Jihad
6.5 Saudi Arabia
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?

6. World War

6.5 Saudi Arabia

* * * * *

6.5.1 Defense of Jubayl

Twelfth Division (Light) had held off two murderous assaults in just eight hours. Both times the Iranaqi tanks and APCs had penetrated, and both times they'd been thrown back by the ever increasing numbers of Saudi armored reinforcements. Those same guys who had come through hell to survive, had taken the opportunity handed to them. They got their new equipment, or, with American help, repaired their beat-up, battle damaged stuff, and turned to defend their homelands.

Gunny Murphy was damned proud to serve with them. He was especially pleased with his own "black-and-green special project", Second Lieutenant Aldrich Mohammed. The kid was doing real good! At first, the kid had accepted Gunny's experience and regularly asked his advice. Then, one of the corporals, an Hispanic who'd served for over six years, made a suggestion. This was a big test, and Gunny knew it. It was up to the kid whether he passed or failed.

"Geez, Hernandez, sounds good to me," Mohammed had replied. He had looked over at Murphy and then around at the rest of his platoon. "Any other ideas?" The kid had passed with flying colors. He just might make a decent soldier -- for an officer.

Then came the lieutenant's second big test. The arty was flying, dirt was kicking up all over the place. Men were screaming, "Medic!" Orders were coming in and being passed to the kid by the R/O.

The question in Murphy's mind was could the kid keep his head? The test of leadership was in being less scared out of your mind than everybody else. It came when you, personally, had to do something when your personal body was about to be smashed into a bloody pulp. The test was to do it not to save yourself, but to save your command and limit casualties.

At first, the kid didn't pass. Then again, who could? Only fools and those with a death wish enjoyed being shelled, watching death step to their side, and seeing friends and comrades battered into tiny blotches that redden the sand.

Gunny watched as the kid hunkered in his hole. The R/O screamed in his ear. Once. Twice! Gunny was just about to move, when the kid looked up under the brim of his plastic helmet and straight into Gunny's eyes. Murphy smiled, gave him the quick thumbs-up, and ducked back into his hole as another shell exploded. When he looked back, the kid was on the horn, talking and listening. He shouted, "Gunny, tanks inbound! Alert the BILLs. Five minutes to show time, Gunny."

The kid had passed! He may have pissed his pants, and puked his guts out in his helmet, but the kid had passed.

Five minutes later the barrage stopped, and the squeal of tank treads was all too close. Whoosh! Whoosh! The grenadiers fired BILLs at the oncoming Iranaqi tanks. The missiles ejected from their demountable tubes and sped towards their targets at six hundred feet per second. Then, just as they appeared to have overshot their targets the missiles exploded downwards, destroying the tanks from the top, where they were most vulnerable. But, neither two nor even four destroyed tanks were sufficient to stop the tidal wave of armor.

Gunny looked back towards his young charge. The lieutenant was doing good, directing his squad leaders with "cool", and screaming into the radio in between. 'Too bad,' thought Gunny, 'if we had survived this, he'd have it made.'

Then, out of nowhere, eight huge Abrams tanks appeared! Their One-Oh-Sixs and One-Twenties stopped three Iranaqis dead in their tracks while blowing five more to hell. The BILLs pounded two APCs while the tanks clobbered six more.

Gunny looked up again to see LT leading a charge. Mohammed had five guys with new "LARS" tubes coming around the sides of the APCs blowing the shit out of them. The lieutenant must have figured out that he couldn't attack the tanks, but if he could kill the APCs before they had deployed their troops, he had a double kill, and his command just might survive.

The battle lasted only fifteen minutes. Gunny was exhausted, but he still had a job to do. "OK, you mother-loving, sand-eating sons of bitches, let's get this thing cleaned up! Corpsman, take care of this man. Who else has been hit? OK, clean up this mess, clean your weapons and let's get ready for the next one. No, children," In his best accent of the great Swartzenegger, he said, "they'll be back!"

The hatch clanged on the cupola of one of the Abrams behind him, and a young Saudi captain lithely clambered out. He jumped down from the tank and approached the sergeant.

Gunny understood the important things in life. Gunny knew to eat or sleep whenever he could. He knew never to volunteer. When in doubt, he saluted.

Murphy was in doubt, so he snapped his best parade ground salute. "Master Gunnery Sergeant Murphy, Sir!" He dropped his arm, and extended his hand. "You guys arrived like the fucking cavalry, Sir! You saved our asses. If you drink, I'm buying."

The Saudi captain laughed heartily. "Gunny, you can always tell an American. When at a loss for the right words, you swear. It is a both a most aggravating and endearing trait. Just yesterday, when I was running scared and being chased by the whole fucking Iranaqi army, I could have kissed you guys! Now, Gunny, where's your CO? We have a lot of coordinating to do, and I'm sure you want to be in on this. We're your tankers!"

