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?

1 Beginnings

1.2 America

1.2.1 The Admiral’s Halsey

Rear Admiral James Thomas "JT" Duncan stood on the dock in Norfolk Naval Yard staring disdainfully at the USS Halsey, thinking of the past and the future. When he was a young officer coming up through the ranks, he had dreamed of commanding a big fleet carrier like the Nimitz, Enterprise or Lincoln surrounded by CGNs, DDGs and scores of quick ASW "FiGs". Now, he had made it, but he was bitterly disappointed.

He was a senior officer aboard the CGN Arkansas in support of the Nimitz, when the old Soviet Union collapsed like a rag doll. When Soviet threat dissipated, the United States isolated itself once again. All the armed forces were "down-sized". And, as the Navy dwindled, he found that he was always one step away from his goal.

Then, the Second Korean War broke out. Neither the United States nor South Korea was ready for it. The North Koreans had almost won, and would have if they had been just a little luckier. Then, came the troubles in South America and in Africa, and, once again, the United States was unprepared. Begrudgingly, Congress voted to expand the armed forces. They admitted that the Navy needed twelve carriers to fulfill its many missions. Yet, instead of appropriating the money to do the job right, they had "compromised" making WW-II sized ships and had called them CVs.

JT shook his head in disgust as his sailor’s eye examined the ship before him. Clusterfuck was the only word to describe it. It was small; too damned small. Even though it was a nuclear-powered aircraft carrier, it was an undersized kluge from the word go. And, to name this entire class of ships after one of the greatest carrier admirals of all time was an abomination!

The original design of the Halsey Class CVNs was over a hundred feet shorter, displacing only three-fourths that of the old super carriers. It had only two small "Tea Kettles" that’d barely drive it at twenty knots. That was scarcely enough to launch aircraft, never mind fully loaded Tomcat IIs or A-29 Avengers. The Chief of Naval Operations, Admiral Doug Smalley, had fought the Congress tooth and nail. He had even gone on television talk shows to discuss the deficiencies of new class of ships.

Finally, Congress relented, and, once again, compromised. They authorized a redesigned ship, with two auxiliary gas turbines linked to the nuclear turbines with the klugiest drive train known to man. When everything worked, the CVNs could steam at about thirty-four knots, which was pretty respectable. But, a first class crew was needed to keep the ship running. And, the consensus among Naval planners was that under battle conditions, they’d never hold together.

Then, the penny-wise Congress decided that a smaller carrier didn’t need as many aircraft. Duncan snorted in contempt as he remembered the times he’d gone up to Capital Hill to fight for the kinds and numbers of aircraft Naval Aviation needed. He had told them that a carrier battle fleet exists for the sole purpose of attacking and destroying the enemies of this country before, not after, they attacked us. He had pounded his fist on the table as he had exclaimed, "A weak, undermanned, under-gunned fleet is not a deterrent. It’s a target!"

They did appropriate for enough money to upgrade the old F-14s to the new, but almost identical, F-34 Tomcat IIs. They upgraded the F/A-18 Hornets with new engines and better electronics creating the F/A-38s. They even spent some money on new missiles, but when it came to the attack squadrons, Congress again balked.

He had gone back to Capitol Hill six times to testify before either the House or Senate Armed Forces Committees. He told them that the old A-6 Intruders were falling apart. Some of those birds were over thirty years old and had taken over a thousand carrier landings. Those planes were often ten years older than their crews. The 1970’s design was obsolete and dangerous in the middle of the twenty-first century. He’d grown gray trying to get Congress to see the problem, and to give this country something that would fly off a deck, deliver a punch and get its crew home.

In the end, they had come up with a winner. But, Congress refused to foot the bill for the new, stealthy A-29 Avengers. They’d jammed the compromise carriers down the CNO’s throat. "You want those new birds?" they had asked. "What’ll you give up to get them?" The big super-carriers had taken it in the neck. They’d scrapped all the non-nuclear flat-tops, leaving the Navy with only six carriers to guard two oceans. Then, they’d "replaced" the ones they’d scrapped with the Halsey Class, calling them CVNs.

What was JT's reward for all his efforts on behalf of his country and the United States Navy? They’d given him command of the wimpy Halsey and were sending him to the Med. After all his years of coming in second, they’d told him take command of the junior varsity squad, to go away and not to bother them anymore. They expected him to protect U.S. interests with half a fleet!

To top things off, trouble was brewing from Morocco to Libya. The entire northern coast of Africa was in chaos. Tunisia had kicked over the ash-can. Libya had declared a 200-mile territorial limit, and was aggressively patrolling the Gulf of Sidra with subs, surface vessels and aircraft. Egypt was screaming for help and warning about an imminent invasion.

On top of that, for some reason known only to God himself, the Iraqis and Iranians had patched up their differences and were working with the Syrians to dislodge Israel. There were renewed calls from Baghdad for the annexation of Kuwait.

Last time, we’d kicked their camel-kissing asses out of Kuwait and killed their entire army. Of course, that was back in the days when the USA had the carrier forces to do what we damned well pleased.

Duncan shrugged his shoulders, putting his thoughts aside. He flicked his tie, readjusted his tunic and marched up the gangplank. The pipes whistled as his head neared the flight deck. He faced aft, saluted the flag, and stepped aboard his flagship. He had reached the pinnacle of his career.

His aide suddenly appeared at his shoulder. "Admiral!" the lieutenant wheezed trying to catch his breath. "The CNO wants you in his office. He did say 'immediately', Sir."

Duncan’s only thought was "Oh, shit!"

1.2.2 The Commander’s Halsey

Commander Dave "DJ" Duncan pushed through the crowd gathered around the bulletin board. The new assignments had just been posted, and he, like everyone else, was excited to learn where he was going. He scanned the long list of names until he found his own. The Halsey! And, he’d been promoted! He was the new Senior Squadron Commander of VFA-8.

He shoved his way through the crowd of Naval Aviators and headed towards the parking lot. His mind was buzzing. The Halsey was the sexiest, most beautiful ship afloat. His Dad, Rear Admiral James Duncan, bitched about the Halsey-class CVNs all the time. He bitched about their small size, their hybrid power plant, their aircraft complement and their escorts.

DJ couldn’t agree with him. The Halsey was 989 feet long. That’s three football fields plus another 30 yards. That’s not a small ship.

As for the hybrid power plant, the ship could sail around the world for thirty years on its "Tea Kettles," launching planes and retrieving them all the way. And, when the Captain wanted to do some water skiing, he could just pop off the cookers, pour on thirty-five knots and blow by the FiGs.

As far as the air complement was concerned, DJ just couldn’t understand his father. In "the good old days", the super carriers had twenty-four Tomcats and twenty-four Hornets divided into four squadrons. The Tomcats were the long range interceptors and the superiority guys, while the Hornets were both attack and fighters. That meant each type had very separate roles and there wasn’t that much overlap. But, things had changed.

The new F-34D Tomcat IIs were bigger and faster than the old F-14s. New composites had reduced their weight giving those big birds a lot more speed, while their new engines had extended their range and given them an 800 knot "Super Cruise". And, for a bird of that size, they were damned maneuverable. With their variable wings and their new vectored thrust engines, the T-2s were almost as quick as Duncan’s Hornets. Of course, the Tomcat’s biggest asset remained the combination of the Phoenix missile and the radar systems needed to use it effectively in combat. So, the fact that there were only two squadrons of eight aircraft was more than equalized by the superiority of the T-2s compared with the original Tomcat.

His squadrons’ planes, the F/A-38K Super Hornets, were completely new. About the only thing that has remained the same was the "body styling." As far as he was concerned, no service had a sexier looking machine. The Hornet’s new P&W engines generated a higher top-end, a climb rate that was almost unimaginable, and Super Cruise. Of course, they were still attack planes, capable of launching with almost 7 tons of ordinance including the improved AAMRAM. With it, his squadron could knock enemy aircraft out of the sky at sixty miles. He firmly believed that his Hornets could out-turn and out-fight anything in the sky, including the T-2s.

Halsey’s big punch came from her new A-29 Avengers. His father was justifiably proud of those babies. They had about the same bomb load as the old A-6s, and, according to the attack guys, they were a honey to fly. They were also supersonic to get in and get out fast. Best of all, they were a cast-iron bitch to pick up on radar. All the new planes were harder to see because of the new composites and such. Even the T-2s couldn’t detect the Avengers until they were within 20 miles or so. By that time it was too late to react. The Avengers would be egressing aggressively long before they could be intercepted.

Furthermore, Halsey was long on ASW and support capabilities. She had a bunch of old, reliable S-3s for ASW, plus E-29F Hawkeye radar planes, EA-29 Regulators for electronic counter-measures and ES-29 Snoopers for electronics detection. She also had six, giant Sea Emperor choppers for SAR, ASW or anything else a chopper was used for. It was always comforting for an aviator to see the big egg-beaters floating alongside during launch or recovery.

DJ had to admit that he didn’t know a lot about ships or fleets. He was a naval aviator, not a squid. Yet, it seemed to him that his father’s complaints about the escorts were as far off base as his complaints about the air complement. Halsey was escorted by three Perry-class frigates, two Burke-class destroyers and a missile cruiser.

The Perry-class FiGs were great Anti-Submarine Warfare platforms. Those FiGs had advanced sonars and ASROCs. Each of them had a helicopter equipped with a dipping sonar and Type-56 light torpedoes. If a sub skipper wanted to play with the FiGs, he was either stupid or insane.

The two Arleigh Burke-class DDGs and the Ticonderoga-class CG were the fleet’s primary Anti-Air defense, but could also support the ASW mission. Bunker Hill alone had 182 missiles ready for launch from its fore and aft vertical launchers. The Arleigh Burke’s weren’t slouches, either. They had ninety missiles apiece and a three-quarter Aegis radar system. When the destroyers’ radars were combined with both the Bunker Hill’s and the Halsey’s Aegis systems, they had enough microwave energy to cook a goose in flight and count its feathers at the same time.

DJ was grinning from ear to ear by the time he turned into his driveway. He had just been promoted. He had a new squadron aboard a new ship. Delores had just announced that she was expecting their third child, and today was his birthday. The twenty-third of May of the year 2036, would be one he’d always remember. He was the happiest man on Earth.

The phone was ringing. "Commander Duncan, please report to your ship immediately!"

"What’s going on?"

"I don’t know, Sir. Please acknowledge receipt of this order."

Maybe this wasn’t the best day of his life after all.

1.2.3 PhibRon 5

Brigadier General Thomas "Blacky" Breckenridge, USMC, stared pensively at the bulkhead in the senior officer’s wardroom aboard the LPHN Hornet. Blacky had chosen the Marines. Marines were tough, just like his Zulu ancestors. Blacky had also chosen his own nickname at the Academy as both a source of pride and a warning to others. He had always believed that he had descended from a long line of big, tough Zulu warriors. He was proud of his race and proud of his people’s accomplishments. But today, the fifty-one year old, six foot three, two hundred and thirty-two pound, genuine, black Marine was meeting his new boss, and he was anxious. These few minutes before everyone else arrived were his first opportunity in days to sit quietly and think about his upcoming mission.

The Hornet and the Halsey were "half-sister" ships. Both classes used the same hull and the same nuclear reactors. Thereafter, they were very different. The Halsey was designed to launch aircraft and project power. The Hornet was designed to carry Blacky’s Marine Amphibious Unit anywhere in the world, and to assault and hold any beachhead or position within range.

Yet, the Hornet was a Navy ship with a naval crew of over nine hundred. The ship was commanded by Captain Xavier "Guido" Guadelfono. Breckenridge was a superior officer, but he and his MAU were just passengers on Guido’s ship. It was Captain Guadelfono’s job to sail the Hornet to wherever they were going. During the voyage, it was Guido’s squids that took care of everything. His crews drove the ship, made the food, and took care of everything. Once they had arrived at their destination, he was responsible for landing Blacky’s troops. Then, he had to support the Marines for as long as was necessary.

Guadelfono commanded a wide range of landing craft to handle virtually any assignment. He had two LCAC air-cushioned landing craft which could transport one of Blacky’s rifle platoons at fifty miles per hour across water, sand or embankments up to six feet tall. He had four LCMs and two LCUs to bring both heavy equipment and supplies to the beach. And, he had twenty ugly ALVTPs, commonly called "puke buckets", which could be counted on to get twenty-five troops ashore regardless of the terrain. Once they were ashore, they reverted back to Blacky’s command, unless they were going back to the ship, in which case they stayed under Guido.

Nominally, Blacky commanded the twelve hundred Marines that were packed into the Hornet. The largest contingent of his MAU was the 565 officers and troops of the 2nd battalion, 3rd Marines. He had trained them thoroughly in amphibious warfare as well as standard land tactics. As far as he was concerned, they were one of the finest fighting forces, for their size, anywhere in the world. Yet, if a fire broke out or some other emergency arose which threatened the ship, Guadelfono had the authority to take command of the Marines.

Hornet’s twelve Harrier II jump jets were just part of Blacky’s Marine Air Wing. Blacky also had twelve Ospreys that could fly at three hundred miles per hour and land vertically to deliver twenty-two troops. He had ten Sea Emperor II’s that could carry two rifle platoons at high speed for over one hundred miles and drop them anywhere they were needed. And, he had six Seminole helicopter gunships to protect the troops before, during and after landing. Yet, the movement of the planes in the hangars or onto the flight deck was Guido’s job. The Navy controlled the flight deck. Even the Air Boss was Navy. If the ship was attacked Blacky’s Marines would fly under Guido’s control to protect them all.

Yet, Blacky’s Marines needed much more than even Guido’s Hornet could provide. Marines needed tanks, howitzers, ammo, food and a mountain of supplies. Without that support, his Marines could land, but could go no further. His MAU would be on the defensive, hiding under the supporting fire of the guns, missiles and planes of the fleet.

The support Blacky needed to go on the offensive came from the least glamorous ships in the fleet. The fleet’s two LSTs, "Landing Ship, Tank," carried Blacky’s armored vehicles, including his tanks and MTAVs. The LSD, "Landing Ship, Dock" carried more heavy equipment plus the extra LCMs and LCUs which were needed to transport the huge quantities of supplies to the beach. It was only because of those stodgy and unappreciated vessels that Blacky’s Second Marines had any offensive punch.

Blacky’s retrospective was interrupted by the call of the bosun’s pipe. The new COMMEDFLT was coming aboard. Breckenridge remembered Admiral Duncan back when he was the commander of the USS Arkansas and called "Dunk". At the time, the feisty, little Navy captain hadn’t impressed Blacky at all. But later, when the CNO had turned Duncan loose on the Congress, he’d really shown ‘em. He’d gotten his new carriers, planes, and missiles, and there was enough left over for the Marines to upgrade their sea-lift capabilities. Blacky smiled as he remembered the old saw -- he may be a son of a bitch, but he’s OUR son of a bitch!

The hatch swung open and the Marine guard led Admiral Duncan into the stateroom accompanied by Rear Admiral (jg) Ellingstone, who was to command PhibRon 5 as both Blacky’s and Guido’s superior. Blacky and Guido stood to attention and greeted their new commanding officers.

Admiral James Duncan vaguely recalled the young Lt. Colonel Breckenridge. About all he could remember was a huge, black Marine who seemed to be in command of himself. But, this morning the Admiral had no time for remembrances. "At ease, Officers. Let’s get this show on the road! I’ve brought a few things with me to get us started." His aide set up an easel and several overlays.

"Here’s the situation." He slapped a pointer at a spot on the North African coast. "The Tunisian government was overthrown yesterday in an Islamic coup. A bunch of Ayatollahs are running the place. They’ve already made overtures to Libya and are preaching Jihad to Algeria, Morocco and anybody else who’ll listen. This morning Libya reimposed its Line of Death, and Tunisia has extended a two hundred territorial mile limit. The CNO has informed me that riots have broken out in Algeria, and that Islamic fanatics are behind them. Officers, this could be quite messy!"

"As of this morning, I have ordered the Halsey to the MED as fast as she can get there. She should be there in four days, five at the most. I’ll fly on ahead, and join the fleet once she’s on station. We will be enforcing the twelve-mile limit. We’ll use our forces to remind everyone in North Africa that we’re great friends, but they don’t want us as an enemy. The Ayatollahs may hate our guts, but they don’t want our bombs in their mosques."

"Admiral, General, Captain, I need to know when you can get underway? Time is important. We may only have to show the flag to head this thing off. However, we may also need to assist friendly governments.

"Now, I know that a MAU can’t defeat an army. But, with your mobility and striking power you can make the difference. It’s one thing to sail within a few miles of a coast or to launch planes to send a message. It’s a different message when American forces are on the ground helping a friendly government. I don’t want to commit your forces, but if I have to I will."

Admiral Ellingstone considered his reply for a moment. "In answer to your first question, Admiral, I’ve had my staff working on this since the news broke on CNN. Blacky has told me that his Marines will be aboard in three days. Captain Guadelfono has informed me that Hornet will be ready to sail by then. My big problem is the heavies. The LSTs and the LSDs will take seven days to load. After that, if we can maintain twenty knots, I can be across with Blacky’s MAU in five days. As for committing troops, I’d prefer to have Blacky answer you."

Breckenridge sat quietly for a few seconds as he considered his reply. He was the only Marine in the room, and he was hemmed in between two Navy admirals. It was important to be heard, but it was more important to keep his size sixteen foot out of his mouth. "Yes, Sirs," he began, "The Hornet is a great attack ship, but if I’m going to do any damage, or to protect myself from attack, I’m going to need my tanks, howitzers and other heavy equipment. I’m also going to need gas, oil, food, ammo and a lot of other supplies.

"As for committing troops, Admiral, you’re right. My six hundred Marines can be just about anywhere you want them. But a battalion, even my battalion of US Marines, can only do so much. I wouldn’t want my command shot to hell."

"No! No, Blacky," Duncan replied. "I’m not going to commit the Marines without consulting you. I’m a squid, and so is Admiral Ellingstone. He can get you there and I can cover your ass if it’s hanging out too far, but you’re the gyrene. If it can’t be done, I want to know it. At the same time, I don’t want some knee-jerk, 'no-can-do' either.

"I’ll be square with you, Blacky. I’ll tell you up front if we should ever run into that kind of situation. But, remember this. If we gotta, we gotta, regardless of the costs." He smiled broadly, "I’ll expect you to do what Marines have always done . . . the impossible!"

"Shit," Blacky thought. "This little bastard could to get me killed. But, I’ll get the Navy Cross posthumously!"

The Admiral studied his commanders for several seconds. "Seven days it is. Plus five days to get everybody across in good order is twelve days. Unless you’ve got something else, I’m off to the Pentagon for a last word of advice from the CNO. Nothing?" He extended his hand. "Either way, see you in twelve days. Best of luck and Godspeed!"

Admiral Ellingstone, General Breckenridge and Captain Guadelfono accompanied the admiral towards the side. Duncan turned to them, shook their hands again, and was about to say something when the bellow of a ship’s steam whistle drowned him out. The admiral spun around, and when he saw that it was the Halsey getting underway, he stood stiffly to attention and saluted her flag. The other officers, not quite knowing what was happening, followed Duncan’s lead.

The Admiral’s arm fell, and theirs fell in unison. Evidently, their movements caught Duncan’s eye. He turned back to them and muttered an embarrassed thank you before departing over the side to the accompaniment of the bosun’s pipe.

"What the hell was that all about?" demanded Breckenridge of anyone in hearing distance.

"His son," Ellingstone replied. "His son is a squadron commander on the Halsey."

"Son of a bitch!" the big general growled, "The old man’s son!"

1.2.4 Halsey Sails

The Halsey was fifty miles off the Virginia coast when her air wing began to arrive. First, came the big F-34’s, led by CAG, Captain William "Buck" Henry and his RIO Charles "Chunky" Smith. The first nine-plane squadron flew low along the starboard side in three tight three-plane sections. In the Navy, looking good around the carrier was always important. Since this was the maiden landing aboard the new ship, it was even more important to set the right tone. It was up to CAG to make sure that everything was right, or else.

The flights extended several miles astern before they began their slow roll, reversing course. The first plane in line was CAG’s, and he hit the glide path like the thousand-trap pilot he was. But, first landing or one-thousandth landing, it didn’t matter. Dropping a 20-ton aircraft on a rolling, pitching deck was the most nerve wracking, mentally exhausting exercise ever devised by the cunning mind of man.

Fortunately, Buck Henry had been there before, and he knew what to expect. "Puma one at 1200," he called telling the LSO who he was and how much he weighed.

"Gotcha Puma One. You’re on the glide path. Call the ball," the Landing Ship Officer replied.

Buck breathed a sigh of relief. These Halsey class carriers were a little smaller than the super-carriers he was used to. His perspective was different. He was having a tough time judging his height and his glide path. It’d take him a few flights to get used to this shorter class of ship. He knew that everybody else up here had heard the LSO, and they’d be just as eager as he was to "hit the path" on their first try. Also, hitting it on his first try would enhance his reputation with his new wing. His pilots would never trust a CAG couldn’t do his "stick and throttle".

At about three miles out, he spotted the fresnel lens of the landing lights, but it was still too far for him to see whether he was on his path or not. He felt low, but the ship’s deck seemed to be in the right spot in his canopy. He fought the urge to increase power, and watched his air speed, climb indicator and altimeter while peering into the mist trying to see the meatball. Yes! He was dead on! The meatball was dead center!

"This is CAG, I have the ball." Oops! Going a little high. Ease off the throttles just a tad. Lift the nose a skosh. Going low! Tad of power. Here we go!

Slam! The 40,000-pound Tomcat hit the steel deck at a speed of 140 miles per hour. The tires were crushed, and pushed up and back against the landing gear’s struts and shock absorbers, collapsing them. Within one-tenth of a second, they had taken up the shock, and rebounded bringing the nose back up to a horizontal flight position. At the same time, both CAG and Chunky were violently slammed forward into their five-point harnesses.

Both of them had been there before and knew exactly what to do. By the time the oleos had flattened, Buck had pushed the throttles forward all the way. Plane and man had acted in unison to prepare for the worst. If they missed the arresting wires, the Tomcat would hurtle forward. Unless they were ready to fly, CAG would lose a 50 million-dollar plane while testing the effectivenes of the Search and Rescue choppers.

The tail hook grabbed the third arresting wire. CAG had hit it perfectly. Once again the nose wheel tried to bury itself in the deck. But, Grumman had almost a century of experience in designing carrier-based aircraft. The nose wheel assembly did its job once again, and the two crew members were thrown against the harness with a force of over 5 Gs. Twenty tons of steel, ceramics, composites, flesh and blood came to a stop in just 150 feet.

CAG had arrived in his new home. It was time for him to park his bird, get to the island and prepare for the arrival of the rest of his air wing.

1.2.5 CNO’s Orders

It had been an exhausting day for Admiral Duncan. He had said good-bye to his son, and sent him to sea. He’d rattled a Marine general’s cage. Now he was waiting to see the Chief of Naval Operations to receive his marching orders, and get the good word from the "National Command Authority."

"Admiral? You may go in now."

The secretary’s announcement brought him out of his reveries with a start. "Thank you," he replied as he strode through the heavy oak doors into the CNO’s offices.

Admiral Douglas Smalley jumped up from behind his desk, and, armed with a big smile, extended his hand. "Welcome, Dunk. Good to see you. You were always one lucky son of a bitch. Here I send you off to a quiet spot, and you end up right in the middle of it.

"Here’s the latest poop. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, the Secretary and the President are meeting as we speak. I’ve been with them all morning, and here’s the gist of our thinking.

"It looks like this Tunisian thing might spread. The Ayatollahs are in complete control. It looks like they had a lot of help from both the Army and Navy. They and the Libyans declared a mutual treaty of everlasting friendship and issued a joint declaration of a two hundred-mile limit. This could put a real crimp in our style. The Straits of Sicily are only 95 miles across. They’re making noises about the Pantelleria Island and the Pelagie group, and the Italians are mad as hell. God only knows where this leaves Malta, but one thing’s for sure. The North Africans aren’t going to get their way.

"That’s your first job. Interdict anything afloat or in the air. Remember, you’ll be working with the Italians to defend their lands. You’re not under their orders, but they are our NATO allies, and we’ve sworn to defend them. Of course, we were thinking of the Russians at the time. Personally, I don’t think the North Africans have the cast iron undies to try anything, but you never know with these guys.

"The next problem comes from this idiotic 'Line of Death.' It’s the same old thing that Khadafi pulled until we bombed him. Their new line extends from Cape Blank to Tobruk. That definitely does include Malta and Pelagie, by the way.

"The third problem is over in Algeria. The Ayatollahs have led uprisings against the government from Oran to Annaba. And, here," the CNO pointed to a large scale map, "in El Qata, they have the army on their side. They’ve grabbed all the communications and have asked for assistance from their Islamic brothers to overthrow the Infidels and all the rest of that crap. If Annaba, or Bone as the Frenchies used to call it, falls to them, they can seal up the whole eastern part of the country behind the Seybouse River. That’d leave their back door open to the Tunisians and threaten an invasion of the rest of the country either along the coast, through Guelma or both.

"Of course, the French are going berserk! They still seem to think of Algeria as their colony and have maintained strong political, social and economic ties with them. But, their ties are only good as long as the military government is in power. The Ayatollahs in Algeria view the French as the devil incarnate and us as the devil’s apostle.

"Now, this brings us to the next series of problems. Will Libya move west into Algeria or east into Egypt? If Algeria falls, will Morocco fight or switch? These are the questions we’re wrestling with right now, and, Jim, we don’t have an answer, yet. In fact, we have damned few answers.

"You can expect support from both the Italians and the French, but they’ll stay on their side of the lines and let the other guy come to them. The French carrier Foch will be in the area off Sardinia. The Italians are shifting aircraft and ships to Sicily. You can expect several destroyers and missile boats out of Marsala. We’re working on both governments to involve themselves directly with us in a joint command, but they aren’t ready to do it until we activate CentCom. We’re not ready to do that, so you’re on your own until we can agree to work together. For your part, you will support any NATO naval or air forces that come under attack to the best of your ability and prevailing conditions.

"Finally, Jim, don’t start a war. At the same time, I’m reinforcing MedPhibRon. You’ll have a full MAB under Blacky Breckenridge. By the way, this afternoon, he’ll have his second star. Use whatever force you think is necessary to protect NATO assets. Open up those sea lanes. And, for God’s sake, cover your ass!"

Rear Admiral James Duncan just sat there with his mouth hanging open. Not since the days of sail, when communications took weeks, had an admiral been given such blanket authority to use whatever forces were at his disposal in any way he chose. He had the authority to burn, loot and pillage, as long as he "didn’t start a war." But, that was an interesting point in itself.

"Thank you, Admiral, for your confidence in me. But, Bob, what do I do after the shooting begins? If they start something, how far do I go? What kind of assistance can I expect from the French and Italians, or for that matter any of our other NATO allies?"

"Yup! That’s the 64-dollar question, ain’t it? Hell, Jim, I don’t know nor does anyone else. That’s what we’re trying to figure out. Now, you’ve been up to Congress enough times to know the rules of politics. If you lose, they’ll eat you alive; if you win, they’ll eat you alive. Anything else? What’s your schedule?"

"Well, I’ve got to get back to Ellingstone and Blacky to talk over some contingency plans. Tonight I fly to London and talk to the Admiralty. The next day I’ll be in France doing the same thing and then to Italy. Four days from now, I’ll be on the Halsey."

"Good! Good! Like to see you keeping busy, Jim. Oh, by the way, here’s a letter from the President. You can read it when you get around to it. I’m sure that Congress will approve the appointment. So, take these." The CNO leaned over the desk and dropped two silvery pieces of metal into Duncan’s hand. "I figured you’d need a little swat, and three stars is always better than two! Congratulations, Vice Admiral Duncan. You’ve earned them, and now I’m going to make sure that you keep on earning them. Good-bye, Dunk. Godspeed!"

Vice Admiral Duncan slipped off to the Men’s washroom to put his new stars into his collar. He smiled at himself in the mirror. Three stars did look better on his collar than two. Maybe he wasn’t the captain of the JVs after all!

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?

1 Beginnings

1.3 Israel

1.3.1 David Weissman

David Weissman sat in his corner office studying his plans for a new high-rise scheduled for ground-breaking next spring. This had been his baby from the beginning, and today he’d gotten it! What a birthday! Tel Aviv’s finest architect was thirty-six years old, today.

Samantha had been elated when he told her. She’d made him promise to be home early tonight. She had something special planned. More than likely, she’d invited Dad and Mom down for a little get together. Then again, she could have invited over the whole gang. If so, he’d be in big trouble. A hangover on the Sabbath was no way to end the week.

"Sir," his secretary’s voice bellowed over the intercom.

Regardless of how many times he told her that yelling into the telephone receiver was the same as yelling into his ear, she didn’t listen. Every time she did it, his heart leapt into his mouth!

"Yes, Susan," he mumbled.

"Turn on your TV! It’s important!"

Because of the wars in the 1950s, ‘60s, ‘70s, ‘80s and ‘90s, all Israelis lived next to some form of communications gear. Even farmers out in their fields had radios to let them know what was going on, and whether they were at war again. Even after the separate Palestinian states were founded, Israelis had lived in a troubled peace. They’d helped the Syrians revover and rebuild after their devastating civil war, which had smoothed the way to this watchful peace, but neither side trusted the other.

Recently, Syria had begun to mass its armies next to the demilitarized Golan Heights. In response, the Israeli Defense Forces had stepped up their training schedules. Dave had spent one week in four training with his battalion for the past six months.

It had been a brutal schedule, and everyone hoped that it was just a quirk of international politics. Dave’s father, Joe Weissman, had not been so sanguine. Just the other evening, he’d announced that war with the Syrians was coming, and that they’d all better be prepared. It was scary, and Dave’s thoughts immediately went out to his wife and his two boys.

He flicked on the set. It was always tuned to CNN. The screen showed the usual split picture. A pretty, American woman of some indeterminate race was talking. On the other side, an oriental man wearing a flak jacket and helmet was crouching down, holding his hand to his ear while he spoke into a microphone.

"Yes, Jenny. The Ayatollahs are completely in control. Elements of Tunisia’s First Division have taken control of the city and declared an Islamic Republic. Apparently, the Navy has joined in on their side. However, the Air Force and other segments of the armed forces are still disputing the revolution. A while ago a number of aircraft tried to approach the city and a big naval gunship out in the harbor shot them down with missiles."

The screen blanked for a moment, and hazy, jerky video rolled. Small shapes appeared, and a great white cloud erupted from the harbor. Seconds later tiny flashes of light appeared where the dots had been.

The scene shifted back to the dual personalities. "I don’t know if you could see it clearly, Jenny, but the gunboat fired missiles at eight or ten aircraft and shot them down! The whole city is in an uproar. Crowds are running around cheering. A couple of people started throwing rocks at us, yelling "Yankee go home." Then, this religious fellow came along, found out we were with CNN, and broadcasting to the entire world. He has been our guardian ever since. We can’t go anywhere or see anything, but the crowds aren’t stoning us anymore.

"We tried to get this fellow to appear on camera, but he wouldn’t let us. Instead, he just stands behind the camera and watches. He won’t even tell us his name. He has a radio and is in contact with someone. Every once in a while he tells us about the fall of another town, the destruction of some barracks or some other sign that the Islamic Republic of Tunisia is at hand.

"There isn’t much more I can add at this point. We’ll be back to you as soon as we have more news. To recap, the Tunisian government has been overthrown in a military coup led by Ayatollah Abdul Khalil Kamsanni. A new government, the Islamic Republic of Tunisia, has been declared. Stay tuned to CNN for the latest from Tunis. I’m Gerald Hiroto, CNN News."

Dave punched the off-button and sat back. Maybe Dad was right. But, Tunisia is a long way from here. Still . . . the Muslims . . .

The phone rang. It was a recorded message. "All personnel of the following units are to report to their armories at 18:00 hours. The units are . . . " The list went on and on. David listened hoping that his battalion wouldn’t be one of them, but in his heart he knew better. In his other life, David Weissman was the CO of 1st Armored Battalion, 3rd Armored Regiment.

Historically, Israeli Air Force units were always called first, but the armored units were right behind them. Infantry could move quickly across this small country, but it took time to prepare a tank, and even more time to get it to where it’d do some good. Israel had learned a long time ago to get its tanks moving first and to worry about the social, political and economic consequences later.

There it was! David Weissman, architect, had just become Major David Weissman, IDF. What a way to spend your birthday!

David carefully stacked his drawings and documents, put them back into their folder and stored them in the drawing file. "Susan," he called, "I don’t know how long this will take, but it looks like a big one this time. Tell Myron to proceed as usual. I’ll be in touch."

Susan tried to smile, but it was difficult. Like all Israelis she had learned the history of their land. She knew about the wars of 1948, 1956 and so forth. She knew that Israel had to defend itself. But, she couldn’t help asking herself why they were doing this? There was no reason to attack Israel. There hadn’t been a shooting war in her lifetime.

As her mind tried to encompass the awesome thoughts of war, she suddenly realized that if David had been called up, then her boyfriend, Ben Tallman, would also have received the call. In a panic, she dialed the pharmacy where he worked. "Yes, Benjamin is here."

"Ben Tallman, how can I help you?"

"Ben! Ben, have you heard? Dave’s been called up. Have you heard anything?"

"Ah . . . yes, Sue, I have. I was trying to figure out what to say to you. I’m afraid we won’t be able to see each other tonight. I’ll be leaving early and heading over to the armory. I don’t really expect anything to happen, though. The Syrians will see us mobilizing and will back off. It’ll only be a few days."

He had tried to sound very self-assured. Yet Susan knew him too well to be fooled that easily. He was putting on a good show, and it was up to her to do the same. "Yes, I know. But I am still worried. I love you, Benjamin."

"I love you too, Dimples. I’ll call as soon as I know what’s going on."

The phone went dead. Susan, left alone in the office, wept uncontrollably.

1.3.2 The Armory

David arrived home in the middle of the afternoon. It had been a terrible commute. He worked downtown and drove to work from his apartment in Bene Beraq. He avoided rush hour, because he hated sitting in his car baking under the hot Mediterranean sun.

He’d figured that at two o’clock in the afternoon he’d miss all the traffic. Had he been wrong! Kaplan Street was bumper to bumper, and Route 11 across the Yargon River was virtually at a standstill. It took him over an hour to travel the distance that normally took him fifteen minutes. By the time he got home, he was tired and grumpy.

Even the parking lot under his building was packed. He waited five minutes for the elevator, and then it stopped at almost every floor letting his rushing neighbors on or off. Everybody seemed in a great hurry, but nobody talked about it. They had all learned the need for security when they were just children. So, each man and woman just went along doing what they had to do without divulging any part of Israel’s mobilization plans.

Samantha was waiting at the door for him with a tall, cool lemonade, with just a little something "extra" in it. She was obviously worried, but wasn’t about to let on. Suddenly, they were attacked by their two boys.

"Daddy!" they both screamed. "Are you going to war?"

David desperately sought for some kind of response. His sons were as excited as only young boys can be about the prospect of battles, bombs and rockets. How could he explain reality to them? They felt indestructible and immortal, but he knew that’s not the way things are. He wondered, "Do I tell them the truth and scare the hell out of them, or go along with it and let them live as children?"

He looked into their eager, cherubic faces, and decided on the truth. "I hope not! Gabriel, Samuel, war is an awful thing. We pray to Jehovah for peace, but sometimes we don’t get it. So, we prepare for war. With Jehovah’s help, maybe we won’t have to fight."

But, children are irrepressible. "Oh, that’s OK, Dad. We know that you’ll protect us. Those Syrians don’t stand a chance, not against my Dad." Seemingly satisfied with their irrational view of the world, they went back to their rooms and their TV cartoons.

There was a knock on the door. It was Nablus Brenner, their young next door neighbor. He was a mechanic in Dave’s battalion. "I’ve been called, but I’m worried about Judith." Judith was expecting their first child any day now. "I don’t want to take the car, so I figured I’d ask you for a ride down to the armory. I was hoping that Samantha could watch over Judith while we’re gone."

"Of course, Nabby, no problem, but the traffic is murder. I figured on starting at about 17:00. If we get there a little early, it won’t be a problem. But, if we’re late, Colonel Hiram will skin us both!"

The young sergeant grinned at his CO’s little joke. Lt. Colonel Jake Hiram was about the nicest man he’d ever met. A big part of their regiment’s success was because nobody dared to disappoint the regiment’s XO and see that slightly crestfallen look on his face. Everyone worked their tails off for him. "Great, Major. I’ll be ready." He was off at a trot down the corridor.

Samantha grabbed David around the waist and led him to their bedroom. His uniforms were laid out, and most of his kit was already packed. Six months of weekend call-ups and drills had done wonders for their organization. Sam knew exactly what need to be packed, and how her husband did things.

It was a simple matter for him to grab a quick shower, shave, get dressed and finish packing his kit. By the time he was done, Samantha had the meal ready, and the boys were at the table. He rushed to the table without thinking about his appearance, but the boys noticed.

"Major!" they shouted, jumped to attention and snapped off a couple of pretty fancy salutes.

He grinned, returned their salute and ordered, "At ease, men. Let’s eat!" They sat quietly at the table, and David led them in a prayer of thanksgiving. The moment he pronounced the final "Amen", a wild scramble ensued as father and sons fought a mock battle for possession of the bread, soup and meats.

It had taken Samantha a long time to get used to this rough-housing at the table. She had been brought up in a very strict family. As a child, she had sat quietly, listened attentively to the adults and only spoke when she was spoken to. But, David’s father, Joe, was an American. According to Joe, next to Israel, America was the most wonderful place in the whole world. Forty years ago, he had brought his American ways and American attitude to Israel and had never changed at all. It was from his father and his grandfather, who was even worse, that David had learned this rough and tumble, "horsing around."

She objected to it, but it was infectious. She loved the way Dave and his sons enjoyed each other’s company. Very few fathers, including her own, enjoyed their children like Dave did. Yet, their boys respected him, too. Although they were both good at wheedling, when Dave made a decision, it was made. And, the kids respected him enough to accept it even when it wasn’t exactly what they wanted. "Oh, God of Israel," she prayed, "protect him and bring him home safely!"

Seventeen hundred hours arrived all too quickly. Dave grabbed his bag, kissed Samantha passionately, gave both the boys a hug, and strode out the door. He walked down the corridor, and banged on Nablus’ door. The sergeant was ready, and the two men headed for the elevator.

The trip to the armory was long and frustrating. The combination of rush hour and the call-ups had clogged every avenue, street and alley. The police were out in force and were being even stricter than usual. They kept the traffic moving, even if it was at a snail’s pace.

Dave flipped on the radio to hear the latest news. For the most part everything seemed normal. There were small bits about a fire here, a robbery there and a lost dog. It was just the usual kinds of things that went on in a country of four and a half million. No panic, no problems were evident. There was just a routine call-up of some reserves, except that every car, bus and truck throughout the city seemed to be filled with men and women in uniform. Something big was going on, and the government wanted things to go smoothly before curtailing the activities of its people or causing a panic.

Finally, they arrived at a small gate leading into a tunnel below a large office building just off Jabotinski Street, near Hammedina Circle. Like everything else in Israel, the building served both its intended users and the IDF. To look at it, one would never know that his battalion’s armory was concealed deep in its bowels. The only obvious discrepancies in the building’s design were the massive, reinforced doors that led beneath it. Anywhere else, except in Israel, such doors would have indicated a large trucking or transportation company. In this case, it meant that the largest IDF main battle tanks could quickly and easily emerge, ready to do battle.

They stopped at the gate. The corporal on guard knew them both, but inspected their passes anyway. He ordered both David and Nablus out of the car to search the trunk and under the hood for "devices." Only after the noncom was satisfied did he salute again, and let them pass.

"Good man," the major thought. "In spite of everything, or perhaps because of it, that kid is making sure and not letting a uniform intimidate him."

They parked in the already crowded visitor’s lot and headed down into the substructure of the building. Men and women hurried along corridors and stairwells, intent upon their own purposes. Noises of metal on metal and the low rumble of large engines echoed loudly as they approached the lowest, bombproofed levels of the building. Two men with rifles guarded the entrance. They were MP’s attached to David’s battalion, but they acted as though they didn’t know him. Once again, Major Weissman and his sergeant underwent a thorough investigation.

Going through the door was like entering another world. The noise deafened Dave almost immediately. Every sound was amplified as it bounced off concrete ceilings, floors and walls until it was a cacophony. He had to stop to let his senses adjust to the assault upon them.

A lieutenant rushed up to him. "Sir, we have been waiting for you. Please come to the HQ. Colonel Hiram is waiting for you in your office."

Dave nodded, turned to Nablus and extended his hand. "Good luck, Nabby. Take good care of those babies," he said, motioning towards the rows of Lion of the Desert tanks, Badger fighting vehicles and Impala armored cars. Nablus grinned, shook his CO’s hand firmly and trotted off. Dave spun on his heel, and within two minutes was in the relative quiet of his office, where Lt. Colonel Jake Hiram was waiting.

"Dave! How good to see you," Jake said hurriedly. "Come over here and look at these maps. Here’s what we have to do.

"The Intel guys have been keeping track of Syrian movements around Golan for months now. We’ve been trying to warn them off by increasing our training routines and with our spot call-ups, but it hasn’t worked. Yesterday, the Syrians started moving heavy stuff into Mansura, Khushniayn and Al.

"This morning we got a real shock. Our long range stuff picked up a column coming out of Iraq, towards Az-Zaw. We estimate it at divisional strength.

"This afternoon the Syrians pushed heavy tank columns into Ceasuria, Kunabah, and Naffak. We estimate they have at least two divisions north of Galilee. They moved right into the demilitarized zone, and the UN hasn’t even informed us that anything is amiss. We’re in for it, Davey!

"So, here’s our part. We’re heading right up here." He pointed to a small village just north of the Sea of Galilee called Almagor. "You’ll probably be the first one there. Your job is to secure the area around Almagor. You’ll be on the right flank with Second Battalion next to you and Third in reserve.

"I want you on the road by 20:00 hours. I know, that’s only two hours, but of all our battalions, yours is the one that we’ve been preparing as our quick reaction spearhead. I know that you and your boys can do it. Don’t worry about the traffic. The government is about to announce a curfew and state of emergency. Just get your vehicles onto those tank carriers and get to Almagor as fast as you can. Dig in. Wait for further orders. Got it? Good. I’m off to Second Battalion, and I’ll join you tomorrow."

Jake was gone before Dave could begin to comprehend what was going on. His staff was already working on the routing of his columns, and the tanks were being loaded onto their carriers. The tracked vehicles were always the troublesome ones. Their treads would wreck the highways and they would destroy themselves with a lot of high speed road travel. Therefore, they had to be loaded on big haulers that could transport them at high speeds. The wheeled vehicles were much easier. They could roll along like the big, overgrown trucks they actually were.

His battalion would have to travel 140 kilometers, off-load, get into position and dig in within eight to ten hours. It would be close, but he should make it.

1.3.3 Almagor

The trip to Almagor was long and exhausting. The traffic was heavy all the way up Route 2. By the time the column turned off on Route 65, the curfew had been in effect for a couple of hours and the civilians were off the roads. The battalion made good time all the way to Parod where it turned east on Route 85, heading for Route 90. Just a kilometer north of that intersection, the lead vehicles turned east again on a small country road that wound its way to the border town of Almagor. The only good part about the long trip was that the troops had a chance to get some sleep on the way.

Dave’s column rolled into Almagor at 04:00 hours. The Mayor, Yusuf Zhiphora, greeted him. "Major, you will follow this guide to your positions. We have been working on them all night, and I think you’ll find everything is ready for you." As suddenly as he had appeared, he was gone, leaving a young militiaman behind him. "This way, Sir."

The tanks and armored fighting vehicles were off-loaded. The air was rent with the wracking cough of starters and was quickly filled with the noxious fumes of diesel engines firing up. The young private guided the battalion to the forward fortifications abutting the foot of the infamous Golan Heights. Local militia men armed with their own weapons guided each of David’s tanks into defiladed positions. Then, they filtered between the battalion’s mobile pillboxes and took up their long prepared battle stations.

Suddenly, large numbers of vehicles appeared, moving back and forth across his battalion’s front. For a moment, David’s heart pounded wildly, as thoughts of Syrian tanks crossed his mind. Then, he saw that they were farm vehicles and realized that he shouldn’t have been surprised.

The people of the northeast had lived under Syrian guns for decades. Their militia units and regular IDF units were on call 24-hours a day. At the first hint of trouble, the kibbutzim and towns turned themselves into armed camps. After nearly a century of practice, these people knew what they were doing. The civilians were using their farm equipment to rebuild berms and flatten kill zones. They were preparing to defend their lands, and his battalion was just the first of many waves of reinforcements coming to their rescue.

Just hours later, as the Sun was lightening the skies and the black outline of the gloomy heights looming above them was clear against the deep blue skies, the roar and squeak of tanks awoke them all. Suddenly, every man was alert and looking towards the Heights. The same questions tormented each of them. Would the Syrians attack before the dawn outlined them against the lightening sky? Or, were they just getting into position, waiting for the Sun to shine directly in the defender’s eyes before they raced down the slopes? Their terrors dissolved as they listened more intently. Instead of coming from their front, the sounds were coming from their rear!

Colonel Hiram magically appeared at Dave’s elbow. "Private party or can anyone join in the fun?" the colonel joked. "You’ve done a fine job. The CO’s with the mayor establishing our defensive dispositions and communications. We’ll have a lot of help. The civvy militia up here is damned good. They’ll be your grenadiers. You’ll be meeting your opposite number later on this morning. We’ll be in position within about two hours. The rest of the brigade will be arriving today. And, if they don’t attack us today, we’ll have some very unpleasant surprises for them tomorrow!" With a quick salute, he was gone.

Time for morning prayer, a little food, and a big cup of coffee. Today would be a busy one, and tonight would be a long one.

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?

1 Beginnings

1.4 Iran

1.4.1 Soldiers of Allah Division

Brigadier General Tavid Hammedyanni strode towards the BTM command vehicle, watching carefully for any hint of insubordination. He would never be able to turn these peasants into soldiers, in spite of years of Islamic discipline and the inspiration of the Revolutionary Guard. They were slovenly. Their uniforms were never neat, their boots were never polished, and their bodies were never washed. So, he had taught each one of them a specific task. He had pounded it into their heads by rote. At the first sign of insubordination, he had jumped down their throats with both feet.

Fear! That was it, fear. Their fear of him would overcome their fear of the enemy.

It had taken these oafs two entire weeks to drive from Ahyaz to Abadan, a distance of only 130 kilometers! He had spent weeks developing his time tables. He had studied each hill, each crossing and each turnoff. He knew the route intimately. He had lectured each of his regimental commanders, providing them with exact instructions as to when they were to be where and how long it would take. In the space of only one hour, they had destroyed weeks of planning.

An idiot in First Battalion had though he could make a fool of Brigadier General Tavid Hammedyanni. He’d never do that again. Allah be praised! Hammedyanni had seen that the man was a traitor, and had informed his father, General Benhamin Hammedyanni. The fool was gone, never to be seen again by the eyes of man. By Allah, after that they worked to keep to his schedule, but the damage had been done.

Tonight they had better follow his schedule. This was the most important day of his life. He would be able to tell his grandchildren about the birthday he spent back in 2036 when he had led his division across the Tigris and into Kuwait.

This time they would not stop in Kuwait to wait to be butchered by the infidel Americans and the boot-licking Saudis. The Iraqi Republican Guard would be on the Revolutionary Guard’s right. They would sweep through Al-Jahrah, while a third column swung wide through Al Qaysumah. Three great columns would surround the Kuwaiti bandits and then the cur-dog Saudis, crushing them beneath their treads. They would roll further and further to the south until they had freed Mecca from the defilers of the Prophet’s Holy Place. Then, they would own the world’s oil reserves, and America would fall like a ripe date into their hands.

Forty years before, they had learned the painful lesson that the key to victory was movement. Hammedyanni had spent countless weeks working with his father, the other generals, and the Iraqis. Roads were critical, but few. Only the most critical of things could travel upon them. Everything else would have to travel across the sands. Damp sand was far better than dry sand for traveling. The sands could not be wet, of course, for then the vehicles would churn it into mud that was as bad as the dry shifting sands of the deep desert. If any of them ruined his schedule with their incompetence, he’d feed them to the pigs!

1.4.2 Crossings and Invasions

That night, the Soldiers of Allah Division had the high honor of crossing into Iraq, not as conquerors, but as allies. The column maintained its schedule, which pleased Brigadier General Hammedyanni immensely. By dawn, the entire corps was at its jump off position just south of Safwan. The 200-mm howitzers had been guided to permanent revetments made by the Iraqis. Their own guns were on the move to the west and south as part of the gigantic pincer movement that was about to engulf the Kuwaitis and Saudis.

At exactly 05:00, the big guns opened up. It was thrilling. Tavid could see the bright bursts of light glowing on the horizon. Then, seconds later, he could hear the boom of the guns. He could turn to see the flash of the explosion of the 100-kilo shells and listen to the reverberations rolling over the open plains.

Allah be praised! We are on our way.

After an hour and a half, the bombardment suddenly ceased. Tavid stood beside his BTM sullenly watching First Battalion’s squat, round-turreted, T-90 tanks squeal off into the early morning light. He grabbed the microphone and switched to the battalion’s command frequency. "Remember to keep to the schedule," he shouted and switched off. It wouldn’t be his problem if things didn’t go according to plan. His last words to his commanders had warned them about the need for speed.

They only had to travel one hundred kilometers to reach Kuwait City. The road was straight, flat, wide and completely undefended. Only a few Kuwaiti automobiles and four-by-fours were on the road, and a quick machine gun burst was all it took to destroy them. A tank would rush up and push the burning wreck onto the side. Then the column would continue down the super highway at a sedate twenty kilometers per hour.

Hammedyanni rode with his staff and escorts just behind the First Regiment. It was his job, as second in command, to make sure that the advance continued, and to relay important information between divisional HQ and the leading units. It was also his job to make sure that Kuwait was bypassed. No looting! That was the order from the Revolutionary Council, and nobody, not even his father, argued with Ayatollah Mohammed Hammedyanni, Tavid’s grandfather.

Mohammed Hammedyanni had been a young man when Ayatollah Khomeni overthrew the American puppet government and exiled the Shah. Now, he was one of the most revered Ayatollahs on the Ruling Council. Both Tavid and his father had been brought up under his stern gaze, and it was he who had instilled in them their love of the Koran and their Faith in Allah’s will. From him they had learned that Allah is great, and his prophet is Mohammed.

The first hint of resistance occurred about ten kilometers north of Kuwait City. Two young boys stood on an overpass and threw rocks at Hammedyanni’s BTM. Hammedyanni had been resting quietly in the command cockpit, and had just laughed for the first time in days. The sign said, "Speed Limit 100". They were doing twenty! Would a Kuwaiti policeman try to arrest them? The laugh died in his throat as a projectile whizzed by his head.

He was startled at first. For just a moment, he thought he was being fired upon. He snapped up the command radio ready to call for reinforcements when he saw the two boys stoop, seize other rocks and hurl them at him. The effrontery! How dare they throw stones at Allah’s Army? He would teach those Kuwaitis. Quickly he swung the 12.7-mm machine gun around, pulled the cocking level firmly, and pulled the trigger. Both boys, still with rocks in their hands, were blown backward, falling into tiny blood-soaked bundles.

"What’s all that firing?" the radio demanded.

"Nothing," the radio operator replied. "The general has just killed a couple of terrorists."

The lead elements of the Soldiers of Allah Division swept through the outskirts of Kuwait City just thirty minutes behind General Hammedyanni’s schedule. They rolled past the modern airport, expecting some kind of resistance from the vaunted Kuwaiti Air Force. But, there was nothing.

The column swung east, then south towards Mina al-Ahmadi, a beautiful little seaside town known for its sandy beaches. Hammedyanni looked out over the Persian Gulf to watch Irani gunboats steaming southward. Behind them were several larger craft filled with Marines who would land at Az-Zwar to hold that vital position until his tanks could arrive to relieve them. It was a beautiful afternoon.

Suddenly, from far in front of him he saw a great black cloud mushrooming into the sky. The radios, which had been relatively quiet until that instant, sprang to life. "Jasmine One to Command Two. We are under attack. Heavy resistance just north of al-Ahmadi. Their tanks are dug in and helicopters are ravaging our armor."

"Control yourself," Hammedyanni yelled into the radio. "Deploy your anti-aircraft units. I will call for air support." The operator switched frequencies. "Command One, Command Two. Receiving heavy fire from Ahmadi defensive positions. Helicopters are attacking our lead elements. Air support required. Request permission to release Second Regiment. Over."

The airwaves were quiet for several seconds. "Command Two, Command One. Message received. Main line of resistance north of al-Ahmadi. Deploy forces. Attack defenders. Sweep them aside. Air support in two-zero minutes. Out."

The R/O switched back to the regimental command frequency. "Jasmine One, Command Two. Sweep the defenders aside. Air support is on the way."

General Hammedyanni had done his job. He had relayed the messages from the front to his superiors. Then, he had relayed his superior’s order to the regimental commander. The best thing he could do now was to keep out of the regimental commander’s hair, and clear the road for reinforcements that would be streaming down to the battle of Mina al-Ahmadi.

"Move off the road to that high ground over there," he ordered. Obediently, the driver swung left, down into the ditch and up the side of the low crest between the road and the sea. "Stop here. We will be able to maintain radio communications between the front, the sea and headquarters from here. Monitor all communications at both the regimental and battalion level. I want to know what is going on so that I can direct this battle."

The radio operators immediately complied and, switching back and forth between command frequencies, heard bits and snatches of orders, pleas for assistance and curses directed at the general’s lack of support. None of them were stupid enough to tell the general what they had heard. It might be insubordination even to repeat what they had heard.

Hammedyanni watched as the number of oily blazes multiplied quickly. He monitored many radio calls but seldom spoke. Then, without warning, the air seemed to split above him, and the sound flattened him back into his seat pushing the air from his lungs. Twenty MiG-27s slashed over his head at supersonic speed. It took several seconds for him to compose himself. He grabbed the radio, "Jasmine One, Command Two. Incoming fighter support. Mark your fronts. Hold all anti-aircraft fire until further notice." The lessons of "friendly kills" had been hard learned. He wouldn’t allow the Air Force to complain that his troops had shot down their own fighters.

The general glanced at the map of al-Amadi where his "listeners" had carefully marked the position of each company of each battalion of the lead regiment. To his practiced eye, he could see that the regiment was fully engaged on the outskirts of the city and was progressing slowly against the Kuwaiti resistance. The air attack had to have done something. "Jasmine One, Command Two. Report!"

"Command Two, Jasmine One. The fighters swept away the helicopters. The Kuwaitis have barricaded themselves in the town. First Battalion has suffered 30-percent losses trying to dislodge them. Second and Third Battalions are fighting house to house. Unless we get reinforcements, we will not be able to meet your schedule. And, if these bandits keep resisting like this, the regiment will have been destroyed by morning. General, I must have reinforcements. Over."

"Colonel! Do not preach to me! I have sent you your air support, and all you can tell me about is your losses. If First Regiment cannot do the job, maybe the regiment needs a new commanding officer. I shall do what I deem necessary about reinforcing you. Out."

Hammedyanni rasped, "Get me Headquarters."

The R/O frantically switched frequencies and called through to HQ, thinking to himself, "Rather the wrath of the general fall on the colonel than on me!" He looked up. "HQ on the line, sir."

"Command One, Command Two. Heavy resistance at al-Ahmadi. Air strikes successful. Consider this to be the main line of resistance. Respectfully suggest committing reserve regiments. Over"

"Command Two, Command One. Message received. Main line of Kuwaiti resistance. Please confirm."

They don’t believe me! They don’t realize that the stupid colonel in First Regiment wouldn’t dare disappoint me. He’s shaking in his boots after our last communication." Just to make sure, Hammedyanni scanned the map. With First Battalion wrecked, the regiment had more front than troops. Combined with house to house fighting, it was more than they could handle.

"Command One, Command Two. Confirmed. Heavy losses. Helicopter support. House to house fighting. No progress by First Regiment in past half hour. Air support and gunship support needed. Confirm request to commit division. Over."

"Command two, Command One. Message received and understood. Command One relocating to your position to observe. Confirm your coordinates. Over."

"General Yousoufli! Coming here?" He checked his coordinates. He was four kilometers behind the fighting. He ordered the R/O, "Send the coordinates of the First Regiment’s O/P." Without a hesitation of any kind the R/O sent the information.

Hammedyanni leaned over to his driver. "Let’s move up to the regiment’s O/P. It’s time I took charge of this battle."

The BTM lurched forward, and countless numbers of pins, laboriously place to mark the exact positions of each of the different units engaged in the struggle of Mina al Ahmadi, scattered all over the floor of the command vehicle. But, these were inconveniences beneath the attention of the brigadier general.

Ten minutes later, Hammedyanni’s BTM climbed a small hill overlooking the smoking outskirts of the city. Just beyond, in the valley, was another BTM command vehicle festooned with antennae. Hammedyanni disengaged himself from his jump seat, seized his binoculars along with a radio microphone and stood up to survey the scene.

The destruction was quite incomparable. Beautiful seaside resorts smoldered from gaping holes. Automobiles were pyres burning in the streets. Small groups of men dashed here and there firing automatic weapons. Tanks ground slowly ahead like giant dragons emitting fiery blasts of destruction within an urban jungle. The whining sounds of another BTM’s engine emerged from the background noises. Hammedyanni turned to see the division commander’s vehicle approaching.

Major General Yousoufli’s heavy, jowled face emerged from the hatch. He scanned the scene below them with his own glasses, then turned to Hammedyanni and shouted, "Yes, this is the main line we’ve been waiting for. I am pleased to see that you are directing our troops personally. I like a general that has to see things for himself. Is that regimental HQ over there? Good, let us go there and get this division moving."

The two follow-up regiments were committed within half an hour. Additional air strikes were called in. By midnight, the Kuwaitis were on the run. They couldn’t run far. Eight hundred Irani Marines had landed in their rear at Ra’s Az-Zwar. Two divisions of Iraqi Republican Guards had seized Wafrah. Caught between the twin hammers of tanks from the north and west against the firm anvil of the Marines and their supporting gunboats, the tiny Kuwaiti army disappeared.

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?

1 Beginning

1.5 Dharan

1.5.2 Ma'sum's Decree

“It is not possible, Nephew. The Imam has spoken to me. Your son my not be with you in my shop. He looks too much like a girl. It is causing problems with the other shop owners, with customers on the streets and, now, even the police are taking notice. Rashied may not work in my shop!” Ma’sum declared.

“But, Uncle, he is the only child left to me. I can not do this by myself. And, you know how frail Sefina has become. Would you consent to hire a boy to assist me?”

“Ahmed! Are you getting to old to do this yourself? What would your father, my dear brother, say to hear you now? You are but 60 years, while I am over 80, praise be to Allah and his servant, Mohammed, and I still work from dawn until after dark. If you are not capable of managing my shop, then, perhaps, it is time for you to step aside, and let a younger man run it for me.”

“No, it is not that. Your store, which I manage for you, is most prosperous. I am sure that you have seen this when you look at your accounts. I have increased your wealth greatly, Uncle, because you are my father’s brother, and patriarch of our family, whom I honor. It is because this store is so prosperous that I need help, not because I am unworthy.”

“Hmmm. Perhaps you are correct, my Nephew,” Ma’sum replied, thoughtfully. “I spoke in haste, perhaps. It might even be that my younger son should apprentice with you, to learn how to manage a shop. Would that fulfill your needs, Nephew?”

“Oh, Uncle, you are most wise. When might he start, and what wage shall an apprentice receive while he learns all there is to know about the shop, our customers, our suppliers, our police, our tax gatherers, our Imams, our competitors, our neighbors, our friends, our adversaries, the seasons to buy and to sell, and all the other myriad of details one needs to know to manage your business, my Uncle?”

“And, what would you suggest, Nephew?”

“I would suggest room and board, paid from the shop’s income, Uncle.”

“Surely, you have room in your home, Nephew, and your wife could prepare food for him.”

“No, Uncle, we live above the shop, as you know. There was room for my family, but only because we were family. I could not have your son in my home with my wife in her condition. So, your son would have to live elsewhere in the neighborhood.”

“Then, I suggest that, since everyone believes that Rashied is your daughter, that you treat him as if he were. Then, you would have your help, the Imam will stop complaining to me, and my profits will not suffer.”

“So be it, Uncle. May Allah bless you.”

1.5.3 Rashid ... Rahil

“But, Sefina, he must. It is the only way he can work in the shop. Uncle Ma’sum has decreed it, and, although I know it is wrong, it is the only way.”

“But, Ahmed, he is our son ... my baby ... the last of our children. He is sixteen years of age. How can we treat him as our daughter, when it is against the will of Allah, as is written in the Holy Koran?”

“If we do not, Uncle will worm his youngest into my store. Ikbal is not to my liking. I see in him dishonesty and greed. He has always been thus. Even when we were children, he was always sneaking after us older boys, ready to tell his father about our dealings, and thus ingratiate himself at our expense. And, I should let him into our house? Or into our shop? I would soon find myself working for him, and us living in the streets like dogs.”

“But what will Rashid do. How will he act? He will be ashamed and dishonored.”

Ahmed nodded, “But will he do it? That is the question. Call him to you, and let us speak with him.”

Sefina left, calling “Rashid!” softly.

Ahmed sat quietly, thinking. ‘What if the boy should do this? How will he ever become a man? How can I be thinking these things? Allah! Send your servant to me to guide me in my time of need!’

“Father, dear, I am here,” Rashid said, entering quietly.

Sefina sat in her comfortable chair, while Ahmed stood beside her, his hand on her shoulder. “My son, there is something we need to consider,” Ahmed mumbled, looking for the right words.

Rashid’s bright eyes searched his father’s grim face. His smile spread quickly. “Oh, Father, Mother, I seek to be a joy to both of you. What is it you would have of me?”

Ahmed’s heart melted, as it always had when one of his daughters reached out and wrapped him around their smallest finger. Shocked at his feelings, Ahmed’s words failed him.

“Rashid,” Sefina said, “We need to ask you to do something very great and very brave. Can you do such a thing?”

Rachid looked askance. Then, taking a small breath, as though making a decision, replied, “Of course, Mother dearest. I would be both brave and great, if I only knew how.”

Ahmed, taking heart, replied, “I need for you to be the person everyone thinks you are. When we are at the shop, the old women speak to you as though you were one of their grand daughters. The Imam is convinced that you are a girl, and that I am violating Shariah. The police are not convinced that you are a boy, and Uncle Ma’sum has decreed that you may not work with me in the shop unless you appear in the guise of a girl.

“This is why we are talking with you. Can you be brave enough to do this? Can you be great and protect the honor of our family?’

Rachid leapt into their arms, grasping them both about the neck. “Oh, Father! Oh, Mother! I can do this. I will be brave and great! I will protect the honor of our family with all my heart. Allah be praised! My greatest desire has been fulfilled!”

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?

2 Early Moves

2.1 America

2.1.2 Halsey-Off the Azores

Vice Admiral Duncan sat pensively in his stateroom staring at the big screen and thinking about the threat assessment and planning meeting scheduled in just five minutes. In the center of the screen was a small rectangle representing Halsey. Just to the north of the rectangle were a bunch of irregular shapes that JT knew were the Azores. Out in front of Halsey were the fleet’s three FiGs. FFG 89 Klakring, FFG 83 Elrod, and FFG 74 Hiram Jones were spread in a fifteen-mile front listening for submarines. Five miles off each bow the Burke-class guided missile destroyers, DDG 66 Carson, and DDG 79 Neill, had established their antiaircraft stations. To the south, along the theoretical threat axis, lay the big guided-missile cruiser, CG 52 Bunker Hill. Just off the port beam was the huge fleet replenishment ship, Albert Strong.

The admiral snorted in contempt at the paltry fleet around him. The FiGs were his first bone of contention. The Perry-class frigates had been inaugurated back in 1977, and, after sixty years, the United States Navy still hadn’t come up with a replacement for the design. At this stage of the game, it was the most numerous class of warship ever produced.

The biggest reasons for the Perry’s longevity were that they were cheap and used common off-the-shelf systems. They were good ASW platforms. They had a good sonar. Their electronics had been steadily upgraded. They had fine Sea Emperor helicopters equipped with the world’s best dipping sonar, generally called a "dip stick". They had been armed, disarmed, re-armed and re-re-armed over their long lifetimes. In their most recent variation, each was armed with the latest and greatest version of the Sea Sparrow anti-aircraft missiles launched from two twelve-missile box launchers situated beneath the bridge, augmented by a single Close-In Weapons System mounted in the superstructure above the helicopter bays. As a sop to naval purists, they were also armed with an Italian 3-inch gun on the foredeck. But, they were firetraps!

Congress had decided long ago that their superstructure would be made out of aluminum to save money. Nobody could convince them, even after the Stark and the Roberts incidents, that aluminum burns. Instead, they’d added Kevlar here and there as though those halfway measures would improve the tiny ship’s survivability. It hadn’t. In fact, it only made things worse. Regardless, the Perry-class FiGs were cheap, and that was all Congress cared about.

Then there were his two Burke-class DDGs. They were a lot better than the FiGs. They had excellent missilery, good speed, and even an element of stealth built-in. They had Aegis multi-phase radar system, but only three guidance radars located amidships, in order to save money. The forward radar was suitable for guiding missiles launching ahead; the aft was equally suited for guiding missiles to the rear of the ship. The middle one was tasked with guiding missilery to both port and starboard. Obviously, this was impossible for it to perform both functions simultaneously. As a result, both of the DDGs were vulnerable to mass attacks.

Duncan raged inwardly, 'How stupid! If it’s a missile ship, it has to be able to defend itself from multiple attacks from any direction!' Because of the inadequacies of his Burke-class DDGs, the fleet needed one of the obsolete, Ticonderoga-class CGs to provide at least one Aegis-equipped missile ship with four guidance radars and a full, three-hundred and sixty degree defensive capability.

On top of that, not one of his escorts was nuclear powered. Nukes cost too much. So, he needed a huge, 63,000-ton target called a fleet replenishment ship. Albert Strong was armed with only three CIWS. So, rather than being assets, the fleet’s oil-fired turbines had turned into huge disadvantages. Duncan wasn’t sure that Congress had saved a nickel by opting for oil. How much did the Strong cost, for instance? But, he had argued all of this before, and lost.

Angrily, he returned to thinking about his fleet dispositions. If the Moroccans contested his passage, what would he do? What was their strength? Were they neutral? What could go wrong? Time dragged, as he waited for his experts to arrive.

A Marine sentry knocked and opened the hatch. Captain Edward Teegin, Halsey’s CO, walked in accompanied by his CAG, "Buck" Henry, his J-2, Commander Jimmy "Mr. Threat" Johanson and several staff officers. One of the staffers moved over to a computer console and hit a few keys. The display changed to show the region of the Straits of Gibraltar, from Cadiz to Casablanca.

Mr. Threat stood and began addressing his senior officers. "Our problem is the Strait of Gibraltar. As we all know, the strait is only 21 miles wide at its narrowest point, here," he pointed to the display, "between Spanish Tarifa and the point, here, northeast of Ksar-es-Sheghir. The Moroccans can hit us anyplace between Cape Spartel until we pass Point Almina. We know that they have anti-ship missiles with ranges of up to 60 miles off Tangiers, at Seghir, and on the heights, here, next to Spanish Almina. So, we could be running a gauntlet for about 100 miles.

"In addition to their missiles, the Moroccans have a mixed bag of aircraft. Aircraft identification will be a big problem. The North Africans have always bought from one of the major arms producing countries. Once they started buying from one country, their entire maintenance and supply system became devoted to that source. Even after the cold war ended, they kept buying from their old sources. When the Russians found out that foreign arms sales were a great source of revenue, they really started hammering out the deals. This pushed us, the Brits, and the French into a frenzy, and we all sold them just about anything they wanted.

"They have about six squadrons of aircraft. They have one squadron of F-16s and two of F-15s. One of their F-15 squadrons is of the interceptor/air superiority types. The other is made up of two-seater Strike Eagles. They have one squadron of British Tornadoes and one of the advanced version called the Typhoon. The final squadron is F-31s!" Several low whistles were heard. The F-31 was a modern, bad-assed fighter.

"The Falcons, Eagles and Strike Eagles are old by our standards, but we had all better remember that they’re damned fine aircraft. Falcons are quick as greased lightning and are still one of the best dog-fighters around. The Eagles are big, have good radar, and shoot AAMRAMs. Strike Eagles can hit hard and fast. The Tornadoes and Typhoons are superb, low-level attack planes. The F-31s could be used to protect a fast, heavy strike package, and we’d have damned little time to do anything but grab our asses.

"Their naval assets aren’t much to speak of, until we remember that we’ll be in a narrow, restricted passage. They’ve got two Italian frigates in the same class as the Perrys. I’m not too worried about them. They don’t have much of an offensive punch. The ones that worry me are their Pegasus-class, hydrofoil boats. They’ve got six of them. They’re capable of sixty knots and carry four Harpoons each.

"The Intentions guys aren’t being a whole lot of help on this. Morocco is on a heightened alert status. Although, they’re making a lot of noise about Islamic unity and all that crap, they haven’t made any changes in their fleet or air dispositions in the past twenty-four hours.

"They have moved one additional regiment into the Tangiers area and another into Seghir. These moves appear to be defensive in nature, as though they were preparing to ward off an invasion. They have also increased their patrols along the border with Spanish Cueta, but again, this appears consistent with defensive, not offensive intentions.

"The long and short of it is, if they want to contest our passage, they can. But, it doesn’t look like they want to. Of course, this could change in a moment. Well, Sirs, that’s about it. Anything else?"

"No, Jimmy. Good brief. Ed? Buck? What do you have?"

CAG stood and spread out his notes. "Admiral, the Moroccans have more than enough to give us a hard time. And, it’s in the time department that we have our difficulties. In a stand-off fight, they wouldn’t stand a chance. Our long range stuff would murder them. But, if they use their terrain, they could have a flight time of two to three minutes before they were on us. So, we have to be prepared for that.

"I’m going to launch every T-2 we have with Hawkeye, Snooper, and Regulator support. We’ll rotate Holsteins and augment them with "Ersatz-Cows", that is Vikings set up for air-to-air refueling.

"We’ll put one Hawkeye out front to detect anything looping around us from the front, two along the threat axis, and one behind to make sure they don’t sneak up our six. We’ll put the Snoopers out behind the corner Hawkeyes to listen. And, we’ll keep Regulators on the corners to jam anything that comes our way.

"We’ll keep two T-2s with each of the Hawkeyes as standard CAP. We’ll use Rocky Rocco’s Pumas for that, which’ll leave us with Cassey Ludinski’s Knights for fleet defense along the threat axis. I’ll pretty much leave that part up to Spring Sprang since VF-6 is his air group.

"We’ll keep the Hornets as close CAP. I’ve talked this over with DJ Duncan. He’s going to put Betz Chapiro’s Mad Dogs over the carrier to catch any leakers. They’ll be armed with air-to-air. He’ll keep Tiny Small’s Talons on the deck armed with suppression munitions.

"Pepe Gonzalez will have his A-29s readied with air-to-ground ordnance. They’ll be aloft, flying off our stern quarter. We wouldn’t have the time to launch them, so we figured we’d put them up and to have them if we needed ‘em. If so, DJ’s VF-8 will lead ‘em in behind a wall of angry Hornets.

"Now, the T-2s and the Intel birds will be high flyers, so we’ve got no problem there. The Hornets and stuff will be low. So, we’ve established a 5000-foot deck and a 90-degree arc. Anything below 5000 feet and in the 90-degree arc from 135 though 225 degrees will be a target for the fleet’s missiles. Needless to say, everybody will be squawking just in case. Even DJ’s Hornet drivers get a little squeamish when SM-3s and -4s are whizzing around! So, that’s the air plan so far. What do you think?"

The Admiral and Ed Teegin sat quietly for a few minutes, studying the tactical screen. Like CAG, they were trying to determine what could go wrong and how to counter it. "How’d this test out in the computers?" Teegin asked, a little apprehensively.

"Not bad, Captain. We never lost the carrier, if that’s what you mean. But, in one or two scenarios we did lose a FiG. A lot depends upon our fleet disposition as we go through the Straits."

"Well, I can help you out there," said Duncan. "We’re going through armed for bear. I’m going to leave the Strong behind to wait for the PhibRon. We won’t need her; they will. She can only do twenty knots, and that’ll slow us down. Besides, the PhibRon will have both British carriers with it, which will increase everybody’s chances of getting through safely.

"I want the three FiGs out front doing ASW, and I want their choppers up, just in case. If there are any subs out there, they’ll be short range diesel-electrics, which will be quiet as ghosts when they’re on batteries. We’ll put Carson out front with the FiGs to give them anti-air. Charley Taylor will be the screen commander.

"We’ll put Floyd Albertson’s Neill just ahead of us, off the starboard quarter. We’ll be last in line with Bunker Hill to starboard as goalkeeper. Grigory Yuhovitch will be Missile King. Between his and our Aegis systems we can cover the rear, and be in position to rescue any of the smaller ships if they do get hit.

"I want everyone on their toes. We’re going to be in very restricted waters. A collision between two of our own vessels would cause as much if not more damage than an actual attack."

As the admiral spoke, the rating rearranged the fleet’s disposition on the screen to match his orders. The staffer looked inquiringly at Duncan, who nodded his approval. Teegin, Johanson and Henry stared at the scenario. At a word from Captain Yuhovitch, the fire zones for each of the ship's missile arrays were displayed. The computer played with the variables for a few seconds to optimize the mix. Then, CAG ordered the air cover to be overlaid to show the full range of sensors, fire zones and ASW coverage.

Once they were satisfied, the screen was stored, and sent down to tactical for further study. It looked impressive, but it would be up to CAG and the intelligence group to punch holes in it. If they could, so could the Moroccans. The Intel Group had only one day to get it right. Any mistakes could mean dead Americans.

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?

2 Early Moves

2.2 Israel

2.2.1 Attack Plans

Major David Weissman griped to himself, "What a way to start a war!" He was cold and hadn’t slept well. And, he was constipated. His radio jumped to life. Regimental HQ was on the line. They’d called another staff meeting, the third one in two days. He yelled at his sleeping driver, who was just doing what all good soldiers do when they have nothing better to do. But, this only made him angrier. He knew better than to take out his troubles on his men, but he had done so anyway. He’d have to make up for it.

After ten minutes of spring-breaking torture, he arrived at the school building that had been commandeered for the Regiment’s HQ. He smiled ruefully, as he looked at the children’s drawings that covered the walls inside the small building. Most of them were just scribbles even to his practiced eye. But, a few were very good... pictures of the Heights, covered with trees and grass... pictures of farms, crops and animals...homes and families. They were the drawings of children at peace in a land that was about to be destroyed by war.

He was ushered into the school’s assembly room that was already crowded with officers. Colonel Hiram was seated close to the door, so Dave sat beside him and looked around. The battalion COs of the rest of his regiment were already there, and they all greeted each other warmly. After some small talk with his friends, David looked further to see who else was there. To his surprise, some of the guys were from First and Second Regiments. On further inspection, he discovered that every officer from his whole division was gathered in the assemblage. Whatever this was all about, he concluded, it was big!

"A-ten-shun!" a voice bellowed, and everybody leapt to their feet. General Isman Eban, grandson of the late Prime Minister, strode to the dais. "As you were, gentlemen." The room filled with the rumbles of boots, the squeaking of chairs and the nervous clearing of many throats.

General Eban cleared his throat and continued, "We are all aware of the basic situation. We are gathered here below the Golan Heights, once again, to defend our homes, our families and our way of life. Ever since Israel was founded, more than eighty years ago, our people have done this many times. This time things will be different.

"In the past, we have suffered surprise attacks. We have endured simultaneous attacks on all our borders. We even survived when they attacked us on Yom Kippur. This time, they made a mistake, and they will pay dearly for it.

"Syria is amassing its entire strength along our borders, but it took them too long, and we saw them. So, we mobilized. We had assumed that our full and rapid deployment of our forces would deter them. It has not.

"Instead, Damascus has called upon its old Ba’ath Party allies in Iraq for reinforcements. At this moment, two Iraqi divisions are heading overland towards the west. The first of these, believed to be the Second Armored division of the Republican Guard, has already entered Syria, here at Kama." He pointed at a map using his light pen. "They advanced on Dayr as-Zwar yesterday and turned east towards Sukhnah. At their present rate of travel, they will arrive at Palmyra tomorrow night. They will then board trains, and can be at Katana by the next day. This means that they can be in position to attack us in three days.

"The other Iraqi column has taken the more direct southern route and is presently at Rujbah. We do not know whether they will swing north towards Damascus or continue south through Jordan. However, the Jordanians have already said that they will not permit foreign forces to violate their soil. I doubt that the Iraqis will want to fight the Jordanians, especially in the Syrian desert. Therefore, we expect them to turn north. At their present rate of travel, they will also be in position to attack Israel in three days.

"We have only two choices. The worse of the two is to wait, and prepare to defend our lands. When that time comes, Syria will have three divisions in place, reinforced by two Iraqi divisions. Against them, we have the five brigades of the Israeli Defense Force. Although we will send many of them to their deaths, it is unlikely that we can defeat such an overwhelming force.

