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?

10 Finale

10.4 Saudi Arabia

10.4.1 Green Death

The day dawned bright, and the gentle sea breezes stirred the air. The calm day and the bright sun were needed by everyone. The previous night had been Hell. The Iranaqis had come at them almost steadily for over six hours. In spite of the Navy's protestations that they had completely cut the Iranaqi supply lines, the defenders had been hit continuously with every kind of shell and bomb. In the end, they had simply been overwhelmed by sheer numbers.

If it hadn't been for the Italian armored brigade, they'd never have made it. Twice, during the course of the retreat to Buqayd, Iranaqi armor had broken through the thin line of exhausted American and Saudi defenders. Twice Italian armored formations had thrown them back, but the cost had been high.

Murphy looked around, examining his depleted platoon. Five Americans and six Saudis, including the old man, were all that was left. Eleven were left to hold the narrow street. It was obvious even to him that they were losing the war. It was only a matter of time.

He could see aircraft in the distance diving and swooping. He could also see others playing their deadly game of aerial combat. He watched planes plummeting from the sky. He saw large explosions on the ground far away. The flyers were taking one hell of a beating, too. He couldn't blame them for the losses; they were trying and dying just like the poor grunts on the ground.

Then, the artillery bombardment began again. But, there was something wrong with it. His practiced ear detected a difference. There was no mighty roar of an exploding shell. No huge blankets of dirt were thrown high into the air. These explosions were above the ground, and the sound was more of a pop than a bang.

His exhausted mind wrestled with the problem. There was something there, but he just couldn't dredge it up. He stared at the area where the shells were landing, just short of their positions. A yellow-green cloud coalesced, and slowly drifted in his direction borne upon the zephyrs of the sea breeze.

"Gas! Gas attack!" he screamed at the top of his lungs. He clawed for his pack. Even if he had one, he didn't have the time to don a full CBW kit, but he could pull his gas mask on. Quickly, he pulled it over his head and pulled the four straps tight. He breathed in and felt the uncomfortable suction of it on his face, as his lungs struggled to pull air from the confined space. It wasn't leaking! He pulled off the two paper strips covering the breathing canisters. Fetid, rancid air filled his nose, but it was breathable.

He looked around quickly to make sure that everybody else was prepared. Rachel was standing beside him without her gas mask! "Put on your mask," he yelled, but she just stood there with a look of terror on her face. "Where's your gas mask?"

"I have no gas mask, Murg-free. They gave us none."

Oh, shit! What to do? He could give her his, but that would be stupid. There was no sense in both of them dying. He could order her to run away, but would she be able to run far enough fast enough? He glanced quickly at the advancing cloud. No, she'd never make it. He almost panicked at the thought of her writhing in pain as the gas slowly destroyed her lungs.

Quickly, he reached into his pack, yanked out a cotton shirt and pulled it down over her head like a nightgown. He pulled a similar shirt from her pack and wrapped it around her head.

"Where's your canteen?" he yelled. She stood staring back at him blankly. He didn't have the time to explain anything to her.

Grabbing his own canteen, he inverted it over her head. She wriggled and tried to escape, but he held her tightly. When the canteen was empty, he wrapped the soaking cotton shirt around her head and jammed her into a hole next to their position, shouting, "Stay there, Rachel, until I tell you to come out. Breathe very slowly and breathe shallow. You may feel itchy, you may even hurt real bad, but stay there!"

He raced towards the other Saudis. He wrapped their spare shirts around their heads and dumped the entire contents of their canteens over them. He pushed and shoved them into confined spaces whenever practical, crumpling them up into a ball. None of them understood, but none of them resisted his frantic ministrations.

He looked up as the cloud seeped over the wall like a visible, insidious pestilence. There was nothing he could do but wait. He jammed his hands inside his pockets, hoping that his long-sleeved cotton shirt would absorb the chlorine and that the gas would dissipate before the cloth became saturated.

He forced himself to breathe slowly and regularly, but his lungs wanted to burst. He began to itch. His ears itched, and then the back of his wrists itched like fury. He fought the urge to scratch, which would also expose his hands. The itch traveled down his neck and up his arms. It was worse than poison ivy! He jumped and twitched in spite of himself.

