Frontal Assault

29

General F. Jablah stared in total concentration at the expanded map of the eastern border of Syria and Iraq. The rough line of markers showed the front lines. Fighting still raged on most of the five-mile front that Saddam Hussein had attacked.

In two places, the enemy had driven ten miles into Syria. At one place directly aimed at the capital of Damascus, the Iraqi army had penetrated almost twenty miles. That thrust had been blunted, over a hundred Iraqi tanks destroyed through the aid of the United States airpower and his own MiGs and their Dassault Mirage fighters. Now that incursion had been pressed back to the ten-mile line.

His other army units were attacking the Iraqis all along the MLR. Their interdiction of the supply lines with their own fighters and the U.S. planes had made serious shortages in the already-strained umbilical of food and ammunition for the Iraqis.

Yes, they had started offensives all along the five-mile front and were pushing forward. He had urged his air force to step up the attacks on the supply lines day and night.

An aide hurried in and motioned to the telephone. General Jablah picked up the phone.

“Yes?”

“General. Major Duma from the far northern sector with the thirty-fourth Regiment. We have been attacked by at least two nerve gas artillery shells. Twenty-seven of our men died before we knew what had happened. The area has been evacuated. The gas blew into a small village, and thirty women and children there died. We have pounded the artillery unit with counterbattery, and two of our planes have bombed the unit. We’re not sure of the results.”

“The bastards. Order a regimental attack on that sector at once, and overrun that artillery unit and slaughter every man in the area. I want it done now. Hussein can’t be allowed to use nerve gas. Get your attack formed and moving within an hour. Call in massive air support. I want that artillery unit smashed before dark.”

He hung up the phone and put a large red marker on the map where the thirty-fourth Regiment battled. After checking with two more commanders, he put a push in that area. If they could get a good run, they might be able to smash forward three or four miles this side of the Iraqi border, wheel right, and cut off one of the deeper incursions of the Iraqis in the center of the front. Then he called on all the air he had to plow up the ground where that artillery battery was. If it had moved, they must find it.

It was nearly two hours after the nuclear blast in the Iraqi desert that an aide came in and turned on the TV set in the general’s office.

“You should see this, General.” The major tuned to CCN, which had a news special in progress.

“As near as anyone can tell, the nuclear blast took place in Iraq’s western desert, a hundred miles from Saudi Arabia’s border and about two hundred miles from the Syrian boundary. Iraq has not commented on the blast, but seismic recorders in Cairo and Tel Aviv report a disturbance equal to a five-point-five earthquake.

“When translated into nuclear energy terms, that would mean a nuclear blast in the five- to eight-megaton range. It has long been suspected that Iraq was working on constructing one or more nuclear weapons. No one will comment on what caused the blast. Rumors have also been circulated that the Iraqis had a nerve gas and biological warfare agent plant somewhere near the same area.

“Our correspondents are waiting now for an official statement from military headquarters in Baghdad. Yes, I understand our correspondent in Baghdad is ready.”

The scene shifted to a man in shirtsleeves standing in front of a building.

“Yes, Jose Phillips in Baghdad for CNN. It has been confirmed by Iraqi military authorities that a nuclear blast did take place in its western desert. This is the official statement that the Iraqi high command gave to us on videotape.”

“Iraq has been attacked by warmongering elements in the United States who dropped a nuclear weapon on a defenseless scientific laboratory and research center working on cures for cancer and AIDS in western Iraq. There has been a considerable death toll at the facility including two world-renowned scientists. A hundred and forty-eight scientists and lab workers perished, along with a security force of twenty-four.

“All roads leading into the area have been blocked off. Our own nuclear disaster team will move into the drop zone as soon as it is safe to do so. Our experts tell us that there will be a dead zone about ten miles square at this spot for up to five hundred years.

“Iraq will present a motion of condemnation tomorrow at the United Nations General Assembly and Security Council against the United States. We will ask for a worldwide embargo against the United States for this savage and unparalleled attack by a superpower on a developing nation.

“We have proof of U.S. involvement. United States Air Force helicopters were seen in the area of the bomb blast, as well as U.S. Marines that attacked the security forces at the scientific research center. Because of the intense vaporization of the downed helicopters near the complex, no physical evidence remains of the U.S. sadistic attack on a peace-loving people.”