"Therefore, we have decided to attack Syria!"

The room erupted in an uncontrollable gasp. Move across the demilitarized zone? Violate the UN cease fire that had been in effect for over a quarter of a century?

The general waited a moment, and then cleared his throat for silence. "Yes, it is a bold move, and one which will, no doubt, bring the moralizers in the UN to the podium demanding sanctions. But, at least Israel will exist to be sanctioned.

"However, we believe that the UN will have far greater problems to deal with. Iraq and Iran have invaded Kuwait!" The uproar was sudden, but then the room became strangely quiet. "Yes, they have invaded Kuwait again, and are already preparing to invade Saudi Arabia. The Americans will be coming, as will all of Europe, but they won’t be coming to help us. They will be going where their national interests are at stake, namely to the oil fields. But that leaves us with our original problem.

"Once again, I say that we shall attack Syria. We shall attack them before they are prepared for us and before the Iraqi armored columns can come to their rescue. We will then move on to the next challenge, and if that is the Iraqis, Amen!

"I will now turn this meeting over to our intelligence officers, who will brief you on the general attack plan. You will then break up into brigade and regiment formations to learn the rest of your responsibilities. May the God of Israel protect you! Shalom!" He strode off the stage and out the door.

It took the G-2 guys almost two minutes to get everybody back to order. The big maps rolled down from the ceiling, and the senior staff officer moved into place with his long pointer. "Gentlemen! The plan is big, and it’s bold. So sit down, and let’s get this show on the road.

"Jump off is at 05:00 tomorrow. Third and Ninth Brigade in the north will become the First Division under General Myer. Second and Eleventh Brigades in the south will become the Second Division under General Geldfein. Twelfth Brigade will be a separate command south of Galilee.

He pointed to the northern border between Syria and Israel. "First Division will strike north and east along a front extending from Caesuria to Naffak. They will drive north-east along Route 91 towards Qunaytira."

His pointer shifted slightly to the south. "Second Division will attack along the front extending from Naffak to Ramot. They will also attack north-east up Route 87 across the highlands towards Rafid.

The pointer moved to the southern rim of the Sea of Galilee. "Twelfth Brigade will attack across the Jordan River along Route 98 through Fiq and Tasil to Sheik Miskin. They will then head north towards Damascus, while smaller detachments will provide blocking forces towards Dama.

The staffer stood before them, clutching the long pointer behind him. "We all know this drill, and have studied this and many similar plans in the past. You will find it listed in the battle plans being handed out as Aleph Red Four. Under this plan, we will not have a preliminary artillery bombardment, nor will we have preliminary air strikes. We will arise tomorrow morning and attack directly from our sleeping bags. Surprise and speed will be our strongest allies.

"Our heaviest guns are in position to provide artillery support, while all our lighter and more mobile ones are on the line ready to advance with the second wave. Please do not call in fire unless you need it. Once the arty starts, the surprise is over.

"We’ll have plenty of air assets. The choppers will be in the first wave providing close cover. Use them early and often. Save your ammo, especially tank ammo. You may outrun your supply lines. We’ll also have the Air Force standing by. But, when we start committing our attack planes, the surprise is over. Use your choppers. However, sooner or later, you’ll need the big stuff. Call for it, it’ll be there.

"Also, don’t worry about the Syrian air force. If they come up, we’ll see them. We’ll see them long before you do, and we’ll be on them. Whatever you do, don’t fire at high-flying aircraft. They’re probably ours. The Air Force is under strict orders to stay at least 500 meters above the ground. If it’s below 500 meters, remember your aircraft identification. Look first, and, if it’s theirs, shoot it down. But, if it’s up high, leave it alone. Don’t touch it.

"Finally, we have the UN observers to consider. Capture them immediately, and don’t let them use their radios. They are the guests of the Israeli government, and the prime minister has invited them to tea and scones in Tel Aviv!" The touch of humor brought a few laughs, some of which were just a little too hearty too be real.

"UN radios are our worst enemy. So, remember the priorities. Number one. Don’t let them use their radio. Priority Two. Do not let them spread the alarm. Number three. Capture them if at all possible. When in doubt, see priority number one! Break into your brigade and regimental groups. Shalom!"

2.2.2 Into Syria

Morning arrived all too soon. The only good part about it was that David’s internal organs had overcome the exigencies of war. He felt better, even if he was dog tired. He glanced at his watch: 04:45.

The Sun lightening the eastern horizon outlined the brooding mass of the Golan Heights, just a few kilometers away. The Heights were an ancient mountain range whose peaks rose to almost 1000 meters. Beyond the first ridge that loomed before him was an eroded valley which lifted into a second line of ridges. Beyond that, line after line of ridges interposed themselves, acting as if they were the guardians of the lands to the east, defying the invader to pass them.

The rumble of diesel engines filled the air. A big Lion of the Desert main battle tank rolled past, sunlight glinting off its still dewy turrets. Dave stood at the side of the road considering his forces and the battle plan for the invasion.

His Lions were basically British Centurion Mark VIs, with added reactive armor. They were armed with standard 120-mm and 12.7-mm NATO ordinance. The IDF had deliberately chosen the British tank over the American Abrams because of its engine. The Lions were 20 kilometers per hour slower, but their diesel engines gave them a 200 kilometer range advantage. Since tanks seldom went at top speed, especially in battle, the Lion’s lack of swiftness was not considered to be a problem. On the other hand, every Israeli farmer could repair a diesel, even in the dark.

His Badger Fighting Vehicles, which followed in the shadows of the Lions, were also modified British designs, having a powerful 73-mm cannon and a box launcher with six laser-guided, anti-tank missiles. In addition to their three-man crews, the Badgers carried eight dragoons, two more than the faster American Bradleys. The combination of the Badger’s larger main armament and its greater capacity was far more important than speed.

The least impressive of all the armored vehicles in the parade of steel rolling slowly past him were the French-built Impalas. The Impala was a ubiquitous design based upon the South African Ratal. Both the French and the Israelis had licensed it from the South Africans, but the French could produce them in far larger numbers and at lower cost. Therefore, most of the IDF’s Impalas were French. At the same time, most of the rest of the world employed the Israeli-built models, because they were perceived to be of higher quality.

Regardless of where they had been made, the Impalas were rugged and reliable. Their superb six-wheel drive could carry up to fourteen heavily armed dragoons to battle or ten tonnes of equipment and supplies. But, they were neither well armed nor well armored, making them next to worthless in a fight.

Finally, the more specialized vehicles crowded the road in front of him. Large, self-propelled howitzers, armored anti-aircraft missile vehicles, tank retrievers and engineering equipment paraded past him. The Israeli Army, of which his battalion was just a small part, was readying itself to invade and conquer its most ancient of enemies.

David’s radio blurted its one word message, "Shalom." It was 05:00. He relayed the order to each of his company commanders, then watched nervously as his lead tanks began to winding their way up the 500-meter ridge. Badger AFVs followed closely behind, blue smoke pouring from their exhausts. Impalas, twisting back and forth across the face of the hill, tried but failed to keep pace with their tracked brethren.

Fifteen minutes passed before the first of David’s tanks reached the top of the ridge. He heaved a great sigh of relief when they reached the top without firing a single shot. The most dangerous part of the war was behind him. As he watched, the armored fighting vehicles crested, and disappeared. Finally, the laboring Impalas heaved themselves over the top.

"We have them!" David shouted. His command crew looked up at him in surprise. None of them had ever heard a semi-hysterical outburst from their unflappable leader. Dave just grinned at them, leaned over to his driver, and shouted, "Onward, James! We have to keep up with the war, you know. I’d like to have tea and scones in Damascus at the same time the UN guys are having high tea with the PM!" They all laughed, as his Impala command vehicle lurched forward and charged up the hill.

His brigade’s objective was the crossroad just southeast of the town of Rafid thirty-five kilometers east of Almagor. Since his was the southernmost of all the battalions, it was his job to guard the brigade’s, and, thereby, the division’s flank. His unit would also be the one that would link up with the Twelfth Brigade coming north out of Fiq along Route 98. That meant that his battalion’s flank was hanging out in the breeze. The only thing he could do was to push his battalion as hard as possible, and pray that Twelfth Brigade was coming fast.

At first, they moved quickly along the large, wide and well-paved Route 87 which wound along the crest of the first great ridge of the Golan Heights. One kilometer inside Syria, they turned southward on Route 92 along the eastern ridge of the Heights. At Tel Hum, they turned to the northeast and climbed over the second ridge of the Golan Heights on what was laughingly called Syrian Route 869.

That road was hardly more than a goat path winding between the scattered piles of boulders. Every turn was a perfect place for an ambush. Every rise was a potential position for an enemy observation post. Every corner could serve to defilade a tank. The narrow passage through each valley was an invitation to a battery of howitzers to rain death down upon them. The pace of the invasion slowed dramatically, as the ally called speed abandoned them.

At the junction with Syrian Route 808, the battalion turned off the road and headed eastward into the wild and untamed regions of the Golan Heights. Instantly, they faced the implacable enemy - terrain - in a battle which they could not win. They rolled, bounced and careened over rocks, ditches and obstacles. Tires and axles were especially vulnerable, but even treads and bogeys yielded under the merciless pounding. Vehicles broke down, but the battalion could not stop. They were needed at Rafid.

The remaining mobile vehicles were packed with everything they could hold. Mortars, machine guns and ammunition were too heavy to be carried easily over this broken terrain. Men were forced to walk across the rock strewn land, risking twisted ankles and skinned knees while carrying their heavy packs.

The lead elements finally stumbled across the last ridge of the Golan Heights. Much to their surprise, they discovered the town of Butmiyah in the valley beneath them. They were totally in the wrong position!

According to the original plan, the battalion was supposed to keep to the extreme right, striking Route 98 southeast of Butmiyah. Instead, they were almost ten kilometers north of their objective. The Army’s flank was completely exposed. The entire battle plan was shot to hell.

Both Colonel Schwartz and Jake Hiram were badly shaken when they heard David’s report. "Go south, Dave," they ordered, "Go like hell before the Syrians wake up and find us."

The crash of artillery interrupted their frantic orders, as the fickle ally of surprise abandoned the Israelis, and treacherously favored their enemies. "I’m afraid it’s too late, Sirs. It looks like they’ve already seen us."

David’s battalion raced southward as quickly as the unyielding land would allow. The Syrians continued to pound with their long-range artillery, so he called for the counter-battery artillery he had been promised. None was available. He was informed that his battalion had gone beyond artillery range, and that it would be another hour before the second wave of the arty was ready for fire calls. He called again demanding helicopter support. None were available. Headquarters informed him that the choppers were also out of range, and new fueling depots had not been established for them. In desperation, he pleaded for the Air Force’s vaunted attack planes. None were available. First Division had run directly into two Syrian divisions, and the Air Force was busy in the north. He was on his own.

David’s scouts began reporting back to him. A column of Syrian tanks supported by infantry was moving out of Butmiyah headed directly towards his position. They also reported that a second Syrian column was kicking up huge clouds of dust as it moved out of Ar-Rafid towards the south. His battalion was supposed to have been the flanker. Instead, he was being flanked, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

The only advantage the battalion had was the terrain. The Syrians had used the Golan Heights against Israel for decades. Now it was Israel’s turn to use it against them. Badgers and Impalas disgorged their human contents. Machine gun positions sprang to life, and the cough of mortars rang out from the heights. Israeli tanks and armored vehicles nudged behind rocks and ridge lines, sighting down their long barrels into the plain below. A rocket leapt from a Badger’s launcher. A small cloud of dust appeared far down in the valley. A miniature volcano erupted on the plain. What had been a Syrian T-90 became a funeral pyre for its four crewmen.

First Battalion was in a powerful, almost impregnable position. But the Israeli drive on the vital crossroads southeast of Butmiyah had ground to a halt.

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?

r>

2 Early Moves

2.3 Iran

2.3.1 Invasion of Saudi Arabia

Brigadier General Tavid Hammedyanni stood on the outskirts of Mina al-Ahmadi looking over a scene of destruction and desolation. A once awesome T-90 main battle tank smoldered partially submerged beneath the remnants of an apartment building’s wall. A woman’s frail body hung partly from the window above the tank, her face burned beyond recognition. Just a few yards beyond, a BTR-80 lay on its side with a huge hole exposed in its armor. The driver hung from the hatch by one foot. He had been charred into a black grotesque. Everywhere the stench of burning flesh, burning hair, burning wool and burning oil hung over the putrefying specter of the once quaint seaside resort.

Hammedyanni saw none of the horrors around him. He only saw that his precious timetable had been utterly destroyed by the Kuwaitis. Unless he could get this army back on schedule, the Saudis would escape his trap. He stormed back to his command BTM, kicked his driver awake, and leapt into the rear. The engine raced, and the 20-tonne monster bucked and kicked its way back down the hill towards divisional headquarters.

The general stood quietly inside the tent flap, waiting for someone to notice his presence. Headquarters was a scene of organized chaos. Men moved quickly from one point to another, carrying messages. Telephones were ringing, computer terminals flashed and blinked. Men and officers stood around a large map of eastern Saudi Arabia and southern Kuwait, pushing little wooden rectangles.

An officer looked up from his desk. "Good morning, General. General Yousoufli is waiting for you. He’s at the mapping table."

Hammedyanni exploded in anger, "Stand up! Have you learned nothing? I am a general officer, and your infinite superior, cur! You will stand at attention and address me properly, or I shall have you court-martialed before the day is out!"

The astounded officer obediently stood at attention, and snapped, "Yes, Sir!"

"What is all this noise?" shouted Major General Yousoufli, disengaging himself from the mob around the maps. "General, I am happy to see that you have returned from the front." Then, he turned to the young officer who was visibly shaking in fear for his life. "What are you doing? Don’t you have work to do? Why are you wasting the general’s time? Go back to work, and no more of this nonsense. We have work to do."

The general put his arm around Tavid’s shoulder, and, smiling broadly, escorted him to the map table. Yousoufli explained, "General, this is the situation in which we find ourselves. First Army has demanded that I get this division going immediately. First Regiment has been knocked about too badly to continue in the lead. We need to bring Second Regiment forward and use First Regiment as our divisional reserves. And, we have to do this quickly. The entire army is backed up for kilometers! It is a traffic jam of monumental proportions. I am surprised that the Saudi Air Force has not already tried to attack us.

"Go forward with the Second Regiment and lead them as you led the First Regiment. Do not concern yourself with losses. We must get beyond the marshes of Al Mishab before the Saudi army can use them against us. We still have time, if we hurry, to get to the line from Suffaniyah.

"You will lead Second Regiment to Suffaniyah and seize the city. Third Regiment will form on your left, and I will hold First in reserve. The rest of the army will move to your right flank between us and Naqirah. It is there that we will engage the Saudis and spring our trap. Push hard, General, you have very little time. Allah be with you!"

Tavid Hammedyanni turned quickly on his heel and hurriedly departed for his new assignment. He didn’t even notice the young officer who was shaking and cowering in fear. Tavid didn’t have time for peasants such as him.

It took ten minutes for Hammedyanni to find Second Regiment’s headquarters. Colonel Rashamani was waiting for him. When they had saluted, the colonel informed Tavid that the regiment was mounted up and ready to roll. Tavid liked that. The colonel seemed to know what he was doing and recognized the need for speed in this campaign. Tavid quickly gave him his orders, "Your objective, Colonel, is the Saudi city of As-Suffaniyah. You will let nothing stand in your way. If a truck breaks down, push it off the road. If a tank breaks down, push it off the road. Crush any resistance ruthlessly.

"The distance from here to Suffaniyah is 140 kilometers. At 20 kilometers per hour we will arrive in seven hours. I shall give you but one hour’s grace. If you are not in Suffaniyah in eight hours, I will have you shot and turn this command over to someone who will carry out my orders. Do you understand me?"

Colonel Rashamani stiffened. Nobody spoke to him in such a manner. His father, Ayatollah Rafsanadi Rashamani, was an important leader of Iran's Ruling Council. Through clenched teeth the colonel replied, "Sir, I hear and obey, but if anyone gets shot, it will not be me. The Ruling Council shall hear of this threat to one of the Faithful. Then my father and your grandfather will seek Allah’s Judgment."

Hammedyanni was livid as the blood rushed to his face. His dark complexion turned a ruddy brown, and his hands shook with rage! As his fingers grappled with his officer’s snap-down holster, he noticed the colonel’s Kalashnikov, until now resting lightly in his hands, had moved swiftly to a port arms position. Hammedyanni could see from the position of the colonel’s hand that his thumb rested lightly on the safety. He looked into the colonel’s eyes and saw within them the steady, angry rage of a killer!

Deciding that this was neither the time nor the place for a confrontation, Hammedyanni spun on his heel, and marched back to his BTM. 'Rashamani will pay for this insult,' he fumed, 'but not yet. He still has his uses.'

Second Regiment roared to life, and the leading tanks rolled southward. Behind them came the tracked BTM-60 armored fighting vehicles armed with their 73-mm guns and the lighter, eight-wheeled BTR-50 armored personnel carriers loaded with troops. Just behind these lead elements came the Regiment’s command vehicles with Colonel Rashamani standing tall in the open hatch, with "eyes right," saluting.

Hammedyanni glowered at him, but refused to return the salute. They were enemies, and the general had neither the time nor the inclination to be bothered with him. Hammedyanni didn’t even notice that the colonel held his salute until he had rounded the bend in the road.

Half an hour later, the general was on the road. He had deliberately delayed to wait for Third Regiment. As they approached, he ordered his column onto the road. Third Regiment’s lead tanks were struggling to try and catch up, but Hammedyanni wanted a gap between them and the Second Regiment. He leaned down to his driver, "Proceed at fifteen kilometers per hour. I want the rest of the army to catch up to us."

Morning passed quickly, and four hours later, the army passed into Saudi Arabia. A great marshy wasteland spread from the Saudi border to Al-Mishab and many kilometers to the west. Even in the dry season, the ground was soft and yielding. A man or a camel could easily walk across it, but a vehicle would sink instantly up to its hubs. So, it was vital to get beyond the marsh to Suffaniyah and onto the higher, drier plains beyond. Once there, the army could spread out into a mobile battle front. However, as long as they were in the marshes, they had to stick to the road.

As though in fulfillment of his worst nightmares, Hammedyanni saw black clouds rising on the horizon. Before the sounds of the attack could travel back to him, his radio screamed, "Air attack!" Hammedyanni could see the tiny flecks of light high up in the distance, and he could imagine the effects of the American cluster bombs and Maverick missiles on Colonel Rashamani’s regiment.

But, the general could only enjoy his revenge for a short time. If the Saudis could seal the road with damaged tanks and equipment, they’d stop his column dead in its tracks. Then, they’d be able to return at their leisure and destroy the entire Iranian army with their laser guided bombs and missiles.

It only took one radio call to get results. Within minutes, Iraqi MiG-27s and -29s were hurtling south. Huge Hind-24s and smaller G-9 gunships screamed past a low level. When the fighters had cleared the air space of enemy aircraft, the helicopters used their own missiles and cannons to support Second Regiment’s advance.

As Hammedyanni watched, a missile fell off a wing mount, a blue-white spark erupted from its tail, and it shot ahead followed by a long, dirty gray trail. He saw it arch downward, and, just as it disappeared over the horizon, it erupted in a huge explosion. Two emotions simultaneously seethed in his mind. His first was elation. They were striking the enemy and destroying him! His second was his personal fear of actually coming under fire. His emotions wrestled only briefly. "Pull up over there," he commanded while pointing to a wide spot. "Let Third Regiment move up into supporting position."

Third Regiment rolled by. Behind them came the First Regiment, and General Yousoufli’s command vehicle. The general’s BTM stopped, and he leaned out shouting, "What’s going on up there? Were we badly hurt? Is the road passable?"

"Communications are difficult at this time, General," Hammedyanni replied. "Colonel Rashamani has not reported anything, and I cannot raise him by radio. Since I was unsure of the tactical situation, I sent the Third Regiment on ahead, and was about to follow them when you arrived.

"There has been a great deal of enemy air action, but our fighters drove them off. Since then, our helicopters have been engaging them. I saw one kill a Saudi vehicle just moments before you arrived."

"Yes, Tavid, I was ready for them this time. The moment they stuck their helmets up out of the sand, I was ready to take their heads!

"Lead me towards the battle, and hurry. First Regiment is coming fast. They want to avenge themselves on the Saudis. We do not wish to be trampled!" He laughed, slammed the hatch, and his BTM lurched forward.

Without a hint of enthusiasm, Hammedyanni ordered his driver to follow the general. One must remain calm, he told himself, and be an example to the men. His driver nosed the BTM into the traffic behind a Zu-30, self-propelled, radar-controlled 30-mm gatling gun. Tavid felt reassured. At least if they were attacked, he would have some protection from the Saudi’s air weapons.

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?

>

2 Early Moves

2.4 Saudi Arabia

2.4.1 Air Battle

Chief of Staff, General Mahumaddi el Sayd a-Fayd sat quietly in his headquarters in Al-Hufuf staring at a large screen covering the entire wall of the underground bunker. Three banks of fully manned computer consoles cast an eerie, green glow about him. Information was flowing in from the two Aegis-equipped AWACs radar planes, a Rivet electronics eavesdropper and many ground-based observation posts. All of it was assembled by his staffers, and the "real-time" picture, augmented with arcane military symbology imposed upon it flashed on the screen in front of him. He almost felt as though he were some kind of a super-natural being as he looked down on the Nagirah marshes.

The head of the Irani column was twenty kilometers inside Saudi Arabia’s border with Kuwait. A flight of ten F-16s was egressing fast and low towards Naqirah, pursued by enemy MiG-29s. Circling off to the south were twenty follow-on F-16 fighters, armed with cluster bombs, massing for the attack. Seventeen other planes moved quickly towards Farst Island in the Persian Gulf. Sixteen of them were upgraded, high performance F-15 Eagles equipped with the new Hughes APG-75 "Mini-Aegis" surveillance, targeting and tracking system and American second generation AAMRAM "Fire and Forget" missiles. They were one of the most potent fighting machines in the region. The seventeenth was unique. It was a new EA-29 Regulator equipped with the secret AIL ALQ 109 tactical jamming system. Every Persian India-, Juno- and Kilo-band radar so carefully installed on Farst Island was blank! No matter how "frequency agile" their sets were the ALQ 109 was better. None of their radars would see the F-15s, and all of their communications gear was out of action. Meanwhile, a fourth flight of sixteen of the new, vectored thrust, high-performance F-31s was overtaking the second wave of F-16s.

'If this works,' thought the Chief, "we’ll have put a big dent in their air power, and bought ourselves a couple of days." Other dots appeared on the Chief’s screen and as they did, his mind raced furiously in anticipation. "At last! There they are! The Iranis have fallen for my feint with the first wave of F-16 attack fighters. They have scrambled all their front line air reserves in three waves fifteen minutes apart. They will be able to hit us for almost continuously for an hour. Under normal conditions, that would be more than enough to drive off the largest of raids. They think they will be able to drive us off, extricate themselves from the marshes and proceed on to Jubayl. But, they shall not. They have fallen into my trap, and now they shall pay dearly.'

Slowly, the flying figures moved towards each other. Saudi F-16s fled for the deck, with the first wave of Irani Su-27s in hot pursuit. Saudi F-31s raced to the rescue just like the American cavalry in the movies. Sukhoi’s fell, and the third flight of F-16s bore in behind them to attack the Irani columns. Quickly, they lined up in a column of twos, and started their runs. At precise thirty-second intervals, pairs of fighters changed course and altitude, leveling off at 200 feet. They flew a steady course for several seconds while releasing their bombs and then pulled up, jinking so erratically that it was visible even on the screens.

At the same time as the third wave of F-16s began to dive on their targets, the second wave of Irani fighters, tentatively identified as MiG-31s accelerated towards them. That was what the Saudi Chief had been waiting for. He glanced at his Air Boss and nodded. He saw the Air Boss speak, and instantly the F-15 Eagles, now northwest of Farst Island, turned to port and accelerated. The geometry looked good to him. The Irani MiG-31s were flying straight and level, intent on the F-16s bombing the troops on the ground.

He saw little arrows appear ahead of the Eagles. In comparison with everything else on the screen, they were moving rapidly. He watched them closely as they ate up the forty kilometers between his planes and the Irani’s.

At about fifteen kilometers from their targets, the AAMRAMS would query the aircraft which the F-15s had designated. If the missiles received a positive response, they would instantly know that they were homing on a friendly aircraft. They would then initiate a "closest neighbor search". The closest plane to the earlier target would be queried and so forth until it found an unidentified aircraft. The missile would then re-target itself and home in for the kill. If another missile got to its target first, the missile would once again go through its query-and-select routine until it either found a target or ran out of fuel and destroyed itself in a fit of electronic frustration. This complex bit of computer trickery assured a better than ninety percent kill ratio. That was why each of the sixteen fighters had fired only one missile apiece, leaving each of them with another for the final stage of the bushwhack.

Computer synthesized bursts began appearing, and airplane shaped images disappeared from the Chief of Staff’s view screen. Sixteen missiles had destroyed sixteen MiG-31s. But, that wasn’t the end of the show.

The sixteen ground-attack F-16s reformed and flew northward, hugging the dirt. The F-31s zoomed upwards on after-burner, making themselves visible on every radar and infra-red optic in the Near East. The third and final Irani air wave saw them clearly. All thirty top-of-the-line Su-29s accelerated towards them.

The F-15s altered course slightly towards the north. Sixteen little arrows appeared once again, but this time, the Eagles turned hard to port, heading for home. Once again, the intelligent AAMRAMs did their deadly job, and the Irani force was chopped in half.

With too much guts and too little brains, the remaining Sukhois continued on, streaking ever higher and faster after the F-31s. Suddenly the Falcons emerged out of the ground clutter behind the Irani planes. Although the F-16s were slower and lower, they had all the advantages of being on the other guy’s "six". They climbed rapidly, their radars shut down to avoid detection. Then, when they were only 10 kilometers behind the Sukhois, small arrows appeared from them!

The American Sidewinder missile was in its fifth generation. It had been the world’s first infra-red guided, air-to-air missile, and initially it wasn’t very good. But, the Americans knew that it was a good idea, so they kept at it. It turned out to be the most successful missile ever built.

The famous AIM-9L, or 9-Lima, all-aspect missile had lasted for almost thirty years as the world’s premier heat-seeker. It was finally replaced with the new Sidewinder, lovingly called the 9-Mama! Faster, more maneuverable, with longer range and improved IR capabilities, the AIM-9M was the ultimate dog-fighter’s dream machine. Sixteen F-16s had just fired the first of two salvos of those impressive missiles, right up the Sukhoi’s tails.

The lesson of Desert Storm had been that he who controls the air wins on the ground. The first part of the Saudi plan had worked to perfection. It had only taken fifteen minutes to ravage Iran’s front line fighters. Now all the Saudi Chief of Staff could do was to trade space for time. If he could detain the Irani Army in the marshes for just a few days, and if Allah was gracious, the Americans would arrive.

2.4.2 Preparations

In spite of his royal status, Lieutenant Hamal el Sayd a-Fayd had attended West Point, withstood the horrific hazing and graduated 94th in his class. He had learned the lessons of leadership, honor and loyalty American style. Most of all he had learned that dirty hands were not the sign of the lowly peasant.

His roommate for four years had been Tommy Rudman, who was a "car buff". Tommy had an old beater, a 2021 Chrysler, green, two-door coupe that he called The Green Hornet. Hamal was shocked to see him under the hood, covered with grease, fixing this and tuning that. Only menials and lower-class persons ever did such things. In Saudi Arabia, no man who worked with his hands could ever be respected.

Yet, no matter how hard Hamal tried, Tommy was always one step ahead of him. Tommy was a mathematical genius. In every exam and in every sport, Tommy was always better. In spite of himself, Hamal came to respect this American with the dirty hands.

On spring break in their third year, Tommy invited Hamal to his home. Hamal was curious to meet a typical American family. The boys hitched a ride to Newark Airport and jumped on a plane heading west. Three hours later, they landed in Chicago. Tommy didn’t seem fazed by the size of O’Hare International and just bustled off to another gate for a connecting flight. Being young, they decided to "hoof it". Half an hour later, and in their fourth terminal building, they finally arrived at their gate.

Hamal was overwhelmed. O’Hare was like a human ant hill. Americans by the thousands were hurrying from one place to another in never-ending streams of humanity. The numbers of people boggled his imagination, and still they came.

They boarded a smaller jet aircraft and flew for another hour or so to Des Moines, Iowa, where they were met by Tommy’s parents. After a typical warm and hearty American greeting, they piled into the Rudman’s van, and, after fighting their way through a traffic jam, launched themselves down a super highway that disappeared to a vanishing point at the horizon.

After driving for two hours at 140 kilometers per hour, they turned off onto a large road heading north. They drove for another hour, and then turned off onto a smaller road. After what seemed like an eternity, they turned into a dirt driveway and arrived at a prosperous farm house miles from their nearest neighbors.

The extent of the country was almost impossible for Hamal to imagine. He had looked at maps of the United States for three years, and only now was he beginning to realize its true size. They’d flown for five hours, driven for three more, and they were still not even half way across the vast lands of the country.

Early the next morning, at about the normal time for reveille, Hamal awoke to the wonderful smells of food. Tommy had forewarned him that his Mom cooked what she cooked and everybody ate it. Of course, he had lived on American cooking, in spite of his religion’s dietary restrictions, for three years. So, he thought he was ready for anything.

A huge bowl of oatmeal was placed before him, and he dove in eagerly. He didn’t understand why Tommy just laughed and winked at him. Then, he saw what was happening. Mom had only just begun. After the oatmeal, she brought out freshly baked bread, butter, steaks, eggs and potatoes. Then, when Hamal could barely breathe, she bought out coffee and cinnamon rolls "just to pack around the edges."

After breakfast, Tommy and his Dad led Hamal out to the barn. Forty huge Holstein cows had gathered in the early dawn just outside the door. Tommy just walked out among them into the animal filth as though he were walking across the parade ground back at the Point. Hamal almost retched.

During the next eight hours, Hamal learned about milking cows, feeding cows, and shoveling "manure" as they so delicately called it. He learned about farm tractors, combines, harrows and plows. He spent two totally frustrating hours fighting a giant tractor trying to plow the mile-long field in a straight line, much to the amusement of both Tommy and his Dad. And, they never stopped! A quick sandwich on the run was all they ate during the whole day. Then, as the sun began to set, and Hamal knew that it must be coming close to supper time, they returned to the cows and never-ending process of milking, feeding and mucking out. It was dark by the time they sat at table again. Hamal was exhausted, and, in spite of the delicious meal, fell asleep at the table.

Later that week, Hamal had helped Tommy change the oil and filters in one of the farm's tractors. By the time they were finished, both he and Tommy had a broad swaths of grease across their cheek, and their hands were filthy. When the two of them returned to the house, Tommy's mom wasn't surprised in the least. "You've got to eat a peck of dirt before you die," she said, handing them a bar of Lava soap, "but that doesn't mean that you have to do it all at once!"

That week with Tommy's family was one of Hamal's best memories of his time in America. He had learned the great American lesson that a little hard work never killed anybody. It was the most important thing he'd ever learned.

Hamal did get even with his roommate in their senior year. Tommy had learned a lot about Saudi Arabia from his roommate, so he decided to study Arabic culture. Of course, that meant that he had to learn to speak Arabic. It was awful! No matter how hard he tried, Tommy butchered the language. The soft and mellifluous speech of Hamal’s native land was hard and guttural when spoken by an American tongue.

It was also during these courses that Tommy began to study the Saudi Royal Family. One day, Tommy came over to Hamal, and, pointing to his name in a book on the Fayd kings of Saudi Arabia, asked, "Is that you?"

"Why, yes," Hamal answered, matter of factly. He pointed to the other faces in the picture. "That is my father, the Chief of Staff. That is my uncle, the Air Force Chief of Staff, that is my cousin prince Ali, and that is my cousin, King Fayd."

Tommy just stood there with his mouth open, looking like one of his Holsteins that had forgotten it was chewing its cud. "You’re a prince?" he had finally gasped. It took a long time to convince Tommy that just because Hamal’s second cousin, once removed, was the king, didn’t mean that he was a prince.

Tommy’s awe of Hamal didn’t last long. That afternoon, during their course on unarmed combat, Tommy flattened his "royal" roommate in three consecutive matches. Thereafter, they were even closer friends.

After graduation, they had two weeks before taking up their duty assignments. Since Tommy had invited Hamal to Iowa to visit his family, Hamal felt obligated to do the same. At first, Tommy said he couldn’t and found many excuses not to go. As it turned out, he was embarrassed to let his friend know that he just didn’t have the money to do it. Of course, that wasn’t a problem, and within a few hours they were comfortably ensconced on a Saudi military airliner along with Hamal’s father, the United States ambassador to the royal court, and a translator.

After the introductions, Tommy was hardly himself. He seemed quite reserved, and Hamal couldn’t understand it. So, he deliberately drew his friend into the conversation. Hamal’s father was more than surprised to find a young American who not only spoke their language, but respected their customs. After they arrived in Riyadh, some eighteen hours later, Hamal’s father confided to his son that this young American was a good and dear friend, the kind Hamal should cherish. He remembered how wonderful his father’s praise had felt.

Tommy had stayed for ten days. They went everywhere and did everything. They even went out into the desert on camels. Hamal had always hated the smelly, vile-tempered beasts, but after feeding cows and mucking out, they weren’t so bad after all. Good, old Tommy. He was now with the 24th Mechanized, no doubt laboring over a hot turbine engine.

Now, it was Hamal’s turn. His big American M1A3 Abrams was just not acting right. The driver didn’t seem to know what to do and neither did anyone else. Hamal had the time, the knowledge and a broken tank that would do neither him nor his country any good if it failed in its mission. He grabbed a mechanic, and together they pulled off the gratings and set to work. Two hours later, they had it. Hamal held up a small, in-line oil filter that was completely gummed up.

One of his fellow officers walked past just as the lieutenant lifted the offending, greasy gadget into the air with a shout of triumph. The officer looked aghast to see a fellow officer, the son of the Chief of Staff, covered in grease, disheveled and seated alongside a mere mechanic. Hamal looked up at him, saw the expression on his face and laughed, "My camel was broken!" The officer was not amused. The mechanic laughed out loud!

By the time they had the tank back together, it was early afternoon. Hamal had been warned to have his troop ready to roll by 15:00 hours. He had only an hour or so to complete his preparations. He began by inspecting his "Multi-Frequency Surveillance and Reconnoitering Guidance and Visual Operations System", or "Scope" as they all called it. Really, it was just the latest and greatest version of a periscope designed so that tankers could see out and bullets couldn’t get in. It had a processor to amplify normal light so that he and his crew could see in the dark. The processor was also "intelligent" and quick enough to adjust its response and provide a constant brightness and contrast regardless of the instantaneous ambient light levels. For instance, if a shell went off or a flare popped up, the system would cut back the intensity so that the crew weren’t temporarily blinded.

The system also imaged the infra-red end of the spectrum. They could see anything that had a temperature above ambient as a glowing, green apparition that was extremely detailed and life-like. Additionally, the system was augmented with a small, sub-millimeter, multi-panel, phased-array radar. Except in the worst dust-storms, the radar gave clear, sharp images. Because it was a phased array, the emissions were of short duration and discontinuous, making it very difficult for an enemy to know that they had been picked up on the tank’s radar.

The system was a computer nightmare that might have boggled even Tommy’s mathematical genius. But, for the driver, gunner and commander of a tank, it was easy. All they did was power it up, put on their helmets and turn their heads to see. Wherever any of them looked the systems tracked the movement of their helmets and displayed the combined electronic picture of the word, in living color. It was so real that it was difficult to convince recruits that "looking through steel" wasn’t magic or the work of the devil! It was also very difficult to step out of the electronic environment after a long day "in the saddle" and return to the real world of the Mark One Eyeball.

Next, Hamal checked their laser sights and tracking systems. He climbed up into the turret, squeezed beneath Rock Island Arsenal’s massive recoil damping system of his 120-mm, smooth-bore cannon and seated himself in the commander’s cupola. He plugged in and started looking left and right, up and down to see if the 12.7-mm machine gun of his commander’s turret moved with his movements. He tested the calibration several times by simply opening the breech and looking down the barrel.

Then, his gunner climbed aboard, and they tested both his primary and Hamal’s secondary control of the big turret and gun. They began by testing the gunner’s control of the main turret. They both plugged in their helmets and switched to the gunner’s primary control. The gunner looked left, and the turret spun to the left. He looked right, and the turret slewed so rapidly that Hamal was reminded of the children’s ride where you zoomed round in circles, got dizzy and puked. The gunner looked up and then down, and the 120-mm cannon tracked up and down duplicating his movements.

Then, they switched to the lieutenant’s secondary control. Both the main gun and the machine gun tracked simultaneously with his movements. When he looked left, both of them tracked, and followed him once again as he turned his head the other way. The turrets tracked on both channels, but could they hit the broad side of a barn?

The gunner spoke into his helmet microphone, "Track." An electronic rectangle appeared. He looked over at a truck parked more than 500 meters away. "Simulate. Target" The cannon slewed and cross hairs appeared on the passenger’s door. "Simulate. HEAT. Fire. Hold."

The weapon system went through a full cycle as though it were about to fire a High Explosive Anti-Tank round. The computer’s lookup table already understood the weight of the shell and its muzzle velocity, just two of the important factors in marksmanship. The laser target designator fired a single pulse which was reflected off the target and back to the receiver. The time it took to travel was carefully measured, and the distance to the target was determined to be 603 meters.

The three most important variables in the ballistic computer’s equations were now "knowns." But, at longer range other factors would produce small changes in a shell’s flight. Unless they were known and properly compensated, the ordnance would miss the aiming point. So the computer quickly queried the ambient temperature outside of the tank, the relative humidity, the air pressure and the relative wind velocity.

The test was completed in less than a tenth of a second, and the simulated HEAT round was fired. Then, in response to the gunner’s last command, the turret and gun locked in place. Quickly, the gunner opened the breech, and Hamal slid a cylindrical laser mount into the cannon’s bore. "Calibrate last," the gunner commanded, and the computer quickly slewed the cannon and turret until two lasers matched.

As the turret moved, the computer counted electrical impulses from the stepper motors that drove both the turret and the gun. The computer knew what the offset should have been between the angle and azimuth, and the second laser told it if it had done what it thought it had done.

The calibration had slipped. If a real shell had been fired, it would have been 36 cm high and 24 cm to the right. They’d have missed a truck at almost point-blank range! In battle, that miss could have meant their deaths. With this simple calibration, they'd be able to hit a precise point, like the connecting ring of an Iraqi turret, at 2000 meters to within a centimeter.

When everything had been thoroughly checked out, Hamal inspected each of the other three tanks under his command, forcing their commanders to prove that they too had performed the necessary maintenance and calibration needed to keep their big war wagons in the peak of fighting prowess. Only when he was completely satisfied that each of his four tanks was ready for battle did he order them to light off their huge, Avco turbine engines. Behind him, three tanks smoothly accelerated towards their designated jump off positions.

'They’re as ready as I can make them,' Hamal decided, as they motored north through As-Suffaniyah to meet the Persians in the marshes.

2.4.3 The Marshes

Hamal rolled forward into the gathering dusk. Darkness was his ally. His troop of four Abrams main battle tanks led the First Brigade north out of As-Suffaniyah towards the coastal ridge of Al-Mish’Ab. The rest of the Brigade was moving in column behind him, thundering up the broad highway at 60 kilometers per hour.

The rest of the Saudi army had been spread westward some forty-five kilometers towards the village of An-Naqirah. Once they were all in position, the Saudi Army would be like the cap on a bottle. The Iranis and Iraqis would be forced to stay on or close to the road through the marshes. The Saudi Army spread out along the relatively higher and dryer plain to lay down their firepower on the narrow invading front.

The scrambled radio sprang to life, "India Six One to India Six Six. Approaching Al-Mish’Ab. Plan alpha confirmed. Execute." The signal required no reply.

Hamal spoke quietly to the driver, and his steel monster slewed off the road followed by his three other tanks. He climbed a small ridge and saw the sea several meters below them. He turned, climbed another small ridge and saw a small light blinking in the near distance. It was the right code. The Special Forces guys were on the ball as usual. This was where he’d begin the defense of his homeland.

Squat dark shapes of tanks in desert camouflage appeared to his left. Somewhat smaller shapes, clearly identifiable as Bradley Fighting Vehicles pulled up behind them. The light blinked again, and he followed it into a declivity behind a berm. From where he was, he could barely see the snouts of the Bradleys parked just beyond the military crest of the dunes behind them. Troops filtered between the tanks and AFVs setting up machine gun positions and digging deep holes to protect themselves from the artillery bombardment that was sure to come.

Hamal clambered out of his tank to inspect his position. Checking in with his company CO, he confirmed that he was where he was supposed to be, what other assets he had, and where the next line of defense was. Even at his tender age, Hamal knew that there was no such thing as an impregnable position. He needed a fall back position, and he had to know where it was, how to get there, and the exact timing of a retreat. He also listened carefully as the Air Control Officer went over the last minute details and adjustments to their air support plan. When all was in order, he returned to his troop and filled his other tankers in on the plans. Everything was as ready as it could be. He climbed back into the comfortable commander’s seat and took a nap.

Moments later, but actually two hours later, his driver spoke quietly but urgently into his microphone, "Movement along the road!" Hamal’s eyes snapped open, and he activated his screens. Dark, squat beetle-like shapes were inching southward. He activated his radio, "India six one, India six six. Tanks. Southbound through Al-Mishab. Preparing to engage. Confirm weapons release. Over."

Hamal could hear the buzz of activity as the other tankers in the network were alerted. Soldiers erupted from their holes all around him, readying their weapons. He ordered the driver to start their engine, while he and the gunner began the quick check-out of their weapon systems. He heard the Bradleys spring to life, and the radio network buzzed with terse comments. His turret rotated a little and the cannon elevated slightly - Gunny was getting ready. Hamal could clearly see a rectangle superimposed on a distant tank, and his cross-hairs were fixed at the angle between the main body of the Irani tank and its turret.

"Prepare sabot!" he ordered in a voice that seemed higher pitched than normal in his own ears. 'Get ahold of yourself, Hamal!' he ordered himself, 'Do it just like in practice.' "OK, everybody, relax. Take a deep breath. Remember your training. Just do your jobs, and we’ll blow those Persians back across the Tigris where they belong." He hoped his impromptu pep talk had the desired effect. It was hard to tell. A man can seem to be calm and at peace on the outside, while being an emotional wreck on the inside.

He waited an eternity. Now, he could see a second tank ... and a third. The Persians were coming. When would they shoot? Smaller armored vehicles, probably BTMs, scuttled after the tanks. Ten vehicles. Twelve, Fifteen! His cannon reflexively lowered, as the turret turned slightly to keep the reticle on the lead tank.

The general command came in, "Load and stand by."

The loader spun, stamped his foot, and extracted a sabot round from the magazine. He spun around with the shell in his arms, and jammed it into the breech. The breech automatically closed, and the warning light on the control panel turned red indicating that a live round was in the chamber. Hamal’s display showed that the gun was tracking. "Designate!" the gunner said, and the reticle turned red, while the display read, "Target Locked!" All they could do now was wait for the order to fire.

"Fire!" the command circuit screeched.

Hamal shouted, "Fire!"

"Fire!" the gunner echoed.

The 60-ton tank shuddered, as a round burst from the muzzle. Its shroud - the sabot - separated leaving only a long, heavy, uranium-doped, metal rod in flight towards the target. A second later, it struck, burying itself in the T-90’s armor. The penetrator burned its way through laminated steels and high-tech composites, creating a hole only millimeters in diameter.

The destruction caused by five kilos of molten metal bursting into the confined internal spaces of the tank was horrific. Within seconds, the tank erupted in fire, and the explosions of cannon rounds cooking off inside the tank shook it violently. Spurts of flame escaped from between the turret and the main body like fire-crackers on an American Fourth of July. Then, the turret blew off and flew twenty meters into the sky enveloped in a huge black cloud.

Hamal was elated at his first kill, and fascinated with the violence. He shifted his gaze up the line of the enemy column. The first ten vehicles were aflame. Behind them, others were scattering into the marshes.

There! A big sucker going broadside as fast as it could. He focused on it, and the box followed his eyes. "Target! Tank! Sabot!" The gunner repeated his commands, as the turret turned easily. The reticle formed, and a shell was slammed home. "Designate! Fire!" Another Irani tank bit the dust! Suddenly Hamal laughed. He could hear Tommy’s voice echoing in his ears, "Easy as shooting fish in a barrel!" He scanned the horizon. Nothing moved. Everything out there was burning, popping and cooking off. The Persians’ drive had been stopped cold. The Army had bought the day or two that his father had wanted. Now if only Tommy and his friends would arrive!

2.4.4 Centcom Arrives

General Hector Luis Lopez Algarro, designated ComCentCom, stepped down from the huge rear-facing ramp of the C-17E Globemaster III into the blast of heat. "Welcome to Saudi Arabia," he laughed to himself.

A small band of Saudi officers moved briskly towards him. In the lead was his counterpart, General Mahumaddi el Sayd a-Fayd, Chief of Staff, Royal Saudi Armed Forces. The big Saudi general extended his bear-like paw engulfing the smaller American’s hand. "Welcome!" he boomed. "Welcome to Saudi Arabia. Let me introduce you to my staff." He led Algarro over to his group, and the two generals quickly introduced their staffs to their opposite numbers. They then hustled into waiting HumVees and hurried to Saudi headquarters just outside of Riyadh.

After their arrival in the Saudi Chief’s comfortably cool war-room, the ever-efficient Saudis encapsulated the events of the previous days in a fifteen-minute computer run. The generals sat at ease, drinking apple juice, while the computers re-enacted the Iraq/Iran invasion of Kuwait, the battle of al-Ahmadi, the Saudi air victory, and the early morning massacre on the road outside of Suffaniyah.

Algarro was impressed. "You’ve really got them bottled up, General. If they’d come in the dry season they’d have been better off, but now, they’re in deep mud, literally." They both laughed at the general’s joke. "Now, what about the Iraqis? So far all we’ve seen is the Persians. They both came into Kuwait together, so where did they disappear to?"

"Ah, you have come immediately to my own concern. Somehow, we have lost them! It is a big desert out there, but I would have expected to see something. The desert seems to have swallowed them up, and I am very worried that they will pop up somewhere that I don’t want them."

"Yes, I can see that, and I share your concern, General. This war is on the verge of getting out of control." He motioned to an aide, who spread out a large map of the Mediterranean region. "The Halsey group is coming through Gibraltar right now. Kimmel and her PhibRon are coming as fast as they can, but it’ll take them several days to get here.

"I flew in with the lead elements of the Ninth Light. They’re flying on to their preposition sites in Khubal. The Twelfth will follow on tomorrow and the next day to Qatif. The Eighty-Second will be coming in here at Riyadh, and the One-Oh-One will go to Al-Hufuf. That’ll give us some highly mobile forces ready to go wherever we need them. The problem is that they’re all pretty light, in spite of the precautions your government has taken to position heavy equipment in advance.

"I’ll also have six wings of aircraft coming in today, with heavy tanker support. I am hoping that your government will be able to supply us with fuel?"

The Chief of Staff chortled, "I think that we might have a drop or two to spare."

Algarro continued, "I expressed concern earlier about the Iraqis. Were you aware that they sent two divisions west into Syria?"

The Saudi chief’s eyes opened more widely, and he glanced sharply at the American. "Has this been confirmed? What will the Jews do?"

"Yes, we have confirmed it, and the Israelis already have done it. They hit Golan last night. Their PM said that he’d rather face the contempt and sanctions of the world than face the prospects of utter defeat. They preempted the Syrians and Iragis, and hit them before they were ready to invade Israel. The good part is that two Iraqi divisions are out of the invasion down here, and the entire Syrian army is tied up in the defense of Damascus. That’s at least five divisions we don’t have to worry about."

The Saudi Chief was still scowling. "I am concerned about the Jews. Their entry into the war complicates everything. And, what of Jordan?"

"Well, General, I’m not sure that it could get more complicated. In fact, Israel’s entry into the war may be a blessing in disguise.

"The Egyptians are considering fighting both Syria and Libya. If they go to war against Syria, they’ll be fighting alongside the Israelis. Israel has already tied up a huge force which otherwise could be invading your lands. It looks to me like your three countries are caught between the Ba’ath states and the Persians on one side and the North Africans on the other. You can either ally yourselves to stop them, or be defeated in detail, one at a time.

"As for Jordan, the king is on the fence. Jordan has always maintained friendly relations with us even when they were at war with Israel. The fact that the King’s grandmother was an American helped out on both sides of that relationship.

"Hassan told the Iraqis to stay out of Jordan, and they have, so far. He has condemned Israel, Iraq and Iran for their invasions. He’s also called for a Pan-Arabic conference to settle the disputes, but so far nothing has come of it. In my opinion, Jordan will stay out of it completely, but will make every diplomatic effort to put a stop to these wars. In the end, they may be our best bet for peace as an interested and active neutral."

The Saudi nodded. "Ah, yes. I see what you mean. I am not happy about the Jews. Yet, if Egypt will go to their defense, and they, however unwittingly, have come to ours, we must we do what we can. Perhaps this is Allah’s will. But, come, my American friend, and work with me to bring your forces to bear."

The two respective commanders in chief walked out of the conference room, talking animatedly and making plans for the defense of the Middle East.

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?

2 Early Moves

2.2 Morocco

2.5.1 Cabinet Room

The Prime Minister of Morocco shifted uneasily in his soft, high-backed western-style chair. It was the kind he’d gotten used to when he’d lived in America, first as a student, and later as the military attaché. 'Americans were always good at creature comforts,' he thought.

As the meeting droned on the PM considered his council. To his right were his military leaders, the men who actually controlled Morocco. They liked their rank, power and position. They liked their pretty, but expensive toys. Although they loved to use them, none of them wanted to see their playthings destroyed.

To his left were the scions of the old, wealthy families. Each stood four-square behind the maintenance of the status quo. They had profited when the Germans arrived World War II. Their profits soared when the Americans invaded to drive the Germans out. After the war, they developed powerful trading blocs with America, and learned to lobby and to extract beneficial agreements from the naive Yankees. After the cold war, they continued using American influence to close deals throughout the world, acting as brokers for them throughout North Africa. The last thing in the world they wanted to do was to bite the hand that fed them.

At the far end of the table were the dangerous ones. They called themselves The Faithful. However, they were actually religious zealots, who wanted to remold the world in Allah’s name.

He wondered why the zealots called Americans those awful names. He had never met an American "devil", for instance. It was true that most Americans were infidels, but not all of them. He had been in beautiful mosques in New York, Chicago and Los Angeles that had been filled with the faithful. Rather than calling Americans infidels, he preferred to call them Unbelievers.

Furthermore, he knew that Americans were neither weak nor soft. Americans were a garrulous, fun-loving and happy people who wanted everyone in the world to love them. He had seen their great cities, their industrial might, their fleets, and air forces. He had trained for two years with their army and knew that they could crush Morocco in a matter of days. 'The best course for Morocco,' he decided, 'is, as the Americans say, to play both sides against the middle.'

The Imam was coming to the end of his prepared text. "While we sit here debating, the infidel, Yankee dogs approach our coasts intent upon spreading their unclean and unjust rule throughout Allah’s Kingdom on Earth. We must put an end to them, and Allah, in his wisdom, has shown us the way. We shall hold the Straits against them. We shall not let them pass! Destroy the Infidels while they are in our grasp!"

As the Imam’s strident words died away, the Prime Minister looked at the faces of those gathered around him. The call to arms had been effective, and even the most ardent doves were wavering. It was time to bring them all back to their senses. "Allah be praised, and his prophet, Mohammed. We have listened attentively to the Imam, and we have much to consider. We are an ancient people, so let us look into history so that we may judge what is happening now with the clarity that comes from Allah’s knowledge.

"Two hundred years ago, we controlled the Straits of Tangier. We demanded and received payment from all who would pass. The English, the French, the Spanish and all others paid us for the right to use the Straits. Then, came the Americans with the doctrine they called Freedom of the Seas. We laughed at them, seized their vessels and demanded ransom. Instead, they sent their fleet against us. Then, they sent another and another, until we were conquered.

"All other nations bent to our will, but the new American country would not. Does this sound to you like a weak country?

"When the Americans were victorious, what did they do? Did they send troops to occupy Allah’s lands? No, their fleets went back across the sea, and instead, we were flooded with opportunities to trade with them." He looked directly at the wealthy scions gathered near him. "Many of our people began trading with the upstart Americans. Did we prosper? Were the Americans dishonest? Did we not strike hard bargains with them that were always in our favor?

"Ninety ago, the Germans invaded our lands and those of our neighbors. Which of all the foreigners came to our rescue? The Americans! Suddenly, out of the seas, five hundred thousands of Americans arrived. Did they despoil our women or desecrate our holy places? No! They were meek and respectful of our customs and our ways. When they had done the Holy Work of driving the Germans out of Allah’s Kingdom on Earth, what did they do? They left! Once again, we traded with them on even a larger scale. And, our trade with them was prosperous.

"Fifty years ago, the Americans went to Arabia, defeated the Iraqis in just one hundred hours, and conquered all of the lands up to the Tigris River. And, what did they do? They came in honor, fought honorably, and, when they had done what they said they would do, they left. Neither the Saudis, the Kuwaitis, nor even the Iraqis were dishonored in any way by any American. And once again, all they asked in return was trade.

“Thirty years ago, the Iraqis pulled the tiger’s tale, daring the Americans to invade. It just a matter of days, the Americans conquered the entire country. They hunted down Hussein and executed him. But, did they dishonor the Iraqis? Did they despoil their lands, their heritage or their people? Did they attack the mosques or defile them in any way? No! They demanded a new government, installed it and then left. Since then, they have only asked to continue to trade throughout those ancient lands.

"I have heard the stories from my father and my grandfather, as all of you have heard them. Many people have thought the Americans to be weak and soft. All of them were easily defeated. Many accused the Americans of deceit and dishonor. Yet, when we investigated these accusations, or when we ourselves have dealt with them, we found them to be a people of great honesty, sometimes to their own detriment.

"I have seen their great cities, their mighty factories, their mountains and rivers. I have lived among them for many years. I say this before Allah, and ask not for forgiveness: The Americans are worthy friends, even if most of them are Unbelievers. I will also say this. If we go to war with the Americans, they will destroy us. In their hearts, they will weep at the destruction they will have done. But, they will be pitiless while they are doing it.

"We must not attack the Americans, nor can we permit our lands to be used by those who would attack the Americans. Yet, this does not mean that we cannot work for the Kingdom of Allah on Earth. The Kingdom of Allah lives wherever the Faithful live. And, the Faithful live here in the land of the Moors. We are the Faithful, and we attest to Allah’s great promise every day in our own lives. Our deaths would only delay the day when Allah’s will is acknowledged throughout the world. For it will be through our friendship and our trade with the Americans that we will be able to convince them that Allah is great, Allah is good, and that Allah’s teachings were revealed through his prophet, Mohammed. In this way they will find the true path to heavenly bliss."

The military leaders seemed to sigh, almost visibly, with relief. Like him, all of them had been trained in the West, and most in America. They knew, first hand, that what he had said about America’s sheer military power was true, and, if anything, was an understatement. The representatives of the wealthy smiled outwardly, contemptuous of the Imams’ frowns. War with America would be a disaster to them and their families. Only the Imams were dissatisfied, but the President knew that he could not convince them no matter how hard he tried.

The vote was taken, and the Prime Minister’s plan carried by a nine to four margin. Morocco would sing Allah’s praises from all the high places in the world. But, they would not fall into the trap which England, Mexico, Spain, Italy, Germany, Japan and Iraq had fallen.

2.5.1 Ksar-es-Seghir

The vote had gone as the Imams had expected. The weak-kneed politicians and the boot-licking military had decided not to attack the Americans. But, as it said in the Book of Swords, Allah is the greatest plotter. Allah’s will would be done. They would drag the government into the Jihad.

It was a simple matter to find the Faithful. The Imams knew them all. They knew who could be trusted and who could not. In the military bases that surrounded the great port of Tangier, there were many. Only one was needed.

Major Ibram Sultouni was one of the Faithful. He commanded a battalion of the coastal defense system near Ksar-es-Seghir, where the Straits of Gibraltar narrowed to 30 kilometers. His batteries included heavy 200-mm guns, anti-aircraft missiles, and anti-ship missiles designed to defeat any attempt at invasion. The big, radar-directed guns were dug deeply into the impregnable 800-meter cliffs. Connecting tunnels led to the missile emplacements and their radars. From those sheer walls of rock, Ibram could clearly see the American fleet approaching.

Ibram removed himself to his command post where he could survey the scene below him with his hidden radars and powerful optical periscopes. The electronic screens showed the contempt that the Americans felt for Allah. They paraded themselves, as though they were on a promenade. They flaunted their power in Allah’s face, defying the Faithful, and defiling the Holy Lands. It would but take one shot to bring them down! To bring them all down!

He walked quietly to a console and pressed a few buttons. One missile had just been activated; one French missile. It was only appropriate that the weapons from one infidel should be shot at another.

Deep in the mountain below, a red light flickered on a control panel, and a youthful servant of Allah turned his key in the lock. A large blast door moved into the tunnel towards him, and then to the side. The missile carriage moved forward with an electric whine, stopped, and clamped into place. The missile was ready.

Above, in the command post, Ibram watched the fleet edge closer. His machines told him that they were traveling at nearly thirty knots, intent upon running past him before he could shoot. But, even at those speeds, they would be within the range of his weapons for over two hours. They could not possibly escape.

They might evade his missile. Those devils had secrets that they kept to themselves. In the aftermath of the destruction their revenge would inflict upon his beloved land, there would be war. There would be retribution! Allah’s will would be done!

Oh, yes, he saw those little dots floating above the American fleet. Many powerful aircraft were in the skies, but his missile was too fast for them. When they had seen the destruction of their own ship, they would fly south in anger. They would strike military targets, but civilians would also die.

The Imam had told him that there would be a great mourning for them. From this mourning would come the uprising. And, from that uprising would come the Kingdom of Allah on Earth. And he, Ibram Sultouni, would have been most responsible for its coming. He would be a hero to his people and to all the Faithful. He would sit in the high counsels, listen to the elders, read the Koran, and live in peace. When he died, he would live in bliss, and the infidels would serve him forever.

Ah! There! Twenty-five kilometers to the American carrier. At twenty-five hundred kilometers per hour, his missile would take only thirty-six seconds to reach the American flagship. Then, three hundred kilos of high explosives would burst inside the Infidel’s monster of the sea. Petrol, bombs and rockets would explode in the confined areas of the ship, ripping it apart.

The radar lock was as good as it would ever be. The huge ship was a gigantic reflector of millimeter-band energy. Ibram mashed a button, locking the missile’s guidance to the radar and the guidance radar to the center of the hull, ten meters above the sea.

Down in the tunnel, the siren wailed, warning the missile’s crew to evacuate before the rocket engine fired. Quickly, both of the men jumped into their blast-proof control compartment and sealed the hatch. Each of them pressed a button placed on opposite sides of the central console, a design meant to ensure that one man couldn’t fire the savage weapon by himself.

A great plume of white smoke filled the tunnel. The power of the rocket engine shook the cavern. The two missileers wailed in fear, shouting Allah’s name.

The engine of destruction accelerated from the cliff’s face, unmindful of its fate, determined on destruction.

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?

2 Early Moves

2.6 Zahran

2.6.1 Mother and Daughter

Safina stroked a brush through Rahil’s hair. They had spent the most delightful afternoon together. They had tried on Rahil’s elder sisters’ clothes. Some were beautiful, but most were well used and out of fashion. Some of the shoes fit, especially a lovely pair of 3-inch, gold and cream pumps. They had just begun to work on her new daughter’s makeup, when Safina took a deep breathe.

“I still don’t understand, Rashid. How can you do this?

“The life of a woman is far different from that of a man. Men have all the rights and privileges, while women are little more than servants. The Prophet teaches us that both men and women have separate and equal roles in life, but the reality is far different.

“I can not leave the house, unless you or your father is with me. I can not drive a car, or travel in a train, or fly in an airplane, unless I am with your father, one of your brothers or uncles. I can not own property, have money of my own, have any possessions other than my personal belongings. Everything which I call mine is held by your father in trust for me. I have no access to it, unless he provides it.

“I can not vote. I cannot hold any office or have any responsibility beyond that which your father delegates to me. I have no say in any aspect of my life.

“And, you are willingly surrendering all your rights as a man? Why, Rashid? Why?”

Rahil recoiled at the name, but answered sweetly, “Mother, dearest mother, Allah has spoken to me. He has told me throughout my life that I was not a man, but a woman instead. Yet, I had to honor you and father at the same time. You both expected me to act as a man, to become a man, and to take on the responsibility of manhood. And so, I persevered. I tried in every way to become the man you both needed me to be. But, it was not to be.

“Everyone saw the obvious. I am not manly. I am short, thin, and, it is my hope, graceful. I am not noisy, oafish, or boastful, but meek and mild towards everyone. If I cannot honor you and father and our family in one way, then I tried to honor us in the only ways I could.

“Yet, it was not enough. The imam was distraught whenever he saw me, especially at prayer. He often came to our shop, buying nothing, while watching me go about my work. His eyes were always heavy upon me. At times, I felt that he had some greater purpose ... some hidden need to watch me. Yet, he never approached me or father, nor did he buy anything from us.

“Then, the police came. They too said nothing. They just stood outside, watching, as though a burglar were to suddenly appear from beneath the lentils.

“And, other men stood across the street, gawking at me through the front windows. And, when I pushed the carts of fruits and vegetables in front of the store, man would gather, leering at me. I could hear them mutter, but they were too far away for me to hear them clearly.

“Even the women acted strangely around me. They talked with me as we are talking now. Their husbands or other men would bring them to our shop, and then adjourn to the company of the other men across the street while the woman shopped for her family’s food. I would talk with them, and they with me. Yet, when father approached, they stepped back, and the men across the street were suddenly alert, as if our laws would be broken. And so, it was I who helped the women and children find the things they were seeking. And, it was I who kept aside special foods for them, much to their delight.

“And, I was pleased to be treated so. I was honored that the women came to me. And, I was honored with their trust. They told me many things they would never have confided in a man. Thus it is that I know which of the men is kind and loving, and which among them are ogres or monsters. I know which of them treat their wives and children with love and kindness, and which with anger and violence. And, because I know these things, I provide that which I can to help my friends improve their lives, their families and their homes.

“So, when Uncle Ma’Sum demanded that I dress and act as a woman, it was a relief to me. I was joyous that I could finally be who I am. And now that I am hidden in a burka, the men no longer gather across the street. They no longer gawk at me or mutter beneath their breaths. The police have stopped lurking, and the imam no longer loiters in our shop, making our customers nervous while never purchasing our foods.

“And, know this, dearest mother. The future will be different for all women. I will make it so. Allah has told me that, through me, women will be raised to take our legitimate place. I don’t know how I will do this, but Allah has spoken to me. So shall it be.”

“Child!” Safina cried out. “What are you saying? Were you to tell anyone else about this, you would be stoned! Never speak this again!”

“No, mother dearest, I will not say this to anyone else. This shall remain between us. And, I have the feeling that this will not happen in your lifetime, so you need not fear it. Yet, it will happen. And, when it does, I need to be prepared for it.

“So, mother dear, please teach me more. I need to know how Western women wrap their hair, and use makeup, and dress, and walk, and act. I know that you know of these things. You and father used to have many friends with whom you meet. Often the women who came here wore the most wonderful clothes, and makeup and jewelry under their burkas. They would throw them off when the door was closed, and everyone would exclaim how wonderful, how beautiful, or how delightful the women appeared. And there was much joy and merry making among you all.

“You do not do this much any more. Your circle of friends is smaller than it once was. And, you are now older, and I have found that it is the younger adults who party and cavort and show themselves to others. Yet, you know of these things, and it is these things which you must teach to me, as you did with my sisters.”

“What? How did you? When did...?” Sefina sputtered.

“Oh, mother!” Rahil giggled. “Did you really think I was asleep? Did you not think I could be aroused from my bed to sit silently at the head of the stairs, watching you and your friends laughing and singing and dancing? You can’t imagine how I felt, watching you and the other women looking so beautiful and happy. I just wanted to join you, but knew that at my young age, I would not be accepted. And so, I hid, quietly, watching and learning ... and yearning for the day I would be able to laugh and sing and dance, like you.”

Sefina reached for her daughter and hugged her tightly. “Rahil, I do not know what the future will bring. I do not know if Allah has spoken to you. I know that you are truly my daughter, whom I love and cherish. I will teach you the ways of a young woman so that you can sing and dance and laugh. And, should you change the world, as you are convinced you will, then I will have given you a dowry of education worth more than a chest filled with gold.

“Come, Rahil, my daughter, and let me show you my secrets.”

Hand in hand, mother and daughter climbed to the attic, where a treasure trove lay hidden in dusty trunks.

2.6.2 War Warning

“Ahmed, you must prepare to move all my goods out of the city at a moment’s notice!”

Ahmed had never seen his uncle in this state before. “Uncle, why should I do this? What is happening, and what of my family?”

“Dalair, my eldest, has been recalled into the King’s service. The entire reserve force has been recalled. They intend to defend the kingdom, the fools.

“This is some ploy to gain world sympathy, and appease the Americans and the Infidels. Why should we battle with the Persians or the Assyrians? We have always lived with them in peace, sharing the prosperity Allah has heaped upon us in His blessing. Why should the People of the Prophet war against the People of the Prophet? It is profane, and Allah will not permit it.

“Yet, it is happening. So, I tell you that your must prepare to leave. You must pack all the foods, protect them against looters, and begin to move everything to Qatar. If necessary, I will sell it all there, before it is looted or seized.”

“But, Uncle, what of us? What of Sefina, Rahil and me? What of our home, our city, our King? Shall we abandon all we have known and loved all our lives? And, why Qatar? We could just as easily travel to Riyadh and then to Jeddah, where Sefina has family.”

“There is no time, Ahmed. The King will kill my sons in this abominable war. There will be nothing left for my grand children if I do not save what I can. Now, do not argue with me, Ahmed. Purchase that which you can, and prepare to move it all southward into Qatar within the week. If you can not, my son Ikbal will do it for me. Do you understand, Ahmed?”

“Yes, Uncle, it will be done.”

Ma’sum swept from the shop, almost imperially, in a billowing cloud of linen and dust into the street and to his Mercedes. He leapt into the rear seat. As he settled into its air-conditioned luxury, the driver blew the horn as he spun the tires, adding to the dust in the air.

Ahmed looked around the shop. Half of it was shelf upon shelf of cans, bags, parcels, tubs, barrels and vats of different foods. Upon the main floor in open bins were fruits and vegetables ready for purchase. Beyond, in the street were the rolling carts of fruits, vegetables and other comestibles, which was the province of Rahil. Beyond the wall was the other half of the shop. It too was divided and secured. In one part were meats; in the other were cheeses and other dairy products. Each was sealed from the other, and entry was only possible through separate entrances from two different streets. By maintaining a careful division, Ahmed could offer his patrons one-stop shopping, and still maintain the strict food laws of his religion.

However, his strictness in maintaining the food laws now worked to his disadvantage. How could he possibly move all these different foods without mixing them in some way? Should meat touch cheese, both would have to be discarded. Although canned goods were immune from these strictures, the open vats, tubs and barrels would have to be resealed. He would need a cooper, if this were the case, as well as other skilled persons. And, that would involve the Imams, who would supervise the loading and packing of each item individually to ensure they were not contaminated. It was a nightmare even to consider. Worse, it would destroy the business he had spent the last forty years of his life building.

‘How could he do it?’ he asked himself.

‘Should you even try?’ a tiny voice whispered in his ear.

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?

>

3 Gambits

3.1 America

3.1.1 Halsey at Gibraltar

If they’d been tourists on a pleasure cruise such a clear, cloudless day would have been perfect. They’d have run up to the bow, cameras in hand, and roll after roll of pictures would be developed to remember the day they came to "The Rock". Instead, it was a day of dread. The worst part was the not knowing. Even as they were approaching the coast, they had no idea of whether the Moroccans would fire at them or not.

Lt. Commander Muriel MacDonald had the frigate FFG 89 Hiram Jones squarely in the middle of the channel, exactly where she was supposed to be. But, the current flowing out of the briny, virtually land-locked lake was fighting her old FiG.

'Hell!'she bitched to herself, 'Jonesy is the oldest FiG in the fleet! If this thing hadn’t blown up, Jonesy would be on the scrap heap, and I’d have a nice, new FiG with a nice new engine, that might maintain 30 knots against the three knot current.'

As it was, she was losing headway and had dropped to twenty-five knots, far below the speed Vice Admiral Duncan had ordered. And, there wasn’t a damned thing she could do about it. Once again, she ordered her signal "person" to flash the message to Commander Taylor on Carson that Hiram Jones was doing twenty seven knots and that was it! 'Oh, well,' she thought, 'It was a good career while it lasted.'

Onboard Carson, Charley Taylor was fuming. He hadn’t wanted Old Jonesy leading them through the Straits in the first place. He’d wanted her on the port flank where her lack of speed wouldn’t make any difference if she fell behind. So, what if it didn’t look pretty? It made sense.

He’d been overruled. Therefore, instead of steaming through at thirty knots, they were plodding through at twenty-five. Over the course of 100 miles, that’d mean almost half an hour longer in the danger zone. That meant there would be an extra thirty minutes for someone, either at sea or on the shore, to make a mistake. Reluctantly, he ordered the same signal back to the Halsey.

"It’s just as you figured, Admiral," Captain Edward Teegin reported. "Jonesy just can’t make thirty. I’ll bet Mac has them rowing just to maintain twenty-five."

Admiral Duncan smiled. Under other circumstances he might have laughed, but he was too nervous. Commander Taylor had argued well and forcefully to put the old FiG on the safe port side. Yet, even at thirty knots, it’d take the fleet over three hours to be out of danger. If Jones fell behind at a rate of three knots an hour, she’d be ten miles behind and easy pickings.

'No,' he reiterated to himself, 'better to travel at twenty-five with a powerful strike group than to lose a ship for fivelousy knots.' He turned back to the captain. "Acknowledge signal. Signal to all ships: Proceed at two-five knots."

He turned quietly and went below to the Command and Communications center and its big board. He entered CIC quietly, so as not to disturb the officers and crew. They had enough problems without his three stars hanging over them.

CAG was in his usual chair watching his air groups flying lazily above them. The Admiral slid into the empty chair beside him and whispered, "How’s it going, CAG?".

The admiral’s quiet question startled Buck Henry. He splashed coffee on the deck, but stammered, "Ah, fine."

After a moment to compose himself, Buck pointed to his screen. "We've got everybody up and in position. The flashes in the four corners are the Eyes. You can see that they have their Tomcats with them. The other flashes you see are Regulators and Snoopers. They aren’t steady signals because of their stealth characteristics. So, we have a built-in query sequence in the Aegis systems. Whenever it gets a tickle, it flashes an ultra-high speed, scrambled signal in the direction of the twitch. That sets off an answering signal which is also scrambled and fast. So, we can keep track of them even though we can’t see them. Of course if they don’t give the right answer, the computers identify them as targets, and then it can get a little tricky. So, we’re always real careful with our codes.

"Those are Cassey’s T-2s between us and the coast. They’re flying right along the twelve mile limit. Actually, I told them to stay at thirteen, just to be on the safe side. As you said, Admiral, we don’t want to start a war. You can see that they’re at 25,000 feet, ten thousand below our Eyes and Ears. Any high or medium altitude stuff will be easy for the Phoenixes.

"This cloud here, just north of us and above us," he pointed to the screen, "is Betz Chapiro’s Hornets. They’re at 10,000 to take care of the medium to low altitude stuff. You see two are breaking away? They are going for a light snack. The Holsteins are those three up there. We’re keeping three up, while the fourth ducks in for more Moo-Juice. We can keep this up all day if we have to. I’ve also got four Vikes on deck set up for refueling. We’ll launch them in fifteen minutes, and begin another three out of four rotation. So, at any one time, we can refuel a dozen thirsty jets if we have to.

"Now here’s the trickiest bit of all. Look right up there." He pointed to a position twenty miles northwest of the Halsey. "That’s our A-29s! Spooky isn’t it? We’ve got nine attack planes up there. Each of them has eight thousand pounds of ordinance in their internal bomb-bays, and you can’t see a damned thing.

"Pepe is playing with us. You can bet on it. He’s pushing the envelope as far as he can, waiting for one of our ships to detect his movement on the Doppler. If we do, he loses. If not, we’ll never hear the end of it. You can hear him now, 'Gringo! I gotcha!'

'The air side of this thing seems to be in good hands,' the admiral grunted to himself, "Now, what about the ships?" He looked first to his FiGs and Muriel’s tired old boat. He chuckled as his mind’s eye saw a hundred sailors, fifty to a side, rowing like hell, with Mac standing on the bridge, shouting into her bullhorn, "Stroke! Stroke!" The funniest part was if she’d thought of it, they’d be doing it.

Charley Taylor had Carson edging up on the FiGs and easing to the starboard side of the formation. Lt. Commander George Jones had the Elrod half a mile behind the Jones and three miles to starboard, while Lt. Commander Myron Patkowicz had Klakring exactly opposite him. All three had their helos up, and the admiral could see from their movements that they were dipping actively and aggressively.

It was the logical time for active sonar. The choppers dipped to use their variable frequency sonars to provide a reasonable scan for the FiG’s sonar detectors. The three widely separated signals, the cascading frequencies and the separate detectors gave a wonderful detection scenario. All it needed was massive computing power, and Carson had it. She could count the individual shrimp, scare the hell out of porpoises or detect a submarine with consummate ease. But, once again, the problem was time. A forty or fifty-knot "fish" could ruin your day.

Duncan looked to starboard where Commander Floyd Albertson’s guided missile destroyer Neill and Captain Grigory Yuhovitch’s guided missile cruiser Bunker Hill had taken up the anti-air role. Grig was the AA Screen Commander responsible for defending the fleet against any enemy air or missile attacks. There was nobody in the US Navy that was better at that job than Grig. He had written the book, titled "Fleet Air Defense", which was required reading at the Academy.

Suddenly, Halsey rumbled. A loud crash reverberated through the ship as though a Richter scale seven earthquake had just struck. Instinctively, Duncan hunched over before he realized that air operations had recommenced. He looked sheepishly towards CAG, but Buck didn’t appear to have seen his JT flinch.

CAG glanced at his watch. Turning to the admiral, he announced, "There go the Viking Cows. They’ll head out to the four corners and refuel the T-2s flying AirCAP first. Then, they’ll come back and take the rest of the fighters in order. That way we’ll be able to build the rotation and make the Air Boss’s job a little easier. By the way, we’re also getting Tiny’s Hornets on deck, so there’ll be a lot of elevator noise and such for the next half-hour or so. So, Admiral, don’t go digging any fox-holes in my deck."

3.1.2 Hornets in the Air

Lt. Commander Betty "Betz" Chapiro and her Mad Dogs were just hanging around north of the carrier, waiting for something to happen. Like all talented, skilled and well-trained people will, when bored out of their minds, she was day-dreaming.

Well, not really. Her pilot’s eyes wandered over the sky, past her instruments, and over at Tubby, her wing. He was the newest and greenest in the squadron, so she had taken him under her wing, as the most experience officer and best flyer in the squadron should. Like herself, the other six Mad Dogs were paired up, flying big clover leafs at ten thousand feet, burning fuel.

She shook off her lethargy, and yelled at herself, "That’s how good pilots become dead pilots." In her moment of Time Off, she’d lost it: her Situational Awareness.

It was like a civilian driving down a busy highway and suddenly realizing that he doesn’t know quite where he is or where any of the other cars on the road are, either. Except in this case, she was in 3-dimensional space, and the other guys could be armed and ready to smoke her tail!

She looked around quickly through what to the rest of the world was a bubble canopy, but through the tricks of optics and superbly fast, tiny computers her Hornet’s "Sun Roof" was much more. Her Hughes APG-75 "Mini-Aegis" and her Forward Looking Infra-Red were enhanced and optically mapped onto the curvilinear surface surrounding her. Wherever she looked she saw what she would normally should see plus whatever either of the detection and tracking systems saw. This not only enhanced her visual range but also her acuity. If trouble should arise, these systems would qalso alert her aurally and visually to any dangers.

Of course, no system was perfect. The Hughes APG-75, for instance only "saw" through a 270 degree arc. Anything in front or beside her, whether above her or below was easily detected, tracked and shown on her canopy. Similarly, her FLIR searched in a cone of ninety degrees, while sweeping circularly through seventy. It gave her a new, one hundred and sixty degree view every second. But, there was always that one vulnerable spot directly behind her. The Hornet had a couple of cute gadgets back there including a radar detector and an IR detector that could tell her approximately where and how close an enemy was. There was only one way to be sure, and every pilot learned about "The Six" early at tactical training school. So, her first reaction on coming out of her daze was to snap around and check between her big tail fins for any sign of trouble.

