Jihad
8.4 America
by Red MacDonald
Copyright © 2013 Red MacDonald
All Rights Reserved.

The Faithful, North African and Middle Eastern Islamic nations, are plotting to seize the oil resources of the Middle East. By controlling the earth's oil and its major trade routes, they plan to bring the world to its knees. Then, when the entire world is kneeling, the Faithful of Allah will read to them from the Koran, preaching the message of Islam, the True Faith. The Faithful will stop at nothing to achieve their goal. But how far will they go? And how many lives will it cost?

8. Counter-Attack

8.4 America

* * * * *

8.4.1 Strait of Hormuz

Charley Taylor was as happy as a kid in a candy store. For the first time since he'd left Norfolk, he had enough escorts to protect his fleet. At the same time, he was apprehensive, verging on scared.

His fleet had been attacked in every narrow choke-point from Gibraltar to Djibouti. Now, he faced the daunting prospect of escorting two carriers, an LPHN, two LSTs and an LSD through the Straits of Hormuz into the Persian Gulf. For three hours, his fleet would be within just a few miles of Iranian territory. Once they were in the Gulf, the fleet would be surrounded by enemies. In the last war, the Iraqis had dropped hundreds of mines into the virtually land-locked pond, letting them float towards Hormuz on the Gulf's gentle current.

Charley could see that he wasn't the only one who was worried. The admiral had everything up from both the carriers. DDG Carson's displays showed a squadron of Tomcats out front on each corner, and two more squadrons along the Iranian border. Below them, four squadrons of Hornets buzzed threateningly. Off to the south, a herd of eight Holsteins and twelve ersatz-cows were hanging around to keep the fighters aloft as long as they were needed.

In spite of the all-out air effort and the demands for Vikings as ersatz-cows, Taylor had plenty of Vikes to beat the waters off the Straits for subs and other undersea hazards. Four sub-hunting Vikings were flying off each carrier. Charley could maintain a six-plane rotation extending through the Straits and twenty miles into the lower Gulf.

As the fleet neared the narrows, Charley ordered Kimmel's frigates ahead, three abreast. It was a tight squeezed, but Taylor was determined that nothing would get past his screen. He watched carefully as each of the FiGs launched their choppers. His displays came alive with their data feeds as their dip-sticks began probing the shallows.

He punched his intercom. "Navigator, follow the FiGs. Missile Officer, stay alert." He shifted uneasily in his chair, as he scanned his displays looking for the slightest hint of trouble. The display showed Klakring following closely behind his own ship with the big targets behind her.

Taylor had carefully arranged for each of the transports to be sandwiched between a pair of FiGs. As each pair of ships rounded the point and the Gulf opened up, the FiG led its transport to the starboard side of the formation, closer to Iran.

Taylor had argued with the admiral about that disposition, but Duncan had been firm. So, Taylor had ordered Carson to the starboard side of the formation. Those transports would be a tempting target, and it would be up to Carson to protect them from anything that might get through the aircraft screen.

As the fleet emerged from the narrows, Taylor's FiGs fanned out into a broad front covering seven miles. He scanned his displays again and watched as the DDGs led the carriers through the Straits. As they exited, pairs of missile destroyers took up stations to the extreme port and starboard of the fleet. If an air or a surface attack came from either Iran or Saudi Arabia, the enemy would have to face a fully-armed and aroused DDG.

When all three carriers were in position between the destroyers and behind the wall of his FiGs, Saratoga took up her accustomed position at the rear of the formation. From there, Sara could control all the fleet's anti-air assets including Carson and the seven FiGs of her ASW screen.

When the operation was completed, Admiral Duncan called, "Well done, Charley. The fleet's reassembled. We're going to get our aircraft down and resume standard CAP. When we've completed air ops, set course for Farst."

"Aye, Sir. Your offensive line will set up the Flea Flicker southeast of Farst. I figure we'll be in position about 19:00 hours. Are you sure you want the transports on the north side of the formation closer to Farst?"

"Yes, Charley, I'm sure. I want the carriers to hide behind them so the Iranians can only see what I want them to see."

"Aye, Admiral. We want them to see the Fullback and to hide the Halfback, but if they've got anything on that island, those transports will be a damned tempting target."

