Battleline (2007) (2 page)

Now Brigadier Khohollah called the Zaheya to stand at ease. "Soldiers!" he addressed them. "You have been brought here as a vanguard. This is a great honor for a small fighting group such as we. There are great plans that will result in our nation and religion avenging the past injustices and encroachments of the West. These are humiliations that have been forced on us for more than ninety years. When you have finally prevailed in this holy struggle, the people of the Middle East will revere you; the people of Europe and America will fear you; and Allah will reward you."

He had chosen his words carefully to placate Sikes Pasha's men. They would be needed, like all their brethren, to advance Iran's ambitions. Later, when that area of the globe was completely dominated by Iranians, the Arabs' native countries would be ruled by military governors sent from Tehran. This was the colonial modus operandi of the ancient Persian Empire.

Now Khohollah began pacing as he continued. "There have been setbacks, as we all know. But such unfortunate instances were expected, and we do not reel from these small defeats. The big attack will begin from here and by you. Are you ready?"

Cries of
"Bale, Satrip"
and
"Aiwa, Zaim"
came from the Zaheya troops as they made affirmative replies in Farsi and Arabic. The enthusiasm in their voices was in perfect tune in spite of being shouted in two separate languages.

"Detachment commanders!" Khohollah bellowed. "Take charge of your commands and move them into their fighting positions."

Sikes Pasha, Captain Khadid, and Captain Komard called their separate units to attention, then faced them to the west to begin marching to what was to become their front lines.

.

SHELOR FIELD, AFGHANISTAN

5 JUNE 1430 HOURS

TWENTY-THREE men arrived on the latest flight from Kuwait to be added to the roster of Brannigan's Brigands. However, one was not exactly a reinforcement. PO2C Arnie Bernardi was a Brigand reporting back from Kuwait, where he had been on TDy, on a training mission. Bernardi's initial joy at being reunited with his old outfit was dashed when he learned of Milly Mills' death. His mood spiraled rapidly down as he experienced a combination of sadness and guilt at not being with the detachment during the battles out on the desert. He truly felt he had let his buddies down, and nothing they said to the contrary eased his feelings of remorse.

Bernardi's fellow passengers had been dispatched into the OA for this one specific operation, of which they knew nothing. They would have been surprised to learn that their new commander was as uninformed as they. This new mission had evolved out of an earlier one, titled Operation Rolling Thunder, and was renamed Operation Battleline by the powers-that-be who ran Special Operations in the Middle East. The Skipper, Lieutenant Bill Brannigan, found it irritating to be moved laterally from one tactical situation to another without feeling the first had been satisfactorily wrapped up as an undeniable victory. Bruno Puglisi, the detachment's ever-verbose weapons specialist, felt the same, and was not bashful about expressing his disenchantment: "The whole thing is too fucking half-ass to suit me," he stated candidly and loudly. "It's like changing opponents at halftime in a football game. There ain't no final score!"

The C-130 that brought the personnel to Shelor was one of a quartet that had been arriving since the day before. The earlier trio was crammed with ammunition, equipment, rations, and other warmaking materiel. The logistics of Shelor Field were under the control of a diminutive senior airman named Randy Tooley. Randy had been going crazy coordinating unloading, storing, quartering transit personnel, and all the other headaches that go with the preparatory activities for a campaign in the mountains.

Randy's basic attitudes would not be considered militarily correct. He found it inconvenient to wear a uniform, salute, or use the title "sir" or "ma'am" when speaking to commissioned officers. In fact, his normal apparel consisted of T-shirts and cut-off BDU trousers, and he openly disliked observing any military protocol whatsoever. However, he was the base commander's fair-haired boy. Colonel Watkins always looked the other way when it came to the little guy's transgressions, and for good reason. The kid was fast and efficient, keeping the operations of the facility going smoothly and on time through his totally dedicated efforts. The CO's life was made easier and less stressful because of Randy's innate talents. And due to this new set of circumstances that had evolved into a problematic turmoil, the colonel became even more tolerant of Randy's unconventional behavior. Packing him off to the stockade for insubordination would not only accomplish nothing in reforming the young guy, but also would create a loss to the Air Force during his incarceration. Things ground to a standstill badly enough when Randy became upset by a dressing down from some chickenshit NCO or officer, and he would go off by himself to sulk for a day or two. There was an unofficial standing order that he was never to be carried AWOL on base personnel reports.

Randy had a misappropriated desert patrol vehicle that a grateful Lieutenant Bill Brannigan had given him for past services rendered. The young airman, knowing well when guile and subterfuge were necessary, immediately had it painted Air Force blue and stenciled some phony registration numbers across the hood. He happily zipped around in the purloined conveyance as he tended to his duties.

The new SEAL arrivals, after disembarking from the C-130, were ushered quickly to the hangar Brannigan's Brigands used as a headquarters, living quarters, and warehouse. The newcomers found bunks and mattresses waiting for them but no blankets or sheets. That meant they would be slumbering in sleeping bags and/or poncho liners. SCPO Buford Dawkins had chow passes for them through the efforts of Randy Tooley, which meant the newcomers could get hot food in the base mess hall rather than have to consume MREs in the hangar. All the facilities at Shelor Field were open to them: BX, base theater, NCO and enlisted men's clubs, and the swimming pool. The only downside to their stay was being confined to the base. For reasons of the tightest security, no one was permitted to wander off the Air Force property unless on official duty.