Quickly, she returned to her job of maintaining control of her air space. Off in the distance were the two nearest Hawkeyes and their escorts. Although she couldn’t actually see them, her Integrated Optical Cockpit System let her know where they were and who they were just by looking in their direction. She craned her neck back to both sides to find the rest of her squadron. "Bleeper" Bulkowski and "Higgy" Higginbotham were east of the carrier, right on station. "Shiner" Samuelson and "Button" Bouton were between them and slightly to the north just coming out of their loop. But, where were "Dilly" and "Candy"? Dilly was an experienced pilot and the leader of her flight. Where’d she disappeared to?

Then, it dawned on her. 'That’s what woke me up! They’ve gone off to the big Moo Cow in the sky.' Sure enough, there was a big, lumbering Holstein with two little heifers in tow.

She keyed up her mike, and the scrambled, compression transmitter was instantly ready. "Mad Dog One to Junkyard. Who’s next to put on the feed bag? Count off!"

The replies came in quickly. "Mad Dog One, Mad Dog Two. We’re at twenty-two hundred and feeling just a little peckish."

"Mad Dog One, Mad Dog Three. We’re good for a while. We’re just under three thousand. I told Bleeper not to guzzle his JP, but he just won’t listen."

Shiner always had an answer for everything, except for the time Babs got him. "OK, Bleeper and Higgy are next. Tubby and I will follow, and the redoubtable, resourceful and pecunious team of Shiner and Button can take up the rear. As usual."

The "Little Guard" channel sputtered to life. The real Guard Channel was the frequency that anyone in the air group could use to talk to anyone else, but was only used for emergencies and really important stuff. Little Guard was the channel that "Big Brother" or the package commander used to talk with everyone. "This is not a Sunday social. Cut the chatter or some rag-head will flame your ass." It was "DJ" Duncan, their boss, and he wasn’t happy!

A few minutes later, Dilly and Candy rejoined the formation, sliding in behind Bleeper and Higgy. The two pairs of fighters rocked their wings in greeting, and Mad Dogs Two and Seven turned to head for the KS-3. The round trip took twelve minutes. By that time, Betz and Tubby were down below a thousand pounds of fuel. It wasn’t panic time by any means, but at their low fuel state they wouldn’t be able to fly for more than two or three minutes on afterburner before they flamed out and took a little swim. Bleeper and Higgy waggled their wings signifying that they were ready to take over the watch station. Betz and Tubby waggled back a thank you and turned slowly away towards the northeast.

The tanker sent out a short range homing signal that allowed the Hornet drivers to put their planes on autopilot for the initial approach. They eased up at about two miles from the slower, twin engine tanker, and reverted to manual flying. Then, they began a battle of nerves, almost as great as when landing on a heaving deck.

The objective of the exercise was to sneak up on the Holstein so that by the time you got there you were going at exactly the same speed. Then, you flew formation for a long time and finally left. In between, however, you had to extend a pipe-like probe from the starboard side of the Hornet’s nose, and place it delicately within a small basket that looked like a badminton shuttle-cock. Of course, all this was done at 400 miles per hour and at 12,000 feet. The drogue bounced around like a dervish. The wash off the big jet’s wings knocked your small Hornet around like a leaf in a hurricane, and your formation flying had to be perfect or you disconnected and had to try all over again. Refueling demanded exacting flying. Real pilots loved it, and performing it well was worth "style" points, too.

At one mile, Betz had slowed so much that the variable Leading Edge Root Extension, which ran along under the cockpit and led into the wing root, began to buckle. Her forward slates and rear flaps cranked out a few degrees. With all that extra lift, she had to bring the nose up to maintain forward progress, so that the little plane flew forward even though it looked like it was zooming skyward.

When she was within half a mile, she opened her communications with the Holstein. "Mad Dog One on your port with seven hundred." She heard her wing announce, "Mad Dog eight on your starboard with 600." 'Shit! Is he low! Why didn’t he say something?'

Having announced themselves, they were no longer in charge. The tanker was. "Roger, Mad Dog One, Mad Dog Eight, this is Udderly Wonderful at your service. Mad Dog Eight you are cleared to plug in on the starboard drogue. Check our lights, Mad Dog Eight. Do you read?"

Tubby leaned forward in his seat to see the indicator signals under the wing and belly of the tanker, as if those two or three inches would make a difference. "Roger, Udderly Wonderful, I see the Tree, I see the drogue. I have a green light on my probe." Tubby eased his throttles forward just slightly. The increased speed created greater lift. As the lift increased, Tubby’s Hornet lowered its nose while increasing its altitude. That is, he missed the drogue by about a foot. He backed off and was about to try again, when the tanker interrupted him.

"Mad Dog Eight, you are fencing with the basket. You can’t win that game. Just ease up on me really slow and cool-like. Watch my signals. Take it slow and easy, and ... there!" Tubby had put the probe right into the middle of the drogue and they had coupled. "Now doesn’t that feel better?" the jocular tanker asked. "I haven’t forgotten you Mad Dog One. You are clear on the port, I repeat port drogue."

"Roger, Udderly Wonderful. I see the Tree. I see the drogue. I have a green light on my probe." She eased her flaps just a skosh and gave her bird a tiny squirt of power. Her radar told her that she was closing at half a meter per second, which was too fast. She’d shoot right by before she could adjust if she kept that up.

But, Betz had done this before. After giving her Hornet a quick nudge, she dropped back to her previous control settings. It took a short time for her speed to drop off, bringing her within inches of the drogue. For a second or two it seemed as though she wasn’t going to make it as the probe and drogue hovered inches apart. Barely touching her throttle, she willed her engines to deliver just a tad more thrust, and "Clink", she was there.

One of the nicest parts about refueling was that there was time to talk "in private". On the radio, someone was always listening. However, the physical connection between tanker and fighter allowed them to communicate like two kids could talk over a string telephone.

"Hi, Betz!" a strong, motherly voice said through the earphones. It was the Cow Boss, herself!

Chief Warrant Officer Barbara "Babs" Radnovitch was the chief maintenance officer for all the "cows" and the heart and soul of VK-8. Her door announced to the world, in four inch letters, that she was the "Cow Boss". Even their CO, a tall lanky Texan, call-sign "Wrangler", agreed. She cared for the planes and their crews. In special evolutions, like this one, where regular Vikings had to be quickly refitted to handle refueling operations, Cow Boss always got the job done on time. Babs was also upstairs quite a lot, not only to keep up her flight status, but to check out tanker crews and to train new ones. That had led to a story that had been going around the fleet for years.

Babs enjoyed the standard joke of all tanker drivers. She’d wait for a youngster to plug in, and then in her naturally sulky voice, say, "Ooh! That’s nice! Keep it up big boy." Later, as the plane was leaving after refueling, she’d call, "Was it as good for you as it was for me?" Of course, young pilots would come back red in the face and be totally embarrassed for a week around her. The most recent one on the receiving end had been Shiner, and he was still trying to live it down.

The story went that one day, the pilot was a gal who was married to one of the base’s secretaries. But, Babs didn’t know about that. So, as the plane plugged in, Babs said, "Ooh! Baby! More! More!" The gal, not to be outdone, replied in an equally sultry voice, "Spread ‘em a little more, my tongue’s as deep as it can get!" The conversation went dead, and the other pilot, who was listening in, laughed so hard he disconnected and had to come around! After that, Babs was a little more reserved, but not much more.

Babs was the one who had named the tanker squadron the "Air Cows" and made their squadron symbol an udder with wings, which had to be painted over every time they got to port. It was she who named the four tankers, Udderly Wonderful, Horney Four Q, Tits Up and Milk Maid.

"Hi, Babs. Have you met my new wing, Tubby?"

Babs was thoroughly gracious, and business-like. The refueling went smooth as silk. But, as they were readying to depart, Babs reverted to form. "Tubby, you can come back anytime, and I’ll show you a real good time!"

Betz could almost feel Tubby turning red. Instantly Cow Boss was back to being the true professional she was, "Mad Dog Eight, you are clear to depart. Down and to the right." Fifteen seconds later, "Mad Dog One, you are clear. Down and to the left."

Six minutes later, Betz was back on station over the carrier. She had barely regained her situational awareness when a white cloud erupted from the cliffs just north of Seghir near point Almina. She saw it, and reacted instantly, "Mad Dog Leader to Junkyard Dogs. Missile attack from ‘See-Gar’. Attack formation. Go!"

Eight Hornets lunged forward, prepared for battle.

3.1.3 Avengers at Play

Just as CAG had imagined, Commander Pedro "Pepe" Gonzalez, was pushing the Tequilas of VA-8 to the edge of the detection envelope and having a ball doing it. It wasn’t often that his squadron had the chance to practice their stealth techniques with their brand new A-29 Avengers. This was an opportunity not to be wasted.

The hard part of the exercise was the geometry. The Avengers were designed to be extremely stealthy from a head-on attitude when they weren’t loaded with external ordinance. The A-29’s internal bomb-bay was just one of the big changes in naval aviation thinking brought about by this new generation of aircraft. They could carry up to four tons of bombs internally which maintained their stealthiness. The Avenger had also reverted to an old idea that originally had come out of Martin’s B-45 program and had also been used in the American Canberras. The entire bomb-bay rotated. There were no doors or other surfaces, which minimized radar reflections and drag at the same time. Of course, when the A-29’s four external wing mounts were in use, they generated a large cross-section even with the new, low-drag, stealthy GBUs.

From the side, the Avenger was not as stealthy, nor were they really good from either the top or bottom. They were a lot better than most planes, that was true, but their "invisible protective shield" broke down from greater angles. From the rear, Avengers were pigs.

In large part this was because A-29s were naval aircraft. They had to land on carriers for a living. That meant there were tail hook assemblies, all sorts of extra bracing and everything else that went with the job. The second source of emanation was their exhausts. They had sacrificed stealthiness from the rear quarter to gain performance.

Avengers were supersonic with high-bypass, vectored-thrust engines giving them a top speed of around 1,000 knots. The thinking was that they didn’t have to particularly stealthy from the rear because they were fast, maneuvered well for a big plane, and had a few ECM tricks up their sleeve if all else failed. So, the objective of Pepe’s training was to approach and turn away, but never show the radars his tail. That’s where the geometry came in.

Pepe began his approach from the carrier’s stern quarter. During that time, he treated Halsey as though it were an enemy ship. He set up the bombing runs, simulating a variety of missiles, laser guided bombs and standard iron bombs, approaching her as close as he dared. He would know instantly if he was discovered, because either Bunker Hill’s or Halsey’s Aegis would twitch and query his black box. The box would respond automatically with the identifying IFF code, and the Tequilas’ game would be over.

Once an Avenger reached the nearest point of closure, it’d turn away towards the northeast, gradually showing the Aegis ships its front quarter and then its side as it flew further away. It would fly just beyond the Aegis system’s detection threshold of about twenty miles and then turn to angle away for about forty miles. Yet, even then, it couldn’t turn directly west. Its vulnerable exhausts would cause the Aegis radars to twitch. Therefore, the plane turned east, maintaining its turn through 235 degrees until it was headed back to its starting point.

Pepe reveled in his little game. Nobody knew he was there, and the Tequilas’ computers had scored hits on each of the ships. If it had been real, and not a game, Pepe’s Tequilas would have sunk the whole fleet. Of course, he was cheating just a little. If the fleet had been actual adversaries, their air coverage would have been very different, and Pepe would have had to deal with swarms of T-2s and Hornets. No matter how stealthy his planes were on radar, the Mark One Eyeball was a superb optical tracking and detection device especially suited for seeing motion. Regardless, Pepe knew that it was critical to understand how to accomplish this type of mission first. After that, he could worry about Alternate Plan A.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Pepe saw motion where there hadn’t been anything before. A missile popped out of the cliffs, dropped low and was skimming across the sea towards the fleet!

"Tequilas!" he shouted, "Attack formation. Prepare targeting systems. Hold at Final Departure Point. Wait for my release!"

Another voice came over their headsets on Guard, "Assume attack formations. Hold for further orders."

'Good,' Pepe thought, Bull O’Connor sees it.'

In fact, Captain Byron "Bull" O’Connor had been the very first to see the missile. As the CO of all the Eyes, Ears and Snoops on Halsey, he could fly whenever he wanted. On top of that, he was the senior ranking Air Control Officer. When Admiral Duncan decided to push through the Straits with a full show of force, Bull decided that he wanted in on the action. So, he was in Leprechaun 1, on the hot corner, southeast of the Halsey.

For two hours plus, he’d sat there watching, waiting and trying to figure out the games each of the air squadrons were playing. The Hornets had been up a while and were refueling. Four Vikes had launched as Ersatz Cows to refuel each of the eight alert Tomcats directly attached to the four Hawkeyes, before going back north to feed Cassey’s Knights.

Bull’s job could have been boring, if it weren’t for the intensity. It was as though he was watching a no-hitter in baseball. A no-hitter should be boring because nothing was happening. Yet, it was terribly exciting because something could happen at any moment. He concentrated on his wrap-around display, feeling jumpier by the minute.

The E-29F Hawkeye was performing beautifully. The wrap-around Aegis system had eliminated the "flying pancake" that had adorned radar surveillance aircraft since the 1950s. Instead, the Hawkeye’s outer skin had been replaced by composites which housed a magnificent phased-array, pulsed radar. The radar housing made the Hawkeye look like a pregnant guppy, but this plane wasn’t designed to win beauty contests.

Its job was to see anything and everything, and then allow Bull O’Connor to control a complex air mission over a territory that extended for two hundred miles in any direction. He had to receive all the processed data from all his air assets, including the four Hawkeyes, the four Regulators and the two Snoopers. Then it was up to him to direct and control all the fleet’s aircraft to create a single great war machine.

Bull’s first indication that something was happening occurred when a portion of the cliff face some fifteen kilometers northeast of Seghir moved. At first, he thought he might have seen a rock slide, but there was no other movement as would have been consistent with dirt and debris falling several hundred meters down the side. He ordered an intensified search of the area. Sure enough, there was a hole in the cliff face.

'Odd,' he thought. He was about to report it when a huge white object leapt out of the hole followed by a big burst of steam and smoke!

He knew instantly what it was, and keyed his microphone with the alert warning. It was a skimmer, a low-level cruise or anti-ship missile, which his computer tentatively identified as a French Dragoon. He watched the missile intently, making sure of its speed and altitude. A one thousand-pound warhead was streaking at the fleet at fifteen hundred miles per hour. He had only seconds to do something about it.

3.1.4 Bunker Hill

Captain Grigory Yuhovitch sat with Commander Eugene Halbertson, his Missile Boss, in Bunker Hill’s large but crowded CIC. Their integrated tactical display was alive with ships and planes. The data came primarily from Bunker Hill’s four, large phased-array panels that crowned the ship’s superstructure. They also received a fully integrated signal from Leprechaun 1, which gave them a simultaneous view from all the Eyes, Ears and Regulators. Their computers integrated it and presented it to them in living color and in three dimensions. It was almost like being there.

Then, all hell broke loose. A missile appeared out of nowhere, with Bull O’Connor’s warning immediately on its heels. The news startled everyone in the Combat Information Center. Within seconds, it was obvious that this was a skimmer, probably one of the advanced versions of the infamous Exocet. What mattered most was that it was below the 5000-foot deck assigned to the aircraft. That made it Halbertson’s target.

Gene Halbertson leaned over and quietly spoke into his microphone, "Designate target." A box appeared around it.

"Track target." A reticle bleeped onto the image.

"Activate SAM Four." The vertical launch array readied its first available NATO SM-4, responded with a green light on the Air Boss’s panel and confirmed it with a "Ready" on the screen.

"Fire!"

The long white SM-4 missile was blown straight up out of its vertical box by a blast of compressed air. At twenty-five feet off the deck its engines fired. A column of white smoke leapt into the air faster than the human eye could follow to a height of five hundred feet. Then, the Mark-117 guidance radar took over, redirecting it towards the target. The missile accelerated through the sound barrier and continued towards its terminal velocity of twenty-five hundred miles per hour.

As the distance closed, Bunker Hill’s Mark-117 sent its final instructions to the missile, which turned on its own radar and pointed it at the designated point where the target should exist. The SM-4 detected it and queried it. Receiving no answer, the SM-4 characterized it as "enemy" and prepared to destroy it.

The geometry was tricky. The two missiles were closing each other at a speed of four thousand miles per hour, while the SM-4’s kill radius was only one-hundred feet. Furthermore, it took time for the shaped charge to propel the 217 tubular, explosive "bullets" out to their optimum radius. The SM-4 had to fire at exactly the right instant to create the killing zone. But, it was a "smart" missile designed for just such a high-speed encounter.

As the SM-4 accelerated towards its target, Gene Halbertson was still very much in the game. He knew full well that in this kind of an engagement, anything could go wrong. Just after the first SM-4 was fired, he re-ran his sequence just in case. The "Ready" light on his display indicated a second SM-4 could be launched with just a single word.

They saw a brilliant, white flash as the first SM-4 exploded, sending "Death Darts" out in a cone ahead of its flight path. Almost simultaneously, they saw a second flash as the enemy Dragoon missile ran into three cubes which tore out its vitals, exploding its warhead and sending shards of burning metal raining into the sea.

"Check!" the Missile Boss commanded, halting all firing processes. His command, "Stand down," completed it. The readied SM-4 went back to sleep along with the other 180 missiles still in the Bunker Hill’s missile arrays.

3.1.5 Duncan's Conference

Admiral Duncan had also been watching. When the enemy missile appeared and the warning sounded, his heart almost leapt into his throat! It was only after the missile blew up that he realized that he had jumped to his feet and was holding his breath. As pieces scattered across the surface of the Mediterranean, his only thought was, 'Shit!'

Halsey’s Air Boss was too busy for conversation. When the missile warning came in, he ordered the two Hornets sitting in the bow catapults to be launched. He was taking no chances and was launching while he still had the opportunity.

Just seconds after the missile exploded, Halsey shuddered as the "cat" hurled Tiny Small and Sonny Liu off the bow. The tremendous pulse of noise rumbled through the ship at the wrong time for everybody aboard. Even CAG ducked! Everyone in CIC heard him mutter, "Damned Air Boss!"

Buck leaned over and began to hammer "Go Codes" into his transponder to be sent to each of the squadron commanders. Without them, and without either the captain’s or the admiral’s confirmation, the planes would hover at their departure points, but go no further.

Admiral Duncan was perplexed, and wondered aloud, "Why only one missile?" When he asked CAG and his staff, none of them had a good answer. It was obvious to Duncan that if the Moroccans had one missile, they had more than one. The entire world knew that they had big guns buried deep in those cliffs that could have been firing. Something was wrong, and JT Duncan wanted to know what.

He called Captain Teegin on the bridge, "Ed, raise Tangiers Military District for me. I want to talk with whoever’s in charge."

"Aye, Aye, Sir," came the standard Naval reply.

Five incredibly tense minutes passed before the call came in, "Sir, I have a Colonel Rahmid on the radio. I’ll patch him through to you now."

"Colonel Rahmid, this is Vice Admiral James Duncan aboard the United States warship Halsey presently off your northern coast. Do you hear me?"

"Indeed, Admiral Doon-kind, I am hearing you clearly and well. In what way can the Royal Moroccan Army assist such an august person as yourself"

"May the blessings of Allah fall upon you this fine day, Colonel. I have called you today to make an inquiry of the Royal Moroccan Army. It is my hope that you will be able to assist me in finding the answer." He continued, "Approximately six minutes ago, we were attacked upon the high seas. Do you understand what I have said, Colonel?"

"You were attacked, Admiral? By whom?"

"Apparently, Colonel, by the Royal Moroccan Army!"

"What did you say, Admiral? Did I hear you correctly?"

"I’m sure you did, Colonel, but I shall repeat myself. Approximately seven minutes ago now, a missile was fired from Moroccan territory from a site approximately twenty kilometers northeast of the city of Ksar-es-Seghir. The missile was destroyed by elements of my battle fleet.

"I am considering several courses of action at this time. However, before I make any decisions regarding the actions this battle fleet will take, I am asking for your cooperation and for your assistance. Why, Colonel, did the Kingdom of Morocco attack a United States’ battle fleet in international waters?"

"Ah, Admiral ...," the Colonel’s voice trailed off. "I do not know what to say to you. No orders have been given to attack any ships sailing off the coasts of Morocco. And, we surely would not strike such a large and powerful battle fleet as yours. It was a mystery to me why you contacted Royal Moroccan authorities, and it is even more of a mystery when I hear what you have said to me. Are you sure that this missile was launched from Moroccan territory, Admiral?"

"Indeed, Colonel. I can have the exact launching point marked by one of my aircraft if that would be of help to the Royal Moroccan authorities, or I could send video tapes to you which show the entire launch sequence and pinpoint the exact location of the missile’s launch. Would either of these alternatives be more helpful to you, Colonel?"

"Thank you for your kindness, Admiral. It would be my opinion that a video tape of the entire regrettable incident would be preferable to my superiors. Would it be possible to fly it to Tangiers in one of your helicopters, or would some other means of conveyance be preferred?"

"Yes, we can do that, however, the helicopter will not be able to stay and enjoy your hospitality. It will have to depart immediately after the crew have delivered the video tape to you or your representative. Would that be convenient, Colonel?"

"Indeed, Admiral. You are most kind. Is there any other way in which the Royal Moroccan Army can assist you or the American Navy?"

"No, Colonel, I don’t think so. Is there some other way that my battle fleet can assist the Royal Moroccan Army?"

"Once again, you are all kindness, Admiral. No, today we do not need any help from the American Navy. May Allah be with you on your journey."

"And, the blessings of Allah to you, too, Colonel. Admiral Duncan, out."

Duncan asked Halsey’s captain and her CAG, "Well, Buck, Ed, what did you think?"

Teegin spoke first on the "horn" from the bridge, "JT, that colonel seemed to be totally in the dark. It was almost as though he’d swallowed his chewing gum when you told him about the missile. And, I think I heard a tinge of fear when you offered to mark the spot."

"Yah!" CAG interjected, "He had no idea! Somebody’s head will roll over this, and it sure won’t be that colonel’s. I’ll bet he’s on the horn right now and salivating at the thought of wiping out a few terrorists who tried to start a war with the United States."

Buck Henry was right on both counts. By the following day, Colonel Rahmid had not only found the offending missileers, but also had Major Ibram Sultouni in custody. Within just a few hours, the ex-major had implicated two Imams and several other distinguished worshippers at his mosque. Two days later, most of the conspirators were dead. Only one survived, and he lived only because he Colonel Rahmid's mole.

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?

>

3 Gambits

3.2 Tunisia

3.2.1 Council of the Faithful

Imam Abdul Khalil Kamsanni sat quietly in the Chamber of the Council of The Faithful, considering the consequences of the report his son, Chief of Staff, General Yusuf Kamsanni, was delivering. The Imam’s mind wrestled with each subject as his son presented it.

'The cowardly Moroccans have allowed the Americans to pass through the Straits of Gibraltar with only the merest token of resistance? This confirms what Hammad Hassan told me. The Moroccans are ruthlessly murdering those of The Faithful who tried to sink the American aircraft carrier. This is bad news, indeed. What should I do about the Moors?

'What was this? My son is speaking of a new plan? I must listen to this.

General Yusuf Kamsanni looked up from his prepared text, studying the Councilmen, as he spoke extemporaneously. "I have spoken with the chiefs of staff of both Algeria and Libya. We believe we see an opportunity to inflict great losses upon our enemies. It is our opinion that we cannot attack Egypt as long as the American fleet lingers off our shore. Their mobility and air power are too great. Therefore, we offer the following broad outline of a plan, hoping that it will find Allah’s grace.

"We shall unite with our brothers in Algeria and Libya to attack the American fleet when it passes through the narrow Straits of Sicily. We shall wait until the American fleet is northeast of Cape Bon before we strike.

"As the Americans pass into those narrow waters, the Algerians will strike from the rear with their naval forces, supported by their air forces. Our fleet shall attack from the south near Pantelleria Island under the protection of our own aircraft. Our Libyan allies will use their high-speed missile boats to strike the Americans from the east. The Americans will be forced to retreat towards the Sicilian coast. That is where Libyan submarines will sink the American fleet."

General Kamsanni paused for a moment, unrolling a large map of the familiar waters northeast of their homeland. He pointed dramatically to a place just off the coast from the Sicilian town of Agrigento. "That is where the American Navy will be sunk!"

The Council of the Faithful grabbed at the straw proffered to them. At first, there were only a few reticent questions, but, as they warmed to the plan, each of the Imams began to offer suggestions which he deemed would be helpful. Then, the Imams began to discuss each phase of the plan in exquisite detail.

The bane of the military has always been the politician who thought he knew more about war than the people who had spent their entire lives practicing its arts. The general had to stop them. "Father! Uncle Hassan! My dear friend, Gamel! The arts of war are written in all our hearts. Within each of us dwells the true courage of a warrior of Allah, but we all serve Allah in our own way. You serve Him by leading us and reminding us of our Faith. Without Faith we are lost.

"I have long studied the arts of war, the development of soldiers, and the use of weapons. I have studied our enemy’s tactics and dispositions. I have spent my entire life, as have many others, working towards this day.

"I would be a fool to argue with you the writings of the Prophet or the will of Allah as given to him. When it comes to this battle, I must insist that you not argue with me.

"I cannot guarantee success. Only Allah, in His infinite wisdom, can do that. However, I can assemble the resources, men and materiel needed to complete this campaign. I can develop the plan, determine the tactics and timing of the attack. I can assign targets. I can develop the plans for withdrawal, for safety and for rearming. That is the path Allah has chosen for me to follow, and I have done my best to serve Him.

"I can guarantee this: If you meddle with this plan, or any part of its implementation, we will surely fail. We need only look to the examples of the Persians when they battled the Iraqis, or when the Iraqis battled the Americans to see for ourselves the wisdom of this course of action. It is up to you to tell me to go to war, or not to do so, as Allah guides you. It is up to me to carry out the will of Allah and the orders of the Council of the Faithful. I will do what can be done, but I must be free to do it.

"If this council believes in its heart that you can do a better job, then I ask you to accept my resignation. Appoint someone who does have your faith and let me serve him. But, regardless of whom you appoint, let him do what he has been trained to do."

General Kamsanni had said all he could. His fate, and that of his daring plan, hung in the balance. Seven of the most holy of men would ponder and decide his fate.

Finally, Imam Hammad Hassan looked up, and spoke quietly, "I see the light of Allah in your eyes, my young friend, son of my friend and friend of my son. I understand the point of your impassioned plea, and in part agree with it.

"As you have so eloquently stated, it is the Council of The Faithful which must decide. If we are ignorant of what you are doing, how can we help, or provide the guidance of Allah that you so desperately seek? So, I will suggest a compromise. If you accept it, then I, for one, will not accept your resignation, so nobly advanced in Allah’s name. If you do not, then I will accept your resignation and another will be appointed in your place. Can we agree to this?"

"I do not know, Uncle. What is this compromise of which you speak?"

"It is this: My son, Gamel, who is your friend, shall accompany you. He will give you guidance and inform The Faithful of your plans and activities so that we may guide, but not necessarily oversee, your battle plans. Is this acceptable to you?"

Yusuf looked towards Gamel, and their eyes locked. Both of them smiled broadly. "Yes, Uncle," Kamsanni replied, "This is an excellent compromise. With Allah’s guidance, Gamel and I will find surer paths to victory and speed the time of Allah’s Kingdom on Earth!"

3.2.2 Preparations

That afternoon, General Yusuf Kamsanni and Imam Gamel Hassan traveled to the Islamic Republic of Tunisia’s military headquarters. Upon their arrival, they proceeded directly to the War Room, twenty meters below the surface, where thirty senior officers and their aides from each of the three services had gathered. Each of the officers was surprised to see that an Imam had come among them.

The Chief of Staff motioned to a young communications officer, who quickly punched a few keys on his console. The large screen that dominated the front of the room sprang to life. On the right-hand side was Kamsanni’s counterpart in Algeria, and on the left his opposite number in Libya. Behind each of them was a large room, filled with people and computer consoles, which had an eerie resemblance to the very room in which they sat.

Kamsanni began the meeting in the tradition manner. "There is no god but Allah, and Mohammed is His Prophet." After each of them responded, Yusuf continued, "I have spoken with the Council of The Faithful, and they have agreed to the plan as far as it has gone. In their wisdom, they have asked that Imam Gamel Hammad," Kamsanni directed their attention to his friend seated on his right, "should be a part of this process, to provide us with Allah’s blessings. I have whole-heartedly agreed with this decision. Like all of us, I pray for Allah’s guidance in this difficult undertaking.

"My brothers in Islam, what have you determined?"

The Libyan Chief of Staff spoke first. "We are ready to commit our entire naval and air strength to defeat the Americans. We still chafe over the American bombing of Libya more than half a century ago, and their interference in our uprising to overthrow the dictator. With Allah’s guidance, we will avenge ourselves.

"We will commit both of our destroyers, both of our corvettes, six high-speed missile boats, and both of our submarines as planned. We will also commit three regiments of fighters and two more of bombers."

Kamsanni leaned over to his friend and explained that, under the Libyan system, a regiment of fighters consisted of three squadrons of twelve aircraft, while a regiment of bombers was three squadrons of nine planes. So, the Libyans were committing over one hundred fighters and more than fifty bombers to the battle ... a majority of their forces.

The Libyan continued, "Our problems are those of timing and of fuel. Let me explain our findings in more detail, my brothers.

"We could sail from our ports in Banghazi, Misratah, and Tarabulus. However, the voyage would be long, up to eight hundred kilometers, and we fear discovery. Similarly, our aircraft would have to fly for extended periods over water. The distance is great, so we would have to use much of each aircraft’s capacity for fuel rather than for ordnance.

"We have sought Allah’s guidance in this matter, but we have found no answer which provides us with both the range and the striking power we need. It is our hope that you will be able to provide us with other plans."

The Algerian Chief of Staff agreed. "We, too, have determined similar problems with our plan. We can commit our destroyer, both of our frigates, and eight missile-boats. We can also commit two squadrons of fighters and one squadron of attack planes to the battle. But, we do not have the capacity for all of these aircraft to fly from Annaba. We would have to fly from at least three bases - Annaba, Skikda and Qacentina.

"We have also determined that our ships will have severe difficulties in attacking the Americans. Even if all our vessels proceed at maximum speed and the Americans are steaming at only twenty knots, we will only have a ten knot advantage. Under those conditions, it will take us thirty-six hours to be in position to attack them. If they should increase their speed, only our missile-boats would be able to catch them. Regardless, they would have a day and a half to detect our passage and take defensive measures against us.

"Furthermore, we would have difficulty in maintaining air cover at those distances, even if we used every plane in our inventory. Unless we can find some other way to do this thing that must be done, I fear that the Algerian Navy will have ceased to exist before we can come to blows with our enemy."

The three senior generals sat quietly looking at each other’s images on the screen in front of them. Then, Kamsanni turned to his friend, asking, "Imam, we are at an impasse, militarily. How shall we proceed?"

"My brothers," the holy man began, "I see the difficulties we are facing. I now understand why my friend was so eager for me to be a part of these discussions. The problem of time and distance can not be overcome by any of our technologies. Therefore, if the mountain will not come to Mohammed, then Mohammed must go to the mountain.

"Since our lands are adjacent to the Straits where the Americans must pass, would it be of help if we could arrange ports and airfields that could accommodate you? Please, generals, be specific. Although I am not trained in the military arts, I have listened attentively to my friend, General Kamsanni, for these many years. I will know, and Allah will tell me, if you are being less than complete in your discussions."

The Libyan, again, spoke first. "Imam, thank you for your kind words. Indeed, many of our difficulties can, at least partially, be solved by launching our attacks from Tunisian soil. The distances, as you have pointed out, are shorter. We can arrive at our battle stations more quickly and with greater loads of weapons. Further, our chances of being discovered are lessened."

"I would agree with my brother," the Algerian confirmed. "Our difficulties with timing and with our attempt to engage the Americans from the rear would be greatly improved if we were closer to them when we began. Also, our aircraft, especially our attack planes, would be able to double their loads of bombs and missiles if they flew from Tunisian lands rather than our own."

Gamel Hassan knew that this whole charade had been staged just for him. He could see that the three generals were hanging on the edge of their seats waiting for his answer. He could defer it to the entire council, but he judged that the council had placed him here to make exactly these kind of decisions. At the same time, he was uneasy about having large numbers of Algerian and Libyan troops, planes and ships in his country. He decided to temporize. "Where exactly would these ships, planes and personnel be located?"

The screens before him split again. The images of the two Chiefs of Staff shrunk into the top half of the display, while the entire bottom of the screen was filled with a detailed map showing the coasts of North Africa from Al Diazair to Tarabulus, including the Straits of Sicily.

General Kamsanni began his presentation. "Our thoughts on this subject are as follows. First, there is the port of Tunis. The Gulf of Tunis is long, but the Americans can look along its whole length. They can see anything that moves within it, except here at the Isle of Zembra. Radar can not see through rock, so anything behind Zembra could not be detected. Then, as the Americans steam further east, the peninsula of Cape Bon blocks their view.

"At that time, if the Algerian fleet were to emerge from behind Zembra, it could steam rapidly past Cape Bon and remain undetected. It might take up to an hour for the Americans to detect our fleet because the radar images reflected from the land would obscure the small echo from our ships. By then, the Algerians could be thirty or forty kilometers behind the Americans. Algerian missiles have an effective range of sixty kilometers, so they would be well within firing distance and ready to attack.

"Similarly, the Cape Bon peninsula protects any ships behind it from the American radars until they pass by and can peer down its length. At that time, the Island of Pantelleria would lie to their southeast and anything behind it would be invisible. If our destroyer escorted our six missile-boats to that region, they could emerge from behind the island as the Algerian fleet attacked from the rear. The estimated distance from our fleet to the American fleet would be about sixty kilometers. This is maximum range for our missiles, so we would be within striking distance immediately. But, we would also try to stay within the island’s radar 'shadow' for as long as we could.

"The composition of the Libyan fleet is very different from either our own or that of our Algerian brothers. While we had always thought in terms of defending our shorelines, they have been planning offensive operations for many years. The two Libyan destroyers are well suited for the anti-aircraft and anti-ship roles, while their corvettes provide additional anti-aircraft capabilities in addition to their customary roles in anti-submarine warfare. Also, their missiles have a longer range than ours, so their missile-boats can be further away and still deliver their warheads on target.

"Therefore, they will sail with our fleet initially. As we veer towards the American fleet, they will continue northward in order to attack from the east. This combination of attacks will force the Americans to deploy all of their escorts towards us, while their carrier moves northeast to remove itself from the danger of our missiles. This will be their downfall.

"As you heard, both of the Libyan submarines will be lying in wait off the Italian coast near the town of Agrigento. Their submarines will rest upon the bottom just beyond the place where the sea begins to deepen again after its passage through the shallow straits. This will mean that the sea floor will protect the submarines from the American sonar, just as the islands will protect us from detection by their radar.

"The Libyan submarines will be able to hear the American fleet easily, because sound travels well in the water. When the American aircraft carrier runs from the fight with our fleets, the submarines will know where he his. They will fill the water with homing torpedoes, which will automatically seek out the American and destroy him!

"That, my friend, is our battle plan. As you can see, it is dependent upon surprise and timing. We cannot give the Americans time to detect us or to determine what we are doing. We must force them to rely upon instinct and the false notion of their superiority. The Algerians will have to be in the Gulf of Tunis long before the Americans are aware of their movements out of their home waters. The Libyans must be by our side at the moment of our attack. We must deliver a killing blow, or we ourselves may be killed.

"To accomplish this, we recommend the following dispositions. The Algerian Navy will anchor in the port in Tunis tomorrow night, and the Libyan in Sousse. Our fleet will assemble here at Nabeul, and our own Air Force will assemble there also. Tonight, the lead elements of both the Algerian and Libyan Air Forces will begin to arrive. The Algerians will fly to our air base in Bourguiba, while the Libyans will arrive in Kairouan. It is essential that our allies arrive tonight, because, in most cases, their aircraft are different from ours, so their supplies and replacement parts are also different. If we are to bring this plan to fruition, we must proceed immediately."

The Imam sat back, his mind reeling at the grandeur of the battle-plan. 'Allah be praised!' was all he could think of for many minutes. His friend and his Islamic brothers had assembled a plan of such audacity that it would sweep the Americans from the seas! Without Yankee interference, Morocco would realize the full depths of their transgressions, and Egypt would fall like a ripe fruit into their hands. Then, they would deal with the Jews, and wipe them from the face of the Earth. 'Allah be praised!'

The Imam representing the Council of The Faithful nodded his head in consent. The battle was in Allah’s hands.

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?

3 Gambits

3.3 Israel

3.3.1 Planning Meeting

Major David Weissman was talking with his neighbor, Sergeant Nablus Brenner, who was working to repair a Badger armored fighting vehicle, when the call came in for a regimental staff meeting. The Israeli assault over the Golan Heights had started out extremely well, but had ground to a halt within sight of their objectives.

The meeting began as always with "The Old Man", Colonel Ephraim Schwartz, making a few comments before turning the meeting over to Jake Hiram. Schwartz was a superb tactician and administrator. In a small group, he was animated, lively and very funny. But, in front of a sizable group, even his own staff and the battalion commanders, he froze, and seemed almost wooden. Jake, on the other hand was a "ham." Give him an audience, no matter how small, and he was ready to go.

"As you all know," Jake began, "our offensive has stalled completely. We have studied the situation carefully, and have come to two conclusions. First, if we stay where we are, we’ll be crushed, our families killed, our cities destroyed and our religion doomed. Facing that possibility, we sought an alternative. This is it."

An aide pulled a dirty, gray bed-sheet from a large map covered with multi-colored lines and arrows.

"First Division, up here," Jake waved a long, wooden pointer over a region of the map broadly including everything from Beirut to Damascus, "is stalled in front of the Syrian main line of defense. We’ve regained some control of the air, and the Air Force has assured us that they will be in complete control by tomorrow. But, we are a long way from declaring air superiority or achieving true dominance over the battlefield.

"In the south," his over-achieving pointer covered the area from Damascus to Amman, "We have a very different story, in two parts. Let’s start with the ‘Lost Brigade’." A nervous chuckle spread through the small group. "They are here." This time the pointer unerringly speared a point on the map clearly identified as El-Al, the Place of God.

His pointer swept across a smaller blue arc, studded with triangles pointed inward toward El-Al. "The Syrians have established a defensive perimeter in the arc from Ramot, through Khisfin and Tasil to Saham. The Twelfth isn’t going anywhere without help. So, here’s what we’re going to do.

"Tonight, Marines will cross the Sea of Galilee and take Ramot. They will then attack towards El-Al, to relieve the stalemate. At the same time, Second Brigade will attack Butmiya to sever the Syrian supply lines. First Regiment will turn south on Route 96 to attack Khisfin while Second and Third seize Rafid. The combination of attacks should shake the Syrians out the their holes like a fire routs ants. These attacks will be coordinated with an attempted break-out by Twelfth Brigade and a heavy artillery bombardment.

"If all this works, we’ll be back to the same plan we started out with. First Regiment will return to Second Brigade as they drive to Ash-Shaykh, Nawa, and Qasim. Twelfth will assist Second Regiment at Nawa, and proceed to Shyk Miskin before turning north. Our objective is to roll up the entire front from right to left. And, the key is right here," his pointer smashed onto the map, "at Butmiya.

"Here are your written orders, including your timetables and codes. Let’s be sure of what we’re doing. We’ve all been in action at night, but it’s scary. We’ve got a lot of young people who will be terrified. They’ll be relying on us. May the God of Israel be with us all. Amen!"

The meeting broke up into smaller working groups. Every once in a while someone would jump up from one and rush over to another with a question or seeking clarification. Two hours later, David Weissman was on the road back to his troops. He had to make doubly sure that each of his company commanders and troop leaders knew exactly what they were doing, or the entire war would be lost.

3.3.2 Breakout

The go-code came over the radio at 23:45 hours. Israeli commandos had crossed Galilee and had surreptitiously climbed the Heights below Ramot. Two dozen helicopters had delivered another two-hundred troops, while eight helicopter gunships had destroyed Syrian tank and gun emplacements.

Israeli engines fired to life. Carefully tanks, armored fighting vehicles and armored personnel carriers edged their way down the slopes. Star shells erupted overhead, followed by the crunch of Syrian artillery. But, they were too late, and fired at the positions already evacuated by the advancing Israeli forces.

Half an hour later, First Battalion reached Route 96. It surged north and east, before turning to the west, flanking both Butmiyah and Ar-Rafid. Syrian tanks boiled out from Rafid searching for the battalion. They were no match for the night-optic, radar and laser equipped Israeli tanks.

David watched as one of his Lions of the Desert swung sharply to its left, and a great explosion rendered the earth where it would have been. The sixty-ton monster spun back to its right. It fired its 120-mm gun and a Syrian T-90 less than a kilometer away burst into flames. His Lion rolled on followed by a Badger and two Impalas which seemed to be acolytes of their larger and more formidable companion.

The battle wasn’t all one sided. A fiery blast almost knocked David’s command vehicle on its side. A Syrian gunner destroyed one of his Badgers. To his left one of his Impalas, was burning wickedly. Several of his troops had died cruelly, trapped within its fireball.

Yet, in spite of its losses, David’s battalion was advancing. Butmiyah crawled past him as though it were moving and he was standing still. Off to his left was Rafid, his objective yesterday, or was it the day before? Another Impala burst into flames, and one of his Badgers fired a missile in reply.

David heard his call-sign, and the signal to turn and depart for the south. His signal was answered quickly by each of his company and troop commanders. His battalion been lucky. They’d taken some losses, but his command structure was still intact. That was important if he was going to succeed in leading the regiment to Kisfin.

David ordered his lead company to break off, and turn towards the north. After driving away from Rafid for ten minutes, he ordered a turn to the east. Fifteen minutes later, he ordered another turn, this time to the south. Twenty minutes later, the lead company reported back to him that they had struck Syrian Route 98, and were proceeding southward. The entire regiment was in a long column behind him, just as they had planned. 'Next stop, Khisfin,' he thought to himself, and laughed.

As David raced southward, the ancient prayer of his childhood haunted him. He was leading his battalion into the valley of the shadow of death. The black mass of the Golan Heights arose to his right. The Wadi Ruggad meandered along the base of the foothills to his left. Every hill, valley, twist and turn was an ideal place for a Syrian ambush.

His fears and the need for speed battled within him. He was tempted to slow the hectic pace of his advance. Yet, he knew that he could not. He had to overcome the Syrians and release Twelfth Brigade to the offensive before the Iraqi reinforcements could arrive.

One and one half hours later, the suspense ended abruptly. "Major Weissman," the scout reported, "Khisfin is in sight. No activity. Orders?"

David deployed his first company, while the rest of the battalion stood ready to come to their rescue if needed. His lead company’s twelve tanks moved ahead, followed at a short distance by its three Badgers, the Impala and the Rapier anti-aircraft vehicle.

Three platoons of four tanks approached the line buildings that marked the edge of the sleeping town. Each platoon’s Badger stopped briefly to disgorge its eight grenadiers, who rapidly formed up around their tanks and fighting vehicle. The Impala stopped and its heavy weapons squads dismounted. Two-man teams centered on the Squad Rotary Automatic Weapon moved forward on the flanks. Anti-air teams assembled their shoulder mounted AA missiles and prepared to defend their company against air attack. The 81-mm mortar crew began digging their firing pit. They would be ready to support the advancing tanks and grenadiers within five minutes.

David could only watch and wait as fifteen of his tanks and fighting vehicles moved slowly into the town surrounded by their grenadiers and heavy weapons teams. His company’s Impala and the Rapier hung back to provide support while covering the mortar and AAM teams who were spreading out to find better firing positions for their missiles. He waited for shots to ring out, for the explosions of artillery shells or the dull whump of mortars to fill the air.

"David, we’re completely through the town," the company’s captain reported. "The only resistance came from a few Syrians who were awakened by our engines. One threw a chamber pot at my tank. It stinks, but I can report no other damage."

"Wonderful!" David shouted into his microphone. "Set up a road-block on the south side of town. I’m coming through with the rest of the battalion."

David quickly reported that Khisfin was in Israeli hands and that the only casualty was a Syrian chamber pot that had given its all for Allah. At the same time, he arrayed his entire battalion across the narrow plain between the Golan Heights on his right and the semi-dry Wadi Ruggad. Now, he could enjoy the pun, The Rugged River. How appropriate.

David checked his watch. It was 05:00 hours. He had been awake for more than a day, had fought one battle, traveled fifty kilometers and seized his objective. It was time to sleep. But, he had too much to do to consider it.

By the time the residents of Khisfin had finally rubbed the sleep from their eyes, David’s sixty main battle tanks, fifteen fighting vehicles and two hundred dragoons were dug in on the Syrian line of retreat. The regiment’s two batteries of 200-mm howitzers in the hills on either flank, ready to bombard anything on Route 96 south of the city. Extra teams of missileers were on the perimeter to ward off enemy air attacks. Two strong fall back positions had been prepared, just in case they were needed.

David dismissed half of his troops to catch a few hours of well-earned sleep. He tried to set an example for the other half who were forced to wait another four hours before they could retire. Instead of being the example, he was snoring loudly in the passenger’s seat with his head back and mouth open when the first shell hit.

Instinctively, he ducked and rolled, right out the open door. He bounced off the steel step and onto the rock hard road three feet below. His pain and the loud noise jolted him awake. Another explosion! And another! Desperately, he clawed his way back into the vehicle and called his lead company. "What’s going on?" he demanded.

"Tanks coming down the road! Fast! When we challenged them, and they opened fire. We are responding."

He called the rest of his company commanders, "Enemy attack! Weapons free! Fire! Fire!" All around him 120-mm and 73-mm cannons erupted. Assault rifles cracked, machine guns chattered and SRAWs roared. He switched to the artillery frequency, "Fire mission!"

"Shell’s out!" the voice on the other end replied.

The road south of Khisfin exploded in such fury and mayhem that it looked like a view into hell. Tanks, armored vehicles and Syrian solders were torn apart - their pieces thrown in every direction.

The horror of this awesome vision overwhelmed him. "On target!" he finally yelled. "Fire three times for effect. Then, increase by fifty meters, one time for observation."

David directed the walking barrage southward along Route 96. The Syrians were overtaken by his solid curtain of explosions, shrapnel and flying pieces of dead comrades and friends. Death awaited them, and David sang a song of thanksgiving. The God of Israel had granted him victory.

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?

3 Gambits

3.4 Iran

3.4.1 Hammedyanni Strikes

'Where are the Iraqis?' General Tavid Hammedyanni raged to himself as he stared at his maps. 'We have lost two entire regiments and a third is being destroyed. We have lost one-third of our air force. All of this has been lost trying to keep the Saudis engaged. We have taken terrible losses, and my schedule is in tatters. What are the Iraqis doing? Are they waiting until our entire army is destroyed in these infested swamps?'

His plan had been carefully crafted. He had developed the timings, intervals and schedules in meticulous detail. Both countries had agreed to his plan, which was simplicity itself.

After they had seized Mina al-Ahmadi, the two invading armies were to split. The Persians were to continue south on the main road to As-Suffaniyah. The Saudis would counter with a holding action in the marshes. While the Persians held the Saudis' attention, the Iraqis were to march through El-Wafrah moving on the high ground west of the marshes. They would sweep around An-Naqirah and enfilade the entire Saudi army. At that point, the Saudis would either be driven back or driven into the sea. It didn't really matter which happened. Their army would be shattered and on the run with fifteen Irani and ten Iraqi divisions in pursuit. The enemy would have no time to stop, regroup or counter-attack. The door to Jubayl would be wide open!

Hammedyanni's radio operator stiffened as though he were at attention. "Yes, Sir! I shall inform him immediately, Sir." Turning to the general, the R/O reported, "Sir, General Yousoufli has ordered you to headquarters immediately. He said that it was most urgent, Sir."

Hammedyanni’s BTM lurched forward, careened through a turn and reversed direction at high speed. Hammedyanni had said, "fast", so his driver was going as fast as the BTM would move. Minutes later it skidded to a stop at divisional headquarters.

The moment Hammedyanni stepped into the tent, he noticed the young officer who had been so discourteous to him earlier. However, this time the young man was deliberately avoiding any recognition that the general had entered. Hammedyanni had spoken to that one before. This was intolerable! The officer was guilty of insubordination! The general advanced upon the young officer and struck him across the face. The boy turned, throwing his arm up to defend himself.

"Striking an officer!" Hammedyanni screamed, "I will teach you!" He struck again and again, driving the young man to the floor. The boy held his arm up to ward off the hail of blows. The impudence! Hammedyanni kicked the prostrate officer in the ribs. He raised his foot to kick once more when a powerful body crushed him to the ground. "Get off me you oaf!" he cursed. "I shall have you court-martialed and shot!"

"You shall do no such thing, Colonel!" General Yousoufli shouted, standing over him. "Let him up," he ordered the huge sergeant wearing the uniform of the military police.

Hammedyanni slowly rose to his feet rubbing his back. "General, I accuse this man of insubordination and striking an officer in the field. He is guilty and must be punished. Punishment for such crimes is death!"

"Yes, COLONEL! The punishment for such crimes is death. Shall I make your rank that of Major?" General Yousoufli seemed to grow as Hammedyanni shrank before him.

"What is it you are saying, General Yousoufli?" Hammedyanni snarled. "You can not demote me. My father is General Hammedyanni, and my grandfather sits on the Revolutionary Council. You do not have the power.

"Aha! It is all too clear," he ranted. "Now, I understand our losses, our inability to maintain my schedule and the lack of cooperation from our allies. You are a traitor, Yousoufli, working against the Cause of Allah, and for His enemies. Stand aside while I place a call to the General Staff. We will see who is demoted this day." He turning to the young officer who was still lying on the floor, his face bleeding from several long nasty-looking gashes. "And, we will see who dies today."

Hammedyanni reached for the phone that would connect him to army headquarters, but the huge sergeant grabbed his arm in an iron grip, looking towards the Major General. Yousoufli nodded to the sergeant, "Take him to the stockade! He is a prisoner, but an officer. He is not to have any visitors, nor may he communicate with anyone other than yourself or one of the guards. Carry out your orders, Sergeant Major."

The newly promoted Sergeant Major smiled broadly as he bodily removed the colonel, nee general, to the stockade, while thinking, 'This could be enjoyable. I have spent years saluting and kissing officer’s asses. This one’s mine, and I can do anything with him I please, as long as he stays alive.'

General Yousoufli turned to his communications officer, "Get Colonel Rashamani up here immediately!"

Half an hour later, the CO of the Second Regiment arrived. He strode purposefully into the large tent and looked around for Yousoufli. The first person that caught his eye was a sorry-looking lieutenant with a recently broken nose. "Excuse me, Lieutenant, I am looking for General Yousoufli."

The young man looked up, and the colonel saw only a huge nose and two very bleary, darkening eyes. "Sir, he is at the mapping table over there."

"Thank you," the colonel answered, and moved to the crush of people standing around a large table in the middle of the space.

"Rashamani!" the general shouted joyously. "Welcome! We have much to do. Come here and see." The colonel had never been greeted this warmly by any general, and wasn’t quite sure what to expect. The big, hearty general put his arm around the colonel’s shoulder. "See here? Our plan is finally coming to fruition.

"The Iraqis were delayed. The rains this year have been quite extraordinary. It took them an extra day to get into position, but they are now ready.

"They have five divisions massing here, west of An-Naqirah. At 05:00 tomorrow, they will initiate their artillery barrage on the left flank of the Saudi line. We will do the same using our longest-ranged weapons. At 05:30, the Iraqis will attack towards the east. Their left flank will skirt the marshes on the north, while their right will travel along the highway into the Saudi rear. Their objective is the junction where the road to As-Suffaniyah splits off from this main highway. When they have achieved this objective, we will have surrounded the Saudi army and will annihilate it.

"Your task is two-fold, Colonel. First, after the artillery bombardment, you will advance along the highway through Al-Mishab and seize As-Suffaniyah. Second, you will clear the highway for the Kingdom of Allah Division to pass through. They will advance and link up with the Iraqi army coming from the west. This maneuver will complete our envelopment of the Saudi army.

"To do this, I am reinforcing your regiment. Here is your order of battle." The general handed Colonel Rashamani a sheet of paper. "As you know, First Regiment was shattered at Mina al-Ahmadi. Since that time, they have served as my division’s support regiment. Your regiment suffered losses in our attempt to force a passage through the marsh. By reinforcing your regiment with First, we can create a larger and more powerful strike force.

"We will create a fourth battalion, as shown here. We will reinforce your depleted battalions as shown here. You will have four, heavily reinforced battalions to lead our army to victory.

"I will follow you with Third Regiment and the mobile artillery. When you have penetrated the marshes, I will form Third Regiment on your right. The mobile artillery will take up positions as quickly as possible. They will be in support position before the heavy artillery is broken down for the march, so there will never be a shortage of bombardment capability.

"The Warriors of the Prophet Division will follow on our heels. They will move to our right to defend our flank and cut the Saudi’s line here, west of Suffaniyah. The Kingdom of Allah division will follow them and advance behind you. As soon as you have punched a hole in the Saudi lines, they will advance with all possible speed towards the road junction." The general pointed to a V drawn on the map. "Your regiment will follow them, and pivot towards the west."

From his perspective, Rashamani could see three blue arrows advancing south and then west forming an advancing front. He could also see three green arrows advancing from the west to form another advancing front facing towards the east. Inside of these arrows were red rectangles, representing the Saudi brigades, forming into a defensive "egg-shell". The plan was bold, clear and awesome. If it were carried out, the Saudi army would be trapped, and destroyed.

"Yes, General, I see this clearly ... a classic envelopment. I have but one question, Sir. What of Saudi air power? I have seen it, and I do not wish to see it again."

The general laughed generously. "Yes, Colonel, we have all seen it much too clearly. Those devils hurt us badly last time.

"Our air force has been working on this problem along with our allies in Iraq. We believe that we understand how they did it. If they try something similar, we will be prepared for them. Then they will be the ones who are surprised." The general laughed again, like a small child who had a secret, and wanted others to know that he had one, but wouldn’t tell it.

"So, Colonel," the general continued in a more serious vein, "here are your orders. The senior officers of First Regiment are ready to meet with you. You have until tomorrow morning to make the appropriate adjustments in your units. Allah be with you, Colonel. May we meet in As-Suffaniyah, and later in Mecca!"

The colonel departed quickly, wondering what had brought on this remarkable change in his personal fortunes, and what had happened to that poor lieutenant’s face.

3.4.2 Rashamani in Command

Colonel Rashamani worked quickly and efficiently. Within an hour, his command and communications issues had been clarified and everybody was eager for the dawn. Five hours later, his reinforced regiment was in column and ready to advance under their umbrella of steel. He had completed his arrangements so quickly that the troops would be able to get about six hours of sleep before the big push.

Rashamani spent a sleepless night, and 04:30 came all too early. Evidently, his battalion commanders had the same problem, because they were instantly available on the command net. They all reported that their troops were arising, and that their vehicles would be fired up and ready to move by the 05:00 deadline.

Slowly at first, but with a momentum that seemed to build minute by minute, the gigantic T-90s, BTMs and BTRs filtered into line. Rashamani looked at his watch: 04:55. Five minutes later, the skies to the north pulsed as though with lightning. They pulsed again, and again. Then, the horizon to the south was lit with fire.

Rashamani ordered the lead tankers to advance. Blue clouds filled the morning twilight. Engines roared. Dirt flew from tracks and wheels.

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?

3 Gambits

3.5 Saudi Arabia

3.5.1 The Alert

General Hector Luis Lopez Algarro, Commander Central Theater of Operations, tossed and turned in his sleep. His nightmares were haunted by the question, "Where are the Iraqis?" Then, tanks drove over his bed, firing long cannons. Shells screamed overhead. Explosions rent the air.

He awoke bathed in sweat. The rolling explosions of his dreams became a loud knocking on his door. "Enter," he yelled groggily.

An aide poked his head through the door. "General, we’ve found the Iraqis, and you’re not going to like it."

"Shit! Do I have to wait for it?"

"They’re on the Saudi left flank. I’ve notified General a-Fayd’s HQ, and he’s heading there right now."

"Hell, Fire and Damnation! I’ll be there in five minutes." The four-star general broke all records for getting up and out. He was still tucking his shirt in when he raced through the doors to the War Room. The Saudi chief of staff didn’t look any better than he did.

The G-2 waved them over. "Sirs, here it is." He pointed to the big display, and while they were still sitting down, he began his briefing. "Watcher Two came back with these three hours ago. It’s taken us this long to wade through all the stuff. We notified both of you the moment this came to light.

"Here they are. Three kilometers west of An-Naqirah. Looks like five divisions, with five more coming up fast. That’s two full field armies, the way they count 'em. They came out of El-Wafrah, around the marsh and onto the flank. They’ve got us by the balls, Sirs, unless we move our asses."

The two generals paled slightly. After thirty years of playing war games, they could see what was happening ... classic envelopment.

Algarro turned to a-Fayd. "General, I think its about time we got out of Dodge."

The Saudi, who was an aficionado of old cowboy films, responded, "Aye-Yup, Pardner. The guys in the black hats are a’coming." Both generals smiled at their grim humor.

Within seconds both were on their VisiPhones to their respective commanders: the Saudi with the information about the encirclement and the orders to withdraw; the American to the Ninth Division in Khubal and the Twelfth in Qatif to mount up, head north and engage the enemy. Algarro also hurriedly placed other calls to both the 82nd and 101st, placing them on alert for a "hurry-up" operation. They had to grab that crossroads before the Iraqis closed the gate.

3.5.2 Withdrawal

Lieutenant General Harram Ar-Basouf Ar-Fayd received the emergency VisiPhone still in his night-shirt. "What!" he exclaimed. "They’re on my flank in attack position, and you waited until now to inform me?"

"My dear cousin," the Chief of Staff explained, "we found out about this only moments ago. Calm yourself, and alert your commanders. You will have to withdraw as quickly as possible while under attack.

"This will be most difficult, demanding a clear mind and Allah’s help. You have trained for this time for all your life. You can save the Kingdom or lose it in the next few hours. Allah be with you, my cousin. We are trying to send help, and we will keep you informed. If help comes, they will be Americans. If they do not, it is up to you. Look for them at the crossroads to Jubayl. Out."

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?

3 Gambits

3.6 Zahran

3.6.1 Rahil

“Rahil?” Ahmed called. “The wife of Taban would speak with you.”

A black burka emerged from the shop, soundlessly. In a quiet voice, barely heard, Rahil said, “Jada, I have them for you.” Her eyes sparkled through the slit. “They are ripe and delicious. I saved them for you,” she giggled.

“You are a blessed child,” Jada, wife of Taban, replied. “Pomegranates are his favorites, but they must be perfect.” She looked down, and her eyes reflected a mixture of sadness and fear. “Perhaps these will help him.”

“Oh, yes, they are perfect,” Rahil nodded, perhaps a bit too vigorously. “These will soften even the hardest heart, or seduce him into your bed.” Her eyes smiled coquettishly.

In spite of the heavy burka, Jada’s embarrassment was evident. “You are too wise for one so young,” she protested. Reaching into her burka, she extracted a purse and laid the money into the child’s hand.

“I’ll be right back with your change,” Rahil said, skipping a step, before resuming her soundless glide into the depths of the shop.

“And, did she like them?” Ahmed asked his daughter-son.

“Oh, yes, Father. Perhaps tonight, Taban will not beat her, but instead love her.”

“Child! How dare you speak like this of Taban?”

“Father, you know better, as do I. Now, let me return with the change, so that Jada will be able to account for her time and her money.”

As the child hurried silently out of the shop, Ahmed shook his head, both in surprise and anguish. She knew too much for one of her age. He had stopped thinking of her as him. It was just too natural ... too normal. He still worried, lest the Imam or the police should discover his little subterfuge. The punishment for such an offense would be severe. Yet, why should it be so? Rahil was happy. Safina was happy, and he was happy. Their family was restored to happiness. All was well.

3.6.2 Preparations

In spite of his personal wishes, Ahmed began the preparations to pack and move the entire shop, his wife and daughter from their home in Zahran to some unknown destination in Qatar. What else could he do? Uncle Ma’sum had threatened his home, his family and his livelihood. There was no other choice.

Sefina was distraught. Zahran was her home. Although her family was from Jeddah, she had lived in Zahran all her life. Her closest friends lived within a few blocks. Her children were all living in the city. Her grand children were all in Zahran. How could she even consider moving?

Her husband had explained and explained, but it made no sense. Ma’sum had always been more interested in profits than in family, but this? Uprooting the family, destroying their home, and sending them into exile in Qatar, where she knew not a soul? How could he?

Yet, she had no choice. Her husband’s will was hers. He was the master of the house, and his word was the law, second only to Allah, bless his name. But, what would happen to them?

Rahil labored cheerfully to help her father. First, she had told all the women who shopped there that they would be evacuating to Qatar. She warned them to ready their homes for a long and difficult time ahead. And, she suggested that they purchase additional food items, especially canned or dried foods that could be stored for long periods.

Many heeded the young woman’s advice. She seemed so worldly and knowledgeable, in spite of her youth. And, they appreciated that Ahmed had not raised his prices, as so many other merchants had in the past days.

Rahil also helped her mother to sort their belongings. Her mother wanted to keep everything, and Rahil could not blame her. These were the treasures gathered over a lifetime. There were pictures of Ahmed and her before they were married and of their wedding. There were entire albums of pictures of Rahil’s brothers and sisters, and even more of their families.

Then, there were the clothes. Sefina had been kept all of her clothes from the time she was in her teens. In fact, Rahil was the recipient of many of Sefina’s dresses, which no longer fit her, but was still reluctant either to discard or to give away.

Then, there was the furniture, the cooking equipment, the television and all the appliances so carefully purchased and so lovingly maintained. How could she part with her pride and joy...her comfortable, over-stuffed chair? What would she do with the tapestry that her mother gave to her? What would she do with her china, her silver service or her silver serving dishes?

Rahil and Sefina sorted and re-sorted them, trying desperately to keep them all, knowing that most would be left behind. Yet, it was a losing battle. Regardless of the decisions they made when they were together, Sefina would find a way to remove things from the ‘leave behind’ pile and sneak them into the ‘moving’ pile.

Rahil understood that there was no solution, as long as they were constrained to moving themselves, their belongings and their goods. Push carts could only hold so much. And the three of them could only push them so far. They needed trucks of some kind, and men to drive them.

Rahil began to make discrete inquiries of the women who came to the shop. They trusted her. Hopefully, with Allah’s guidance, one of them would know someone who could help.

3.6.3 Conspiracy of Women

“Jada, we are being forced to leave. My father’s uncle had told us to pack everything and evacuate to Qatar. We don’t know anybody there. We have only our carts to carry all our possessions, our goods and ourselves. We are quite alone, and seeking help. Do you know of anyone who might be able to help us?’

“No! You’re not! You can’t leave. Your family has run this shop for my whole life. It is one of the few things that has not changed over the years. Your father has always been kind to me, and you have endeared yourself to me. I am upset to learn that you are leaving.”

“Well, Uncle Ma’sum has demanded that we use our carts to move the contents of his shop. They are all we have, and, since they do not belong to us, but are his property, then we have no way to take our possessions. We will be destitute, but Uncle Ma’sum’s profits will be preserved.”

”Men! Sometimes I wonder about them,” Jada spit. Gathering herself, she whispered, “I will talk with the other women. Do nothing until you hear from me.” She winked and departed.

Rahil smiled to herself. She had told every woman who had come into the shop the same tale of woe and misery. Each had offered to seek help. A conspiracy of dozens of women was on the job. Allah be praised.

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?

3 Gambits

3.7 Iran

3.7.1 Assault on Suffaniyah

Colonel Rashamani’s reinforced Second Regiment surged down the highway at thirty kilometers per hour, hiding under the umbrella of Persian artillery. Exactly at 05:30, the bombardment stopped, and there before him, enwrapped in a cloud of dust and debris, were the tank positions that had murdered his regiment just two days before.

Rashamani shouted a curt order into the microphone. His lead battalion veered off to the left to seize the high ground by the sea. Another order, and Third Battalion swerved to the right, taking up the flanking position. One of his T-90s fired its long cannon, and a bright flame appeared just 500 meters away. A BTM disappeared in a flash of light off to his left. A BTR collapsed on its right side, rolling over and over in flames. Another explosion occurred in front of him and another as Saudi tanks and infantry fighting vehicles ceased to exist. "Forward! Forward!" he shouted over the entire command net. "We are amongst them, and our foot is on their necks!"

"Colonel," the command set came alive. It was General Yousoufli. "I am deploying Third Regiment on your right. Heavy artillery is no longer available, but mobile howitzers are in place. Remember, shoot at nothing which is under 100 meters. Helicopters incoming."

An explosion to his right! Another! Where are they coming from? Third Battalion answered his question almost as soon as he had asked it. "Enemy forces enfilading on my right! I must have support!"

"On its way," he answered and turned to Fourth Battalion’s frequency. "Heavy resistance on right flank. Come up behind Third. Attack axis southwest." He received acknowledgment and switched to Division’s frequency. "General, I am receiving heavy fire from right flank. Fourth Battalion is advancing southwest. Swing Third Regiment to the east, and we will catch them in a pincer. This could be our breakthrough."

"Confirmed," the general replied. "I am in position to observe. You are correct. I have ordered First Battalion of Third Regiment to comply. Second and Third Battalions are sweeping further west to by-pass. If needed, I will detach Second to encircle. Attack, Colonel! Forward!"

A pocket of stubborn Saudis quickly came into being and then collapsed as Persian tanks crushed the defenders. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, the city of As-Suffaniyah appeared in Persian viewing slits. The city’s streets were filled with fleeing Saudis. Their engine compartments made excellent targets.

First Battalion swept along the city’s water-front, while Second and Third moved into the heart of their objective. Fourth Battalion wheeled to enter the city from the southwest. General Yousoufli carefully directed Third Regiment, maintaining contact with the moving flank of Fourth Battalion, while guiding The Warriors of the Prophet Division on his right.

The battle was short, but fierce. The Saudis fought and died in place. They battled from the ground, from cellars and roof-tops. They fought valiantly, but to no avail. Even the Saudi Air Force died in the skies above them.

As General Yousoufli had predicted, the Saudis tried a similar combination of feints and surprise attacks. This time the Irani Air Force had their own Mainstay Air Warning and Control Aircraft in the sky. The excellent jamming techniques the Saudis used were to no avail. The Mainstay was far removed from the EA-29’s zone of protection. The F-15s which sought to ambush were ambushed instead. The F-16s were driven off with a concentrated barrage of 23-mm and 57-mm AAA along with mobile AAM launchers. Irani Su-27s and MiG-29s destroyed the ancient Apaches and modern RAH-66 Comanches. Persian Hinds and Minxes decimated the Saudi armored defenders.

The bitter, sometimes hand-to-hand, and often muzzle-to-muzzle battle continued for three hours: three hours, which seemed like three months or years, or seconds. Then, just as suddenly as they had arrived, they were through Al-Suffaniyah. Small clusters of Saudi vehicles fled down the road to the southwest. Scattered rifle shots bounced off armored flanks.

"Allah be praised!" Rashamani radioed to Yousoufli. "We are through! Tell the Kingdom of Allah Division that the road to Jubayl is open to them thanks to the Soldiers of Allah."

The command to advance was quickly relayed to the Kingdom of Allah Division, and its lead tanks roared through the city at thirty kilometers per hour. As they rolled by, the cheering of the Soldiers of Allah Division echoed through the barren and burning city.

Rashamani tried to reorganized his battalions to follow in the path of the Kingdom of Allah Division, but they had been mauled. Two of his four battalion commanders were dead. Both Second and Third Battalions had been ravaged and were down to seventy-five percent effectives. Only First and Fourth Battalions had escaped the fury of the battle in the streets, so he placed them in the lead.

Rashamani tried as best he could to gather the remaining strength of Second and Third into something resembling a military organization. But, there wasn’t enough left of either to reassemble. He radioed Yousoufli and reported his circumstance, "I am prepared to advance in support of the Kingdom of Allah Division with only two battalions. I recommend that the survivors of Second and Third Battalions be decorated for their bravery, and then used as garrison troops until they can be integrated into other units."

"Well done, Rashamani! Third Regiment will take the lead. I will join you, and we will follow them. As we travel we will reorganize this division to be able to support the Kingdom of Allah Division’s drive on Jubayl."

The colonel was elated. More than one commander had been executed for such a pyrrhic victory. Sandwiched as they were between the Kingdom of Allah and the Warriors of the Prophet they would still be able to contribute to the final victory over the Saudis.

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?

4 Victory and Defeat

4.1 America

4.1.1 Alboran Sea

"Officers," Admiral Duncan began the Threat Planning Meeting, "we've run the gauntlet and been damned lucky." Everybody nodded in agreement. The story of the Admiral's diplomatic coup with the Moroccan colonel had swept through the fleet. "Now we've got to figure out what comes next.

"I've been on the horn already to CentCom, and they're screaming. The Saudi army has been pretty well destroyed. The only effectives between the enemy and Jubayl are two American light divisions. The 82nd and the One-Oh-One are arriving, but most of their troops are either in the air or waiting for air transportation. Kimmel and her PhibRon are still at least five days out, and the Reforger ships are still two weeks from sailing. That means we've got three weeks before the heavy stuff, like the Twenty-Fourth Mechanized and the First Armored, can get here.

"Admiral Ellingstone has just rendezvoused with Victory and Ajax. He'll be coming through Gibraltar day after tomorrow. With Morocco backing down, Ajax will handle escort duties through the Straits, and Victory will be escorting the PhibRon all the way. We'll join up as a combined task force and give 'em hell. But, it'll take another three or four days for the rest of Blacky's troops to arrive.

"As far as the rest of our fleet is concerned, Jefferson sailed yesterday. Their group is coming east at over thirty knots. Lincoln will sail tomorrow. Farragut sailed from Yokohama yesterday, but she'll take a week or so to get here. Teddy Roosevelt sailed from Pearl yesterday going west, while Eisenhower left San Diego for Panama. We all know what that means. Essentially, it's us for two or three days. Then, there'll be three of us, and that's it for a long time. If I know CentCom, they'll put either us or Victory in the Red Sea to give them one carrier on each front.

"But first, we gotta get there. That means the next hurdle we face will be the Straits of Sicily. Well, officers, what are our plans for Sicily?"

'My brain trust,' the admiral mused. He sat back and looked around the table at his planners. 'Let's see what they've come up with.'

The Air Staff sat on Duncan's left. Buck Henry, CAG, sat next to the admiral, with his Senior Squadron Commanders next to him. Commander Donald "Spring" Sprang, the CO of VF-8, would be responsible for maintaining air superiority over and around the fleet with his big Tomcat IIs. The Admiral's son, Commander David Duncan, the CO of VFA-8, was concerned with both fleet defense and offense with his two squadrons of F/A-38 SuperHornets. Commander Pedro "Pepe" Gonzalez, the CO of VA-8, would use his stealthy A-29 Avenger attack bombers for offensive operations. Captain Byron "Bull" O'Connor, of VE-8 had the Eyes, Ears and Regulators that would keep them all informed and under control in the air. Commander Conrad "Connie" Fink's S-3 Vikings of VS-8 would work with the FiGs and the screen commander to detect and sink any subs that got in their way. And, Commander Billy Joe "Wrangler" Joiner would make sure that all his KS-3 Holsteins and the S-3 "ersatz-cows" he borrowed from Connie Fink were up and feeding the thirsty aircraft.

The Surface Staff sat to the admiral's right. Captain Teegin and his J-2, Commander James Johanson, sat next to him. Captain Grigory Yuhovitch of Bunker Hill and his missile boss, Commander Eugene Halbertson, were next. Commander Charles Taylor of Carson and Commander Floyd Albertson of Neill sat just beyond them. At the far end of the table were the FiG commanders: Lt. Commander Myron Patkowicz, Klakring; Lt. Commander George Jones, Elrod; and last, but by no means least, Lt. Commander Muriel MacDonald of the old Hiram Jones.

Captain Teegin began, "Admiral, I'll let Jimmy fill you in on that stuff, and then I'll go on from there. Jimmy?"

Commander James "Jimmy" Johanson, "Mr. Threat", unfolded himself carefully from the tiny chair, stretched to his full six feet six inches and squarely planted his two-hundred and sixty-five plus pounds on his shiny, leather, size twenties. "Sirs, officers, the threat in the Sicilian Straits can come from three sources: the Algerians, the Tunisians and the Libyans. Individually, they have the following capabilities." He flashed a new screen labeled "ALGERIA" onto the display. It was divided into the categories of Naval and Air.

"The Algerians have a small fleet. Their flagship is an old 3,600-ton French destroyer, closer to our frigates but with a 5-inch gun, and a single-arm AAM firing French Marmoset Mark IIs, copies of the NATO SM-2. They have two French corvettes - like our FiG's but smaller, only about 2,700 tons. They fire French Marmosets, about the equivalent of our SM-1s. They also have ten little, fast, missile boats. They're only about 250 tons or so, but they can fly along at 50 knots on hydrofoils. They've got a 3-incher and a CIWS, but their real punch comes from their four, sea-launch versions of the French Dragoon we met yesterday. That sucker has a range of 40 miles, travels at 1,500 miles per hour, and packs a 400 pound warhead.

"The Algerian Air Force is tidy. They've got one squadron of French Rafales. Those babies are fast, maneuverable, armed with a 30-mm gatling gun and Matra Magics, which are very similar to our AAMRAMs. They also have two squadrons of Mirage 2000s. We all know these, and have flown against them. They're good, and they're also armed with Magics. Finally, they have one squadron of Typhoons, the British/European upgrade to the Tornado. Once again, the Typhoons came out in all the variations from pure fighter to recon, but the Algerians only bought the attack version. It's half-way between the Hornet and the Avenger in every way. It's supersonic, a bit on the stealthy side, great at low levels with a big bomb load. If you were going to buy only one kind of attack plane, this'd be it."

Mr. Threat flicked a new chart entitled "Tunisia" on his screen, "The Tunisians have one of the smallest armed forces in North Africa. Their navy consists of one destroyer and six missile boats. The destroyer is an old, Italian Guarda-class, and it's a good multi-role vessel. It has a dual, 5-inch gun-mount, a single-arm AAM launcher firing Italian G-2s about the same as the SM-1, a CIWS and full helicopter facilities. Nice ship. The missile boats are Russian, about 250 tons, 40 knots, etc. They have four ASW-9s with a range of 40 miles, a speed of about 1,200 and carry a 550-pound warhead.

"Their air force is also tidy. They've got two squadrons of MiG-21s, in mint condition. They're almost museum pieces, and they use them for both training purposes and attack. They also have a squadron of Su-22 attack fighters. Then, they've got a squadron of MiG-29s. The Fulcrum is a damn good plane and with a smart driver can wax your tail."

Johanson's screen flickered for a third time to a chart reading "Libya" at the top. "Now, as far as capabilities are concerned, the Libyans are at the top of the heap. They've got two big Russian AA destroyers. These babies have forty vertical launchers in the bow and sixty in the stern. They can fire anything up to the AA-19 - that's their copy of the SM-3. They've got two 120-mm guns, torpedoes and four anti-ship missiles with a range of 60 miles carrying a thousand pound warhead.

"Then, they've got two frigates, which are Russian ASW-types. Real good. They've only got a 76-mm and a single arm, but they'll also fire AA-19s.

"Third, they've got a scad of missile-boats. They're hydrofoils, with a 76-mm and six of those big ship-to-ship types of missiles.

"Finally, and this is the real kick in the ass, they've got two subs. Both of them are rebuilt Foxtrots ... quiet as the grave, with really upgraded sonars.

"The Libyan air force is packed with top of the line stuff. They've got one regiment, or about thirty-six planes, of Su-25s, Su-27s, MiG-29s and MiG-31s. Damned capable! They've got at least two regiments of bombers. One is made up of about twenty-seven Blinders and the other of the same number of Blackjacks!

"Next, they have a squadron of Badgers equipped with look-down search radars, similar to the Big Domes, which could be used for sea patrol. Finally, we know that they have at least two, if not three MadCap radar planes. No, they're not as good as the Mainstay, and real short of the Hawkeyes, but they'll still do one hell of a job in the right hands.

"So, if we total up the threat from the three North African countries," his screen winked again, "this is what we're facing. A naval force of four destroyers, five frigates, twenty-eight missile boats and two subs. Their combined fleet could deliver about one hundred thirty-six anti-ship missiles. Their combined air forces contain over two hundred fighters and attack planes, more than fifty bombers, a dozen recon and two or three AWACs."

CAG almost choked on his coffee. The Senior Squadron Commanders exchanged serious glances.

Mr. Threat wasn't finished. "Now, I've put up this screen to emphasize a point. If they get together and run a combined operation, they can put a strong surface action group together, provide a hell of a lot of fighter cover, and still mount a simultaneous air offensive against us.

"My question is will they? Arab unity has been one of the great myths and worst-nightmare scenarios. Next to the Israelis and us, the Arabs hate each other more than anybody else on the face of the Earth. It'd take a lot of new-found trust for the Imams to come together on anything. However, as a planner, I have to think up the worst-case scenario and prepare to defend against it. This is about as bad as I could put together.