"That's why you're the Screen Commander, Charley."

"Gee thanks, Admiral." Duncan's' smiling face disappeared from the screen leaving Taylor unconvinced but determined. 'Nothing will get through my screen.'

* * * * *

8.4.2 Flea Flicker

The fleet had successfully negotiated the dangerous narrows and had entered the war zone. Admiral Duncan had doubled the combat air patrols, and all missile ships maintained a high alert status.

General Carter and the senior staffs had resumed planning for the Flea Flicker. It was about mid-afternoon, when Slammin' Sam suddenly looked up and snapped his fingers as though he'd just had an idea. "Do we have any pigs?" he asked.

Captain Gomez looked up sharply. "Yes," he replied quizzically, "I've got a whole bunch of suckling pigs, pork chips and the whole works. We've been planning a big luau on Kimmel's flight deck ever since we left Hawaii, but we never got around to it. Whacha want with our pigs, anyway?"

"I've got a crazy idea, that's all, Al. Can you have a couple of those pigs and twenty or thirty chops over here by 17:00?"

"Sure, but why?"

"Like I said, it's a crazy idea. If it works, I'll let you know. If not, I'd prefer it keep it quiet, if you know what I mean?"

Al Gomez didn't. Regardless, at 16:30, a chopper lifted off Kimmel and landed on Wasp. Its cargo was labeled, "Special Consignment, Complements of USS Kimmel".

At 18:30, Charley Taylor called the Admiral Duncan, "Farst Island on the horizon off the port bow." Instantly, the entire fleet became a beehive of activity. Pilots rushed to their planes. Missile officers brought their systems to full alert. FiGs, choppers and Vikings redoubled their efforts as the screen extended its coverage towards the southwest. Charley called once again, "They've seen us, Admiral. At least three radar sets are painting us. Offensive Line is in position, ready to come about."

At 19:00, the big ships of the fleet turned towards the southwest. Two DDGs and Saratoga stood between Farst Island and the fleet. Just beyond them, the three transports struggled in single file to maintain twenty knots. Hidden behind two columns of ships, the three carriers began to launch.

Tomcats launched off the bow cats, loaded for bear. Each had two conformational tanks, four Phoenix 54Ds, four AAMRAMs and two Sidewinder 9-Mamas beneath their wings. Extending their takeoff runs, the Tomcats climbed slowly as they turned north and then east.

Each of the pilots did everything they could to attract the attention of all the observers on the island. They deliberately kept their aircrafts' wings fully outstretched to make them appear as large as possible. They also extended their flaps and slats to the first détente to increase their planes' apparent size. Further, because their flaps and slats were extended, the pilots had to increase the power to their engines, making them sound louder, as though their aircraft were laboring under the heavy burdens of their armaments.

As the Tomcats completed their long turn and flew southwest towards the fleet, the carriers launched their Hornets and the Harriers vaulted from Wasp's deck. The smaller fighters, which were loaded with bombs, zoomed rapidly above and ahead of the Tomcats as though they were escorts. Then, the huge formation of forty-five strike aircraft lumbered towards the southwest on a direct heading towards Jubayl.

At the same time as the fighters were ostentatiously launching off the carriers' bows, seventeen Avengers, eight Holsteins and eight ersatz-cows slipped surreptitiously off the angled flight decks. Unlike the fighters, they did not soar into the heavens. Instead, they hugged the wavetops, heading southward.

Admiral Duncan had snapped the ball. His fullback was faking into the line. His halfback was sneaking out to the flank. He waited impatiently to see what the defense would do.

* * * * *

8.4.3 Halfback Strike

For over an hour before the big launch, Kimmel's ES-29 "Ghost" had been circling south of Jubayl, monitoring every communication channel and waiting for something to happen. They heard the burst of radio activity from Farst Island as the Iranians spotted the huge American fleet. Enemy communications rose to a crescendo as the Fullback Strike package launched and turned towards Jubayl. Then, Farst went quiet, except for normal communications.

