Killing Rommel (28 page)

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Special thanks to Jack Valenti and Rick Butler of the Long Range Desert Group Preservation Society; in New Zealand to LRDG historian Brendan O'Carroll for his wisdom and assistance and to Rev. Warner Wilder and the Wilder family for their kind support and aid in research; to authors Jonathan Pittaway and Craig Fourie in South Africa; to Peter Sanders and Paul Lincoln of the Desert Raiders Association in England; to gunner and military historian John A. T. Tiley of the 263rd Field Regiment, R.A.; and to Andrew Escott of the First Royal Tank Regiment. My gratitude as well to my American editors, Charlie Conrad and Bill Thomas, and to Simon Taylor at Transworld in London; to Wilfried and Gisela Eckhardt for their assistance in German-English translation; and especially to my dear friend John Milnes of the BBC, whose contributions, both literary and editorial, went leagues beyond the call of duty. Thanks, you blokes!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Steven Pressfield is the author of the historical novels
Gates of Fire, Last of the Amazons,
and
The Afghan Campaign,
as well as
The Legend of Bagger Vance
and
The War of Art.
He lives in Los Angeles.

ALSO BY STEVEN PRESSFIELD

FICTION

THE AFGHAN CAMPAIGN

THE VIRTUES OF WAR

LAST OF THE AMAZONS

TIDES OF WAR

GATES OF FIRE

THE LEGEND OF BAGGER VANCE

NONFICTION

THE WAR OF ART

Turn the page to read an excerpt from
The Profession

MY MOST ANCIENT MEMORY
is of a battlefield. I don't know where. Asia maybe. North Africa. A plain between the hills and the sea.

The hour was dusk; the fight, which had gone on all day, was over. I was alive. I was looking for my brother. Already I knew he was dead. If he were among the living, he would have found me. I would not have had to look for him.

Across the field, which stretched for thousands of yards in every direction, you could see the elevations of ground where clashes had concentrated. Men stood and lay upon these. The dying and the dead sprawled across the lower ground, the depressions and the sunken traces. Carrion birds were coming down with the night—crows and ravens from the hills, gulls from the sea.

I found my brother's body, broken beneath the wheels of a battle wagon. Three stone columns stood above it on an eminence—a shrine or gate of some kind. The vehicle's frame had been hacked through by axes and beaten apart by the blows of clubs; the traces were still on fire. All that remained aboveground of my brother was his left arm and hand, which still clutched the battle-axe by which I recognized him. Two village women approached, seeking plunder. “Touch this man,” I told them, “and I will cut your hearts out.”

I stripped my cloak and wrapped my brother's body in it. The dames helped me settle him in the earth. As I scraped black dirt over my brother's bones, the eldest caught my arm. “Pray first,” she said.

We did. I stood at the foot of my brother's open grave. I don't know what I expected to feel: grief maybe, despair. Instead what ascended from that aperture to hell were such waves of love as I have never known in this life or any other. Do not tell me death is real. It is not. I have sustained my heart for ages with the love my brother passed on to me, dead as he was.

While I prayed, a commander passed on horseback. “Soldier,” he asked, “whom do you bury?” I told him. He reined in, he and his lieutenants, and bared his head. Who was he? Did I know him? When the last spadeful of earth had been mounded atop my brother's grave, the general's eyes met mine. He said nothing, yet I knew he had felt what I had, and it had moved him.

I am a warrior. What I narrate in these pages is between me and other warriors. I will say things that only they will credit and only they understand.

A warrior, once he reckons his calling and endures its initiation, seeks three things.

First, a field of conflict. This sphere must be worthy. It must own honor. It must merit the blood he will donate to it.

Second, a warrior seeks comrades. Brothers-in-arms, with whom he willingly undergoes the trial of death. Such men he recognizes at once and infallibly, by signs others cannot know.

Last, a warrior seeks a leader. A leader defines the cause for which the warrior offers sacrifice. Nor is this dumb obedience, as of a beast or a slave, but the knowing heart's pursuit of vision and significance. The greatest commanders never issue orders. Rather, they compel by their own acts and virtue the emulation of those they command. The great champions throw leadership back on you. They make you answer: Who am I? What do I seek? What is the meaning of my existence in this life?

I fight for money. Why? Because gold purges vanity and self-importance from the fight. Shall we lay down our lives, you and I, for a flag, a tribe, a notion of the Almighty? I did, once. No more. My gods now are Ares and Eris. Strife. I fight for the fight itself. Pay me. Pay my brother.

I served once beneath a great commander who asked in council one night, of me and my comrades, if we believed our calling to be a species of penance—a hell or purgatory through which we must pass, again and again, in expurgation of some crime committed eons gone.

“I do,” he said. He offered us as recompense for this passage “an unmarked grave on a hill with no name, for a cause we cannot understand, in the service of those who hate us.”