One of the new arrivals was a young African-American officer named Ensign Orlando Taylor. After walking down the ramp from the C-130, he went inside the hangar to find the detachment officers. Brannigan and Lieutenant JG Jim Cruiser were in the corner cubicle used as a headquarters of sorts, going over the roster as they began to organize the assault sections for the coming operation. Ensign Taylor dropped his gear by the door and knocked. The Skipper looked up and noted the somber young black man. "You must be our newly assigned Ensign Taylor. Come in."

Taylor stepped inside the office and rendered a faultless salute. "Sir! Ensign Taylor reporting to the commanding officer as ordered."

"Welcome, Taylor," Brannigan said, offering his hand. "This is Lieutenant JG Jim Cruiser. Take a seat and join the party."

"Thank you, sir," Taylor said. He took a chair as invited, sitting stiffly and formally.

Cruiser gave him a friendly smile. "How was the trip over?"

"Everything moved on schedule," Taylor said. "I am anxious get into the program. When will I be able to meet my men?"

"Right now, Ensign," Brannigan said, "you don't have any men. Jim and I have been mulling over how to reorganize the detachment for the new operation. We went from a total strength of eighteen men to forty-one. Besides the increase in personnel, we also have some added weaponry. All that has to be married together into an effective fighting team. I know that sounds melodramatic, but it's fact." He pushed the rosters and other papers aside. "Well, now, tell us a little about yourself."

"Sir," Taylor said. "I received my commission through NROTC at college. I attended a mostly African-American institution of learning in Georgia. I have only recently completed BUD/S, and this is my first assignment. I have, however, completed the HALO course at Yuma, and am properly prepared for any duties assigned me."

Cruiser smiled. "Well, I guess you must be chomping at the bit, Ensign."

"Yes, sir!" Taylor said. "I look forward to this auspicious beginning of my naval career. Although I hold a reserve commission, I plan to make a career of the U. S. Navy."

"Fine," Brannigan said, reaching back for his papers. "I've got a couple of ideas to discuss. Jump in any time you feel froggy."

"Aye, sir," Taylor said. "Thank you, sir."

"Okay," Brannigan said. "The first thing I want to do is organize a patrol team."

"I take it you'll start with the Odd Couple," Cruiser said. "And don't forget Redhawk. He's a natural."

"Right. And I think I'll put Connie Concord in charge of it. He's a first class and about ready for chief. It's time to start grooming him, don't you think?"

"Yes, sir," Cruiser said. "And I noted that there's a Petty Officer Matsuno on the roster. I know him. He'd make a good addition."

Brannigan wrote down some notes. "Done! And I'll leave Gomez and Bradley in headquarters with me." He sank back into thought for a moment. "Another thing has just this instant occurred to me. This coming operation will be perfect for a sniper team."

"Puglisi and Miskoski," Cruiser said. "That goes without a second thought."

"It shall be done, sayeth the gods of war," Brannigan said, writing down the names of the two SEALs. "Okay. I can see we'll be able to have three assault sections with two fire teams each."

"Don't forget a SAW gunner for each one," Cruiser urged him.

"Right, Jim. You take the First Section," he said, writing down the assignment. He glanced over at Taylor. "The Second Section is yours, Ensign."

"Yes, sir," the young man said.

"And, of course, the Third will be honchoed by the intrepid Senior Chief Petty Officer Buford Dawkins, the pride of Alabama."

"You have some guys left over," Cruiser pointed out.

"It's all part of my cunning master plan," the Skipper said with a wink. "That will be our support section of machine guns. Seven-point-six-twos, as a matter of fact. I'll let Chief Gunnarson run that particular show." He gave Taylor another look. "Any suggestions?"

"Negative, sir."

"This operation is going to be your baptism of fire, is it not, Ensign?" Brannigan asked.

"Yes, sir."

"In that case, I have some advice for you," Brannigan said. "You'll be the leader of an assault section, understand? You are the commander, but you listen to the advice of the senior petty officers. Developing that habit will be invaluable to you not only in the beginning of your career, but even after you're a salty old dog yourself."

"Yes, sir."

When Brannigan slid the diagram of the organization over to Cruiser, the impassive Ensign Orlando Taylor gazed steadily at the two veteran officers. The one thing he wanted to conceal from them was his fear; not the fear of death or injury, but the fear of failure. He had been raised in an African-American family well tuned into the twenty-first century. It was headed by a capable, ambitious father. The outcome of this paternal supervision was a fierce rivalry among the four Taylor brothers, who had been taught that anything short of success was not an option.

Cruiser handed the quickly sketched manning chart to Brannigan. "I'd say it's good to go."

"Fine," the Skipper said. "So let's put it into reality, shall we, gentlemen?"

"Lead on, sir," Cruiser said.

The three officers got up to go outside. Taylor followed the two seniors, his apprehension growing.

.

OVAL OFFICE WHITE HOUSE

WASHINGTON, D. C.

5 JUNE

A rapping at the door caught the President's attention. He looked up from the press briefing he was preparing and called out, "Come in."

Arlene Entienne, the White House chief of staff, entered the office. She was a beautiful woman of African-Cajun ancestry, with green eyes and dark brown hair. She looked stunning that morning, even though it was obvious she was tired. "Good morning, Mr. President."

"Hello, Arlene," he replied to the greeting. "I heard you came in at four A. M. today."

"Yes, sir," she replied. "I received a call from Edgar Watson of the CIA a little after three. Operation Persian Empire has kicked into high gear."

The President got up and walked over to the side of the room where a coffeepot was plugged in. He poured a cup of the brew, then brought it over to Arlene. "Here. You need this."

"I sure do!"

"Did we hear from Aladdin again?" the President asked, sitting back down. He referred to a mysterious individual who had been sending anonymous but accurate intelligence from the Iran-Afghanistan border.