Fifteen minutes after the Fullback launch, Ghosts' crew monitored a stream of messages being flashed to Jubayl. Ground communications increased dramatically. Tower-to-ground chatter filled the airways. Seconds later, planes on the ground began talking to each other. Then, terse commands were issued as Iranaqi fighters began their take-off rolls.

Meanwhile, "Specter" was monitoring activities over Suffaniyah. Specter intercepted an incoming alert, but the airport's lack of ground communications was significant. The enemy base had gone to a higher alert status, but they weren't scrambling their planes.

Seconds later, Admiral Duncan received the coded, micro-burst transmissions from his Snoopers. With a big smile on his face, he ordered, "Release Halfback Strike."

Pepe Gonzalez grinned broadly when he received the order. He was the senior of the two Avenger squadron commanders, so Halfback Strike was his baby. "Halfback to Tequilas and Pirates," he radioed, "they fell for it. Halfback plunge!"

Slowly, maintaining stealth, Pepe's seventeen Avengers turned northward, slipping up the slot between Ali and Farst Islands. He hugged the waves, allowing his automatic systems to fly his plane at one-hundred feet above the surface until he was due east of Suffaniyah. He blinked his landing lights twice and pulled back on his stick as he turned westward, pushing his plane to one-thousand feet.

Mace, Pepe's B/N, announced, "Five minutes."

Pepe blinked his lights again. The four flights of Avengers sped off in different directions to line up their targets.

"Suffaniyah in sight," Mace announced. "Designating target. Target designated. I am taking control. Computer control, now!"

Pepe eased his hands off the controls becoming a back-seat driver instead of the confident pilot of a mighty attack aircraft. He glanced over at Mace, who was immersed in his data screens. He looked forward again to see Suffaniyah's main runway racing towards him. He listened to his plane whined and felt it lurch slightly as the rotary bomb bay inverted. He felt a lump rise in his throat as his plane became exposed to every fire control system for miles around. The runway flashed beneath his feet. He felt his Avenger jump eight times in rapid succession.

"Plane's yours, Pepe."

Gonzalez grabbed the stick eagerly, yanking back on it while slamming his throttles forward. His A-29 shot through the once dreaded sound barrier and zoomed erratically to five-thousand feet before he blinked his lights again. He led his flight in a long, slow, left turn until they were flying east, along the southern margins of the airport.

Mace turned on the plane's sensors to record the scene of destruction off their port wing. As they recorded, both of them watched their displays getting a god's-eye view of the results of their strike.

The main runway was a moonscape of craters. Pepe and his flight had laid thirty-two, one-thousand pound, runway-piercing bombs down the center line. That strip of tarmac would be unusable for days.

They scanned the parallel taxiway, which served as Suffaniyah's secondary runway. It was a torn-up mess that even a tank might have hesitated to cross.

They scanned the targets that Kimmel's Pirates had hit. An RBT had concentrated on the airport's revetments. Their laser-guided bombs had destroyed twenty planes, whose carcasses burned brightly.

The second RBT of Pirates had attacked Suffaniyah's hardened hangers. Each of the three reinforced, concrete and steel semi-cylinders was engulfed in flames. As Pepe and Mace watched, one of the hangars blew apart with secondary explosions from within.

They then focused on the Pirates' third set of targets. The tower and the admin areas had been flattened. Two huge fires raged where the fuel and ammo dumps once had been.

Pepe smiled grimly as he led his seventeen Avengers back towards their carriers. The ragheads had killed one of his air crews. He had killed one of their airports.

* * * * *

8.4.4 Pulling Guard

Ghost was still circling south of Jubayl when Pepe's Avengers destroyed Suffaniyah. Jubayl's airbase was now isolated, but they didn't know it. Six minutes later, Ghost monitored the incoming transmissions. Seconds later, Jubayl's tower radioed instructions to the swarms of aircraft flying over the airport. Air-to-air communications crackled as the regiment formed up and headed east over the Gulf.

"Ghost to Leprechaun One. They are coming out. The rats have taken the bait."

"Roger, Ghost. Leprechaun One confirms." Bull O'Connor tensed over his monitors. "Leprechaun One to Fullback. Fullback plunge! Leprechaun One to Pulling Guard. Enemy aircraft, count twenty-five. Tentative ID of Su-35. Assume course three-two-two. Angels two-zero. Range one-oh-five. Buster! Good hunting!"

