Rogue Forces (31 page)

N
EAR
A
LLIED
A
IR
B
ASE
N
AHLA
, I
RAQ

A
SHORT TIME LATER

“
Incoming
!” Charlie Turlock shouted. “Whack…?”

“I got it,” Wayne Macomber responded. He had had his electromagnetic rail gun out and ready ever since the first mortar shell had been fired toward them about an hour or so ago. Charlie Turlock’s millimeter wave radar system built into her CID robot scanned the skies around them for miles, allowing her to detect the projectiles and instantaneously transmit tracking and targeting information to Wayne’s targeting computers.

Charlie Turlock also carried her electromagnetic rail gun, but all of her projectiles had already been expended shooting down mortars and her reloads had been blown up when the Sagger destroyed the first Humvee. The forty-millimeter rockets in her backpack might not be fast enough to intercept the mortar shells, but Macomber’s rail gun was more than capable. He simply raised his rifle, using his suit’s powered exoskeleton like a precision aiming platform, and followed the tracking information relayed from the CID unit. He didn’t have to lead the mortar round very much—the electromagnetic rail gun projectiles flew a dozen times faster than a sniper rifle bullet and destroyed the round easily.

“Salvo!” Charlie shouted. “Four more inbound!”

“Bastards,” Whack muttered. That was the first time they’d fired more than one at a time. He hit all four easily, but now problems were developing. “I’m getting low on ammo—I’m on the last magazine, six more left,” he said. “I’m also going to need fresh batteries for the rifle and for me.”

One of the technicians ran over to the remaining Humvee, searched for a few moments, then ran over to Macomber. “No more fresh batteries left,” he said. “We’ll have to plug you in.”

“Swell,” Whack said. The tech unreeled a power cord from a storage hatch on the back of Macomber’s suit, ran it back to the
Humvee, and plugged it into a power receptacle. “Charlie, you’re going to have to try intercepting any more rounds. I’m going to boost my power levels before we have to start moving out. I’ve got just enough juice in the gun to fire the last remaining projectiles.”

“Roger,” Charlie responded. “I haven’t seen any of those rounds explode, and the projected track shows them missing us. Maybe they’re not live rounds. They’re lobbing them in just to see what we’d do.”

“Glad we’re providing them with some entertainment,” Whack said. “Can you compute the firing location?”

“Already have. They haven’t moved it. I can take it out if you want, or drop a gas rocket on them.”

“I don’t want those guys riled up just yet, and we have to save ammo,” Whack said.

“Another helicopter inbound, guys,” Patrick McLanahan radioed. “Coming from Turkey this time, higher speed. Might be a gunship. About ten minutes out.”

“Copy,” Wayne Macomber replied. “Okay, Doc, time to pack it up.”

“Patrick said ten minutes? I’ll take that.”

“No, because in ten minutes we’ll be in range of whatever missiles or rockets that chopper might be carrying, and then it’ll be too late,” Whack said.

“All right,” Jon said dejectedly. “We got the laser radar and satellite comm boxes. I guess that’ll have to do. Too much stuff for one Humvee; we’ll have to put it all on the trailer.”

It didn’t take long for the group to pack up their equipment. Whack led the way, carrying his rail gun high so the Turkish soldiers could all see it. Charlie carried her spare backpack in her left armored hand and her empty electromagnetic rail gun in her right, hoping just the sight of it might scare some of the Turks. All the engineers squashed together in the surviving Humvee, and all their tools, equipment, and retrieved boxes were in the trailer.

“How long until our help arrives, General?” Whack asked on his secure command channel.

“They look like they’re changing formations, Whack,” Patrick asked. “Try to stall as long as you can.”

“What about that chopper?”

“Couple minutes more.”

“Those numbers aren’t matching, General,” Whack said grimly. On the Turkish command channel he had detected, he said, “Listen up, Captain Evren. We’re coming out. We don’t want a fight with you guys. We’re going to bring our stuff back into the base. Make way.”

“No, Americans,” Evren responded a moment later, the surprise that his radio channel was being used by the robots obvious in his voice. “You will be detained and that equipment confiscated. You assaulted members of my unit and myself. For this you must be punished.”

