Tin Soldiers Page 6

  Khalani’s voice was doubtful. “You remain certain of success then?”

  Aref smiled thinly at the question. What did a holy man know of war? One American brigade was all that stood in the path of his plans. This brigade was nothing compared to the force preparing to sweep down on it from the north. They would be overwhelmed, as effective against his Republican Guard divisions as the tin soldiers he’d played with as a child. And once these tin soldiers fell, Kuwait’s riches, and the power in the Middle East, would be his. “Yes. It is inevitable, Uncle. En shallah.”

  Iron Tigers TOC, Northern Kuwait

  20 October, 1500 Hours Local

  Dillon sat patiently as the task force S2 went through the intelligence piece of the operations order. As the enemy situation was briefed, the Steel commander annotated unit sizes, dispositions, and locations on his personal map. Dillon kicked back on his field chair and mentally compared the current enemy information with what had been briefed at the morning update. There were no real changes, which was reassuring. While Dillon wasn’t afraid of seeing how his men would match up against Iraq’s most elite forces, there was an awful lot of them. Prudence was definitely called for.

  Lieutenant Colonel Estes stood and moved to the front as the Two stepped away from the briefing charts and mapboards.

  “Gentlemen,” began Estes, “there are a couple of things the Two didn’t tell you. I wanted him briefing you on hard intel only—here’s the rest of the story. I just returned from a two-hour meeting with Colonel Jones. The gist of that meeting was that the United States’ status in the Middle East has changed dramatically in the past twenty-four hours. Many of our longtime regional allies, with a few obvious exceptions, would like to see us out of here.”

  Estes pointed at the map, indicating the area to their south and west. “Case in point. As of this time tomorrow, all U.S. forces must vacate Saudi Arabia by order of the Saudi government.” The assembled group of officers and soldiers stirred uneasily. “That’s right. All of the airpower and Patriot missile batteries in Saudi are in the process of staging for redeployment, are in the process of moving, or are already gone. The Pentagon is shifting as many of the fighters and missiles as possible to Turkey and the few Arab states in the region still friendly to us, but there are only so many facilities.”

  Estes paused. “Next, it is believed that the Iraqi division across the border will attack within the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours.”

  Most of the audience stared at Estes in open-mouthed disbelief. One captain, a veteran of several Kuwait border tours, stifled a laugh. The type of operation that the Iron Tigers were currently conducting had been going on in Kuwait for well over ten years. Some of the deployments were more high-stress than others, depending on how Saddam was feeling, but since 1991 there had been no ground action between the U.S. and Iraq.

  “Let me be clear, gentlemen,” Estes continued, staring down the offending captain, “I am not joking.”

  Estes paused to read his leaders’ reactions, particularly his commanders. Stuart and Dillon returned his stare, as did Nelson Bowers, the infantry company commander assigned to Task Force Tiger. As Estes feared, Dan Malloy looked as if someone had his hand wrapped around Malloy’s balls and was applying pressure to the point of pain.

  He focused on Malloy as he continued. “Men, we have trained for worse than this. Sure, the Iraqis on the other side of the border have a three-to-one advantage against us. Under ordinary circumstances, that makes it a fifty-fifty proposition—but we’re better than that. You may not know it, but I do.” Estes shifted his eyes, holding contact with each of his commanders and members of his staff. “I’ve watched you, your companies, and your platoons train. I’ve watched this staff take a stinking brigade operations order and work magic with it so that our companies have a quality plan to fight. I know what all of you can do. But that’s not enough. You’ve got to know. And your men have got to believe. With that said, I’ll turn it over to the S3.” Estes sat down in a field chair near the map.

  All eyes turned toward Major Dave Barnett, the task force’s S3. Barnett was tall and lean. A nattier officer than most of his armor brethren, he sported a mustache thicker than normally seen in army circles. Barnett suspected that this didn’t exactly endear him to the brigade commander, Colonel Bill Jones. Jones had confirmed this suspicion the last time they’d met. “Dave,” Jones had said, “why would you attempt to nurture on your lip what grows naturally around your asshole?” Since the encounter, Barnett had begun applying wax to the mustache and rolling the tips into small points. With careful cultivation, it was now almost at the point that Barnett himself was satisfied with his efforts. It was, plainly speaking, a magnificent piece of facial hair.