Buck Henry's face lit up in a broad grin. As the senior CAG, he was the leader of the two squadrons of Tomcats guarding Fullback's Hornets. "Roger, Leprechaun," he replied, "Pulling Guard, Buster, Angels two-zero; course, three-two-two; range, one-oh-five. Feed my box."

Chunky Smith called to his pilot, "CAG, I got 'em. Range, is down to one-oh-three. We're closing fast. Setting up for a volley launch at seven-zero miles. We'll need two launches, Buck. I'll assign one target to each Tomcat. I'll assign the second volley of seven to our Knights." He laughed. "Kimmel's Eagles can have the left-overs. After all, there's no sense in being greedy!"

CAG smiled as his RIO chattered. Chunky was the best, but when he got excited, he just had to talk. It was OK, though. By talking, Chunky kept him informed of everything so that he could concentrate on flying up the Sukhois' asses.

"Targets designated," Chunky intoned, "Volley in ten seconds. Five. Two. One. Volley fire!"

The eighteen Tomcats of Pulling Guard leaped upwards as their Phoenix missiles dropped off their wings and zoomed away streaming grey-white smoke. Ten seconds later, CAG's plane and six others from Cassey Ludinski's Knights loosed a second volley.

The air-to-air missiles ate up the miles at an astonishing rate. In less than two minutes, the first eighteen Phoenixes arrived in the heart of the Iranaqi formation. Ten seconds later, the next seven arrived.

When the smoke, dust and debris had cleared enough to count the survivors, only three remained. CAG voiced his radio, "Eagles, they're all yours!"

Five seconds later, three more Phoenixes raced after the fleeing Iranaqi fighters. None survived.

Minutes later, Pulling Guard was back on station, ready to intercept any Iranaqi attempt to tackle the fleet's Fullback.

* * * * *

8.4.5 Fullback Plunge

Eloise "Mama Spad" Thompson received the call from Leprechaun One, and relayed it to her strike leaders. "Mama Spad to all Fullbacks. Target is clear. Follow me!"

DJ Duncan was relieved. The prospect of trying to hit an airport guarded by a regiment of Flankers wasn't his idea of a good mission. He saw Mama Spad blink her lights. That was his signal. He blinked his own lights twice and pushed his Hornet into a slow, left turn.

He glanced around. Three Talons were tucked in tightly around him. Tiny Small's four Hornets were behind him, just where they were supposed to be. DJ winked his lights, and Tiny's flight split, speeding to the north.

DJ headed for the deck, trying to fly under Jubayl's radar. By the time the coast appeared in his canopy, the Gulf was only one-hundred feet below him. Land passed beneath his feet. He climbed to one-thousand feet, preparing for his bombing run. Jubayl's main east-west runway was directly ahead of him. He blinked one time, and his formation fell into single file.

DJ talked to his plane, "Flares Automatic. Activate FLIR. Ground attack mode. Arm bombs." He stared at the far end of the runway. "Designate target." The computer placed a pipper where he had been looking. Gray concrete screamed beneath him. His Hornet bounded upwards as the computer toggled all four of his RARAPS.

The four Rocket-assisted, Retarded, Armor-Piercing bombs popped their air brakes, slowing dramatically. As they decelerated, their noses dropped until the bombs were nearly vertical. Small rockets in the RARAPs' tails ignited, driving the one-thousand pound projectiles through twelve inches of reinforced concrete. Then, from deep below the hardened strip, the bombs exploded, creating huge canyons in the middle of the previously smooth, flat runway.

The instant his last bomb released, DJ pulled back on his stick and pushed his throttleattor to full military power, deliberately making himself an enticing target. The idea was that DJ and the Talons would flush out the enemy missilery to destroy them before the Spads arrived. Instead of jinking and juking to escape from enemy missiles, DJ and his Talons were inviting the enemy to attack.

"DJ, break right!"

Duncan jammed his stick hard right and looked back between his twin tails. A trail of smoke and fire was pursuing him! He slammed his throttleattor forward all the way, dumping jet fuel into the hot tail pipe, and yanked back hard on his stick. His LERXs curved upward, warping the entire wing, as his thrust vectors rolled upward giving him every bit of speed his engines could deliver while turning in the shortest possible radius.