You could have knocked Gunny over with a fly-swatter. First, a Saudi captain pops up out of nowhere and saves them all. Then, he talks and even swears like an American. Finally, he's not some stuck up little prig, like so many of these Arab types. 'Shee-it,' he thought, 'what's this world coming to?'

"Yes, Sir, Captain. Right this way." He looked for the kid. He didn't have to look far because Mohammed was headed straight for him at a high rate of speed. "Lieutenant Mohammed, this is Captain.... Sir, I don't believe I heard your name, sir."

"No, you didn't. Lieutenant, I'm Captain Hamal el Sayd a-Fayd."

The kid just stood there. Gunny did what was important to do, and saluted once again. The kid caught on, and, seconds later, when the military courtesies were behind them, the ice was broken. The three of them settled into the usual routine of tanker and infantry trying to figure out how to defend the front and not get their asses shot off.

The captain had twelve tanks under his command. The Saudis assigned one tank to each of the battalion's companies, leaving seven in reserve. That would give each company some fire power, which, when supplemented by their BILLs, would stop an armored infantry attack. At the same time, they had a powerful reserve which could stop a break-through cold in its tracks for at least a few minutes. In battle, a few minutes were generally the difference between living and dying.

Once the arrangements had been approved by Captain Crocker and Major Guys, there was little else to do but talk about the war. "So, Captain," Gunny asked, "you've seen some action already?"

"Oh, yes," the young Saudi replied. "I was at As-Suffaniyah when they broke through. Some kind of intelligence screw-up. The next thing I knew I was running for my life. The only good part about it was that I was in an Abrams, so I could make good time!

"But, wherever I went, people began clinging to me like I was The Prophet and their only salvation. Next thing I knew, I had two hundred trucks, filled with retreating Saudi soldiers, and the whole freaking Iranaqi army on my tail. So, I turned around, along with two AFVs, and tried to buy them some time. Fortunately, some of your Warthogs came along and saved my ass, or I'd be in Paradise right now, eating grapes and talking philosophy."

Gunny looked up in amazement. "You're the crazy son of a bitch?"

"Yes, Gunny, I'm the crazy son of a bitch. Allah did smile upon me. But, I will say that it was the US Air Force that saved my ass, and you guys that saved us all."

"Sir," the lieutenant interjected, "I heard that the guy that did that was some relative of the king. You a prince or something?"

"Nah, Lieutenant, the king is a distant relative. Your name is Mohammed, but does that mean that you are The Prophet, bless his name?"

"Well, no, but you see I took this name when I became a Moslem. My family name is Green."

'No shit!' thought the sergeant, 'The green-and-black kid is really Green!'

The Saudi cocked is head questioningly. "Oh? I didn't realize that you were one of the Faithful. Then again, Americans are like that. You and I will have to attend the mosque together when we have an opportunity. Have you ever been to Mecca, Lieutenant?"

"No, Sir. I was hoping that since I'd come this far already that I might have a chance to get down there. But, the army is the army, if you know what I mean. It's hard for a second looey to tell a general what to do."

"I do know what you mean, Lieutenant. Even I have very limited powers over those who outrank me."

A Saudi private rushed up and saluted. "Sir! One of our tanks is not working, Sir!"

"So? Why don't you fix it?"

The private looked bewildered. "Sir?" he asked, as though he didn't understand the captain's question.

"Roll up your sleeves, climb into the works and repair or replace. It's simple."

"Sir, that is not the work for a man of honor. None will do it."

"Dammit!" the captain exploded.

Both Murphy and Mohammed laughed, and looked at each other. Gunny asked the lieutenant, "You got any experience with tanks?"

"Nah, Gunny, but I could strip a car on the Cross Bronx Expressway before the guy had even gotten out of his seat. Come on, Captain, let's see what's cooking in your tank platoon."

An odd looking trio descended on the ordered neatness of the Saudi encampment. One was a big, barrel-chested, red-haired, freckle-faced Irish-American. One was a slight, straight and very dark American. The third was a dashing prince of Arabia.

They were on a mission, but not necessarily from God. Their mission was to repair a tank, and make sure that its crew did the fixing in spite of it not being "honorable work."

* * * * *

6.5.2 Defeat at Jubayl

That night, the bombardment started early. It began shortly after midnight, and just never seemed to end. Shell after shell screamed in on the American positions, pounding every square inch. It went on for hours. The only thing Twelfth Division could do was burrow like moles, but they couldn't dig deep enough. The Iranaqis had brought up their big stuff and were determined to pulverize the American and Saudi defenders. The bombardment was so intense that even Gunny Murphy thought he was going to buy it.