Whack stopped the convoy. “Captain, listen to me very carefully,” he said. “You know what
we
can do. What you might not know is that we have an unmanned aircraft circling overhead. If you don’t believe me, look up.” At that instant Patrick shut down and restarted the engine on the AGM-177 Wolverine he had orbiting over the area, which caused a streak of brown smoke to become visible for a few seconds. “That is an attack drone, and it can take out all of your armor and your men with guided bomblets. I’ll order it flown over your positions before we move in, and when it’s done we’ll take care of anyone that’s still standing. Now move aside.”

“I have my orders, American,” Evren said. “You will lay down your weapons and power off the robot and the drone and surrender. If you do not, we will attack.”

“Got an ID on that inbound chopper, Whack,” Charlie said. “Cobra gunship. More U.S. surplus. Can’t see his weapons but I’ll bet he’s loaded for bear.”

“Last chance, Captain,” Whack said. “Otherwise we start shooting. Move aside.”

“I will not. Surrender or be killed. In case you have not noticed, we have our own air support. It is not as advanced as your unmanned aircraft, but I assure you it is deadly. After it attacks, there will be nothing left of you for us to, as you say, take care of.”

“I’m going to have to take out that Cobra first, Charlie,” Whack said. “Watch my back—they’re bound to open fire when—”

Suddenly Charlie shouted, “Missile launch!”

“From where, Charlie?”

“Behind us!” Just then they heard a loud BANG! Whack and Charlie turned just in time to see a spiral of white smoke arc skyward and hit the Cobra. The helicopter started a hard right bank, seemed to wobble, then started a downward autorotational spin until it hit the ground in a hard but survivable crash.

“
Hold your fire! Hold your fire
!” Whack shouted on the Turkish command channel. On their discrete channel, he radioed, “I hope that was you, Jaffar.”

“Yes, Macomber,” Colonel Yusuf Jaffar responded on the discrete command channel. His northern battalion had hit the Cobra gunship with a Stinger shoulder-fired missile. “Sorry we are late, but I believe you are early. No matter. We are all here and ready to take on the Turks.”

“Hopefully no one will take on anyone here,” Whack said. He gave Jaffar the Turkish company’s frequency, then said on that channel, “The Cobra gunship was hit by an Iraqi antiaircraft missile, Captain Evren,” he said. “The Iraqi Nahla brigade is advancing on this position.” At that moment he could see the Turkish troops on the right start to fidget and rustle about; they had apparently gotten a visual on the northernmost battalion. “Captain Evren?”

After a somewhat long and uncomfortable pause: “Yes, American.”

“I don’t command the Iraqi army, and you did invade their country,” Whack said, “but my forces are not going to attack unless we are attacked first. I ask Colonel Jaffar not to attack as well. He is listening in. He is going to escort my team back to Nahla Air Base. I urge everyone to remain calm and keep your fingers off the trigger. Captain, if you would like to send a team out to inspect the downed Cobra, you may do so. Colonel Jaffar, would that be acceptable?”

“That would be acceptable,” Jaffar replied.

“Good. Captain, we’re on the move. Make way, and everyone be calm.”

It was quite an impressive sight. Off the main highway north of Nahla, the Tin Man and the CID robot, with their rail gun rifles now slung over their shoulders, led the Humvee towing the trailer full of parts and tools across the open field. The Turkish platoons were arrayed on either side of the highway in front of them. Coming in from the northwest was a full battalion of Iraqi infantry, and coming in on the highway northeast of the base was another Iraqi battalion. They all converged on the intersection of the two highways.

Wayne found Captain Evren at the side of the highway, stopped, and gave him a salute. The captain returned the salute, but kept his eyes on the spectacle of the ten-foot-tall CID unit striding up to him and rendering a salute as well. “My God…!”

“Charlie Turlock, Captain Evren,” Charlie said, holding out a large armored hand after lowering her salute. “How are you? Thanks for not shooting.”

Evren was stunned by the robot’s flexibility and lifelike movements. It took him several long amusing moments to take the robot’s hand and shake it. “It…it is a machine, but it moves like a man…!”