Inverted, he looked back to earth and saw the smoke trail dissipating near the ground. He checked his six. The missile that had hounding him had disappeared, lost by his wild maneuvering. "Arm HARM. Designate. Fire!"

The sleek anti-radiation missile swooped out of the sky at the radar designator and missile control station. In a flash of light and a cloud of debris, its ninety-pound warhead exploded, putting them out of action.

"Mama Spad to Talon Leader, attacking. Heads up."

He watched the Spads headed for the revetments, the refueling and the rearming centers. They were using guided munitions, which would limit their maneuverability until after their loads were released. If the enemy was down there, they'd open up on the Spads the moment they were in range.

A string of bright lights, like high-speed fireflies, marched upward towards them. "Triple-A! I'm on it," Skywalker's clear voice rang out over the airwaves. Two explosions occurred near the origin of the firing, and the fireflies went out.

A dozen fireballs mushroomed where Jubayl's revetments used to be. "One attack down and two to go," DJ said aloud. His computer responded with a small question mark.

Mama Spad came screaming in, leading her flight of four Hornets against the four large, massively reinforced hangars. Each of her Spads carried four two-thousand pound, FLIR-guided bombs to punch through the steel and concrete.

DJ saw a white streak lift off the ground just as Mama and her brood began their target run. Tiny saw it, too. He burst in, "Missile! I'm on it," and dove to attack the launcher.

The missile was already homing in on Mama's Spads. DJ could warn them, but it wouldn't do any good to even try. The Spads were committed. In the meantime, the SAM was headed straight up their tailpipes!

He kicked his Hornet into afterburner and dropped its nose to chase the missile. But, it was much faster than he. "Arm AAMRAM. Designate!" he said looking at the missile. The computer registered lock-on. "Fire!" The AAMRAM sped away.

Would the Mach three AAMRAM catch the surface-to-air missile before it caught the six hundred mile per hour Hornet? It'd be close, perhaps too close, for in missilery, as in horse-shoes and hand grenades, close counts!

Bombs dropped off Mama's Spads. DJ yelled, "Mama, Climb! Missile!"

Mama and her three urchins split and climbed on columns of fire. But, it was a losing race. The missile was too close and too fast. It was locked onto the trailing Spad and was eating up the distance. The Spad climbed. The missile climbed after it. DJ's AAMRAM cut the corner and exploded!

The Spad hesitated for a moment and suddenly flattened its turn. The pilot yelled, "Mama, I'm hit!"

She replied, "Of course, you are. Now come along, and we'll go home so I can make it all better. By the way, Talon, damned fine shooting."

One strike was still in progress, but of them all it was the easiest. One Spad was blowing the hell out of the ammo and fuel dumps while the second was clobbering the tower and admin areas. Their cluster bombs were making a big mess, and secondary explosions rent the air.

As the last two Spads turned and headed for home, DJ called to his flight, "Let's get the hell out of here."

Five minutes later, he passed over a cloud of smoke and a bit of debris in the water. He saw a Sea Emperor closing on the area and a Hornet circling aggressively like a shark defending its territory. Evidently, the Spad that had played with the missile hadn't made it all the way. Fortunately, it had gotten out far enough for the SAR guys to reach him.

"DJ to Halsey. Air Boss, we're home. Can we come in now? We don't want to play anymore."

* * * * *

8.4.6 Wasp Stings!

The calls from Ghost and Leprechaun One were relayed to Admiral Duncan. He raised a clenched fist in the air, shouting, "Yes! We got 'em!" Controlling himself, he issued the orders for the fleet to turn sharply northward, skirting the island of Ali.

Ten minutes later, the carriers began preparing to recover their strike packages. The air above the fleet suddenly filled with aircraft, eager to get down.

As the recovery operations got underway, Wasp slipped back slightly, using the screen of vessels and transports to hide her bulk. As she slowed, her gigantic stern gates opened and three LCACs slithered out. At the same time, Sea Emperor helicopters lifted off her decks, dropped low and skimmed towards the west. Wasp's elevators rapidly brought a dozen Ospreys to the flight deck. Within minutes, they were also launched and flying in pursuit of the choppers.

