Battleline (2007) (34 page)

Sikes chuckled. "You're right about that. And after all them weeks in the desert and mountains, believe me, I deserved it."

"That you do," Harry said. "Are you ready to settle down to a bit o' seriousness, then?"

Sikes was slightly surprised by this somber turn in events, but gave an affirmative nod.

"Them Iranian mates o' yours are a bunch o' sods," Harry said, unsmiling. "And 'ere's something else for nothing, my lad. They're right on the bluddy edge o' disaster."

"Wot the hell are you talking about, Harry?"

"They've been too cheeky for their own good," Harry said. "That's wot I'm talking about. And they're for it. The Iranian people, particularly the young ones, are restless and angry, and the next revolution is gonna send them mullahs packing. And that goes for any poor sod that supported them. And you can believe there's plenty o' outside interests who want to see that 'appen."

"I suppose you're talking about the Americans," Sikes commented.

"I'm talking about nearly the whole of the United Nations," Harry said. "All this nuclear shit and supporting the 'Ezbollah is coming back to 'aunt 'em. So 'ere's a warning for you to heed. Get the 'ell out o' Iran as fast as you can."

"I think I got a future with 'em, Harry," Sikes said. "I ain't got much choice but to stick with 'em."

"If you go back, you're gonna get killed," Harry said.

"Oh, yeah? And by who, may I ask?"

"The Israelis."

Sikes was surprised by that. "Now, how're they gonna do that?"

Harry instinctively lowered his voice. "By bombing the 'ell out o' that camp you just came from." He looked around at the nearby balconies to make sure there was nobody lounging on them before he spoke again. "They know about the Iranians buying all them tanks and armored vehicles from me. They know about the planned invasion of Afghanistan, and they damn well know the Iranians are going to continue their operation of taking over the whole o' the bluddy Middle East and build up WMDs to boot."

"Ha!" Sikes laughed. "Now, how do they know all that?"

"Because I told 'em."

If Sikes still had any lingering effects from the day's drinking left, it quickly faded away in the shock of this revelation. "Wot this all about then?"

"I always know which side me bread is buttered on," Harry said. "In me business you can't choose causes, right? You got to look after yourself and do what's best for you personally. After I made the deal with the Iranians, I got 'old of the Mossad, and told 'em every bluddy thing I know." He cleared his throat and grabbed his bottle of beer. "Ahem. I'm on their payroll."

"Well, this puts me in bluddy deep shit, Harry!" Sikes said angrily. "Thank you very much."

"You can come out of it smelling like a rose, me lad," Harry said. "I need a younger man for an 'elpmate, 'ey? Someone with youthful energy, know what I mean? A smart, energetic partner. That's you, mate."

Sikes was silent for a moment. "Are you offering me a job, Harry?"

"That's it, Archie," Harry replied. "You'll get rich, lad. I got no son o' me own to leave nothing to, and you'll do fine. You got guts and you're smart."

"Wot'll I do for you, Harry?"

"You'll be me legman," Harry answered. "I'll still set up the deals and you can give me an 'and whilst you're learning the business. And when there's trips to be made and deliveries to check on, I'll send you out."

"I ain't got a passport, Harry. And I'm a deserter from the British Army, or have you forgot that?"

"I ain't forgot," Harry said. "And I can get you a passport from
any
country with
any
name we prefer. Think about this--a starting salary of two hundred and fifty thousand Euros a year plus bonuses when deliveries are made." He leaned toward him. "And imagine just 'ow much 'elp you can give your mum and dad when you're rich, 'ey?"

"There's something else," Sikes said. "Me warrant officer, Hashiri, has been a great help to me. He even saved me life the day I was wounded. How about taking him out with me?"

"Can't be done," Harry said. "The first reason is that we ain't going back to that camp, so we can't fetch 'im. And the second is that 'e's a bluddy Wog, so 'e won't be the first 'eathen to die for an English master."

"That's the way it is, hey?" Sikes asked.

"That's it. Now, wot d'you say, lad?"

Sikes grinned. "When do we leave, Harry?"

"Later tonight. That plane I chartered is set up to fly us to my bungalow in Singapore instead of returning us to Sabzevar."

.

FORMER SEAL BASE CAMP

IRAN-AFGHANISTAN BORDER

THE Army Rangers had offered to share their bunkers with Brannigan's Brigands, but because of the short time involved in the upcoming mission, the soldiers' proposal was refused with thanks. Lieutenant Brannigan thought it best that they stay out on the LZ and stay in close proximity of the USAF Pave Low chopper and its crew.

Security was no longer an issue in the vicinity, and several campfires made from dried branches of thorn bushes had been lit to heat water for coffee. It was late for a detachment meeting, but there had been a lot to do that day. The checking and rechecking in with Commanders Carey and Berringer at Shelor Field took up a lot of time, as did the breakdown of ammunition, rations, and some other supplies. Only when SCPO Buford Dawkins informed the Skipper that "every swinging dick" was squared away, ship-shape, and ready to go was Brannigan able to take the time to organize for the mop-up of the Iranian Special Forces camp.

.

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.

.

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.

.

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.