“A woman, if you don’t mind,” Charlie said.

Colonel Jaffar approached a few minutes later. Evren rendered a salute, but Jaffar didn’t return it. “So, you command this company, Turk?”

“Yes, sir. Captain Evren, Siyah Company, Forty-first Security—”

“I do not care who you are or what unit you are with, Turk,” Jaffar said. “All I care about is when you will return home and leave my country in peace.”

“That depends on when Iraq stops protecting murderous Kurds that drive bomb trucks into police buildings and kill innocent Turks, sir!”

“I am not here to listen to your political tirades, Turk! I need to know when you will move your goons out of my country!”

Whack glanced at Charlie. She didn’t have to move much, but a ten-foot-tall robot just raising its armored hands in surrender was
plenty to get everyone’s attention. “Can’t we all just get along?” she said. She clasped her hands to her cheek. “Pretty please?” The sight of the big combat robot acting like a shy schoolgirl made even the gruff Colonel Jaffar chuckle, and hundreds of soldiers, Turks and Iraqis alike, joined in the laughter.

“This is not the time or place for an argument, guys,” Whack said. “Why don’t we take this back to the base? It’s almost dinnertime, if I’m not mistaken. Why don’t we all sit down, have a meal, and take a load off?”

I
RBIL
, I
RAQ

T
HAT SAME TIME

“Where’s my damned air?” General Besir Ozek shouted. “They’re ten minutes late!” He grabbed the microphone out of the communications officer’s hand. “
Resim
, this is
Sican
One. Your squadron had better get their shit together or I’m coming back up there to kick your ass!”

Ozek was in the cab of an ACV-300 command post vehicle, part of headquarters company of Third Division, which was smashing through eastern Iraq. Ozek’s forces were ordered to proceed only as far as Irbil Northwest Airport, seize it for resupply and to cut off trade and commerce to the Kurdistan capital, and hold, but he had ordered a mechanized infantry battalion to proceed to the outskirts of the city itself.

The battalion had established a security perimeter in a large area that had been cleared of older buildings to make room for newer high-rise housing, northwest of the city itself. He had good visibility all around him for any signs of counterattack from
peshmerga
, PKK, regular Iraqi forces, or the Americans; so far none of those fighting organizations had meaningfully threatened his army, but it was better to be safe than sorry. The
peshmerga
was the biggest threat. Reports differed as to the size of the
peshmerga,
but even the most optimistic estimate made them twice as large as the four divisions Ozek had at his command, and they had some armor as well.

And there had been reports of growing resistance in Iraq. Like good rats, the PKK was deep in hiding, of course, but the Americans were starting to become restless, and the Iraqi units that had mysteriously disappeared right before the invasion were starting to pop up. Ozek had heard some reports of contact with American and Iraqi forces near Mosul, but no word on any casualties so far.

Ozek picked the area for other reasons as well: he was just north
of Sami Abdul Rahman Park, a memorial park for a slain Kurdistan Regional Government official and PKK sympathizer; he was also well within mortar range of the parliament building of the Kurdistan Regional Government, so the Kurdish politicians should be able to get a good look at his army advancing on their city.

Ozek exited the command post vehicle and shouted, “Major!” A very young-looking infantry major stepped quickly over to him. “Our air is late, so you’ll have to continue for a few more minutes.”

“We’ve dropped on every target in the list, sir,” the battalion commander said. “We’ve reattacked the top ten on the list.”

Ozek pulled a slip of paper out of his jacket. “I made up a new list. The defense ministry was talking about targeting businesses in Irbil that support the PKK…well, until they give me the official go-ahead, I found a bunch of them myself. Those are their addresses. Find them on the map and drop.”

The major studied the list, and his eyes widened in surprise. “Uh, sir, this address is inside the Citadel.”

“I know that,” Ozek said. “It’s a bazaar that has shops owned by some of the same guys we’ve already been bombarding. Why should they be left out?”