The general turned away from the set. He’d heard enough of the Iraqi lies. A new voice brought him back to the TV.

“We now have an official comment from the United States in response to the diatribe from Saddam Hussein.”

The general turned to the set.

“The United States ambassador to the United Nations says he will oppose any censure motion in that body and that the U.S. has solid evidence that Iraq was producing a deadly nerve gas in the area. There is further satellite evidence that the nerve gas has been loaded into Scud missiles and artillery rounds. The same area is the home of Iraq’s development laboratories and test facilities for the nation’s continuing effort to produce nuclear weapons.

“Our scientists report to me that the size of the nuclear blast, estimated at five to eight megatons, is consistent with the size of a burst that could be triggered in early experiments with harnessing nuclear power. We also now have a report from the battle front in Syria, that more than fifty people, both military and civilians, have been killed by artillery shells from Iraq that contained deadly nerve gas. Iraq will be taken to task with the next meeting of the Security Council to explain this deadly development in the aggressive war it is now fighting in Syria.”

General F. Jablah smiled for the first time that day. He had an offensive going, and Saddam was just caught using nerve gas in an attack. Saddam had also lost his poison gas and nuclear weapons manufacturing and development facility in the desert. The war might be over sooner than everyone thought.

Late the night before, Murdock had landed on the carrier in a COD and hustled his four previously wounded men to sick bay to have the medics look over their wounds, put on clean bandages, and generally check them out.

The medics examined Ching, Lampedusa, Franklin, and Holt. All were rebandaged and sent back to light duty. Murdock had continued into the hospital section and talked with the doctors about Lieutenant (j.g.) DeWitt. The JG was out of danger, his lung had weathered the minor puncture, and he was on his way to recovery. The doctor said it would take at least two or three weeks of hospital time, then he could get out of the hospital for extremely light duty for another two months.

Adams was chafing about his confinement.

“Hell, Skipper, at least let me clean my weapon and polish your boots or something. I’m going crazy in this damn place. It’s so clean it gives me hives.”

Murdock chuckled. Told him his arm was healing, but they wanted to watch it for another week, then he’d be off his leash. He growled about it and went back to his Playboy magazine.

Bill Bradford with the stomach wound looked the best of the three. He, too, would need another week under the white sheets before he could be released.

Don Stroh found Murdock in the sick bay and shadowed him back up to the SEALs’ assembly room.

“Look, about that foul-up with the choppers.”

“I’ve challenged that son of a bitch to a duel. Forty-fives at twenty feet. Twelve rounds. The man who lives wins. They could just as well have put us on board. They weren’t overloaded. Yeah, I know, the brass didn’t want any more casualties at the site than they could help. But they just sold out thirteen SEALs for the chance, the fucking chance, that the twenty-four Iraqis might get caught in the blast. We were ten miles out for kereist sakes.”

Stroh let Murdock shoot off steam, then lifted his brows.

“Hey, I was in there punching for you. I told them you were outside the blast area. They said for twenty-four more corpses, they’d risk going back and getting you.”

“That half-track could have killed off half of us. From now on out, I want guaranteed transport out of an assignment and guaranteed backup in case that first transport fucks up. If we don’t get that, mister CIA master crafter, the Third Platoon just won’t go.”

“Murdock, get some sleep. We’ll talk in the morning. Looks like the war is going better than we expected. Most of the front is at a standstill or the Syrians are mounting a counteroffensive. Our airpower has just about closed off the Iraqi supply lines. So relax. I don’t have any new assignment on the books for you. Relax and sleep in.”

That was when Murdock realized how tired he was. Not even a shower. He found his compartment, dove into the bed, and only managed to get his rubber boots off before he slept.

First Lieutenant Pete Van Dyke circled his Cobra gunship over a sector he hadn’t seen before. It was to the north part of the thirty-mile front. The fighting was going for the Syrians now. He had been assigned to interdict any vehicles he saw behind the main fighting line on the Iraqi side.

His new gunner had his first day of combat yesterday and quickly proved that he could do the job. He was a natural using the Gatling. So far today he had cut up four small trucks with 20mm cannon fire and knocked out two larger transport trucks with 2.75-inch rockets.

His name was LeRoy and he came from Georgia.

