Under Siege (19 page)

They crawled forward until they were twenty yards from the chattering gun. Lieutenant Rabbo took a grenade and held it high so the other men could see. Then he pulled the pin and threw the hand bomb as far as he could toward the house. The round hit short and rolled forward, detonating with a roar ten feet outside the building.

His two men threw as well. One grenade went through a broken window, another bounced through a smashed-in doorway and both went off with resounding roars. The three men threw the rest of their grenades even after the machine gun stopped firing. Then the lieutenant waved and the men came to their feet and ran back to the highway.

The column moved two dead members off the highway into the ditch so the tanks wouldn’t run over them and then marched on north toward their own country. He was down to sixteen men, and six of them had wounds. For just a moment he wished that he could be one of those in the firing squad that would end the lives of the generals who planned this disastrous invasion.

By four
A.M.
they were exhausted. He called his men to the side of the road for a break. Other units straggled by. None of them were from his battalion. He had no idea where the battalion was, ahead of him perhaps.

Rabbo checked his men. Two were seriously wounded. A third could not walk. They would have to leave him. Fifteen. He shuddered.

After a twenty-minute break, Rabbo moved his platoon again. They walked for another hour and finally came to a cluster of vehicles. Just off the road he saw the command motor home, well known to all of the troops. It was where General Tariz Majid lived, where the top commanders met to decide the fate of the men under their orders, to plan strategy and tactics, and to manage the war from this field headquarters.

The motor home was so laden with armor plate that the word was that it could travel at no more than fifteen miles an hour. Both dual rear tires had been shot out and the rig tilted toward the back. Three trucks and two Jeeps also were parked nearby. Loud voices came out of the motor home as they came toward it. Two soldiers ran into the highway and stopped Rabbo’s men. No questions were asked, and no explanations given.

A moment later four army officers exited the motor home and were marched toward a covered six-by-six truck. The men were hoisted into it, and one of the officers directing them hurried to the road guard. The sergeant in charge shook his head.

“My orders are to protect this sector, Captain. I can’t leave it.”

The captain turned to Rabbo. “You, Lieutenant. Pick out six of your men and come with me.”

Without questioning the superior officer’s orders, Rabbo pointed at the first six men in line and jerked his thumb. “On me,” he said, leading them behind the captain, who went back to the big army truck. He stopped them at the tailgate.

“You men are guards of important military prisoners. All four are generals, and all four have been found guilty of treason and are being rushed back to Iran. Do not let any of them escape or you will be executed on the spot. Into the truck now, quickly.”

The seven men jumped up into the truck and stared into
the darkness. They saw four men at the front, but couldn’t identify them or see their rank. All generals, the captain had said. Rabbo wondered if General Majid was one of them. The truck engine started, and soon the rig blasted down the highway, honking its horn to move retreating soldiers off the roadway as it sped past.

As his eyes widened to accommodate the low light, Lt. Rabbo saw that the two generals next to the cab were handcuffed. One was four-star general Majid. He didn’t know the other three. He looked at the captain who had brought them along. He had a submachine gun pointed at two of the generals.

Rabbo touched the captain’s sleeve and he looked around.

Where—”

The captain cut him off with a shake of his head.

The truck lurched ahead. Moments later it took some enemy sniper fire that slammed through the top canvas of the truck’s roof. Everyone crouched down, but they were past before any more shots came. A small radio that Rabbo hadn’t seen before on the captain’s chest spoke.

“Five miles from the border. The colonel says to get ready, we may have some trouble with the home guards.”

“Right,” the captain said into the radio. Then all was quiet.

“Do you fully realize, Captain …” General Majid said it, and before he could continue, the captain shot him once in the leg with the submachine gun. The sound inside the truck was deafening.

General Majid growled with the pain but didn’t say anything more.

“You were warned not to speak,” the captain said.

