelligence, Berringer replied, and he seems to think they can get to the bottom of that. There's a chance one of their guys deserted or was kidnapped, then defected. For reasons my guy didn't explain, they seem to be thinking that he is an AWOL. Evidently, the guy was a fuckup. They're still looking into it.

  By the way, Carey said. The Brits said if you could capture the guy, they'd like to talk to him.

  If we capture him? Joe Miskoski snorted. How the hell are they gonna talk to a guy that's been bent over double and had his head shoved up his ass? Because that's what'll happen to him if we get our hands on him.

  Now hear this, Carey said sternly. If you capture that Brit, you keep him healthy and able to respond to questioning. He'll be a walking, talking wealth of intelligence on the Islamic insurgency scene involving Iran. And we don't want to have to wait six months while he heals up from what you fuckers do to him.

  Aye, sir, Miskoski said insincerely.

  Jim Cruiser was puzzled. As I recall, Dr. Bouchier of the UN said the people in the armored cars were definitely Arab and he heard them speaking Arabic among themselves. Iranians speak Farsi. So what's with the Arabs operating out of Iran?

  Another puzzle, Berringer said. And it's yet one more we can't solve at our level. But we have gotten the word that this group is calling itself Jihad Abadi. That's Arabic for Eternal Holy War. In Farsi, the words for holy war are jange maghaddas. That's a big difference, so these guys are definitely not Iranians.

  Could it be rogue Iranian Army officers pulling some shit on their own? Brannigan asked.

  We do not know, Berringer said candidly.

  Okay, Brannigan said. Let's stop wondering about things and get back to the briefing.

  Good idea, Carey agreed. What we want you guys to do is catch the bad guys coming into Afghanistan from that road. Get EPWs, if possible, but if you end up annihilating that armored car company, then so be it. It will send a strong message to Iran or whoever is back of this operation.

  Sir, do you have any idea when they'll be rolling back into Afghanistan? Senior Chief Buford Dawkins asked.

  Negative, Carey said. You'll have to go out there and plan on staying up to a week or a bit more waiting for them to appear. Take enough rations to last no less than ten days, and enough ammo to fight a sustained battle.

  Alright, Brannigan said. I take it you want me to work out the OPORD. When should we start?

  Yesterday, Carey responded.

  NOW everyone was in position, biding their time in the barren environment of the desert. Off to the north, they could see the Gharawdara Highlands as a long smudge on the horizon. The view on the other three sides was more of the empty terrain without a tree or even a small knoll breaking the monotony of the Afghan vista.

  The situation mirrored the old military saying of Hurry up and wait!

  .

  0645 HOURS

  BRAVO TEAM

  PETTY Officer Pete Dawson held the binoculars to his eyes with the same intensity he would have used if standing watch aboard a ship. He had been on duty for forty-five minutes since relieving Pech Pecheur at 0600 hours, and his vigil had not relaxed an iota. However, the image in the viewing device showed nothing more than the blending of the brown terrain to the east with the dirty white of the salt marshes on the west.

  This place sucks, Pete murmured to himself, thinking how great it would be if insurgencies broke out in places like the French Riviera or Tahiti. And, of course, there were also the beautiful Italian beaches on the Adriatic Sea. His mind snapped back to the job at hand when a slight purring sound reached his ears. It was very faint at first, but grew louder until he recognized it was motors. Wake up, sleepyheads, he whispered in the LASH. We got visitors coming in from the west.

  Everybody into position, Jim Cruiser ordered.

  Gutsy Olson's voice came over the commo system. Bravo Two ready.

  Ten minutes later, a column of armored cars some fifty meters away could be seen moving from west to east, heading straight to where the Skipper had set up the Alpha and Charlie vehicles. Alpha One, Cruiser transmitted, this is Bravo One. The bad guys are moving toward you. I count five . . . eight...twelve...seventeen, and now twenty. That's all. Total of twenty. Over.

  This is Alpha One, Brannigan replied. Let 'em pass well through your position before you head for your vehicles. We don't want 'em to spot you. And remember to hang back while you're following them. It's going to be up to you to stop 'em if they turn and run. Over.

  Roger. Out.

  .

  ARMORED CAR COLUMN

  CAPTAIN Arsalaan Sikes Bey was in the middle of his company's formation as the unit traveled almost due east at seventy kilometers an hour. He sat up with his head and shoulders outside the hatch, enjoying the morning air. The commanders in the other nineteen Jararacas did the same. All were alert and anxious, remembering the Americans and their fast little vehicles from the sharp battle they had fought ten days before. This time, they would respond with tactics devised by Sikes Bey. Each platoon of four would fight as a single unit, combing the firepower of their Dashika heavy machine guns under the platoon leader's direct command.

  Sikes turned to observe his outfit, not liking what he saw. Platoon leaders, madd! Spread your formation! You are too close together!

  .