"The time and place for such a combined operation by the North Africans is obviously the Straits of Sicily." The map showing the Straits appeared again on his display. He pointed to the screen. "Here between Cape Bon and Cape Granitola the Straits narrow to about ninety miles. The water shoals to less than one hundred fathoms and is squirrely. It's a tough place for ASW."

The three FiG captains looked anxiously at each other and rolled their eyes.

"If I were them, I'd use the Bon Peninsula and Pantelleria Island as cover. I'd hit us with lots of air power, and, in the confusion, I'd pop out from behind them with my DDs, FiGs and missile boats to shoot off everything I had. Then, I'd hit us with the subs, here off Sciacca where the hundred fathoms curve drops off. There's a little tongue of deep water that sticks into the Strait and the water moving up and over the shallows would be a perfect spot to hide if they can get down far enough. And, by the way, that's a question that we don't have an answer for.

"So that's the threat we face, and my worst case scenario." Johanson said as he sat down feeling rather pleased with himself. Mr. Threat had scared the hell out of them all and with good reason.

Captain Teegin picked up from there. "As you can see, Admiral, the potential threat is both very real and very large. We are assuming that some kind of "new era of cooperation" will exist for a short time, but that it will fall apart. In the meantime, however, we've come up with several scenarios which we'd like to show you."

The Admiral interrupted, "Thanks, Ed. Before we get into that, I'd like to give you all some good news. I've spoken with Admiral Robustelli, and I've just received this."

He held up what appeared to be an advertisement. In the center was a beautiful and curvaceous Italian woman, dressed in the traditional style of a prostitute, leaning on a lamppost. The caption read: "Try OUR Escort Service!"

"The Italians have created two escort groups - one for the eastbound traffic and one for the westbound through the Straits. The groups consist of a Garibaldi-class DDG and two ASW frigates. The Garibaldi, the Alfonso Donatelli and the Enrico Ghiarggio will rendezvous with us tomorrow. The Garibaldis are similar to our Arleigh Burkes and will increase our anti-air significantly. The Donatelli and Ghiarggio are damned good ASW FiGs, and the Italians know these waters.

"Also, Robustelli has informed me that the Italian Air Force has transferred several squadrons south. They've put two squadrons of Whirlwind European Advanced Fighters in Sicily and moved a squadron of Typhoons, the attack variants, down into Calabria. They're also increasing their reconnaissance with the GR-5 versions of the Typhoons. They'll be sweeping the area from Sardinia to Malta. The Garibaldi is bringing all their IFF codes to us. The Italians are somewhat possessive about their forty million dollar aircraft. So, how would those reinforcements change our plans?"

"Wow, Admiral, that's a tremendous help," Johanson exclaimed. "It changes everything. I know the Garibaldis. They're real nice, NATO compliant, about a hundred missiles and fast. I don't know their FiGs all that well, but from what I've read they're real good at the shallow water stuff, where ours aren't as good. And as you said, they know their own coast lines a lot better than we do."

"Yes," Teegin agreed, "the Italians will make a big difference. I had planned on a similar tactical formation going through Sicily that we used through Gibraltar. Those three vessels will make a world of difference. My first thought would be to assign the two FiGs to the screen on the inshore side and attach the DDG to the anti-air screen. I'm still concerned about the ASW screen's anti-air, though, and think that we should keep one of the DDGs out there with them. What are your thoughts, Greg?"

Grigory Yuhovitch looked up. "Indeed, I'm concerned about the FiGs, but I'm more concerned about Halsey. Two hundred fighters, fifty bombers and a hundred and thirty or forty missiles can ruin your whole day. I was really concerned about pulling either of the DDGs out, but this Garibaldi sounds like it'd be of real help. My question would be whether they can integrate better with me or be better with the FiGs as screen commander?"

From the far end of the table, Muriel MacDonald raised her hand. "I'm concerned about the Vikes, Sirs. Each of us is NATO compliant, and operating and controlling our choppers wouldn't be too difficult. But, the Vikings are a different story. We've never coordinated our fleet ASW tactics with the Italians before. I think it'd be better if we kept this in our own hands and handed off the data."

"I agree with Mac," said Connie Fink. "Of course a lot depends on how many of my Vikings stay ASW and how many go to Wrangler and Cow Boss. But, if we've got five choppers, five FiGs and a bunch of my people doing the ASW thing, we'd better maintain a high level of control and communication."

The Admiral pondered their comments for a few seconds. "Yes, I think I agree. Two Foxtrots hiding in bad water could be a cast-iron bitch. Charley, you've been running the screen. Had enough, or would you like to try it, Floyd?"

The two commanders looked at each other for a moment. Finally, Floyd Albertson spoke up, "No, Admiral, I think we'll keep it like it is. Carson's crew has had more hands-on than mine, and we're really heavy into the anti-air side. Besides, my XO speaks Italian like a native, so we'd be able to coordinate with them more easily, I think. What about you, Charley?"

Charley Taylor nodded. "Yah, I cut my teeth on ASW. I like hunting subs, and I don't like people who mess with my FiGs."

The three frigate commanders laughed knowingly. Charley was tough, but he ran a real good ASW effort. Regardless of what they thought about him personally, they all respected his experience and command ability.

"What about you, Greg? How's your Italian?"

"Me? I'm a Pole, remember? Poles are great with languages, except Greek!" Everybody laughed remembering the punch line to that old saw. "Naw, shouldn't be a problem. We'll sit down together tomorrow, get our sets tuned up, run through a couple of standard drills, and we'll be fine. Tell you what, though. Floyd, do you think your XO would serve on the Garibaldi for this little excursion? It might help a lot. I've got a lieutenant on my staff who's served on DDGs. She's my navigation officer and handles a bridge real well. What do you think?"

"Could be. When we meet with the Garibaldi, I'll bring my XO. You bring this lieutenant, and we'll see if it works, OK?"

"So, if I understand our fleet dispositions," Teegin summarized, "we're looking at five FiGs out front with the Italians in-shore and Carson as Screen. We're looking at AAM of Bunker Hill, Neill and Garibaldi on the threat axis. We're looking at some personnel changes to smooth things quickly. That about it?" Everybody on his side of the table nodded in agreement. "OK, CAG, what about you?"

Buck Henry shook his head. "AirCAP has been a nightmare. If we had a second carrier, like we're supposed to at a time like this, it'd be easier. The problem we're looking at is too many missions and not enough Moo Cows. I'll let each of the Senior Commanders speak first, and then wrap it up. Spring?"

Don Sprang thought for a second. "Our problem in air superiority is the time vs. space equation. Our Tomcats were designed to find the other guy when we're two to three hundred miles out. Then we use our Phoenixes to hit the bad guys while they're another hundred further out. That way, even if they're carrying Kaltrop missiles or some other air-to-sea equivalent, we've got them long before they can shoot. In the Straits, they can shoot just about on take-off.

"We've worked out a plan rotating Rocky's Pumas and Cassey's Knights. We can maintain four T-2s on the threat axis plus two each with the Hawkeyes on the corners with no air refueling. If we're putting all the Hawkeyes up, we'll still be able to maintain two Tomcats on each, plus four more on the threat axis, but the rotation off the deck will keep the Air Boss real busy. Under that rotation, we'll have two Ready and two at Plus Fifteen.

"As for armaments, we'll have four Phoenixes, four AAMRAMs and two 9-Mamas on each bird. That'll give each squadron thirty-two long kills, the same number of intermediates and still leave us good dog-fighting capabilities.

"My pilots are going to have to fly weapons-free from the time they leave the deck. We'll only have about two minutes to identify and destroy a Mach-two bird before it hits something valuable. It'll be completely in the hands of the air controllers. We'll have to shoot first and ask questions later."

"Spring and I have gone over this several times in the simulators," Bull O'Connor agreed. "It'll have to be bang, bang! I'll see 'em, ID 'em and target 'em. I'll put a T-2 on a target or, if worse comes to worst, onto an area, and that'll be it. If we shoot down some poor innocent sap, I'll just have to apologize."

Admiral Duncan was not happy to hear their analysis and showed it. "OK, I'll declare an exclusion zone, immediately. All ships and all planes will be excluded from the Straits for forty-eight hours starting tomorrow."

Buck Henry and Teegin both made little check marks on their notes. If he hadn't said it, one of them would have asked for it.

"Now," Duncan continued, "what happens if we turn this whole thing inside-out? You say that the timing is bad for air intercepts. I agree. But, that's what our missile ships do well. On the other hand, neither our DDGs nor our CGs are toe-to-toe fighters. Put one of them alongside an old Fletcher-Class and that old DD would win three out of five, maybe more. So what happens if we turn the missiles on their planes and our planes on their ships? What do you think, Greg, Gene, Buck?

CAG turned to DJ. "You're on."

"Thanks, CAG." The young commander had been involved in many of these planning sessions during his career, but this one was especially difficult. This was his first time as a Senior Squadron Commander, which was bad enough. Even worse, though, he was also reporting to his own father.

"Sirs, the role of the Hornet as both a fighter and an attack plane gave me a lot of options. So, while CAG was handling the interceptor and air superiority roles, Pepe and I were trying exactly the same scenario you suggested, ah, Sir." He had almost slipped and called his father Dad. But, here and now it wasn't father and son, it was admiral and commander.

"You see, Sir, we just couldn't work out the timing side of it. Every time we tested our ability to react in close quarters in a heavy missile environment, things went to hell. So, we also turned it inside out.

"Depending upon the size of the Cow Herd, we'll be able to keep both T-2 squadrons up as high cover. That'll knock back the Blinder and Blackjack threat. We should be able to damage them before they launch anything at us. Afterwards, it'll be up to the Missile Boss.

"I'll be able to launch both my squadrons loaded with HARMs and Wildcat anti-ship missiles. Each plane can carry four of each plus two AAMRAMS and two Sidewinders. We decided on the Wildcat, because it's the quickest thing we've got. It'd hurt a destroyer, but it'd take multiples to sink one of them. At the same time, it's a sure kill on one of the small missile boats, which are what we see as the real threat anyway. Our job will be to maim and cripple. Then, we go to pure fighter operations and cover Pepe's Tequilas. All together, my squadrons will be able to expend sixty-eight HARMs and the same number of Wildcats. It should be enough to stop 'em cold.

"I can have my full complement of seventeen fighters up during the most critical period without extra tanker support. Is that right, Wrangler?"

"Right, DJ," Billy Joe Joiner responded. "We can rotate the four Cows keeping three upstairs most of the time. If we're all careful and nobody plays any afterburner games, we'll be all right.

"My concern," Wrangler continued, "and that of all the air commanders, is that if anything exciting happens we won't be able to keep them up there. For instance, if only the Tomcats become engaged, we'd need all four Holsteins to refuel them for another cycle. Or, we could give half loads to the Hornets and T-2s to get them home again. But, that's it. If you're talking about a running fight down the Straits, Cow Boss has to refit four of Connie's Vikes. That'll only leave him with only six in the ASW role."

"I can do it on six," Connie cut in, "but I'll have to rotate two each time around, so I can only keep four in the air. I could do more with more tankers, but then I wouldn't have the Vikes for my ASW missions, and it wouldn't matter. So, it's the best compromise we could come up with. I can have four Vikes to Cow Boss this afternoon."

CAG turned to Pepe Gonzalez. "What about your people?"

Gonzalez twirled an imaginary mustache and, in his worst Mexican accent, said, "Weel be ready for doze gringos!" Having gotten his laugh, he continued, "We'll launch the Avengers with full loads late in the program. Bull and his escorts will go off early, as will Wrangler's Cows and Ersatz Cows. We'll follow DJ, swing up north and hide.

"Our mission will be anti-ship, and we'll be working it alone. The Hornets will be able to give us low cover, while the T-2s are playing up high. With our stealth, though, it's better not to alert them with electronic noise.

"Internally, we'll all have four one-thousand pound laser guided bombs. Externally, we'll mount HARMs for defense suppression and Air Lance anti-ship missiles. We'll use the Air Lance because it's heavier. One will kill a destroyer, and there'd be nothing left of one of those little things. The idea is that we'll be hitting the big stuff with the big stuff, knocking out their fire control stuff whenever required. If we have to, we'll use the Lances on the missile boats. Those boats may be quick, but they're fragile so it won't take much for at least a mission kill."

CAG turned back to the admiral. "Sir, I think that's it. What we're suggesting, Sir, is a reversal of standard tactics. According to our computers, it should work. And, the extra hundred or so missiles from the Italians are just what we needed."

"Yes, you're right, CAG," Gene Halbertson interjected. "We were on the edge, I thought, with just two full-time anti-air vessels. Pulling Carson out as Screen Commander hurt our missilery, but with the Italians aboard we're way ahead. All we've got to do is coordinate with them to set up our frequencies, fire patterns, control and that kind of stuff."

"OK, Officers," the admiral concluded, "I think we've got the basics hammered out. Go forth and make your computers work! Ah, DJ? Could you hang around a minute?"

After the others had left, DJ and JT had a nice father-son get together. They even used "company time" and some very expensive, exotic, Naval hardware and software to call home. Fifteen minutes later, father and son became Admiral and Commander, once again, and moved off into their separate spheres within the carrier.

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?

4 Victory and Defeat

4.2 Tunisia

4.2.1 The Twist

Ahab Dingjatha had spent his entire life plotting and scheming. He saw the problem with the plan the moment young Gamel Hassan presented it to the Council of The Faithful. The plan was far too straightforward. There was no trickery, no subtlety and no distractions. It just pitted power against power in a head-to-head contest. Even in his amateurish way, he could see that the American fleet was both very large and very capable. Who would win in this struggle of strength vs. strength? Only Allah could tell. But, with a little distraction here and a little trickery there, Dingjatha knew he could change the odds slightly in their favor, which could mean the difference between success and failure.

Dingjatha made a few hurried VisiPhone calls. He found the perfect ship at Porto Farina. It was ancient, with only its rust holding it together, but it floated and could make headway. For the other actor on his little stage, he needed something big. It took several hours to find what he wanted. The Libyans had a 360,000-ton tanker ready to sail from Banghazi, and they were willing to let it play its part. He outlined his plan, and the Libyans admired its cunning. He needed to make only one more call.

The picture of General Yusuf Kamsanni sprang onto his screen. "Yes, Minister. How can I be of service?".

It took only ten minutes for Dingjatha to outline his plan. As Dingjatha expected, the general was pleased. "Excellent, Minister! The Americans have just declared an exclusion zone. With your plan, we will be able to disguise our attack as an errand of mercy. Allah be praised!"

4.2.2 Ar Cabril Sails

The master of the coastal freighter Ar-Cabril protested loudly, "You cannot steal my ship. It is all I have!"

The answer was stern. "You have been paid twice its worth. Get off this ship, or be shot!"

Ar-Cabril's Master and owner reconsidered. He had indeed been paid, and far more than twice its value. Perhaps, he would retire and open a small shop in the Bazaar. He carefully stuffed his money into his turban and quietly walked to the quay.

The secret police laughed at the old man. They had paid him in counterfeit money, but nobody would ever know the difference.

It took them half an hour to get the recalcitrant double-lunger diesel to fire. Four hours later, they had the Ar-Cabril nestled snugly in the lee of Kelibia. They dropped anchor, but dared not shut down the engine for fear it would never start again. They pulled out the radio they had brought with them and connected it to the rusty aerial. It only took twenty seconds to inform the Minister that they were in position.

At the same time as the Ar Cabril was setting out from Sousse, the Gulf of Hammamet was sailing from Banghazi. It took three tugs to push the behemoth away from the oil bunkers from which she had been thirstily drinking all day. Her lead-red plimsoll line washed against the oil-slicked surface of the anchorage. She slowly gathered headway on a northwesterly course that would take her east of Malta and on towards Syracuse. At her rate of speed, she would arrive in a day and a half.

Beneath her, as she strove to gain momentum, two gray shadows dove beneath her bulk. But, unlike the whales and porpoises that frolicked in the warm sea, these cold creatures did not surface or play in her bow wave.

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?

4 Victory and Defeat

4.3 Saudi Arabia

4.3.1 Defense at Jubayl

The Twelfth Light Division had hustled for four days. Hustled in the army sense anyway. They had packed everything that they could carry on their backs and waddled as best they could onto C-5s, C-17s and anything else that could make the trip one-third of the way around the world. Then they sat, slept and tried not to think for over twenty hours. After an eternity of sitting, they packed up again and waddled into the heat and stench of the Middle East. They were bundled into trucks and delivered to their depots where they "mated" with their pre-positioned equipment. With that accomplished they were supposed to be a division. Regardless, they remained "Light" even with all their goodies.

There were big differences between "Light" and "Regular" infantry divisions. Typically a company of a Light Division had no tanks, no howitzers, and no armored fighting vehicles. They had trucks and perhaps a few tired, old M-113s to get them to where they were going. In a light division, heavy weapons were 81-mm mortars, shoulder-mounted rotary automatic weapons, shoulder-mounted rocket launchers and shoulder-mounted anti-aircraft missiles. In fact, Light Infantry was all shoulders and foxholes.

Of course, they did have some heavy equipment. Every battalion had an armored platoon with a troop of four M1A2 Abrams and four Bradley fighting vehicles to use either as the world's smallest spearhead or as a fast reaction force to head off disaster. Light battalions also had two batteries of 105-mm, self-propelled howitzers, the ancient and honorable friend of the American GI since 1940.

Twelfth Light sat on their duffs for a day and most of a night. Then, out of nowhere, orders came down. Rush here! Go there! Never mind! Dig more holes! Sooner or later somebody would tell them what they were doing here and what they were supposed to do now that they were here.

But, all of these things were imponderables to Master Gunnery Sergeant Aloisis Xavier Francis Murphy of Buffalo, New York. He'd been there before, and he'd be there again. Right now, he was enjoying a cold Coca-Cola in the bottom of his clean, dry and moderately comfortable firing pit. His ammo pack lay next to him with its flat, gray, ammo coil winding into the silvery cylinder that, at first glance, looked like a fire hose nozzle. It took a big man to carry that 60-pound load all day, and a strong one to withstand the kick of thirty 7.62-mm bullets being fired from its six-barreled snout every second. But, Gunny Murphy loved his SRAW. He always had liked something with a little kick. He loved jalapeno peppers, his feisty red-headed wife, the Buffalo Bills and a weapon that could destroy half a city block in ten seconds!

"Gunny! Gunny Murphy!"

He could hear his name being called, but he refused to answer. It was Second Lieutenant Aldrich Mohammed. Aldrich had just graduated from the Academy and was the only kid Gunny knew who was both black and green at the same time. Even worse, the kid just wouldn't listen. After twenty-two years in this man's army, Gunny had learned a thing or two, and that's why he was a platoon sergeant. At the rate this kid was going, he wasn't going to live to see twenty-two.

"Ah, deyre you is, Gunny!" A young, round, brown face stared down into the coolness of the sergeant's firing pit.

Murphy looked up at the shave-tail. "Is that how day did learn yee-all to speak up dare ad de Point? Whoo-eey, Lieutenant, you sure gots de larnin."

"OK, Gunny, shag your ass. The major wants us all at the mess tent, pronto. And, if you don't speak Spanish, that means yesterday, Sergeant."

Gunny clambered to his feet and saluted. "Yassir, boss. Eyes Cummin!" The shave-tail raced off on his rounds, because that's what second looeys did best. By the time Gunny arrived at the mess tent, everybody else was already there.

Major Richard Guys pointed at him. "Glad you could join us, Gunny. By the way, did you lose the tail I sent out to get you?"

Guys thought he had a great sense of humor. Gunny knew enough to smile, not say a word, and to sit down with the rest of Bravo Company where he belonged.

Captain Boswell Crocker greeted him quietly. "Figured you were sacked out, Gunny, so I waited 'til the last minute. By the way, where did you lose the kid?"

As he said it, Lieutenant Mohammed banged through the screen door, and stood for a moment looking around and mumbling to himself. Finally, he wandered over to Bravo. "Gee, Gunny, how'd you get here so fast?"

"I walked, kid, all the way."

"Attention!" The door banged with authority as Colonel Nathan Mordekai entered the small tent. He strode quickly to the front with a small covey of aides gathered around him. "At ease. I don't know if you heard, so I'm here to give it to you straight. The Saudi's got whipped real bad last night."

Lieutenant Mohammed leaned over Gunny's shoulder. "See, Gunny, it ain't the English that does it, it's the class!"

Gunny tried to ignore the kid, but it was a cute comment.

Mordekai pointed to a map hanging on the wall. "The Iragis and Iranis pulled off a perfect envelopment and trapped the Saudis up here at Suffaniyah. We only got wind of it minutes before the attack started. They tried like hell to pull out as much as they could, but it's bad. So, we've got an emergency operation to buy some time and hold the 'Iranaqis', while saving as many of the Saudi forces as we can. This operation is called Dunkirk, and our objective is just the same as it was in 1940.

"We've already dropped the 82nd here." He pointed to a spot near the Saudi coast some thirty klics northwest of Jubayl. "The 101st Air Assault Division is going in next. We will go like hell up this highway to reinforce them. Ninth Light will be on your asses.

"This is a reasonable defensive position. A large marsh is on the right which is impassable to heavy equipment year-round, but infantry can infiltrate it. The left is totally exposed, which is where the Screaming Eagles will be. We are hoping that their mobility and choppers will be more than match for any flankers during the course of this operation. We will be concentrated on and around the road itself.

"The road runs through a shallow declivity for about six klics. We will set up roadblocks, seize the heights and hold. We will rescue as many Saudis as we can, and stop the Iranaqis.

"It will take the Iranaqis time to bring up reinforcements, assess our strength and develop any kind of an attack. By that time we will be firmly in control of the road and this marsh. Ninth will form on our left with the paratroopers in reserve. Hundred-and-First will break off and begin operations behind enemy lines, attacking rear echelon troops, destroying supply lines and making Iranaqi lives as miserable as possible. This will draw off troops from attacks against us and reduce their intensity. Once we have saved all the Saudis we can, and at the appropriate tactical and strategic moment, we will withdraw towards Jubayl and ultimately, as needed, to Qatif.

"Before you march, I want you to find every piece of anything that will identify you as Americans. There could be as many as fifty thousand tired, hungry and battle-weary Saudis desperately seeking aid and comfort. If they get to your positions, they will have fought for their lives for over sixty klics. The last thing we want is for them to mistake us for the enemy. And, we want to encourage them to flee to our lines and then turn and fight. I want garrison flags strung up so that we can be clearly seen. Paint the ground in front of your positions - do anything you can think of to make it known that the Yanks are here, and that this is where they can rest.

"We'll also be broadcasting on all military frequencies, telling the survivors where we are. So, look sharp. They could come straight down the road. They could come overland along the coast. They could come in from the desert to the west. They're running, they're scared and they just fought one hell of a battle to defend their lands. Save every one of them you can. Got it? Break to your battalions and receive your orders."

The colonel and his staff huddled towards the front, while each of the three battalion commanders gathered with their company commanders, platoon leaders and their senior NCOs. It was obvious to Gunny that this was SOP. It was the same men, same trucks, same equipment in the same desert. The only good part was that he'd finally DO something.

As they walked out the door after the meeting, Gunny grabbed Lieutenant Mohammed and bodily pulled him around the corner of the tent. "Now look, kid, you may have a future in this man's army, and you may not. Either way it's up to me.

"My first job will be to keep you alive. If you're dead, kid, you ain't got a future. My second job will be to teach you what you gotta know about leading men in battle and not getting them killed. I don't have the luxury of time to do this gently, so I'm going to give it to you straight, just like the colonel.

"You're in command, but you don't know jack-squat. I've been doing this for longer than you've been. When you want to do something, ask my opinion ... something like, 'Any ideas, Gunny?'

"Don't worry about the troops. They expect officers to ask experienced non-coms. If I got something to say, it'll be a suggestion or a recommendation, like a sergeant talking to his CO.

"Then, you'll agree. It can be anything from 'Sounds good', to 'OK', I don't care and neither will anybody else. Then you give the order, like, 'Let's do it!', 'OK, what's everybody sitting around her for?' or any other way you're comfortable. All that matters is that you ask, I tell you, and you tell 'em what to do. Got it, kid?"

The lanky lieutenant looked up into the huge sergeant's white, freckled face. In his eyes, Mohammed saw great intensity, and he saw something more. He saw a man who cared deeply, who wanted to win, but also wanted to come back alive. He saw his father and knew he could trust this big, bluff sergeant. He looked up quietly, and with a mixture of dignity and humor responded, "Well, Gunny, what are we standing around here for? We got a platoon to get on the road!"

Gunny stood ramrod straight, and saluted briskly. "Yes, Sir!" The two trotted off to their platoon's bivouac. It was time to roll.

4.3.2 Flight from Al-Suffaniyah

For a day and a half, Lt. Hamal el Sayd a-Fayd lived a nightmare. Iranian artillery had rained down upon him. A building had collapsed on his captain's command vehicle, crushing it completely. Not only had he lost his commander, but also his communications with battalion. He was alone!

The bombardment lifted and there, not one hundred meters in front of him, was a column of tanks coming at high speed. "Designate! Sabot! Target! Fire!"

The first tank exploded, but the next three hurtled past it, opening fire as they rolled. Their first shot was high, and masonry fell on his cupola. The second hit squarely on his reactive armor and exploded harmlessly.

The American phrase formed in his mind, 'Time to get out of Dodge! He yelled, "All back! Turn this thing around and go! Go!" His tank backed, spun on its treads and sped away pursued by cannon fire.

He lost them, somehow, in the smoke and dust of the dying city. He drove quickly down a boulevard, and an M-113, as eager to escape the slaughter as he, fell into formation. Troops gathered to them like iron filings to a magnet.

A truck filled to overflowing with Saudi soldiers careened around the corner in front of him with a wheeled BTR in hot pursuit.

"Designate! Heat! Target! Fire!"

The BTR lurched, skidded on its four right wheels and plunged into a store-front smashing glass and sending mannequins flying.

He shot a quick burst from his 12.7 alongside the truck, pushing it over. "Go!" he shouted to his driver. The Abrams leapt to the head of the rapidly building escape column.

He rounded a corner. The streets were jammed with civilians. Most of them were on foot, running wildly. Both he and his driver saw them at the same time. The tank slammed to a halt. The sounds of squealing tires sliding on the pavement behind him told the lieutenant all he had to know about the rest of his column.

Directly in front of him was an old Saudi driving a 4-wheel drive truck, loaded with all his belongings and his family. Being a good, law-abiding citizen, the old man was obeying the 20 kilometer speed limit. He even stopped at the traffic light!

Hamal exploded in rage, and fired his machine gun next to the car. The old man never quavered! Hamal was about to do something that he'd never dreamed possible. At the next intersection, an Irani tank saved him the trouble.

As they advanced down the parallel road near the coast, the enemy gunners had kept their muzzles pointed to the right, down the long straight thoroughfares of the modern metropolis. When they saw something move, they fired. The old man and his family cooked.

"Designate! Sabot!" The big turret turned at his command. "Stop in the intersection!" It was a matter of timing. Would the Persian be able to reload in time or would the next shell find the relatively weaker side of the Abrams and cook a lieutenant and his crew? There it was! "Target! Fire!" The two cannons fired at almost the same second. But, Hamal was looking for them, and they weren't expecting him. They fired too quickly, while his sabot smashed into the side of the T-90 and an Irani lieutenant cooked instead.

His little column sped through the intersection, having grown once again. Hamal looked back and knew what the Pied Piper had experienced, except that these rats were his countrymen.

What was that? The last one in line was too squat. It had eight wheels. A BTM had joined them! "Designate! Heat!" His turret swept around through 180 degrees. His loader fell, bloodying his nose. Somehow he got the round into the chamber. His rearward facing cannon scattered his little convoy, but the BTR was too slow. "Target! Fire!" The front of the BTM lifted completely off the ground, and the whole machine landed on the pavement upside down. Another M-113 scurried around the burning Irani vehicle and joined the end of the line.

Another bend in the road. Civilians! The civvies should have been gone two days before. Instead, they were shoulder to shoulder and wheel to wheel, clogging the street. His machine gun splattered rounds over their heads. They ducked back into the shelter of the buildings, but when they saw that the tank was theirs, they rushed out towards it in greeting, hoping for salvation.

He had none. His column was running for its life and the salvation of its country. Hamal laughed at the irony. Insh'Allah was just like manana, but without the sense of urgency. 'Too bad,' he thought, 'They should have been more urgent.'

His machine gun tore up the pavement in front of the civilians, perhaps even wounding a few. It didn't matter, because they stopped. His column roared ahead.

He approached the southern edge of Suffaniyah. Beyond its streets lay only open land, a perfect killing zone extending for fifty kilometers. He'd better organize his column. "This is the leading tank. Who are you?"

A voice quavered in answer from the truck. He had no time to remember names. "You are now Truck One. Do you understand?" After some kind of a reply, he continued, "We're almost out of the town. Continue down the road at twenty, I repeat twenty kilometers per hour. If you go faster I will destroy you. Confirm!" He made sure that they understood.

"All armored vehicles in this column report in." There was no reply. "Report in or I shall assume you are the enemy and will destroy you. Designate!" His turret spun to face back down the column.

"We're the first AFV behind you, Tank One."

"We're the M-113 behind them."

When they had counted off, he had eight trucks, four M-113s and two AFVs. "AFV One form on my right as we leave the town. AFV Two, on my left. M-113 number one, you're in the lead. M-113 number two, you're behind him. All trucks follow the second M-113. M-113s number three and four, at the end of the column. Acknowledge."

It took three minutes to get it all organized and, by that time, they were into the deserted lands beyond. "Turn left here," he told his driver. He checked his column. The first truck was accelerating as fast as it was able. "Designate! Heat! Target! Fire!" The explosion rocked the truck, which veered sharply and crashed on its side.

"Truck number two," Hamal ordered, "save the survivors. Then proceed at twenty kilometers per hour or be destroyed. M-113 numbers one and two, take the lead, now!" A truck refused to move over. The lead armored personnel carrier nudged it. The truck canted up onto two wheels, careened off to the side and finally righted itself. The APC took the lead, with its machine gun facing the truck.

A Bradley pulled to his right. "Bradley one, prepare for right hand turn to parallel the column. Ready? Turn!"

"Turn right," he commanded his driver. The first AFV stuck with him like glue, but the one that should have been to his left was gone. He spun around to find that it was behind him.

"Bradley Two, why are you not where I ordered?"

"We tried, Sir, but you turned away from us too quickly. We did the best we could! Don't fire!"

His column was under control. "Bradley One, Bradley Two, we will form up on the rear of the column. Get into formation and hold position. Turrets to the rear. Bradley One, you've got the right flank. Bradley Two, you've got the left flank. I'll take anything behind us. I'll be watching. Shoot anything that doesn't look friendly."

A mass appeared off to the column's left, which was Hamal's right as he faced to the rear. A white cloud erupted from Bradley Two, and for a moment he thought that it had been hit. But no, the Bradley had fired a laser guided, anti-tank missile! The black blob blew up! His Bradleys were taking no chances.

Another truck appeared in the west, heading south and fast. It looked like one of theirs. He tried to raise it on the radio, but it wouldn't answer. "Bradley One, go get that truck. Bring him back into the column."

"But, Sir, he's not one of ours."

"He is now. Bring him in."

The AFV veered out of formation. Hamal watched it closely. The truck sped up, but the Bradley was in its element. With tracks flying and rooster-tails of sand blowing up behind, the twenty-five ton fighting vehicle closed the gap with the overloaded truck. A quick burst from the Bradley's 25-mm chain gun got their attention, and they turned to the right. Another burst, and they turned again. Hamal thought it was like watching a sheep dog at work. Finally, as the truck approached the tail of the column, the two M-113s veered in front of it, machine guns at the ready. The truck screeched to a halt. One more sheep in the fold!

Half an hour later, Hamal spotted another column of Saudi trucks. He radioed, "Get over here under our protection."

The lead truck responded immediately and headed to join them. A voice replied, "Who's in charge of this column?"

"I am. The guy in the tank!" Hamal wasn't ready to argue with anybody. If he was wrong, perhaps his father could save him. Right now, he had the power to enforce his own rules.

"This is Captain Akhmed. Identify yourself."

"Designate," he ordered. "Join my column or I will destroy you." Although the radio remained silent, the trucks obediently fell in between the M-113s

He drove on for half an hour. He had stopped shaking. His urge to retch had finally subsided. His cupola swung back and forth across his rear, as he looked for any sign of a pursuing enemy. That was how he saw the plane, low on the horizon. "Air Raid! North! Scatter and keep moving!"

Trucks and APCs raced in every direction trying to avoid the inevitable. The plane raced towards them, covering one kilometer for every meter they traveled. A white cloud passed over him heading north at high speed. The plane was blotted from the sky.

Hamal's radio came alive. "Captain Akhmed to I AM. Not all of us have lost our poise. I have three more AAMs. Thanks for your raid warning. We didn't see it until you called. Out." Akhmed's message needed no reply.

Half an hour later, a cloud of dust began to form behind them. If they were Saudis, he should slow down. If not, he should increase speed. Suddenly, his lack of experience overwhelmed him. In seconds, he had gone from a firm confident leader to a simple sheep-herder lost in a morass from which he could never escape. 'But, they are my sheep,' he reminded himself. Mastering himself, he radioed, "Tank to Captain Akhmed."

"Akhmed."

"We have company back here. Take command of the column. Proceed at twenty kilometers per hour. I will drop back with the Bradleys to investigate. If they are Saudi, you will slow the column to allow them to overtake and join us. If they are not, I will inform you. If so, they are in your hands and those of Allah. Allah is great! Out."

Hamal's Abrams and the two Bradleys pulled up behind a dune-like hill to the west of the road to wait. Hamal's driver asked, "Sir, if we're stopping here, would it be a good time to refuel?"

Hamal almost wet himself! He had gone through a battle with two 100-liter "Jerry cans" of petrol attached to the sides of his tank. One shot would have been all it would have taken. "Do it," he answered, "and, if we have enough, refuel the Bradleys, too. We'll be here for a while."

Five minutes later, the distant vehicles were just dots wavering in the heat waves, even in Hamal's 7x35 binoculars. He waited. Five minutes later, the dots were clearly identifiable as tanks. Five minutes later, he knew recognized the tanks. They were T-90s, definitely not Saudi.

Yet, on both the eastern and western horizon there were other smaller dust plumes. Were they all enemies, or were one or both of the flanking columns Saudi? There was no way to know. "Bradley One, investigate dust cloud west of our position. Bradley Two, check the one east of us. Hurry! The column coming down the road is enemy. Call in. I will cover you as long as I can. Allah be with you!"

As his two consorts rolled away over the sands, Hamal felt as alone as he had ever felt in his life. He had to keep busy, and his training came to the forefront. "Designate," he ordered, and his turret swung slightly and the cannon elevated to its maximum. "Range?"

"Out of range, Sir."

"Range, damn it!"

"Seven-triple-Oh"

Seven thousand meters. At twenty-thousand meters per hour, they'd be here in twenty minutes. But, they were traveling faster than that and he knew it.

"Tank One, Bradley Two. They're Saudis. Request orders."

"Do they have any tanks or Bradleys?"

"Negative. Twenty-five trucks, eighteen APCs. Zero Tanks, zero Bradleys."

"Direct them to the road, and rejoin at my position. Enemy will arrive in one-zero minutes. We'll have to slow them down or they'll overtake the column!"

"Yes, Sir. Will rejoin in five minutes. Out."

A few seconds later, Hamal received similar call from his other sheep dog. This escaping Saudi column was huge: over a hundred trucks that had escaped from An-Naqirah. There were no tanks and only one Bradley. And, that Bradley wouldn't come east. Hamal thought about it for a second. "Return to formation, Bradley One. We can't do anything about him right now, but if we live through this, I'll roast him slowly over a hot fire."

"Yes, Sir. Returning to formation."

The Bradleys were back before the head of the column had closed to three thousand meters. He radioed, "Pick your targets. I will clear you to fire on a target. You do not, repeat, do not have weapons free." It'd be several minutes before his cannon could be brought to bear.

"Bradley One, here. I have the lead tank locked up. Ready to fire."

"Shoot!"

The missile's tiny brain came to life as the rocket engines ignited. The 20-G acceleration would have crushed bone and muscle into a sticky bloody mass, but the electrons never felt their change in velocity. The ultra-small-scale electronic device only knew one thing. A spot of light was out there. Regardless of anything else, it was to direct its entire short existence into following that light. It wasn't like the religious fervor of the pilgrim or the passion of the obsessed. Light was the only thing it knew. The missile had one and only one goal in life. Wherever that light was, it was to follow.

Hamal watched in breathless anticipation. The missile seemed to jump up at first. Then, it dropped so precipitously that it seemed to be crashing into the desert. Then, it flew on. The enemy tank veered rapidly to the left, but the missile tracked it. The tank jogged back to the right and then zigged to the left, but still the missile unerringly sought it out. Then, just as it seemed it would miss, flying high over its target and on until its motors failed, the missile blew down. The anti-tank weapon had deliberately flown above its target where its shaped charge could destroy the tank from its most vulnerable position, the top.

The enemy column stopped, turned and retreated!

Hamal's mind screamed, Retreat! He grabbed his microphone. "Bradley One, Bradley Two, follow me! We're going south!" His Abrams backed, spun and accelerated with its companions close on its heels. In two minutes, they were back on the road, racing southward at 60 kilometers per hour.

He had traveled at that speed for ten minutes before he saw the dust on the horizon. It took another ten minutes before he closed on the column. "Captain Akhmed, well done. You are relieved of your burdens. I will take command. Tank out."

"Who is this?" a new voice appeared on the network.

"This is the guy in the tank. Identify yourself."

"This is Major Summan. Identify yourself and report to me."

"Major, this is the guy in the tank. I am the shepherd of this flock. I have returned with my sheep dogs after destroying the big, bad wolf who would have eaten you alive. This is my flock. I will bring it back to the fold, or die in the attempt. Allah be praised!"

"I'll have you court-martialed, tanker! My vehicle will be dropping out and returning to your position."

"If you get out of line, my sheep dogs will shoot you. If you persist, I shall blow you to Paradise. Are you ready to meet Allah today, Major?"

Not a vehicle strayed, nor even hesitated. Like sheep, they kept to the path. Like sheep, if one veered each in its turn veered in the same manner.

"Tank, M-113 number one. Road junction ahead. No sign of movement. Orders?"

The major's radio blurted in, "Go south to Jubayl!"

"Repeat, Tank, repeat."

The major shouted again, "Go south, fool! Follow your orders!"

Hamal radioed, "M-113 Number One, go left. Go south towards Jubayl. Accelerate and hold at thirty kilometers per hour. Acknowledge."

"Acknowledged tank. South, Jubayl, thirty."

"Major," Hamal radioed, "if you ever pull a stunt like that again, I will have you dragged from your vehicle and shot! Acknowledge!"

The silence would have filled a tomb.

4.3.3 Sanctuary

Hamal pushed them steadily into the afternoon. The sun baked his steel monster, but he dared not open the hatches. It was hotter still outside, and the dust was almost impenetrable. Better the comfort of this discomfort.

This time, Hamal didn't see it first. The commander of Bradley One saw it. "Tank, Bradley One. Dust behind us and to the west. It seems to be one huge cloud."

Hamal didn't have to check his maps. The cloud was coming from the northwest, from An-Naqirah. Something that big could only be the enemy. Too many ... far too many for one tank and two AFVs, but his column contained over two hundred other vehicles. Perhaps as many as one thousand lives depended upon him. He estimated that they were only thirty kilometers from Jubayl. At their speed, that was less than an hour away. If he could buy them just fifteen minutes, they'd be safe in Jubayl, however safe that was. At least, he could give them a chance.

"Major, respond."

"Tank, this is Major Summan."

"Major, this is Tank. We have company to the rear. The shepherd and his sheep dogs will drop back to see what dangers the flock might be facing. If they are ours, I will call you on the radio. You will then slow to fifteen kilometers to allow our brothers to overtake us. If they are not, I will inform you. You may take such actions as you see fit at that time, but not before. Acknowledge." The radio was silent.

"Captain Akhmed, this is Tank. Come in."

"Akhmed here."

"Captain Akhmed, did you hear my communication with Major Summan?"

"Indeed, I did Tank. He did not respond."

"That is true. Therefore, you are in command of this column. Acknowledge my instructions."

"Yes, Sir. Maintain speed until you report. If enemy is sighted, make best speed for Jubayl. If elements to the rear are Saudi, slow to fifteen and allow them to overtake. Orders acknowledged."

"Confirmation of orders, Akhmed. If that major interferes, arrest him and put him under guard."

The tank and the AFV's dropped back, looking for a place to hide. The best places seemed to be in the east, closer to the sea. They climbed a small bluff and eased over the crest. Slowly, the three units turned and again approached the edge. They stopped as if on queue as their command turrets gained a view of the terrain below them. Once again, the long wait began.

This time the wait was not as bad because Hamal knew what to expect. At the same time it was far worse. Earlier, he had waited for a single cloud and a single column. It had also taken only a single missile killing a single tank to throw the enemy into disarray. This thing was huge, like a desert storm boiling up and throwing the dust of centuries into the stratosphere.

Hamal measured the dust cloud approaching them. It seemed to increase its angle, and, from his basic geometry, he calculated a battle front of over twenty kilometers! Twenty kilometers were filled with tanks, BTMs, BTRs and all the other equipment of a modern army. He faced the approaching front with just three vehicles covering a front of less than twenty meters. "Insh'Allah," he laughed, "but without the sense of urgency!"

Five minutes later the mirages danced and jittered just over the horizon. The atmosphere enlarged and magnified their shapes, but distorted them at the same time. His 7x35s helped. There was no doubt as to their identity. They were Russian tanks, hundreds of them as far as the eye could see.

"Captain Akhmed, this is Tank." Hamal had to repeat his call before the weak signal came back to him.

"Tank, this is Akhmed. Repeat message."

"Akhmed! Enemy! Go to Jubayl!"

"Acknowledged, Tank. Allah be with you!"

'Yes, may Allah be with us. '

The mirages flickered and disappeared only to be replaced with the dark shapes of reality. "Spread out," he ordered his sheep dogs, "We don't want to go to Paradise together in the same explosion."

Slowly the Bradleys moved off a hundred meters in either direction. Missile launchers extended from their turrets, and their range finders pointed forward like the ears of dogs listening to a distant sound. Five minutes passed, and the enemy tanks approached to six thousand meters.

"Tank, Bradley Two. Enemy lead tank at extreme range. Permission to fire?"

"Negative. Wait until you can be sure of a killing blow."

Three minutes later, Bradley One called. The voice quavered slightly, but it was filled with resolve. Hamal gave permission to fire and a gray cloud accelerated towards their enemies. Bradley Two called in with a target, and another missile erupted on its single-minded errand of death. Another was fired from Bradley One and one from Bradley Two. Four kills burned in the desert, but the brown wave of dust swept down on them. Two more missiles and two more kills. Bradley One was out of missiles and Two had only one left. The range was down to three thousand meters.

"Designate! Heat! Target! Fire!" Twenty nine hundred meters. "Designate! Heat! Target! Fire!" Twenty-eight hundred meters. How many times did he say it? He lost count. He ran out of HEAT rounds, but the range was shorter so he could switch to sabots. Tanks burned, BTMs died and BTRs were crushed. But, still they came on.

Both Bradleys opened up with their chain guns. They couldn't do anything against tanks, but the more lightly armored BTMs and BTRs took a terrible pasting. He opened up with his own 12.7-mm, but it was like throwing rocks into the sea.

The enemy closed on his tiny group. Bradley One spouted smoke! The four crewmen clambered out. Three of them struggled to put out the fire that engulfed their companion.

Hamal's tank lurched to one side as a thunderclap echoed within the turret. He was deafened, and blood ran from his nose and ears. But, his doubly reactive armor had done its job. "Target! Tank! Sabot! Fire!" The T-90 or was it a T-92....? The question seemed very important, and his mind refused to surrender any of its capacities until the issue had been resolved.

Flashes appeared all around him. Tanks and armored vehicles exploded all about as though the very hand of Allah had reached down into this tiny spot on this little world just to save him. His radio hammered in his ears. "Saudi tank! Saudi tank! Get the hell out of there!" His mind cleared. Only Americans swore like that!

"Move your ass, Saudi tank! Move due south. American lines are ten klics due south."

More explosions rent the land around him, and he needed no more encouragement. He popped the top of his cupola, and yelled down to his four men, "Jump up here and hold on!" He slammed the hatch, "Bradley Two, follow me. Due south. The Americans are here!"

His tank bucked off through the dunes followed closely by the remaining Bradley. They clawed their way back to the road, and raced southward on its smooth surface at over sixty kilometers per hour. Overhead, Hamal could see fast moving shapes going northward. Every once in a while, he spotted the ungainly shape of a tank killer low to the ground.

"Saudi tank, Saudi tank, better slow down a little. You're almost on friendly ground. Good luck, fella. Tank Buster, out."

He came over a small hill, and there before him on a rise of land was the largest American flag he'd ever seen. Tears welled up in his eyes. The Yanks are here!

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?

4 Victory and Defeat

4.4 America

4.4.1 Audience

Lieutenant General Sidney Fox sat impatiently in the palatial headquarters of the Royal Saudi Armed Forces as General Algarro discussed trivialities with Saudi Chief of Staff Mahumaddi el Sayd a-Fayd. Fox had never been to the Middle East before. He knew nothing about the Saudi High Command, Saudi culture or their people. He felt out of his depth and was anxious for this meeting to end so that he could get to work.

One of the important lessons learned in Desert Storm was the need for a unified air command. The United States Air Force was beginning to arrive in large numbers. By the end of the buildup, it would have more aircraft and personnel in Saudi than all other participants combined. So, the Air Boss would necessarily be an American, and Sidney Fox was the best America had to offer.

Yet, there were other considerations. First and foremost, this was Saudi Arabia. They had certain ways of doing things. They put a lot of stock in personality, protocol and etiquette. They wanted to be assured that they could get along with their American counterparts before they relinquished control of their entire Air Force to a foreigner. They needed to make sure that everyone could work together to accomplish the mission. That was why Algarro had dragged Fox to the Saudi Headquarters to personally introduce him to the Chief of Staff.

Finally, after several minutes of small talk, Algarro and a-Fayd got down to business. Fox launched into his plans for unifying the command functions, mission multipliers and strike packages. The Saudi Chief of Staff was very warm and friendly, but he seemed distracted and unable to concentrate on Fox's presentation.

Then, the Saudi chief stiffened. He sat forward, both feet firmly on the floor, and he appeared to be about to stand. Both Americans looked around and saw two old men, dressed in long white and gold robes, enter from behind a curtain. The Americans stood at the same time as General a-Fayd, as much by simple courtesy as by the actions of their Saudi host.

The older of the two men waved his hands indicating that they should be seated, while the second man stepped around him and said, "Gentlemen, please sit. We will refresh ourselves while we talk."

The older man took a seat on a couch opposite General Fox, while the second man sat next to him. Several servants appeared carrying small tables which were placed on the right hand side of each of the general's chairs. The second man spoke again, "I believe you call it lemonade. Americans, I am told have a passion for the squeezed citrus. We prefer apple juice."

"Yes, Sir!" Algarro replied enthusiastically. "We Americans like the juice from the lemon, lime, orange and all the other citrus fruits, but we eat our apples. I have noticed that in your country, you enjoy the juice of the apple and eat the citrus. We are so similar. We enjoy all the same things. We just enjoy them differently. By sharing, we learn to enjoy each other's ways and traditions."

The two older men sat quietly for a moment. Then, the first leaned to the second and whispered in his ear.

This brief space of time gave Algarro a second to glance again at the Saudi chief. General a-Fayd was sitting on the edge of his chair. His back was ramrod straight, his arms were held stiffly at his side as though he were at attention! The two Americans glanced at each other with a look of wonderment.

The second man continued, "We would like to know more about the military situation facing our kingdom."

The Chief of Staff began his report. It was brief, but he left out none of the disasters that had overtaken them.

Once again, the first man spoke into the second man's ear. The second man turned to General Algarro, and his black eyes bored into the American's soul as though searching out the truth. "We have met with disaster. What have our American friends done with their mighty divisions," he looked purposefully at Fox, "and with their splendid Air Force?" His tone was friendly, but his meaning was clear.

Algarro knew he had to answer. He was no diplomat. Yet, these old men were obviously high Saudi officials. Gator decided to employ all of his diplomatic skills, instantly. "Yes, Sir, you're right. We got caught flat-footed. That's an old American boxing term. Our plan was to send the Ninth and Twelfth Light Divisions to your defensive lines today. Our enemies got there before we could. We're trying everything we know how to do in order to save as many of His Majesty's forces as we can.

"You see, Sir, the problem is the composition of our forces. Our four divisions are what we call Light. They are highly mobile, because we can put them on airplanes with just the packs on their backs and fly them anywhere in the world. At the same time, they are plain foot-soldiers.

"We have about forty thousand troops in your kingdom right now. That's about the same number of troops as in your five brigades. But, you have more tanks, armored vehicles and artillery in one of your brigades than we have in a whole light division.

"Our plan was to integrate our two forces. The Royal Saudi Army would supply the punch, while we supplied the man-power. We had just finished our integration plans and were about to move our troops north when this latest offensive started. So, we've thrown together a new plan and have already implemented it.

"We have sent all four of our light divisions to a spot about thirty kilometers northwest of Jubayl and have set up a defensive line. We chose that place for two reasons, Sir. The first reason was that this was as far north as we could go in a reasonable time and still be able to create a barrier against the invaders. The second reason is one of supply. If we went further at this time, we'd be caught in the same trap, and none of us felt that having dead Americans lying next to dead Saudis would save the kingdom.

"It is our hope, Sir, to accomplish two things. First, we hope that the barrier we have created will be strong enough to hold the invaders for a while. We are also hoping that a large proportion of the Royal Saudi Army has been able to escape the trap and will be heading south. Our defensive lines will provide a place for them to find sanctuary, give them the time to reorganize, and then to turn defending against this unwarranted invasion of His Majesty's Kingdom.

"I should add, Sir, that it is unlikely that we will be able to hold this position for more than a day or two. The forces arrayed against us are too strong, and we are too weak. At the same time, we are intent upon hurting them as much as we can. Our Air Forces are now arriving in sufficient numbers that we have started offensive operations. Our One Hundred and First Air Mobile Division is presently being deployed against their flank and rear echelon units. Our Eighty-Second Airborne Division is being deployed as reserves for our forward units. I hope, Sir, that you see what we are doing and the reasons behind it."

The two older men conferred for a moment. They stood, and the three general officers leapt to their feet. The second man spoke quietly, addressing them all, "We can see that this is the will of Allah, and that you are doing the best you can do. We have supreme confidence in you and will provide any services we can to aid you. There is no god but Allah, and Mohammed is His Prophet." With that, they slipped quietly from the room.

"Gentlemen," the Chief of Staff resumed a more comfortable slouch in his chair, "we have been honored. Our plan has been approved, and, essentially, we have carte blanche. Every resource of the kingdom will be supplied to us for the duration of this unpleasantness."

4.4.2 Hogs in the Sky

Colonel Jason Henry "Harley" Powell led the first flight of Warthogs off the tarmac of Hufuf's military airport. He loved this old plane. It was just like his "hog" back home. They'd tried to sink the old Harley-Davidson company, but had failed. The "hog" was an American institution. It was big, fast, comfortable, and virtually indestructible -- just like his A-10K Warthog.

The Air Force had tried for decades to get rid of the A-10s. They were too slow. They were ugly as sin. They were lousy dogfighters. But, when it came to killing tanks they were the modern equivalent of the Russian Sturmovicks of World War II fame. Rather than replace the old Hogs, they just kept making new and improved ones. However, the Hogs never really changed. A guy who had flown one thirty years ago could jump in and fly a mission with virtually no training.

The biggest changes that had occurred were in the Hog's electronics. In the old days, Hogs had been limited to day-time flying. Then, in the Desert Storm campaign, some enterprising pilots had the idea to use their Maverick missile's TV camera as an ad hoc night-vision sensor. After that, it was just a matter of time before they started adding the real thing. First, came the built-in TV with low-light optics. Then, they added a Forward Looking Infra-Red assembly and a small radar. Ultimately, Hogs became all-weather, day/night tank busters.

The heart and soul of the plane was unchanged. They had kept the Hog's big 30-mm rotary cannon, firing coke-bottle sized, depleted uranium shells at a rate 4,200 rounds per minute. They had kept the simple design that was easy to maintain in the field. And, they had kept the big titanium bucket surrounding the pilot which protected him from shrapnel. Best of all, they had kept the Hog's superb handling. The Hog was just like a "hog" back home. It was big and stable at all times. It was sweet to fly, and it was death to tanks.

This was his first mission in Saudi, and all sixteen of his "Tank Busters" were up and ready. Each of them was armed with eight "Wild Child" anti-tank missiles as well as 1,174 rounds of 30 Mike-Mike. "Bring on the tanks!" was his motto.

He saw the Lockheed F-22s climbing out to take top cover over his Hogs. He felt warm and comfortable seeing them overhead. His Hog did its job superbly, but he'd get eaten alive without fighter protection. He could ask for nothing better than those fast, sneaky, maneuverable and heavily-armed Lightnings to protect his ass when he was down in the dirt.

Besides that, this mission could be fun for everyone. Iranaqi radar would pick up Hogs easily. They'd send in their fighters to drive off his Tank Busters, but they'd never see the Lightnings. When the bad guys came to jump his A-10s, the Lightnings would jump them. The Iranaqis would go to Paradise still wondering what hit them. It'd be great!

He looked back at his formation. Four diamonds each of four Hogs raced northeast towards the port city of Qatif. Well, perhaps "raced" was too strong a word. At full throttle, his two high-bypass turbofans could push him to just about four hundred and fifty, while the F-22's "super-cruised" at twice that speed and could fly nearly at Mach-three. So, "trundle" might be a better a better word. His lower speed did have some advantages. He could see more of the country, if there was anything to see other than the world's largest sand-box. He laughed as he considered it. This would be a cat's ultimate dream!

Harley's squadron "trundled" along at three-fifty for about half an hour before the blue of the Persian Gulf appeared on the horizon. The cities of Khubal, Dhahran and Qatif floated by off his right wing. Sure enough, just as they'd said in the briefing, a big road headed northwest out of the town and into the desert.

Harley blinked his landing lights and started a slow bank to the left. Fifteen minutes later, he passed the American lines about ten miles to the east. He spotted a long column of trucks heading south on the road only ten miles or so from the Americans. There were no tanks and only a couple of beat up old APCs. No targets for his guys.

The time came for his first big tactical decision. The higher his squadron flew, the further their small radars could see. This would give them the best chance of detecting enemy tank formations. But, the higher they went the easier it would be for the enemy to see them on their own radars. In spite of the comforting feeling of being escorted by the world's premier fighter, Harley considered that having a real fighter loaded with heat seekers on his six was an unpleasant idea. He blinked his lights once more and his squadron descended to five-thousand feet.

"Tank Buster One to all Tank Busters, assume hunter formation. Good hunting."

His four flights diverged from one another. One flew east and spread out into a "four-fingers" formation. Two flights flew west. His own flight of four spread out into a loose formation with a mile or so between them. Minutes later, each of them could see a giant dust cloud to the north, and their adrenaline levels began to increase.

The first call came from the flight to the extreme west. "Tank Buster One, Tank Buster Four. Many targets! We are engaging!"

Just seconds later, he saw an awe-inspiring scene. Tanks, AFVs, armored cars and trucks covered the earth from horizon to horizon. They were racing southward, hell bent for leather. It was up to him and his Tank Busters to slow them down.

"Tank Buster One, to Flight One. Enemy in sight. Let's kill some tanks!"

He accelerated and dropped to one-thousand feet. Each of the three Hogs in his flight mimicked his actions. He tested his Wild-Child missiles and received eight positives. His cannon read armed and ready. His FLIR and TV were operating.

Harley lined up his first tank and pressed the detent on his stick. Beneath it was his firing button. He punched the button, and a Wild-Child fell off his right wing. Its TV and IR sensors were tied into his. Two seconds later, it had established its own lock and cut off the command prompts from his A-10's targeting systems. It knew its target.

Harley pulled back on his stick hard and kicked the right pedal. There was no sense in giving their gunners an easy target. His Hog zoomed up, banked right, and leveled out again five-hundred feet off the dirt, spewing chaff and flairs behind him to ward off enemy SAMs.

That was when he saw the mini-battle. One damned Saudi Abrams and two Bradley AFVs were firing at that whole friggin' army. Missiles were popping from the Bradleys, and the big tank was firing as though they stood some kind of a chance against those odds.

He banked hard and blasted one T-90 tank with his cannon and a second with a Wild-Child. One of the Bradleys got hit! He called to his flight, "Tank Buster One to Flight One, I need a little help over here. We've got some crazy Saudi bastard trying to win the war all by himself." His flight turned quickly to follow their leader.

Talk about a target-rich environment! The crazy Saudi had attracted twenty or thirty tanks to his position, along with a whole bunch of fighting vehicles. They were closing in on three sides. Harley lined up another missile shot on a tank, and then popped an AFV with his cannon. He was having a ball!

He turned again and spotted a big sucker tank sneaking up on the Saudi. He kicked the rudder and snapped of a quick shot with his cannon, but he could see that it was too late. The enemy tank had already fired, and a big puff of smoke and flame had erupted from the Abrams. But, that didn't stop his 30-mm shells from descending on the top of the T-90 and blowing it to hell!

He spun up and back, looking to see if anyone was alive. The Abrams was OK! It was still firing. The fury of the Warthogs' attack had opened up a small gap. If that son-of-a-bitch sped away right now, he just might escape to shoot another day.

"Saudi tank! Saudi tank!" he radioed, "Get the hell out of there!" "Move your ass, Saudi tank. Move due south. American lines are ten klics due south!" He swooped on another tank and expended a Wild Child.

Slam! His whole plane lurched like a drunken sailor on a 48-hour leave. His right wing dropped, and he could feel the lift slipping off of it. He yanked the stick and put his left foot to the fire wall. The wing reluctantly leveled. "Tank Buster One to Tank Busters, I've been hit! Heading south! Tank Buster Two, bring 'em home alive." His response was two clicks. Buster Two was real busy.

Harley fought the Hog through a long, right-hand turn. He figured it was easier to go with his Hog's new-found tendency to turn right, rather than try to turn left. Then, when he tried to pull out, he almost lost it. He pushed the trim button as hard as it would go, and it helped somewhat. It was only with full left foot and a heavy left hand that he was able to keep his Hog straight and level.

He was flying south and had aligned himself with the road when he spotted the crazy Saudi. The Abrams and the Bradley were going like bats out of hell down the boulevard. Four guys were hanging onto the speeding tank for their dear lives. The American lines just beyond them.

"Saudi tank, Saudi tank, better slow down a little. You're almost on friendly ground. Good luck, fella. Tank Buster, out." As he watched, they slowed perceptibly. Then he lost them as he flew past.

His air speed was only two-fifty. Red lights blazed on both panels, but important things seemed to be holding together. His oil pressure was OK, and his fuel usage seemed normal. He tried to look over his shoulder to assess the damage, but whatever it was, it wasn't visible to him.

By the time he arrived back at Hufuf, his leg, arm and shoulder were killing him. The plane had lost something else. The trim problem got so bad that he'd considered bailing out, but every time he had he'd pushed the thought aside. 'Don't abandon your Hog,' he reminded himself, 'If you can get it back, it'll fly again.'

"Mayday! Mayday!" he called as the approached the field. "Tank Buster One at one-two hundred feet, five miles north of Hufuf. I am declaring an emergency. Requesting priority landing."

"Roger, Tank Buster One, we have you on radar. You are cleared for emergency landing on One-Three Right. Wind at one-five from two-eight-one. Altimeter one-three-three. You are first in line."

Harley held his Hog on the line stretching straight down the middle of the long, black strip of asphalt over concrete. The slight wind from his right played havoc with his control as his air speed dropped. The wing just wouldn't stay where it belonged.

He popped his flaps to the first detent. That helped a bit. Then, he dropped his wheels, and all hell broke loose. The plane rolled and pitched, threatening to auger him into the desert. He pulled the wheels up and regained control.

"Tower, Tank Buster One. I'm going to have to bring this thing in on its belly. Instructions."

"Roger, Tank Buster, we saw that last maneuver of yours. Put her down in the sand left of One-Three Left. Acknowledge."

"Got it, Tower. I'm going for the median strip."

His A-10 fought every attempt to turn left, but Harley fought back and edged it over just far enough. The desert came up smoothly at him. He pulled the stick back just a tad, lifting the nose. his A-10 stalled slightly. Its armored belly touched earth, digging a brown swath behind it. He bounced once. Then, he settled onto the yellow-dirt rug, sliding like a kid in a water-slide. Smoothly and inexorably, Harley's wounded Hog ground to a halt.

He popped the canopy and tried to climb out, but his cramped leg and left arm simply wouldn't work. He kicked with his right foot and pried himself up with his other arm. Suddenly, four hands reached into the cockpit and grabbed him. Strong arms propelled him out of the cockpit, off the wing and onto blessed Mother Earth. He struggled to his feet and looked back at his plane.

The center section of his right wing and half the belly were missing. How the tip had stayed attached to the rest of the wing was beyond him. By all rights, he should have lost two-thirds of his wing and been forced to bail out right in the middle of the Iraqi army.

'Good old Hog,' he thought, and clambered into a HumVee waiting there to bring him back to HQ and a debriefing. 'Good old Hog!'

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?

4 Victory and Defeat

4.5 Iran

4.5.1 Hammedyanni Resurrected

"What do you mean, my son isn't available?" General Benhamin Hammedyanni yelled into the phone. "Where is he? What do you mean he's in the stockade? What fool ordered a general into a stockade? Get General Yousoufli, now!" He waited and fumed.

"General Yousoufli speaking."

"General, this is General Hammedyanni, Army Chief of Staff. Where is my son?"

"General, your son has been demoted, relieved of duty and confined in the stockade pending court-martial. Is there some other way in which I can help the Chief of Staff of the Revolutionary Guard?"

"Yes, General, you will release my son immediately and reinstate him to his former rank and duties. You will then consider yourself under arrest. You are hereby relieved of your command and ordered to report to my office as quickly as possible. Do you understand, General?"

"No, Sir, I do not understand. However, I will obey your orders. Is there any other way I can help the Chief of Staff of the Revolutionary Guard?"

"No! Wait! Yes, have my son call me within the hour."

Yousoufli turned slowly and looked around the command tent for his Sergeant Major. He caught the non-com's eye and waved him over. "Bring Hammedyanni to me."

Wearily, the general picked up the field telephone. "Colonel Rashamani? General Yousoufli. I have been relieved of my command, and General Hammedyanni has been reinstated. That is all, Colonel." He'd done what could be done. Now it was time to arrange transportation.

The Sergeant Major returned shortly with a bedraggled-looking prisoner behind him. Hammedyanni's neat, dapper, crisp appearance had completely disappeared, but his haughty, superior manner and carriage remained intact.

"General," Yousoufli addressed him, "you are hereby reinstated to your former rank and duties. I have been recalled to Teheran and in my absence you will command the division." Yousoufli stood and left the tent without any attempt at civility or even normal military courtesy.

Hammedyanni just smiled. Allah watched over the Faithful, and his father had watched over him. A division commander!

4.5.2 Pursuit

The front, if you could call it that, was a shambles. It took Hammedyanni half an hour just to determine where his regiments were. When he found that Yousoufli had brigaded four battalions into one regiment under Colonel Rashamani, he was livid with rage. He pulled at his beard when he learned that the Colonel was second in command. This was intolerable! He ordered the staff officer with the broken nose to contact Colonel Rashamani.

The radio-linked phone on his desk range minutes later. "This is Colonel Rashamani reporting, as ordered."

"Rashamani, you are hereby relieved of command. Report to my headquarters, immediately." The Colonel acknowledged and the line went dead.

This was the chance Hammedyanni had been waiting for. The enemy was on the run, and he had a division to pursue them. He contacted the CO of the old First Battalion, First Regiment. "Major, you are now a Colonel in command of First and Second Regiments. Get your staff together at field headquarters. I will meet you there."

He made one more phone callm and Third Regiment's CO was ordered to this important meeting. Three minutes later, his convoy of command vehicles was on the road through Suffaniyah to join his new command. And, the Persian advance beyond Suffaniyah stalled.

Twenty minutes later, the now properly dressed Hammedyanni strode before his two regimental commanders. Their individual intelligence officers informed the general of their position and intentions. The general was just about to harangue them, when an aide interrupted him. "Sir, Lieutenant General Afstanabul is on the phone for you."

Hammedyanni hurried to the phone. The Commanding Officer of the First Army, called The Immortals of Allah, was not to be kept waiting. "Sir, General Hammedyanni speaking."

"Where is Yousoufli, Hammedyanni?"

"He has been relieved by order of the General Staff, General. I am in command and am only now determining my course of action."

"Course of action! Where have you been Hammedyanni? We are in the middle of a battle! Form up your division, and proceed to support the Kingdom of Allah Division. We must seize the intersection between the Jubayl-Qaysumah road and the road to Suffaniyah. Your division is supposed to be supporting the rest of my army!"

"Yes, Sir. I hear and obey. May Allah's grace be with you, General."

"May Allah protect you if you fail, Hammedyanni!"

Hammedyanni returned to his regimental commanders. "Our task is to advance down the Suffaniyah road, with all possible speed in support of our army. Because Second Regiment is still disengaging from the battle in the city, Third Regiment will lead. I will join you in this pursuit. Second Regiment will regroup and join us as quickly as possible.

"This is a fluid situation, so I will have to do without planning. I will be relying upon your skills as soldiers, but I will be watching for any signs of insubordination or malefaction. Colonel, let us proceed. My command vehicles will follow your First Battalion."

Hammedyanni sat in his command BTR worrying. General Afstanabul had been most insistent on speed. Hammedyanni looked at the battle diagrams his predecessor had left scattered over the small map table. The trap was sealed, was it not? Then, to his dismay, he realized that some of the Saudis may have escaped.

Suddenly, he understood the general's emphasis on haste. His division was to swing behind the advancing Irani army and gobble up the fleeing remnants of their defeated foe. Yes! It was brilliant. And, he'd be merciless! He pushed his column hard down the deserted road in pursuit of Saudi stragglers.

"Battalion leader to General Hammedyanni. Dust on the horizon. They can't be ours, but they might be Iraqis. Request orders."

"Speed up. Overtake and destroy them."

His column leapt forward. His lead tank crested a small rise and blew up! Hammedyanni's first thought was mines. His radio burst, "We are under fire! Enemy tanks!"

He thought quickly. If the Saudis were withdrawing, it would only be logical that they would place a strong force in their rear to cover their retreat. He only had one regiment. His second, stronger regiment was still far behind him. "Retreat!" he ordered. "Reassemble in battle formation and prepared to defend our position. Wait for Second Regiment to join us."

One hour later, Second Regiment hove into view. "Second Regiment, take three battalions and form on Third Regiment's right. I will hold one battalion in reserve."

Ten minutes later they were ready, and Hammedyanni ordered the advance. Over one hundred tanks and twice as many armored vehicles thundered across the plain and along the road. Turrets whined as cannons sought targets. Missileers peered into the wavering heat waves seeking out an enemy to engage. There was nothing but sand.

"Hammedyanni, where are you?" the command radio linking him directly with Army headquarters blared.

Confidently, he picked up his transceiver and told General Afstanabul his coordinates. "We have been attacking Saudis escaping from the envelopment, General, as you ordered."

"I gave no such order, General. You are twenty kilometers out of position. You should be directly behind the Kingdom of Allah Division, supporting their attack. I have had to do the work of three division with only two, thanks to your incompetence.

"Since the only thing you seem to be capable of doing is driving up and down roads, lead your division back to Suffaniyah. You will personally report to me upon your arrival. I expect to see you in three hours. First Army, out."

Hammedyanni fumed and raged. He struck an enlisted radio operator who did not perform his task quickly enough. He railed at his driver. He yelled at the battalion commanders. He knew they were conspiring against him. How could he prove it? His father would understand, he knew. His father had spoken many times about the cunning of the military and their inability to seek out Allah's path.

4.5.3 Teheran

Ayatollah Mohammed Hammedyanni, Ayatollah Rafsanadi Rashamani and the nine other members of the Revolutionary Council listened attentively to the reports being delivered by the Chief of Staff and the chiefs of the several branches of the Revolutionary Guard of the Islamic Republic of Iran. Their war was progressing well. They had overrun Kuwait and, after a fierce battle, had trapped and annihilated the Saudi army. Yet, there was an underlying tension in the Council that almost seemed to overshadow the news from the battle front.

The Revolutionary Council was divided into two factions, each seeking total control of the country and the demise of its opponents. Ayatollah Hammedyanni controlled the faction called "The Elders", none of whom were under seventy. Ayatollah Rashamani headed the other faction, called the "Party of Allah". Of the eleven men who absolutely controlled the Iran, five were "Elders" and four were "Party of Allah". Two elderly Ayatollahs refused to demean themselves by becoming involved in politics. Yet, by not siding with one or the other faction, they played the ultimate in political games. It was they who cast the deciding votes in the Revolutionary Council.

Ayatollah Hammedyanni was the one who raised the issue. "I understand that the commanding general of the Soldiers of Allah Division has been relieved of his duty. Can you explain this to us?"

The Chief of Staff demurred and looked directly at the Army Chief of Staff. Reluctantly, General Hammedyanni began, "There was a command problem in the Soldiers of Allah Division. I have taken care of this problem."

Rashamani knew that if he let the matter rest, it would be over. The issue would have been raised in council. Unless he said something immediately, it would pass away, forever. "General Hammedyanni, you spoke of a problem and its solution. I am unaware of this problem or of the solution. Please, explain this to me."

"Ayatollah Rashamani, there was a case of insubordination and possibly even of consorting with the enemy. The general has been relieved and replaced with one of the Faithful."

"Once again, I do not understand. Are you saying that the General in command of the Soldiers of Allah Division was not one of the Faithful? If I understand this correctly, and I am not a military man, Major General Yousoufli is not only one of the Faithful, but a man of great renown. Was it not he who directed the successful attack at Mina al-Ahmadi? Was it not he who led the attack from the marshes? Was it not he who led the successful Battle of As-Suffaniyah? Would you please clarify to me and to this council the reason you dismissed this eminently successful general and replaced him with your own son, General?"

The two independent Ayatollahs looked sharply at the Army Chief of Staff.

"Yes, Ayatollah. Brigadier General Hammedyanni is second in command of the Soldiers of Allah Division. When General Yousoufli was relieved, General Hammedyanni became the temporary commanding officer of that division. He is now leading his division against the Saudis."

"Indeed, General Hammedyanni! Indeed! However, I believe that this meeting has kept you from your command post for too long. Upon your return you will find a series of messages from Lieutenant General Afstanabul. He is asking you to relieve your son from command of the division and to return Major General Yousoufli to command of the Soldiers of Allah."

Rashamani adjusted his glasses and lifted up a few sheets of paper which he feigned reading. "It would seem, if I read these messages correctly, and please, General, remember that I am not a military man, but, it would seem that your son led this division to a position which was twenty kilometers from where General Afstanabul ordered it to be.

"There is also some indication that his division was defeated and forced to withdraw to a defensive position by one, lone Saudi tank. I am sure I have not interpreted the reconnaissance photographs correctly, but I can have them brought into this meeting and let you interpret them for us. So, once again, I ask you about this problem and your solution to it?"

Hammedyanni stammered, "I have had only a few moments to review the data, Ayatollah. However, I can assure you that General Yousoufli will be returning to his command. This matter has been clarified completely."

"Ah! Excellent, General Hammedyanni. I appreciate your candor, as do we all."

The meeting of the Revolutionary Council ended some two hours later, with nothing else said about the Soldiers of Allah Division. Nothing had to be said. One hour later, Major General Yousoufli was reinstated with great rewards by the Chief of Staff. Brigadier General Tavid Hammedyanni was transferred to a liaison position with the Iraqi Ninth Army already on its way to Syria.

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?

4 Victory and Defeat

4.6 Israel

4.6.1 Mount Ammar

It had once been a mighty volcano, but it had breathed its last sulfurous breath eons before man had appeared. The winds and rains had attacked its cone of ash, withering it. Now the plains below were blessed by the volcano's fertility. Of it the only thing that remained was its heart. Hard, red granite with even harder glassy intrusions of basalt dominated the plain as it had throughout the ages. None could pass its eight-hundred meter heights without feeling its ancient majesty and dread. Mt. Ammar overlooked the valleys of Dama and of As-Suwayda, holding them in thrall.

The Syrians, who had lived in these lands for countless centuries, knew well of Mt. Ammar's commanding position. No one would be able to travel the passes leading to Damascus, if Syria controlled its summit. As they had done for millennia, the Syrians relied upon control of Mt. Ammar to defend them from their most recent invaders, the Israelis. With great effort over many years, they had hewn and blasted the volcano's core, placing within it their engines of destruction, which were but as children's toys in comparison with the fires and eruptions which had emanated from this once fearsome place. Child-like imitations or not, they were sufficient to halt the Israeli advance.

The Israelis had tried to destroy Syria's mighty eight-inch howitzers denizened in the mountain's deeps. Their bombs were as a child's hammer striking a mighty pillar of iron. They made a pretty sound and sometimes produced a spark, but they were incapable of overcoming the ancient mount of adamantine.

The basaltic heart of the volcano was rough and sharp. Its declivities were filled with boulders. It was impossible to negotiate a vehicle, not even the most powerful, upon its mighty shoulders. The machines of man were insufficient to conquer it.

Attacking it would require the most ancient of military devices, the foot soldier. The Israelis would have to clamber up its treacherous slopes, hiding behind rocks and boulders. They could advance but a meter at a time, if they were to achieve its summit and silence the embattled Syrian howitzers.

However, the Syrians knew that Israeli planes, bombs, rockets and artillery would be as trifles. Fearing only an infantry assault, Syria prepared for such a contingency by augmenting their defenses with two-thousand of their finest troops. Then, secure in the knowledge that their mountain-top artillery was their bulwark, they awaited the Israeli assault.

4.6.2 Plans for Mt. Ammar

"Gentlemen," Lt. Colonel Jacob "Jake" Hiram's voice carried over the din, "you may have noticed our little problem." A Syrian had just fired a 200-mm shell in their direction, emphasizing the colonel's irony. "If we stay here, we lose. If we can't silence or neutralize those guns, we lose. So, we have to do something about them.

"We're going to do exactly what the Syrians want us to do, up to a point. We're going to bloody our own noses deliberately and attack Mt. Ammar from three sides.

"Second Brigade will attack from the southwest through Bosor, Izra and Shaqra. Twelfth will attack from the southeast through Buraykah and Shahba. You will use your dismounted infantry in these attacks augmented by crews from your tanks and other vehicles. Your tanks and heavier equipment will provide fire support.

"You will notice that this only covers two of the three sides of which I spoke. The third side will be the top!

"In order to give our turbaned brothers the very worst scenario. We have decided to attack at night. We will begin our long range bombardment at 21:00 hours. You will advance under the cover of this bombardment to your jumping off points, dismount your infantry and let them experience the joys of rock climbing. Your night optics will give you a decided advantage.

"We are hoping that the Syrians will panic after the first hour or two, especially when they discover that we are advancing and are indeed capable of capturing the heights. We expect that by 01:00 hours, you will have accomplished this and that they will have brought all their reserves to the southern approaches to defend against our attacks from the west, south and east.

"The reason we are hoping this is that, at 01:00 hours, a battalion of special forces will be landed by helicopter at Dania. If you have been successful in your role as decoys, that battalion will reach the summit within an hour, destroy the guns with explosives, retreat back to Dania and fly away. At that time, you will receive a signal to disengage.

"After your infantry have returned to their units, you will proceed north and, once again, we will try to seize Damascus.

"Break into your battalion formations, and go over this carefully. A lot of our countrymen are going to die tonight. Let's work very hard to keep that number to a minimum."

4.6.3 Assault on Mount Ammar

David Weissman slammed the hatch on his Impala command vehicle and waited for the show to begin. His watch must have been just a tad slow, because it read 08:59 when the first shell exploded on Mt. Ammar. He leaned around to the driver and shouted, "Let's go!" His Impala bounced and ground over the rock-strewn terrain, following a long line of tanks, AFVs and APCs moving towards Bosor.

The shelling stopped. Infantry dismounted and formed into their company assault teams. Each company had three teams. Teams A and B consisted of thirteen-man platoons of regular dragoons who would lead the assault on the mountain's nearly vertical face. The C Teams were scratch platoons consisting of the twelve tank loaders, the driver and gunner from the Impala and the two SRAW teams. They would provide firepower in direct support of each company's two assault teams.

The rest of the battalion would stay behind, but their contributions would be enormous. Mortars were the only weapons that could provide fire support for the advancing troops as they climbed the heights. Missileers were needed to cover the ascending troops in case of a helicopter attack. The tanks and AFVs were to move into defensive positions to the west of the mountain to ward off any Syrian counter-attacks that might interfere with the assault.

The battalion hit the lava slopes with a yell. It was murderously steep, and men climbed the mountain as though it were a steep ladder. They pulled themselves up with their arms while testing for a foothold. Then, they pushed on again and again, measuring the mountain by their own height.

Yell, they did. After a while it was more of a gasp than a yell. Sometimes, it was more of an obscenity than fierce battle roar. But, yell and climb they did.