Then, the arty stopped, only to be replaced by the bombers. Napalm fire-balls geysered into the sky followed by clouds of dense black smoke. After the napalm came the cluster bombs, and the iron bombs, and the "Willy Pete" until everything flammable was afire. At dawn, the aircraft slipped away yielding once again to the artillery.

Then, there was silence. Gunny Murphy wasn't sure if it really was quiet or not. His ears rang as he peered over the edge of his hole. Not twenty yards away a monstrous T-90 was bearing down on him at full speed. And, that wasn't the only one. In that split second, he had seen other large shapes in his peripheral vision, and he realized that it was too late. His line had been over-run.

'Bug out!' was his first thought, but he couldn't. He had to save his men. He had to save as many of them as he could or this might be even a worse disaster than Suffaniyah. He grabbed his SRAW, hefted the sixty-pound back-pack, and slid the cocking ring back hard. Quickly, he stood up in his hole, and laid the rotary barrels flat on the ground at eye-level. His SRAW roared and 9-mm bullets mowed down the attacking infantry.

"Twelfth to me! Twelfth to me!" he shouted, hoping to see some sign of survivors of his or any other friendly unit.

Lieutenant Mohammed's head popped up. "Gunny, I got six in here."

Hernandez yelled from the other side, "We got eight here, and there's more to the right."

Gunny bellowed, "We got any anti-tank shit?" Nobody did. It was going to be rough. "Lieutenant, got anything on the radio?"

"Negative, Gunny. Radio's blown to shit. Got any ideas?"

'Gotta love a kid like that,' Gunny thought. He yelled back, "Yah, let's bug out. Grab everybody you can and let's retreat. I'll try to cover you."

The Iranaqis had reacted to Murphy's gatling gun, and an eight-wheeled BTR began machine-gunning his hole. Pinned down, Gunny was unable to counter the armored car to cover his platoon's retreat. Two or three small explosions, like grenades, rent the air, and the gunning stopped for just a moment.

That was all Gunny needed. Like a cat, he leapt up, and as his shoulders cleared the edge of his hole, he sprayed his wheeled tormentor. The SRAW's recoil blew him out of the air, back into his hole and knocked the wind out of him. He heard the delightful sound of an armored car cooking off.

A black face appeared over the edge of his hole, and a scrawny hand reach down for him. Gunny grabbed it, discovering in it a surprising strength. As the kid pulled him to his feet, Gunny grabbed the ammo pack and flung it over the edge. Then, much to the sergeant's surprise, the lieutenant bodily yanked him out of his hole.

"You OK, Sarge?"

"Yah, LT. Let's go."

The lieutenant led the way, zigging and zagging across the field of carnage. Others joined them. Quickly, there were a bunch of them, all running and swerving, while being chased by machine guns and cannons.

An explosion knocked Gunny over. Somebody landed on him. He struggled for a second and then recognized Corporal Hernandez. "Julio, get off me!" But, Hernandez was missing the entire back of his head. Gunny threw him off with a shiver of disgust, and raced on.

Another explosion! LT and a couple of other guys went down just ahead of him. Murphy sprinted to Mohammed, who was shaking his head trying to clear the cobwebs. The lieutenant was all right, but there were several others lying there who weren't. Gunny grabbed one of them by the web belt and with one quick flex heaved a wounded man onto his shoulder. He clutched a second one under his arm. Then, he seized a third by the collar and charged ahead, yelling, "Come on, LT, before we get our asses shot off!"

"I'm getting there, Gunny, but this guy's heavy. So stop naggin'!"

Gunny glanced over his shoulder. The skinny lieutenant had a guy slung over his back in a fireman's carry. A few other guys joined them, spinning every once in a while to fire at the pursuing enemy. But, Gunny could see that they weren't going to make it. There wasn't any cover, and there wasn't any help. They were dead meat!

The ground shook violently. Gunny was knocked off his feet. A hurricane of sand tore into his face, eyes and ears. Over-pressure popped his ears. If he hadn't been gasping for air, it would probably have blown out his ear drums. A huge wave of dirt swept over him like a tide. It picked him up bodily, hurled him to the ground and rolled him across the sand.

He spit dirt and tried to see. Only one of his eyes was working, but not well. He heard a roar overhead and vaguely saw eight Warthogs flying away. He looked around seeking both his friends and his enemies. Wherever he looked tanks, BTRs and BTMs were thrown about and burning. It looked like a junkyard. More planes flew low overhead, strafing, bombing and rocketing. Then, the choppers flew by. Beautiful, lovely gunships powered missilery into the pursuing columns.

