A Desert Called Peace (54 page)

 
Artillery conquers and infantry occupies.

—J.F.C. Fuller

Three times the green light had come on and three times a stick of seven to nine men had stood up, hooked up, and shuffled out the door of the stealthy Dodo. With each lightening of the plane Sergeant Robles had felt a corresponding sinking of his spirits.

As the others had jumped, Robles' squad had slid their posteriors down the folding troop seats lining both sides of the plane to get nearer the single, left side door. The Dodo had a ramp that could have been used but lowering it tended to destroy the stealthy characteristics added by Zion.

Robles and his Cazadors held their static lines carefully in their right hands as they slid. They hadn't bothered with reserve chutes. The jump was going to be at three hundred and fifty feet above ground level. By the time a trooper realized his main had failed and pulled the ripcord for the reserve he would already have joined molecules in a sort of disassociated way with the snow, dirt, grass and rocks below.

At the rear of the cargo compartment the crew chief ordered, "Stand up!" No one heard a thing, of course, over the roar of the engines. It didn't matter; the chief made a hand and arm motion that the men could see well enough and that got them to their feet.

"Hook up!" They didn't hear that either but saw the chief making the
hook up
motion with his right hand. They followed along.

"Stand in the door," the chief mouthed before using his hands to show the first jumper exactly where he wanted him. The men shuffled forward. Robles, in the lead, let go his static line and stood, left foot forward, with hands grasping either side of the door that was left open to the air.

Robles almost lost his footing as the plane lurched upward to crest a ridgeline and then dove downward several hundred feet.

The red light at the rear turned green. The crew chief slapped Robles' butt. The sergeant used his bent legs to propel him up and out. Once outside and past the plane's slipstream he fell and fell. There was a minor shock as the static line deployed the chute followed by a major one as the chute filled with air. In the dim and diffuse moonlight that filtered through the cloud cover overhead Robles saw other chutes deploying.

Then he saw tracers rising from the ground to try to meet the aircraft.

"Chingada,"
he whispered to himself.
Something tipped them off that we were coming.

"Dodos A and B both report that their teams are inserted, sirs. Dodo B says it took fire on its last drop and that we must assume the team is compromised."

"What can we do, Patricio?" Parilla asked.

"Not a goddamned thing! Son of a bitch, Thomas."

"Do we have radio contact with the last team?" Carrera demanded of Soult, hovering over the bank of radios in the command post.

"Nothing, sir."

"What would you do if we did have radio contact?" Parilla enquired.

"Give them some artillery," Carrera answered. "Send in four of the Crickets to try to extract them. Air support. Whatever it took."

"Can we move up the attack?"

"No. Rather, we could, and then lose half the effect of the artillery—which depends on
timing—
and lose fifty more men, or five hundred, assaulting up the ridge."

"
Chingada.
So they're really on their own. Shit."

Robles cursed his luck, cursed the Sumeris, and cursed Parilla and Carrera, too. His ribs hurt; he thought some of them were broken. The rope tied around his neck burned where the Sumeris had pulled to lead him and his men from the spot where his team had been ambushed, pinned and forced to surrender. A truck had driven the five remaining—two had been killed to Robles' certain knowledge and another man was missing and likely dead—to the top of the fortress on Hill 1647.

Then the beatings began. First just a beating, no questions. Then more beatings, interspersed with what sounded like questions. Robles' tongue poked at the places where the Sumeris had knocked some of his teeth out. Shock and endorphins kept the pain to a barely tolerable level.

Mukkaddam
Ali al Tikriti cursed as well as he punched the current object of his attention for perhaps the fortieth time. He had no Spanish; neither did any of his men. All he could manage was a little English and none of his prisoners seemed to have any or were willing to admit it if they did. Still, useless effort or not, it felt good to strike at some of the men who were part of the attack to overthrow his clan and the country they ruled.

Fiends!