A few minutes later they heard shouts and cheers, then they were past the border and the speed of the truck increased. Before long the truck slowed and turned off into a rough road that Rabbo figured was dirt or gravel. The truck geared down and went up a slope and around sharp
corners, then leveled out only to climb again. Rabbo could see nothing out the rear of the truck. The canvas drape had been pulled down; it kept some of the dust out of the truck now on the dirt road.

Ten minutes later the rig stopped. The captain pulled up the canvas and ordered the infantrymen out. Then he brought out the generals one at a time. In the dark, Lt. Rabbo knew which one was General Majid because he limped with his shot-up leg.

Rabbo had never been in this part of Iran. They were on a hill with a few trees and some sharp bluffs. They had parked the truck below one of these bluffs. For a moment it reminded him of a firing range.

The generals were led to the face of the bluff and turned toward the truck. Two colonels stepped down from the truck and brought flashlights. They went to the generals.

“Lieutenant, bring your men to this point,” one of the colonels said. Rabbo led them to a spot ten yards from where the generals stood. Lt. Rabbo felt his body go cold. His head ached and he saw the scene plainly. It was a firing range, and it was an execution setting. His six men were a firing squad. He looked at the two colonels who now stood before the four generals. One read from a white paper.

The colonel read off the four men’s names and rank. All were generals. Rabbo recognized only Majid. The colonel continued. “Seeing that you have been found guilty of treason and high misdemeanors by a legally convened military court, you are hereby sentenced to death by firing squad. Sentence to be carried out with all due speed.”

The colonel turned. “Captain, is the firing squad ready?”

“A moment for instructions, Colonel.”

The six infantrymen stood with rifles slung. They still didn’t understand their part in this drama.

“Detail, unsling rifles, port arms, charge one round into the chamber, safety off.” He watched and listened as the
men obeyed. When all were ready he continued. “Rifles up, and aim at the first man on the left.”

Lieutenant Rabbo turned and saluted the colonel. “Colonel, sir. The firing squad is ready.”

“First man on the left, ready, aim … fire.” The six AK-47s fired and five slugs ripped into the chest of General Majid. He slammed backwards into the dirt and didn’t move.

The colonel waited a moment. “Aim at the next man. Ready, aim … fire.” Again the rifles barked one round and the second man pivoted and spun to the ground. He groaned and tried to crawl, then he gave a cry and died.

When the four generals were all dead, the colonels returned to the cab of the truck, the captain put the firing squad back in the truck, and it turned and drove down to the main road. There the six infantrymen were ordered out of the truck and it continued north toward its home base.

Lt. Rabbo put his six men under a tree and sat down with them. Nobody said a word. It was up to him. He tried to figure out what to say, but nothing surfaced. At last he just began.

“Men, we’ve been part of history here, tonight. We shot four men who undoubtedly deserved to be executed. It was not our choice. We were following the orders of our superior officers. Whether the executions were legal and proper, only the historians and legal experts will decide. Right now, we’re still in the army. When our battalion comes by, we’ll join it. I’ll report to our major, if he’s still alive, and try to find the rest of our platoon. Until then, get some sleep. It’s been a long day and night. For us, the war is over. I don’t see how we could possibly continue the war unless it’s to defend ourselves against an attack by Iraq on us. They may very well do that, but I wouldn’t think for some time so they can recover and reform their troops and fighting machines. So rest, I’m on guard duty.”

Lt. Rabbo went closer to the road and sat down. He knew he could stay awake, although it had been a totally
exhausting day. The fighting, the long march. The firing squad duty had been so unnerving that he wondered how he got through it.

He nodded and snapped up his head. The second time he nodded off he slumped to the ground and didn’t wake up for nearly three hours. By then a pathetic parade of wounded and defeated soldiers struggled by. It was daylight. Lt. Rabbo sat up, rubbed his eyes, leaped to his feet, and ran to the closest man.

“Third Battalion, what’s left of us?” the soldier said.

“You know where the First Battalion is?”

“Don’t know if any of them survived. If they did they should be behind us.”