After a while, Dave was sure that he'd climbed Mt. Everest. Yet, when he looked back, he was surprised to see that they'd only come a hundred meters or so. He began to wonder if the yelling that his CO had emphasized was all that useful, when he heard the first crack of a bullet. It was working! The Syrians were massing to defend the mount. He stopped long enough to breathe and to shout his first command, "Advance by Teams! Open fire!"

The five A-Teams clambered upward, while the rest of the companies fired into the green-black darkness at the awakening defenders. Moments later, the A-Teams were in position and opened fire to cover for the next wave of attackers. The five B-Teams advanced up the cliff, leap-frogging their companions while the A-Teams supplied covering fire. When both of the assault teams were in position, the C-Teams advanced to the A-Teams' positions. Then the A-Teams advanced once more to repeat the process against increasingly fierce Syrian resistance.

The assault teams finally hit the main line of resistance. They knew because torrents of grenades cascaded down the mountainside. Most of them exploded harmlessly, expending their energy on the impervious old volcano. Some spalled rock splinters that flew in every direction and were as effective as shrapnel itself. A few grenades did their own damage. Shouts of "medic" began to filter in the air.

David turned and looked down the slope. He pulled out his hand-held, laser-communicator and aimed it towards where he thought his five mortar teams should be. After a little wiggling, he found the dish receiver.

"Mortars, Dave here."

"Hi, Major. Do we see shooting?"

"Yes, Mortar. Check my elevation. The Syrians are rolling grenades down on us. Shoot fifty meters above me. Fire one round for sighting."

He didn't hear the mortar's whump, but he saw the blast. It was too high. "Drop ten. Sighting shot." Another explosion, just about where he wanted it. "On target. Fire ten times for effect, moving left and right through twenty meters." The mountain above him shook with the impact of 60-mm mortar shells. "C-Teams, cover the advance on my signal. A-Teams, B-Teams, move out! C-Teams, fire!"

Mini-guns wailed and roared as hundreds of rounds of 7.62-mm ammunition burnt from their barrels. Tracers appeared like a golden stream arched high above to douse the enemy positions beneath their torrent. Under the hail of fire, one hundred and twenty dragoons clambered upwards, reaching for the line of resistance above them.

An A-Team lieutenant called, "Cease fire!", and the major repeated it. The mini-guns ceased their roar ,and, for a moment, David's ears rang. Slowly, as his hearing came back to him, he heard the sharp staccato of the dragoons' Galils.

He yelled, "C-Teams, climb," as he grabbed the rock face, slipped slightly and felt the sharp rock cut. It couldn't be helped. Foot-hold, hand-hold. Hand-hold, foot-hold. Yell. Breathe. Climb!

A hand reached out to him. It pulled him onto a landing where he could scramble to his feet. A big trooper stood grinning at him. "Worked good, Major."

David looked around. He was standing in a relatively wide flat alley that seemed to go around the mountain in each direction. It looked like some kind of firing trench. David looked back over the side. He was a long way up. He turned and looked towards the summit. He had a longer way to go. Once again, he aimed his laser back down the slope.

"Major? That you?"

"Yes, Mortar, this is Dave. We're on a flat spot up here. Looks like some kind of path or defensive position. It may go on around the hill. Inform regiment, and then get two mortar teams up here. Once they're in position, bring the rest up. Got it?"

"OK, Major. Do we need the bases?"

"Don't think so, Mortar. It's really hard up here. You'll probably be able to use these rocks to support it. You may need a grenade though for a pinion hole."

"OK, Major, we'll be able to rig something up."

They climbed and yelled with renewed vigor. It was as though they had won a great victory and were moving on, seeking another. Firing from above renewed. The C-Teams quenched it. Another cascade of grenades fell from the heights. A fusillade of mortar shells answered.

The world shrank around them. They existed in a world of rock. Within that world there was climbing and yelling. Skinned knees, lacerated ankles, bloody elbows, torn hands and more rocks existed. Firing from above, cries of "medic" and exploding grenades existed. Moving shapes also existed to torment them.

A cataract of grenades, which were also a part of this nightmare world, descended upon them. From within the waking phantasm, David heard himself call for mortar support. The reply reinforced the horror of his surreal existence.

"Major, you are out of range. New mortar positions aren't ready. Sorry!"

The nightmare renewed. A-Teams fire, B-Teams advance. Cries for medics. B-Teams advance, A-Teams fire. C-Teams fire, both teams advance. Medic! More rocks, more pain. Yell! Yell 'til your lungs burst! Fire! Climb! They're already bursting!

David's mind reeled as a new sound pulsed around him. He screamed, "What in God's name is that?" He answered his own question, "It's a chopper! What time is it? One hundred hours. They're landing at Dama. Climb A-Teams! Climb B-Teams! We must draw them off! It's our only chance!"

The nightmare world closed in around him again. He became an automaton cursed like Sisyphus to a world of endless repetition. Fire! Climb! Yell! Yell as though Hell had just swallowed you. Yell! Fire! Climb! You're in Hell now!

A hand reached out to him. "Major," the disembodied voice cried out, "we're here, Sir. We've just conquered Mt. Ammar!"

David's heart pounded and his mind reeled trying to shake off the nightmare world as he stood looking around him. He was above everything. Below him was a large, round patio with railroad tracks bending through it. He was standing directly above the Syrian rail guns buried within the mountain's summit.

He pulled out his radio. "This is Major David Weissman, First Armored Battalion, Third Armored Regiment of Second Armored Brigade of the Israeli Defense Forces. Mt. Ammar belongs to Israel."

The radio burped, "Major Weissman, that was very unprofessional. By the way, are you claiming to have conquered Mt. Ammar?"

"Yes, Sir, Colonel. I am presently standing upon its crest. My companies are investing the caverns below us as we speak, and sending large numbers of Syrians to Paradise. To the best of my knowledge, we have captured the guns intact, but that remains to be seen. As for losses, Sir, I have no idea. I will be back to you in a short time to inform you. By the way, please invite all your friends to our little party, we're planning to open a restaurant up here to take advantage of the magnificent view."

Back at headquarters, Jake Hiram and Ephraim Schwartz just looked at each other. Jake spoke first, "I think our David is in need of a little rest."

Ephraim snorted, "Aren't we all, Jake? Inform Brigade and tell those Special Forces guys to get up to the top and assist the regulars. That'll be a great goad for them."

The Iraqis would arrive tomorrow. The race to Damascus was a long way from over.

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?

4 Victory and Defeat

4.7 Saudi Arabia

4.7.1 Awards

Ten young men, in spotless dress uniforms, stood rigidly at attention. The Chief of Staff of the Royal Saudi Armed Forces, General Mahumaddi el Sayd a-Fayd, and the American Central Theater Commander stood before them. The Chief of Staff walked to the end of the line.

"For bravery in the finest tradition of the Royal Saudi Army, I present you with the Silver Crescent." He stepped forward and pinned the medal for valor on the private's tunic. He stepped back, and saluted. The young private, almost overcome with the awe of meeting the general, returned the salute. The Chief moved on to the next man.

The American following behind approached the first private. He saluted, and the dumb-founded private returned it. Then, the American seized the private's hand and shook it warmly, "Congratulations. You are a credit to all of your people, your country and your King."

Nine times the little ceremony was repeated, and the kingdom had nine new heroes. The Chief of Staff dismissed the first nine, leaving only one young lieutenant standing alone. "Lieutenant, you have been found guilty of disobeying a direct order by a superior officer and insubordination. This will appear on your service record. The following will also appear:

"For valor and bravery above and beyond the call of duty.

"Whereas, Lt. Hamal el Sayd a-Fayd, 1st Troop, 1st Company, 1st Battalion, 1st Regiment, 1st Armored Brigade of the Royal Saudi Army, while under heavy enemy fire and without communications with higher authority, did gather and protect large numbers of retreating Saudi troops, preventing, by his actions, a breakdown of authority and control.

"Whereas, Lt. Hamal el-Sayd a-Fayd did repeatedly risk his life to defend this retreating column on at least two occasions, including an attack consisting of his own tank and two other armored vehicles under his command, upon an enemy division, said attack throwing the enemy into retreat and saving the column under his protection, and including an attack by these same units under his command engaging at least five enemy divisions and, once again, achieving the escape of the aforementioned column.

"Whereas by these and other actions, Lieutenant Hamal el-Sayd a-Fayd did save from certain death over nine hundred of His Majesty's troops and very much equipment, Lieutenant Hamal el Sayd a-Fayd is awarded The King's Medal for conspicuous bravery in battle."

Both the Chief of Staff and the American general took three steps backward and seemed to be awaiting something. Quietly, almost hesitatingly, the two old men appeared and walked slowly toward the young lieutenant. Both senior generals snapped to attention, and saluted. Seeing their actions, Hamal did the same. The two old men waved their hands signifying their acceptance of the honor.

The older man approached the lieutenant, and with a sweet smile, stepped close to him to pin the medal for conspicuous gallantry on the Hamal's tunic. He seized the boy in his wizened, but still strong hands, and kissed each cheek. Then, the two old men departed just as quietly as they had arrived.

The Saudi Chief continued, "By order of the Chief of Staff, Lieutenant Hamal el Sayd a-Fayd is hereby promoted to the rank of captain with the pay and privileges accorded to that rank, effective immediately." Once again, both generals approached, one at each shoulder. Moments later, each of them had affixed the silver "Railroad Tracks" of a captain's rank on his lapels. Both stepped back and saluted.

When the new captain had returned it, General a-Fayd strode up to his son, seizing him in a bone-crushing bear hug. Kissing him on both checks, he announced, "I am so proud of you, my son."

“I have found a man who is willing to help you,” Jada whispered. “His trucks are old, but they run.”

Rahil’s heart leapt. It was the first good news she’d had since Uncle Ma’sum had told them to depart. “How big are they? What does he want in return?”

“I can not be sure. Your father will have to talk with him.” She slipped a piece of paper into Rahil’s hand. “Here is his address. Do not tell him from whom you received this. It could go badly for me if Taban found out.”

“What? Why” Rahil asked.

“My husband uses this man to travel for him. He does things for my husband, of which I should not know. Be careful of him. He is dangerous!”

Ahmed sat on the rug, facing the man who could save them ...if he was willing. He didn’t like the look of the trucker. He was slovenly and unkempt. His nose was badly bent, as though it had been broken but never properly set. A scar ran from the man’s forehead around the corner of his left eye and down his cheek. It was very old, almost blending into the man’s sunburned face. He spoke coarsely, and gave the appearance of being untrustworthy.

“So, you want me to transport something? Is that why you are here?” the trucker snarled.

“Yes. I manage a shop for my uncle. He has told me to pack it up and move it to Qatar. I need to move my family, our belongings, and the goods from the shop to Qatar as quickly as possible.”

“Hah!” the trucker laughed derisively. “You’re getting out while the getting is good, is that it? Afraid there’s going to be a war?”

“My uncle did not explain his reasoning to me. He only said that I should do this,” Ahmed replied.

“And how much is your uncle going to pay me to do this?” the trucker asked, a glint of greed in his eye.

“My uncle has not discussed this with me. I would assume that, under the circumstances, I would offer you 1000 riyals.”

“One thousand riyals? I wouldn’t even start one of my trucks for that price. The cost of petrol alone is more than that to get you to Qatar. Perhaps, I might do it for 10,000 riyals.”

“I am just a poor shop manager. From where would I obtain 10,000 riyals?”

“That’s your problem. Ten thousand or nothing.”

“Ah, it is a shame. There would have been much business we could have done...goods to be delivered, shipments to make, new equipment to be transported. It is a shame that I will have to look elsewhere. Whoever does transport my shop to Qatar will make a steady income over the years... more than enough to buy petrol. I thank you. Allah be with you.”

“Wait! Are you extending a long term proposition? Are you saying that if I transport you and your business to Qatar that I will have all your uncle’s business?”

“No, I did not say that. However, mine is the largest and most profitable shop of all of the ones my uncle owns. If you are providing transportation to my shop, then my uncle might be favorably impressed. If he were favorably impressed, he might contract with you for all his shops.”

“And, how many is ‘all’?”

“My uncle owns twelve shops in all the major cities of the Kingdom, from Mecca to Riyadh to Suffaniyah.”

“And, you can guarantee me your uncle’s business?”

“No, I can only introduce your to him and tell him of the fine service you have supplied to him. I only manage the shop. I do not own it.”

The trucker’s eyes stared at Ahmed for a moment, and then fell towards the floor. For the longest time, he sat without moving. Then, he looked up at Ahmed. “I will transport your shop and your goods to Qatar for 5000 riyals, and your word to Allah that I shall be the one and only person who you will trust to transport everything you buy or sell.”

“I can not do that. My uncle decides from whom he buys and how it shall be transported to my shop. I, however, buy locally and ship locally. I can offer you this.”

The trucker thought again for a few moments. “That plus the 5000 riyals, and I shall offer my services to you.”

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?

5 Straits of Sicily

5.1 America

5.1.1 Rendezvous

It was 09:00 hours. The Italian DDG Garibaldi and the FFGs Alfonso Donatelli and Enrico Ghiarggio had just appeared over the horizon. It took only a few minutes for the Americans to appreciate the Italian seamanship.

When they first appeared, the Italian ships were in a perfect triangular formation with the larger Garibaldi in the lead. As they approached, they quickly fell into a single file, with flags flying and their off-duty crews standing at parade on their foredecks. As the bow of the Garibaldi reached the line of the Halsey's bow, their main batteries opened fire in a seventeen-gun salute appropriate for a Vice Admiral and Commander of the Sixth Fleet. As it neared the last ship in the American fleet, the missile cruiser Bunker Hill, the Garibaldi turned sharply to port and smartly paralleled the fleet. Each of the FiGs followed in turn, and the Italian formation settled in on the Halsey's port beam, with intervals aligned to conform to the American disposition.

Everyone who watched their arrival knew how difficult these maneuvers were to perform. Old timers as well as the admiral watched the entire evolution with evident pleasure. The Italians were pros, and it would be a pleasure to serve with them.

Within minutes, helicopters lifted off from all the American escorts delivering their commanding officers and staffs to the carrier. As the American choppers left the Halsey, others flew in from the three Italian ships on similar missions.

The planning meetings started immediately and went superbly. The Italians were enthusiastic about working with such a grand fleet. When an exchange of officers was suggested, they welcomed the opportunity. It was they who suggested that their FiGs should serve in-shore, confirming the American plans.

When Captain Enrico Vespation of Garibaldi was asked to join the missile team, he leapt out of his chair with a shout of joy. The Americans grinned at each other. The Italian temperament was going to take some getting used to, but it was wonderful to see such enthusiasm.

The meeting quickly broke into their respective teams. The ASW group planned coverage zones, codes and communications between themselves and with the Vikings. At the same time, the AA group determined their command and control, hunting preserves, back-up strategies, and frequencies. Captain Vespation downloaded the secured IFF codes for all the Italian planes in southern Italy and Sicily so that an over-stressed missileer wouldn't shoot down a forty million euro aircraft. Then, the Senior Squadron Commanders joined the meetings to hammer out the Air-Sea components of the fleet's defense. Only when all the details had been discussed and the contingency plans were hashed out did the final fleet battle plan emerge.

The new plan differed from the original in two important details. The Italians had placed small, portable radars on the summit of Pantelleria and on Lampedusa in the Palagie Islands. With those in place, the fleet could receive the Italian's data to augment that coming from the Hawkeyes, Regulators, Snoopers and the ship's Aegis systems. The second change involved the new computer codes and interfaces with the Italian Air Forces recently transferred into Sicily.

When they all felt that the fleet was ready to run the Straits of Sicily, Admiral Duncan joined the meeting and began the discussion. "Officers, I see that you've squared everything away between yourselves. Are you ready?" Each CO nodded or voiced their agreement. "Are there any questions before you depart to your ships?"

Captain Vespatian hesitantly raised his hand. "Si, Admiral, we do have one question. Why is it that you will force the Straits in daylight? Would it not be better to sail through at night?"

Duncan smiled broadly. "Captain, you are the very first to ask that question. I have been waiting for somebody to ask.

"My reasoning is as follows. We're just the first of many convoys that will pass through the Straits of Sicily. The next convoy will include our PhibRon with over five thousand U.S. personnel. After that, even larger convoys are expected, which will not have an aircraft carrier battle group to protect them.

"If we sneak through, under the cover of darkness, can they do the same? If a fleet is going to be attacked, which one should it be?

"In my opinion, it is our job to ensure that these waters are open and safe for everyone to travel, regardless of flag. So, if they're going to attack somebody, let it be us. We're ready for them. We have the right composition, at the right time, and the right place with the right doctrine. If they're going to attack, we're ready for them, and we will serve notice of what happens when pirates try to violate international waters.

"On the other hand, our show of force may deter a potential aggressor, as it did at Gibraltar. It was touch and go there for a few hours. The pendulum could have swung either way, but I believe it was our show of strength and our resolve to use it that swung the balance in our favor. Now, the Straits of Gibraltar are open, and the Moroccan government has guaranteed the right of free passage.

"It is my great hope that the show of strength on the part of the government of the United States and that of Italy, together, will deter aggression. If not, we'll blow the bastards to Hell!"

The admiral's fierce expression caused the Italians to hesitate, and one of them even pushed his chair back as though he were about to be attacked. Duncan had made his point. The line in the sand had been drawn. The twenty-first century's Battle of the Alamo would begin here.

The admiral looked around. "No further questions? OK, then I've got a few things to say. If these things appear obvious, good. There may be some officers here who have not worked with an aircraft carrier under these circumstances.

"Just as in the days of sail, an aircraft carrier is a prisoner of the winds. To launch or retrieve aircraft, we must head into the wind at maximum speed. The winds are out of the northwest and blowing at twelve knots. That means that we will be swinging into the wind at irregular intervals to launch and retrieve aircraft. This will be a severe test for all of our escort vessels.

"The FiGs out front will be busy looking for those Libyan subs. The missile ships will be looking for planes, missiles and ships. I will not be worried about you. You will form the moving box within which I will operate. The FiGs are the top of the box. The missile ships are the side. Please look at this diagram."

The screen on the wall came alive. It showed five little ship-like figures, labeled 'Frigates', arranged vertically. In front of them was a big arrow pointed to the right. Along the bottom were three middle-sized and one larger ship figure. These were labeled 'Missile Ships'. Another big arrow, pointing to the right, preceded them. Within these two lines of ships was a rectangle, representing Halsey, and a serpentine dashed line representing the carrier's course.

The admiral pointed to the screen. "As you can see, the FiGs out front will maintain a steady headway through the straits. Of course, they'll be sprinting and slowing to perform sonar detection. However, they will be relying more than usual upon their choppers and the S-3s. The missile ships will maintain a course and speed conforming to that of the FiGs while keeping their anti-air barrier along the threat axis.

"Halsey will follow a path such as this." He pointed to the serpentine curve. "In general, Halsey will advance at high speed off the port side of the missile ships. Before we crash into one of your ASW screening vessels, we will make a radical turn to port through approximately one-hundred and thirty-five degrees. At that time, we will commence air operations.

"Our aircraft will be flying over your vessels at low altitude." He turned to them and shook his finger like a parent scolding a child. "Please do not shoot them down!" He smiled, enjoying his joke, but everybody in the room recognized that what he had said in jest was deadly serious.

"After completing air operations, we will again make a radical turn, this time to starboard, through one-hundred and eighty degrees. That means that we'll be headed right at your missile ships at better than thirty knots. Don't panic. This is normal operations in the US Navy. We do it all the time. We know what we're doing." He stopped and smiled once again at the commanders, and they dutifully smiled at another of the admiral's little jokes. "We will then turn through forty-five degrees to parallel the missile ships.

"Halsey's maneuvers will make your tasks extremely difficult. Our actual headway may be as little as fifteen knots, or it may be twenty or twenty-five. It all depends upon the scope of our air operations.

"Both of the screen commanders will have their hands full. In our naval practice, we have an officer and two enlisted personnel aboard each ship who do nothing other than determine the speed and course of the carrier, try to guess its next maneuver, and then try to determine their own best speed. Although they might be wrong, by working at it, they are never surprised.

"Pay very close attention to your screen commanders, but do not rely upon them. If they are sunk, and you don't have a carrier watch, either your ship or my ship or both of our ships may join them at the bottom of Davy Jones' Locker. I remind you all, that if this happens, it will come out of your pay!" This time there was genuine if somewhat nervous laughter.

"As you engage in your computer analyses, be sure to include your seamanship drills. You will have a wildly maneuvering, sixty-five thousand ton aircraft carrier cavorting around like a love-sick whale. Any questions on this point? Any other questions?"

Muriel MacDonald spoke up. "Admiral, I have a problem with your love-struck whale scenario. What happens if we run into a sub? This could really complicate things, depending upon when it happens. Our group has practiced this time and again, but I'm not sure that our Italian allies are ready to sacrifice their ships."

"Yes, Mac, I see what you're driving at." Duncan turned to Commander Taylor. "Chuck, please make sure you run several simulations with both Donatelli and Ghiarggio. Make sure their captains understand all the ramifications of ASW screening for a carrier battle group, including the order of priority and visitation rights in the aforementioned Locker. If they want to pull out, let them, and that's an order. If they stick, they must understand that they could lose their ships, kill all their crew, and die in the process."

Both Italian FiG commanders looked up in horror.

Duncan nodded to them. "Yes, Officers, if the choice comes down to whether your frigate gets sunk or this carrier gets sunk, you must choose to put your vessel in harm's way to protect this ship. If push comes to shove, Halsey must be the last surviving vessel.

"If you are not ready for this challenge, we fully understand. Each of the commanders here has already wrestled with this dilemma and decided that they will sacrifice themselves, their crews and their commands to protect this ship. Think it over. Run through the scenarios. If you can't do it, we have to know it before we run the Straits so that we can make other plans."

"Senor Admiral," Commander Dominic Russi of the Alfonso Donatelli pointed at Muriel MacDonald, "will this woman be commanding a frigate like ours? Will she sacrifice herself and her crew?"

"Mac, you'd better handle that one."

"Yes, Sir!" Muriel glowered at the Italian, replying heatedly, "I am an officer in the United States Navy. I will protect my country, my flag, my honor and that of my ship with my dying breath! Bet on it!"

"Did that answer your question, Commander?" the Admiral inquired.

"Si! Indeed it did, Admiral! It will be an honor to serve alongside of such a brave and courageous officer of the United States Navy. It is my fervent desire, if we should survive this test, that this officer, Commander Mac, will accompany me on a tour of Napoli, my home, at her next port call." He stood, reached across the table and, taking Muriel's hand in his own, kissed it! "Bellisima, we shall go to war together, you and I, Commander Mac, and afterwards ... who knows?"

Oh-four hundred hours. Tunis lay off the starboard beam. Marsala, on the tip of Sicily, lay one hundred miles ahead. Commander David James Duncan, call-sign "DJ", sat quietly in the pilots' ready room trying hard to relax. He began calculating one more time. They'd be off Marsala in three hours. It'd take five to six hours to get through the Straits of Sicily. Adding one hour for luck, they'd be safe or sunk in ten hours. It was a disquieting thought.

It was time for him to go. He jogged up the ladders, opened the hatch and stepped over the coaming into the normal chaos of the flight deck. A white-shirted safety crew directed him to his plane. He performed a basic walk-around with his brown-shirted crew chief, and everything seemed to be OK. He signed for the plane, and the chief nodded a quick salute. After climbing the short ladder, DJ clambered into the rather roomy cockpit and the superbly comfortable, "Lazy Boy", conformational bucket seat.

The crew chief clambered up after him to help strap him in, connect up and make any other last minute adjustments. "Safe flight, Commander," and he was gone, as was the ladder.

DJ began his pre-flight checkouts. He engaged the electricals and lowered the "Bubble Sun-Roof". Two minutes later, his internal navigation system was functioning perfectly, and his canopy opticals were reading steady and positive. His radar, infra-red and TV all had passed their pre-flights, and his systems manager indicated that the plane was ready to start. His plane may have been, but none of the deck crews were.

As he sat, waiting his turn, his thoughts wandered back to the mission at hand. Both he and CAG had declared a maximum effort. Each of the Seniors, including CAG, had their own plane. RHIP! That meant that instead of two standard squadrons of eight planes, he would have an Air Group of seventeen. This odd number gave him a lot of options.

Normally, the two eight-plane squadrons were divided into two flights of four. Each flight was divided into pairs of a 'lead' and a 'wing' or 'trailer'. The seventeenth plane in a sixteen plane formation ruined the even multiple. This had been one of the problems carefully studied when the new and smaller carriers were first considered.

The first thing that was obvious to the naval tacticians was that an odd number of planes necessitated the demise of the two-plane team. This was anathema, and cries of anguish echoed through the Pentagon. The Navy brass fought against the concept tooth and nail. Regardless, they were forced to face the possibility of using one standard eight-plane squadron and an awkward, nine-plane squadron.

One young ensign, who didn't know any better, began to review the Japanese air tactics of World War II. Their carriers had used three-plane formations with great success. Japanese tactics were modernized for the higher speeds and greater loads of the modern jets and found to be completely applicable. The "3-3" formations, disrespectfully called either TFS for "Three-Finger Salute" or RBL for "Read Between the Lines", were found to be superior in specific situations.

The best reason for a flight of three was for training. An inexperienced pilot could hang around with two experienced ones, learning both formation and combat flying. The two experienced pilots could keep an eye on the new one. Since the inexperienced ones were always the first to die, this materially increased their chances of survival, while giving them the time and training they needed.

The second big positive was a defensive strategy called the 'Wagon Train' that originated in Viet Nam. When the MiGs were jumped by the big American Phantoms, they'd get into a big circle, just like a wagon train in an old western. Each MiG covered the other guy's tail. Two planes couldn't pull it off, but three planes could. In turn, this led to new American tactics and new formations in which the threesome covered each other's tail, while maintaining a strong offensive punch.

Later, this led to the third big positive. The three plane formation had fifty percent greater firepower and hitting power than the "Loose Deuce", with the greater defensive strengths of six eyes and modified wagon train tactics.

Of course, these changes in formation and tactics required a tremendous amount of practice, practice and even more practice. So, Seniors were in the air a lot, working with their squadrons. There were a whole lot of eight-on-nine combats with both sides taking turns being aggressors and defenders. Each squadron learned how to fly two-, three- and four-plane formations and master their intricacies. Today would be the big test.

DJ had opted to fly with the Mad Dogs, making them a "3-3" formation. The Mad Dogs would defend against bow attacks. The Talons, flying as a "2-4", would cover the anti-ship missions from the aft and the starboard side of the formation. His thinking was that any surface attack from the rear or the side would be partly countered by the fleet's general speed and heading, making either approach longer. A longer approach meant more time for the smaller formation of Talons to hit them. However, with an approach from the bow, time was against them. At a sixty knot closure rate, things could happen really quickly. His heavier Mad Dog RBL was more likely to score a kill.

Duncan reviewed his personnel. He'd be teaming up with Lt. Ingrid "Dilly" Ashultsohn, Mad Dog 4, and Lt. (jg) John "Candy" Candella, Mad Dog 5, and be called Boxer Flight.

Lt. Commander Betty "Betz" Chapiro, Mad Dog 1, was leading Lt. (jg) Pierre "Button" Bouton, Mad Dog 6, and Ensign Tobias "Tubby" Freeman, Mad Dog 8. They would have been the Dobermen, but Betz suggested Dober-persons. In the end, they all agreed on Dobies.

Lt. John "Bleeper" Bulkowski, Mad Dog 2, led the third flight with Lt. George "Shiner" Samuelson, Mad Dog 3, and Lt. (jg) Hiram "Higgy" Higginbotham, III, Mad Dog 7. Bleeper had wanted Bulldogs, but it sounded too much like "Bull" and might even be confused with the Boxers. So, they had ended up with Mastiff.

The Talons had chosen the name Claw for Lt. Peter "Skywalker" Lucas' westerly flight, and Hook for Lt. Commander Byron "Tiny" Small's southern one.

At 04:30, the Yellow Jackets were ready for DJ. A big yellow hauler backed up, hooked onto his nose wheel and moved him up to the ready line. White-clad Safeties watched wings and clearances, as "Grapes" topped off his fuel, and red-clad "Ordies" pulled the pins on his missiles releasing them for arming. When all was in order, the "Big Grape" flashed a hand signal, which DJ repeated back, confirming his plane's weight. The other colors disappeared except for the Safeties, and a "Greeny" catapult officer took charge.

It was time for DJ to start his engines. His plane was connected to a starter truck, and, at the Greeny's signal, DJ punched the start for his starboard engine. Slowly, at first, the big P&W started to whine and built up to power quickly. When the right engine hit sixty percent, DJ gave the thumbs up to the starters, who disconnected, while he punched his port engine. Within three minutes, both engines were steady and looking good.

The Cat Officer directed him to the end of the "cat walk", just aft of the forward catapults. The big blast deflector stood in front of him. A Holstein sat on the starboard catapult. With a puff of steam, it disappeared, trailing fire into the morning mists.

DJ was next in the "Cat Box". At the next signal, he tested all his control surfaces, while "Lemons" and Safeties checked them to make sure they were operating. The giant twin rudders and elevons were the easy part. A blind man could feel the breeze from them as they moved. The hard parts were the Hornet's LERXs.

A Lemon ran under his wing and held the cobra-like Leading Edge Root Extension in his hands. As DJ caressed the controls, it molded itself into a smooth curve which gave the entire wing a new conformation. Like a canard, when the LERX's wing-warping was working, the Hornet was almost impossible to stall, climbed like a scalded cat and turned up its own ass. When it failed, the Hornet crashed on launch. Only if the Lemon was happy with the wing-warping would he release DJ's bird. And, no Lemon ever got knocked for pulling a bird if he didn't like the feel of it. Never!

The deflector lowered, and the Cat Officer guided DJ forward. Within seconds, his nose wheel was attached to the shuttle. DJ turned to the Cat Officer and signaled his weight, which was re-directed forward to the catapult controllers.

The huge steam catapults were capable of flinging a fully loaded Avenger off the bow with enough air speed for those big birds to fly. Fully loaded, they weighed over forty tons. So, with DJ's tiny plane coming in at half that weight they had to adjust the catapult so that it neither tore his plane apart nor crushed him in his seat.

The Catapult Officer directed both his red-hooded "wands" towards him. That was DJ's signal. As he increased his thrust to full power, the blast deflector rose out of the deck, protecting the men and machines behind him from the fearsome blast of his twin Pratt & Whitneys. The Cat Officer held his right lamp straight up and circled the left above his head. The Hornet's mighty afterburners lit up, and David could almost see his fuel gauges falling. His Hornet screamed at full power hauling on the breaker bar that was holding his nose wheel firmly attached to the shuttle embedded in the deck. DJ raised both arms over his head, dropped his left onto the canopy rail, saluted and put his right arm on the opposite rail.

The Hornet had retained many characteristics of its illustrious ancestor, including the general styling. One of these, which Hornet drivers loved and everyone else hated, was that the bird launched itself. The Hornet's fly-by-wire controls carefully measured the thrust, pitch and roll of the ship, the wind and shear, and a hundred other variables. Then, it automatically made adjustments to all the controls to lift off safely, increase altitude and bank slowly to starboard to avoid the angled deck's flight pattern. It all happened in a split second, and interference by the relatively slow reactions of a human would disturb its delicate trims and timings. Only when the plane and passenger were safely aloft did the Hornet finally permit its human pilot to resume control.

Now that DJ was ready to launch, the Cat Officer saluted with his right wand, then brought it around in a great, arm-length circle. He dropped to one knee and as he bent forward onto the deck, he directed both lights straight toward the bow.

That was the signal to the catapult operators in the bow. They too checked for safety problems. Seeing none, the Launch Officer mashed the launch button.

Below decks, the massive piston was hit by an enormous blast of super-heated steam. It slammed forward, dragging the shuttle and the Hornet with it. Just feet from the bow, the ram smashed into a water dam and stopped with a huge, dull boom felt throughout the ship. The shuttle stopped, slinging the plane off the bow.

David relaxed his grip on the rails, and placed his hands on the controls. At his right hand, exactly where it fell naturally, was his joy stick. In his left was his throttleator, which controlled not only his engine's thrust, but also gave him push button control over many of the plane's control and display functions.

He circled, slowly gaining altitude as the rest of the Mad Dogs joined him. When the triangular formation of three triangles was formed, he accelerated southeast, and reported to the Senior Controller. "Mad Dog Ten to Senior Controller. Mad Dog Ten, leading three threes, Code Boxer, Code Doby, Code Mastiff. Altitude, angels 10; speed, 500; course, One-One-Oh true. Acknowledge."

"Roger Mad Dog Ten, I read you loud and clear, and I have you painted on my screen. Mad Dog Ten, increase to angels fifteen on present course. You will be moving into a standard holding pattern in zero-five minutes. Understand you brought the kennel with you DJ. Who's got what?"

"Bull is that you?"

"Roger, DJ. A top heavy evolution, don't you think?"

"Yeah, CAG's up. So are Pepe, Wrangler, and Connie. Everybody who's anybody is up here. Yeah, I'm Boxer, Betz is Doby, and Bleeper is Mastiff. The Talons are coming up soon. Skywalker's got Claw and Tiny has Hook. We figured on the junkyard dogs up here, and sharp pointy things covering our asses. Should make it easier all around."

"Affirmative. OK, you'll start into your standard left-hand turn in four minutes. Leprechaun Two is the one you see almost dead ahead of you. We're off your starboard side. Gunner and Ace are in the T-2s up there; Dinty and Kate are with us. CAG's way up doing TopCAP with the Knights. Once you're in position, I'll send the old chuck wagon around to visit with you. Oh, if you get the chance, ask Wrangler about Cow Boss."

"I will. By the way, who am I teamed with? Where's Pepe?"

"Pepe's Tequilas are flying RBT. He'll be with you. You should twitch him in any time now. He decided that, since they're a mixed formation, he'd mix his drinks. He's Strawberry, as in Marguerita. Banana is with Skywalker, and Pineapple is in the middle with Tiny. Well, gotta get back to work. Stay on button eight so I know how to get ahold of you."

David thought about Bull O'Connor for a few seconds. Downstairs it was hard to get the guy to say anything. One time, they were all out drinking with a big crowd and took bets on how many words Bull would say during the whole night. The winner went home with twenty-five bucks. Bull hadn't said a damned word! Yet, when he was up here, he was a Chatty Kathy, a blabber-mouth and Mr. Gossip all rolled into one.

"Boxer One to Senior Controller, we are moving into standard parking orbit. Boxer One on button eight, standing by."

"Captain, take a look." Mr. Threat jabbed angrily at a mass of dots spread all over the radar image on the display. "We just got the feed from the Italians. Their transmitter is weak, so we're boosting it through one of the Hawkeyes."

Teegin looked, but he hadn't been following developments. He'd been launching sixty-four planes, and maneuvering his 'love-sick whale'. He'd had damn little time for anything else. "What is it, Jim?"

"Ships, boats, and every other kind of vessel known to man. The Italians said it started yesterday when the exclusion zone went into effect. Ships began filtering out of every harbor from Algiers to Benghazi. Some are big, like this cargo ship and this freighter. Others are small. This one is a dhow! You know? One of those Arab ships with the upside-down triangular sails? They're wood, so they put a big radar reflector on their masts so that other ships can see them and not run them down.

"The Italians say that these ships were trying to run the Straits before the exclusion time set in. Now, they're in deep water and have to keep steaming around. Every once in a while one of them seems to make a break for it. So, all the Arab fleets are out to maintain control.

"The Italians say that listening in on the Arab radios is great sport. One of the merchies will start a run towards the straits, and a gunboat or something will take after them, like a cowboy rounding up strays. They'll head them off and herd them back. But, over the radio they're hearing the gunboats being cursed, and orders like 'No, turn to your other right!' all the time.

"We've even got a few that have headed up into the Ionian Sea to escape the exclusion zone. This one's a small coastal freighter. This is one of those big oil tankers.

"Captain, we've got over a hundred ships lining the exclusion zone like spectators at a parade, and I don't like it."

"What's the problem, Jim?"

"First," Mr. Threat held up his index finger, "they're too damned close. When the exclusion was announced, the North African States protested the sovereignty of their territorial waters. So, the Italians backed down and accepted a 12-mile limit. These ships have just extended the Arab threat zone by twelve miles and cut our response time considerably.

"Second," he held up two fingers, "with all these ships milling about, the Arabs have managed to deploy their entire fleets along our flank legitimately, and there's not a thing we can do about it.

"Third," his three middle fingers splayed out, "they can use these civilian ships as excellent cover for their fleets. They can either use the oldest ploy in the world and drive the vessels towards us like they used to drive the cattle herds before their armies. Or, they could use them simply as a screen. It's almost impossible, even with our computers, to keep track of them with the low-res radars the Italians have on the islands.

"Now, look at that one, for instance." He pointed to a small blip that had rounded Pantelleria Island and was heading almost due north. "That son of a bitch is headed right at us at about four knots. That'll put him here, about ten miles south of us by the time we're there. If that's some kind of a Q-boat or something, we're in a world of hurt. We've got to drive it off or sink it, even if it's a defenseless civilian. We just can't take the chance."

"Shit, Jimmy, I'm not making that call. Let me get the admiral."

Five minutes later, Admiral Duncan was fully apprised. As he mulled over his conflicting orders and tried to decide whether sinking a civilian ship would start a war, the radio burst to life on the International Marine Frequency.

"Help us! Help us! Allah, help us! We are on fire! We are sinking! Help us! Please, in the name of Allah help us! We are on fire and sinking! Please answer us! ..."

The babbling continued for minute after minute. Obviously, whoever was using the radio had no idea that he pressed the mike button to talk and released it to listen. So, in his panic, he talked, and, hearing nothing in reply, just continued yammering.

"What the hell's going on?" Duncan demanded.

"Well, Sir," Johanson replied, "this ship that we were going to sink is trying to convince us that it’s out of control and afire at four knots into the wind. According to our best readouts, this is a small coastal vessel that really shouldn't be out here anyway. Although the IR from the Hawkeye says there is a fire on the deck, it's an unlikely scenario."

"You suspect a trap of some kind?"

"Yes, Sir! I think they're using it as a ploy to get their fleets even closer to us, preparatory to an attack."

"Couldn't it be for real?"

"No, Sir. If he's really in trouble, why's he doing four knots into the wind away from the land that he can see off his own port beam? Can't be right."

The radio, which had been spouting continuously for minutes, miraculously stopped. Another voice with an odd accent was already speaking, "...to your position in eighteen hours. Prepare your lifeboats, and use your radar reflectors. Repeating. This is the Kyoto Maru responding to your mayday. We are steaming to your area as fast as possible. We expect to arrive vicinity of Pantelleria Island in eighteen hours. Prepare your lifeboats and use your radar reflectors. Do you read us? Respond."

"Allah be praised! We hear you, ship. Hurry! Hurry! The blessings of Allah be upon you. But hurry, we will be sunk in eighteen hours, you must come faster! Pray to Allah. He will give you wings!" Once again the burning ship's radio wailed away in an interminable litany.

Johanson's computers searched for the ship's registry. "I have it, Captain, Admiral. Kyoto Maru. Three-hundred and fifty thousand tons, twelve hundred and eighty-eight feet length, one-oh-nine abeam. Speed, twenty knots. Could be it right here." He pointed to a ship north of Malta heading towards the Ionian Sea. "Fully loaded, it'd take her a long time to turn, and it'd take them about eighteen hours to get to Pantelleria. We'd estimate her course to come close to the southern coast of Sicily and cross our course on a long diagonal. We could speed up and pass in front of her, keep our present course and speed and be dangerously close, or head in-shore to go behind her."

"Could this be part of some elaborate trick, Jimmy? How does this fit into your scenario?"

"I don't know, Admiral. There's no way the Japanese would be in on this. It doesn't figure."

"Sir," Lieutenant (jg) Michael DuBlois blurted out, "if they're Japanese, then I'm Mexican!" In spite of DuBlois' French name, and California accent, his appearance was of a tall, rangy Oriental. "My Mom made me take Japanese lessons every day for my whole life until I joined the Navy. They are somebody else trying to sound like Japanese. You know how, it's like when you see a British film and there's this Brit trying to talk like an American, and it breaks you up to hear it? Well, this guy's really bad. But, if you don't have the ear for it, you'd never hear it."

Mr. Threat madly pounded the keys. "Yes!" he shouted in triumph, "Gulf of Hammamet! Libyan registry and sister ship to the Kyoto Maru! Mikey, you earned your pay this week. Admiral, this is a big fucking trap, and we're walking right into it!"

The alarm shrieked out all over the ship. A 'Talker' chanted, "Air raid warning from Leprechaun Four. Confirmed. Bearing 262 degrees, speed six hundred knots, course Oh-four-five. Designated as Sierra One.

"Air raid warning from Leprechauns One, Two and Three, confirmed. Bearing 195 degrees, speed seven hundred knots, course zero-three-zero. Designated as Sierra Two.

"Air raid warning from Leprechaun One, confirmed. Bearing 175 degrees, speed one thousand knots, course three-four-five. Designated as Sierra Three.

"Sierra Three may be splitting into two streams. Confirmed. Designating northern stream as Sierra Four. Bearing 150 degrees, speed six hundred knots, course three-three-zero."

Admiral Duncan stood rooted to the spot staring at the screen. The composite picture of all his sensors was being relayed to his command center. As the talker spoke, a label appeared next to each group of dots. Alongside of it was a set of numbers indicating the strength and composition of the attacking force.

Sierra One, coming from the southwest, contained approximately thirty fighters climbing rapidly through twenty-five thousand feet at Mach two with another sixteen fighter bombers at fifteen thousand flying at six hundred miles per hour.

The southerly group, Sierra Two, was slightly larger. Forty-two fighters, flying at over a thousand miles per hour, were accelerating through twenty thousand feet. Twelve others were flying at eight hundred miles per hour at ten thousand feet.

Sierra Three was very large. It contained three levels of fighters. One group of twenty-four fighters was at thirty-five thousand. A second group of eighteen was at twenty thousand and a third, at five thousand feet, containing twenty. There was also some indication of larger shadows beyond them, but that wasn't clear.

Sierra Four, the most easterly of the four raids, contained thirty-six fighters at thirty-five thousand. Thirty-six large reflections, that the computers said were bombers, were at twenty-thousand feet.

If the electronics were right there were two-hundred and forty fighters, close to thirty attack planes and another three dozen bombers headed toward his fleet.

The Talker hadn't finished. His chant of the dreadful litany droned on, "Surface action fleet confirmed by Leprechaun Four. One DD, one FiG and up to six patrol boats. Bearing 210, speed thirty knots, course zero five-zero. Designating Topaz One.

"Surface action fleet confirmed by Leprechaun Two. One DD and six gunboats. Bearing 181, speed thirty knots, course zero-two-five. Designating Topaz Two.

"Surface action fleet confirmed by Leprechaun One. Two DDs, two FiGs and eight gunboats. Bearing 150, speed thirty knots, course three-five-five. Designating Topaz Three."

As the talker spoke, little figures of ships appeared on the screen. Then, the designations and compositions appeared. The attack was just as Mr. Threat had predicted. Topaz One was coming out of the herd around the point of Cape Bon. Topaz Two was coming straight at them from the western lee of Pantelleria, while Topaz Three was sailing almost due north, crossing the American fleet's "T".

The Admiral shook off his amazement, "Execute, battle plan alpha. Execute! Weapons Free!"

The order spread to every plane and ship within seconds. The Sixth Fleet, America's guardian of the Mediterranean, was about to fight for its life.

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?

5. Straits of Sicily

5.2 Tunisia

5.2.1 Gambit

Ahab Dingjatha stared hungrily at the large situation display that covered the entire wall of General Yusuf Kamsanni's headquarters. His plan was working!

He'd spent countless hours talking with his peers in Algeria and Libya hashing out the details. He'd spent more hours cajoling the military into adopting a plan proposed by a civilian. Then he'd fought every ship's captain along a thousand kilometers of coastline to embark. A few had refused. They had been shot, and his own officers of the Interior Department had taken control of their ships. Every ship that sailed was under the control of officers he could trust to carry the ploy to its maximum extents. Nothing could interfere with his plan. Nothing!

Then, the exclusion zone was announced. It almost wrecked his plan entirely. If the Yankees could see all the way into every port then he’d have no chance to surprise them.

His diplomatic protest in the UN had given him back his opportunity by acknowledging the territorial waters of the North African states. That gave him twelve miles to work with, plus every meter his fleets could push further into the sea.

His officers had performed brilliantly. For almost a day, they had sailed ships both large and small into the Straits only to be chased back into territorial waters. The three navies had also performed well. Unlike the civilians, they only had to receive and obey their orders. They did not have to understand why they were doing it, so long as it was done. At the same time, the Interior Department's officers had gone to great lengths to create a truly chaotic situation, misinterpret orders from the patrolling vessels, while mixing and mingling to confuse any watcher. As the situation grew worse, more warships were called into service.

Then, the second stage of his deceit began to unfold. His agents on the rust-bucket, Ar-Cabril, sailed into the exclusion zone northeast of Pantelleria Island. After two hours of fighting the balky engine, they opened the five fifty-five gallon drums of oil and set them afire. The smoke and heat on that small a ship made it appear that it was engulfed in flames. Their emergency calls came in loud and clear.

Dingjatha began to admire the skillful officer who managed to not only sound as though he were panicking, but also overcame years of training in radio techniques. It was a wonderful performance. After a while, Dingjatha wondered if the officer had overplayed his hand. Yet, as though on queue, the radio ceased transmitting and the response to the mayday was heard. It would work!

General Kamsanni, who had been sitting phlegmatically at Dingjatha's side, suddenly sprang into action. The Americans had passed Cape Bon, and they were in the jaws of his trap. Kamsanni's VisiPhones blinked with changing images as faces appeared. His orders were given and acknowledged, and then new faces appeared.

Dots representing aircraft popped onto the screens, moving very rapidly. Then, the warships began their sprint into the Straits, and the overtaking aircraft zoomed past them towards the American fleet.

Now it was Ahab Dingjatha's turn to sit back. The ancient Ar-Cabril was maintaining a steady stream of nonsense, while the Gulf of Hammamet sailed across the American's bow forcing them northward into the waiting grasp of the Libyan subs. His fleets were in position and sailing to the attack, while two hundred planes from three Islamic countries bore down on the small carrier battle fleet. He had done all he could. The battle was in Allah's hands!

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?

5. Straits of Sicily

5.3 America:

5.3.1 Romulus

The command, "Execute battle plan alpha. Execute! Weapons Free!" echoed in every earpiece throughout the fleet. Commander Peter Stoikovitz, the Air Controller of Leprechaun 4, knew exactly what he had to do. "Leprechaun 4 to Romulus. Execute plan alpha. Target Topaz One. Read my box. Acknowledge."

Lt. Sam "Brownie" Brown, Romulus' pilot, looked to the man on his right, his aircraft commander, Lt. Commander Tobias "Toby" Turnbridge, and waited for his signal. Toby was concentrating on his scopes and busily integrating the data feed from Leprechaun 4 with his own. Without looking up from his scopes, Turnbridge extended his left hand in a thumbs-up. Brownie pushed Romulus into a gentle left turn and settled on a westerly course, avoiding the fighters of Sierra One.

They could have jammed the fighters and fighter bombers if they had wanted, but the ships of Topaz One were their targets. Jamming aircraft was child's play for an EA-29 Regulator like Romulus. Because of their inherent space limitations, fighters and fighter bombers could not have highly sophisticated systems. Even the best fighters with a mini-aegis system were susceptible to 'white noise.'

But, jamming fighters was dangerous. Fighter pilots knew when they were being jammed, because their radar screens turned into 'snow storms'. It was SOP for at least one fighter in a "package" to have missiles targeted to home in on a jamming signal. Furthermore, every pilot had a built-in set of Mark One Eyeballs that could be used to detect even a stealthy Regulator. Any fighter pilot could shoot down an unarmed Regulator once they had found it.

Ships were much more challenging. They had the size to incorporate many systems plus backups. They also had large crews to handle sophisticated counter-measures to overcome jamming. A typical guided missile ship had a primary pulsed-array detection radar with a redundant, frequency-agile sweeping radar. Each missile battery and anti-aircraft system had its own guidance and tracking systems plus backups. All ships had low-resolution, short range systems for close-in defense. A big guided missile destroyer could have fifteen to twenty radars, all of which would have to be jammed for an attacker to stand a chance against a missile ship's powerful array of weaponry.

That was the Regulator's forte. Its weapon was the AIL ALQ 109 Tactical Jamming System installed in what would have been the bomb bay in a normal Avenger. The internal TJS had sixteen Active/Passive jammers with the ability to tune-in on any radio or radar frequency. Depending upon the mission, the ALQ 109 could emit 'white noise' creating so much static that the enemy's detectors would be overloaded. It could also send false signals that would make the enemy's systems detect too many or too few targets. It could even make targets appear to be in a different place than they actually were. Further, if there were more than sixteen different types of radios, radars and other communications transmitters, the Regulator could be fitted with up to four additional pods under its wings. Each of those pods could handle two additional jamming channels. So, a Regulator had more than enough capacity to blind and maim even the most sophisticated detection, targeting, tracking and guidance systems.

Romulus avoided the fighters of Sierra One by flying westward until they were far behind. Then, the big plane turned southeast, heading directly for the destroyer and frigate rounding Cape Bon. Because of its stealth characteristics, the Regulator could approach within twenty miles before the enemy ships could see it on their radars. That gave the EA-29's crew plenty of time to analyze the ship's radars and devise the best jamming methodologies.

As Brownie flew Romulus directly towards Topaz One, Toby and the two warrant officers seated just aft of them studied each signal emitted by the enemy fleet. They watched each radar and radio emission until they knew each system's characteristics.

Brownie was beginning to get a little nervous. Regardless of how stealthy his Regulator was, if he approached too closely, the plane would be detected. He was about to warn his commander when Toby growled, "Gotcha, you son of a bitch!", and sat back. Brownie breathed a quick sigh of relief and changed course to the northeast away from the enemy's missilery.

As Romulus sped away from Topaz One, Toby called in his strike packages. "Romulus to Skywalker and Banana Marguerita. We've got you covered. We will begin emitting in two minutes. Good luck!"

Romulus turned back towards its enemies, as its crew went to work. Within seconds, the Algerian DD and frigate were deaf, dumb and blind. Romulus had fulfilled the squadron's motto: We maim so that others might kill.

The call came in, "Romulus to Skywalker and Banana Marguerita. We've got you covered. We will begin emitting in two minutes. Good luck!"

Lt. Peter "Skywalker" Lucas, normally known as Talon 2, acknowledged. He blinked his landing lights twice and looked around at the other three Hornets in his section. Each of them blinked in return. Skywalker pushed his joy stick lightly to his right, easing his throttleator forward. His fighter turned quickly, losing altitude. He looked to the south, saw the French-built fighters high overhead and tried to cross his fingers. Not that he was superstitious or anything, but every little bit helped.

The entire success of his mission depended on Romulus' ability to blind the missile ships. The rest depended on his Hornet's paint job. If the enemy couldn't detect him electronically and couldn't see him visually, his attack just might work.

He glanced over his right shoulder. In the distance, he could see three tiny dots following his Claw Flight. They had to be the Banana Margueritas, carrying the big ordnance. If he didn't do his job, they'd be sitting ducks.

Skywalker glanced up and back. The swarms of French-built fighters hadn't seen his flight and were quickly disappearing behind him. He hoped that if they couldn't see his Hornets, then they'd also miss the Avengers. If not, he'd have to turn and fight them off. But that would be an uneven contest. His four fully loaded Super Hornets would not be a match for thirty or more air-to-air armed fighters. He glanced back again. They were gone. They were Bunker Hill's problem.

He radioed to his flight, "Skywalker to Claws. Illuminate!" He spoke again, this time to his plane, "Radar, IR, ground search." Instantly, his Hornet's computer complied, and his screen seemed to expand downward as his APG-75 "Mini-Aegis" and his Forward Looking Infra-Red reached out scanning the sea below him.

There they were! The DD was out in front, with a FiG trailing slightly to starboard. Behind them, fanning out into a line, were six sleek missile boats. He could see that the smaller craft were building up speed and rapidly overtaking their larger, slower escorts. They were making their missile runs!

"Skywalker to Claw Flight, go for the missile boats! They're moving up to attack. Designating!"

One of the electronic advances inherent in the new Hornets was the ability of a group of fighters to merge its command net. This gave Skywalker the ability to designate targets to each plane in his flight without confusion or question. Ten seconds later, he had assigned six targets to his flight.

Skywalker blinked his lights again. He flexed his wrist and pulled his joystick to his left while pushing it forward. His plane's right wing lifted as the left fell away, revealing the line of missile boats dancing on their hydrofoils. But, a fifty knot ship was no match for his six-hundred knot attack plane.

He spoke to his computer, "Arm Wildcat One and Wildcat Four." The computer highlighted both missiles in red, and the message "Armed" flashing beneath them.

"Target!" The aiming block filled, as the reticle crosshairs centered on the two missile craft furthest away.

"Volley Lock. Claw Flight, Skywalker."

The firing sequencers of each of the four planes were now locked together. When all six missiles were ready, his plane would issue the firing signal. Six Wildcats would fire at the same time, and his four planes would egress to the south.

"Locked" appeared on his screen. He spoke to his computer, "Skywalker, fire!"

Skywalker's panel light blinked once, and then again. Wildcats launched from his extreme left and right pylons, and he could see that each of the other five were paralleling them. He pulled back the nose and applied power, climbing almost instantly to fifteen thousand feet, heading southeast towards the coast. He kicked the plane again into a sharp left bank and aimed Claw Flight back at the enemy fleet. As he looked, and began to feed data into his attack computer for his second attack, the six missile boats bobbing along the sea below exploded virtually simultaneously.

"Split! I'll head for the big ship of the left. Shorty, you two take the one on the right." He muttered again at his computers, "Arm HARM one through four." The computer activated the four missiles attached to his inner pylons. "Now, you bastards, illuminate me!" he cursed.

The High Speed Anti-Radiation Missiles were wonderfully efficient. They homed in on a radar's signal and blew up the transmitter. But, the radar had to be working, pumping out energy, for the HARM's detector to read it and home in on the signal. As long as the two ships remained under EmCon, emitting no signals, the HARMs were worthless.

A white tower of flame lifted off the destroyer's foredeck and turned back towards him. Another. Another!

"Fucking optical back-ups!" he exclaimed. He watched the missiles closely as they neared him. Playing with missiles was a dangerous occupation, but it was the ultimate thrill. It was all in the timing. All he had to do was wait and ... now!

He jammed the throttleator forward to the detent while pulling the stick violently towards him, then forward and left. He leapt upwards. Then he dropped like a rock and twisted into a gut-wrenching left-hand descent. The combination of the wing LERX's molded configuration and the vectored-thrust engines had virtually flipped his plane around its axes. If it hadn't been for the quick gimbaling of his conformational "Lazy Boy", the G's would have been too much for him. With it, he could pull 10 Gs, but it hurt like hell.

After his acrobatic performance, Lucas leveled out and looked around. The missiles that had been chasing him were now far behind and heading nowhere fast. "Love you, baby!" he crooned to his machine. The computer responded with a little red heart on the cockpit display.

"Get out of there, Skywalker. We're coming in." It was the Big Banana. The Avengers were making their runs.

He warned his flight, "Claw One to Claw Flight, go to CAP. Execute!" He eased back his throttleator, and pulled the stick back. As he climbed, he spoke to his plane, "Computer, disarm HARMs. Arm gun. Arm Sidewinders. Radar and FLIR to Air Search." Ten seconds later, his four Hornets rendezvoused at fifteen thousand feet over the two warships.

Far below them, three sea-gray, bat-like shapes skimmed above the water towards the enemy vessels. Air Lance missiles erupted from the Avengers and flashed towards the ships.

A barrage of missiles leapt from the decks of the warships. As long as Romulus jammed them, the ships couldn't use their radars to guide their missiles accurately. So, the ship-launched missiles were guided optically. Their missile's performance would be significantly degraded, but they still had a fifty-fifty chance of hitting something. The rest of the barrage was shoulder-mounted AA types fired by the ship's crew in a "golden BB defense". They were doing the only thing they could. They had volleyed everything they had in the right general direction and hoped they'd get lucky.

Six Air Lance missiles entered the wall of fire. Two emerged. A second volley from the ships reduced that number to one. The frigate disappeared in a cloud of smoke and fire.

"Banana to Claw, we're coming around again. We'll have to use the bombs."

Skywalker knew what that meant. The Avengers would have to fly dangerously close to the remaining ship. Just the slightest error would mean the loss of a plane and crew, and he couldn't help them. All he could do was watch and hope.

The three tiny forms approached the destroyer. More missiles rose towards them. The Avengers twisted and turned in the air. Two of them penetrated the wall of death, but the third was blotted out of the sky in a soundless puff of smoke. The two survivors pressed the attack and suddenly veered off.

The ship turned to starboard in an effort to avoid the bombs, but it didn't turn fast enough. A huge, black cloud engulfed the vessel. A gush of flame and smoke erupted from the gaping hole. For just a split second, the hull bulged. The ship's superstructure lifted up from its decks, before it collapsed back onto itself. Within seconds, the destroyer split into large flaming pieces, spinning around like children's toys in a bathtub.

"Banana Leader to Leprechaun 4. Topaz One sunk. One aircraft lost. Returning to Halsey."

Lucas knew one of his friends had just died. Regardless, he was still in a fight for his life and that of over ten thousand others down there on the sea. "Fight now, grieve later," he chided himself. It was an old Navy tradition.

Captain Grigory Yuhovitch sat in Bunker Hill's CIC just behind Commander Eugene Halbertson, the fleet's Missile Boss. It was up to them to handle the air threat, while the Hornets and Avengers knocked back the enemy surface action fleets.

The four massive SPY 1D "Aegis" system panels were just a small part of what made Bunker Hill important. The really important and essential part was the computer - the "guts" of which were contained in a small, three-foot cube. Inside it were one-thousand Intel 801086s. Each of these "Decade 2000" processors was capable of 500 GigaFlops. Together in their 10x10x10 cube they had unbelievable computing power.

Yet, even that wasn't the real secret of the ship. It had taken ten years and a consortium of the finest minds from Microsoft, Intel, IBM, Texas Instruments and several other companies to develop the computer's multi-threaded, parallel-processing operating system. When it was all put together, the Bunker Hill could identify over one-thousand air and sea targets, classify them in order of threat, target them, assign appropriate missilery, and destroy them. It was an incredible piece of engineering.

The Threat/Attack Coordination, Control and Targeting System quickly assimilated the real-time data from all the Eyes, Ears and sensors of the fleet. The four air raids were quickly broken down and analyzed.

Sierra One was easy pickings: sixteen Rafale's, fourteen Mirage 2000s, and sixteen Tornado GR2s. The computer easily assessed that the GR2s were the "bad guys" and accorded them the highest priority on that threat axis.

Sierra Two was much more interesting, if only because of the mix of aircraft. Once again it was a three-tiered formation. Up top, at thirty-five thousand feet were twenty-four MiG-29s. From their flight characteristics, it was obvious to the computer that they were flying CAP. Below them were eighteen Su-22s. Although fully capable of supersonic speeds, they were flying slowly, at only 600 mph. Further, they were "bulky", as they would appear if carrying ordnance. Down low there were twelve ancient MiG-21s. At one time, they'd been a top of the line fighter. Now, they were mostly used as target drones, except here in North Africa, where they were still in service. And, they were "funny". Whatever they were carrying, it was BIG! The computer was suspicious. So, it targeted the MiG-21s as a higher priority than the more capable Sukhois.

Sierra Three and Four were confusing even with the masses of sensors and the enormous computing power available. Gene Halbertson remarked, "Whoever these bastards are, they know their business!"

Sierra Three and Four had started out as a single mass of aircraft. Then, they split into two streams, with Sierra Four heading northeast before turning back towards the fleet. That was Sierra Four's mistake. They had opened the distance between themselves and the fleet. The Tomcats could handle them.

"Missile Boss to Air Controller, target Sierra Four. Blinders under MiG-31s. Send in the Tomcats. We'll catch the leakers."

"Air Controller to Missile Boss, acknowledged. Knights to attack Sierra Four."

That still left Halbertson and his computers with the unresolved problem of Sierra Three. The top group of twenty-four had to be MiG-31s. They were very dangerous adversaries for a fighter and a tough one for even an SM-4. The other two groups of eighteen and twenty could be Su-27s, Su-35s or MiG-29s. They were virtually indistinguishable on radar. What was vexing Halbertson was the shadow beyond them. It was low, but keeping pace. Something was up, and the Missile Boss didn't like it. Not one single bit!

The TACCATS computer totaled the threats. To the stern, there were sixteen priority one, fourteen priority two and sixteen threes. Sierra Two had twelve first priorities, eighteen seconds and twenty-four thirds. Sierra Three, in spite of its large numbers, contained only third priorities. The Tomcats would be handling Sierra Four. The computer then totaled the priorities calculating a total of twenty-eight first priorities, thirty-two seconds and one-hundred and two thirds.

Finally, TACCATS compared the number of missiles and their capabilities against the targets. Bunker Hill had one-hundred and eighty-one missiles, of which one hundred and sixty-one were SM-4s. The Garibaldi had ninety-six missiles, of which eighty-five were SM-3s. Both the Carson and the Neill had eighty-two of which seventy were SM-4s. That gave them three hundred and eighty-six missiles against one hundred and eighty targets.

Assuming, and TACCATS did, that eighty percent of the missiles would do their job in spite of the best efforts of a determined enemy, they would only need two hundred and three to down all the enemy aircraft in Sierras One, Two and Three. That would leave the fleet with one hundred and eighty-three AA missiles for the still unresolved problem of Sierra Four and that cloud behind Sierra Three. All these calculations took the computer less than one-tenth of a second to assimilate, resolve and display on the screen for its masters, the humans, to make the final decision. Computers are efficient idiots, while humans, in spite of their faults, are their masters.

Next came the missile assignments. The problem for TACCATS was to distribute the missilery targets assigned to each ship. It did this not only to maintain missile control and targeting, but also so as not to deplete any one ship's armaments to the point it became a target rather than as asset.

For instance, if Bunker Hill were to use all her one hundred-sixty one missiles, she could probably down the entire enemy force. However, thereafter, she would be defenseless. Garibaldi, Neill and the rest of the fleet would have to protect her as well as themselves. Further, Carson was the ASW Screen Command Ship. Since it would be difficult for her to perform both jobs at the same time, she was not included in the initial mix of AA missilery. TACCATS assigned one hundred and three of Bunker Hill's SM-4s, fifty-five of Garibaldi's SM-3s and forty-five of Neill's SM-4s to the battle, leaving each with about a thirty-six percent of the AAMs with which they had started.

When the missiles were completely allocated by the TACCATS, each of the other ship's computers was updated. The preliminary sequences preparatory to launch were initiated, the weapons armed, and the timing sequences of the four Aegis systems updated. The final step was interfacing the SPQ-12B fire control and guidance systems to control the individual weapons without interfering electronically with any other ship's systems.

Without warning, every screen aboard every ship and plane went blank, twitched several times, and returned to life besmirched with snow-like fuzz. They were being jammed!

Halbertson looked at his boss, "Well, now we know who is who." He pointed to the areas of greatest fuzziness covering the images of Sierra Three and Four. "Those are the Libyans...probably some of their Badgers."

As they spoke, the egg-heads, nerds, and computer jocks of the fleet went to work. This electronics war was as serious and as deadly as any other aspect of the battle. This was the hinge upon which the battle would turn.

The techies had an intrinsic advantage in the Aegis radar systems. Unlike older types that emitted and received on only one or at most a few frequencies, the Aegis literally used thousands. Further, each element of array pulsed at its own individual rate.

Jamming an Aegis system was almost impossible, except with "white noise" techniques. Essentially, the jammers were creating so much electronic radiation that they swamped all the detectors in the array with spurious, random and nonsensical garbage. The operators could still "see" large targets, but, instead of a clear, crisp picture, they saw the image through a haze. Small objects, like missiles, were undetectable, since their return signals were hidden in the murk.

Some of the technicians tried to boost their radar's signal. However, that was like turning up the brightness on a television set. The entire picture "bloomed" with even more noise caused by signal broadening. Obviously, that wasn't the answer.

Other technicians turned to basic signal averaging techniques to combat the interference. "Noise" is random. For every "up" there is a "down", for every "left" a "right". By taking many readings and averaging them, the ups and downs canceled each other out as did all the other noise components.

The only problem with the technique was that noise is reduced as the square root of the number of tests. It took four pulses of an element in the array to reduce the noise to one-half its value. It took nine to bring it down to one-third. It took one hundred to bring it down to one-tenth where missiles could be easily detected. All that processing took time.

Time was their enemy and the attacker's friend. In the three seconds it took to reduce the noise to bearable limits, a missile could travel more than a mile. So, the techies turned to the highest level of their technology, the Null-Wave System.

All forms of radiation, including sound, light, radio, radar and microwave, travel in waves. Such a wave crests and troughs at exact and regular intervals. It had been well know for centuries that two waves could interact with one another. If the two waves were "beating" at exactly the same frequency, and the waves and troughs occurred at exactly the same time, the two would reinforce each other. The crests would become larger and the troughs deeper. However, if the waves and troughs of the waves were exactly opposite, they canceled each other out as though neither existed.

The problem had always been that the control required to do this was incredibly difficult, except in laboratories where time was not an issue. For many years, it had been considered impossible to do in the field because of the enormous complexity of the detectors, the computers and the transmitters needed to null a wave. Then came the TACCATS with its enormous power and incredibly fast computational speeds. Suddenly, the technology was available to attempt nulling a wave by sending a second one into it which was exactly "out of phase". This had first been accomplished at MIT some ten years before.

However, a second problem remained. Modern radars used the millimeter-band wavelengths to achieve high resolution. This meant that to defeat a radar by jamming a similar millimeter wave source was used. In turn, this meant that to defeat the jamming a powerful millimeter wave source had to be developed. Not only would this have to be powerful, but widely flexible. It had to be tunable to many frequencies, with a variable power level to meet and cancel the jamming, while not creating further jamming all by itself.

The resulting research led to entirely new MASERs, and a backup array of these incredible devices. Not that they were perfect, nor did they provide complete immunity from jamming. Instead, they were an important tool the techies used to defeat, deflect or deter attacks upon American ships, planes and personnel.

The screens slowly cleared as the "noise" was cut dramatically. The combination of careful tuning and close coupling of the transmitter and receiver did its part. The computer enhancement techniques added even more confidence. Finally, the MASERs added their electronic magic to the mix. When Bunker Hill's Wizards had finished their difficult and demanding job, the noise was only twice the normal background radiation. They could see to target missiles or anything else for a radius of two hundred miles.

Captain William "Buck" Henry, better known as CAG, and his Radar Intercept Officer, Lt. Charles "Chunky" Smith, were leading the Knights. Normally, his squadrons would be three hundred miles from the fleet, looking for the enemy. Then, he could use his Phoenix missiles to destroy enemy aircraft that were one hundred miles further out. In this engagement, he faced a situation where the enemy was only one hundred miles away. He was too close to the fleet for his Tomcats to do their job. It wasn't worth lighting his afterburners.

"Air Controller to CAG. New course, One-Zero-Two; Angels Four-Oh. Your targets are thirty-six Blinders, range One-Six-Five. They are escorted by thirty-six MiG-31s. Buster, CAG, and good shooting."

Nine McDonnell F-34D Tomcat II, Air Superiority Fighters flipped on their Hughes AWG-12 "Aegis" Surveillance/Attack radar systems, their FLIRs, and their Northrop Hi-Res Television Cameras and headed east-southeast. On queue, each of the big birds accelerated smoothly through the once dreaded sound barrier and climbed to forty thousand feet at Mach two-point-five.

The enemy formations appeared on the edge of their screens and then disappeared in a spiral of noise. CAG knew from long years of training and experience that this was just a temporary problem. The boys and girls on the ships, and in the Eyes and Ears had also seen it. They would correct this minor technical malfunction in just seconds. But, at fifteen hundred miles per hour, he was covering half a mile a second. It wouldn't take too many seconds to get into big trouble, especially with MiG-31s hanging around. At the same time, he knew that Pollux had been assigned to cover his squadron electronically. There was no doubt in his mind that the Regulator could do a far better job of blinding the MiGs and Blinders than the enemy could do to him.

The only thing left for him to do was to get his offensive systems ready. "Arm Phoenix One through Four. Arm AAMRAM One through Four. Arm Sidewinder One and Two. Arm Gun! Maintain dual control. Air Search Mode all sensors. Maintain verbal and sensory warning." CAG's plane was armed. Its sensors reached out for any scrap of information, and its computer was alive to receive anything from any confirmed source in the fleet. But, with all the jamming, his best sensor package was the built-in, binocular, light enhancing, 3-D, stereoscopic device located in the front of his own skull.

His screens cleared quickly as the geniuses figured out what was going on, and countered it. His sensors worked ... not perfectly, but he had only five percent degradation. He owed that whole crew a drink, or two. If any of them drank, that is. Hmm! He'd have to find out.

There they were, just like Leprechaun One had said...a big bunch of MiG-31s flying top cover. Just below them, obviously heavily loaded, were the Blinders. His targets! Thirty-six Blinders. It was a wonderful coincidence that his nine Knights had exactly thirty-six AIM 56D Phoenix IIs.

He issued the orders, "Knights from CAG. Bomber spread. Phoenix attack at seven-zero miles. Volley fire. Prepare to designate. Designate!"

The computers buzzed though their calculations in microseconds. Each Badger had an AIM 56D assigned to it.

"Volley Fire, Knight Squadron, CAG, code Buck,"

Nine Tomcat's computers interfaced with each other, integrating the information and commands already transmitted to them. Unless they received a canceling order from 'CAG, code Buck', they'd launch at the first opportune moment.

CAG's plane lurched to the left and automatically recovered. His first Phoenix had released. He chuckled a little as he watched the missiles disappear trailing light gray smoke.

Original model Phoenixes had flown before of a towering white cloud. Anybody with two eyes and most with just one could see it easily and duck out of its way. With the -56D, they had no such warning. It pays to be fast and have a big warhead, but sneaky is really important, too.

Five seconds later, Buck's second Phoenix launched from under his left wing. Ten seconds later, after his final two had launched, his fighter was almost three thousand pounds lighter. It began to handle like an airplane again, rather than like a city bus.

"Knight Squadron, break right on command. Follow me. Go, go!"

There was no sense in following the Phoenixes in towards the targets. They were "intelligent birds", needing no more help to find and destroy their targets than had already been given to them. If some of them missed, his T-2s had one more chance. He had exactly enough time to circle, wait for the Phoenixes to do their damage, and then follow up with his AAMRAMs.

Of course, after the second attack, he'd have to run like hell. The MiG-31s would be on him like ducks on a bug. His T-2s would have to run and hide under the protective umbrella of the fleet's missiles. The SM-4s were smart enough not to shoot down their own fighters. But, if MiGs were on their tails, God help them, ‘cause the United States Navy sure wouldn't.

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?

5. Straits of Sicily

5.4 Libya

5.4.1 Blinder Wing

Wing Commander General Viktor Rashmenko had fallen in love with the country three decades before when he had served there as a youngster. He loved the deep desert, the blue Mediterranean, and his new-found reason for living, his God, Allah.

Perhaps he shouldn't have thought about it in that way. Allah was not his. He was Allah's. Yet, does not the servant, even the slave, have a contract with his master? Can't the slave say, "My master?" Ah! He would have to bring up the matter on Friday at the Mosque.

His Blinder flew like a pig! Yes, it was a dirty word in Islam. If anybody knew he had even thought it, they'd burn his plane, but it was true. The two gigantic Ketstral drones under his wings were heavy. In spite of the fact that they had wings, they provided no lift for his huge craft and only slowed it down with their weight and drag.

He'd be glad when this mission was over, and he could return to base to load up with real bombs. Then, he'd return to sink the remnants of the Yankee fleet. Afterwards, he'd go home to his lovely, dark-eyed wife and his seven children, and tell her uncles the stories of his triumphs.

The navigator called up to him, "It is time to break off and go north, Commander General."

"Good," he thought to himself. "We'll go north and scare the Yankees. Now, where are those damned MiGs? Ah! They are in position, high and in front ready to intercept those who will come. This is a good plan."

The air warning came in to shutter the radars. This was an unusual procedure, but it was necessary. The shutter, as on a camera, would protect the radar's 'lens' from the enormous blast of energy about to be released by the American Regulators and by his Libyan ECM-Badger escorts. The Badgers would blind the Americans, and it was only to be expected that they would return the compliment. By closing down the shutter's iris, only a small amount of energy would return to the detectors. It wouldn't be much, but it would be enough, along with the obvious visual clues, to be able to launch the Ketstrals in time.

His radar went blank. His operator complained that he couldn't see anything. Rashmenko wondered why he was whining? The general had explained what to expect. But, it was typical of those types: the bookish technologists that seemed to run everything. They were the short, squinty-eyed ones who wore glasses and could converse only with a computer. All of them, that is, except for his radar officer, but he was the exception. He was a tall, strikingly handsome man with a great black mustache.

Viktor had tried to grow one, but his blond hair and blue eyes were no match for the handsome, black-mustached radar nerd. As they walked down the streets, brown eyes looked above masking veils, dismissing him, and coveting the tall, dark and handsome computer operator. If they only knew. The stories he could tell them. But, he was blond, shorter, and, in their eyes, not nearly as interesting. It was their loss.

The panicky alert from the MadCap was relayed to him in just seconds. "They have launched, Commander General!"

"Very well." It was all he could do to contain himself. Idiots! In spite of years of training, in spite of detailed mission planning, in spite of supplying them with every detail of every facet of everything that would happen, they were always surprised and dismayed when it actually did happen. They and the sheep belonged to each other ... and the sheep were probably the smart ones.

"Keep your eyes open," he commanded his crew. "Look for the smoke trails. They will be faint, but you will be able to see them. Look! Or, you will see Allah this day!"

He leaned forward and looked up. Long before any of the others had seen it, he had! He leaned back, flicked his landing lights twice, and turned to his co-pilot. "Launch the first Ketstral." The boob just sat there, looking at him! "Launch the son of a bitch!" His command seeped into the co-pilot's tiny brain, who finally punched a button on his side of the cockpit.

The mini-airplane dropped off the right wing, and the Blinder veered to the left. By the time the bomber was level again, the Ketstral was flying. In just seconds, it would start to emit. Its radar reflectors would deploy, and the body would expand making it appear that it was much larger than it actually was. It would be just too tempting for a Phoenix missile to ignore.

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?

5. Straits of Sicily

5.5 America

5.5.1 Continued Attack on Sierra Four

CAG followed the flight of "his" birds, as they headed towards the Blinders. He was busy flying most of the time so Chunky, his RIO, kept him apprised and followed up with short interludes from his own displays on CAG's. His missiles were running straight and true.

'What was this?' The number of targets seemed to double as he watched them. Is this some new, phony, electronics trick? Chunky said it was real, so it had to be, but what the hell...?'

The Phoenix 56D was a smart missile, incorporating all the lessons learned in Desert Storm and the conflicts of the early twenty-first century. The original missile was simply a big radar unit. It was launched, given a mid-course correction with final targeting data, and its internal radar did the rest. Yet, it could be fooled by drones and out-flown by decent fighter pilots. So, the 56D had been given two new sensors along with more efficient engines and larger flight control surfaces.

The first new sensor was a FLIR, and the second was a TV. The radar image, the video image and the infrared image had to match. If they didn't, the missile could query the originating targeting system for updated information, test the images against other "knowns" for a match, or query the target for an IFF. With its longer range, greater maneuverability and "smart homing", it was a day/night killer. Except, of course, it was a computer.

The Phoenix's internal sensors "woke up" half way through the flight. At that point, the T-2 could send it new guidance or targeting information. If not, the missile searched for the pre-designated target using all its sensory array. In this case, it was searching for a large, multi-engine, jet bomber flying at an altitude of thirty thousand feet on a closing course.

The sensors popped on, and there was a target. It wasat the right altitude and on the right course. The radar picture looked perfect. The infra-red clearly showed two engine heat sources. The television camera identified an airplane conforming to the correct shape. When the Phoenix queried it, the target did not respond.

Enemy aircraft confirmed. Destroy!

Buck shouted into the radio, not giving a damn about who heard him, "What the fuck was that!"

"Buck? Bull. You've got thirty-six kills, except I don't know what you hit. The Blinders were there one second and gone the next. Hit 'em with the AAMRAMs and run for cover. The MiGs are coming down fast. Shoot within thirty seconds. Out!"

"CAG to Knights. We've been snookered. Prepare to volley fire AAMRAMs, volley fire! Knight Squadron! Commander Air Wing, CAG Code Buck!" Eight seconds later, thirty-six AAMRAMs -- smaller, quicker, shorter ranged but no less intelligent missiles -- were speeding towards their targets. Once again, thirty-six Ketstrals were destroyed.

Having flown the greatest and most successful deception of the war, Wing Commander General Rashmenko returned to his family.

CAG led his Knights safely under the missile shield of his fleet, having wasted seventy-two of his country's finest missiles on drones. From small defeats come great victories. This one was not small, and CAG knew it.