The Sumeri lieutenant colonel also cursed his lack of information. He knew that the attack, by air at least, had already begun in the south. Here, though, the enemy were generally quiet, even more so than usual. He knew from the Yezidi that they had earlier moved tanks to within a couple of kilometers of Hill 1647. Was it a show of force? A demonstration? Preparations for an attack? Ali didn't know. And he had to know. The brigade commander, who was also his uncle, had told him that higher headquarters had promised reinforcements and artillery support but only if the Balboan troops attacked or he had positive information that they would attack.

Ali reached down to pull Robles up by his hair. "You tell!" he screamed at the young Balboan. In answer, Robles spit a bloody wad onto the Sumeri's uniform.

The enraged Sumeri pushed Robles back into the grasp of a guard. "Kill the bastard. Slowly."

The guard pushed a stick into the loop of rope around Robles' neck. Then he began to twist the stick, tightening the rope. As his air was cut off by the tightening, strangling cord Robles thrashed and twisted. His struggles were in vain. Tongue bloated and protruding, eyes bugging from his head, fingernails broken and bleeding where he had scratched at the earth and rocks in his last moments, Robles died.

Ali pulled another Balboan to the fire step and pointed to the south. "Tell me," he screamed again. Since this soldier had no more Arabic or English than had Robles . . . 

CLICK.

As the time of action neared Carrera grew cold and calm. Parilla, on the other hand, and despite the Chaldean brandy, only grew more nervous. Now
he
paced from one side of the small basement room in the Mangesh police fort to another.

Carrera looked up at him from the table he sat behind. "Relax, Raul, it won't be too long now."

"How can you be so damn complacent, Patricio? This is a complex operation. A million and one things could go wrong."

Carrera stubbed out a cigarette. "You are confusing detailed planning with a complex problem, Raul. Really, the problem is very simple. We pound them silly with artillery and mortars, teaching them to stay under cover and moving up and breaching their obstacles while their heads are still down. Then we assault like ten thousand screaming maniacs across the top. The Cazador teams and RPVs spot for and call in artillery to seal off the fortresses on their far sides while the rifle cohorts do a detailed clearing of the hilltops. By the time they can put in a serious counterattack, if they ever can, we are dug in and ready to beat them bloody. It's really quite simple. Relax."

Parilla just shook his head and resumed his pacing, sipping occasionally at a cup filled with brandy.

"I want to go first, with the lead elements," Parilla announced.

"We've been over this before, Raul. Your place is here.
I
am going with the lead forces."

"No, Patricio. I am either in command or I am not. Oh, yes, yes, I
know
that practical command is yours. And I've been fine with that. Really, I have. You know what you are doing and I am a comparative amateur. But for this,
precisely
because you know what you are doing and the real doing of the thing will be here, you should stay here, or in the forward command post.

"On the other hand, I am able enough to do one thing. And that is to set the example by leading from in front. So no, my sometimes subordinate, this time
I
make the rule and my ruling is that I go first."

Parilla's face looked very determined. Carrera measured it and . . . 

"You're sixty years old, Raul.
Can
you lead from in front?"

"I'm as fit as I ever was," Parilla insisted, then smiled wickedly. "And if you don't believe me just call home and ask my wife. Yes, friend, I am fit enough for this."

"Oh, all right then, you old fool," Carrera agreed with seeming bad grace. He lightened and smiled after a moment's reflection. "And I understand the need. You can lead. I'll stay with the forward CP at
Stollen
Number Three."

"And on that happy note . . . Jamey, bring around the vehicle. We're moving forward."

Stollen
Number Two, 0458 hours, 13/2/461 AC

It was almost time for the artillery to let fly when Parilla and Carrera reached the line of
Stollen
. They separated, Parilla going to the first and second
Stollen
while Carrera went to give a few words of encouragement to the men sheltering in the third and fourth.