Not one of us hesitated to embrace this.

EUPHRATES

NINETY MILES SOUTH OF
Nazirabad, we sight a convoy of six vehicles speeding west and flying the black-and-yellow death's-head pennant of CounterArmor. The date is 15 August 2032. In that country, when you run into other Americans, you don't ask who they're working for, where they're from, or what they're up to. You help them.

We brake beside the CounterArmor vehicles in the lee of a thirty-foot sand berm. The team is pipeline security. Their chief is a black dude, about forty, with a Chicago accent. “The whole goddam city's gone over!”

“Over to who?” I ask. A gale is shrieking, the last shreds of a sandstorm that has knocked out satellite and VHF comms for the past two and a half hours.

“Whoever the hell wants it!”

The CounterArmor commander's vehicle is a desert-tan Chevy Simoom with a reinforced-steel X-frame and a .50-caliber mounted topside. My own team is six men in three vehicles—two Lada Neva up-armors and one RT-7, an Iraq-era 7-ton truck configured for air defense. The outfit is part of Force Insertion, the largest private military force in the world and the one to whom all of western Iran has been contracted. I'm in command of the group, which is a standard MRT, Mobile Response Team. The overall contract is with ExxonMobil and BP.

The CounterArmor trucks are fleeing west for the Iraq border. The Turks have invaded, the chief is telling us. Or maybe it's the Russians. Tactical nukes have been used, near Qom and Kashan in the No-Go Zone; or maybe that's false too. “Get in behind us,” he shouts. “We're gonna need every gun we can get.”

I tell him our team has orders to enter the city. Five American engineers, civilian contractors, are trapped there, along with the TCN—Third Country Nationals—security detail assigned to protect them. Our instructions are to get them out, along with a technical brief they have prepared for the commanding general's eyes only.

“You can't go back there,” the chief says.

“Watch us.”

Nazirabad is a Shiite city of about three hundred thousand. They're all Shiite cities in Iran. You can tell a Shiite city by the billboards and the vehicles, which are plastered with pix of their saints, Ali and Hussein. A Shiite truck or bus is festooned with religious amulets and geegaws. Reflectorized pinwheels dangle from the rearview and outboard mirrors; framed portraits adorn the dash; every square inch is crazy quilted with talismans and mandalas, good luck charms and magic gimcracks.

Anyway, that's what we're seeing now—forty minutes after leaving the CounterArmor convoy—as Iranian civilian cars, trucks, and buses flood past on the highway, fleeing. Comms are still out, whether from the nukes, the storm, or man-made jamtech, we can't tell. Our orders are to rescue the engineers. Beyond that, we know nothing. We don't know what we're riding into or what our chances are of getting out. This is the bitch of modern warfare. Every technological breakthrough spawns its dedicated countermeasure, with each generation getting cheaper and more accessible. X knocks out Y; before you know it, you're back to deadfalls and punji stakes.

So we're relieved, forty miles south of the city, when two Little Bird choppers—the kind used by the Legion, one of Force Insertion's subcontractors—show up topside and communicate to us by line-of-sight that other friendlies are up ahead. Twenty minutes later we pick up radio traffic from Legion vehicles heading our way and, half an hour after that, two black bulletproofs—GMC Kodiaks with cork tires and gun-slit windows—roll up and brake, coated with gray dust. An operator springs down, wearing a tuxedo jacket and white linen shirt over cargo pants and boots. We can see, in the distance, the three-level overpass south of the city. The merc comes up, grinning in his black tie. My #2, Chutes Savarese, hails him.

“Where's the party?”

“We brought it, babies.”

The merc introduces himself as Chris Candelaria and shakes my hand and the others'. His ring says SEAL Team Six. He wears another that I don't see, under the Nomex glove on his left hand: the Wharton School. The team he's leading is from DSF, Dienstleister Schwarze Flagge, the crack German–South African outfit that evolved in the twenties out of the Zimbabwean Selous Scouts. He just got out of Isfahan five hours ago, he says. Dried blood paints both his hands and arms; the shoulder of his jacket has been charred through; he's got a dust-caked battle dressing on his neck, above an ear whose bottom third is scorched black and slathered with green combat antiseptic. But he's grinning. Like me, he wears a beard. His hair is long and falls in a cascade of black ringlets.

“You guys going in there?” he asks. From our rise south of the highway, we can see Dragonfly drones in swarms over the city. Every punk-ass gang and militia is flying these little fuckers, some the size of kites, others no bigger than pie plates. The streaks of their rockets—high-explosive and flechette—blow away in the wind. “Want some help?”

The merc and I do a quick map orientation, marking the in-city locations and the routes, order, and sequence we'll use to approach them. What about supporting fires, I ask. Our team has zero; has he got Close Air Support, drones, anything?