Rear Admiral (jg) Jerry Lake watched the last Osprey wing into the night. He turned to the Communications Officer. "Send JJ the go code."

*** *** ***

Major John "JJ" Jones received Lake's message and flicked his landing lights, to lead his twelve Super Harriers from their holding patters southeast of Farst Island. As his Valkyries climbed to five hundred feet, Jones breathed a sigh of relief. He'd been kissing the wavetops for three-quarters of an hour. He felt a lot better now that he had some air beneath his wingtips.

Jones' squadron formed into three flights of four birds as they headed northwest. Minutes later, they descended upon their targets -- the radars and installations on Farst Island. The Valkyries' attack lasted only ten minutes. Jones' Harriers dropped ninety-six five-hundred pounders on anything that even resembled a building.

The furious attack accomplished it objectives. The few Iranians that survived were concentrating on the skies above them. None of them saw the three gigantic LCACs speed across the sea and up the beaches. They didn't see the three platoons of Marines or their MTAVs until it was too late. Farst Island had served out its usefulness to the United Sates Navy. Now, they could only mess things up. The Marines silenced them for the duration.

*** *** ***

As Farst Island was going off the air permanently, Sam Carter was leading the rest of his Marines into Saudi Arabia. The fleet's Eyes and Ears had been watching the Iranaqi convoys driving up and down the coastal route all day. Now, was the time to begin to destroy that vital logistical link.

As his first Osprey approached the designated LZ, its radar picked up thousands of echoes. Since it could be anything, Carter decided to avoid it. Instead of landing where he had originally planned, he led the Ospreys to a position about a mile to the south. He radioed to his choppers to stand by until he'd made a recon of the situation on the ground.

Within five minutes, the lead platoons reported that the reflections were debris and litter from an earlier battle. Only then did Carter realize that this was same the place where the Ninth and Twelfth Light Divisions had put up their picket line, and where the Iranaqis had overrun them.

Marine Sea Emperors landed near the debris-littered battle ground. With half an hour later, Marines were lining the same declivity overlooking the same road where the Army had been just weeks before. The place of Iranaqi victory was about to become a place of horror for them.

They parked their Ospreys and Sea Emperors in long lines paralleling the road about a mile towards the sea. They'd be close by if the Marines had to run, but far enough away that they couldn't be seen. Seminole gunships landed just to the south to wait like everybody else.

While they waited for the Iranaqi column, the Marines set their trap. First, they implanted thirty claymore mines into the hillside overlooking the road. They arrayed their heavy weapons squads armed with SAWs, SRAWs and heavy machine guns on the embankments overlooking the road. At the southern end of the declivity, they placed mines ready to destroy the first two or three vehicles and block the southern escape route. To the north, three teams with LAWS rockets and one with BILLS stood ready to seal the other end of the trap.

A scout, dressed in camouflage paint, appeared out of nowhere at Sam Carter's shoulder. "Sir, they're three miles up the road. They're going slow, but they don't appear to have any outriders or scouts. They should be here in twenty minutes or so."

Carter alerted his troops. Those who were on or near the road, melted back into the low brush or climbed over the edge to disappear into their prepared positions. The Seminoles fired up their engines, lifted off and flew to the rear of the battle zone, ready to pounce on the enemy column.

Gradually, the low growling sound of laboring engines was heard coming from the north. A short time later, small lights were seen in the distance like a procession of candle-bearers on a Feast Day. The dark shapes of the vehicles themselves heaved into view, and every Marine held his breath. They had come ten thousand miles for this moment, and everybody was scared that they would be the one to blow it.

Almost out of habit, Carter began counting the enemy convoy as it rolled past his hidden position. "BTR. BTR. Truck. Quad-machine gun anti-aircraft. Truck, two, three four ... ten. BTR. Truck, two, three ... ten. BTR and ten more trucks." He counted six units of ten trucks and one BTR before the final Triple-A unit and the tail BTRs passed into the sunken roadway.