He looked to his rear and saw the greenish cloud rolling down the street, slowly dissipating. He looked to his front and compared the two views. Yes! It was much clearer now looking into the wind. Should he test it? "Patience, Murphy," he advised himself, "Don't do something dumb."

His itch had become pain ... real pain. His ears were on fire, and a hot poker was searing his arms. He swore and cursed and damned the rag-heads to hell and back a thousand times. He screamed, but there was no relief, and the pain only grew worse.

Through tear-filled eyes, he looked to his rear again. The cloud was gone. The air before him seemed clear. He looked for the rest of his platoon. LT was rolling around on the ground in pain. Two of the Saudis had failed to stay where they'd been put and had tried to escape. Both were lying in the middle of the road, rolling back and forth clutching themselves and screaming. He glanced down at the tiny bundle beneath his feet. It quivered, and he heard the muted sound of crying, but she was still there.

He looked beyond the barricade. Enemy soldiers were advancing. None of them was wearing a gas mask or chemical suit! He lifted his mask slightly and caught a quick whiff. There was still some residual odor, like a recently cleaned swimming pool. However, there was no stinging in his lungs or in his eyes. He breathed more deeply. It was OK, and the Iranaqis were advancing rapidly.

"Up and at 'em!" he yelled. "Get into your firing positions. Let's go! Enemy attack! Open fire!"

He felt a body rub his for just an instant and glanced down to see Rachel. She was up and her M-16 was aiming down the middle of the street. She was sobbing, wiping the tears from her eyes with her finger tips and blasting away. He glanced down the street, and saw an Iranaqi fall. They were coming in force, and Rachel was the only one firing at them!

He spun, grabbed his SRAW and slipped the magazine onto his back. He slammed at his cocking bolt and opened fire. Once again, the golden stream of death poured from the muzzle. He lashed them with its torrent of bullets until his weapon sputtered. Like a madman, he turned, grabbed his second magazine and rearmed his weapon. Within seconds, he was back streaming death and destruction down the narrow, man-made valley between the buildings.

Murphy fell!

Rachel screamed, "Murg-free!" but he did not move. She fired at her enemies, at those who had struck down the stalwart American who had befriended her. Her clip was dry. She grabbed at her web belt for the next one. It was empty!

Her only hope was the SRAW. She tumbled down the barricade to Murphy's side, but he was lying on the weapon. She grabbed his arm, and pulled him with all her might, rolling him onto his side. She grabbed the nozzle and looked up to see that three soldiers had surmounted the barricade. She squeezed the lever. The enormous recoil spun her around, knocking her down.

She crawled to lie upon Murphy's prostrate body. She hooked her elbows over the magazine and fired a short burst. Three Iranaqis died instantly, but more of them were clambering over the defensive barrier. She fired short bursts, yet each one knocked her backward. She had neither the weight nor the strength to control the mighty weapon, but it was all that stood between her and them.

The attackers seemed to hesitate. Instead of climbing the barrier, they lobbed grenades over it. She had to escape, but she couldn't leave Murphy. She grabbed his harness and pulled with all her might. Murphy's body moved less than a meter. She pulled again, gaining only centimeters.

The Iranaqis returned. Instead of charging over the barrier, they lay along its crest, firing down into the street. Bullets splattered off the pavement around her. She grabbed the nozzle and blasted short bursts back and forth along the length of the barrier. Then, she dragged Murphy another half-meter away from her enemies.

She lost track of time. She sprayed the barrier to prevent the Iranaqis from surmounting it. Then, she pulled Murphy as far as she could towards safety. She sprayed and pulled and pulled again, until the corner of a building loomed up by her shoulder. She dragged Murphy beyond its masonry edge and peered around it at the barricade.

Iranaqis streamed over the wall. There, in the middle of the street, was the body of the American lieutenant with the Prophet's name. She could not let them despoil his body!

She ripped at the harness holding the ammo pack to Murphy's back. The straps came loose, and she dragged the SRAW's nozzle to the corner. Lying on her stomach, she loosed a withering blast, which drove her backwards. She clambered forward and fired again until the enemy was either gone or dead.