  Barnett’s job as the S3 was planning the battalion’s, or when their tanks were mixed with infantry, as they were now, the task force’s, battles. During missions he positioned himself at the predicted pivotal point on the battlefield so he could provide Estes with the best recommendations possible. Inevitably his advice was sound and his situation reports delivered calmly—a rare thing on command radio nets.

  Barnett began in an even, controlled voice. “Gentlemen, our mission is to move ten kilometers north to positions overlooking the main approach into Kuwait. We will set a deliberate defense and stop any Iraqi forces attempting to penetrate.”

  As Barnett briefed, he pointed to the large map depicting the graphics for the upcoming mission. “As you can see, the brigade is straddling the major approach into Kuwait City. Kuwaiti units equipped with M1A2 tanks, Yugoslavian M-84 tanks—consider those T-72s for all practical purposes since that’s the vehicles they’re a variant of—and BMP2 infantry fighting vehicles are on Third Brigade’s flanks. It should be reiterated that while the Kuwaiti M1A2s have more modern fire-control systems than our tanks, they do not have the same armored protection.”

  This was something that everyone knew, but Barnett didn’t want anyone lulled into a false sense of security regarding their flanks. Troops tended to think the M1A1 incapable of destruction by enemy direct fire. The U.S. Army version of the M1A2 offered even better protection, along with an improved fire-control system. But the systems sold to Egypt, Kuwait, and Saudi Arabia didn’t include the top secret armored protection incorporated into the American tanks. Better safe than sorry considering that alliances in the region had shifted faster than desert sands over the years.

  Barnett continued. “If the Iraqis hold true to form, they’ll attack along the route we straddle. The terrain is better and they like to orient off of highways for command and control. We are in the center as the Third Brigade main effort. Task Force 2-35 Armor will deploy in a battle position to our left, covering the flank approach that runs through the wadi complex to our west. They’re heavy, with three tank companies and one mechanized infantry company, same as us. Task Force 2-8 Infantry will defend from the high ground to our right. They’re mech heavy with two mech infantry companies and one tank company. They’ll take advantage of the elevation at their position for long-range TOW shots with their Bradleys. While 2-8 has the easiest piece of terrain to cover, they are also losing a team that will be assigned as the brigade reserve, so they’re a little shorthanded.”

  Barnett paused and turned to the assembled soldiers. “Any questions on how Colonel Jones plans to deploy the brigade?”

  Nelson Bowers raised a hand.

  Barnett pointed at Bowers. “Nelson?”

  “Sir, no questions on the brigade’s disposition, but could we break long enough to send warning orders to our companies. We need to get them moving now.”

  “Good point, Nelson, but we’re getting ready to send those warning orders out for you. Your XOs will start moving the companies while you’re here receiving the order. You should get to your new battle positions about the same time that your troops do. That work?”

  The infantryman nodded. “Hooah, sir.”

  Barnett continued. “After receiving our final instructions from
Third Brigade, our task organization remains unchanged except for the addition of a few combat multipliers, such as two FOX chemical recon vehicles and a couple of ground surveillance radars.”

  The S3 Air pulled the task organization chart up and pointed out unit compositions as Barnett briefed them. “Task Force 2-77 Armor is now designated Task Force Tiger. We’ll have the following company/teams under our control. A Company, 2-77 Armor. . . .” Barnett looked toward the A Company commander.

  “Yes, sir?” answered Dan Malloy.

  “Your call sign will be Anvil. Your composition, fourteen tanks.”

  Malloy scribbled the S3’s words down verbatim, though it was the same task organization he’d had since taking command.

  “B Company,” said Barnett.

  “Yes, sir,” called out Stuart.