  THE SEAL VEE

  GUY Devereaux, Mike Assad, Joe Miskoski, and Bruno Puglisi had moved to individual locations outside the formation. Each of the four carried a Javelin and two extra loaded tubes. The quartet of armor-killers assumed kneeling positions, poised to fire. They had to be careful about where they situated themselves, since the back blast from the weapons was deadly several yards to the rear. Anyone directly behind them would suffer serious injury or even death if the strong burst hit them.

  Assad and Puglisi were the farthest out and the farthest apart. Devereaux and Miskoski were situated between the two vehicles of their respective teams. Brannigan had given strict orders that the Javelins were not to be fired until he gave the word. Then, it would be done in turns by individuals.

  The commanders and the M-2 gunners stood by, ready to leap onto their DPVs and join the battle as quickly as possible after the Javelins fired their initial missiles. The Skipper listened in the silence that was interrupted from time to time by gusts of wind. But eventually, the unmistakable sounds of diesel engines could be discerned. When they came close enough to be identified by the naked eye, Brannigan issued his first battle commands. Assad! Puglisi! Stand by!

  Both men strained their eyes until they sighted the approaching column. The range of the AT weapons was 2000 meters maximum. They couldn't be fired from a prone position because if the gunners were too close to the ground, the fins on the missiles wouldn't have the necessary space to unfold before reaching the targets. That meant that during the time for aiming and locking on the target, they would be exposed to the enemy. Now the pair of SEALs peered through the sights, lining up on the two closest armored cars.

  Assad! Puglisi! Fire!

  They were already locked onto the targets by the on-board processing system when they pulled the triggers. The fire-and-forget missiles streaked across the 500 meters and straight into the unlucky vehicles chosen by the gunners. They punched through the armor and exploded inside, the force of the detonation held in for no more than the briefest of milliseconds before violently and instantly expanding with enough force to open up the Jararacas like cheap sardine cans.

  Devereaux! Miskoski! Fire!

  Two more of the armored cars blasted apart.


  Javelin gunners! Fire at will!

  .

  ARMORED CAR COLUMN

  SIKES was too shocked and surprised to immediately react to the explosive destruction of the four armored cars. The easy movement across the desert had suddenly been interrupted by a series of unexpected detonations. From his position in the middle of the column, he could see the orange flashes and black smoke. Hunks of armor and debris flew through the air as six more blasts crashed through the area.

  Now his mind snapped back to the present.

  The first thing he thought of was tanks. Surely, the Americans had sent an armored battalion into the area to take on his vehicles. He forgot Arabic and the smattering of Farsi he had learned. Get the fuck out of here! he yelled in his radio microphone. He dropped back into the interior and viciously cuffed his driver on the back of the head. Turn around and go like hell, you blowsy bastard!

  The man couldn't speak English, but the tone in Sikes Bey's voice most definitely indicated it would be a good idea if they got out of the area as quickly as possible.

  .

  THE BATTLE

  ALPHA and Charlie vehicles were quickly manned as the men threw the camouflage aside and jumped aboard. They slowed down only enough to pick up the Javelin team, who threw the weapons into the backs with the M-2 gunners as they leaped into their own seats in front. They immediately took off the safeties of the M-60s and began hosing armor-piercing rounds at the fleeing armored cars. The four SEALs were happy campers. Although they hadn't had time to fire all twelve Javelin rounds, they managed to kick off ten. And every single one had resulted in a kill.

  The Bravo vehicles bounced across the terrain at close to seventy miles an hour. It was only a matter of a minute before they sighted what looked like ten of the enemy cars heading westward as fast as possible. Now the M-2s and M-60s began spitting out combined fire bursts at the fleeing bad guys.

  SIKES had now fully regained his composure. He began issuing orders calmly in Arabic as he peered through the command periscopes to check on his force. He counted ten, cursing the fact he had actually taken fifty-percent casualties in a disastrously short period of time. His gunners in their turrets, while shaken up by the pounding they had endured, had now recovered enough to sight in on the enemy patrol vehicles behind them. They squeezed the triggers rhythmically to send fiery spurts of the heavy 12.7-millimeter slugs streaking toward the pursuers.

  The First Platoon leader, who had lost all his subordinate vehicles, was now alone. His gunner called on Allah's help as he tried desperately to hit one of the swift, dodging enemy DPVs. Suddenly, a salvo of .50-caliber armor-piercing bullets penetrated the hull from the rear, sweeping across the interior. All three men in the crew were ferociously buffeted by multiple heavy blows as the ammo plowed into them. The armored car veered off to the right, running out into the desert as the trio of ripped corpses rolled back and forth in the interior.

  In another Jararaca, there was only the driver alive. The gunner had been the first to die when machine-gun fire ripped the insides of the car. He slumped down, held onto his seat by the belt. His blood ran from a half-dozen gaping wounds, soaking his uniform until it oozed through the material and dripped on the deck. A couple of minutes 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.