5.5.2 Mad Dogs and Strawberries

The signal to attack came from Bunker Hill via Leprechaun 1. "Missile Boss says go, Mad Dogs. Target is Topaz Three. Remember your ceiling is five thousand. Strawberry will follow you in. Launching in fifteen seconds." A similar call went to Hook and Pineapple directing them against Topaz Two.

"DJ" Duncan led his Mad Dogs into a steep dive and flashed astern of Carson, just as Neill's first SM-4s were leaping from her vertical arrays. "Perfect," he thought, "Just perfect!"

Their timing couldn't have been better. They were skimming just one hundred feet above the surface at six hundred knots beneath an impenetrable ceiling of missilery. Every enemy ship and plane would be concentrating on the events happening at fifteen to thirty-five thousand feet. Every eye on every enemy ship would be looking up, while the Mad Dogs would be below their mast-top level.

DJ blinked his landing lights twice. Betz and Bleeper clicked back in reply. The formation split. Bleeper shot away leading his Mastiffs almost due south, to come round Topaz Three and hit them from the flank. Betz led her Dobies further east, to come at them from the other side. DJ had chosen the most difficult of the three attacking roles, the head-on, eye-to-eye, missile vs. missile confrontation. "Now," he thought, "if they'll just illuminate."

Every one of his plane's sensors was working perfectly, and his own senses seemed remarkably clear. He knew that his adrenaline had to be pumping out at a fantastic rate, because the closer he got to the enemy, the calmer he felt and the slower things seemed to move. His FLIR detected heat sources directly in front of him. He spotted the slight mist of smoke emanating from four ship's stacks. Then, his radar detectors screamed at him. He'd been painted by search radars!

"The stupid bastards! Don't they know that they're worthless? Then again, with missiles flying all around and a sky filled with war planes, it'd be damned hard not to turn something on."

He counted the sources, confirmed his computer's count of four, and "voiced" his radio. "Boxer One to Boxer flight, confirming four target vessels. Total of four standard-band acquisition and four fire-control radars. Fire HARMs as planned. Designating!"

Four HARMs were programmed to seek out the surveillance radars as their primary targets, while four more were assigned to the fire control systems. That'd leave Boxer flights with a total of four more HARMs to use if something went wrong or to take out shorter ranged, close-in systems.

He called out, "Close to optimum range. Computerized attack."

Three SuperHornets sped towards their targets, their computers steadily updating range, speed, and targeting parameters. Only when the computers were ready would they actually launch. Once the missiles were fired, the chances of destroying the enemy ship's radars were almost one hundred percent.

The computer took over, and the Hornets jumped up to five hundred feet. Eight HARMs dropped off three planes' wings in rapid succession. As the missiles ignited, the computer brought the planes back down to the comparative safety of the wave-tops.

"Boxer One to Mad Dogs, missiles away." Seconds later both Doby One and Mastiff One reported that they had launched on the gunboats.

Boxer flight hugged the surface heading towards the enemy fleet. This was easily the most difficult part of the mission, demanding courage and determination. To pop up now, before the enemy's radars had been destroyed impudently demanded that they fire. It was better to stay low and fast while preparing to fire the rest of the HARMs.

In quick succession, all eight radars went down. "Boxer One to Strawberry One, you are clear to attack. We'll take top cover as planned." He ordered his radio to the fighter frequency. "Boxer One to all Mad Dogs, regroup on me as planned. Watch for Strawberries."

DJ looked back over each shoulder and saw that his RBT was intact. He blinked once, received two clicks on his radio, and pulled up into a swift climb to four thousand feet.

His radio echoed with shouts of victory. "Doby One to Boxer One, five dead gunboats. Regrouping on your position."

"Mastiff One to Boxer One, mission accomplished. We'll go back the way we came and meet you as planned. Out."

As Pepe's three A-29 Avengers streaked towards their targets, like great blue-gray sharks, Boxer flight turned in a large circle above them. Each of the Boxer's three pilots looked around anxiously. Not only did they have to rendezvous with the Dobies and Mastiffs, but they were also responsible for the safety of the Strawberry Margueritas. Dozens of enemy fighters filled the skies above them, and, regardless of the Avenger's stealth, they were now at their most vulnerable. They were down low, wave hopping where an enemy's set of 'Mark Ones' just might spot them.

"Boxer One, Leprechaun One, Doby flight rejoining you at ten o'clock, five miles. Mastiff at one o'clock, ten miles. Keep your eyes peeled, DJ, Sierra Three may have seen you. Enemy low-level stuff is milling around and forming to attack. Cover the Strawberries. They are still three minutes out. I'll try to scare up some help.

Before DJ could react a second call came in. "Disregard, Boxer One. Twenty-two, that's two-two twin-tailed bandits coming downstairs after you. Eleven o'clock, distance twenty miles, speed Mach-2 and increasing. Feeding your 'box' now."

DJ's canopy instantly displayed the images of the twenty-plus enemy aircraft coming at him. Like Bull, he had no idea whether they were SU-27s, -35s or MiG-29s. They were all tough, fast and very quick. Since they were coming after him, they'd be armed for air-to-air.

Down here, he had no room to maneuver. However, to climb up to meet them would violate the ceiling. He didn't want to blunder into the path of an SM-4 regardless of how intelligent it was. That was flirting with disaster. It would be wiser for him stay down low, reform, and then move to meet them.

"Follow me," he ordered, banking right into a split-S while pushing the throttleator forward. Boxer flight, now at one thousand feet, smoothly accelerated to eight hundred knots, as both Doby and Mastiff joined on them.

"DJ to Junkyard, they're coming in too fast. They'll fire missiles first, but overshoot. On command, break, split, climb and fire." His heard two double-clicks as both of his flight leaders acknowledged.

'Now to suck them in. "Fly steady," he reminded himself. "Don't let them know that they've been spotted. Make believe that we're fat, dumb and happy, just heading home after a day at the office.'

His lower screen was projecting his rear aspect, taking in the data from his own small, rear-facing radar as well as the god's eye view from the Hawkeye. Like all of fighter tactics, this maneuver was all in the timing.

"They've launched on you, DJ!" Leprechaun One screamed.

His screen confirmed it, as did all his threat warnings. A woman's voice, generated by his computer calmly warned him, "Missile, six o'clock high, range ten thousand." He ordered it to cease warnings and to update only the range.

"Nine thousand!"

"Wait!"

"Eight thousand! Seven Thousand! Six Thousand! Five Thousand! Four Thousand! Three Thousand! Two Thousand! One Thousand!"

He watched his scopes as the missiles hurtled down at him. Instant death was overtaking him at almost one thousand miles per hour!

"Break! Break!" He hauled back on his joy-stick, jamming the throttleator to its limits. The twin P&W's poured raw fuel into the afterburners throwing him forward with thirty-six thousand pounds of thrust. LERX's bent upward, lifting his Hornet's nose artificially, while its vectored thrusters canted upward throwing its tail round. His seat gimbaled backwards, reclining to spread ten G's over the full length of his body, preventing a total blackout.

He looked up and back as far as he could, until, through a grayish haze, he saw the horizon. He pushed the stick forward. For just a brief moment, the plane's violent turn seemed to hang in the sky, while still traveling "forward" at over eight hundred miles per hour. The wing's LERX's snapped over and the thrusters snapped "down." The Hornet executed a perfect "cobra maneuver" as it rocketed straight up at the oncoming enemy aircraft.

He shook his head violently, while "blowing" hard into his gut to ward off the effects of his high-G turn. He checked his six, his Boxers, and the whereabouts of the missiles. Dilly and the rest of the kennel were still with him, and a ripple of explosions churned the sea where they would have been.

Now, to the attack! "DJ to Mad Dogs, light 'em up. Weapons free. Follow me! Computer, air search all systems. Arm all missiles and guns. Designate!" He 'pipped' a twin-tail. "Fire!" An AAMRAM dropped off and ignited, but he had no time to bother tracking it visually to see if it did its job. "Designate! Fire!" Another AAMRAM launched, and the computer voice warned, "Collision alert! Twelve o'clock!"

"Understood, computer, collision imminent." That was the idea. Split them, just like a winger splits the defensemen. The game was also called chicken!

The two formations blew through each other at eleven thousand feet. DJ's head was on a pivot, looking for his wings, his three-somes, and the enemy all at the same time.

More planes were coming down after them. The ones below were extending, climbing and turning to get back into the fight. They were between his Mad Dogs and his fleet.

He was trapped! Nine against thirty or forty, perhaps more. His resolve hardened. If he was going to die, he'd take a bunch of them with him.

"Mad Dogs, break west, now! Buster!" Bull's voice was urgent.

DJ kicked his Hornet over and fire-walled its engines. He glanced back. Enemy planes were being blotted out of the sky! "What the hell?"

"Mad Dogs, new vector: zero-three-five. Assume cruise speed, obey ceiling limits. Execute! By the way, DJ, get ready to buy a lot of vino. You owe a big one to the Italian Air Force."

5.5.3 Missiles Away!

It was a go! The computers were ready, the missiles were ready and the crews were ready.

"Weapons free! Fire!" called Captain Yuhovitch. His order was echoed by Commander Halbertson on the Missile Boss' frequency.

Instantly, fire burst from the deck of the missile array and one missile popped above the foredecks of each of the three missile ships. At twenty-five feet, the SPQ-12B gave its first instructions to the missiles. One second later, the next missile erupted from the vertical launch array like a kid puffing a spitball through a straw. Bunker Hill repeated the sequence one hundred and one times, while Garibaldi mimicked it fifty-three times and Neill another forty-three times.

The displays recorded it all. Priority Ones were eliminated within the first few seconds. Priority Twos followed quickly. Priority Threes, the tough ones to hit, were tougher than the computers had estimated. Sierra One had only two fighters left, and Leprechaun Four had assigned its T-2s to eliminate them using long-ranged Phoenixes. Sierra Two had ceased to exist. Sierra Three had been ravaged, but there were still over two dozen fighters left.

"Not bad! Not bad at all," Halbertson evaluated the missilery. "Prepare for second volley. Missile Boss to Carson. Carson, you will join this volley." All ships acknowledged, and then the screen changed dramatically.

The 'cloud' behind Sierra Three, which had been bothering everybody, finally resolved itself. Thirty-five Blackjacks emerged from their screen of escorts and heavy jamming, flying at Mach 2.2 at twenty thousand feet. Before anyone could react, and even before the computer had finished painted them on the big display, the thirty-five images became one hundred and forty.

"Vampire! Vampire!" the talker announced excitedly. "Missile count, one hundred and five. Speed, Mach 4. Altitude, forty thousand and climbing. Computer characterizes vampires as Kaltrops."

Halbertson couldn't contain himself. "Shit! I thought we had the bastards!" He hunched back over his system coordinating with the other ships and computers.

The combination of the high speed and relatively small size of the rocket-powered Kaltrop missiles presented a whole new problem for the fleet. The SM-4s were quick enough and fast enough to handle this kind of anti-missile defense, but the Italian SM-3's would be hard pressed. Bunker Hill had only fifty-eight missiles left and Neill had just twenty-five. It was a good thing that Carson was on missile alert, or they wouldn't have enough. Even so, it'd be close, and there might be leakers.

Captain Yuhovitch broadcast the Fleet Missile Warning as Halbertson coordinated the firing sequences. The five FiGs each loaded a missile onto their single-armed launchers. Although their rate of fire was puny, in comparison with the big vertical launch arrays, at this point five more missiles every seven seconds might be the difference.

Simultaneously, every close-range missile and gun in the fleet came on line. Halsey's four, eight-missile Sea Robin arrays emerged from their protective coverings. The five-inch and three-inch guns of the CG, DDs and FFGs turned to meet the threats. The R2D2-like Close-in Weapons Systems turned their gatling guns to the sky to ward off any last-second messengers of death.

"Weapons free! Fire!" shouted the Captain and the Missile Boss almost simultaneously.

The big ships geysered missiles upward. The big board catalogued their results. One-oh-five became eighty. Eighty became fifty. Fifty became thirty. Thirty became ten.

"Ten got through, Sir."

Even before Yuhovitch could ask, he could hear the pounding of Bunker Hill's five-inch guns, the crisp roar of Sea Robins and the Velcro-like rasp of the R2D2s. One explosion moved the air impressively, but it didn't feel like a hit.

The next one did. All the lights went out. The screens went dead. Glass blew in every direction. Everyone aboard was thrown down and tossed about like rag dolls. Equipment that had been firmly bolted to the bulkheads crashed on top of them. Then, the bulkheads themselves collapsed.

5.5.4 Halsey Fights

CAG was talking to Captain Teegin while Admiral Duncan watched the skies with growing fears. "They played some kind of decoy game on us, Captain. We wasted seventy-two missiles on drones. Something's up. Watch your ass, Captain!" At that instant, the vampire warning blared.

Duncan couldn't stand the tension. His well-laid plans were falling apart. He glanced down at the flight deck. Below him, deck crews were running frantically as the ship cycled from flight operations to close-in defense. Each of the crew had an assigned emergency position. Some would be in the fire brigade. Some would handle emergency landings, SAR and other important tasks. Still others would help with Halsey's pitifully small and inadequate defensive systems.

Four rectangular boxes, two cells deep and four wide, emerged from their storage positions alongside of and under the flight decks. Each of them lifted up and turned towards the starboard beam. The four CIWS mounts turned back and forth, their thirty-millimeter cannons bouncing up and down, as though stretching before they began to exercise. Halsey was making preparations to defend herself.

Realizing that he'd better do the same, the admiral slid down the ladders into the CIC. The display of the incoming Kaltrops was counting down rapidly. As Duncan watched, the numbers fell below fifty, but even his "slow" human mind could see that the numbers weren't falling fast enough. There would be leakers.

Leakers! What a word. It wasn't like a hole in an inner tube or a lawn hose. They were missiles, armed with hundreds of kilos of high explosives. They were death machines bent on killing, maiming and wounding his people. They must be stopped!

Ten of them "leaked." One was quickly destroyed by Bunker Hill's close-in systems and another by Garibaldi. A third was hit by Neill's Sea Robin and a fourth by its CIWS. That left six.

The first of them struck Bunker Hill between its two CIWS mounts on the upper deck and buried itself inside the ship. The explosion tore the guts out of the superstructure between the "twin towers", leaving a gap-toothed appearance filled with fire, flame and smoke. Bunker Hill did not answer Teegin's hails.

The next one clipped Garibaldi's helicopter deck, exploding on impact. The entire aft of the ship was engulfed in a conflagration that leapt a hundred feet into the sky. Captain Vespatian radioed that his ship was in no danger, and that the fire appeared far worse than it was. He confirmed that his ship was still ready and able to continue the battle in spite of her appearance.

The final four all found their primary target and headed straight at Halsey.

"Left full Rudder!" Teegin shouted.

The helmsman spun the tiny wheel. The big ship canted hard to starboard, knocking down the crewmen on the flight deck. Clawing and scratching, they were inexorably pulled towards the sea. The aft Sea Robin mounts volleyed their sixteen missiles. Two Kaltrops blew up harmlessly.

Teegin shouted, "Chaff! Chaff! Chaff!" The aft RBocs belched three times, filling the air with millions of millimeter-long aluminum foil strips.

"Illuminate! ECM!" The aft MASER mounts fired their coherent beams into the chaos of foil. One of the missiles was deceived - the last one wasn't. The aft starboard CIWS burped and groaned. It and the entire starboard side of the aft flight deck erupted in a fireball.

The Fire Control Teams reported immediately. The missile had exploded just above the deck. The CIWS had done its job at the last second, but the after starboard side was a mess. The CIWS and Sea Robin mounts had been destroyed. The aft RBocs, MASERs and ECMs were gone. The fireball had blown into the confined spaces of the hanger deck. There were at least three hundred casualties. The fires would be taken care of shortly, and emergency flight operations could resume in half an hour. Full operations would take a few hours.

Duncan listened to the litany of death and destruction as though it were a nightmare. Yet, one thought echoed in his mind, "What happened to that other missile?"

As if in answer, a lookout cried, "Oh! My God! It's exploded!"

The Kaltrop had tracked, identified and approached its target, just as its programmers had intended. Its radar had detected a large shape, which it had identified as an aircraft carrier, the number one priority in the missile's tiny brain. Its on-board television camera had visually confirmed the radar identification. The two sensors had locked onto the waterline amidships.

Then, the air turned into a blur. It was snowing! Like a car in a snow storm, the missile's "headlights" were reflected back into its tiny electronic eyes. Like an unknowing motorist, the missile increased its power, which, like putting on the high beams, only increased its blindness.

Yet, in spite of this "snow", the missile was not completely blind. The optical television saw a large moving shape located where the original target should have been. So, the missile fell back upon its secondary system and adjusted course.

Then, the snow turned into a fairyland of color and form. The MASERs playing across the foils created a kaleidoscope of wondrous beauty. The myriad of colors, hues, textures and shapes bedazzled and beguiled the missile's computer. If silicon chips could be moved to poetry, this computer was. If a computer could ever feel, this one was in love, or perhaps just in love with love. It rolled and dipped, it twisted and turned, reveling in electronic ecstasy.

Then, it flew out of the cloud. Its electronic mind cleared. It sought the target, but it was gone!

The missile began a new search. It turned slightly. There, on the horizon, was a huge target. Track. Identify. Confirm. Lock on. Kill!

The Perry Class frigates had been built with two thoughts in mind. First, they were to be good ASW vessels. Second, they had to be cheap. The qualities of being a good vessel were sacrificed whenever they abridged the doctrine of "cheap".

The Perrys were under-powered and slow because building better engines would have cost money, violating the Cheap Doctrine. Therefore, instead of providing more power, Congress mandated lighter ships. When someone discovered that aluminum was not only lighter than steel but didn't rust, the Perrys were designed with completely aluminum superstructures above a steel hull. This gave Congress their cheap ASW ship and gave the Navy enough of them to do the job.

The only problem that the Congressional Whiz-Kids had not foreseen was that aluminum burns. Aluminum burns aggressively, with an incredibly hot blue-white flame that will permanently blind the human eye. It burns so aggressively that it "steals" oxygen from iron oxides, commonly called rust. In the process it turns the rust into ordinary iron. The temperatures are so high that the iron melts, flows and, in the ordinary circumstance, welds iron objects together. This is the "secret" of the thermite bomb. Yet, in spite of the terrible fires that had occurred on both the Stark and the Roberts, Congress, in its incredible wisdom, continued to mandate the Perry's aluminum superstructure.

The Kaltrop struck just aft of the spindly, gantry-like superstructure and plunged though the catwalk into the interior before exploding. A gush of fire and flame blasted back up through the hole. The explosion within the confined space shredded the forward compartments, collapsing the bridge.

The fireball of burning, sputtering, blue-white flame melted downward into the missile bins beneath the foredeck, exploding them. The thermite bomb continued to burn through the decks, radiating its heat further and further aft.

Within thirty seconds, the entire ship was a mass of flames. Fifteen seconds later, the white-hot, molten mass of metal burned through the hull, sundering the ship in two. Twenty seconds later, the Hiram Jones disappeared beneath the waves with but sparkling bits of burning aluminum on the surface to remind people of the once proud fighting ship and her crew.

"What's exploded, Lookout?" Teegin demanded.

Admiral Duncan appeared at his side. "Where away, Lookout?"

The youngster, who had never seen death or destruction before, could only point. Except that where he pointed, there was nothing but a wisp of smoke!

The captain grabbed him, shaking him violently. "What's going on? Report, Mister!"

"Sir," tears were rolling down his face, and his voice cracked, "It's the Jones, Sir. She's gone!"

"Oh, no!" Duncan cried out, grabbed the big lookout glasses, sighting in the direction of his screen. "One, two," he counted looking to the north and east. He swung the binoculars slowly towards the south. "Three, four."

The radio came alive. "Carson to Halsey, Jones has been sunk! Send SAR. Cannot break off. Possible submarine contact, zero-one-five relative, distance six miles. She's gone, Sir. Just disappeared!"

The radio went dead, and Admiral Duncan sank heavily into the captain's chair. "Get the choppers up, Ed. Rescue everyone we can. Inform the fleet about the Jones and about the sub. And, remember, we're still in the middle of a battle. Let's all get back to work, or we'll all end up the same way - dead! Move it, Captain!"

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?

5. Straits of Sicily

5.6 Libya

5.6.1 Submarines

Three of the mightiest rivers in the world flow into the virtually land-locked, fresh-water lake called the Black Sea. Like a giant bathtub being filled by three enormous spigots, the sea fills and overflows through the narrowness of the Dardenelles and then into the Aegean Sea. There, at the "end of the world", the waters of Europe meet the waters of Africa's mighty Nile in a stirring, milling confluence.

As the waters from these mighty torrents meet and increase upon themselves, they pile upwards, threatening to engulf the lands around them. In their urgency, they attempt to escape, to flow downward as demanded by the laws of Nature. They would flow out through the Suez, but for one reason. After Man created this passage for his ships to ride the back of the great flood, he dammed it again with locks to slow the very flow he sought.

As the waters pile upon themselves, the pressure below increases to incredible proportions. In the end, the waters at the very greatest depths squirt out from beneath like toothpaste from a tube that has been trodden upon by an elephant. And so, in its depths, the Mediterranean Sea begins its long pilgrimage to the Pillars of Hercules.

Most of the waters flow along the coast of Africa, through a deep trench mirrored above by the parallel heights of the Atlas Mountains. Yet, there are other rivers which flow into the basin from the Aegean, the Adriatic and the Ionian Seas, and they, too, move westward.

Along the southern coast of Sicily, the sea-bottom moves upwards towards the surface, either as a long-forgotten piece of land which had sunk or presaging new lands still rising from the depths. Most of the waters move south along the arc formed by the headlands of Point Bon, but much of it moves steadily up the slopes between Pantelleria Island and Sicily. As it moves upwards, being compressed into a smaller space, its speed increases. And so, as it travels through these shallows, a steady current of about four knots passes by.

This current, with its swirls and eddies, had scoured the lands beneath the surface, just as the wind and rain had eroded the lands above. A tongue of deep water had been burrowed out of the Sicilian rise, affording a deep-water channel penetrating into the otherwise shallow places along the southern coast.

It was to this spot that the Libyan submarines had been dispatched to lie in wait for the American fleet. They were to lie there and listen, for the sea is a place of sound.

In the air above, sound travels slowly and dissipates its energies quickly. Above is the place of light and air and heat. Below, where light penetrates little and cold is normal, sound is king. All the sea is filled with the noise of its denizens. Shrimp and krill crack and crackle. Fish moan and scream. Porpoises shrill and click. The Leviathan sings a mournful song that can be heard half-way around the world.

The submarines were to emulate the creatures of the sea, at least in part. Unlike them, the subs were to make no sound, for sound was as much their enemy as their friend. Instead, they were to listen, for nothing passes in the sea which makes no sound.

The American warships floated on hulls of steel, which absorbed all of the noises generated within themselves, conducting those sounds through the barrier of the surface and into the depths. Once there, the reverberations of the ship's activities were transmitted through the waters, and the skilled listener could determine everything that was necessary to know about them. The mighty pulse of a steam catapult and the slam of the water dam could be heard for hundreds of miles. The crash of a plane landing upon a deck was as a bellow into the ear. The steady whine of turbines, the beat of screw propellers, even the wake of the bow made discernible noises which the knowledgeable could read like a book.

But, the Libyans were no longer a people of the sea. They had forgotten their heritage for it had been destroyed, first by Rome and then by other conquerors too innumerable to remember. The charts showed that, even at their shallowest, these waters were almost two hundred meters deep. At the place where they were instructed to lie on the bottom, the depth was almost five hundred meters.

Few vessels could achieve such depths. The Soviet Alfa, the only titanium submarine ever produced in quantity, could regularly travel at such depths. But, the Alfa was extinct. Even the great wealth of Libya could not furnish one.

Instead, they had purchased the ubiquitous diesel/electric submarine called Foxtrot by NATO. But, that ancient design had a crush depth of only two hundred meters. No captain in his right mind would test even a new boat to see if it would survive such pressures. These vessels, after thirty years of service and an unknown number of probably unreliable repairs, would surely implode like an egg-shell under the blow of a hammer at those depths.

So, they cruised at fifty meters below the surface, fighting the current, endeavoring to hear above the sound of their own passing. Using their quiet electric motors powered by huge banks of batteries, they cruised at an angle to the current, remaining motionless over the sea floor, while traveling at four knots against the current. Slowly, they zigged and zagged back and forth while listening to the beat of screws, the pounding of catapults and the launching of missiles.

Then, Allah provided. The solid, impenetrable screen of five escort vessels was broken. A huge fifteen-kilometer gap suddenly appeared in the solid wall of ships, helicopters and planes.

One captain ordered his boat to turn, increasing its speed to six knots. Combined with the current's speed, the sub would shoot through the gap before the Americans could seal it. Once beyond the anti-submarine wall, it would float in the current until it was near the American carrier. Then, the captain would fire all six of his torpedoes and escape downstream to Tunis.

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?

5. Straits of Sicily

5.7 America

5.7.1 Submarines

Commander Conrad "Connie" Fink found it first. He'd been flying for nine hours, returning to the ship twice to refuel and to pick up new loads of sonobuoys. He was due to be relieved by another Viking when his radio operator shouted, "Sir, we've just lost contact with the Jones. She just went off the air. I'm picking up all sorts of chatter, Sir. I think she's been sunk!"

"Sunk? Check that out before spreading any rumors, Mister," Connie ordered. His thoughts naturally returned to the events of ... when was it? Yesterday? Mac! Pretty, bouncy, tough-as-nails Muriel MacDonald. Boy! Oh, boy, had she set into that poor guinea! And, wasn't that Italian smooth with that "Bellisima" stuff?

"Sir, it's confirmed. Jones went down. Damned few survivors, Sir."

"Connie," the voice of his ASW chief hailed him, "I've got something on six-six. It's fading, Sir, but coming up on six-five. Moving at about ten knots."

Connie yelled to his R/O, "Sparks, send the contact data to the Screen Commander's box. Set up a sonobuoy run." His voice sounded strident even to his own ears. He took a deep breath. Then, in a calm and even voice, he spoke to everyone aboard Finkster One, "Alrighty, everybody, let's settle down and do this by the numbers. We've been through this a thousand times. This is just one more drill." He glanced over at his co-pilot. "Arm number one torpedo. We just might have a use for it." His thoughts turned to Muriel. 'Yup,' he thought, "and I know just where!"

The Viking's instructions for course, speed and drop timing came in from Charley Taylor aboard Carson. The Viking lined up carefully, dropping to two hundred feet and slowing to one hundred and fifty knots. The ASW aircraft ejected eight sonobuoys at precise, one-mile intervals along a carefully calculated line across the last known course of the submarine contact. As the sonobuoys entered the water, they deployed their antennae upwards and lowered their sonar detectors, actually very sensitive microphones, down into the depths.

Two minutes later, the ASW chief called again. "Sir, we have a submarine passing between seventy-two and seventy-three. I detect three screws, Sir. Tentative ID is a Foxtrot, Sir."

Connie keyed his radio to Carson. "Detecting a Foxtrot-class submarine passing between buoys seventy-two and seventy-three. Do you concur, Charley?"

Taylor's answer came back immediately. "Confirmed, Connie. Foxtrot-class between buoys seventy-two and seventy-three. Can you prosecute? The helicopters are not in position to prosecute at this time."

"Can do, Charley. Finkster One, prosecuting Foxtrot-class submarine at this time." He swung the big plane around in a lazy circle, heading for the center line between the two buoys.

"Yankee Search," he ordered. The two sonobuoys pulsed and waited for an echo to return off the sub's hull.

"Submarine contact! Course, three-three-one. Depth, three-four-zero. Speed, ten knots. Torpedo ready for drop."

The Viking swooped. Its bomb bay opened, and a single Mark 62 parachuted, nose first, into the sea. Upon contact with the water, a buoy separated from the package. An aerial deployed, and the torpedo headed on its course trailing a long leash of fine optical cable back to the buoy.

The Torpedo Officer, watching the read-outs carefully, ordered another Yankee Search by the buoys. The pings read out perfectly on his fish's sonar detector. He kicked the torpedo into high gear, steering it like a kid would fly a model plane with a dual-stick remote control.

The Mark 62 accelerated to fifty knots, pinging rapidly. The sub tried to run, but even at top speed, the Foxtrot could only move at sixteen knots. Forty-eight seconds later, the sea erupted in a column of dirty, oily water. The sonobuoys recorded the scream of collapsing metal being crushed by the inexorable forces of the sea.

Connie almost smiled.

"Possible submarine contact, Sir. The Enrico Ghiarggio reports a MAD contact. They hadn't detected anything until the magnetic anomaly detector twitched. Both the Italian boats are after it. Finkster Six is with them."

"Thanks, Sparks, keep me informed. Call Finkster Two to take over our patrol. We're out of everything, so let's get out of everybody's way."

Five minutes later, Connie had fed Finkster Two with all the updates on all the buoys. He turned his plane towards Halsey to rearm and refuel. His approach was SOP, right up to the point when he called in. "Finkster One to Halsey. We're entering the pattern. Request landing instructions. Over."

"Finkster One, negative. Assume course three-four-niner, and rendezvous with the Herd. Contact Leprechaun Three on button niner for instructions. Halsey out."

"Out? What do you mean out," Connie yelled at nobody in particular.

A few seconds later, after he'd calmed down, he thumbed button number nine. "Finkster One to Leprechaun Three, requesting instructions, over."

"Finkster One, Leprechaun Three, assume course, three-four-oh, angels one-two. Rendezvous with Milk Maid on Button Ten. Acknowledge."

"Leprechaun Three, Finkster One, acknowledged, but what the hell is going on?"

"Finkster, Three here. Halsey's been hit. Aft's been damaged, lots of casualties. Emergencies are going to Sicily. Halsey will resume limited air ops in two-zero minutes plus or minus. Hopefully, we'll be back on some kind of schedule in a couple of hours. Right now, we're rotating the Moo-Cows through Sicily. So, unless you're declaring an emergency, you'll get to fly around with all us good guys, and swap stories. We've reserved one channel for gossip. Switch to alternate dash three, button five. By the way, Connie, good prosecution. That'll pay 'em back a little for Mac! Leprechaun Three, out."

Connie was stunned. Jones sunk. Halsey out of action for who knows how long? 'What the hell did I miss while I was out front playing underwater tag?'

Sparks switched to the third alternate frequency range, and punched up button five. He played it over the aircraft intercom. It was bad -- real bad.

Bunker Hill had been hit amidships. Her whole bridge, command and combat centers had been destroyed. She'd suffered hundreds of casualties and lots of dead, including Captain Yuhovitch and Commander Halbertson. Garibaldi had been hit and had suffered light casualties. She was towing Bunker Hill northwest, probably to Naples.

Jones had been blown to pieces. Twelve of her crew, including one ensign who had been blown overboard, had been pulled out of the water. Two or three wouldn't make it. Her only other survivors were her chopper crew, who were now helping to prosecute that other sub.

Halsey's aft was a mess. She'd lost the aft starboard elevator, CIWS, ASW and AA. She had maybe twenty-five or thirty dead and two to three hundred other casualties. They'd lost only two planes, one Avenger going after Topaz One and a Hornet over Topaz Two.

Yet, in spite of the losses in ships, planes and friends, this looked like one of those things history would call a victory. They'd sunk three surface action fleets, shot down over a hundred planes, and sunk at least one sub.

'Victory!' Connie thought, but the sound was hollow, and the taste was acid.

It was the hardest thing Jim Duncan had ever done. No, it was the second hardest. The hardest was when he had to tell a young woman with three children that she was a widow. Her twenty-six year old husband had died in one of those senseless accidents that can befall a sailor at any time. The look of pain, the cries of grief, and the searching eyes of the children haunted him still. So today, presiding over the Naval funeral of some two hundred and seventy-two officers and crew from four ships and three planes from two countries was only the second hardest.

Halsey's midships were packed with ordered ranks of officers and crews from each of the ships and services that had been involved in the marathon battle. To his right, and nearest to the carrier's tower stood Halsey's CO and crew. Behind them were the ranks of the carrier's pilots, mechanics, armorers and others belonging to the ship's air wing. Next to them were the representatives of each of the American escort vessels, with the six ambulatory survivors of the Hiram Jones in the center. To his left were the officers and crews from the three Italian escorts and a large contingent from the Italian Air Force.

Before them all, between the ordered ranks and the bridge, were three rows of litters. In each row, there were eleven with the five to either side draped with an American flag. In the center were the litters of the fallen Italians, similarly draped with their own flag. Four guardians of the dead stood by each of these forlorn biers.

The services for Protestant, Catholic, Jewish and Islamic members of the crew had been performed, and now there were only two essentials left to perform. As commanding officer of the fleet, it was his responsibility to say a few words.

But, what to say? He'd tried to write something, but his grief blocked the words. And then, he had no more time. He stood on Halsey's wing overlooking the slowly swaying mass of sailors below him. He plunged ahead, unsure of his task or goal for the first time in days.

"Officers and crews of the Sixth Fleet and of our brave allies of the Italian Navy and Air Force, we are gathered together here to mourn the loss of our friends and our shipmates.

"Although I did not know all of those fine officers and crews that died or were mortally wounded in yesterday's battle, some of them were close, personal friends.

"I shall miss my dear friend, Captain Grig Yuhovitch. I knew Grig for over thirty years and had served with him often on many ships, many oceans and many ports of call. Grig was always there for me, and was a man whose judgment was solid, and in whom I could trust. Suddenly, he is gone from my life. I shall never again be able to pull him aside for a quick joke, or a short beer. We shall never again gather with our wives and children to barbecue, sit around, laugh and share good times. My friend is dead, and I shall miss him greatly.

"Many of you feel the same way. You have lost friends as I have. We have all lost shipmates. And, we have all lost countrymen and women. We should grieve together and mourn our loss.

"At the same time, I'm sure many of you are asking why. Why should these friends of ours, who were enjoying life so fully, have to die? I know what you're asking, because I'm asking it, too. And, I can give you only one answer.

"Two days ago, Lieutenant Commander Muriel MacDonald of the Hiram Jones said it far better than I could ever have done. When asked, she said that she would gladly give up her life in the defense of her country and this fleet. I know that she did not mean to prophesy her own death, nor that of any of her crew. It just happened. Yet, as she spoke those words, so proudly and so defiantly, each of us who heard her, stood just a little taller trying to measure up to her high standards.

"Grig, Mac and many others died yesterday defending their country and this fleet. Some of those who died were not Americans, but were our brave friends and allies from Italy. As we mourn for our own, so we mourn for them. For on this sea, all of us became as one - unified in our love of freedom and determined to carry truth and justice to the furthest, darkest corners of this world.

And, when they ask us why we have sacrificed so much, we will tell them that each of us would give our very lives to protect the rights and liberties of ourselves and all the other free peoples of this world!"

He stepped back from the microphone. Halsey's Chief Petty Officer's bellow could be heard the full length of the crowded flight deck, "Right Hand! Salute!" Three thousands arms bent, including that of the Vice Admiral, and three thousand hands touched three thousand brims. The Marine rifle squad fired their rifles into the sky three times. Muted trumpets played Taps. Bagpipes mournfully wailed Amazing Grace. The Chief thundered, "Two!", and three thousand arms fell to three thousand sides with a muffled slap.

As the last notes diminished into the distance, each of the ships left in the fleet answered. The Hiram Jones, Garibaldi and Bunker Hill were all missing. The remaining two destroyers and four frigates fired their main batteries three times in a final salute to their fallen comrades.

Then, the skies were filled with aircraft as the air wings said their last good-byes. The first four planes were Hornets, led by DJ Duncan, Betz Chapiro and Tiny Small. The fourth flyer in the "Missing Man" formation was Ensign Sunny Liu, who had been Lt. Peter "Greeny" Green's regular wingman and lover since they'd come aboard. Greeny had died leading the second wave against Topaz Two. The Tunisian DD had hit him with a fluke shot from its ancient five-inch guns. Until this point, everyone in VHF-8 had ignored their closeness. But now, it was vital for them all to say good-bye in a manner befitting a fallen hero.

Following the Hornets came the Avengers with Pepe Gonzalez in the lead. One of his Avengers had been destroyed attacking Topaz One. Only one body had been recovered, and the Tequilas were still in shock at their loss.

Finally came the Italian contingent flying five Typhoons. As they approached the fleet, the second plane from the right lifted its nose, and disappeared into the heavens. The Italians had lost two of their pilots in the furball with Sierra Three. They'd saved nine Americans, while sacrificing two of their own.

The drums rolled. At the Chief's command, all saluted. The honor bearers stooped, and the thirty-three litters were taken up for their final journey with the fleet. Slowly, at half-step, the guardians carried their friends, companions, shipmates and allies to the awaiting helicopters gathered near the fantail. Only when the last of the fallen had been safely bundled within the fuselage did the Chief relent, and order "At Ease!" Five minutes later, the six choppers lifted off, heading out of sight towards Sicily.

"Attention! Dismissed!"

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?

5. Straits of Sicily

5.8 Zharan

5.8.1 Final Preparations

In spite of her father’s good news, Rahil made but little progress preparing for her family’s departure. The truck was large, indeed. However, one was not large enough for all the goods from the shop and her home. The freezers were packed with frozen meats, fish and other perishables. Barrels and vats were resealed and caulked to prevent leakage. Boxes of food stuffs were carefully arranged.

Then, there were the household goods. The china was packed away, protected by some of her mother’s old clothes. Silver plate and utensils were carefully wrapped and secreted at the bottom of large boxes of clothes. Kitchen ware, clothes, furnishings and appliances were stacked, ready to go. Yet, there was more ... always more.

And, with each passing moment, as boxes of family treasures was packed, Rahil could see her mother fading. Sefina was mourning every article that she so lovingly placed in every box. Tears streamed down her face, and occasionally a sob escaped as some particularly poignant piece disappeared into the depths of a carton. Before her eyes, Rahil watched as her mother’s health faded.

Her father was far too busy to see the changes in his wife. He was packing the shop, hiring workers to help him sort and pack. The trucker worked closely with Ahmed, ordering a refrigerated truck to take the perishables, while packing the rest in the first. It was a prodigious effort, and everyone was nearing exhaustion.

Seemingly out of nowhere, Uncle Ma’Sum appeared. “What is all of this, Nephew?”

Ahmed looked up, surprised to see him. “Ah, Uncle, I am preparing to depart to Qatar, as you directed.”

“But, what is this? I see men I do not know in possession of my shop, laying their hands upon my goods. Who authorized this? What are you doing, Ahmed?”

Flabbergasted, Ahmed replied, “I am doing as you ordered. I have packed your goods, and prepared them to be transported to Qatar. I am awaiting your orders as to our destination?”

“But, these men! How are you paying them? How did you pay for these trucks? I told you to put them into my carts and to push them to Qatar. Why have you not followed my orders?”

“Uncle, are you telling me that I should lift a freezer from the floor of the shop onto a hand cart by myself? You ordered me to transport the contents of your shop to Qatar. I am doing so.”

“Ahmed! You were to have left them behind. Then, I could claim them as damaged goods. The Crown would have paid me for my losses. And, I would have been able to sell what was left and keep the profits. Nobody would have known. But, you, my nephew, have destroyed whatever chance I had of profiting from this war.

“Be gone from here, Ahmed! You, your wife, and that thing you call your son. Be gone! And let me try to find a way to recover from the mess you have made.”

“What? You can not mean this. You promised my father that you would care for me and my family. You promised this before Allah! How dare you violate your oath? How dare you violate your family’s honor?”

“Honor? What do you know about honor? You are just a humble servant, with whom I may do as I like. My brother? He is dead, and all he ever did for me was foist you off upon me and my family. And, of what good are you? You live in the midst of the greatest city of the realm, and all you can show for it is this poor excuse for a shop? Anyone with half a brain could have done as well as you. Be off with you! Take a cart, and be gone by tomorrow.”

5.8.2 Martial Law

“What is this?” the young policeman inquired.

Ma’sum took upon clothed himself in a mien of majesty. “I am preparing my goods to be transported. Of what business is this to you?”

The young policeman was not to be deterred by the haughty merchant. “By order of the King, you are to resume your business as usual. You will neither shirk in your responsibility to Allah and the King, nor shall you advantage yourself by gouging your patrons. I know this shop, and do others in this precinct. We will know if you are violating the King’s decree.”

“Decree? What decree?” demanded Ma’sum. “I have received no notice of the King’s wishes, nor has it been announced. Be gone with you, and let an honest merchant conduct his business.”

It was the police officer’s turn to bristle. “I have given you the King’s orders. I expect you to follow them, or face arrest on the charge of treason. Comply, or face arrest, merchant!”

Ma’sum seemed to deflate before their eyes. His normally arrogant air was replaced with that of an old man, thoroughly beaten. Slowly, he turned to Ahmed. “Put it all back. Resume business as quickly as possible.”

He began to walk away, but the trucker seized his arm. “See here, merchant, I have brought my men and my trucks to this store to transport it all to Qatar. I have been promised 5000 riyals plus the exclusive trucking rights to this shop. I demand payment for the services I have rendered.”

Ma’sum reared up like an old lion suddenly challenged. “I did not offer you any money. I did not contract your services. It is not I who owe you, but my nephew, Ahmed. Collect what you can from him.”

As Ma’sum turned to walk away, the policeman stopped him. “Merchant, did you not demand of your nephew that he should pack up the entire inventory of this shop and transport it to Qatar?”

Ma’sum answered, “Yes, but I did not expect him to spend my money to do it.”

“That is of no consequence,” the policeman replied. “You demanded that Ahmed comply with your demands. It is obvious that he needed trucks to transport the large inventory of this shop and men to help pack, load and transport it. Therefore, you authorized him to perform his duty, which he did. You may not abandon him.”

Ma’sum replied, “It is his responsibility, not mine. He made the arrangements without discussing them with me or obtaining my approval. Thereby, the costs are his, not mine.”

The policeman scowled. “This does not sound right to me that you should demand of your nephew and his family, but then abandon them. Let us speak with the Imam. He shall tell us what is the law.”

Ma’sum grew read in the face. He puffed up as though about to yell at the policeman, but then staggered back until he was leaning against the wall of the shop. He gasped, “Water!”

Rahil raced into the shop, her skirts flying. Seconds later she reappeared with a cup. Tenderly, she held it to Ma’sum’s lips. “Drink, dear uncle. May Allah’s blessings be upon this water, and restore you.”

Ma’sum sipped the cool water. Slowly, his face returned to its normal healthy appearance. His breathing seemed to become easier, and his legs no longer seemed weak. “The blessings of the Prophet upon you, my child.” He touched her arm tenderly, and then addressed the policeman. “No, it is not necessary. Allah has spoken to me." He glanced towards Rahil, continuing, “I have been warned of my greed, and saved by the innocence of a child from disgracing my family.”

He turned to Ahmed. “Long have you worked for me, and long have I profited from your efforts. I have been sorely tempted, and failed in my duties. When your daughter spoke to me the blessing of the Prophet, my eyes were cleared, and I saw myself as I really am. I have shamed myself and brought dishonor upon my family.

“Ahmed, you have been most loyal to me. Indeed, you have been as loyal as was my brother before his untimely death. You were right to accuse me of dishonoring the agreement between myself and him, made before Allah and the Prophet. And, I have been warned.

“I give to you this shop. You have earned it many times over. I promise you, before Allah and His Prophet Mohammed, bless his name, that I will honor my agreement with my brother and extend to you the right you have so justly earned. I would only ask that you continue to be a part of my family’s business, and that we consult with each other as equals.”

The trucker interjected, “Does this mean I will get paid for my services.”

Ahmed smiled at him. “Yes, you will be paid for your services to me at this time. And, I ask you to extend your services to me to restore my shop. Then, perhaps you and I and my uncle can further discuss our business association.”

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

6.1 The World

6.1.1 The Funeral

He had spent thirty years developing his reputation as a professional photo-journalist. He was not one of the paparazzi. Over the long, tough years, he had developed "the eye" which was necessary to see an event and capture its image and aura. Opportunities for a man of his skills were few and far between. He passed up the myriad of little jobs that would earn him a few euros, but which would lower his status. So, he either lived on easy street or on the edge of disaster.

His exemplary work had led him to fulfilling opportunities with the Italian armed forces. When they needed a story told in pictures, he generally got the assignment. When the Italian fleet went out on the important mission to serve with and protect the gigantic American Sixth Fleet, Admiral Robustelli personally asked him to go with the escorts and record history with his camera. It was quite an honor, and one that had been earned.

Commander Dominic Russi, the commanding officer of the Enrico Ghiarggio welcomed the journalist aboard, warmly. Of course, Admiral Robustelli's letter of recommendation had a lot to do with his welcome. He was told that his post was at the captain's side, to see how the Italian Navy operated, and so that everything could be explained to him as it happened.

The day they entered the Straits of Sicily, Commander Russi was nervous and excited. He even asked the photographer several times if he had plenty of film. Then, towards midday all hell broke loose! Rockets fired into the air. Surges of aircraft slipped through the skies leaving thunderous sonic booms in their wakes. Missiles counter-attacked, only to be countered in turn by the fleet's anti-aircraft missilery. It was incredible!

He filled ten memory cards in just twenty minutes. He had just loaded the eleventh cartridge and had started to film the anti-missile barrage, when an explosion occurred close to the horizon, near the carrier. He turned, focused and shot frame after frame as a ball of fire and flame engulfed the American warship.

Then, out of the haze and smoke, his eyes saw movement. At first, he couldn't focus on it. It was moving too fast. By the time he caught up with it, there was a fireball within the superstructure of the American frigate six to eight kilometers south of him.

His autofocus did a magnificent job. The high-speed memory card was ready just as he needed it. He deftly compensated for the roll and dip of the ship, and caught the dying warship time and again in its death throes. With the luck that comes to those who have put in their time, and upon whom the gods have finally smiled, he snapped just at the moment when the ball of molten, burning aluminum which had been its superstructure, penetrated the hull. A huge cloud erupted, and the ship was torn in half by a steam explosion.

He continued to shoot and shoot, until he filled that memory cartridge. He tore open another cartridge, flipped the expended one out, and jammed in a new one. In just the five or ten seconds it had taken, the ship was gone. The only shots left were of a steam cloud rapidly dissipating over the sea.

His magnificent work in recording the battle and the sinking of Hiram Jones was further rewarded when Admiral Robustelli sent him to record the military funeral on board Halsey. Unfortunately, the journalist could not see or film the flood of tears filling the American admiral's eyes. Instead, he sought out "his" commanding officer with his lens.

There, in the front row, stood Commander Dominic Russi, the hero who had sunk the Libyan submarine stalking the Sixth Fleet. That fine, brave officer stood before the entire assemblage of the Italian Fleet, sobbing like a child. Great tears rolled down his face, and his body was wracked with convulsions of grief.

The photographer approached discretely. He could just hear the word, "Bellisima," and the question, "Why did I say 'if we survive', not just 'later'?" The mystified journalist retreated, leaving the great hero alone in his grief.

With sudden clarity, he realized that he was sitting on the photo-journalist's story of the century! He had captured thirty-two images of the American ship as it burned, exploded, broke up and sank. Combined with the pictures of the grief-stricken Commander Russi, he had the story that would put him on easy street for the rest of his life!

6.1.2 Italy: NEWS!

He read the headlines in the special edition: "Battle in the Sicilian Straits." Not only had he sold his pictures, but also his copy. His was an enormous scoop. Best of all, it was an exclusive. It was his! He had been paid a huge amount, and was set for life.

His copy extolled the role of the Italian fleet. The sinking of the Libyan submarine by Enrico Ghiarggio was a great victory for Italian arms. The significant contributions of Garibaldi were emphasized, including her downing of over twenty enemy aircraft and missiles, her damage, and the death of one of her crew at the hands of the Arabs. He told of the damage to Bunker Hill, and how Garibaldi, in spite of her own damage, was towing the mighty American warship to Naples. He spoke glowingly of the Italian Air Force and their enormous contribution to the victory.

Above all he told the story of heroism and death. Interwoven throughout was the tale of the star-crossed lovers: hero and heroine going off to battle the foe, with only one of them returning. The twist, the ultimate irony, was that it was she, not he, who had died.

His pictures told the entire tale. There was the broken and burning American frigate side-by-side with the weeping Italian hero, calling out for his "Bellisima". Nothing could have been more poignant, for nothing strikes the emotions as hard as seeing a man cry. His pictures touched the great heart of the Italian people. They, too, felt the hero's grief at the death of his heroic lady, his true love.

The television services went wild clamoring for him, as the only eye-witness. The Americans at CNN paid the most and got his exclusive. They interviewed him for almost an hour. They asked him to appear for five minutes every half-hour for the next day and a half.

Although the Americans were interested in the Italian contributions, they wanted to know about their own fleet, their own Navy, and their own losses. Like the Italians, they hungered for the story of the American and Italian officers linked together by fate. It was through CNN that the full story of Muriel MacDonald's fateful prophesy gained prominence.

From CNN and the Italian news services, the story spread throughout the world. Newspapers, radio and television spread the news of the battle and the great allied victory. In every case, the story revolved around Muriel MacDonald.

Within hours, Muriel MacDonald became an international hero. Her quote was garbled in the retelling and shortened of the sake of headlines and sound bites. But the words, "I would gladly give up my life to defend my country!" rang true. CNN showed and reshowed the pictures of the Jones, Lieutenant Commander MacDonald, and Commander Russi.

The hero's quote rang out across the nation. It was shouted to the Capitol Dome and echoed throughout the White House. Each member of Congress, the President and every politician throughout the country was besieged by calls, letters, telegrams and delegations of citizens demanding action for the unprovoked, sneak-attack upon the American fleet on the high seas.

For the first time in almost a century, America was fighting mad!

6.1.3 Tunisia: NEWS!

The headlines in the special edition read, "Victory in the Sicilian Straits". The story told how the united fleets of The Faithful had attacked the Infidels. Great stories of heroism unfolded, including the victory of the Admiral ben Ahmeed over the Americans and their misguided Italian allies. The paper told of the destruction of the mighty battleship, Bunker Hill, the Italian heavy cruiser, Garibaldi, and an American destroyer. It told of the accurate and deadly missile barrage loosed by the Tunisian Navy, which had severely damaged the American aircraft carrier Halsey, forcing it to retire from the battle.

It was a great victory. It was a vindication of the rule of The Faithful. Allah had smiled upon them, giving them victory over the heathens and infidels. Allah be praised!

Ahab Dingjatha read the headlines and the story, smiling wickedly. As the Minister of the Interior, he controlled all forms of communications throughout the country. The text of the story had been carefully prepared days before, awaiting the events to catch up with the "news". The Imams needed a victory, so he had given it to them.

Only he knew the reality of the battle. The entire Algerian fleet had been sunk. Only Admiral ben Ahmeed had survived from the Tunisian fleet. One Libyan destroyer and one frigate had limped back to port. All the rest had been destroyed.

The losses of aircraft were equally staggering. Both the Algerian and Tunisian Air Forces were devastated. The Libyans had survived much better thanks to their early-warning aircraft and their jammers. They had used their bombers well, and they had hurt the Americans. But they had not stopped the American fleet. The Americans controlled the seas, and there was little that could be done to interfere with them.

At the same time, this was an opportunity of epic proportions for Ahab Dingjatha. For decades, he had sat quietly, accepting the Imams' snubs and ignoring their scarcely concealed contempt. He had helped them gain power. Yet, their arrogance in their own strength and their disdain towards him had only grown.

He had created them. He would destroy them. But first, he had to build them up. He had to make them appear to be everything they dreamed they were. Then, and only then, when the true magnitude of their failures became known could he bring them crashing down. But, to do this, he had to manufacture an even greater disaster, a defeat of such immensity that The Faithful would be revealed for what they truly were: despots masquerading in the robes of the True Believer.

Dingjatha's fertile mind whirled with scraps of ideas as his thoughts slowly coalesced. Allah would show him the way. All he had to do was wait.

6.1.4 America: War!

The American government acted quickly and decisively for the first time since December 8, 1941. The President of the United States called for a Joint Session of the Congress to be broadcast live to the world.

The entire government was gathered in the chamber of the House of Representatives. Every Senator and every Congressman was in attendance, as were the Justices of the Supreme Court and the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The gallery was packed with the most important and influential people in the entire country. The Vice President and the Speaker of the House of Representatives sat high above the floor, presiding over the meeting.

At the appointed time, the Master-at-Arms rushed forward, calling out, "Mr. Chairman! Mr. Chairman! The President of the United States!" Everyone stood, and the boisterous applause began.

The President entered. Unlike at other events, such as the annual State of the Union address, he was grim faced. Tonight, he was no smiling politician, glad-handing and kissing babies. On this night, he was the most powerful individual in the world, about to do something which hadn't been done in almost a century.

He greeted many and shook hands or nodded to many more, but at no time did even the hint a smile cross his face. The Congress, the Court, and the Military observed his demeanor, and the entire body responded accordingly.

Yet, the Joint Session was pandemonium. War fever had overcome all reason. As the President stood before them on the high dais, the rhythmic foot-stomping and hand clapping continued for minute after minute.

The President stood at the podium, taking it all in, but without the slightest hint of joy or satisfaction. Finally, the uproar subsided, and the President began to speak.

"Mr. Chairman, Mr. Speaker, members of Congress, members of the Supreme Court, members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, honored guests, my fellow Americans, I come before you tonight with a heavy heart and bearing an enormous burden. Yesterday, elements of the United States Sixth Fleet and the Italian Fleet were treacherously attacked upon the high seas by the naval fleets and air forces of Algeria, Tunisia and Libya.

"Two hundred and thirty years ago, President Thomas Jefferson faced a similar dilemma. At that time, these same powers, called then the Barbary Pirates, had attacked American ships, impressed American sailors, and demanded tribute from the United States to cease their attacks upon us. President Jefferson echoed the declaration, 'Not one cent for tribute, but a million for defense!' The Barbary Pirates answered by declaring war upon us. It took us many years, many fleets, and much treasure before we defeated them. But, on the shores of Tripoli we did.

"We had thought that we had taught them a lesson and have conducted ourselves accordingly for over two centuries. Yesterday, we learned that they have forgotten that lesson.

"Yesterday, those same Barbary Pirates attacked our fleet and those of our allies, without warning of any kind. Yesterday, they sank one of our frigates, badly damaged one of our cruisers, and even damaged the aircraft carrier USS Halsey. Hundreds of Americans died and many more hundreds were injured. Our courageous Italian allies also suffered many dead and wounded in this infamous attack.

"How shall we respond to the Barbary Pirates' latest transgression of international law?

"I shall not give you the reply, for it has been said far better by the fallen American hero, Lieutenant Commander Muriel MacDonald, who died in the attack upon the USS Hiram Jones: 'I would gladly give up my life, my crew, and my ship to protect this fleet and the United States of America.'

"My fellow Americans, can we ask more of our heroes or less of ourselves than to follow such words and actions?

"No! We cannot! Such egregious transgressions of international law, such terrorism, such piracy on the high seas cannot be tolerated, when heroes such as Muriel MacDonald have led the way, sacrificing themselves for us and our country! The path is laid before us to follow.

"Therefore, as the President and Commander-in-Chief of the armed forces of the United States of America, I come before this Joint Session of the Congress to ask ... No! To demand! ... a declaration that a state of war exists between the United States of America and the governments of the countries of Algeria, Tunisia and Libya!

"And, may God have mercy on their souls, because I will not!"

The President stepped back from the microphone. Briskly, he stepped down from the dais and descended to the floor of the House of Representatives. He arrived at the first row before anyone realized that this historic speech was over, and that the call to arms had already been delivered!

The Joint Chiefs were the first to realize what had happened. They leapt to their feet, applauding wildly. The Congress finally realized what had occurred, and they stood cheering their lungs out. Celebrating throngs of Congressmen and Senators mobbed the President, and his progress ceased, as they surrounded him. Each of them assumed the same grim visage in his presence and assured him of their complete support. But, when he had passed, they cheered, laughed, and pounded each other on the back.

The television networks played and replayed the short speech. It was easy to recap less than four hundred and fifty words. The commentators were stunned at its Lincolnesque brevity, and harped on two important clauses. The first, of course, was the epitaph of the great American hero, Muriel MacDonald. In their eyes, she was right up there with John Paul Jones, Admiral Perry, Admiral Farragut, and General MacArthur.

The other important point they made to the American public and the world was the President's declaration that he would have no pity upon his enemies. The old timers, the gray-headed men and women of the press, knew what this meant, and told the American public.

This was war. This was the real thing. There would be no half-way, Viet Nam types of measures. The United States fought declared wars to one and only one conclusion: absolute and unconditional surrender. The only question in the commentators' minds, and that of the rest of the world, was whether the United States, the only nation in history ever to use nuclear weapons, would use them again.

The House of Representatives and the Senate of the United States met separately the next morning. By eleven o'clock, the United States of America was at war. America wasn't going to take this lying down.

6.1.5 Tunisia: War!

"How dare they, those Infidel Dogs!" Abdul Khalil Kamsanni thundered. "Don't they know they have lost already? Don't they see the wonders of Allah before them? Do they think that they can deny Allah his Kingdom?" The Ruling Council of the Faithful nodded sagely in agreement. "The only recourse," he continued, "is to declare war against them!" Once again, the entire council nodded its approval.

'It is the time,' thought Ahab Dingjatha. 'They are in the mood to say yes to anything.' He faced the Council. "Excuse me, Imam Kamsanni, but I have a thought in my mind which the Council of The Faithful may wish to consider."

The elder clerics looked up from their musings at the small, dapper foreigner. He had been of use. Let him proceed.

"Thank you." It was time to choose his words carefully. "The Infidels have felt the stroke of Allah's blade, but they have not recognized its keenness nor His intent. Instead, in their arrogance and hatred, they have lashed out like children when scolded by their father. Allah will show to them the error of their ways.

"But, are we not Allah's implement? Is it not our duty to Him to bring those who have strayed from His teachings back to the path of His righteousness? I speak of two, namely our Islamic brethren in Morocco and in Egypt.

"If we look to each of these, our misguided brethren, which is more in need of Allah's guidance? Morocco has failed the test of manhood. Instead of striking the Infidels, they allowed them to pass. This is an error of omission.

"Let us instead speak of our kindred in Egypt. They have allied themselves with the devil Jews and have licked the boots of the British, French and Americans in the name of Babel. They have forsaken all and prostituted themselves before the Infidels. It is about them that I speak.

"They have not only forsaken their honor and Islam, they have nurtured and aided the Infidels. They gather gold, while entering into pacts with the devils. It is they who protect the Suez Canal, allowing all who would enter the Holy Waters of Mecca to defile it.

"We must return them to the True Faith. We must deny this strategic waterway to the enemies of Allah. In this way, we will kill the golden calf! In this way, we shall strike into the economic heart of our enemy. When we control both the oil and the canal, we shall dictate to them all the word of Allah, and they will be forced to hear His Words and obey!"

The foreigner's plan was stupendous in concept, and bold in the extreme. Yet, Allah had blessed their arms in battle. Allah had smitten their enemies, and victory had been seized. Perhaps this little one was right.

They did declare war. They declared war in the name of Allah against all who would defy Him. They also declared war on Egypt.

6.1.6 America: More Declarations

"They've done what?" the President sputtered, incredulously. "They've declared against Egypt? Those stupid bastards! Haven't they learned, yet?

"OK, get on the horn, and tell the Egyptians that we're with them. We'll defend them to the last American, but they've got to declare war themselves and fight like Dervishes!

"No, damn it, don't insult them! Jesus Christ, you know what I mean. The goddamn Sixth Fleet will cover their asses, and I'm sure both the Brits and French will do the same ... as will the Israelis, if they'll have 'em."

6.1.7 Iran: War!

Ayatollah Mohammed Hammedyanni listened carefully as his son, General Benhamin Hammedyanni, the Army Chief of Staff, explained the latest intelligence to the Revolutionary Council.

"Father, Members of the Revolutionary Council. We, along with our Assyrian allies, have broken through the shell protecting the southern and central regions of Saudi Arabia. We are rapidly advancing upon the coastal cities of Al-Jubayl, El-Qatif, Ad-Dammam and Az-Zahran.

"Enemy opposition is fierce, even though the American forces we are facing were supposed to be inferior troops designed for mobility rather than strength. We believe that they have positioned large amounts of heavy equipment and supplies within Saudi Arabia and were preparing for an attack against us. By attacking when we did, by Allah's grace, we defeated their plans. Yet, this means that we must overcome their force of arms in the east if we are to draw off a large enough number of the enemy for our encirclement to succeed."

The general flipped to a new page in his notes. "A great battle was fought in the Straits of Sicily. Our Islamic brothers in North Africa declared a great victory over the American Navy. Today, we have confirmed the sinking of an American cruiser, the crippling of both an American aircraft carrier and a battleship as well as severe damage to an Italian cruiser, just as our brothers claimed.

"Allah has blessed our arms, those of our allies and those of our brothers. Is it not time for all of Islam to unite and throw off the yoke of our oppressors? If we can aid our brothers in their fight against the Infidels, especially in the light of their victory, should we not do so? We are well advanced into Saudi lands. Should we not continue this advance to the Suez Canal, and, once there, clasp the arms of our brothers across its narrow confines?

"We shall control the oil and the Suez Canal. We will bring our enemies to their knees. And, while they are kneeling, we shall read to them from the Koran, and they will be enlightened!"

The son of the Ayatollah had spoken clearly and eloquently. It was indeed time for the two parties to agree. War was declared against the United States and all other countries which had already declared war against the North African Islamic States. Almost as an afterthought, they declared war against Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, Oman, Qatar and Israel.

6.1.8 World War

The declarations of war by the Barbary Pirates had been expected, but the declaration of hostilities by Iran, Iraq and Syria were not. The declarations against Israel and Egypt were the topping on the cake. Within two days, all the powers which had previously declared war against the North African States reaffirmed their positions by declaring against the Iran, Iraq and Syria.

Bolstered by this world-wide support, Egypt declared war against its Islamic neighbors.

Israel, not to be outdone, not only declared war against the Islamic Confederacy, but guaranteed the borders of Egypt, Saudi Arabia and Kuwait. It was a grandstand play for a tiny country fighting a pitched battle before the gates of Damascus, but it was also applauded by all the other powers.

In quick order, all the powers of the Western Hemisphere, Europe and even eastern countries such as India, Japan and Korea joined the diplomatic game of one-upsmansh

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

6.2 Israel

6.2.1 Judaydat

Second Brigade had lagged behind the advance, trying to recuperate from almost three days of continuous battle. They'd followed the Twelfth Brigade up the road from Shahba at a leisurely pace, letting the "Laggards of Fiq" lead the way for a change. During the day, they all had at least eight hours of sleep and something resembling a shower, as well as some hot food. It had done wonders for everyone's morale. The battalions had also received some badly needed reinforcements, bringing them back up to strength for the first time since Butmiyah.

Jake Hiram's Impala rolled up next to David's. The colonel leaned out of his command cupola, cupped his hands against the wind and shouted, "We've got the easy part for a change. Twelfth is heading straight for Najha to force the Awaj River. We're going to the salt marshes to cut off the Hijanah salient. We'll be on guard duty while the rest attack Damascus. Not bad duty really. We've done all the real fighting so far. It's about time they did something.

"We'll be pulling out of this parade shortly. We'll follow First Regiment which is going to Harran al Awamid. Your objective is Judaydat al-Khas. Third will be behind us, heading for Hijanah. We'll protect the army's right flank, unless the Syrians have learned some significant mountain climbing skills in the past few days." He laughed at his joke and sped away.

An hour later, Major David Weissman was leading his battalion towards the northeast, staring at the maps of the salt marshes of Hijanah and the route east of them towards Judaydat Khas. The brigade's maneuver plan looked beautiful on his maps. One blue arrow gracefully arched through Hijanah, while two others diverged to the east and split towards Judaydat and Harran. It was pretty, graceful and neat.

But, David was worried. He didn't like the plan one single bit. First Regiment was going west of the Hijanah salt marsh while his regiment and Second were traveling east of it. The plan went against all his training, knowledge and skill. "You don't split your forces in the face of a superior enemy," he fumed. Yet, that was exactly what they were doing. If the Hijanah salient was filled with enemy troops, it was a death trap.

Three hours later, at dusk, Second Brigade was in position. It was called military twilight. It was just dark enough that the human eye could not see color, yet not dark enough for night vision. However, the time was perfect for the Israeli troops. The combination of their low-light goggles, their day-night fire control and superb training gave them all the advantages. They had every advantage, except perhaps the most important one ... surprise.

David's battalion was on the left, next to the salt marsh of Hijanah, protecting his regiment's left. He couldn't imagine anyone trying to move troops into the salt flats. It would be almost impossible to maneuver once in there, but that didn't mean that it couldn't be done. After all, he'd scaled Mt. Ammar, and that was supposed to have been impossible, too.

The code word came over the command frequency, and the battalion's first four companies moved out in battle formation. Sixty tanks and armored vehicles led the way, closely followed by Impalas and Rapier anti-aircraft units. The fifth company followed closely behind, either to take advantage of a break-through or to stop an enemy attack anywhere along the front.

A star-shell illuminated the formation, and then another and another. Electronic irises snapped shut immediately, protecting the eyes of the crews as they searched for the source. The radios were silent, demonstrating the superb discipline and training of the troops. Somehow the lack of any kind of recognition of the enemy's activities was disconcerting.

David informed Regiment of the star-shells, then settled into this seat sweeping his night glasses back and forth. A shot rang out to his right ... a single rifle shot. The pitch was wrong. It couldn't be one of theirs. More star-shells. Another rifle shot. A bright light in the east! Just the moon rising over the crest of Dakwah.

"Movement on the left! Tanks!" his lead company reported. David was about to give the order for his reserve company to move up when a second clarifying report came in. "Sorry, Sir, they're ours. It's First Regiment coming around the marsh."

David reported his link-up with Second back to HQ. "Thank God!" Colonel Schwartz exclaimed. "The tough part's over now, lets push ahead to our objectives."

'So,' Dave thought, 'I wasn't the only one worried about splitting our forces. The old man had been worried, too.

An hour later, David saw flashes of light off to his left, and heard the distant thump of heavy guns rolling across the land. First Regiment was attacking Hijanah. He tuned into their command net. It was relatively quiet and orderly. No one reported heavy equipment, artillery or major points of resistance. Two machine gun nests had been routinely taken out, and twelve Syrian prisoners had been taken. Routine? No resistance? This couldn't last.

"Major," it was Third Company, "Judaydat just ahead. No movement."

"Weissman to all companies. Judaydat immediately ahead. Deploy troops. Let's move in just like we practiced. Keep your heads up and your eyes open. Let's go!"

The leading tanks and armored fighting vehicles moved ahead slowly, surrounded by scurrying grenadiers. Impalas followed some distance behind, bringing up the heavy weapons crews, while the mortar crews and the Rapier assumed defensive positions.

"Second Company approaching the edge of the town. No firing, no resistance." Similar reports came in all along the line. He reported the initial contact back to HQ.

"Be careful, Davey," Colonel Hiram warned. "We know they're out there somewhere, and we haven't heard anything about the Iraqis in several hours. Just do it by the book and keep me informed."

A burst from a heavy machine gun sent some grenadiers scrambling for cover. A Badger answered with its seventy-three millimeter and the firing ceased. Ten minutes later, the captains reported that they'd passed completely through the small town. They reported one casualty. A grenadier had been knocked down by a little old lady when he had surprised her coming out of her privy. She had attacked him with her cane, and it had taken two soldiers to hold her back from beating the grenadier.

David had to laugh. If every Syrian had fought like her, the IDF would have never made it over the Golan! He reported back to HQ, "Mission accomplished. Judaydat taken. Awaiting orders."

"Hold your position. Dig in, bed down and get some rest. Tomorrow could be a busy day."

It was the best order he'd received in days!

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

6.3 Iran

6.3.1 Syrian Front

"What do you mean the Jews have crossed Nahr al-A'waj?" General Tavid Hammedyanni screamed at his Iraqi counter-part. "Where were the Syrians? We were to have moved in there tomorrow, and they knew it. All they had to do was hold out for another eight hours!"

"Yes, General, yes." The Iraqi still hadn't gotten used to the hysterical outbursts from the Persian general. He had been told to cooperate and coordinate with him, and he was doing his best to do so. But, the fool didn't seem to realize that the world did not operate according to his meticulous and carefully drafted schedules. The Jewish air attack on their train and the sixteen hour delay weren't in his schedule, for instance. For the grandson of an Imam, this one had much to learn about the ways of Allah.

"The Syrians," the Iraqi explained calmly, "have withdrawn their forces to fight in front of Damascus, as your schedule demanded. We should have been in Hijanah this morning. We would have been if the train had not been attacked, but it was, and we are not. So, we will have to fight them. It is unfortunate, but it is the will of Allah, General.

"Instead of screaming at our misfortune, should we not be planning our assault? The Jews will have been there for only a few hours. They will not have had the time to develop strong defenses, and the Jews prefer the offensive to the defensive.

"We have two strong divisions against what appears to be one Jewish brigade. We will sweep them aside, regain the Awaj, and, once again, force them to attack our strong defensive positions, as we had planned."

"Yes, it is the will of Allah," Hammedyanni agreed. "Let us do as you say."

The staff of the Ninth Republican Guards Army worked swiftly and efficiently. The Syrian patrols that had been left behind to guide the Assyrians into position had been overwhelmed. But, they had used their brains and their eyes. They had monitored the Jews' advance and counted their numbers. They had watched the Jews seize the Hijanah sector and then saw them pull up into defensive positions for the night. They saw no hint of fortifications, trenches, or berms. They reported that the Jews were continuing their march towards Damascus as though they were parading through Tel Aviv. The Jews could not possibly realize that they faced both Iraq's Second Armored Division and its Fifteenth Infantry Division.

Orders were issued. Men and equipment were mustered and moved out. The Second Armored was sent to the west to sweep down the long plain between Jaramanah and the Jews, to use its strength and speed to overcome the natural advantage given to the defense. Most of the Fifteenth Division moved down the western side of the great salt marsh of Utaybah. One infantry regiment was sent to its eastern side between the marsh and the heights of Dakwah to flank the Jews.

'Infantry in the marshes and mountains, armored in the plains. That is how it should be,' Hammedyanni considered as he studied his maps. 'If we can get our artillery into position in time, that will be the decisive advantage, assuming, of course, that the Syrian Air Force can keep the Jews' planes off of our troops long enough for them to engage.'

6.3.2 Attack at Harran

Dawn had come and gone, and with it the chance to surprise the Jews. One hour passed and then another. Once again, Hammedyanni's schedule had been thrown to the winds by senseless politicians masquerading as generals.

General Hammedyanni fumed in helpless rage. So what if the artillery wasn't in place? Attack without it. So what if the Syrian Air Force wasn't ready? They hadn't been ready since the beginning of the war. Did they think a few more hours would change that? All they had done was permit the Jews to have a full night's sleep, a fine breakfast, and the time to clean and prepare their weapons.

Orders arrived from Army Headquarters. The artillery barrage would begin at 09:00. The troops would jump off at that time and advance under its protective blanket. At 09:30, the barrage would cease, and the Syrian Air force would take up the coverage while the artillery moved forward to new support positions.

Hammedyanni's watch crawled. Seconds dragged by, and minutes seemed like hours. He paced back and forth behind the plotting table watching the Iraqis for any trace of cowardice, disrespect, disloyalty or, worst of all, insubordination. He found none. Unlike in his own army, underlings stood at attention when a superior officer was present. Their uniforms were clean and pressed, and, except for their luxuriant mustaches, they all seemed to be perfect soldiers.

Boom! Boom! The firing of the great guns startled him. He had been concentrating on other things and time had flown by. He stepped out of the tent to look east and west at the long line of guns. Their crews were working them energetically, their shirts off and sweat pouring from their young bodies. He timed the firing of the nearest two-hundred millimeter howitzer. They were firing at almost exactly two shells per minute, well within guidelines. Excellent!

A sharper staccato roar underlay the heavy pounding of the artillery. He looked further afield, and saw a huge cloud of dust boiling up from the west. 'Aha,' he thought, 'the armor! Now we'll see some action!' But, he couldn't. They were too far away and traveling fast. He turned and reentered the command tent.

Talkers and spotters were busily moving small wooden tiles across the map. Both the Fifteenth and the Second were advancing as planned. They moved neither too quickly, so as to drive into their own barrage, nor too slowly so as to lose the benefits of its protection.

Hammedyanni glanced at his watch. The half hour was almost up. Where were the Syrians?

The air above him split with the thunder of mighty jet engines. Dozens of fighters armed with rockets and bombs were screaming southward. In their wake came the helicopters. Syrian and Iraqi gunships surged forward to follow up on the destruction caused by the fighters and to support the direct assault by the armored and infantry divisions. It was right out of the book. A Russian book, true, but the Faithful had learned to turn the Infidel's knowledge against them.

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

6.4 Israel

6.4.1 Hijanah Salient

David had enjoyed a leisurely, almost luxurious morning. His men were rested, and they had eaten a hearty breakfast. His dragoons were busily cleaning their Galil assault rifles. Crewmen were clambering over their vehicles making necessary repairs and calibrating their systems. His men were gently laughing as they conversed. Their eager eyes followed him questioningly, as he walked by their camps on the way to the morning staff meeting. He judged that his battalion was fit and ready for battle once again.

He arrived at the 07:00 hour staff meeting just a few minutes late. Jake Hiram was just beginning his daily briefing. He winked at David, who sat sheepishly and quietly on a cot along with two other officers. "The Attack on Damascus itself has already begun. While the sluggards here," he pointedly looked at David, "have been sleeping, First Division has attacked Qatana and is moving on Judaydat Artuz. Second Division has pushed across the Awaj on a front from Hirjillah to Hijanah. First Division's goal today is Dummar, while Second's is Jaramanah.

"While the fighting is going on in the west and center, Second Brigade will move north fulfilling three objectives. First, we will maintain contact with Twelfth Brigade on our left. Second, we will maintain contact with the Damascus hills on our right. Third, we will advance towards Adra and Dumayr.

"Be aware, Second Brigade, that the Iraqis are nearby, somewhere on your front in the Adra-Dumayr corridor. It is your job to hold them, and prevent them from interfering with the assault on Damascus. As long as we can hold the Syrians and the Iraqis apart, we have a chance of defeating them in detail. If they once join forces, our job becomes doubly difficult. Here are your assignments. Any questions? No? Get back to your troops as soon as you've discussed everything and be prepared to roll at 10:00 hours."

The discussions among the various battalion commanders broke up quickly. David was back at his own HQ by 08:00. His own staff meeting with the company captains lasted only fifteen minutes. By 08:45, everybody was mounted up, and rolling north to their jump-off position, some ten kilometers north of Judaydat al-Khas.

The last truck had just moved out of the small town when all hell broke loose. Explosions tore into the positions that they had just vacated. Whoever had been spotting for them was very good, but they hadn't been able to pass the word back quickly enough.

David grabbed his microphone. "Three One to Three-Oh." They were close enough to the enemy lines that they had reverted to more standard radio practices rather than the loose informality common in the IDF. "We are under heavy artillery bombardment. Shells landing to our rear inside of Judaydat. We are advancing north and away from them. Enemy attack probably imminent. Over."

"Three One, message received. Actions approved. Bombardment is on a wide front. Expect enemy forces on your front. Form with First and Second as quickly as possible. Help is on its way. Three-Oh, out."

David contacted his company commanders warning them both of the enemy threat and of the link-up with their brother regiments. Second Regiment closed up quickly on Third just as David's left-hand company joined with the First. At least they were a unit again, and wouldn't be cut apart in piecemeal fashion.

The cloud of dust on the horizon alerted them all to the impending attack. "Three-One to Threes, get ready. Don't panic. Take your shots and make 'em count. All anti-air units remember your orders. If they're out front and down low, they're targets. If they're above five-hundred meters, leave them alone."

The warning couldn't have been more timely. The Rapier's missile turret, which had been swinging back and forth, had turned towards the rear. The radar unit had stopped scanning and had locked onto a target coming up from the south. Without the warning, a young and frightened lieutenant might just have fired and destroyed an Israeli gunship.

A wave of Israeli helicopter gunships crested and moved north, looking almost like a swarm of locusts. Fighters and fighter bombers moved at high speeds to attack the northern dust clouds. Small white arrows high in the sky ejected pinpoints of light. Other pinpoints came from the north. The arrows and the pinpoints danced, bobbed and weaved around and between each other. Some of the arrows belched in tiny pops like fireworks seen at a great distance, while the rest sped even further north implacably pursuing the enemy.

David turned to an alternate frequency to listen to the gunships. Their success or failure would tell him the true nature and extent of the battle he was about to face.

"There they are! First squadron abreast. Lock 'em up. Fire! Fire!" "Got one!" "God in heaven, did you see that one go!" "Got that son of a bitch!" "Die for Allah!" "Enemy choppers!" "Where?" "Ten o'clock." "They're firing on me!" "Shoot back!" "Hah! Gotcha!" "I'm hit. Going down!" "Chopper at...," and the radio squealed. "Fighters! Coming in! Get out of here!" "Hold your position, Red Three!" "Fighters! I'm getting out of here!" "Dammit, Red Three, they're ours!" "Not this one! I'm hit! Going down!" "Dammit, Sorcerer, you're supposed to keep those rag-heads off us. Get down here and cover our asses!" "Roger, Red One, we're on it, but there are bound to be a few that get through!" "Affirm that Sorcerer. We just lost one to a MiG or something." "Roger, Red One, we killed him, but it was a little late. We're trying hard, but we're real busy up here too, you know?" "Killed another." "Triple-A unit! Watch out! He's firing! Turn, Abey, Turn!" "I'm going in!" "Got him!"