“But it’s inside the Citadel, sir,” the major repeated. The Citadel of Irbil was an ancient stone wall in the center of the city encircling the archaeological ruins of the original city, which dated back to 2300
B.C.
Although the city had been occupied by many nations over the centuries, the Citadel had been considered sacred ground to all of them, and some sections of it were a thousand years old. “What if we hit the archaeological sites?”

“I’m not worried about a few mud huts and cart paths,” Ozek said. “I can look out there and see a Kurdistan flag flying from inside that place, so I know the PKK hides out there. I want those shops brought down. Do it.”

“With respect, sir,” he major said, “our job is to root out the PKK. They may run and hide in the cities, but they don’t live in Irbil. Our scouts and counterintelligence units tell us the
peshmerga
have been shadowing us, but they haven’t dared make contact. We
shouldn’t give them a reason to do so. We’ve already shelled targets in the city; bombing the Citadel might be the last straw.”

“I understand you are afraid of the
peshmerga
, Major,” Ozek said. “I’ve encountered them more than once in my career in the border areas. They are good in the mountains and the outback, but they are nothing but glorified guerrilla fighters. They’re not going to come after a regular army unit in a frontal assault. They have never fought as anything other than tribal enforcers. They’re just as likely to fight each other as us. In fact, I would welcome the chance to get a few of their battalions to engage us—destroy a few of their braver units, and the whole Kurdistan conglomeration might fold once and for all.”

“Yes, sir,” the major said, “but may I recommend we fire only smoke into the Citadel? You know how some revere that place, especially in the Kurdish region. They—”

“I don’t need a history lesson from you, Major,” Ozek snapped. “Get going on that list immediately. Same procedures as before: smoke to disperse the residents and mark for accuracy, high explosive to bring down the roofs, and white phosphorus to burn the place down. Get on it.”

Just as he dismissed the artillery commander with a wave of his hand, a soldier ran up to him and saluted. “Gunship is moving into position, sir.”

“About damned time.” He went back to the command post vehicle and grabbed the radio microphone. “
Resim
One-Eight, this is
Sican
One, how do you read?”

“Loud and clear,
Sican
,” the pilot of the AC-130H Spectre gunship reported. “One minute to on station.”

“Show me Tango One,” Ozek said. A television monitor flared to life, showing the sensor image being transmitted from the gunship. It showed a wide-angle image of the southern part of Irbil, about eight hundred yards south of the Citadel. The sensor operator switched to narrow field of view and zoomed into an overhead view of the Irbil bazaar. He followed the main highway south along the edge of the bazaar until crossing a major avenue, then started count
ing buildings as he continued south. “Just south of the bakery, north of the apartment building…that’s the one,” Ozek radioed. The sensor operator had locked onto the headquarters of the Masari Bank of Kurdistan, one of the largest banks in northern Iraq…and widely known to support the PKK through money laundering, international money exchange, and collecting donations around the world.

“
Resim
is locked and ready,
Sican
,” the pilot reported. The AC-130 began a left orbit around the target, with a side-mounted heads-up display and Instrument Landing System–like director needles showing the pilot exactly where to position the plane.

“Proceed, “Ozek said, then stepped out of the command vehicle and looked to the southeast. This was his first time seeing an AC-130 attack in person…

…and he felt a little disappointed. Most AC-130 attacks take place in darkness, where the muzzle flashes of the aircraft’s 40-millimeter cannon and 105-millimeter howitzer lit up the night like nothing else. He saw the howitzer round hit and a column of smoke arch into the sky before he heard the BOOM! of the gun and the explosion on the ground, and he wished he had stayed to watch the hit on the screen—he was going to have to wait for the video replay.

He went back to the command vehicle and looked at the sensor image. Smoke still mostly obscured the view, but the bank building looked obliterated, as did parts of the bakery and apartment building facing the bank. The precision of that gunship was amazing—that shot was from over twenty thousand feet overhead!

“Looks like a good shot,
Resim
,” Ozek radioed. “No signs of antiaircraft response. If you’re good to go, we’ve got quite a few targets on our list. We’ll be firing some mortar rounds from our position into the north part of the city; they should be no factor for you. Let’s have a look at Tango Two.”