As they hunted targets, Van Dyke tried not to think about the two close friends he lost in the raid on the big plant in the desert yesterday with the SEALs. He had lifted off his Cobra just prior to the attack on the Chinooks and been out of range of the explosions. Then, when he shepherded the SEALs on their hike west, he wasn’t there when they needed him with the half-track.

Van Dyke was pleased that the SEALs had made it out with no casualties. He had wondered why the big Chinooks didn’t stop for them. He’d seen more than seventy men crammed into the Chinooks.

“Hey Cap, we got another truck running back toward Iraq,” LeRoy’s slow drawl said in the IC. “Shall we give him a boost getting home?”

“That’s a roger, LeRoy. Let me move in closer for you.” A minute later, LeRoy’s Gatling gun riddled the machine with the 20mm cannon fire from the three barrels in the nose.

Van Dyke swung up sharply when he saw men near the truck lift rifles, and he slanted away to make a harder target. They had taken a dozen rounds of ground fire on this sortie, but none had hit a vital spot.

When Van Dyke was well out of rifle range, he lifted the Cobra up higher again to check his four-mile sector. “Let’s see what we can find, LeRoy. Should be some more targets out here. We have another ten minutes of hunting time before we head back.”

Below, a thousand yards ahead, he saw the Syrian infantry being pushed back. He swung in for a better look. “LeRoy, check out the infantry down there. Looks like the good guys are retreating.”

“Peers so, Lieutenant. Wonder why?” A moment later, the gunner spoke again. “I got him, Cap. There’s a damned tank down there behind those trees just shooting to hell and gone at the Syrians.”

“Yeah, a tank. First one we’ve seen all morning. Wish to hell we had had a TOW missile. They’re made to order for tank killing. Can we do him with the rockets?”

“We can do a job on the tread if we can get in close enough, Lieutenant. We gonna try?”

“If you can knock the tread off one side, the tank will be dead in the water, and the Syrian Infantry should be able to finish him off.”

“That’s a go, Lieutenant. Let’s get him.”

Van Dyke turned around and came in to shoot at the side of the tank. He saw little ground fire and slanted in to a hundred yards. He felt a rifle round hit his machine, then another. He held the rig steady for a moment and felt three or four rockets fired. Then he surged upward and out of the way of the small arms fire from below. He turned so they could see the shots. One hit the top of the tank and did little damage. Two hit the dirt well below where the tread rolled the tank forward. The heavy machine crushed a small dirt bunker and probably tapped Syrians inside.

Van Dyke came in again, closer this time. He was no more than fifty yards away when he steadied the machine and felt LeRoy get off four rockets aimed at the tread. This time, his aim was better, and two of the small missiles hit the tread area and blasted the track into pieces. The tank swiveled around toward him as the near side tread couldn’t move.

He felt two more small arms rounds jolt into the plane, then a dozen rounds ripped through the nose of the ship, and he knew the tank’s .50-caliber machine gun had found him. He checked and saw that LeRoy wasn’t hit. The plastic cowl over both seats had shattered. The prop wash of the rotors slashed through the cockpit, and he urged the machine higher and away from the ground fire.

“LeRoy, you okay?”

“Yes, Cap, just a little chilly.”

Then they both felt more of the machine gun rounds pound into the sides of the slender fuselage that went back to the tail. Suddenly, the flight controls went mush; then, a few seconds later, the controls wouldn’t respond at all. He felt the top rotor lose power and go into freewheeling.

“We’re going down, kid. Fire off the rockets.”

Another burst of the .50-caliber machine gun rounds ripped into the machine, and one round caught First Lieutenant Pete Van Dyke in the neck just below his flight helmet. He slammed against the far side of the cockpit as the Cobra gunship dropped straight down from three thousand feet.

It hit the desert, and the rest of its fuel exploded. That set off the rest of the 2.75-inch rockets, which detonated in place. In two minutes after impact, there wasn’t enough left of the gunship to identify. The two bodies had been incinerated in the white-hot fire that raged on three hundred gallons of aircraft fuel.

General F. Jablah settled back in his big chair and watched aides move markers on the wall map that showed the front lines. Today it had shrunk to a three-mile fighting zone. A mile on each end of the strip had been closed off and the enemy overwhelmed, captured, or slain. A few went screaming back toward the Iraqi border.