The sky in the south lit with fire, and the rumble of an explosion followed soon after. "Fire! Fire!" he yelled into his command set. His R/O quickly punched in the second frequency, and the general yelled, "Seminoles, up and at 'em. Semper Fi!" The roar of SAWs and SRAWs was overwhelming. The puny cracks of Marine assault rifles were lost in the din.

He shouted to his engineer, "Hit 'em!" Thirty claymores each blew three hundred flechettes into the killing zone. Then the choppers roared in, adding the staccato of their chain guns and ripple-fired 2.75-inch rockets to the killing zone. Marine firepower turned the shallow gully into an abattoir.

"Cease Fire! Cease Fire!" Slamming Sam yelled into his command set. The firing died away. Choppers hung over the battle field like angry, buzzing killer bees. Marines stood ready to renew the onslaught, but no sound came to their ears from the smashed column below them.

"Marines," he ordered, "get ready to move out. Special Details, do your thing."

Small groups of Marines carefully approached the destroyed column. Wherever they found a relatively intact body they shoved a pork chop into its mouth. The Special Details at the head and tail of the column decorated BTRs with the heads of Al Gomez' suckling pigs. Then, they drove wooden signs into the ground. Written in Arabic, the signs read:

"See you in Hell!

Compliments of the United States Marines" * * * * *

8.4.7 Wrap-Up

Admiral Duncan was trying to relax in his stateroom. He'd done all he could and was pretending that he'd retired for the night. In fact, he couldn't have slept even if he had wanted to. Finally, at Oh-Three-Forty-Five there was a light knock on his door. "In!" he ordered, trying not to sound as though he were wide awake or that he was expecting and eagerly awaiting this visit.

Mr. Threat poked his head in. "Admiral, are you awake?"

"Yes, Jimmy, come on in."

"Sir, I think you're going to like this. For the first time in weeks, I can report both success and victory."

"Well, don't just stand there, tell me!"

"First, Pepe's raid completely knocked out Suffaniyah. The runways are heavily cratered. It'll take heavy equipment a few days to repair them. The revetments and bomb-proofs are totally destroyed. We can confirm eighteen MiG-29s destroyed and nine damaged. Their tower is gone, and there are huge holes in the ground where their ammo and fuel used to be. The place is still burning. Our losses were zero.

"The raid against Jubayl was also successful. Both runways are badly damaged. We estimate that it'd take us two day to repair that kind of damage. Their revetments and reinforced hangers were destroyed as were their control tower, the ammo dump and the secondary fuel dump. We missed the primary fuel dump. One plane was destroyed on the ground and one was damaged. The Tomcats shot down twenty-five, mostly Su-27s, we think.

"Kimmel lost one Hornet, but the pilot was rescued. He has a broken arm. I might also add that he claims that your son saved his life by shooting down a missile with one of his own. If it pans out, there will be a medal in this for DJ.

"General Carter reports that Farst Island's installations were completely leveled by his air and ground forces. They killed everything that moved except one dog, which they brought back with them as a mascot. They have no idea of how many were on the island or how many were killed. We lost one Marine, who stepped on a mine, and one other was wounded.

"General Carter also reports that the raid on the Iranaqi column was completely successful. They destroyed over fifty trucks, a dozen BTRs, and a few Quad Triple-A vehicles. He says they also put "fear into their hearts," Sir. Remember those pigs he was asking about? He spiked a head on both the lead and tail enemy units, and stuck pork chops in the bodies of the soldiers in the trucks. The general hopes that his pigs will scare the crap out of them. His casualties on the operation were one badly twisted ankle.

"Admiral Lake reports that all of his ships, equipment and personnel are in excellent shape and are ready for your orders. He sends his congratulations on a most productive evening and hopes that you'll invite him to your next soiree.

"Admiral Spigott says he owes you a drink or two. General Algarro sends his regards and congratulates you by name and the Navy in general with having struck the first offensive blow of the war. By the way, Sir, General Algarro would like to remind you that you owe him a call tomorrow at ten hundred, and that you forgot to call him today."

The Admiral yawned. Suddenly, he was exhausted. The bed looked awfully inviting. "Thanks, Jimmy. Good report. Now, I'll try to get a little shut-eye before I have to talk with Gator. Night."

"Night, Admiral, and congratulations!"