Dragging the heavy ammo pack, she reached Lieutenant Mohammed and began to pull him to safety. He was much lighter than Murphy, so she made rapid progress. She only stopped twice to fire the great weapon before she had dragged Mohammed around the corner next to the sergeant.

The roar of an engine and the creak of treads echoed through the street. "Allah, protect me!" she wailed. The sound came from behind her. She spun about ready to face the uneven battle as a mother would protect her child.

A huge Italian flag dressed the bow of the monster. Slowly, it sidled up to the barricade, and its great 120-mm muzzle poked over and beyond the pile of rubble. Its gun erupted. The tank's heavy machine guns roared

A man raced towards her and slid to a stop beside her. She was startled and raised the SRAW's mighty snout towards him. Then she saw the white circle and the red cross upon it.

The man smiled at her, knelt down and extracted several bandages from his pack. She reached towards the man, but he suddenly seemed far away. She pleaded with him, "Murg-free is hurt."

Darkness descended upon her, and she knew no more.

10.4.2 Defense at Buraydah

The attack in the west occurred an hour after the devastating gas attack in Buqayd, so they were prepared for it. The troops were cloistered in their vehicles, safe within their positive pressure hulls, breathing filtered, purified air. The clouds of chlorine and mustard gas rolled by them, followed by a mass of Iraqi troops intent on dislodging the small Saudi-American army.

Captain Tommy Rudman's Bravo Company was ready for them. He and Captain Hamal el Sayd a-Fayd had worked long and hard preparing for their first joint exercise against the enemy. Major Brower had been skeptical at first, but Hamal had proved to be an excellent leader who fit his armored company into her battalion like a hand into a perfectly-made glove.

Rudman and his troops were behind the first of their three lines of defenses. The engineers had done a great job. Tommy's berms were high, and the tanks and Bradleys were defiladed skillfully.

He checked and rechecked his troops, looking for any signs of weakness. His dragoons were lying upon the cool sand, rifles at the ready. His armored fighting vehicles stood poised, with their anti-tank TOWs ready to fire, and their twenty-five millimeter guns peeking just above the ridge. Intermixed with his forces were the four tanks assigned his Company. He could see Hamal's tank sitting quietly with its great cannon almost resting on the dirt piled in front of it. Its only sign of activity was the restless command cupola with its 12.7 mm machine gun arcing back and forth seeking first contact with the enemy.

Five minutes after the last gas shell exploded, Tommy saw the armored columns approaching. He sat in his Bradley awaiting Juliette's order to open fire. Enemy APCs came closer and closer until he could easily identify the BTMs and the BTRs. They were well within range of his TOWS, but still beyond the range of accurate cannon fire when the order came in.

"Missiles Ready. Pick your targets carefully. Tanks stand by. Missiles fire!"

Tommy had been ready for minutes, tracking a BTR. He mashed his firing button. A missile spewed from the Bradley's launcher as he concentrated on keeping his sighting reticle squarely on the BTR's bow. The missile bobbed up and down, tempting him to correct its flight, but, after years of practice, he knew that the bobbing, weaving and erratic flight was normal for the beast. All he had to do was hold his sight on the target, and no matter where it moved the missile would chase it down and kill it.

A blast filled his sight, but there was no sound to verify the deadly explosion. The BTR just stopped, and munitions within it began to explode tearing it apart from the inside out.

He had no time to gloat over his kill. A BTM loomed out of the smoke and haze. His second missile launched and burned its way towards his enemy. This target was different from the BTR. That one had come on "dumb", virtually blundering into the missile's path. The BTM's driver bobbed and weaved back and forth irregularly. He changed speed and took advantage of every dip and hollow. He was real good. He just wasn't good enough.

Tommy sighted the next one, another BTM. This one also bobbed and weaved like a half-back trying to squirt through the defensive line. Tommy missed him and the missile sped on to an unknown destination and fate. Still locked on, Rudman fired his fourth and last missile. This time, the BTM zigged when it should have zagged. Four missiles, three kills. Damned fine shooting, if he did say so himself.

In spite of the hail of missilery, the wave of enemy vehicles raced towards the Saudi-American lines, undeterred. At five thousand yards, the tanks open fire. Iranaqi armored vehicles were swatted like flies, but the killing had been too one-sided to last.