Yes, the war was going well. His troops had performed brilliantly once the first onslaught had been blunted and then stopped. His aircraft had helped rule the skies. The allied planes that came, especially the Americans, had also helped. The last three days there had been no reports of Iraqi planes over the fighting zone.

He was not sure why. A daring raid with fighter-bombers into the major Iraqi airfield near Baghdad had been the clincher. There were reports that Saddam had sent most of the surviving 250 fighters and 200 helicopters he had left into Iran so they wouldn’t be bombed. He had done the same thing in the Gulf War ten years ago.

Now it was a case of mopping up, pushing the last of the infantry units across the border, and making them suffer as much as possible without sustaining any more Syrian casualties than absolutely necessary.

He had used his airpower here effectively. First a bombardment and strafing by helicopters and fighters, then the infantry would sweep in and mop up any of the opposition that hadn’t run for the border.

Another two days and it would be over. He watched the center of the map where there had been a nearly twenty-mile thrust toward Damascus. Now the thrust had been stopped and pushed back ten miles. Elements of his tank and infantry had smashed through light resistance near the border to cut off a ten-mile corridor of Iraqi troops, guns, and trucks. They were surrounded and would all be taken prisoners or killed.

He had lost a lot of good men, especially on the sneak attack that rolled so far into his beloved land. But anyone in any country who puts on a military uniform voluntarily must come to accept the fact that he could die. War is not a tea party. War is man’s greatest game. War is also a giant chessboard where the actors die as the game is played.

He heard a cheer and looked up.

“My General,” an aide said. “It has just been told here that the majority of the Iraqi troops in the corridor that has been cut off have been surrendered by a brigadier general who was in command.”

General Jablah sipped at the thick black coffee and stared over the top of the cup. So, soon he would have to decide. Did he pursue the enemy into his own land, capturing as much matériel as possible? Take over the tanks and trucks that would still run and the field guns and small arms and supplies of food and fuel?

Or did he stop at the border?

He knew it would be an almost impossible job to defeat Saddam on his home territory. There the Syrian troops would have the long supply lines. The Iraqis would have the emotional cause of defending their homes and protecting their women and children. It would take more than his resources to invade Iraq and dethrone Saddam Hussein.

His troops would stop at the border. Someone else would have to take care of the devil Saddam Hussein.

The SEALs had been back on board the floating island for over a day now, and Don Stroh had not been seen or heard. They put their gear in shape, oiled their weapons again, and, once rested from the last challenge, they began to get bored.

They knew that operations on the big platform had slowed. There were fewer and fewer of the F-18s screaming off the catapults. Fewer calls for pilots to report to the ready room. They heard reports that the war was slowing down, that Saddam was licking his wounds and making a mad dash for home. The Syrians jolted along, hot on his heels, gathering up as much war matériel as they could before it vanished across the border.

On the second day with no action for the SEALs, Murdock looked up Stroh. The CIA man had just finished a big meal and sipped at an ice-cold cola.

“Murdock. Wondered where you were. Word came through about an hour ago. I have new orders for you.”

“At least this time we’re rested and ready to go.”

“Good. This afternoon, your three hospital cases are being flown out of here, heading for San Diego’s Balboa Naval Hospital. The rest of you slackers will be leaving by COD for Riyadh and the big Air Force base near there. I’m washing my hands of you. You’re reassigned back to Coronado.”

Murdock stared hard at the slightly plump CIA man and scowled. “Stroh, this is not something you should joke about.”

“No joke, Red Ryder. You get on your cayuse in two hours and you’re out of here. You might want to tell your guys and get them ready to boogie.”

Murdock laughed and nodded. “Okay Little Beaver, now I believe you. You keep yourself well, and we’ll talk in about three months. I need at least that much time to get my troops back in top fighting shape.”

“Three months? Easy. I don’t know of anything that’s even cooking on the back burner. You take care, and we’ll see you when we see you.” He took a drink of the cola. “When did you say the best yellowtail tuna fishing season was there off San Diego?”

“It’s mostly off Baja California, Mexico, and it could be almost anytime. But usually in the summer. Last year they caught yellows ten months out of the twelve.”

“Good. We’ll keep that in mind.”

Murdock waved and hurried into the companionway and down to his men to get them ready for the COD transport plane on their first leg of the long trip home.