Parilla could smell the excitement, overlaid with fear, in the close confines of the
Stollen
. He could smell it even over the buckets filled with shit and piss that the men had used to relieve themselves for days on end, only venturing out to empty them when the sun was down and clouds covered the moons and the stars.

Parilla exuded confidence, as well he should have since he had— reluctantly—spent most of his adult life as a politician, albeit a uniformed one. He walked around the Stollen easily enough as the men had cleared spaces when they'd stowed their personal gear away for the coming assault.

The men stood in ranks around the edges of the concrete floor. Their faces were painted in whites and blacks, proper camouflage for snowy ground. They wore their white overgarments that had been made from bed sheets back in Balboa. The Helvetian helmets, painted white, gave them a satanic look. The rifles, machine guns and rocket and grenade launchers they gripped in their hands were clean and freshly oiled. The oil, too, lent an aroma to the closed confines of the Stollen.

The Sapper section for the 2nd Cohort carried a mix of equipment. There were three flamethrowers, several satchel charges, and a small plastic sled which contained a rocket-propelled mine clearing line charge, or MCLC. Many of the riflemen, too, carried engineering implements: grappling hooks on ropes, sections of bangalore, and still more satchel charges.

Parilla walked among the men, clapping a shoulder here, giving a kind word there, reaching out to pat a cheek or grasp and shake an earlobe when he recognized someone from the old days. Mostly, though, he just looked the men in the faces, his own face smiling with confidence as if to say, "We can do this."

After a few minutes, Parilla turned to go. The door to the
Stollen
opened letting in the crashing thunder of the artillery and mortars. He was about to leave but then suddenly turned back to the men.

"CAN WE DO THIS?" Parilla bellowed.

"Fuckin' A, we can, sir!"

"Goddamn right."

With that shout ringing in his ears, Parilla emerged back into the darkness of the night. Overhead he heard the mixed drone of the legion's remotely piloted aircraft, fixed wing and small helicopters both, beating their way forward to the objective.

Forward Command Post,
Stollen
Number Three, 0503 hours, 13/2/461 AC

A small portion of the shelter had been marked off and partitioned with empty ammunition boxes to create a distinct command post.

Carrera glanced at his watch. "Almost showtime, boys and girls." He stood up from his field table and walked over to the Ic , the MI, desk in one corner of the bunker. "Report."

Fernandez stood up. "Sir, we have seven deep recon teams in position. The eighth is missing. I have had the
ala
redirect a Cricket to cover that sector and to look for sign of our men. Four RPVs and four remotely piloted helicopters are moving to the far side of the objective. We observe no noticeable change in posture on the objective. Some Sumeri artillery and mortars have been identified."

Carrera looked over at the Fire Support desk. The FSO volunteered, "From the Ic I have two batteries of guns, believed to be 122mm, and one of large caliber mortars. I have assigned one section each of multiple rocket launchers to the guns and the enemy heavy mortars. Countdown to time on target has begun. Communications are excellent. The Target Acquisition and Counterbattery Century is standing by."

Carrera paced to the Ia, or Operations, desk. Kennison just raised a thumb and smiled. Carrera gave the thumbs up signal as well. He studied the map for a few minutes then, nodding and placing his helmet on his head, and walked across the bunker to the exit.

As Carrera closed behind him the double tarp that kept light from escaping from the
Stollen
, he heard the FSO beginning the final ninety seconds countdown. To his left as he walked along the trench to his observation position he saw a bright flash light up the horizon. He stopped to watch as a few, and then dozens, of flashes joined the first. He didn't try to count them. He knew there would be nearly sixteen hundred shells and rockets sent toward Hill 1647 in the first minute of the bombardment. But still he stayed to watch as the muzzle blasts of ninety-seven guns, mortars, and rocket launchers lit the landscape like so many strobe lights. It was strangely beautiful.

In the Great Global War, at its beginning, I'd have needed three times the guns for the same effect. Shells have improved. Propellants burn cooler now so guns can fire more, faster. Gotta love the modern age.