The Iranaqi artillery resumed. However, instead of gas, they fired real ammo. The first few salvos exploded high above the ground, spraying shrapnel down on the defenders. Those that could scrambled back into their vehicles where they would gain some measure of protection. However, the enemy gunners had planned on this. After the volleys of air bursts, everything else exploded on impact.

The Bradley next to Tommy's exploded in a huge ball of flame and fire, almost tipping his vehicle on its side. Huge rents appeared in his section of the berm. Cascading sand buried a body next to his treads. In spite of the bombardment, the tanks maintained their fire, but it was obvious to him that they would not stem the tide.

He heard the thunder of jets, and, looking upward through his command set, he saw a score or more of Warthogs descending upon the advancing columns. Missiles dropped from their wings destroying tanks by the dozens. Cluster bombs rained down. Armored vehicles burst into flames. The big planes raced away, and then returned to loose their tank-killing, thirty-millimeter gatling guns upon the Iraqis.

In those few seconds, the distance between defenders and attackers had diminished greatly. The Warthogs couldn't fire without hitting their own countrymen or their allies. Instead, they hovered like expectant fathers waiting for a time when they could do something productive.

Rudman ordered his dragoons out of their AFVs and back to their lines. It'd be infantry work in just minutes. Light anti-tank rockets streamed from his lines, as his infantry fought the APCs.

Tommy spun his cupola and fired a long burst into the side of a BTM. It rolled on, firing back with its own 76-mm gun. Then, it stopped. Six or seven troopers rolled out the back and began clambering up the berm.

He fired at them. The BTM's cannon rotated rapidly towards him. Tommy shifted his fire raking the side of the enemy vehicle, hoping his twenty-fives were big enough to penetrate. They weren't. The BTM's cannon fired at almost point blank range. The shell struck Tommy's turret and exploded. The Bradley filled with smoke almost instantly.

The driver yelled, "Bail out!" Tommy didn't stop to think. Seconds later, he was outside, where the air was filled with bullets, shells and bombs.

Rudman grabbed his weapon firmly and clambered up the berm. He fired quickly at a soldier struggling up the other side and then turned again to face his armored adversary. His opponent was now a smoking hulk. Tiny flickers of rifle fire sparkled from its pinned-down troopers.

Other large shapes loomed. They were too many to handle. He raced to the nearest Bradley and pounded on the rear gate with his rifle. A firing slit opened slightly. "It’s me ... Rudman! Let me in! Mine's been killed!" he screamed at the top of his lungs.

The hatch opened. A sergeant was busy firing his chain gun. "Get ready to move out!" Tommy yelled, and the sergeant nodded his head in agreement. Juliette must have been reading his mind, because he heard her voice over the speaker yelling, "Move back! Back to the second line!" The driver grabbed his microphone, calling to his troopers, "Mount up, we're moving out!"

The dragoons needed no encouragement. They piled back into the nearest available vehicle, but with two of the company's AFVs out of action, it was a tight squeeze. The original Bradleys only had room for six. Although these, new and improved AFV's had room for eight, there weren't enough of them to go around.

Somehow they all made it. They piled people on top of people. They disregarded the foot in the face or rifle butt in the crotch. The point was to get the flock out of there and worry about the creature comforts later.

As soon as the infantry was mounted up and on its way, the tanks followed. Sixty-ton steel monsters almost rocketed out of their holes, powered by their fifteen-hundred horsepower, Avco turbines. Their spinning treads threw rooster-tails of sand backwards into the Iraqi's faces, as they sped to the second defensive line.

The rapid departure of the Saudi-Americans gave the choppers and the Warthogs a second chance to stop the Iraqi advance. A half mile of free space had opened up between "ours" and "theirs." That was plenty of room for the Annie Oakleys and Buffalo Bill Codys of the airborne tank killers. Warthogs swooped down pouring a dreadful hail of fire on the enemy vehicles. Seminoles and Apaches fired missiles into the stew.