The air battle seemed to be going in their favor. That was critical. It was also important for his forces to arrive while the air cover and choppers were still in position. A coordinated air-ground battle was confusing, but very effective.

"Major, tanks! Sorry, Three-One. Enemy tanks, six thousand meters dead ahead."

"Three-One to all Threes, attack formation. Prepare to deploy at three thousand meters."

"Three-One to Three-Oh, enemy in sight. Alert Air Officers. Keep 'em above five hundred as planned. Over."

"Three-One, acknowledged. Air Officer coordinating. Do not, repeat, do not attack air units unless they attack you. Air commanders will coordinate with ground units. Three-One coordinate with Green One. Confirm."

"Three-One, acknowledged." He switched quickly to his anti-air units and informed them that they were to sit on their hands. It took two calls to get it through the newly arrived lieutenant's war-fogged mind, but he finally responded coherently.

"Green One, this is Three-One. Over."

"Three-One, Green One here. Can you pop green smoke to ID yourself? Over?"

"Affirmative. Green smoke. Now!"

"Roger, Three-One, I have you. Continue present course, I'm on your nose right now. Keep that Rapier off me. I don't need a paint job!"

"Three-one to Rapier! Lieutenant, stand down! Search only! Designate only if attacked. Acknowledge!"

"Rapier to Three-One, acknowledged. Designating now!"

"Negative! Negative! Shut that son of a bitch down! Now! Lieutenant, shut it down! You are endangering yourself, this unit, and the entire war. Who's number two in that Rapier?

"Me, Sir."

"Well, Me, whoever you are, you are now in command of that unit. Relieve the lieutenant, at gun-point if necessary. Stand by your weapon. Do not fire unless fired upon. Then, and only then, protect this battalion. Do you understand?"

"Loud and clear, Sir."

"Thanks Three-One. Green One in the lead. Let's kill some Iraqis!"

"Repeat that, Green One. Iraqis?"

"You copy, Three-One. You're up against an Iraqi armored division over here and an Iraqi infantry division to the east. This is what you can call a target-rich environment. You may want to deploy any time now, Three-One. They're at about three thousand meters."

David checked his sights. Thirty one hundred meters to be exact. Close enough. "Three One to all Threes, deploy! Deploy! Let's go get 'em."

The Badgers and Impalas stopped briefly, disgorging their loads of dragoons and "heavies" before lurching ahead. The dragoons hugged their armor like fleas hanging onto a dog. The heavies loped alongside their Impalas ready to rush ahead, but not trusting in the thin armor of the APCs. The Rapiers and the mortar crews stopped, allowing the others to proceed. Within just minutes, the mortars would be ready to lay down a deadly short-range barrage, and the Rapiers would be able to defend them all against the ever-present threat of a leaker.

The battalion command frequency began to crackle with calls. "Tank eleven o'clock. Sabot! Fire!" "APC at ten. Shoot!" The calls piled on top of each other, making it impossible to hear who was making which call.

David switched on his discriminator to listen to just his company commanders and their lead tanks. Even with just ten of them, it was hard keeping up, but it was possible. He could actually see and envision the battle going on around him.

"Green One to Three One, you've got troubles on your left. Half a dozen tanks coming in at you fast."

"Three-One to Three-One-Five, deploy to left flank. Enemy tanks breaking through."

"Yes, Sir, we see them."

"Three One to Green One, is there anything your guys can do?"

"Three one, I've got two gunships coming up on your five o'clock. Should be there in thirty seconds."

"Three-One-Five, you've got help coming. Two gunships on your back door. Should make the odds a little better."

"Thanks, Dave, that's the kind of help we need. Come on down, chopper guys! Let's play!"

Dave watched the explosions off to his left. At that distance, with all the smoke, haze and dust, he couldn't have been sure of who was shooting at whom. He could only look out of his command cupola, listen to his command set and try to make some sense of what he heard and saw. A smoking Badger lay on its side next to a T-90. Another T-90 was gutted and turretless. A BTM and two BTRs lay locked together in a pile of smoldering debris. A Lion stood off to his right. A tread was missing, and chunks were gone from its reactive armor, but its main gun was still firing in support of three other tanks two hundred meters ahead.

"Three One, Green One calling. I have four fast movers coming over your position in zero-five minutes. Hold onto your hats. I'll call you again at one minute to go."

"Three One to all Threes, fast movers coming to the rescue. Five, that's one, two, three, four, five minutes. I'll give you a one minute warning."

He listened intently. Fifth company and its two choppers had blunted, stopped, and then defeated the Iraqi counterattack. But, they'd lost one tank and one AFV. First company was down to ten tanks and two AFVs. Second Company had lost their CO, and the senior lieutenant was running the show. The kid was using his head, in spite of the confusion and the loss of one tank. Third company was in trouble. They'd lost five tanks and all three AFVs. They had moved the Impalas into line, but they wouldn't last long. Fourth company, on the extreme right of the formation, was in similar shape. The mortar teams were firing away frantically to help, but their sixty-millimeter shells had to hit directly on a T-90 or -92 to stop it, and a mortar was not a sharp-shooter's weapon.

"Green One, Three One, right side caving in. That's where I want the fast flyers to hit. Do you see the spot that I mean or shall I mark it?"

"Negative, Three One, they've put a big push between you and Two One. That's where I'd planned to put them. I shall mark, and await your confirmation. Marking ... Now!"

"Confirm Blue Smoke, Green One, that's the spot."

"Roger. One minute. One minute, Three One. Get your heads down!"

"Three one to Three One Three, Three One Four and Three One Five, fast movers your position. Heads down. Prepare to blow through the hole with everything you've got left."

Four F-35 Super Falcons thundered overhead at five hundred meters. As they passed over his head, each of them dropped eight canisters in a fan-like pattern. Each of the fan's plumes arched away and split into large segments, only to split again into hundreds of grapefruit-sized balls. The balls fell synchronously, and the entire landscape for hundreds of meters beyond the lines lifted as though in a single massive explosion.

"Three One to all Threes, forward! Forward!" His driver gunned the Impala's engine, and the command vehicle kicked up sand trying to respond to its master's urgings.

Tanks and armored cars, AFVs and APCs surged ahead into the unknown of the dust and smoke. Only their electronics saved them from blundering into the hulks which just seconds before had been proud and dangerous enemies. Iraqi vehicles littered the plain. Tanks cooked off, explosions escaping and venting from between turrets and bodies until the heat and flame reached their magazines. Then, five-tonne turrets shot fifty meters into the air, crushing anything they fell upon. Fighting vehicles, BTMs, and BTRs lay in various attitudes of disarray smoking, smoldering, and burning.

Bodies lay everywhere. David's driver tried to avoid running over the first one, but ran over another instead. They were everywhere, like thick grass on a golf course. The driver steeled his heart, and drove on over the corduroy of corpses.

Suddenly, they were beyond the fog and shadow of death. Before them was a barren plain, traversed only by the tracks of innumerable vehicles. They'd broken through! There was nothing between them and Dumayr but salt marsh, trees, grass and an occasional pot-hole. The war in Syria was over.

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."

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!"

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!"

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

6.6 Tunisia

6.6.1 Father & Son

"But, father," Commander Tafid Kamsanni pleaded, "how can we? It is over two thousand kilometers. Our Navy has been destroyed, our Air Force shattered. How can we possibly march our armies for two thousand kilometers to attack Egypt?"

General Yusuf Kamsanni answered sternly, "My son, I do not make these decisions. The Council, in its wisdom and with Allah's guidance, has decided. You will escort the ships filled with our troops to join the Libyans at Tubruq. You will attach yourself and your command to the Libyan Navy in order to support our troops in this Jihad against the Fallen Ones."

"But, father, the Council has not fought the Yankees, nor have you. I have. I saw our mighty armada mass under a cloud of aircraft that darkened the skies. I saw the great plan and carried out my part in it. Allah did not smile upon us, even though the newspapers and television propaganda called that battle a victory.

"I watched as a storm of missiles reached up from their fleets. I watched as they destroyed our planes before they were even in range to launch their weapons. I saw their planes swoop down on our gunboats and destroy them as a giant would swat a fly.

"I turned on my radars for only two sweeps at a time to see them, and I ran from their missiles. My main battery destroyed one of them so close that I thought my ship would capsize. It killed my gun crew and knocked out my gunnery radars. It was only by the skills of my gunners that we managed to down one of the attackers. It was only by running at full speed, zigzagging across the sea, that we were saved from being destroyed along with all the others. If this was victory, let us declare it and retire from the battle while we still live!"

General Kamsanni drew himself up and glared angrily into his son's eyes. "I will not have a son of mine speaking this way. You speak like a coward! A woman!" Calming himself, he continued, "No, my son, it is the will of the Council and of Allah. You will go to Libya, and escort me and my troops upon this Holy War. One more contrary word, and I shall turn you over to Minister Dingjatha for speaking treason. Go, and make your ship ready, Commander."

Tavid Kamsanni's face reddened with anger and shame. He knew that he was right, and that his father and the Council were wrong. But, the Chief of Staff had given him an order, and he was required to obey, even if it meant his death.

6.6.2 Sailings

It had taken a surprisingly short time to assemble the ships needed to embark the army. In spite of its small size, Tunisia had an immensely long coast and, in Tunis, it had one of the world's busiest ports. It also helped that Tunisia had a small army.

On paper the Tunisian Army consisted of five divisions. One of them was armored, one was armored infantry and three were infantry divisions. Formed under the old Soviet doctrine, each division consisted of three regiments of roughly two thousand troops. When combined with all the support troops, including engineers, signals, intelligence, motor pools, and medical teams, the entire army contained only fifty thousand. The ten ships that Ahab Dingjatha, Minister of the Interior, had somehow gathered were more than enough.

Four days after the great battle, they sailed from seven ports and gathered in the lee of the Island of Jerba. With the Tunisian destroyer Admiral ben Ahmeed in the lead, they sailed in a loose, strung-out formation at fifteen knots towards Tripoli. Thirty ships and escorts from the Libyan Navy joined them en route. Protected by two destroyers and a frigate, the fleet continued to sail eastward, reaching Tubruq on the third day. There, the troops disembarked, mated with their equipment and headed east to the border town of Bardiyah.

The Tunisian Chief of Staff, General Yusuf Kamsanni, had flown ahead to meet with the Libyan Chief of Staff at Benghazi. Fortunately, both the Tunisian and the Libyan Armies had learned from the same Soviet textbooks. Their formations, their equipment and their tactics were the same. They even spoke the same language, which made communications far easier. The combined staffs studied, planned and played their war games for three days. They were sure that their tactical plan and their logistics could withstand the test of battle.

On the fifth day after the great battle in the Sicilian Straits, a second battle fleet passed by, heading east. It was a powerful armada, even more powerful than the fleet they had battled less than a week earlier. Not only did it have a British aircraft carrier fully as large as the American one they had damaged, but it also had another American carrier of equal size and a smaller one.

They longed to attack this fleet, but they could not. It was critically important to let it pass into the East and become involved in the wars against the Assyrians, Syrians and Persians. It would be two weeks before other fleets or American divisions could arrive from across seas. In those two weeks, the combined forces of Tunisia and Libya would crush the ill-prepared Egyptians, and wrest the Suez Canal from the grasp of the Godless West and the Faithless.

It was a good plan indeed. To succeed, it only needed a smile from Allah.

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

6.7 America

6.7.1 Halsey: Near Crete

Commander Jimmy Johanson handed the message to Admiral Duncan. Mr. Threat was smiling for the first time in days.

JT Duncan had to smile in return. Jimmy was the worst poker player he'd ever known. He just couldn't keep a secret. "Good news, Jimmy?"

"Yes, Sir, the Israelis have taken Damascus! They kicked the shit out of the Syrians and a couple of Iraqi divisions yesterday and rolled into Damascus this morning. That knocks Syria out of the war and puts a big crimp in the Iraqi plans."

"What does it do to the threat to us?"

"Well, it almost eliminates it. The Syrians can't mount either an air or sea attack on us, except maybe some solo venture by a loony out to meet Allah in Paradise. On the other hand, it really strengthens our hand. Those Israeli pilots are really good, and they won't let anything fly against us. So, in effect, we've lost a threat and gained two-hundred-plus top-flight pros flying cover for us. Like I said, it's the best news in days."

Duncan had to agree with him. The loss of Bunker Hill was serious. It was the only ship in the fleet with the TACCATS system. Halsey and the DDGs had decent computers, but not like that one. When factored with the serious depletion of their AAMs, which hadn't been replenished since the battle, the fleet's automated anti-missile and anti-aircraft systems were in critical shape.

On top of that, Halsey had been far more badly damaged than first suspected. The same missile that had knocked out her after-starboard batteries, had also crippled her aft starboard elevator. With only the aft port elevator in action, the flight deck and the hangers bottle-necked easily. The loss of the elevator destroyed landing patterns, launch windows, recovery cycles and everything else a carrier was supposed to do. The Air Boss was gritting his teeth and trying to work around it. The only thing that would cure the problem was a working elevator, and Admiral Duncan didn't have a spare one lying around.

"So, we got plenty of air cover and no threats. That's the good news."

"What's the bad news?"

"The Iranaqis kicked the crap out of us at Jubayl." Johanson leaned over, flicked on a screen and hit a few keys. A map of the Persian Gulf appeared. He pointed to a small city on the coast. "The Ninth and Twelfth Light were overrun here. The Eighty-Second and the One-Oh-One were trying to cover their retreat. But, they've busted through in force and there's nothing to stop them short of the Arabian Sea.

"Admiral, you are to call General Algarro at his HQ in Riyadh at 10:00. At that time, you'll fall under CentCom officially. I wouldn't want to try to out-guess a Gator, but I'll bet we're going into restricted waters."

"Anything else?"

"Yes, Sir, our PhibRon, along with Victory and Ajax, is steaming through the Straits of Sicily right now."

"Speaking of incidents, what of our North African friends?"

"You've got me there, Sir. There's been a lot of shipping activity, mostly heading east, but it's hard to say whether that's normal for this time of year, an artifact of our restriction zone and the battle or what. Whatever it is the Egyptians are taking it very seriously. They've called a full mobilization, but that'll take 'em a week or more. In the meantime, they've sent a division west towards their border with Libya. The situation's still pretty murky, but we're keeping our eye on it, just in case."

"OK, Jimmy, keep me informed. I gotta talk with Gator. Pass the word for Ed to join me."

Three minutes later, Captain Teegin joined him and two minutes after that the VisiPhone blinked on showing General Algarro's taut and unsmiling face. Next to him was a large man, with a full, round and thoroughly Arabic face. Gator tried to smile. "Good Morning, Admiral."

"Good Morning, General. Sixth Fleet reporting for duty. May I present Halsey's CO, Captain Edward Teegin."

"Captain, Admiral, this is General Mahumaddi el Sayd a-Fayd, Saudi Chief of Staff. We have been discussing our options. Are you aware of the military situation?"

"Yes, Sir. I was briefed on the battle of Jubayl, if that is what you mean. How bad is it?"

"It's disaster, Dunk. Quite frankly we got our asses kicked, and we're running just as fast as we can. We have decided to abandon the defense of Jubayl and to concentrate our remaining forces along a front from Al-Qatif to Al-Khubail. We're going to make it a fight for the cities. They've got us completely outnumbered, out-gunned and out-classed, at least on the ground.

"We've got only three advantages, and we're going to try to make them pay off. First, in the cities, their superiority in tanks and armor is diminished. Second, the further south they come, the longer their supply lines. Third, we control the sea.

"You'll notice I've said nothing about our control of the air. Quite frankly, it's pretty damned even. We've got superior aircraft, crews, training and doctrine. They've got numbers on us, and they're using them to their best advantage.

"My plan is to turn our control of the sea into air superiority and to destroy their logistical support. If we can do that, we can stop them in place. We won't be able to push them back, but we can stop them until the big stuff arrives.

"You will rendezvous with Norm Spigott and the Kimmel in the Gulf of Oman. He'll be here a day or so before you, but once you've rendezvoused, you're my Navy Boss. I've swiped a couple of his AWACs, but your two carriers should be able to make do with six of them. He's got his replenishment ship with him, so you'll be able to use it. His PhibRon will be here in about three days. I understand that yours will take a little longer?"

"Yes, Sir. Admiral Ellingstone's fleet linked up with the Brits and is sailing past Sicily right now. They should be available in four to six days. The Brits are sending Victory all the way, so we'll have three carriers in less than a week. That should really bring some pressure to bear. Blacky Breckenridge is coming in with the PhibRon, and the rest of his Brigade is four or five days behind him. If all goes according to plan, the Jefferson will be with them which will add a big punch to the operations."

"Sounds good, Dunk. Give Norm a call, and I'll hear from you regularly at this hour."

"OK, Gator. Hang in there, and tell the guys the Navy's on its way!" The general smiled weakly as the screen went blank. Duncan turned to Ed Teegin. "Mr. Threat was right again. Better get him in here for this."

Three minutes later, Norm Spigott's emaciated, long face filled the screen. "Hi, Dunk, what's all that on your shoulders? They booted you upstairs and forgot to tell you there was a war on?"

"And, to you too, Spig! I hear you'll be in shoot 'em up country tomorrow."

"Yah, and I hear that I get to be king of the Navy's hill for only another day or so. Hey, did you hear that Gator stole two of my Hawkeyes? Something about the needs of the many. Oh, by the way, we've got plenty of stores. I managed to grab a few extra SM-4s before we left. Thought we might need some. Sound good to you? Got anything to trade?"

"Jesus Christ, Spig, you haven't changed in thirty years, except maybe to get even uglier. By the way, where should we meet? I got some real problems in the missile department. We lost Bunker Hill, and my DDGs are down to a total of thirty or forty shots. My air ops are also shot to hell. We lost the aft starboard elevator. In fact the entire aft starboard is a mess."

"So I heard, but I also heard you guys did a hell of a job. Sure, we got plenty of SM-4s, and Saratoga is loaded. But, that's bad news about the elevator. I hadn't heard about that. That could really screw up your air ops."

"True enough. So, when we have to scramble, you'll be doing most of it. By the way, where do we meet?"

"LA? San Fran? Nah, my best guess would be off of Muscat in three or four days."

"Sounds good. We'll put the boots to this old horse, and make a wake in the Red Sea, but we'll be there. I'm sure the Egyptians will expedite our little shipment. By the way, who's running your PhibRon?"

"Jerry Lake. Sam Carter's the big Marine. You know them?"

"No, but I'll look 'em up in the phone book. See you in four days, Spig."

"Thanks, Dunk, and congrats on the third star. It looks good on you."

Teegin looked askance at Duncan. "Know that guy well, do you?"

"My brother-in-law."

"No shit! I know Jerry Lake. He's a good guy, and handles his boats really smooth. Don't ever sail against him! But, I don't know anything about this Marine."

"Well, Ed, if he's anything like Blacky, those Iranaqis are in deep shit. Captain, set a course for Suez, Djibouti and Muscat at best speed."

"Aye, Aye, Sir."

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

6.8 Iran

6.8.1 The New Assignment

The schedule had fallen apart, and the attack on the Hijanah Salient had not gone off on time. The Jews' planes had bombed them. The Jews' helicopters had swarmed like angry bees. The Jews' tanks had thundered over the open plains massacring everybody.

He had commandeered a staff car and had driven madly north out of Damascus, pursued by the Jews' helicopters. At Adra, he had turned east towards Dumayr, Khan Abu Shamat and safety. Yet, no matter how far or how fast he had driven, the Jews' choppers had dogged him. Twice he had been forced to drive off the road to avoid an aerial attack. Then, a Jew's F-22 had come out of nowhere! He was forced to leap from his moving vehicle as it boiled up in smoke and exploded.

Alone in the wilderness, he struggled on past Bahr Saydahl, in the shadow of Jabal az-Zabaydiyah, and crossed into the high desert of Badiyat. His only hope was a supply convoy, but he knew their schedules all too well. The next convoy was not due for two days. He had no food or water. He had only the clothes on his back. The noonday heat would pass thirty degrees, and at night the temperature could drop to five. He was in the land of Bedouin, scorpions and vipers, all alone.

His companions were hate and hope. He hated Jews. He hated Saudis. He hated all Infidels and mostly the Americans. His hope was Allah. Allah was testing him. He had to survive! He had to survive to fight His enemies and to restore His Kingdom.

Two days later, a supply convoy found him wandering deliriously beside the road. They wondered how he could have survived the extremes of heat and cold, or the need for food and water. Yet, they had a schedule to meet, so they continued westward.

They had traveled almost one hundred kilometers before the wanderer regained his senses. He ordered them to turn about and return to Ar-Rutbah. They were incredulous and refused to listen to his ravings. They had a timetable which determined when and where they should be almost to the second. They dared not violate it upon penalty of death.

Then, he announced who he was. He was Brigadier General Tavid Hammedyanni, son of the Iranian Army Chief of Staff, and grandson of Ayatollah Hammedyanni!

They knew his name and his reputation. They turned back quickly, and three days later returned to their starting point with their imperious leader.

From Ar-Rutbah, Hammedyanni found air transportation to Baghdad. He had been out of contact for six days. He had not worn clean clothes or eaten anything other than stale rations of the road. He had not spoken to his father in seven days, and Tavid knew that he would have already mourned his son's death in battle.

"Tavid, it is you! You are alive!" General Benhamin Hammedyanni's eyes filled with tears as he greeted his son over the VisiPhone. "Your mother has been weeping uncontrollably for the past week, since the news of the Battle of Hijanah. Your grandfather has been to the mosque praying for your entry into Paradise. They will be so relieved to hear that you are alive. Return immediately. There are important things for you to do."

He returned to Teheran the following day and was greeted at the airport by his father and grandfather. They went to their home first. The business of Jihad ranked second to his duty to his mother.

The scene of their reunion would have stirred a poet to new heights. Nothing is stronger than a mother's love, nor more plaintive than a mother's cries for her departed children. When a child is raised from the dead, it rekindles all the ancient bonds thrice over, and their tears of joy flowed even greater than the Tigris.

Their reunion was all too brief. The war, the Jihad, demanded him. He had to obey its siren call. That afternoon, the Chief of Staff brought his son within the war room to hear the great secret. Of all the secrets and plans of this war, this was the deepest, darkest and most closely kept. It was the Western Front; the deception, within the deception within the deception. It was only now that Tavid learned the secret of secrets.

All the attacks, all the feints, and all the losses had been carefully considered. The outcome of the war had been weighed in the finest of balances. They had found that they could not win, except by deception. Therefore, the attack in the east had been weighted heavily, but the full might of neither Iran nor Iraq had been thrown into the contest. Only that amount was used that would defeat the Saudis, forcing them and their lackeys, the Yankees, into a defensive war for the cities, the oil terminals and the ports. The real war was in the west.

Even as they spoke, three great armies totaling fifteen divisions were approaching the city of Ha-Il on the Baghdad-Medina road. A second road terminated in Ha-Il from the east. It led to Buraydah, Unayzah and Ar-Riyadh, the capital of Saudi Arabia!

The route to Ha-Il was long and arduous: a journey of over one thousand kilometers through high desert. A man was needed who was skilled in scheduling and logistics to ensure that sufficient food, water, fuel and ammunition flowed to the army as it penetrated the enemy's last defenses, captured the Saudi capital and ended the war. Such a man was Tavid Hammedyanni, who had already proven his skills in scheduling and in determining Allah's timetable of victory.

Furthermore, the desert army, consisting of Operational Maneuver Groups from both Assyria and Persia, was commanded by an Iraqi. The Iranian Revolutionary Council was fearful that Iranian blood would have been spilled in the East to obtain an Iraqi victory in the West. The Council asserted that a person of high military rank from an esteemed family needed to be appointed to ensure that Persian authority and mastery were not subverted by their allies. Therefore, they appointed Tavid Hammedyanni to the position of Chief of Staff of the Saviors of The Rock and promoted him to the rank of Major General.

Tavid flew to Baghdad on the following morning. He carried a briefcase filled with documents and a special computer terminal that would allow him direct communications with his father in Teheran. Late that night, he landed at the small desert airport high in the plains of Saudi Arabia to begin his mission.

Allah had saved him. He would fulfill the destiny Allah had chosen for him!

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

6.9 America

6.9.1 B-2s

Colonel Emil "Bud" Schaeffer stretched his legs and reached back along the low ceiling of the cockpit. 'It's a crying shame', he thought. "We used to be able to put hundreds of heavy bombers in the air at one time. We had BUFFs, B1s and B1Bs up the gazzinga. Then came stealth, and the half a billion dollar price tags that went with it. Now, my twelve B2s represent one-third of all our heavy bombing capacity. It's a damn shame!"

He looked left and right, checking the formation of the other eleven aircraft of the Ninth Heavy Bombardment Squadron. The big, black flying wings looked awesome! The Libyans were going to be surprised.

The Italians had been pounding Tunisia and eastern Algeria for three days, but Libya was just out of their reach. The five airfields around Tripoli were five hundred miles from the Italian boot, all over water. The Typhoons were good birds and could pack a heck of a wallop, but to get there and back would require a heavy aerial refueling effort, and would attract a lot of attention. So, the powers that be decided to let the Italians handle the close-in stuff, and let the big boys do the long-distance flying.

A long distance it was, indeed. The first leg from Barksdale to Loring was the easy part. They'd flown at night at sixty thousand feet to stay above the commercial traffic. After landing at Loring, they were briefed on their mission, armed and fueled. By 04:00, they were airborne, heading east into the rising sun. The great circle route took them up into Canada, across Newfoundland, Greenland and north of Ireland. They arrived at Farnsworth two hours after sundown amidst the tightest security in almost a century. The Brits were taking the threats of sabotage very seriously.

The tankers left some four hours ahead of them flying over Spain to the Mediterranean. There was no doubt that they were seen by Arab sympathizers, but it didn't matter. The tankers could have been heading to the other end of the MED for all they knew.

The B-2s were another story. After taking off, they headed northeast to gain altitude before crossing the European coastline. By the time they were over Holland, they were at fifty thousand feet and still climbing. Captain George Takashima, Bud's weapon systems officer, kept chuckling. All the radars in Europe had their shot at painting the big planes, but none of them did.

They flew quickly over France and rendezvoused with the KC-17Bs in the Gulf of Lion between the Belearic Islands and Corsica. After refueling, they headed east-southeast skirting Sardinia, Sicily and Malta before turning south-southwest towards Tripoli.

Their objective was the big Libyan bomber base at Tarhunan, some sixty klics southeast of Tripoli itself. Getting there meant running the radar gap between the Libyan capital and Misratah. The whole area was filled with missile controlled radars, and there were fighter bases both in Misratah and in Gharyan.

Their course would take them over Al-Khums, half way between the two cities. After plastering Tarhunan, they'd keep right on going, instead of returning by the route they had entered. They'd avoid Tripoli and exit back over the MED at Zuwarah. Then they'd go like hell for friendlier air space. With stealth to protect them from radar and non-reflective, black surfaces protecting them from enemy pilot's night vision, they should be safer than lying in bed.

"Malta coming up on the right, Colonel. We'll be turning in three-zero minutes."

"Thanks, Tark. Guess we better start getting this bird ready. Position check."

"Super, boss. I just got two satellite fixes and confirmed them with fixes on Ragusa tower and Cape Bon lighthouse. I've got us to within three or four feet. Should be close enough, but I'll keep working on it just the same."

"Good, see that you do. I'd like to put these down the pickle barrel. Have you done a weapons check?"

"Looks good so far. The laser is working just great, and the IR is, too. I haven't been able to check the radar on anything external, but it checks out internally. I'm just beginning the final checks on the LGBs. That'll take about five minutes per. So, I'm on schedule."

"Good, but aren't you cutting it a little close. Landfall is in two hours."

"It's OK, Bud, don't worry. This is my third time through. Last time I did all twenty-five GPS-guided bombs in seventy-five minutes. That's the whole thing, too. Full elevons check, full detector check in all three modes, full recognition check and arming sequencer. About the only check I haven't tried was the 'drop one and see what happens' check. I didn't think the French would like it a whole lot."

Schaeffer chuckled. The long flight was getting to them both.

Tark tensed over his threat scope. "Ships on the southern horizon. Looks like three, maybe four warships and a bunch of other ships, too. They're strung out for over a hundred miles. I count three, maybe four search radars.

"Let's see. There's ten merchies strung out over about twenty miles to the south southwest. We'll probably fly over the top of them. There's eight more due south, twelve south southeast and another ten closer to the southeast. They look like merchies, mostly cargo types, you know? Like I said, there are three warships standing out to sea, sorta like they're protecting them or something."

"Sounds odd." Bud threw a switch, and his secondary screen lit up with a real-time emulation of the threat/navigation screen.

Bud studied the display for a moment. "Yea, I see what you mean. The big ones are the merchies, right? It's like they were fish heading up stream to spawn." A brighter patch moved rapidly from left to right across his screen. "Ooh! That must have been one of the warships sweeping with his radar. Yup, there's the other two. They seem to be looking all around, don't they? If they were guarding those merchies from a sea attack, wouldn't they be spending more time looking our way and less rotating?"

"Maybe, Colonel, and maybe not. If they're old-style radars, they just sweep and let the fire control radars point at whatever they find."

"Yah, OK. It still looks weird, doesn't it?"

"Yessir, it does. Should I take a chance and send this out?"

"Negative! No way. We're hiding, remember? We're hiding in plain sight, and that's a real trick. Nope, we won't give those rag-heads a chance to find us by emitting. At the same time, you'd better record all of this for posterity. Keep track of them as long as you can. The G-2 guys will have a ball."

"Can do, Colonel." Tark replied, as he checked the mission chronometer and the plane's global positioning readout. "One minute to course correction. Prepare to turn to Two-One-Niner on my mark. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Mark!"

Bud dropped the right wing just a little, and the B-2 began a long, gentle right-hand turn. This was one of those tricky bits of flying stealthy. As long as his B-2 was "clean" it was very hard to detect from any angle. The moment anything "dirtied" his plane's smooth lines, it created a slight inconsistency that might reflect a radar beam back to its receiver. So, he had to do everything just a little at a time.

With the big plane in a three-degree bank, the turn took fifteen minutes to complete. Then, with a slight nudge in the opposite direction, they were headed right on course for Al-Kuhms, a flight of just a little over a half hour.

It was nervous time. They'd be passing within fifty miles or so of two major radar installations. And, no matter how many times they'd done it, the eerie lines on the scope reaching upward towards them made their skins crawl. Only one mistake, one piece of equipment failing or one tiny blip from some odd angle would alert the whole world to their presence.

If they were discovered, they had no defense, other than the usual ECM stuff. That was even worse in some ways. Electronic Counter Measures relied on various jamming techniques. That is, ECMs were emitters, and emitters of any kind could be seen on the other guy's radars. Even if they couldn't be detected perfectly, the enemy had no doubt as to where they were. Worse, some of the enemy's missiles homed on jam. The Ninth Heavy Bombardment Squadron tip-toed through the night.

"Feet dry," Takasmina announced, "We're over Al-Khums. New course Two-Five-Five. On my mark. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Mark!"

Bud nudged the right pedal with his toe and pushed the stick a tad to the right. 'Fly clean,' he kept repeating, hoping that all the other pilots were thinking similar thoughts.

"Target coming up in five minutes. Ready! Mark!"

Tark leaned forward, suddenly tense. "IR's got them. Painting with the laser. Designating. Hold it still!" Schaeffer held the plane steady, keeping a close eye on the GPS system as Tark designated his twenty-five targets according to the prearranged plan. "Designation completed. Ready for bombing autopilot. Engage on my mark. Ready? Engage!"

Bud flipped a switch, and glanced at his WSO. Both of them raised their hands up over their heads to make sure that neither of them was still on the controls. The computer was flying their bird.

One of the reasons the B-2 was so expensive was that it almost flew itself. By querying the constellation of global positioning satellites, the computer always knew the aircraft's exact position. When the WSO designated a target, the computer simply downloaded the appropriate position to the B-2's smart bombs.

After the computer dropped them, the bombs directed themselves to the target. Either the computer or the WSO could monitor all twenty-five of the projectiles and provide mid-course corrections to each of them. If any of them needed addition guidance, lasers could be used to illuminate individual targets for the bombs to home in on, but they shouldn't be needed.

The bomb bay doors opened, exposing the B-2's underside to radar returns. They could now be seen. The objective was to drop their loads quickly, close the bomb bay door and skedaddle home, ASAP. The B-2 began to lurch as the individual one-ton bombs fell away. The computer didn't try to control the aircraft's attitude. Instead, it compensated for the slight increase in altitude within its memory circuits. Those relatively small differences in drop times were as eons to the computer. It could use those small time increments to monitor, control and direct each of the bombs as they fell.

The bomb bay doors whined back into place, and the B-2 settled down. Bud grabbed the controls, releasing the autopilot. "Time to blow this pop stand," Bud murmured into his helmet mike. "Slow and easy. Coming to course Three-Oh-Two. Speed, sneaky fast!"

Bud looked into the lower screen to watch the results of two days of work. His squadron's three-hundred two-thousand pound bombs saturated an area three hundred yards wide and three thousand yards long. Two squadrons of Blinders, one of Blackjacks and one each of their precious Badger Recon planes and a MadCap had been completely destroyed. The airport's runways were destroyed, as were the fuel and ammunition bunkers. The control tower, hangars, revetments and all personnel quarters had ceased to exist.

The Libyans were frantic. Bombs had rained down on them from an empty sky, as though the hand of Allah had slapped the ground upon which they trod. They launched one squadron of MiG-31s from Gharyan, and one of MiG-29s from Misrah in pursuit of their spectral assailant. They searched for two hours, but found no enemy upon which they could vent their rage.

Ten minutes later, the Ninth Heavy Bombardment Squadron was over the Mediterranean. Four hours later, they were refueling over the Gulf of Lion and were on their way back to England. They landed eight hours later, once again in the dark.

Two hours of debriefing were almost at an end when Bud mentioned the funny formation of ships. The G-2 he had been talking to jumped out of his seat yelling, "Why didn't you tell me about this? What the hell's that matter with you fly-boys anyway? Shit for brains? You see fifty ships heading east into a war zone covered by escorts, and you wait 'til now to tell me!"

Colonel Schaeffer had lived on eight hours of sleep in the past two and a half days. He was punchy. He had just come off a very long, tiring but successful mission over enemy territory. The very last thing he needed was a shave-tailed captain trying to ream him out.

Schaeffer uncoiled himself until he stretched to his full five feet, four inches. His one hundred and thirty-five pound frame launched itself across the table, and his small but powerful hand grabbed the captain's necktie. With his free hand, he pointed at the black birds on his shoulders.

"You're talking to a colonel, Captain, and my bird is about to shit all over your railroad tracks. You're at attention, Mister!"

The captain leapt to his feet. He was a full head taller than the colonel, and outweighed him by sixty pounds. Nonetheless, he stood ramrod straight, eyes ahead with thumbs on the seams of his pants. "Yes, Sir!"

Author’s note: Jihad is a novel of war, which, by definition, is violence in extremis. So far in this story, thousands have died, tens of thousands have been maimed, injured or harmed. Yet, this brutality has been impersonal, therefore, tolerable. In this chapter, violence becomes horrific, real and very personal. This chapter is not for the squeamish, yet is a necessary part of this story of heroism, sacrifice, and redemption. Proceed with caution.

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

6.10 Saudi Arabia

6.10.1 The Broadcast

The special royal broadcast had been announced every half hour for several days. It was fifteen minutes after noon. The mid-day prayers had ended, and the entire Saudi kingdom had gathered before their television sets.

The nation's TV screens went blank for a moment. Seconds later, they were filled with the image of two elderly men sitting on a tan settee before a light green and beige wall. The slightly older man on the right leaned to the second man and whispered in his ear. The second man nodded and began to speak.

"There is no God but Allah and Mohammed is His prophet. Subjects and citizens, you have been commanded to see this broadcast, because the future of this kingdom, of Islam, and perhaps of that of the entire world is at stake.

"In order for you to fully understand the reality of the dangers we face, we will now show to you a film. This film was shown on Iraqi television. It is intended to frighten us into surrendering. Instead, we are angered. Please do not turn away from the horrors you are about to see. Your king will talk to you later about these images."

The nation's screens flickered, and a news video appeared of the once picturesque city of Al-Jubayl. The first footage showed a pair of tanks driving down a street. They were firing their cannons into tall buildings. Great gaping holes appeared, and smoke filtered out from the ruins.

A small car veered into the street in the near foreground. The driver crouched low, barely seeing over the steering wheel. Several other people were in the car, bent over as though to hide. A huge pile of belongings wrapped in a sheet was tied to the roof. The small car darted down the street. A tank turret swung towards the car. A blast knocked the camera askew, but not far enough to avoid seeing the result. The car was blown to pieces, and the bundle of clothing scattered over the street.

Scenes changed rapidly showing tanks and armored vehicles firing into buildings as they roared past. The scene changed again. Four men in Iranian uniforms were carrying objects from a building. They had made a pile of bedding, and atop it were televisions, recorders, a VisiPhone, picture frames, and an odd assortment of clothing.

An old man, a civilian, rushed out of a doorway and grabbed one of the pictures from the pile. One of the soldiers raised his machine gun and fired. The old man reeled and fell, blood seeping onto the pavement. Other soldiers turned towards the camera, laughing and pointing at the dying man. Then, they turned around, cocked their weapons and emptied them into the rebounding corpse.

The scene shifted again. A young woman, clutching a child to her bosom, raced down the sidewalk. A soldier sprinted after her. He caught her, and ripped the child from her. The baby bounced onto the street's hard pavement. The soldier clawed at the woman with both hands, ripping her chador from her body.

A second man, dressed in a white shirt and brown pants, rushed up and knocked the soldier down with a single blow. He grabbed the woman. She tore way from him, rushed to her child and lifted it up. The man reached for her hand, but his legs were cut out from under him by a stream of bullets.

The man lay on the street, crying out, his hand reaching for the woman, while the soldier tore her clothes off and raped her. When the first soldier had done his evil work, another soldier laid upon her and a third.

The first soldier laughed into the camera and pointed at the man. He strutted over to the child, lifted it in one hand, and threw it against the side of a building. It resounded like a small watermelon falling to the ground.

The woman screamed repeatedly. A soldier slapped her, but still she screamed and struggled. One of the soldiers lifted his gun, and tore her apart with a spray of bullets. The wounded man cursed them, before they shot him in the head. The scene shifted again, but as it did, the screen went blank, returning to the two old men.

General Algarro and the Saudi Chief of Staff had been sitting off to the side, waiting their turn. Algarro had seen the entire film once, and had been forced to excuse himself part way through it. He had seen the reality of war, and knew death. However, this passed beyond all sensibility. He leaned over to the Saudi, "Who are those two? Is the one on the right the king?"

"Yes, my friend, that is His Royal Highness, King Fayd. The man to his left is his brother, the High Chamberlain. The king seldom speaks, as it may lessen his dignity. Therefore, except in the most extreme emergencies or in the highest of official acts, the king rules through his brother, who is his dearest friend, spokesman and heir."

Algarro, consumed with curiosity, was about to ask more, when the Chamberlain began to speak again.

"The program you have just seen was televised last night by the Iraqi government. It illustrates the destruction of Al-Jubayl. The Iraqis warn us that this will happen throughout our kingdom if we continue to resist.

"Yet, Al-Jubayl did not resist. Our King, in his wisdom, relied upon our common faith in Allah to protect his subjects. It is written that the warrior shall not desecrate the Holy Places, nor despoil the persons or property of those who accept Him. We believed that Al-Jubayl would suffer no harm at the hands of our Islamic brethren.

"We now know them, for they have boasted of their transgression, and revealed themselves to us all. Yes, we know them! They are the Infidels of whom we were warned. They dress themselves in the manner of the Holy, and they proclaim themselves for all to hear. But, when Allah tested them, they fell below the level of the animals. They have failed Allah's great test and have failed to abide by the laws of Islam as given to His Prophet, Mohammed, may his name live in glory forever.

"Therefore, we must defend ourselves. We must arise as we have not done in centuries. We must arise to defend the Holy Land and the Holy of Holies from the Infidels.

"The King would speak to his subjects. Attend!"

The Chamberlain sat back and folded his hands upon his lap. The camera slowly panned to the King's wrinkled but kindly face.

"My subjects, I declare a Jihad in defense of the Holy Places of Islam. I declare that my kingdom is in a State of Siege. Therefore, to defend Allah's Kingdom, the Holy Places and this, His Holy Kingdom, I declare that a State of Martial Law exists within the boundaries of my kingdom. All of my subjects and even I, your royal master, will partake in this Jihad. My subject, General Mahumaddi el Sayd a-Fayd, will address you now. Attend to him. His words are my words."

The camera facing the two generals snapped on, and the director pointed at General a-Fayd.

"Thank you, my king. Blessed be the name of Allah and of his servants here on this Earth.

"Our king has declared martial law. Until he shall lift this burden from our shoulders, we shall fight the Infidels, alongside our true friends, the Americans who sit even now at our sides.

"The subjects of the king are hereby under military law. Each of you will report to the nearest military district commander or station of the police. There you will be assigned to work, which will be according to your abilities rather than your station or wealth.

"Some of you will be drafted immediately into military service. You will be assigned to military units and you will be under military discipline. Some of you will be called upon to build barricades. Others will make and prepare food. Others will serve in hospitals, or other activities as needed in the defense of our kingdom.

"Those of you who are able will serve either with the Saudi army or with the American army. If you serve well, you will be rewarded. If you die in battle, you shall be rewarded with eternal life in Paradise.

"For those of you chosen to fight alongside our American friends, allies and benefactors, beware! They are different from us, neither good nor evil. They are simply The Unbelievers who are helping to deliver us from the Heretics. Because of this Allah's face shines upon them.

"Know one other thing about them. American women live in high esteem amongst their people. High officers and others in authority amongst the Americans are female. It is their way, and we respect it just as they respect our ways.

"If you are assigned to an American unit, remember, the word of your officers and those placed in command over you are the words of your king. To disobey a lawful order, whether given by a man or a woman, is sufficient justification for you to be shot summarily. If you attempt to desert, you will be shot, and buried in a common grave in Unholy ground with a swine as your companion!

"Understand this also: There will be no evacuation of any city or town. If necessary, you will fight and die defending your home, your street or your village. Civilians found attempting to evacuate will be summarily shot and burial will be denied to them and their families.

"Go, subjects of the king. Go to your police station. Go to your military headquarters. Seek those our king has commanded to lead us in this Holy War, and serve your king and Allah!"

The camera shifted back to the King. "These are my commands, my people. Go now, serve me. Serve Allah! It is Jihad!"

The cameras went blank, and regular broadcasting resumed. News personalities rehashed, restated, replayed and reiterated the words and pictures that the nation had just heard and seen. The productions were carefully stage-managed. In a typical group, one person had been selected to play the dove, to call for surrender and appeasement. Others took the king's side. As they debated, the moderator would interject, often showing scenes from the Iraqi film that had not been seen in the earlier telecast. In two instances the scenes were so horrific that when the cameras in the studio were turned back on one or more of the panel was missing. In one case, not stage-managed at all, a man was sick to his stomach in front of the entire nation.

Within the hour, lines began to form at each police station and military installation. Regardless of sex or station, each citizen was stripped of their headgear, and a military cap was placed solemnly upon their heads. Above the bill were a silver crescent and a gilded star. The identical solemn message was given to each of them in turn: "You are now in the service of Allah and your king."

The recruits were directed to small tables where they were interviewed. As their skills, age and physical condition were discovered, each was assigned to a new task according to their skills and knowledge, without regard to their age, sex or social position.

The final defense of Saudi Arabia had begun. The kingdom would never again return to its ancient ways.

6.10.2 Call Up

The same kind policeman knocked upon the door of the shop before entering.

‘How odd,’ Rahil said to herself. ‘This is a place of business. Our door is open to all. Why should he knock upon the doorway?’

“I would speak with your father,” he said, formally.

Rahil rushed into the back. “Father! The young policemen is back. Something is wrong.”

Ahmed looked up, and a worried look crossed his face. They had spent a day and a half restoring the shop for business. Had Ma’sum reconsidered his gift? Had the Imam adjudicated against him? “Yes? How can I assist the King’s servant, today?”

The policeman blushed. “I am not sure how to say this. Your daughter must come with me. She and all other adults have been called to service by the King.”

“What? How can this be? The King...the King has called my daughter into His service?”

“Indeed. He has declared martial law. Under these provisions, he has required all young and able bodied subjects into His service. He will address the Kingdom later today. However, in the meantime, your daughter must come with me to the police station, where she will receive her orders.”

As Ahmed drew a breath in preparation to answer the policeman, Rahil touched him on the arm, and looked up into his face. “Father, it is the will of Allah. I am called to a greater service than even that of the King.”

She turned to the policeman. “Let me say goodbye to my mother. I will join you in a few minutes. Allah be praised!”

6.10.3 Partings

Tamir had been a policeman for only a few months. As a very junior member of Zahran’s sectarian police force, he had been assigned to the market district. It was a quiet district with little crime. As a new police officer, his job was to get to know the area, become known to all the merchants, and learn as much as he could of their ways. In this manner, he would learn who belonged in the market, how shoppers acted, and who might be less than honest. During his first week, he had arrested one pick-pocket and one thief of money from a woman’s open till. His honesty, his respect to all, and his arrest record earned him the respect and trust of the merchants. In spite of his youth, the people of his small beat had come to expect his presence and were comforted by it.

He had stood by, embarrassed, as Ahmed and Sefina embraced Rahil, covering her with kisses. Rahil had thrown off her burka to hold her parents close, weeping with them, and kissing their faces. He heard their shared prayers for her safe return. Then, as though on cue, the family stood apart from each other, and seemed to take a collective breath. He saw the identical looks of resolve on their faces, a testimony to their familial relationship. He watched as Rahil covered herself, turned on her heel, and marched from their store and into the street.

Tamir was taken by surprise at Rahil’s sudden departure and hurried to catch up to her. For a while, they walked together in silence. Although he was a man, and one of authority acting for the King, the tenets of his faith demanded that he refrain from speaking with a woman who was not of his family, lest he dishonor both himself and her. Yet, it was most difficult. He had seen the young Rashid at work, wondering how a boy could look so feminine. He had watched the men gathering across the street from Ahmed’s market, watching the youngster. He had heard the imam speak to Ahmed regarding his ‘daughter,’ and had seen the abrupt transition from boy to girl. Yet, it was not his place to say anything. The imam and the religious police had addressed this situation, and, with Allah’s guidance, had determined the child’s proper path in life.

Yet, how could he not speak with her? She had been torn from her family. She would be sent among strangers, perhaps to die, or worse. How could he, in good conscience, not say something to attempt to allay her fears or his fears for her?

“Are you frightened?” he asked. He saw the top of her burka move. Her eyes, still glistening with tears, spoke volumes.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yet, it is my fate. I have known all my life that Allah would call me upon some great adventure. My life would be changed, and, because of that, the lives of everyone in the Kingdom would also be changed.”

As she turned away, he gasped, “You have known this? You have foreseen?”

“Yes,” she whispered, “I have. I am still frightened, but I know that, regardless of the trials and tribulations which I must suffer, Allah will lead me into a new and better life. I do not know how I will do this, or the path that Allah has place before my feet. I know it is my journey, and I must travel this road and overcome the impediments that I shall meet. Then, through my suffering, all the people and especially the women of this land will rejoice. Such is my fate, but I am still frightened that I will fail to fulfill Allah’s mission for me.”

Tamir was taken aback by the bold assertions of the young woman Under other circumstances, he might have considered the girl’s words to be blasphemy, yet, upon hearing them, he was convinced that she was correct. Somehow, she had been sent upon a Holy Mission. She was with Allah in her spirit, and because of that, the Kingdom would be shaken to its core.

Although he wanted to hear more, to talk with her, they had arrived at the police station. He quickly guided her through the main door and to the great hall, where all the people were gathered in preparation to serve their King. As he ushered her into the hall, he leaned to her, and spoke quietly into her ear. “Blessings be upon you, Rahil of Zahran. May Allah lead you to your destiny.”

Quickly, he turned on his heel, and returned to his usual beat in the strangely deserted and quiet market district.

6.10.4 The Police Station

Rahil was quickly ushered into a side room by a nurse in a white, Western-style uniform. Her bright smile did much to relieve Rahil’s grown anxiety. “Come in here. This is where the women are being assembled. Remove your burka and hold it in your hand.”

Rahil recoiled. Not only was it against Wahhabi teachings, but it was also a form of protection. Rahil knew this body did not match her soul. Therefore, the more that was between her and discovery the better. However, as she looked around, she saw that the other women had removed their burkas or chadors, and stood about dressed in indoor clothes with hijabs covering their heads. If she did not remove her burka, then it would draw attention to her. So, with great reluctance, she slipped it over her head, folded it carefully, and tucked it under her arm.

The nurse smiled her approval and pointed. “Now, you stand in this line. You will be going to the table you see just ahead of you. When you get there, an Army officer will ask you questions. It is permitted for you to answer these questions, since he is a King’s officer. So, don’t be frightened. Just answer his questions as fully and as honestly as you can. OK?”

She nodded, and the nurse departed, leaving Rahil standing in a line of four other women. Next to her on either side were other lines of women. Each line was heading toward a King’s officer. She could see that the officer was seated at a small table and was asking questions of the woman standing in before him. As she answered, the officer made small notations on a form in front of him. After a few minutes, the woman was led away by a nurse. Rahil observed that the women were divided into several groups. Each group slowly disappeared into one of the side rooms. That is, they went in, but they didn’t come out. That thought was a disturbing one.

“Next!” A man’s voice interrupted her musings. “Come! Come!” the King’s officer beckoned to her.

As she approached, he slid a form in front of him. “Name?”

“Rahil”

The officer asked for her address, father’s name and other sundry information. Then, he asked, “Can you read?”

“Yes,” she replied.

The officer glanced up at her, fixing his gaze on her. “Really?” he asked, sliding another form towards her. “Read this.”

Rahil picked it up and read it.

“Aloud, please!” the officer chided her.

Rahil nodded, and read aloud, “The Kingdom of Saudi Arabia is one of the largest countries in the Middle East in land area, yet is one of the smallest in terms of its population.”

She was about to continue, when the officer took the form from her, saying, “Good, good. That’s enough. Now can you add and subtract numbers?”

“Yes,” Rahil replied, “I work in my father’s market, where I help him with his accounts.”

“Aha!” the officer replied. “Can you speak any other languages?”

“Yes,” Rahil replied, “I speak Farsi, French and some English.”

“Where did you learn these things?” the officer asked, a note of suspicion in his voice.

“I learned from my father, my mother, my brothers and my sisters. We are merchants. We buy and sell throughout these lands, and must be able to speak with our suppliers and our customers.”

“Hmm...,” the officer replied, seemingly placated. He looked directly at her, and then said, “So, you speak English, do you?” Except that he said it in English!

Not to be intimidated, Rahil replied, also in English, “Yes, I do.”

“Excellent!” the officer replied. He checked two boxes on the form, then waved towards one of the nurses. When she approached, he said, “English speaker.”

The nurse seemed to understand. She smiled at Rahil. “Come with me. You will be working with the Americans.”

They quickly crossed the room towards the smallest room. There had been no waiting line, so they entered immediately. Sitting at a desk was an American officer. The nurse approached him, announcing, “Rahil. 16 years old. Local resident. Speaks English. Educated. Reads. Math skills. Arabic, Farsi, French and English.”

The American nodded. “Good!” He glanced at her. “Sit! Sit there, girl.” He pointed to a chair.

Rahil was astonished. No woman sat in the presence of men, especially in unknown men.

“Ah!” the American nodded, “Don’t sit with men? Yes, I get it. However, you’ve been selected to serve with the American Army. That’s different from anything you’ve ever experienced. So, you’re going to wear an American uniform and learn some basic tasks. Then, we’re going to ship you off to one of our divisions, where you will help to defend your Kingdom. Go it?”

He had spoken so rapidly and with such an atrocious accent that Rahil understood very little of what he’d said. However, she did understand the general idea, and nodded, somewhat half-heartedly.

“Good!” the American boomed. “Now, little lady, you just read this, and sign your name at the bottom. After that, we’ll get you a physical, a new uniform, and get you some food.” He shoved a piece of paper towards her and handed her a ball-point pen.

Rahil studied the paper, trying to read it, but, it wasn’t easy. It wasn’t like the English she used when ordering from English suppliers or reading invoices from Australia or Canada. But, she persisted, and, after a while began to understand what it said. Basically, it said she was joining the American Army until the war ended. She would be expected to obey orders, carry out duties, and do anything they told her to do. In return, they would cloth her, feed her, and train her to perform unspecified duties.

Slowly, reluctantly, she took the pen and wrote her name next to the X the American had drawn on the paper.

“Great!” the American said. “Now, you remove your hijab and put on this cap.”

Again, Rahil hesitated. Slowly, incrementally, she was being stripped of everything that connected her to the woman she was, while exposing the man she never wanted to be. She glanced at the American, who nodded encouragingly, while holding out a tan, military cap with a short bill. She could see a silver crescent above a golden, five-pointed star. However, it was the crescent, the symbol of her god that held her eye. This was just another test that she had to pass in order to follow the path He had laid down for her.

With great reluctance and trepidation, she loosened her hijab, and let it slide to her shoulders. She took the proffered cap and placed it loosely on her head.

“Excellent!” the American boomed. "You are now in the service of Allah and your king. You go with this nurse, and she’ll get you to where you gotta be. Allah be with you, little lady.”

The woman touched her on the shoulder. “Come this way. We’ll get you ready.”

She led Rahil through the back door and into the street. They crossed the street to enter another building. Immediately after entering, they turned to their right and entered a large room. Several chairs stood against the near wall. The far wall was closed door and a large reception desk.

The nurse led Rahil to the reception desk. “New recruit, named Rahil.” She slid a folder across the desk to the nurse sitting behind the partition.

The nurse turned to Rahil. “I’ll be going now. You stay here, and they’ll get you ready to serve your King. Allah be with you, Rahil.” With a quick salute, she was gone.

6.10.5 Induction Center

The nurse behind the partition smiled at her, saying, “Come with me, and we’ll get your physical.”

Rahil didn’t understand. ‘Physical? Physical what?’ she wondered, as the nurse escorted her behind the partition, down a short corridor, and into a white room.

“Now, let me help you get undressed,” the nurse said.

“What?” Rahil recoiled, starting towards the door.

The nurse grabbed her arm with surprising strength. “It’s ok, Rahil. It’s just routine. The doctor is going to examine you to make sure you’re healthy. We’re going to take a blood sample and a urine sample. Then, the doctor’s going to examine you. It’ll only take fifteen minutes, but we’ve got to do it. You understand, don’t you?”

“No!” Rahil cried out. “It is forbidden. Allah shall strike me dead!”

The nurse look amused. “No, Rahil, He won’t. The King has ordered this. The King is Allah’s servant. Since, the King has ordered this, has not Allah allowed it? This is just part of Allah’s great plan for the Kingdom and all its subjects. Surely, you understand that you are just a small part of Allah’s great plan for his people, and that you must carry out your part of that mission.”

Confused, dejected, and embarrassed, Rahil fell to the floor, weeping and pulling at her hair. Her cap fell off, and she hid her face in the folds of her hijab. “I cannot do this!” she wailed.

The nurse gently helped her to her feet. “There, there, little one. I know. Every woman has the same fears. Have you ever had a physical examination by a doctor?”

“No,” Rahil whimpered. “I don’t know what is meant by a physical examination, and I do not want to know. I want to go back to my home, and help my father and my mother attend to our shop. I want to be with the other women, who need my help.”

“Yes, child, I’m sure you do. That’s all any of us would want,” the nurse replied, holding Rahil in her arms. “But, that is not our lot in this life. Instead, we are called upon to protect this Kingdom, and so we shall. Now, let me help you undress. We’ll preserve your modesty as much as we can. Here, slip this robe over yourself, while you remove your clothes.”

Slowly and carefully, the nurse helped Rahil into the paper and plastic robe. Then, working by Braille, she helped Rahil out of her clothes, folding and stacking them neatly. “You do know that you will be issued an official uniform, don’t you, Rahil?” When the girl shook her head, the nurse continued, “Oh, yes, you are in the United States Army, now. We will provide you with a soldier’s uniform. You will have trousers and a shirt. You will have boots and your cap. We will provide underclothes for you, too. These clothes,” she pointed at the small pile of Rahil’s clothing, “will be returned to your parents. We will take a picture of you when you are all dressed, and send that to them so they will know you are in the King’s service and that of Allah. They will know you are a soldier, and be proud of you. They will receive a crescent on a blue background, which they can place in their window to let others know that their child is serving His Majesty to the best of your ability. Yes, Rahil, you will be a new person beginning today, with a mission from Allah and your King.”

In spite of the nurse’s ministrations and her positive assurances, Rahil was more frightened than she had ever been. Beneath this all too thin robe was the evidence of her lie. Once it was lifted, her life would be at an end. She would be discovered, shamed, and then....?

A man burst through the door.

Rahil screamed, “A man! A man! Allah protect me!”

The nurse leapt in front of her and seized her shoulders. “Rahil, this is a doctor. He is here to perform your physical examination. It’s OK.”

Rahil struggled and screamed, “It can never be right! He is a man! This is against the will of Allah!”

The nurse turned to the doctor. “She is right, though. You are a man. What are you doing here? We need a woman doctor, not you. Besides, you’re not American. Who are you?”

The doctor shrugged. “It’s me or nothing. There are many recruits and few doctors. The King has ordered all doctors to attend to these proceedings. I have come from my surgery to assist, as ordered by the King, and as enforced by his police. I do not wish to be here either, but I obey the orders of the King.” He turned to Rahil, and in a loud and commanding voice, said, “As will you. You are subject to the King’s orders, as am I. Now, let’s get on with this, shall we?”

He reached into his bag, and pulled out a stethoscope. “Now, breathe deeply,” he commanded, placing the instrument on the robe above her heart.

She breathed in and out for a few moments, as the doctor pushed the circular silver instrument against her chest and then her back.

“Good, good...,” he pronounced. Taking a conical device from his bag, he grasped her by the head, plunging the black plastic cone into her ear. He then went to the other side and did the same thing. He unscrewed the cone, attached another lens, and shined the light into her eyes. “Good,” he said. He grasped her by the neck and began to feel both sides from her ears down to her shoulders. He felt her shoulders and arms, and then studied her hands.

The door opened again, startling Rahil. She whimpered, expecting some greater humiliation.

Instead, another nurse poked her head into the room. “Donna, I need you in 12. The recruit is so frightened she fainted and hit her head. She’s conscious, but bleeding. I need help, stat!”

The nurse glanced at the doctor, as though sizing him up. She knew that she shouldn’t abandon the female patient to a male doctor. That was against regs, but this was an emergency. She had a duty to the injured woman as well. Taking a deep breath, she said, “I’ll be right back, doctor,” and left with the other nurse.

The doctor sighed, “Well, let’s get on with it.” Picking up two pieces of silvery metal, he instructed, “Put your legs here and here.” When Rahil complied, he lifted them up, installing the stirrups into the table.

“What are you doing?” Rahil screamed. “Help me! Allah, help me!”

“What’s this?” the doctor asked, flicking Rahil’s penis. “You are not a female! You are hiding yourself from Allah. This is forbidden.”

The doctor’s eyes narrowed. Then, his face split in an enormous grin. “So, you wish others to think you are female? I shall show you what it is to be a female. Today, you will become the woman you wish to be.”

He reached for a tube from a tray on the nearby shelf. With a swift movement, he lowered his trousers.

Rahil felt his hard fingers prod her exposed anus. She squirmed, as his finger penetrated her. She screamed as loudly as she could, “Help! Help me! Allah, help me!”

The doctor reached through her legs and slapped her first on one cheek and then on the other. For a moment, Rahil’s mind seemed to leave her body. It was as though she were floating above her own body, watching. She saw the doctor’s swollen penis push against her anus. She felt the pain and screamed, even as she watched herself squirming in the attempt to ward off the man’s organ. But, her thrashing hips seemed only to encourage him. She saw his penis slip inside her. She felt herself splitting in half, as it impaled her. Helpless, she screamed again and again, until he struck her once... twice ... three times.

Rahil’s world darkened and faded. Her last thoughts were, “Allah, I have failed in my mission. Protect me in Paradise!”

“Oh my god! Call the MPs.” Donna screamed on reentering Rahil’s room. When nobody moved, she returned to the corridor, shouting, “Rape! Get the MPs. I need a doctor here, stat! Code Blue!” She quickly returned to the room.

She grabbed a handful of dressing and quickly shoved them into Rahil’s anal region, from which the blood was flowing. She carefully removed Rahil’s feet from the stirrups, and threw them into the corner with a loud clang of metal.

A second nurse, and then a third arrived, pushing a crash cart. “What’s happening here?” one asked.

“Captain, this recruit was raped! I had to help Cynthia with another recruit that had fainted and injured herself. When I got back, I found Rahil, here, up in the stirrups, bleeding profusely from the anus. I placed a temporary dressing in the wounded area and removed her from the stirrups. I recommend that we do a swab immediately to get any DNA sample we can, and before this poor child wakes up.

“I can see why she was so afraid, now. She’s got parts that she shouldn’t have. Regardless, she didn’t deserve this. Whoever that son of a bitch is, I want him strung up by his balls!”

Captain Ann Dieter’s face was a dark cloud, her eyes almost firing sparks. “Take good care of this soldier, Donna. I’m going to get help.”

A man burst into the room. “What the hell is so damned important?” he yelled.

Captain Dieter spun to face him. “Rape,” she answered succinctly. “One of your sons of bitches raped this poor woman and left her to die. That’s what. Now, get your ass over there and take care of her.”

“Ok! Ok,” he stammered. He lifted the flimsy robe and looked. “Oh, shit! Is the crash cart here? Does it have a surgical kit?”

One of the nurses said, “Yes,” producing it from within the bowels of the cart and spreading it out on the surface.

“Good. You stick with me,” he said to the nurse. “Dieter, get the MPs. Find that bastard. Whoever he is, he’ll regret what he did here. Nurse, let’s clean this area.”

It didn’t take long to find the culprit. Ever since the scandals of the early 21st century, the crime of rape had been separated from the uniform code of military justice. It had earned a place of its own, outside of the military. A special three judge panel, consisting of two civilians and one military officer, sat as a tribunal to hear and judge the case. Since the crime had occurred in what was technically American soil, the judgment and the penalty were also American.

The doctor’s plea that he had not raped a woman and therefore was not guilty fell on deaf ears. He was stripped of his medical license. He was sent to a maximum security prison for a term of 30 years, without the possibility of parole.

“Where am I? Is this Paradise?” Rahil whispered.

“No, this is Zahran Military Hospital. I’m your nurse, Donna White. I was with you in the induction center. I was the one who discovered you, and I asked to attend to you while you recovered. I feel guilty that I abandoned you to that horrid man. Please, find it in your heart to forgive me. I feel so ashamed that I let you get hurt.”

Rahil tried to raise her head to see the nurse, but was too weak. “Water, please,” she croaked.

Nurse White retrieved a plastic cup with a straw sticking out of it. “Just suck on this, child. Just a little for now. You can have as much as you want, but just a little at a time. You’ve had a rough time, and we’re going to take very good care of you.

Suddenly, Rahil realized that the nurse knew her secret. Waves of shame crashed over her, and she wept bitterly.

“What’s the matter, Rahil?” White asked. “Are you feeling badly? What is it?”

Rahil gasped, “You know! You know of me. You know, and now you will hate me and shame me and call me before the Imam that I shall be punished for my affront to Allah.”

Rushing to her, White raised her and hugged her closely. “No, child, I will not. I’m an American. We understand these things. I will tell no one. In fact, we will help you, if this is really what you want. So, don’t cry. You are a soldier, serving the King and Allah, in the United States Army. We protect our own. And, we can take care of this minor plumbing problem. It will take time, but we will make you whole, if that is your desire.”

“Oh!” Rahil squealed with joy. “More than anything in the world. But, how will this miracle happen? When will it happen?”

“Ah,” White replied, “I’m not really sure of all that. All I know is that we can do it, and have done it for many of our soldiers. That’s really not my specialty. My specialty is getting people well. So, you take a nap now, and I’ll be back later.”

Rahil smiled, asking, “When will I be able to leave this hospital?”

“Oh, in a few days,” White replied. “You were torn up inside, but we patched you up. The IV in your arm is carrying a special healing serum into your blood stream. It speeds healing a lot. So, you should be out of here, feeling almost like new, in two days. So, get some sleep.”

Rahil rolled onto her side, and her eyes closed. As she drifted off, she whispered, “Thank you, Allah. I have taken another step on the road you laid before my feet. The challenge was almost too much for me, but I survived to do your will.”

Rahel’s departure from Zahran Military Hospital was filled with tears. She wept with her nurse, Lieutenant Donna White. They had become friends, and Rahil had almost come to think of her as a foster mother. And, she shed tears of joy. The doctors had provided her with a series of implants that would help her to mature as a female over the next few months. The doctors had provided her with a set of medical orders so that she could be attended by a doctor at regular intervals, assuming that her assignment permitted. They had assured her that, except in unusual cases, she would simply start growing like other women. However, after a year, she would have to have some surgery to, as they put it, “correct your minor plumbing problem.”

An American soldier presented himself and saluted. “I’m here to bring the recruit to the training center. Here are our orders.”

A doctor and Nurse White read them, thoroughly. Neither of them wanted a repeat performance of what had happened to Rahil. “Looks good,” the doctor replied. He turned to Rahil. “Remember what I told you. Go with this soldier, and good luck. Come back whenever you can.” He saluted her, and she responded, as she had been taught.

“Come on,” the soldier commanded. “It’s not very far, but we have to hurry.” He set off at a brisk pace. Rahil had to trot just to keep up with him.

They had only gone a few blocks, when the soldier slowed, turned to his left and marched up a short flight of stairs. Two other soldiers were standing at the top of the stairs, guns at their side. The young soldier saluted and opened the door. Rahil followed suit, and soon they were in a large room with a high ceiling.

They marched over to a man sitting at a table. The soldier stood stiffly, saying, “Corporal Stevens reporting, with recruit Rahil from Zahran Military Hospital.” He took a few sheets of paper from an inside pocket and slid them to the man.

The man looked up. “Very good, Stevens. Dismissed.” He read the papers for a few minutes, and then looked up at Rahil. “Recruit Rahil, welcome to the US Army training center. I see that you’ve been in the hospital for a couple of days. You should have completed your training and been assigned to your unit already. However, we simply don’t have the time to do this right. So, I’m going to put you through a very short, very fast version of what you should have been learning. Then, I’m going to write you new orders explaining all this to your CO ... that’s your commanding officer, by the way.

“So, let’s get this underway. The day after tomorrow, I’ll assign you to your new outfit. In the meantime, go with Sergeant Holders,” he nodded towards a young woman dressed in combat fatigues. “She’ll get you properly outfitted, and teach you basic military courtesy. She’ll issue you your weapon and give you some basic training in its use.

“I’m sorry your training will be so abbreviated. However, your enemies are at the gates. We don’t have time to do things right, which is a damned shame, ‘cause it might also get you killed. I can’t do anything about that, so good luck. And, may Allah smile upon you.”

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?

7. Battle in the Streets

7.1 Saudi Arabia

7.1.1 Zahran Military Hospital

7.1.2 Captain Austen

The entire street had been torn up. Pavement and concrete had been erected into a huge pile just short of the northern end of the block. Two buses had been turned on their sides to add mass to the barricade.

Tall buildings stood at either hand. Murphy could see the movements of armed troops in their windows, as Mohammed and he approached the barricade. He heard the usual hubbub of noise as the defenders raced against the clock to prepare themselves for the onslaught. A short captain stood in the street directing the preparations.

"Sir, First Sergeant Murphy and Lieutenant Mohammed reporting as ordered."

The captain, a cute, red-headed, freckled woman, turned around and returned their salute. "Welcome to Bravo company. I'm Penny Austen." She shook hands with the type of firm, strong grip which Murphy respected.

"Lieutenant, I'm putting you in command of First Platoon. That's right here. Second's up in the building on our left and Third's in the right one. They're mostly lighter stuff, snipers and such, but I've also put the BILLs and a bunch of LAWS up there. That'll give them greater range and coverage along the street to our front.

"I've pulled the barricade back from the end of the block so that your platoon won't run into a cross-fire from the adjacent streets. They'll have to come straight at you.

"First Sergeant, I understand that you're a heavy weapons type. Good, I have one Squad Automatic Weapon on Mohammed's left, and I need you on the SRAW over there on the right.

"We're pretty thin. I'm expecting some Saudi recruits any time now, but they'll probably be green as grass. I don't want them upstairs messing things up, so I'm going to put them in your platoon. They can climb inside those overturned buses over there, stand on the seats and fire over the top. Make sure they have protection and firing holes.

"Mohammed, you are now Three-Bravo-One. I'm Three-Bravo-Bravo. Your R/O over there is Simpson. Now, here's our position." She pulled out a large sheet of paper from her pocket and unfolded it on the ground. "Here's us. Alpha is to our left, Charlie to our right. Here's our escape route when we're overrun. Back there," she pointed at another mound being erected on the next block, "is our next line of defense. We're going to fight them one block at a time until we get to the bazaar. Hopefully, by then, we'll have maps that'll do some good in the old part of the city. Any questions?"

"Yes, Sir, one. What about arty?"

"I've got two light mortars on our second channel. I've been told I've got some heavy stuff, but I haven't been able to contact them yet. Anything else? Good. You know how to get me." She strode off towards Second Platoon's building.

"Shit, Sarge, I ain't never worked for a woman before."

"LT, that ain't no woman. That's a captain, plain and simple. From what I can see, she knows her business, and she doesn't look the type you'd want to cross. So, let's get this show on the road. I'll get the heavies organized and report back to you."

Within minutes, Murphy had talked with his SAW team and with the three troopers armed with LAWs. They were all experienced men, which made it easier. He and Mohammed met ten minutes later. They had twenty-one riflemen, three of who doubled up on the LAWs, plus the two heavy weapons men. Their platoon was barely adequate to cover the four lane street. Any losses at all would make defense almost impossible

A sharp whistle interrupted their discussion. A policeman was coming down the street leading a rag-tag assortment of uniformed civilians, carrying weapons. LT called the captain on the radio, and, by the time they had arrived, she was coming out of the building.

The policeman saluted Murphy, in what he probably thought was proper military fashion. "I have these recruits to join your unit, Captain Austen."

"No, buddy, I ain't Captain Austen. She is. You talk to her."

"A woman? Never!"

Murphy leaned down until he was in the policeman's face. "Fella, I'll say this one time, so listen up. That ain't no woman. That's a captain in the United States Army. Show some respect or she'll order me to shoot you. And, I'll do it gladly!"

Penny Austen arrived, and Murphy stepped back saluting. "Captain, this policeman has some recruits for us." The policeman stood with his mouth open, but said nothing. Murphy reached over and lifted the cop's hand to his cap. "It's called a salute, in case you'd forgotten. That's how you greet a superior."

Penny returned the salute, smartly. "OK, what you got for us?"

The policeman refused to talk to her and addressed the sergeant, "These recruits are for you. I must go now."

Murphy started to move, but Austen barked, "At ease, First Sergeant." She walked up to the Saudi putting her nose inches from his. "Listen up, asshole!" she yelled, "I don't have time for your crap! You show the proper courtesy now, or I'll shoot you down where you stand! Got it?" Her right hand flicked the cover off her holster and laid itself on the grip.

Murphy almost laughed. His wife could do that to him, and she was a little shit, too. He flashed a basic shit-eating grin at the Arab cop and waited.

There was no doubt that the Saudi had never met a woman like this before. He recoiled fearfully, saluting. "Yes, American Captain, I hear and obey! The king said American women were different, but only now do I understand. They are yours!" He turned and ran off, as though he feared for his life.

Penny Austen turned back to the Sergeant, confiding, "Four brothers, four years at The Point, and six in recon. I can handle shit like that, First Sergeant, but thanks anyway.

"Sort out the recruits. I can use the experienced ones up in the buildings. Keep the raw ones down here."

It took Murphy ten minutes to sort out the eighteen recruits. The combination of the language barrier and the sullenness of several of the men towards their female CO made things doubly difficult for him. He quickly discovered that four of the recruits were ex-army and knew what they were doing. The rest were green as grass.

When Murphy reported that he had finished processing the recruits, Penny winked at him, slyly. "It's time for the CO's pep talk. Get them in ranks, Sarge."

As she waited impatiently, Murphy pushed and prodded them into something resembling a military formation. When they were aligned, he stood before them, facing her. "Recruits present and accounted for, Sir!"

"Thank you, First Sergeant. At ease," she replied. She stood between Murphy and the Saudis. "My name is Captain Austen. You will address me as Captain Austen or Sir at all times. When you address me or any other officer, you will stand rigidly at attention, unless otherwise ordered. You will salute me or any other officer when we first meet and when you are dismissed.

"I will assign you to your platoon leaders. You will follow their orders or the orders of any other person your platoon leader may assign over you. Your platoon leaders will instruct you in your duties and in the use of your weapons. If you follow their orders and learn to be good soldiers, you may survive this battle. If you do not, you will die."

She returned to the head of the formation. "First Sergeant, get them to their platoons. Dismissed!"

Murphy stood stiffly at attention and saluted. "Yes, Sir!" He performed a parade ground 'About Face'. "Attention!" he bellowed. Several of the Saudis stood laxly. He strode up to one of them until their noses almost touched and bellowed his order again. The Saudi arrogantly smiled and slouched all the more.

Murphy decided that these recruits needed a demonstration of military discipline. Murphy grabbed the man by both shoulders and lifted him off the ground. When the recruit's feet were both in the air, Murphy slammed him down. Naturally, the man tensed and ending up standing at attention, just as Murphy had planned. "That's 'attention', soldier. Next time I will neither be as informative nor as lenient!"

The man glared hotly at Murphy. Clumsily, he raised his rifle as though to strike. He didn't get very far, as Murphy's right fist flew like a cobra onto the point of the man's chin. The once arrogant recruit flew three feet through the air and landed unconscious in the dirt-filled street.

"You, you," Murphy pointed at two of the experienced men, "lift him up and drag him over there. Bring his weapon, too. Then, return to this formation." As the two men dragged the unconscious body away, Murphy stalked through the ranks. He didn't say a word. He just glared into their eyes, daring them to say or do anything. None of them did.

When the other two returned to the formation, Murphy resumed. "You four," he pointed to the four experienced men, "fall in over there. The rest of you, Dress Right, Dress!" Once again, he went through the laborious task of instructing each of them how to order their ranks. After five minutes, they were almost a formation.

Murphy considered marching the recruits to Lieutenant Mohammed, but decided against it. He concluded that it could take half an hour to get them there, and that there were far more important things to do. "You!" he ordered them, "Follow me!" He headed towards the lieutenant's position. He glanced over his shoulder to see if they were all with him. He smiled in satisfaction when he saw that they were perfectly in formation!

"Lieutenant," he called. Mohammed jumped down off a bus and ran over. Murphy reported, "Sir, these recruits have been assigned to your platoon. If you'll excuse me, Sir, I have to bring the rest of the recruits to the other platoons."

"Of course, First Sergeant. Carry on."

Murphy was glad that LT was prepared for the recruits. They would be the lieutenant's problem, at least for the next few minutes.

7.1.3 Rachel

"First Sergeant?" LT called.

"Yessir?"

"You were so kind to me, bringing me those fourteen fine recruits, that I thought I'd do something nice for you. This one's yours." He pointed to a frail-looking, doe-eyed, skinny girl toting an old M-16.

"But, LT," Murphy whined, "what'll I do with her?"

"She's your backup."

"Ah, Lieutenant, I thought we were friends, after all we've been through."

LT just smiled and waved, as he walked back to the hubbub in the middle of his defensive barrier.

Murphy looked down at his diminutive companion. "What's your name, Soldier?" She said it three times before he could figure it out. "Rachel, I'm Murphy. First Sergeant Murphy when anybody else is around, but when it's just you and me, I'm Murphy."

She tried hard, but the English phonemes weren't within her grasp. Instead, his name came out closer to Murg-free, with a heavy, throat-clearing sound in the middle.

"Close enough, Rachel. Now, do you now how to use that rifle?"

"No, Murgfree. They tried to show me, but I was frightened."

"OK, come on over here, and I'll show you all about this little beauty. Then, we'll get some practice in before they start coming at us. Ever killed anything before?"

"No!" she replied in horror, recoiling from his side.

"Well, Rachel, you're going to have to learn to do it. Did you see the pictures on the television?" She nodded hesitantly. "We don't want that to happen to you or me. So, I'm going to protect you, and you're going to protect me. Got it?"

Rachel was a quick study. Within ten minutes she was field stripping her M-16 and loading her ammo clips. She even pounded them on her thigh to settle the cartridges, just like a real pro.