He struggled to his feet. Half blind, but still carrying and dragging his three comrades-in-arms, he charged ahead. Yet, he had no idea where he was or where he was going.

"Hey, Gunny, his way," It was LT.

Murphy looked for him, but his tear-filled eyes only saw shadows. He gasped, "I can't see, LT. Keep shouting, and I'll follow."

A hand clasped his shoulder, startling him. "It's OK, Gunny, we're going south, and we're getting out of this. Steady now, Gunny, it's a little rough here." For over an hour, the lieutenant led the way, while Murphy stalwartly hauled his comrades towards safety.

"Hey! You guys! Over here!" It was an American voice.

Mohammed yelled back, "Who the hell are you?"

"One-Oh-One! Get your asses in here before your get them shot off."

Murphy plunged ahead, stumbling over the low berms the Screaming Eagles had hastily thrown in a last ditch defensive line. Hands reached out to help him with the wounded. As the man he had carried for over five miles was lifted from his shoulders, Gunnery Sergeant Murphy's world turned black.

His dreams were horrific. Tanks and BTRs were everywhere. He was shot again and again. Wherever he stepped there was a mine that blew up, tearing his legs off. But, he had more legs and whenever one was injured, another grew back, only to be blown off again. Bombs roared in his ears, and he was blind.

Blind! He couldn't see! What would he do? How could he fight them if he couldn't see them? An enemy grabbed him! He struggled. Slowly, he reached up as though through thick, viscous molasses, and grabbed his enemy by the throat. He growled, almost instinctively, deep in his throat, and yanked with all his might.

Then, he heard LT calling to him, "Gunny! Gunny! Relax, Gunny, you're with me. You're OK." Murphy opened his eyes, and tried to blink, but there was only darkness. A hand rested lightly on his shoulder and shook him gently. "It's OK, Gunny. They've bandaged your eyes. You're in a hospital along with me and a bunch of the rest of the guys. Now, let go of the doctor before you kill the stupid son of a bitch. Any other ideas, Gunny?"

Murphy just laughed, "You crazy kid!"

* * * * *

6.5.3 The Decision

They sat in the situation room deep underground staring at the tragedy unfolding on the screen. Four American light divisions and two scraped together Saudi brigades had been overwhelmed. More than twenty Iranaqi armored and thirty infantry divisions had crushed their defenses. The One-Oh-One had tried valiantly to establish a defensive position with which to stave off the inevitable. They had been crushed as though by a steam roller. Tens of thousands of men were streaming back towards Jubayl with every bit of equipment they could move, but it was obvious that it wouldn't be enough. They had neither the manpower nor the equipment to stop the enemy.

General Hector Algarro looked grimly at General Mahumaddi el Sayd a-Fayd. "I don't know how to stop them. We've run out of space, we've run out of time, and we've run out of troops. Our air power can hurt them and hurt them badly, but it won't stop them. Our losses will just grow.

"You've got to issue the order to evacuate, General, before it's too late. We've got to get the civilians out of Jubayl, and then turn the city into a killing zone. Street by street fighting is messy as hell, but these are light troops and better suited to that than fighting out in the open. But, if there are civilians there, it'll be a slaughter house. Both your troops and mine will be more concerned about preventing civilian casualties than killing the enemy. And, when we do have to evacuate, we don't want another Suffaniyah."

The Saudi, with a look of great anguish on his face, shook his head in the negative. "I don't have that authority. Only the king can order the evacuation, and that would be tantamount to admitting defeat. No, he won't do it.

"Besides, militarily, Jubayl is lost. The main road by-passes it, and goes on towards the heart of our commercial and industrial population. If we are going to fight street by street and make this a war of attrition, it would be better to fight in Qatif, Dammam, Zahran and Khubail. That will delay them in their advance on Hufuf, and perhaps buy the time we need."

Algarro was shocked at the Saudi's callousness. "How can you just write off Jubayl? Talk to the king. Get the civilians out while they have a chance."

"No, my friend, they will not leave until they are presented with their own deaths. They will stay to the end, looking to Allah for a miracle. Then, they will clog the roads, making it impossible for our troops to withdraw except over their bodies. It is Allah's will. Perhaps in the future we will remember this time in our history and profit by it."

"No, Mahumaddi, withdraw. Withdraw to a defensive position where we can stop them for a time. If the battle in the streets is long enough and bloody enough, then we will have bought the time we need for our reinforcements to arrive. There must be another way. Is there nothing I can say that will change your mind and save your own people?"

"No, Gator. We must fight the war that is before us, not the one we wish it to be. Order your troops to retreat, General Algarro. Your supplies and equipment will be replenished in the Qatif-Khubail defensive ring. May Allah have mercy on me!"