The Iraqis were prepared. Scores of shoulder-mounted missiles belched from their lines. Most missed, as the planes and choppers bounced and darted in their three-dimensional realm, but many struck their targets. A Warthog lurched, pulled up and thundered away, streaming a trail of black smoke. Another's tail was blown off. The pilot ejected safely and slowly fell towards the no-man's land between the first and second lines. A chopper almost directly overhead was hit and fell to earth with its rotors beating a tattoo on the armored flanks of Tommy's AFV.

Tommy recognized Hamal's voice, yelling, "I'm going to get him. Cover me," and saw one of the Abrams turn sharply from its flight towards safety. A second and then a third tank turned after it, cannons blazing away.

"Get outside! Supply covering fire!" Tommy yelled to his dragoons. His Bradley hardly slowed as the gate dropped, and the ten of them tumbled out on the sand. Quickly, they turned and poured small arms fire on the advancing troops. They rushed forward towards the three tanks, as much to seek cover as anything else.

"Hey you," Rudman yelled at the pilot struggling to disengage himself from his 'chute, "This way! Run!"

The pilot sprinted towards them, hindered by his left arm that was cocked at a funny angle. Quickly, Tommy's dragoons gathered him in and almost threw him over the berm. They clambered up the slippery sand and tumbled down the other side, just as the whining sound of the Abrams' engines overtook them.

Rudman looked up just in time to see the last of the three tanks racing up the berm. It didn't slow an iota, and, at the crest, launched itself into the air. It landed twenty feet away with a deafening, earth-shaking thud. Nothing seemed to affect an Abrams. The tank slowed, spun on its axis and was back in line in just seconds.

Tommy and his men turned quickly to regain their firing positions. The enemy was retreating. Instead of pursuing them, they were satisfied to have driven the defenders out of their first line of defense. They clambered back across the berm and began using it to defend themselves against the direct fire of the Americans and the Saudis.

That was a tactical error. The half-mile separation was more than sufficient for the close attack aircraft. Even the Navy joined in. Hornets arrived from the south, armed with cluster bombs. Missiles rose to meet them, but the Navy planes bored in. More choppers swept in from the rear, adding their missilery to the defense. Even the carefully hoarded American artillery finally opened up adding their impressive tonnage to the killing fields.

"They're retreating!"

He couldn't make out who had said it, but it was true. Dark squat shapes were traveling west at high speed. They had held! Yet, there was no doubt in his mind that they'd be back.

He rolled down the berm, next to Hamal's tank and pounded on its armored flank. Hamal's smiling face appeared from the command cupola's hatch. Tommy looked up at him, smiled and then felt a hot surge of anger. "What the hell did you think you were doing?"

He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see a tired-looking Air Force colonel standing beside him. "Thanks, guys. I thought I'd bought the farm."

Hamal leaned out of the turret, cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "One of your guys saved me outside of Jubayl. I was completely surrounded, and a Warthog blew open a line of retreat for me and guided me back to our lines. I'm just repaying the favor."

Colonel "Harley" Powell looked up at the youngster in the tank, and snarled, "So you're the crazy son of a bitch I pulled out of that fight? What were you trying to do, win the war all by yourself?" Hamal just shrugged and laughed. Then, Powell turned back to Rudman, a look of pain on his face. "Captain, I hate to break this up, but my arm hurts like hell."

"Medic! Medic!"

10.4.3 The End in the West

"They've retreated, General, but they are reforming for a second attack. Orders?"

Algarro looked closely at his G-2. "Shorty" Kearns stood expectantly. Gator looked across to his comrade in arms, General a-Fayd, who sat there expressionlessly. This was Algarro's call. Only he could make it. Everybody was just waiting for him. "Pull 'em back," he growled, "I'm going to end this thing right now."

He turned away and punched a button on his VisiPhone. The features of Lieutenant General Sidney Fox, CentCom's Air Boss, appeared. "General," Algarro commanded, "nuke 'em!"

Fox's reply was a simple, "Yes, Sir." The screen went blank.

Twenty-eight minutes later, a single Avenger took off from Huraymila Tactical Air Base. It carried one bomb. The flight took twenty minutes. The Ninth United Islamic Army became ions fanned by a man-made hurricane suddenly blowing across the desert.

Algarro grimly turned back to his G-2 and the Saudi Chief of Staff and growled, "Turn 'em around and get them going. I want to attack those sons of bitches at An Dar tomorrow."