  “You will detach one tank platoon to B Company, 2-8 Infantry. B Company, 2-8 will give you one of their mech infantry platoons. Call sign Team Black Knight. Final composition, ten tanks, four Bradleys.”

  Stuart nodded as he wrote the changes to his task organization. “Got it.”

  “C Company.”

  “Sir,” answered Dillon.

  “No change. Call sign Cold Steel, composition fourteen M1A1s.”

  “Roger,” answered Dillon, returning to the map he’d been reviewing.

  “B Company, 2-8 Infantry.”

  “Hooah, sir.”

  Barnett turned serious. “Nelson, unfortunately we already have a B Company in the battalion, so my staff and I worked long and hard to come up with a totally original call sign for your team—a call sign that will have all of your grunt brethren in the infantry battalion green with envy. Care to guess?”

  Bowers rolled his eyes. “Sir . . . not Team Mech?”

  “Give that man a cigar! Team Mech, composition, ten Bradley Fighting Vehicles plus the tank platoon discussed earlier from Team Knight. Nelson, you and Mike get the hand-offs for the exchange of those platoons worked out before you leave here, and it needs to happen soonest.”

  Both captains “rogered” simultaneously.

  Barnett continued. “With the addition of my tank and Tiger Six’s, that’s a total combat strength of forty-four M1A1 tanks and fourteen M2 Bradleys. Gentlemen, we can kill a lot of shit with that kind of firepower . . . if we execute properly.”

  Barnett paused to let the company/team commanders catch their breath before moving into the defense plan. “Okay, gents, here’s how we’ll crack this nut. . . . Are any of you familiar with Rommel’s African campaign of World War Two?”

  Dan Malloy raised a hand and smiled smugly. He might not be a warrior in the minds of the other company commanders, but he’d always been number one in his military history classes.

  Barnett smiled. “Well, Dan, I’m not fucking Rommel and this isn’t fucking northern Africa, so forget everything you know. . . .”

  As the meeting broke up, Dillon and Stuart headed for the exit, pausing only long enough to secure their gear from the makeshift hooks hanging around the inner edges of the briefing tent. Adjusting their 9mm pistol shoulder holsters and protective masks, the commanders draped their remaining gear around their shoulders, grabbed their helmets, and strode from the TOC.

  As they walked toward the group of command Hummers a few meters away, Dillon turned to his friend. “So what do you think?”

  Stuart kept walking as he answered, shaking his head. “I guess with all that’s been going on it shouldn’t come as much of a surprise, yet somehow it does. After seeing this same mission pulled over and over again by different units, to be the one sitting here when they tell you thousands of Iraqis are going to be screaming across the border with the sole purpose of waxing your ass . . .”

  Dillon nodded. “At a personal level, it’s a bit of a shocker. I think that’s the sentiment you’re attempting to express?”

  Stuart stopped at his Hummer. “Fuck you very much, Dr. Freud—but yes.”

  Dillon smiled at his friend. He was having the same thoughts himself. “It’s no big thing, Mikey. It’s what we do.”

  Stuart returned a tight smile and took Dillon’s hand in the gathering twilight. “You got that right, buddy. See you on the high ground.”

  Dillon turned to his own vehicle, then hesitated and turned back. “Hey, Mike?”

  “Yeah, man?” said Stuart, climbing into the large all-purpose vehicle.

  Dillon opened his arms wide. “You need a hug?”

  Stuart, laughing, turned to his driver and gave the classic cavalry forward signal with his arm. “Get us the hell out of here.”

  Cold Steel Battle Position, Northern Kuwait

  21 October, 0635 Hours Local

  Dillon looked at his platoon leaders. They had as little as twenty-four hours to prepare their defensive position. He now had to find out how much they’d really learned in their time together. Dillon had his XO, platoon leaders, fire support officer, and an engineer lieutenant with him. They stood in the middle of a large open area north of the company battle position.

  “Okay, guys, we’ve done this before. The only difference is that this time, the target effects from your weapons will be just a little more obvious. That and the fact that if your tanks don’t reposition to alternate firing positions after you fire a couple of rounds, they will be toast. Some Republican Guard tank commander will fire your ass up, given sufficient opportunity.”