An hour later he found the Third Battalion. At the end of the line the nine men from his platoon limped along. He joined them with his men from under the trees. No one asked any questions. By that time it had been grapevined through the survivors that the four top generals had been executed. They marched toward home. Lt. Rabbo was sure now the war was over. It would be many years before Iran tried to invade another country again, especially Iraq. He didn’t question his position now in the battalion. The major had been shot through the head and left on the battlefield. A captain was in charge, and two of the company commanders had been killed. There was plenty of room for advancement. He found his one remaining sergeant and left him in charge and moved up through the ranks, looking for the captain now commanding the First Battalion. The war was over. It was time to start working on plans for his own advancement, his own career in the army, for that’s where he would stay.

Cape Town, South Africa

Back in the hangar at the airport, Murdock and his platoon checked over weapons and equipment. Then Murdock called his idea men around a table and they began working through various scenarios that Badri could be following.

“He’s running, but to where?” Jaybird asked.

“In town or out of town?” DeWitt asked. “This is a big country.”

“Should we cover the airports, the smaller ones?” Lam asked.

“Wouldn’t hurt,” Murdock said. “He used small ones before. We’ll get Stroh on that. What else?”

“The city cops told me that the address we hit is on their watch list for al Qaeda activity,” Gardner said. “So he must be connected with them somehow. How does he find them once he gets close?”

Nobody knew. They sat there looking at each other.

“We’ve got no rope to throw at him,” Senior Chief Neal said. “Nothing to get our teeth into.”

Don Stroh had been on the phone at the side of the hangar. He hung up and hurried over.

“I just checked with the cops. They have an airport manager at a small strip outside town who just reported that a guy rented a plane with a stolen credit card. He was Arab and had a woman with him who looked English or American. Said he was a businessman.”

“Right plan?” Jaybird asked.

“Manager said he wouldn’t file one. He finally did when the manager told him he couldn’t rent the plane without one. Said he was going to Durban, but would have to stop at Port Elizabeth for gas.”

“How far is that?” Murdock asked. “Durban.”

“About four hundred and fifty miles. Cops said the manager said the guy took off about an hour ago. It took the manager that long to find out the credit card had been stolen.”

“Say it takes Badri two hours to get there,” Jaybird said. “We can make it in less than an hour.”

“Sure, but which airport?” Lam asked. “He can get refueled at any little strip.”

“Move it,” Murdock said. “Jaybird, run out to the plane and get the guys to warm her up for take off. We’ll check by radio when we’re in the air to see how many places a small plane can land.”

“On your feet, you guys,” Senior Chief Neal barked at the rest of the SEALs. “Take off in five. Bring all your gear. No telling where we’ll end up.”

In the air they checked with the Port Elizabeth airport. There were four modest air strips where small planes could land near the city. They had the identification number and the make of the plane they were hunting. Halfway to Port Elizabeth they began to radio the four small landing fields. Three of them responded and said they would watch for the suspect plane and delay any departure if possible. The fourth airstrip didn’t answer its radio call.

“Guess which one he’s gonna land at,” Lam said. “No advance notice and we get fucked again.”

Ten minutes before they landed at the main airport, they had word from one of the small landing fields. The plane had landed, and when the manager tried to stall the Arab, he pulled a gun, tied up the manager, and stole his car and roared off down the road. They were in town,
somewhere. Murdock growled. He knew the cops would find the stolen car empty and the Arabs and the First Lady nowhere around.

An hour later Murdock and Stroh talked to the Port Elizabeth police. They had found the stolen car, empty. It was downtown near a taxi stand.

Most of the SEALs stayed with the plane at the airport. Murdock took Jaybird, Lam, and Rafii and caught a taxi to the address where the stolen car had been found. They got out and looked around. Murdock asked Lam and Jaybird to stay in the taxi.

“What’s the first thing you’d do in a strange city?” Murdock asked Rafii.

The slender Arab rubbed his jaw and frowned. “First I’d look for some friends, in this case other Arabs. I’d call every Arab Friendship Center in the city.”

“Why wouldn’t he try for another al Qaeda cell?” Lam asked.