The cupboard is bare, the merc says. “It's just you and me, partner. We are officially OOO”—On Our Own—”and SOL.” Shit Outa Luck.

The contractor has a case of Jack Daniel's in the lead Kodiak. Standing at the rear doors, he passes us two bottles for each vehicle. He's got cups but no ice. He introduces the rest of his team, who are more comm guys than trigger pullers. I note two DSFers packing Heckler & Koch 416s, German superguns, with 40 mm grenade launchers underslung. On the truck's roof squats a donut satlink receiver in a fiberglass cover; inside the vehicle I note a bank of tech gear, including a Xenor encryption box.

“What kind of team are you leading?” I ask.

“We're a financial unit. I'm specking oil and gas contracts. Haven't had a rifle in my hands for seven years!”

I'm laughing now. So is Chutes. “Thanks for the help, bro.”

“I'm coming from an embassy ball,” says Chris, indicating his tux. He nods toward the trucks and guns. “We grabbed this shit and ran.”

He tells us Isfahan is burning. Tehran too. Mobs are storming the U.S. embassy—and the embassies of the Russians and the Chinese. He doesn't know who's attacking whom. He has caught snatches on al-Alam, the Iranian satellite channel, about a rising in Saudi Arabia; the fear in the West, says the report, is of a Shiite sweep across southern Iraq and into the Eastern Province of Saudi Arabia. Or maybe it's all bullshit. The one thing the merc can tell us for sure is the nearest safety is across two hundred miles of hell. “Salter's at Kirkuk with two armatures, moving toward the Iranian border. If we can get to him, we're home free.”

He means our Force Insertion commander, Gen. James Salter. An armature is the equivalent of the old conventional-army airmobile division. The word comes from Latin, meaning equipment or armor. Force Insertion has, along the Iraq-Iran border, four armatures with all supporting arms including artillery (105- and 177 mm howitzers), drone and truckborne antiarmor, and air defense in the form of mobile Chinese I-SAM rocket trucks. Salter's air assault complement, we know, is at near full strength, meaning each armature has three battalions of extended-range Black Hawk and up-gunned War Hawk choppers, a battalion of heavy Chinooks, plus seventy-two owner-operated AH-64 Apache attack helicopters, all outfitted with the latest aftermarket Chinese, Czech, and Israeli missile technology, American and Indian avionics and satcomms, and flown by American, Russian, South African, Australian, Polish, and British mercs, most of whom have in the old days been majors, lieutenant colonels, and colonels in their respective conventional air forces. Our new friend eyes our ragged-ass gear, which looks like it came from Operation Iraqi Freedom, and the faces of our guys—Chutes Savarese, Junk Olsen, Adrian “Q” Quinones, Marcus Aurelius “Mac” Jones, and Tony Singh, our six-foot-four Hindu from Sri Lanka. He indicates the city.

“Gentlemen, as Sarpedon said to Glaucus, ‘Let us go forth and win glory—or cede it to others.' “

Chutes is grinning. “What's your name again, man?”

“Chris Candelaria.”

“Chris, you're my kinda dude.”

They bump elbows. In we go.

Nazirabad is situated at the juncture of two highways—8, which runs north-south, and 41, east-west. The three-level interchange and its security station, Checkpoint 290, is the funnel through which all motorized entry and egress is channeled. There's an industrial slum to the north called Ali City, from which most of the bad actors come—tribal militias, criminal gangs, Mahdi revivalists, cabals of displaced army officers, as well as Jaish al-Sha'b, “Army of the People,” which has replaced AQP—al-Qaeda in Persia—plus every imaginable hue of nationalist, separatist, and irredentist forces, including foreign fighters—Turks, Chechens, Syrians, Saudis, Uzbeks, Tajiks, Uighurs, as well as Shiite Kurds, Afghan Hazaras, and Lebanese.

As recently as ten years ago, Nazirabad was a secure, attractive tourist destination. Brochures called it the “city of artists.” The Old Town had four souks, one entirely for tiles, another for decorative ironwork—gates, lamps, chandeliers. Nazirabad had two synagogues, believe it or not, and a Christian bookstore. A woman could walk alone and bareheaded, even after dark. Eighteen months ago, when our team deployed, a foreigner could still get a private villa, with cook, driver, and laundress. No more. In the space of ten weeks, since the start of the third Iran-Iraq war, the place has degenerated to a level of violence equal to Baghdad or Ramadi twenty-five years earlier—and the last half year has been even worse.

We take side streets into the city, bypassing Checkpoint 290. The sun is dropping fast. Mac has made radio contact with our engineers; they have abandoned the company compound and made their way to a safe house (actually the home of their supervisor's father) on Espresso Street, a well-to-do boulevard so named because it has the only Starbucks within five hundred miles. The only problem is that Espresso Street has become the epicenter for whatever conflagration is currently consuming the city.