  Dillon waited a couple of seconds before proceeding to make sure the last statement sank in. Training time was over. Tanks wouldn’t be magically brought back to life if a stupid mistake occurred.

  With the early-morning sun at his back, standing in the middle of the piece of desert where he intended to kill the majority of the forces attacking into his engagement area, Dillon gestured with his arms at the surrounding desert. “To begin with, you’re standing in the middle of our engagement area. Can you see our left and right limits of fire?” He pointed to the Battlefield Reference Marking System panels on the ground that the company’s gunners were to use as left- and right-side reference points. Ground forces used these panels, called “brims” for short, throughout their engagement areas to mark and divide the battlefield. Day-Glo orange on the side facing friendly forces and desert camouflaged on the side facing approaching enemy troops, they also had several distinctive patterns on the friendly side so gunners could quickly distinguish between different reference points.

  Dillon continued. “All right, big picture. Our task force is in the center of the Third Brigade defense. The 2-35 Armor is deployed in that broken terrain to the task force’s left. 2-8 Infantry is deployed on that high ground to the right.”

  Dillon stopped speaking and looked closely at his young leaders. They stared north at the endless desert, stared as phantom tanks rushed south, bent on their personal destruction. They weren’t hearing a word.

  “Damn it, stay with me!” yelled Dillon. All eyes snapped to him.

  “We’re with you, boss,” said Bluto, settling back into the here and now.

  Dillon shook his head and pulled his Copenhagen from a pocket. He thumped the can twice, opened it, and took a pinch before continuing. He offered the can to the lieutenants. All heads shook no simultaneously.

  Dillon shrugged. “Look, fellas, do you think I’m not scared? I could shit my pants, but none of us has the time for that. What we have to do is get our acts together and carry out the jobs we’re trained for.”

  In the silence, Dillon could hear nothing but the murmur of the mild desert wind blowing from the west. Start slowly, he told himself. Get them back to the basics.

  He looked at Hancock. “Okay, Doc. From what direction do we expect the attack to originate?”

  Doc immediately pointed north. “Sir, the major avenue of approach is from the north. The terrain in the west where 2-35 is defending is slow-go, what with the wadi system running through it, but they could try it. The rocky high ground to the task force’s east denies the enemy our right flank.” Hancock quit speaking
, suddenly aware that he actually had a clue as to what was happening.

  “Good,” said Dillon.

  He turned to Takahashi. “Ben, what’s the next thing we want to identify?”

  “Where to kill them, sir,” answered Takahashi.

  “Correct. And where is that?”

  “Where we’re standing.”

  “Very good.” Dillon grabbed a stake and jabbed it into the ground at his feet, then picked up the hammer he’d brought along. He slammed the stake with the hammer. “Right”—another smashing blow—“ fucking”—one final downward stroke—“here!” The leaders stared at the spot, no doubt in their minds where Dillon wanted enemy blood to saturate the desert floor.

  Dillon turned to Mason. “XO, have the brim representing the company target reference point emplaced here. Also, tape thermal pads on it in the shape of a cross so the gunners can pick it up in their thermal imaging systems. But don’t have the pads activated until sunset. They’re only gonna be good for a few hours, so we don’t want to waste them.”

  Mason nodded, took note of the grid coordinate on his GPS receiver, and then copied the information into his notebook. “Wilco, sir.”

  Dillon turned to the engineer, who was under his control for the upcoming mission. He hadn’t worked with the lieutenant before, a fact that he didn’t like at all. “Sapper. What can you do to persuade the bad guys to move into our engagement area and how can you keep them here long enough for us to finish them?”

  The lieutenant carried a clipboard, but he didn’t refer to it. “Sir, my primary mission for your company, after digging in your tanks, of course, is to put in a blocking obstacle forward of your position to pin the enemy. If I remember correctly, most of your tanks can kill past three thousand meters with the depleted-uranium sabot round, correct, sir?”