"LT, we're going to do a little small arms practice over here." He got the high sign from the lieutenant. "OK, Rachel, I want you to shoot at that street sign right there." He pointed at a STOP sign on the corner not twenty feet away.

She grabbed the rifle, punched the stock into her shoulder, and sighted. Then, she closed both eyes and jammed her finger on the trigger. A single shot rang out, going God only knew where.

"I see a problem, Rachel. You have to keep both eyes open and squeeeeze the trigger. Try this. You want to see the bullet hit your target. Stare right at it until you see the hole. OK, try again." She did better, and even better the next time. After a full clip, she was hitting the STOP sign every time.

"Super! You're a hell of a shot, Rachel! Now, we're going to try something a little different." He pushed a lever of the M-16 to the three-shot position. "This weapon will fire three shots when you pull the trigger. So, you have to stand there until it stops firing. You'll have to brace yourself a little more. That's it. Take careful aim. Fire!" The three shots clanged into the sign spreading from right to left and dropping slightly. "Super, Rachel! Just great!

"Now, here's the hard part. You'll have to do it that way when the Iranaqis attack. You'll have to aim right at the enemy, lean into your weapon and pull the trigger. Do you understand?" She shook her head in an undefined manner. "Can you do it? Can you kill your enemy?" This time she was definite, and shook her head, 'No.'

"OK, Rachel, this is the hard part. Really hard. Did you see the woman on television? What did they do to her baby? What did they do to her? What did they do to her husband? They will do the same thing to you!"

She shook her head violently and stepped back. He grabbed her and shook her gently. "Yes they will, Rachel. Didn't you see it?" Then, he thought of another tactic. "Are you saying that your King is a liar?" Her eyes widened in dismay. "Your King says it happened, and that you are to fight them and kill them. Will you do as your King commands?"

She was torn, and he could see it, but it wasn't the time to comfort her in any way. She was making up her mind. After several seconds, she looked up at him. "Did they really do those horrible things, Murg-free?"

"Yes, Rachel, and far worse. Your King only showed you a small part of the things they did. I have been a soldier for over twenty years, and I was sick when I saw what they did. They are my enemies. They are your enemies. They are the King's enemies. The King says that they're Allah's enemies. That's good enough for me, Rachel."

Tears welled up in her eyes. "But, I do not wish for this to happen, Murg-free. Why did this have to happen?"

"I don't know, Rachel. I only know that it has happened. You and I are going to fight, side-by-side, to make things better. But, to do that, we have to kill them, forcing them to go back to their own countries."

She cried bitterly and threw herself into his arms. He'd never been good at times like this. When either his wife or his daughter cried, they could get anything out of him they wanted. He held her tightly for just a moment, and then pushed her out to arm's length. "Soldier, are you crying?"

"Yes," she blubbered.

"Enough of that, Rachel. Shoot the sign. Shoot!" he ordered. Her rifle slapped up to her shoulder, and she emptied the clip into the sign three shots at a time. "Feeling better, soldier?"

"Yes, First Sergeant Murg-free. We will fight them, as you said, side-by-side."

"Good," he replied and hugged her.

A throat cleared just behind his left shoulder. He turned to find Captain Austen glaring at him. "Fraternizing with the troops, First Sergeant?"

Murphy blushed violently. As he saluted, he noticed that Rachel had not. "Excuse me, Sir. Rachel, stand to attention. This is our commanding officer, Captain Austen. Stand up here. Now, salute like a soldier should. Excellent!" He turned back to the captain. "Sir, we got ourselves a dead-eye. If she ever learns to kill Iranaqis, we're in business."

"I've been watching, First Sergeant," Penny replied, sarcastically, "Most instructive. If the private can be left to guard this position, I think that the lieutenant could use your services instructing some of the other recruits in the use of their weapons."

"I would, Sir, but I've still got to load the SRAWs. Private Rachel is real good with her hands, Sir, and I think I could teach her to reload my baby almost as well as I can. It should only take twenty minutes or so, but if I don't load 'em, I might as well throw this thing at 'em for all the good it'd do."

"Yes, First Sergeant, I see that she has good hands. And, yours are pretty good, too!"

"Look, Captain, I've got a scared little girl over here and it's up to me to turn her into a soldier before she gets killed. And, I don't have the time to do it right. So, I'm doing the best I can."

"First Sergeant, I don't like the tone of your voice. And, I don't like you mauling the female recruits, either!"

"Mauling! Look, Captain, I don't give a sweet shit whether you're a male or a female. Obviously it's some kind of big thing with you. If you've got a problem, take it to the chaplain. I don't have time to molly-coddle you, too!"

She glared at him, while he looked steadily at her, trying not to let his anger show. "Shit, First Sergeant, maybe you're right. I could have jumped the gun. If so, I'm sorry." She grabbed his hand and pumped it energetically. "Glad to have you aboard, Murphy. Carry on and give the LT a hand, ASAP. He's in over his head. I'll be over there with him instructing those turkeys about which end of a weapon the bullet comes out of."

As Penny left, Rachel looked up at Murphy, her eyes filled with terror. "You did yell at your captain, Murgfree?"

"No, Rachel, not at all. I'm a sergeant, and she's a captain. She gives the orders, and I carry them out. We just had to figure out which side each of us was on."

Twenty minutes later, Murphy and Rachel had loaded the ammo packs. Murphy blew off a burst to make sure the 9-mm rotary was working. The SRAW's incredible noise scared the stuffing out of little Rachel. Murphy just laughed with joy, as he felt the powerful weapon come alive in his hands.

After he had finished checking out his SRAW, Murphy ambled over to the center of the line where Lt. Mohammed and Captain Austen were trying to make some kind of an impression on the recruits. Just as he arrived, Captain Austen spoke sharply to the arrogant Saudi.

The Saudi recruit jumped up, angrily shouting, "I take no orders from a woman! Go back to your house, woman, and take care of your children. You are unclean, and no man will listen to you."

Penny grabbed at him but missed. He ducked behind another recruit and began running down the street, yelling, "Unclean! Unclean!"

Murphy stood tensely awaiting an order, but Penny calmly turned and watched the deserting recruit racing down the street. Her side arm appeared in her hand. "Halt!" she bellowed.

The deserter kept running.

Austen slipped the bolt back, cocking the weapon. "Halt!"

The screaming Saudi ran further down the street. He was rapidly approaching the corner when she called the third time, "Halt, or I will fire!"

Captain Austen's 9-mm fired only once. Her target crumbled onto the street. She strode swiftly to the body and retrieved the fallen weapon. She kicked the corpse over with her boot, and unclasped its web-pack. With a flick of her wrist, she rolled the dead man off the belt, slung it over her shoulder and returned to the shocked formation of Saudis. When she was still five feet away from Murphy, she tossed the weapon to him, which he caught easily. As she walked past the sergeant, she dumped the web over the barrel of the rifle, and returned to her original position before the recruits.

"Does anyone else wish to desert?" she demanded. "Your King told you that the penalty for desertion was summary execution followed by burial next to a pig. The pig is already in the ground, and that one will be next to him. Who else would like to join that deserter and his pig? None of you? Good. Now pay attention!"

The change in the recruits was astounding. Within just half an hour every one of them could field-strip and clean their weapons. Within an hour, each of them could load and fire them with surprising accuracy.

"Truly amazing," Murphy chuckled to himself, as he headed back to his position and Rachel.

7.1.4 Defense in the Streets

The shelling began late that night. At first, the explosions were on the very edge of the city, but the walking barrage moved gradually towards them.

Murphy awoke when the first shell landed, but Rachel seemed immune to the noise. She lay curled up in a ball at his feet. The bright lights slowly danced towards them getting ever louder. 'Better let her sleep while she can,' he thought.

She awoke with a start. "Murgfree, what is it?"

"Artillery, Rachel. They're going to try to blow us up. We're going to hide right here behind this barricade until it stops. Then, we're going to jump up and get ready to kill our enemies. You're going to be scared...scared out of your wits, but you just stay right here with me, OK?"

She looked up at him with her huge doe-eyes filled with trust. "O-Gay, Murg-free."

Then, it was on them. The barricade was rent and split, tormented by awesome forces. Buildings crumbled. Their facades fell onto the streets all around them. One chunk of concrete bounced towards them like an avenging monster only to stop at Murphy's feet. For five minutes, Rachel hugged him as though her life depended upon it. The barrage moved on down the street, and still she clung to him.

"Now, Private Rachel," Murphy said in his best fatherly tone, "up and at 'em." He leapt up, dislodging her from him. For a few moments, he was busy readying his SRAW for action. He hoisted the ammo pack onto his back and turned towards the barricade, where Rachel should have been waiting for him. Instead, she was just standing like a rock where he had left her.

He yelled at her, "Your weapon, Private! Get your weapon and get ready to use it!" She moved clumsily, almost in a daze. He reached over, grabbed the M-16, and shoved it into her hands. "Lock and load, Rachel. Rachel! Now! Get ready!" She moved mechanically. "That's it. Aim down the street. Safety off? Good. Don't shoot until I tell you. Then aim, keep both eyes open and squeeeze the trigger. Remember the sign? Do it just the same way."

The first noises he heard were the squeals of tanks. He couldn't see them though the smoke and dust, but he could hear them. The sound sent shivers down his spine.

A big, dark shape appeared at the other end of the next block. It fired, at virtually point blank range. The barricade trembled with the impact of the 120-mm shell.

He glanced at Rachel. She was petrified, rooted to the spot. "Hah! Hah!" he laughed. "His gun can't hurt dirt. Shoot again, you stupid son of a bitch!" His voice roused her from her catatonia. He laughed again and pointed at the tank. "He's shooting at the barricade. He can't hurt it. It's dirt."

"But, Murgfree, then he will shoot us!"

"No way! We've got a little surprise for him. Just let him come a little closer." He kept up his running monologue, knowing that his voice was probably the only thing between a half-way useful partner and a virtual corpse.

A BILL belched! She almost jumped out of her jeans! "Excuse me, Murgfree, I have to leave."

"Leave? No way!"

She seemed embarrassed, almost coy. "I must, Murgfree! I must!"

"Why must you, Rachel?" he said looking more carefully. She had wet herself. "No, Rachel, you can't leave now. You are a soldier. You wear the soldier's badge. Now you must earn that badge, like the rest of us."

"But, Murg-free!"

"No! You're scared. Now, you must fight and scare our enemies. After the battle is done we will change our clothes and become human again. You will be lucky if that is the only badge you wear today."

Reluctantly, she swung her rifle back towards the advancing tank. The sharp whoosh of another rocket startled both of them. The BILLs were playing their deadly game with the enemy tanks.

"Watch, Rachel, watch!"

The missile sped down the street, guided by gossamer plastic lines trailing behind it. The explosion almost blinded them. The tank cooked off in a terrifying display of modern, efficient death.

"See what I mean, Rachel? It'll take a lot more than one tank to get us." He made it sound good, except he knew that there were a lot more tanks still to come.

Moments later, the air in front of them was filled with bright flames headed straight towards them. He grabbed Rachel and threw her down. Dozens of rockets smashed into the barricade, covering the advance of the Iranaqi infantry. He peeked over the wall. Something was moving, but there weren't enough of them to do anything about yet. He glanced into the middle of the road, and saw Lieutenant Mohammed standing between two buses using a periscope to look over the barricade. He seemed calm and collected. 'He's putting on a damned good act,' Murphy thought.

Another tank appeared, firing high into the buildings. A second appeared behind it. Each of them concentrated their fire into the buildings to their right and left. The anti-tank guys were getting some attention.

Murphy wasn't worried about them. He was worried about the long lines of infantry sliding next to the walls, rushing forward for brief intervals, only to duck into a doorway or hide behind some rubble. He was readying a long burst from his SRAW when he heard Mohammed yelling, "Outgoing! Outgoing!"

The whump of the two small mortars down the street was just audible. The sixty-millimeter shells walked quickly up to the tanks. The first tank blew up in a tremendous, ear-splitting, ground-shaking roar. The mortar shell had penetrated the tank's weaker top side, entered the ammo bin and blown up the whole thing in one gigantic explosion. The second tank continued firing, as it backed slowly down the street.

"NOW! Now!" LT shouted.

Murphy stood with his SRAW at the ready. He saw a long column of men moving furtively down the opposite side of the street. The six-barrels of his SRAW rotated smoothly, and 9-mm bullets swept the street at the rate of thirty per second. Every sixth bullet was a tracer, allowing the sergeant to correct his aim, but making it appear that he was directing a hose gushing golden water. He wasn't. He was delivering flaxen death.

He fired and fired and fired again. Then, the ammo ran out. He had to change ammo bins. It was a quick job, taking less than fifteen seconds. Yet, in that time a lot can happen, and a man can run a hundred yards. "Cover me, Rachel," he yelled, as he ducked down and began to pull off the connectors.

Rachel stood frozen in fear.

"Shoot! Shoot!" he screamed. She stood frozen to the spot. He slapped her on the back, knocking her into the barricade. As she wheezed trying to catch her breath, he lifted her up and slammed her on her firing step. "Aim at him," he pointed to an Iranaqi running towards them. "Squeeze the trigger! NOW!" His huge voice was irresistible, and her rifle bucked three times. The soldier fell to the ground. "Now, him," he pointed again. That soldier fell. "Him!" Another fell in a lump. "Keep it up 'til I get back." He dropped down and raced through his rearming procedures. He heard the snap-snap-snap of the M-16 time and again. Rachel was doing it!

He had just finished when he heard her weapon click. She was empty, but she didn't realize it and kept trying to fire. "Rachel, reload," he yelled, but she was in a trance. He grabbed her, and spun her towards him and saw that here eyes were glazed. He shook her, screaming, "Eject! New clip! Reload! Reload!"

Mechanically, like an automaton, she did as she was told, but with no hint of recognition of what she was doing. He had to snap her out of it. He had to give her a new job so that she could regain her senses. "Rachel!" he screamed in her ear. "Reload my ammo bin! Do it! There! Reload it!"

He had no more time to talk. The Iranaqis were storming the barricades. His rotating barrels whined, and the bullets roared from their single firing chamber. Murphy's golden stream mowed them down, but still they came.

Another tank joined the fray, blasting from behind its infantry. Its machine gun sprayed the barricade's defenders, and several of them of dropped. A BILL fired, and another machine gun answered. A tank burned. Two defenders fell from the building above bouncing upon the pavement. A third clung desperately to the disintegrating flooring of the once imposing building. He screamed, slipped and fell, kicking and screaming. He landed with a dull thud. The screaming stopped.

Murphy hosed Iranaqi infantry until his SRAW ran dry. "Rachel," he shouted, "get up there and cover me. Kill 'em! And, remember to reload!"

A look of ultimate horror crossed her face. Then, she seemed to steel herself. Her resolve slowly overcame her horror. She jumped onto the firing step, and quickly pounded out a three-shot burst.

Murphy noted immediately that Rachel had the ammo bin about half loaded. He deftly inserted a 9-mm bullet into the next retainer of the continuous belt, hoping that she had loaded each bullet just as he had shown her. Unless each cartridge was snugly in its retainer, the endless belt which fed the bullets into the firing chamber would jam. One imprecise placement, one shell backwards, one anything not exactly right would stop his SRAW cold. That might mean defeat, death and perhaps worse.

Something hit him in the back. Hands grabbed at his throat! He whipped his knife from his boot and stabbed upward as hard as he could. He twisted, pulled and stabbed again. A body fell from his shoulders.

Murphy looked around quickly. Five feet away, Rachel was wrestling with another attacker. Murphy launched himself at the man. He grabbed the Iranaqi's helmet and yanked back on it. His long blade slid across the enemy's throat, which gushed blood like a geyser.

Rachel's face was drenched with blood, yet she didn't seem to notice it. She grabbed her rifle and raced towards the barricade. As she approached it, another Iranaqi soldier clambered over the top and leapt down upon her. She was crushed beneath him, yet she fought ferociously even as he grabbed for her throat.

Murphy threw himself at the man, and the two of them rolled off Rachel and into the street. But, the Iranaqi was fresher or quicker, and he battled to the top. Suddenly, there was a loud noise like a kitchen pan being pounded by a wooden spoon, and the man collapsed. Murphy looked up in time to see Rachel holding her rifle like a baseball bat, readying another swing.

"I'm OK! Get back there!" he yelled at her.

Without hesitation, she turned, blasted an Iranaqi who had surmounted the wall, and resumed her step. Her rifle clicked on empty. Smoothly, she ejected the empty clip and dug another out of her webbing. She struck the clip firmly on the barricade before her and loaded it into her M-16. Deftly, she cocked the weapon and her three-shot burst killed another Iranaqi climbing the barricade in front of her.

Murphy struggled back to his SRAW. Thirty seconds later, he had strapped the ammo bin onto his back and arose like an avenging angel. His massive weapon fired a steady stream of death back and forth across the street leaving writhing, twisting bodies and dissociated arms, legs and torsos in its wake. He was mad with battle fury and his only reality was war. His life was his SRAW, and his mission was death.

He reloaded again and stumbled back to the barricade, ready to mow down the advancing hordes. He stared at the empty street before him, not believing that the Iranaqis were gone and enraged that there were none of them left to be killed.

A tiny hand touched his shoulder. The dissonance between the touch's delicacy and the terrors of mortal combat jarred his senses. He looked down into a blood-smeared face filled with huge doe-eyes.

"Murg-free, they are gone. We have killed the enemies of Allah, you and I. Now, I shall be sick!"

Murphy patted her shoulder tenderly as the poor little thing wretched, heaving her guts out. "Now you are a soldier!"

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?

7. Battle in the Streets

7.2 America

7.2.1 Centcom

"General!" The G-2, Colonel Frederick "Shorty" Kearns, burst into the room. "General, we got troubles!"

Algarro looked up at him through tired, bloodshot eyes. 'No shit,' he thought. "OK, Shorty, give it to me."

The colonel's angular six-foot six-inch frame bent over a console. The screen brightened with a picture of the entire Suez region. "The Libyans have crossed the Egyptian border at As-Sallum. They are advancing on Sidi Barrani. Estimated strength is ten plus divisions.

"Then, we got this in from the Air Force. It took them almost two days to get it to us:

Many ships from ports in Tunisia and Libya heading east. Three escorting warships. Estimate that shipping consists of twenty general cargo ships, ten container ships and numerous smaller vessels. Intent unknown. Destination unknown.

"Day late and a dollar short. Apparently, the Tunisians landed in the Tobruk area and marched east. The Egyptians are screaming bloody murder. They've got one infantry division in El-Alamein and an armored division heading out of Alexandria. They've got a third division in Giza, but everything else is still forming up.

"The Brits have already been on the horn with the President. They're pulling the British carriers out to defend Suez and are demanding our Marine Brigade. They've already embarked the Royal Marines, but it'll take them four or five days to get there. Now, get this. They want to try to stop the Libyans at El-Alamein. I'm just waiting for them to show up with some cocky son-of-a-bitch named Montgomery."

Algarro ran his fingers through his hair, distractedly. "Damn, damn, damn! Has anybody told the Saudis? No? OK, set up something real quick with Sayd a-Fayd. He's going to be really disappointed. We've all been counting on those Marines."

He sat back and stared at the display, considering this new development. "The Brits are right," he concluded, "We have to protect the Suez Canal, and, with the forces there, it may make sense. They'll have a big carrier to protect them, and the Ajax is a jump-jet carrier. They'll be interchangeable pieces with the Marine Harriers. With the force and mobility of the Marines, they can be anywhere along the coasts that the Egyptians need 'em to be.

He glanced back at Shorty. "What's happening in the cities?"

"Well, Sir, you had planned on a bloody campaign. Casualties are light to moderate. Enemy casualties are moderate to heavy, so we're winning on that ground. But, at the present rate of attrition, they have us. We've got to slow them down even more, or they'll be through us within the week."

Algarro stared at the desk top, almost mumbling to himself, "So, we've gained seven days? That could just be enough." He pulled out an old, tattered map of eastern Saudi Arabia. "Shorty, I've been working on something. It's one hell of a long way from Iraq to Al-Qatif. I estimate that it's over three hundred miles. If we can loose our carriers on their supply lines, send our Marines in from the sea, and tear into them with the One-Oh-One, we should be able to destroy their supply lines and keep their rear in chaos. It'll take another three days or so for the carriers to get in position. So here's what I want.

"I want the Air Force to push hard. I want them to target everything that moves and everything that doesn't. I want them to shoot down every damned Iranaqi plane they've got. I want sorties and damn the losses! The whole idea is to keep the Iranaqis off the carriers and the PhibRon until it's too late and their supply lines are in a shambles.

"Now, the effect of the supply situation should take two days to be noticed, three at the most. By the end of their third day, they should be out of everything, and there will be nothing to replace it. That's a week, and that's exactly what we need to bring this to a stalemate. If we once stop them, then time is on our side. We'll have real divisions in here in ten days to two weeks. What do you think?"

The Colonel stood for a long time staring at the maps. "Yes, General, it could work. As I see it, that's our only hope. When did you want to talk with the Saudi Chief of Staff?"

"ASAP, Shorty, just like always."

7.2.2 Strike Plans

Admiral Duncan angrily pounded the table. "Algarro's done what? What about the Albert Strong? I need that ship, desperately. And, it'd be a damned shame to lose Victory. If they need Ajax, fine, no problem, but Strong will continue on, or we turn back. Get that to CentCom."

A staffer raced away to deliver the admiral's message. Duncan turned to his J-2. "What other good news do you have for me today, Mr. Threat?"

Johanson calmly reviewed his notes. "Not much actually, Admiral. The Egyptians are cooperating, by laying down the big threat against anything that interferes with our passage through the canal. They haven't said as much, but if anything does get in our way, and we happened to sink it, there'll only be some kind of mild diplomatic protest.

"The Army's in deep shit, though. They've holed up in the cities and are taking one hell of a beating. Gator's idea is for us and the Kimmel to coordinate with the Screaming Eagles to pound Iranaqi supply lines. He's hoping that we'll be effective enough to sever them within a day or so. He says that he wants their supplies to be zero by three days from the time we get there.

"He's sent the Air Force on a killer mission. It doesn't matter what they do or how they do it, they are to shoot down the entire Iranaqi Air Force. Our flyers will keep them completely tied up so they can't chase us. At least that's the game plan. Somehow the Army always thinks that the Navy is invulnerable just because we're on the water and they're not.

"The best news is that the Twenty-Fourth is arriving in real numbers at Riyadh. It'll take a few days even at the pace they're going. But, Algarro should have a real division in there in just three to four days.

"This really dovetails with the rest of CentCom's plans. My guess is that Gator is trying to bleed them in the cities. If we can destroy their pipeline, then he'll hit them with the Twenty-Fourth and roll them up. That'll probably mean the Marines will have to go in at Tannurah or Jubayl to cap the bottle.

"Oh, one funny. The Air Force is complaining about our Hawkeyes. They say they're no good over land. Our guys have been trying to explain to them that the Navy operates on the water, and that over-water and over-land systems are tuned differently. They're convinced that our Hawkeyes are worthless, so I asked them to send them back!"

JT laughed, "That'd be the last thing Algarro will give up. Now what about Djibouti. I don't want any problems in those narrows."

"Both Carson and Neill are headed that way at flank speed. They should get there six or seven hours ahead of us. They are under orders to warn anything off. If it doesn't warn, you authorized them to use 'best judgment'. In either case, they sink or shoot down anything.

"Carson will hold on this side of the narrows and keep the western approached clear. Neill will head into the Gulf of Aden and block any approach from that side. So, we should meet up with the Seventh Fleet on schedule, late tomorrow. By the way, Sir, we'd better meet them on schedule. Both the FiGs will be running on fumes!"

"Yes, I know. It's a calculated risk running them at thirty knots, but we have to do it to get there on time.

"Next subject, what do we know about the Gulf of Oman and the Persian Gulf?"

"Captain Teegin's been studying that. He and CAG have developed the strike plans. Shall I get them in here."

"Do it."

7.2.3 DDG Neill

Commander Floyd Albertson knew that he was a naturally nervous guy. There wasn't a lot he could do about it. He jumped at loud noises. He was 'goosey', as the guys at the Academy had soon found out. "Boo!" worked on him.

The only way he'd ever found to combat his naturally nervous disposition was to prepare himself for every contingency. He figured that if he knew what was coming, it couldn't surprise him. So, he took it out on his crew. Of course, it wasn't that they weren't ready or able to meet contingencies. He wasn't, so they had to go through drills time and again until he felt he was ready. The fact that it was good training for them was important, too. But, he knew that he was the greatest danger to his ship.

The thing that scared him the most, though, was the "fog of war" that he had read about time and again. Nagumo had faced it. Spruance had faced it. Halsey had faced it. Hell, even Nelson had faced it. So, he had decided what he'd do. He'd take the best information available and do whatever first popped into his mind. He'd listen to further advice after the fact of his decision. He'd try to prepare for contingencies others pointed out, but he'd do what his years of training and experience dictated. Then, he'd go down with his ship!

"Kamaran on the port beam, Sir. Al-Hudayah on the port quarter. Straits of Mandeb dead ahead. At present speed and course, we'll pass through in three hours."

"Very good, Navigator, continue to keep me informed." Albertson looked to starboard. Carson was beginning to fall behind to take up station between Hanish and the Straits. He'd pass on, physically, not metaphorically, to the other side.

He read the signal lantern from Carson, "Good Luck, Bert. Call if you need anything." The signalman started to relay the message to him, "Belay, Signals. Respond, 'Good Luck to you, too. See you on the other side.' Sign it Charon." He had to spell it twice before the signalman got it right.

"Keep a close lookout, Deck Officer." He picked up his intercom. "CIC, anything?"

"Nothing, Sir. We have a small boat off our starboard quarter - probably wooden. One aircraft at oh-four-six, distance one-niner-niner, speed five-two-five - probably the regularly scheduled airliner from Bombay to Cairo. They had informed us that they were taking a more southerly route to avoid the war zone. Nothing on sonar, but at this speed we couldn't hear a whale surfacing right next to us never mind anything moving quietly. So, Sir, if you don't mind, we're on top of the situation ...

"Wait, Sir. Hold on a minute. The chopper's spotted something. Something's coming around the point from Djibouti. We just spotted it through the gates. It's pretty big, Sir. Hang in there."

Albertson couldn't. Was this to be his time in the barrel? Would he do a Nagumo? He rushed down to CIC and stood in front of the big display.

The radar officer pointed at a blip on his screen. "That's her, Captain. Moving at about six knots, from what we can see right now. She's headed for the narrows, that's for sure."

"Range?"

"Right on the edge. Maybe ninety or a hundred miles. Long way off."

Albertson quickly did his sums. Neill was just abeam of Hanish, about seventy miles from the narrowest point off Barim. At thirty knots, it'd take her roughly two and a half hours to get there. The intruder was roughly twenty nautical miles from the narrows. At six knots, it'd take her over three to get to the narrows. Of course, if she sped up...? But, she'd have to go at ten knots or so to get there before Neill.

"I think I'll just take it easy here in the quiet and air-conditioned comfort. Any coffee around here?"

Everybody knew that "The Old Man" was trying to be cool. Everyone also knew that he'd drink three sips and then start pacing. Then, he'd go up to the bridge and have a smoke. After that, he'd be back down in CIC wondering why his coffee was cold. It was always the same. It was comforting to know the CO that well, and to know that he had the situation under control.

Within ten minutes, Albertson was pacing, staring and muttering at the display. Ships moved at relatively slow speeds. Watching them on a big display was about the same as watching turtle races or cricket matches. After another ten minutes, he said, "Keep me informed, I'm going up stairs to bug the guys on the bridge."

Good, old Commander Albertson!

Bert stepped out on the starboard walkway and peered into the eye of the wind, coming off the starboard quarter. He pulled out a pack of "Sea Rations", as he called them, and lit up using an ancient Zippo lighter that had belonged to his father. He stood feeling the wind, listening to it play and whine through the masts, rigging and antennae. He felt the powerful thrust of his ship's engines plowing the bows though the water. He felt the slow rise and fall of the waves against the hull. He sucked the biting smoke deep into his lungs. He felt just great!

Five minutes later, Albertson was back in CIC. He reached for his coffee and incautiously gulped the steaming black brew. "Holy Shit! Who refilled my mug?" One young officer timidly raised his hand. "Thanks, son, but warn me next time. Remember, I'm not good at surprises."

This time, Albertson was different. He sat for over an hour before he started pacing. By that time, it was obvious that the large ship was moving at a steady eight knots. With every passing minute, she was becoming more of a threat.

The analysts had found her in Jane's computer registry. She was one of a series of seventy-thousand ton container ships built in Holland. Only three were still in service. One was an Indonesian flag, sailing in the Indian Ocean. Once was Liberian flagged, sailing in the South Atlantic. The third was Algerian, normally plying the route between the Persian Gulf and Tangiers. They checked and rechecked. Both the Indonesian and the Liberian ships were accounted for. Nobody knew the current location of the Algerian-registered ship. Commander Albertson figured he had a pretty good idea of its location.

"Barim on the starboard bow, Sir. We're about twenty-five nautical miles from Djibouti. The gulf opens up rapidly from here. We'll have plenty of room to maneuver."

"Where's the target?" he asked, surprising himself. Until then, nobody had called the lumbering merchie anything but "she". Then, his mouth had opened, and she had become a target, with all the complex meanings built into such a word within a ship at war.

"On course, Sir, straight at us. Distance, One-Five-Six-Double-Oh, ten degrees off the starboard bow, closing."

"Send the chopper over them. Send that god-awful message Centcom gave us on Marine Guard. Have the chopper shout at them with its speaker." Albertson watched the chopper close in on the lumbering merchie. He hoped against hope that she would turn off.

Instead, the R/O started talking, "You are inside of a declared war zone. If you proceed you will be attacked and sunk." "Negative, you are not a neutral. You are an Algerian flagged vessel, which is at war with the United States of America. Bear off, or we will attack you!" "Negative! You are a belligerent vessel in a war exclusion zone. If you proceed, we will fire upon you, and, if necessary, we will sink you. Wear away! Now!"

The communications officer turned to Albertson. "Captain, they seem determined to maintain their present course."

Albertson reached for his handset. "Bridge, Captain here. Battle stations. Set new course for that ship. Come right ten degrees. Prepare for surface action."

The klaxon blared three times before the voice on the intercom shouted, "Battle Stations! Battle Stations! All hands to battle stations!" The ship thrumbed with the pounding of running feet for over a minute. Then the noises gradually died away.

Albertson watched the procession of green lights appear all along the plan view and silhouette of his ship. The intercom at his side beeped, and he picked up the handset. His XO reported, "All hands at battle stations. All water-tight compartments sealed. Main battery ready. Missiles ready. ASW ready. ECM ready. Ship is at battle stations, Sir, awaiting orders." His ship had cleared for action in three minutes and six seconds. Not bad!

"Prepare torpedo tubes, Bridge. Prepare main battery for surface action starboard. I'll be right up." Two minutes later, Commander Albertson had "taken" both the conn and the bridge. "Range?" he queried.

"One-Oh-Five-Double-Oh."

"Well within range," he decided. "Main battery, I want a shot across their bow. Splash some water on their decks. One round. Fire!"

He waited as the five-inch gun trained and elevated. The barrel "tweaked" a little. An orange flame leapt out. A gray ring appeared as though a smoker had blown a smoke ring. The concussion of the great rifle's blast shivered the glass reverberating the air within the bridge.

Albertson had known that it was coming and had steeled himself for it. In spite of his preparations, his heart leapt into his throat. His pulse beat wildly as he gasped for breath.

The radio burst to life, "You are shooting at us! Why you are shooting at us? We are peaceful civilians pursuing trade upon the high seas."

"Have they changed course, Radar?"

"Negative, Sir. Steady as she goes."

"Main battery," he ordered, "One time. Fire into that vessel!"

"Sir?"

"Shoot the son of a bitch!" Four seconds later, the five-inch rifle fired, again catching Albertson completely by surprise. He almost spilled his coffee.

The shell struck the bow of the merchant ship. Seventy pounds of steel and high explosives curled the ship's deck away from its hull. Fire and smoke appeared on the deck, and crewmen ran forward to battle the blaze.

The radio screamed, "You have shot us! You Yankee swine, you have shot my ship!" The message whined on and on.

"Course?"

"As before, Sir. I don't know what game he's playing, but it looks pretty damned stupid."

Albertson thought for a moment. "No, it's smart in one way. He figures that we'll give up rather than sink him and incur the wrath of a watching world. He figures I'd rather not ruin my career by sinking him and making a big splash in the papers. The funny part is he may be right. I may get court martialed and drummed out of the Navy for this."

He reached for the intercom. "Torpedo Room, there's a ship, bearing zero-one-one, relative at a distance of nine-eight-nine-oh yards. You got him on your box?"

"Aye, Sir, we've got him. Is that the merchie we were shooting at?"

"Yes. Sink it."

"Sir? Confirm that order!"

"Sink that merchant ship that's ninety eight hundred yards off our starboard bow."

"Aye, aye, Sir."

The wait was interminable. Suddenly, a box swung out of the side of the superstructure. It rotated roughly thirty degrees, and a green shape, about twenty feet long and twenty-one inches in diameter, vaulted out of it like a sea lion jumping into the sea from a high perch.

"Time on the fish?"

"Seven minutes and thirty seconds, sir."

"Keep control of that fish. Do not, repeat, do not activate it until I order it. Confirm!"

"Aye, Aye, Sir. I'll keep her on target, but she's unarmed and will stay that way until you order it armed.

"Helm, come left ten degrees."

"Left ten degrees, Aye."

"Sparks," he ordered his R/O, "radio that tub. Warn them that we have fired a torpedo at them. Tell them that they have six minutes to abandon ship and to get far enough away from it so that they're not sucked under when she goes down."

The radio operator spoke slowly and carefully. This was not the time for one signalman to try to "burn" another.

The radio blared, "What is this you say? You shoot torpedo at us and then tell us to abandon ship! Mayday! Mayday! American warship has shot a torpedo at us in the Gulf of Aden. Mayday!"

Albertson turned the speaker down. "Inform them every minute on the minute." The babbling continued. "Course?"

"Unchanged, Sir. If this is a game of chicken, Sir, they're doing a real good job of it."

The signalman radioed once again, informing the Algerian that he had only five minutes to live.

"Course?"

"Unchanged."

"Any sign of activities? Any boats being lowered, anything?"

"No, Sir. They're just coming straight ahead at six knots."

"What the hell is the matter with them? That fish will blow them all to Paradise and back." What was this guy doing? Was he stupid? Was he playing chicken? Or, was he one of those bull-headed types who, when they thought they were right, charged straight ahead in spite of everything?

"Four minutes," the signalman called.

Jesus Christ! He hasn't sheered off one degree. Albertson lit a cigarette. He grabbed his coffee and tested it carefully. It was cold.

"Three minutes."

Still nothing. Neill was close enough for Albertson to clearly see the superstructure of the merchant ship. She was nearly hull up. He grabbed his binoculars and stared at the waterline. Black to the water, without a hint of red. She was loaded!

"Two minutes!"

Loaded with what? Why didn't she turn? What was going on?

"Captain, one minute coming up. If I'm going to arm the fish, I have to do it soon."

"Arm the torpedo. Repeat, arm the torpedo, and sink that crazy son of a bitch!"

"One minute!"

"New course. Left fifteen degrees. Make turns for twelve knots."

"Left fifteen degrees. Twelve knots." The communicator responded, indicating that engineering was slowing the boat as ordered.

"Now, Sir."

Albertson looked up just as the torp struck aft of the cargo ship's port bow. He saw the impact and the warhead's explosion. As he watched, the big ship shuddered. A red spark appeared in the foredeck.

Faster than his eye could follow, it blew towards the heavens. Red fire supported the explosion's base. The column above it faded into angry orange, as it disappeared into a cloud of gray that mushroomed towards the stratosphere.

The ship's superstructure sailed upward into the cloud. At first, the structure remained in one piece, cabin, bridge and all. As it rose, pieces took wing and flew away on their own. It reached its apogee at a thousand feet or five thousand feet, it was impossible to tell, but then it fell. As it plummeted downwards, pieces sheared from it, some sailing off like kites being flown by gigantic children.

Then, the sound struck Neill. The panes of bullet-proof, shatter-proof plastic encasing the bridge buckled inward, increasing the pressure within the sealed compartment. The over-pressure popped ears, and the sound, reverberating within the hard confines of the small enclosed space, echoed painfully. Everybody on the bridge grabbed their ears, howling in pain.

Only then did Albertson see the real danger. A wave grew into a seiche, which rapidly matured into a tsunami. A growing, dark terrifying wall of water hurtled towards them, threatening to engulf them all and send them down into the cold, dark depths.

"Right rudder, thirty-five degrees. Engine room, two-thirds speed. Sound the collision alarm!"

The klaxon whooped, and the talker warned, "Collision Alarm! Collision Alarm! Secure all water-tight hatches. Secure for collision."

Albertson leaned towards his young helmsman, encouraging him, "That's it, lad, head straight for it. If it gets on our beam, it'll roll us. If it comes up our stern, it'll swamp us. This is what bows are for. Hang on tight, now. Don't let it got away from you!"

He watched the wall approach, but it was impossible for him to say where it was. How far away is a cloud? It's impossible to guess, because a cloud can be of any size. How far away was the wave? Albertson couldn't tell. He just hoped that it was really close, because it was already taller than his ship!

The bow rose and then buried itself in a wall of blue-green. The sea crashed straight over them, hurling its mass at the bullet-proof, shatter-proof plastic windows. Nothing would withstand such a force. The panels shot straight back, stopping only when they'd struck and then bent the steel and Kevlar superstructure.

The wave washed over the decks, removing the five-inch turret from its mount and washing it over the side. It crushed the bridge, then bent, mutilated and discarded the electronic wizardry of the Aegis as well as everything else topside.

The wave washed aft, buckling the chopper hangar. The crushed chopper ignited. The fires were instantly quenched, as the wave washed the aircraft still within its hangar off the stern.

The wave washed over the stern. In its enormity, it engulfed the entire ship and held it in within its wet, deadly grasp. It had buried the warship and would possess it within its depths.

However, the doughty little ship had been built by the guile of Man. The wave had not crumpled her hull, nor destroyed her integrity. The sea could not enter the depths of the ship, nor pass her water-tight seals.

The ship shook herself. Her engines moved her ahead penetrating the danger into the calmer waters beyond. Slowly, the damaged, but still proud vessel returned to its natural position upon the waves, rather than beneath them.

Thirty-two, including USS Neill's navigating officer, were killed. Sixty-six, including her captain, were injured. The once proud warship was one no more.

7.2.4 Horrors from Aden

"Admiral," Ed Teegin called on the intercom, "we've just lost contact with Neill. Taylor says they saw a flash of light and a big mushroom cloud through the straits. He's dispatched Carson's chopper.

"The Hawkeye says Neill's still there, but its image looks funny. They say that she was warning off a big merchant ship and even fired on it with no effect. Albertson launched a torpedo at it. The secondary explosion was so big that the merchie disappeared, and the wave it set off almost capsized the Neill.

"We should know more in five to ten minutes. Carson's chopper has a TV hookup, so we'll be able to see it live. I've ordered two Hornets to her position, leaving our CAP a little thin. We could launch within five minutes, but it'd be tight. I'm also launching two of our choppers. It might be easier for Kimmel to provide air cover for the next hour or so, until we get beyond the narrows."

"Hell!" Duncan sputtered. "Do we have any better details? Casualties? And, what could have caused such a huge explosion."

"Not many, Sir. No word on casualties, but there has to be some. As for the explosion itself, my guess is fertilizer."

"Fertilizer?" Duncan asked, and then answered his own question, "Oh, yes. Ammonium nitrate. Perfectly innocuous, even under inspection. What do you figure, an over-grown car-bomb and a fanatic crew?"

"Looks that way, Admiral. If they'd been alongside us when they blew it, Halsey would have turned turtle. In this bath tub, the waves sloshing back and forth would have sunk or damaged the rest of the fleet. Oh, wait, something's coming in. I'll relay it to your stateroom."

"No, in Ops. I'll be there in two minutes. Have Johanson join me there, and you tie in from the bridge."

The pictures relayed were sickening. Unlike the FiGs, the Burke-class DDGs had a classic beauty. Their rakish bows swept to a flat foredeck, crowned by a sleek, stepped bridge, made of steel and Kevlar. The aft contained the second stack, the helicopter hangar, the larger of the two vertical launch missile bays and the helipad, all smooth, rounded and business-like.

The ship on their screens bore little resemblance to the Neill they knew. The forward mount was gone. The forward superstructure was bent and broken, with no sign of a bridge or its antennae. The after section was flattened, and the helicopter hangar was gone. USS Neill was out of action.

As they watched, several crew members rushed towards Neill's helipad to directed Carson's chopper into a landing. Minutes later, the word was relayed back through the Hawkeye. Casualties! Lots of them and many dead. Commander Albertson was alive, but both his arms and many of his ribs were broken. The XO, who had been in CIC had been electrocuted when the sea flooded their compartment. The only senior officer who was unhurt was the engineer officer who had been below decks in the engineering spaces. At the same time, the ship was seaworthy. All four gas turbines were functioning perfectly and the hull was sound.

Duncan called Teegin on the squawk box, "Captain, launch our choppers and set up a full rescue effort. Get their injured over here fast, and look for survivors washed overboard. Keep me informed."

Five minutes later, Duncan was talking with Rear Admiral Ellingstone aboard LPHN Hornet via the VisiPhone. "Elly, how are you?"

"Fine, JT, what's new with you?" Duncan told him. "Jesus, JT! What's the casualty figures?"

"Don't know yet, but it's bad, and Neill is out of action. She's still got power, so I'm sending her back to Naples. By now, that harbor should look like a junkyard.

"Elly, I'm going to have to pull some of your escorts. You'll be sailing with the Brits, and they've got plenty of escorts. So, send Albert Strong on ahead with DDG Dobson as escort. We're going to need every missile and bomb Strong's got, and the FiGs are almost dry. Strong's one hell of a target, so tell Gene Sylvester it'll be up to Dobson to keep the hounds off her. Besides, I need at least one ship in my fleet with some AAMs."

"Gotcha, JT. I had already figured that you'd need Strong and was going to suggest some kind of escort, especially since Bunker Hill got it. They'll be on their way within an hour. Oh, and JT, please take care of these, I don't have any more spares."

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?

7. Battle in the Streets

7.3 Great Britain

7.3.1 H.M.S. Victory

Rear Admiral Elridge Ellingstone, the American PhibRon fleet commander, and Major General Thomas "Blacky" Breckenridge, Commander of the 3rd Marines, sat on their side of the table in the spacious state room of H.M.S. Victory. Opposite them sat Rear Admiral Thomas Cunningham-Smythe, the CO of Victory, and Captain Alasdair MacBean of HMS Ajax. At the head of the table was the Combined Fleet Commander, Vice Admiral Sir Thomas Alburn Drews.

Blacky was amazed at what he heard. He had never heard anyone "Blurb" before, but there, at the head of the table, was a British Vice Admiral "Blurbing" in the middle of sentences! Blacky had never heard a "Harrumph" before, either, yet that was the way the Brit talked.

The admiral would start with a "Blurb" and then say three or four words, at least Blacky thought they should have been words. Then the Brit would trail off into some unrecognizable gargling. After a while, he'd seem to rouse himself with some extreme effort of will. He'd "Harrumph", and once again trail off into his mumbling.

At first, Blacky thought there was something wrong with his hearing. He looked across the table at the other two Brits, but they were stone-faced. He glanced sideways at Ellingstone, who winked at him, and then stared straight ahead, emulating the Brits opposite them. After a few minutes, Blacky's mind started wandering, and he began looking around.

This was the only British ship he'd ever been aboard. The first difference he noticed was that the room was half again as large as the Admiral's quarters on Halsey. It was also well decorated. The rug on the deck was thicker and with a deeper pile than the one his wife had in their living room. There were two pictures on the wall. The one of the original Victory looked really old. There was even a bar in the corner that was well-stocked with some fine Scotch Whiskies.

The Brits afforded other comforts to their admirals. The Admiral had servants, who addressed him as Sir Thomas. They were dressed in white, and their white-gloved hands had served tea and cookiesfrom silver trays.

Then, Blacky noticed that silence. Suddenly, he felt just like a kid whose teacher had caught him day-dreaming. He looked up quickly and, sure enough, everybody was looking at him. "Pardon me? I was just admiring your beautiful stateroom, Admiral, and I was wondering if that was the original painting of Lord Hood and Lord Nelson's flagship?"

"Harrumph! Blurb, Ah, Yes, it is. It's...." and Sir Thomas was off and burbling again.

Blacky looked around sheepishly.

Captain MacBean winked at him, but somehow managed to maintain a completely calm and respectful demeanor.

That silence occurred again. Blacky looked directly at the Vice Admiral. "Thank you, Sir Thomas, that was most interesting!"

The Vice Admiral smiled approvingly, then nodded vigorously towards Cunningham-Smythe. Obviously, that was the signal for the Rear Admiral to take over the meeting. Blacky earnestly hoped that this Englishman actually spoke English!

"Right! Gentlemen, as the Vice Admiral has so eloquently stated, His Majesty's Government is more than concerned about the threat to Suez in particular and Egypt in general. The PM and your President discussed this matter in some detail, and they have decided that it would be best for all concerned that your fleet and His Majesty's be combined, under Sir Thomas.

"We've done a spot of thinking on this subject, and our Intel boys have done a bit of research. The upshot of this thinking was, and His Majesty's Government has already written off on this plan by the way, that we, that is your people, shall invest certain portions of the Egyptian coastal regions in advance of both the Egyptians and the Libyans in order to deny the Wogs Alexandria and to encourage the Egyptians, who aren't much better, don't you know, to advance at a greater pace in their own defense, if you see what I mean?"

Breckenridge didn't. He didn't like it at all. Besides, he wondered how the Admiral did it. The Brit had to be talking and breathing simultaneously. Blacky decided to watch the Admiral carefully to find out if he actually did breathe, or if he had gills or something. Then, he remembered that they were talking about HIS people! 'In advance of what, or who? What the hell was this fop talking about?'

"Right!" Cunningham-Smythe rambled on. "So that, in a nutshell, so to speak, is the plan the PM has approved. In essence, and, of course, you will be seeing a copy of this for your information, His Majesty's Government will undertake military operations in the Sidi Barrani-El Alamein coastal regions. I'm sure that your people will be able to handle this operation." He looked to the Vice Admiral with a knowing and confident mien.

Sir Thomas seemed pleased. "Harrumph! Ah! Indeed! Yes, hmm. Right!" Having said it all, the vice admiral looked to Ajax's Captain.

MacBean took no time at all completely confusing Breckenridge. "Laddie, ets thes wah. Weel het um a Merrza Ma Trroon on the morrow et aboot oh-sex-hunderrt. Thahn, wi yeer and mah Hahrrierrs, weel blahnkeet the Wogs en hol 'em 'teel the Igyptees git heerr. Wha ya ken?"

Breckenridge was transfixed. Three of them had spoken, and he hadn't understood a single word! He turned to Admiral Ellingstone, and stared helplessly at him. "Elly, whacha think?"

Ellingstone was having a ball. He'd spent four years suffering in the cold and wind of Holy Lock. He'd learned to appreciate many of the fine things of Great Britain. He loved their venison, salmon and the Scottish Haggis. He loved the Scotch Whisky, the English gin and the local Bitter. He loved the warm and friendly people, and he hated their winters.

Also, during those four years, he had learned the difference between American, English and the various forms of the celtified English language spoken in parts of Scotland and Wales. To him, the easiest of the three RN officer's dialects to understand was MacBean's simple Glaswegian burr.

"Let me get this straight. You are proposing that Blacky, here, invades Egypt all by himself? And, somehow you figure that your two carriers are sufficient, along with one battalion of United States Marines, to hold off an invasion of let's say two hundred thousand Libyans?"

Until that instant, Breckenridge had no idea of what had been going on. Now that it was clear and out in the open, he felt like strangling three Limeys. "What!" he roared. "You want me to take on the whole fucking Libyan army with Second Battalion? Is that what you're saying?"

The Vice Admiral answered, "Blurb, Harrumph, Inja, you know, and of course, there was Khartoum ... Harrumph, of course!"

The Rear Admiral stuck his oar in, "Yes, as Sir Thomas has, once again so eloquently stated, and I am in total agreement, as is the PM and of course His Majesty's Government, which goes without saying, as well as your own, of course!"

And, MacBean, smiling broadly said, "Aye, Laddie. Weel gay a weir and skoot them ba' a ware thay kum!"

Breckenridge was at a total loss, but Ellingstone had the bit in his teeth. "Gentlemen, let me put it this way. Until we have had complete access to the so-called plan, including all of your intelligence, the answer is, 'No.' It will continue to be, 'No,' until we have had a chance to study the plan, pick it apart, make contingency plans, study our own intelligence and compare it with yours. Further, until Major General Breckenridge gives his OK, it's no go. Until then, my ships are staying as far away from the Egyptian coast as I can keep them!"

They all spoke at the same time: "Harrumph!"; "On behalf of His Majesty's ..."; "Wha's the ma-da, Laddie?"

"No, Gentlemen," Ellingstone said firmly, "we will not fight this war to the last American. I will not order General Breckenridge to engage a force over one hundred times superior in numbers. And, if I did, General Breckenridge would be within his rights to deny the assignment and contest my decision.

"We have not been consulted in any way. We have not been asked to consider any part of any plan. Nor have we been advised of this plan before, nor had anything to do with it. It's yours, gentlemen. So I suggest that you consider training your Hearts of Oak, those Jolly Tars, how to invade and conquer a continent, because we will not!"

"Harrumph!"; "On behalf of His Majesty's..." It was beginning again! Then the Glaswegian, holding his index finger aloft, came to their rescue. "Whoa! Ah see wha yeer drivin a. Ye ken we dinna were doin? Weel, Laddie, ye came wi me, and wee' gae thrrough the hole theng. A courrse, ye can change et. Et's yere laddies, and weed lak to ha 'em back en ane piece. An, ile coverr ye lake a blanket oer a wee bairn. Eel let naught happen a ye."

His tone sounded right, Breckenridge thought. Yet, it would have been a lot better if he had the slightest suspicion of what the Scot had said!

"Of course, we want to see the plan, Captain," Ellingstone replied, "And I'm sure that we'll make changes. I'll also add that if General Breckenridge is not convinced, there's nothing I can do which will change his mind. Only the President or the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs can do that. Even General Algarro has no responsibility or authority over an independent command, such as General Breckenridge's. So, where do we see this thing of beauty that your intel guys have cooked up and that your PM is so proud of?"

MacBean led the way spouting odd-shaped syllables, while the Vice Admiral "Blurbed" and the Rear Admiral reminded them of a portion of His Majesty's horse's anatomy. Moments later, they were in a somewhat smaller briefing room and were introduced to Commander Everett LLewellyn, Admiral Sir Thomas' J-2.

Llewellyn began the briefing immediately. "Ah, yes, it's about time you chaps showed up. I was beginning to think you wouldn't attend my little soiree. Here's the story.

"First, as you've heard, the Libyans and Tunisians invaded Egypt yesterday. Yes, Gentlemen, the Tunisians are in on it. That makes it the North African States, not just Libya, and that makes it Jihad, not just war. So, we have political, social and religious concerns as well as purely military ones.

"The North Africans are making good progress. They are advancing along this coastal road," he pointed to the display of the Libyan-Egyptian area, "which runs from Tangiers to Cairo. They've also hopped aboard the train, here at As-Sallum. If they ride it all the way, it's only a little more than three hundred miles to Alexandria.

"You may not be aware, being Americans, that there are only a few ways of getting His Majesty's undivided attention. One way, which was discovered only yesterday, is to drop portions of ketchup and 'special sauce' into His Majesty's tea. Princess Grace was the one to discover this when she entered the Royal Quarters with an American-style hamburger and managed to impart those peculiar condiments into the aforementioned beverage. His Majesty was not amused!"

Breckenridge brightened considerably. Humor! Dry as day old toast, but funny! Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.

"The other ways include an attack upon the United Kingdom, an attack upon a Member State of the British Commonwealth, or any interference with Gibraltar or Suez. In this particular case, two of the aforementioned methodologies have been employed and have been successful.

"Subsequently, at dawn this morning, the Royal Marine Division was embarked at Dover and has sailed with a large escort. They will join Sir Thomas' fleet as quickly as possible to defend both our interests and those of the Egyptian government.

"However, it is critical that we delay the progress of the North Africans. Egypt's First Armored and Second Infantry Divisions must get into position. According to them, and this is most unreliable, they will be at El-Alamein tomorrow. They will advance, both by road and rail, to meet the Libyans. We must be reminded, however, of the expression Insh'Allah, with all of its many diverse connotations.

"They have demanded that we, the Allies, make some show of force on their behalf. Since you, Gentlemen, have the only force in this region, our PM and your President agreed that you would perform this noble act. I would suggest the motto 'Morituri te Salutamus', but that might be distasteful to some of your more squeamish Marines.

"The plan, as you can see here, calls for your invasion of the north African continent at the village of Marsa Matrum, possibly meaning the Mother of all Marshes. I'm not sure of that, mind you.

"Once there, you will set up shop, destroy the railroad before you and prepare the one behind you for your own use when the time comes. In the meantime, Victory will assail their advancing forces, while Ajax and Hornet cover your Marines. If, as is hoped, the Egyptians arrive before the Libyans, all will be well and good. Within a matter of days after that, both the rest of your brigade and the Royal Marines will have arrived, Alexandria will have been saved, and His Majesty can return to his concerns about the ingredients in the special sauce residing in his tea.

"If not, we have two contingency plans. The first we have code named 'Dunkirk', for obvious reasons. The second we have code named 'Rhino', for no reason at all. If you are forced to evacuate, and we cannot retrieve you from Marsa Matrun, you will retreat to this point here, on the coast mid-way towards El-Alamein. There's excellent coast there, and we can get you all off quickly with your heavy equipment.

"Gentlemen, here are the detailed plans. My staff and I are gathered here, along with all our computers. We have interfaced with your ships, and we stand-by to coordinate. If all goes well, which it won't, we'll drop you off tomorrow morning at 06:00. We are also prepared to drop you off the day after that, but it may not be possible to delay beyond that. So, I am anxious to get our staffs together for a little tea and biscuits over a good war-game."

Twenty-seven hours and a whole lot of tea and biscuits later, the Fleet turned southward towards the tiny village of Marsa Matrun.

7.3.2 Landing at Marsa Matrun

The Marines prepared to debark. The decks of LPHN Hornet and her sister ships in the landing operations were organized chaos. The LSD launched all three of her LCMs and her big LCU. The smaller craft waddling up to the two LSTs to gorged on her fat holds, filled with trucks, HumVees, bridging units, bulldozers, field artillery, ammunition, food, medical supplies and all the other essentials it would take to keep almost six hundred fighting Marines in the field. The two LSDs each off-loaded a pair of M1A2 Abrams tanks that would join the landing force to provide the heavy punch on the beaches. Three LCAC air-cushion craft also circled Hornet. They had already been loaded with a platoon of Marines, one heavy weapons squad, and an MTAV.

The Marine Tracked Assault Vehicle had been developed after years of struggle and fighting over the role and tactics of the Marines. It had taken years for Congress to realize that the Marines were the only military arm that provided a quick reaction force with real punch. After that, Congress began to approve the kind of equipment the Marines so desperately needed. These new types included the Wasp Class LPHNs, the Osprey VTOLs, and the MTAVs.

The MTAV was long and low with wide tracks. Its main gun was a 120-mm howitzer with a coaxially mounted 12.7-mm machine gun. The fire control and stabilization systems were as good as on any main battle tank. Its opposed eight cylinder engine was in the bow, behind four inches of composite armor. The turret was forward, giving the vehicle an awkward, duck-like appearance.

The rear of the MTAV opened like a clam-shell. The back panels folded down and could be used to dig into the ground to provide stability when the main gun was being used in its bombardment role. When fully opened, the clam-shell created a large accessway to the main gun's breech, allowing the rapid loading and unloading of ordinance.

In its role as a thirty-ton medium tank, the MTAV could travel at forty miles per hour and fire on the move. It was low-slung making it tough for enemy gunners either to see or to hit. As a bombardment weapon it was a good howitzer, which could easily be serviced.

The U.S. Marines loved their ugly little tanks. Each company of Marines had four MTAVs, while the battalion had four Abrams main battle tanks for those really big jobs where one sends only the very best. Since the MTAVs were half the weight of the Abrams, they could be transported easily by an LCAC along with its accompanying platoon or even in an LCM. The sixty-ton behemoths could only be brought ashore in an LCU or directly off-loaded from an LST.

As the landing craft began forming up to head towards the beaches, huge Sea Emperor helicopters began winding up on Hornet's deck. Each of those monstrous choppers could carry two full platoons of Marines with all of their equipment. As the twelve choppers lifted off the decks and headed to their staging positions, Hornet's elevators descended to pick up the ship's complement of Ospreys.

Like the Sea Emperors, Ospreys were capable of vertical landing and take-off. Unlike them, they had wings with engines that rotated along with their two over-sized propellers to give the Ospreys all the advantages of a VTOL and a regular airplane at the same time. Since the Ospreys could fly at almost three-hundred miles per hour, compared with the Sea Emperor's one-hundred and fifty plus, they'd overtake the choppers en route. Each would deliver twenty-five Marines in the first assault wave.

General Breckenridge and Admiral Ellingstone had been following the activities of Hornet and her support vessels carefully. This was the critical time for them. Accidents, mess-ups or poor timing in any part of this stage of the operation would rapidly snowball, setting the entire schedule back. With aircraft already up and guzzling fuel, time was their enemy.

"How's things going, Admiral?" Blacky asked.

"Great, so far, Blacky. Victory is off east, covering us and pounding shore installations. Our Harriers and those off Ajax are working smoothly together. The Seminole gunships are on station reporting no enemy activity. LZs are clear, beaches are clear. I'm ready to give the go signal, if you are."

"Let's do it!"

The Sea Emperors buzzed southward, while the LCAC's roared and skidded, finally heading in the same direction at fifty knots. The first of the Osprey's taxied towards the bow, and, seemingly at the last second, lifted smoothly into the air. As it accelerated, its engines canted forward, until it gained a more normal looking aspect. The second Osprey was already taxiing, and the third was moving into position. The LCMs and LCUs chugged steady towards the coast with an out-rider frigate on each end of the line, acting as both as guides and as escorts.

Ten minutes later, the first reports came in. The Ospreys had landed, and First Company had taken the still sleeping village of Marsa Matrun without a shot being fired.

Five minutes later, the ground commander, Colonel Jason Lee, reported that his three airborne companies were in position. He had set up road blocks on the perimeters and had secured the beach. He was ready for the LCACs. He also reported that the sandy beaches were perfect for the LCMs and LCUs and that he was marking them with beacons. According to Lee, it had been a textbook operation.

Eight minutes later, the three LCACs coasted onto the beaches with the first MTAVs. That was always a high point in any invasion for the Marines. Until that point in the scenario, they were "light" and vulnerable. When the three MTAVs and their platoons arrived, they had a "heavy" force ready to deal with anything the other guy could throw at them. At the very least the MTAVs could delay a counter-attack until the LCUs arrived with the Abrams tanks.

Ellingstone was pleased with the operation. "Well, Blacky, I guess I'd better report to his nibs."

Breckenridge smirked, "Better thee than me!"

Two minutes later, Sir Thomas' image appeared on the command monitor. "Yes, Admiral Ellingstone."

"Sir Thomas, the first waves of Marines have landed without opposition. Marsa Matrun has been seized. Roadblocks have been set up, and the Marines are preparing for their second wave now. No enemy air or naval activity to report. No sign of the Egyptians, either."

"Ah, right," Sir Thomas nodded vigorously, "wouldn't expect them for a day or two anyway. We've located the head of the North African column. They're further along than we had expected. Harrumph! Blurble, they're east of Sidi Barani, about half-way to you. Most unexpected, Harrumph! Cunningham-Smythe assures me that his Sea Furies and Sea Typhoons will slow them considerably, Blurb. I have informed him that I expect him to stop them, not slow them.

"I shall inform the Admiralty of your landing and of the status of the Wog's invasion. Hopefully, they will, Blurble, the Egyptians into some semblance of activity, Harrumph, but keep our Blurble evacuation plans in mind. A reccy to the east might just be in order, Blurb, if you understand my meaning. I would, Blurb, view it as an attempt to, Harrumph, join hands with our, Blurble, Egyptian allies, who may also, Blurble, be considering, Harrumph, sea-born activities."

"Yes, Admiral, my plan precisely. Hands across the water and all that."

"Blurble, Ah, right, Harrumph! Good show! You Yanks were always good at, Blurble, amphibious operations. Right! Anything else, Admiral?"

"No, Sir Thomas, but I will add that Captain MacBean had been doing a terrific job at supporting our landings."

"Ah, Harrumph! Right! MacBean's a good man. Bloody awful accent, though!"

"Ah, yes, Sir, I had noticed." Both admirals smiled gracefully at each other.

"Right! Must get on to the Admiralty, Harrumph. Good Luck." The screen went blank.

"I understood him!" Breckenridge exclaimed. "Maybe we should always meet this way."

"Probably gets nervous when he's not on a bridge. I've known some great commanders who couldn't abide a social setting but were tigers when it came to fighting. Hope those two are among them."

"Hell, Ellie, they'd better be. The North Africans are only thirty miles away. They could be here in two hours, if they pushed. We're going to have to go like hell to get ready for them. I like his idea about checking out our line of retreat. I'll put some people on that immediately."

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?

7. Battle in the Streets

7.4 Tunisia

7.4.1 Admiral ben Ahmeed

Commander Tafid Kamsanni had sailed Admiral ben Ahmeed from Tunis to Tubruq without incident. He thanked Allah. He wasn't ready to face the hornet's nest of planes, missiles and ships he'd seen in the Battle of the Straits of Sicily ever again. He still had nightmares about that terrible day. The long and quiet voyage had been a blessing.

He also discovered that battle had changed him. He was still a stickler when it came to a neat and orderly ship. He still loved his two, big, five-inch guns. However, he had a developed a greater respect for his ship's electronics, its missilery, and the powerful engines that had propelled it during his wild flight. He spent more time in the dark confines of CIC, and even endured the awful smells in the engineering spaces to ensure that his ship was able to defend itself and run like the wind when it couldn't.

He stood confidently on his bridge looking to the south. The smudge on the horizon was the continent, and the darkest smudge was the town of Sidi Barrani, now disappearing off his stern. On shore, a lookout traveling with his father's army was watching his ship and coordinating Admiral Ben Ahmeed's activities with those of the Tunisian army.

His ship had been selected for in-shore duty because it had more shore bombardment capacity than both of the Libyan vessels put together. However, both of them were better armed in terms of their missilery. They were standing out to sea, protecting the Tunisian ship and the army from the Allied fleet's aircraft.

Tafid was sanguine about his duty assignment. Let the Libyans get sunk fighting the Americans, the British and the Italians. He'd stay in close and bombard targets that couldn't shoot back. His father could accuse him of cowardice, but the ship's survival was important, too.

"Enemy aircraft!" the radio screamed, "Twenty kilometers, low"

His heart leapt into his throat, as he murmured, "Allah protect us!" The communication officer told Tafid that the call had come from the Libyans. 'Good,' he thought, 'They are better prepared for the anti-air mission. Still, it would be wise to prepare my ship for action.'

"Battle Stations!" he ordered, "Anti-Air Battle Stations!" He turned to his radar officer. "Two sweeps, then, go to stand-by."

"Two sweeps, aye, Sir."

The radar screen was blank the first time around except for the two Libyan ships on the northern horizon and the African coast to the south. On the second sweep, nine dots appeared at twenty-eight kilometers forty-five degrees off his port bow.

Tafid's heart beat wildly as his thoughts returned to that horrible day when the Hornets chased his ship across the seas, intent upon his death. He looked at his watch. In two minutes, he'd search again. In the meantime, there was much to do to make the ship ready for another test of combat.

Men were running. Battle helmets were being passed out. Water-tight hatches were slamming shut. The big dual-gun turret began to move back and forth, its rifles elevating and depressing. The missile arm stood erect, received its load, and swung out to port.

He leaned over to the speaker tube. "Engineering, be prepared to answer all bells smartly." The disassociated voice murmured a hollow reply.

Two minutes passed, and still his ship wasn't ready. Should he illuminate and perhaps reveal his position, or stand by and remain in ignorance? The light flashed on indicating that the missile crew was ready. "Illuminate! Two sweeps, then stand by."

"Two sweeps."

The nine dots had become twenty-one in two separate groups. One formation of twelve had climbed rapidly to three thousand meters. The other nine had risen only to five hundred. The fighters were up top, guarding the low-altitude attack bombers.

He wondered where had they come from. It was much too far for the Italians, and the American fleet had already passed through Suez. Could the planes be from the American amphibious group? They had a large carrier, but that ship wasn't supposed to have great numbers of attack planes. What about the British? They had passed through the Straits of Sicily with the American amphibious units. Could they have turned back? If so, perhaps their smaller carrier and the American Marines had also turned back.

'Allah! Help us!' he prayed, realizing the enormity of his deduction. We must be facing the entire British and American fleets. That could mean three aircraft carriers, many escorts and a large contingent of Marines. They could have landed anywhere. They could be in Alexandria or just beyond the next rise.'

His information could be critical. He had to inform his father. He sprinted from the bridge and down the ladder into the cold dankness of CIC. He still disliked the feeling of the room, but the warmth of the surrounding electronics was comforting. He ordered his radar chief, "Two sweeps every two minutes. Understand? If any of those aircraft turn towards us, call me immediately."

He shouted to the communications officer, "Get me General Kamsanni on the secure VisiPhone line."

It took almost five minutes to reach his father's HQ. The communications operator on the screen told him that the general had been called to an important staff meeting with the Libyans and would not be back for several hours.

Kamsanni screamed, "You buffoon, patch me through to the General immediately, or I will bring you under my guns!"

The man paled, and hurriedly snapped keys, flipped buttons and grabbed a telephone all at the same time. "I'm sorry, Sir, but the Libyans will not receive your call. They say that the General is involved in an important conference with the Chiefs of Staff and cannot be disturbed."

"You fool! Tell that idiot that if he wants to keep his precious army, he'd better talk to me. The Americans are here. Their Marines are here!"

The communications officer relayed the message, and then turned back to Kamsanni's screen. "Wait, Sir, someone is coming."

The screen flickered several times, and new face appeared. A Libyan colonel asked, "What is all this about American Marines?"

"Where is my father?"

"He is involved in an important meeting and cannot be disturbed."

"Get him! Get him now!"

"I cannot, Commander. Tell me your little story about the big, bad Americans. I will relay it to the proper authorities who will analyze your wild dreams and discard them with the thousands of other sightings of Americans on our front, all of which have been false. Return to your duties, Commander, and we will attend to ours. As soon as General Kamsanni is available, I am sure he will call you." The screen went blank.

Tafid cursed them all. The fools! They trust in Allah, but fail to open their eyes to see what He has so clearly shown them.

His logic was impeccable. The British would protect the Suez Canal, which meant they'd protect the Egyptians. The British sailed with the Americans. The Americans had the only ground forces that could come to the aid of the Egyptians. The British would use their fleets and the Marines to stop The Faithful from conquering Egypt!

'Where are they?' he wondered. 'How can I prove to the fools at headquarters that I am right?'

He raced back to the bridge, shouting, "Where are the enemy aircraft?" The radar operator pointed to his screen. "How old is that?" Kamsanni demanded.

"Almost two minutes."

"Two sweeps."

"Two sweeps, Sir."

They were gone! The airplanes, the ships, everything was gone. In the ten minutes that it had taken him to try to get through to headquarters, the Allies had sunk both the Libyan destroyer and frigate. That made the Admiral ben Ahmeed the only ship in the North African Fleet, and Tafid Kamsanni was its commander. He was virtually an admiral!

'Excellent,' he thought, 'Allah has shown me what to do. I shall hug the coasts and seek out the Allies. Then, when I have found them, I will send out a contact report and sail back to Tunis at the head of the entire fleet.'

"All ahead full. Right ten degrees rudder. Navigator, hold a course two kilometers from the coast. Maintain battle stations. Lookouts, keep a sharp eye for anything on land as well." Kamsanni kept up his routine of two sweeps every second minute for almost an hour as the Admiral ben Ahmeed sped ahead at thirty knots.

"Sir, aircraft dead ahead, range fifteen kilometers."

"Slow to one-third. Lookouts, keep alert. Gun crews, alert! Missile batteries prepare to attack enemy aircraft at extreme range. Give me another sweep."

"It is a slow mover, Captain. Probably a helicopter -- a big one."

"Missile batteries, stand by. Do not, repeat, do not fire until I tell you. Stand by. We're going in a little closer." His ship moved easily at eight knots. The land to the south seemed to stand still in the distance. Yet, whenever he looked back, he could see that it had changed.

"Marsa Matrun coming up on the horizon, Captain."

"One sweep."

"Many aircraft. Many helicopters. One jet aircraft headed straight at us, Sir! Bearing zero degrees relative, range ten kilometers, altitude five hundred meters, speed seven hundred fifty."

"Missile batteries, enemy aircraft dead ahead at ten kilometers. Fire!"

The single arm launcher trained out as the guidance radar overhead whined several times and then stopped. The light-blue missile vaulted off the rails and sped away.

"Flank speed! Reverse your rudder! Radio, contact headquarters. Tell them that the Americans have landed in force at Marsa Matrun. Sign my name to the message. Lookouts, watch for enemy aircraft. Steady on course. Radar, one sweep!"

"Aircraft destroyed, Sir. Nothing in pursuit."

"Well, it won't take them long. Have you sent that message? Have they confirmed receiving it?"

"Yes, Sir, I've sent it, but they're not replying."

"Let me have that thing." He grabbed the microphone. "This is Commander Tafid Kamsanni of the Tunisian Warship Admiral ben Ahmeed. We have just sighted a large force of troops, helicopters and other equipment at Marsa Matrun. We have just destroyed one enemy attack fighter. As the ranking naval officer at sea, I declare that the North African fleet performed in an exemplary fashion. I am personally rewarding my fleet with a two day leave in Tunis. Allah be with you!"

He turned back to his radar officer, ordering, "Once."

"One sweep, Sir. Three enemy aircraft headed in our direction!"

"Right ten degrees rudder. Lookouts, be alert for enemy aircraft astern."

"Sir, I see one!"

"Where away? Report properly."

"Low, Sir, astern. Coming fast!"

"Right full rudder. Radar, two sweeps. Prepare to engage enemy aircraft."

"Real close, Sir."

Tafid looked back to see the target bearing down on his ship. The plane was very small, and its wings drooped as though the heavy load of weaponry beneath them were pulling them down. Tafid identified it as one of those jump-jets that the British and the Yankee Marines were so fond of.

He screamed, "Fire!", and a second missile launched from the skeletal arm. The missile tracked rapidly on the approaching aircraft. Just as Tafid was sure that they would meet, the tiny plane seemed to jump up and to the side. The missile whooshed past the enemy aircraft and exploded harmlessly far in the distance.

"Radar, continuous sweeps. Missile Control, fire at approaching aircraft. Shoot them down. Be alert, I will be making drastic course changes." He turned to his navigation officer. "As soon as the next missile fires, left full rudder bring us thirty degrees to port."

The missile launched, and the officer gave the command. Tafid craned to look out the windows and see the other approaching aircraft. The missile mount fired again. A plane was closing fast.

"All guns open fire!" The two big five-inch and both of the radar-guided, computer-controlled, forty-millimeters opened up. Tafid's head was almost on a pivot as the three jump-jets swarmed him. One flew low towards him, and then veered violently away. Two small dark objects continued towards his ship.

"Right full rudder, emergency speed!" The ship heeled to port, as bombs flew over the deck, landing in the sea with two enormous splashes. "Left full rudder, flank speed!"

The quick, sharp reports of the forties and the rapid, jack-hammer thuds of the dual five-inch guns invigorated Kamsanni. The staccato bursts from the missile launcher added to his sensations of fear and excitement. He lost all sense of time. He was in a fight to the death, as though he were a large bull battling a pack of three yowling dogs.

A cheer from his starboard side crew. He looked out to see a jump-jet trailing smoke and turning away. But, what of the other two? A great crash was followed immediately by a partially muffled explosion. His fleeing ship seemed to stumble, as though one of the dogs had taken hold of the bull's tail. He looked astern, and smoke was billowing from the after deck.

"Engine Room! Engine Room!"

"Sir, we've been hit. One engine down. We're not taking water, but we won't be able to maintain present speed."

"How long to repairs?"

"Engine's smashed, Sir. Coupling's broken and shaft bent. Only a shipyard can repair this damage."

Tafid's bull was injured, but one of the attacking dogs had been injured, too. His ship fired another missile, and a plane disappeared in a burst of smoke and flame. His bull had gored a dog, but the third of them had its day.

The foredeck turned into a wall of fire and flame, as two bombs penetrated the thin decks of the destroyer. Down, they plummeted into the missile bins and exploded. The fury of warheads and propellant added their destructive power to that of the two five-hundred pound American bombs. The foredeck lifted, and peeled back like the top of a tin can, and folded over the bridge, crushing it backwards beneath its weight.

Tafid and the rest of the bridge crew were thrown to the deck, which was how their lives were spared. He and his bridge crew crawled though the sprung hatchway into the walkways beyond. Tafid led them down to auxiliary control and CIC. He staggered over to the console. "Damage Control, status?"

"Fires fore and aft, Captain. We still have engines and steerage, but we're taking on water by the bows. We'll need every available man to fight the fires."

"Lookouts? Lookouts! Where are the lookouts? Radar?"

"Yes, Sir?"

"Two sweeps!"

"Sorry, Sir, radar's down. Fire control is down. No word from the lookouts, Sir."

"Then get some men up there! We're blind and under attack!"

"Yes, Sir," the officer replied, but wondered what they'd do about an attack anyway. The only thing they could do to an attacker would be to shake their fists at him.

"Sir," It was damage control. "Aft fire under control. We're beating back the one up forward, but it is very difficult. We must slow down. The wind is fanning the flames into the faces of our fire fighters."

"But, we'll be dead in the water."

"Yes, Sir, but we may be able to save the ship. At present speed, we cannot fight the fires. We will have to abandon ship in a few hours."

"Very well, engine room. All stop. Divert all power to pumps, bilges and fire support equipment."

The last ship in the North African fleet had done its job. It would limp back to port seven days later never to return to sea.

7.4.2 North African Army Headquarters

"What? My son called me, and you didn't patch him though to me?"

The general's towering rage was more than the colonel could bear. "But, Sir, you were involved in an important staff meeting. You said so yourself. I was only following orders!"

"You idiot! We're planning a war, and the one person who could have helped us was sent away like some cur dog. What other reports have you received from our Navies which might have been of assistance in our deliberations, which you, having Allah's ear, have decided not to tell us about?"

"Sir, we have received several messages. In the first few, we heard from our Libyan destroyers who were engaging large numbers of allied aircraft. We have not heard from them since, but they are observing radio silence.

"Then, we received a series of strange message from your son. He seems to be deranged. He reported American Marines at Marsa Matrun. Then, he reported that he was returning to Tunis. In his latest message, he reported that he was under enemy air attack! The strain must have been to much for him, General."

"You total fool! You absolute idiot! Contact the Admiral ben Ahmeed at once."

"I cannot do that, Sir. This is Libyan headquarters. You cannot order me to do anything, only a superior Libyan officer can do that. Further, I do not know how to contact your ship."

General Kamsanni shook with anger. He pulled his service revolver from his holster. "You are relieved of duty, Colonel. I suggest no further words from your mouth, or I shall send you to Allah." He turned to the room, demanding, "Is there anyone here who can operate this accursed machine." One sergeant nodded. "Good, you will replace this fool and direct yourself to the effort of raising the Admiral ben Ahmeed."

The sergeant quickly leafed though a stack of papers and, finding what he wanted, turned two dials and began calling in clear language for the Tunisian warship. After several attempts, he turned to the general. "Sir, the ship does not answer."

"Try your own ships."

The sergeant didn't have to look anything up to call them. He quickly tuned the radio and sent out a properly coded call. He waited and tried again using key words indicating an emergency transmission. After three attempts, he turned to the general. "Sir, I am receiving no response."

"I'm not surprised. They are probably at the bottom of the sea thanks to this one's incompetence. Call my Air Force commander on the VisiPhone." Four minutes later, Kamsanni had ordered the Tunisian Air Force to search the land and seas off Marsa Matrun for signs of enemy activity and the whereabouts of the three warships.

The Libyan Army Chief of Staff entered the radio shack. "What is this, General? Why are you aiming your pistol towards this officer? What is happening here?"

"I believe, General, that, through this man's incompetence, we have lost our entire fleet and are walking into an American trap. Both of your warships are off the air after reporting an attack by enemy aircraft. My ship reported the enemy on the ground at Marsa Matrun, then came under enemy air attack and also went off the air.

"This fool believes that our ships are maintaining radio silence and that my son has gone crazy. He withheld this information from us. If my son has died because of this one, I shall shoot him where he sits. My Air Force is investigating this as we speak. We shall know soon whether this one lives or dies."

"General, he is a Libyan, not a Tunisian. He does not fall under your jurisdiction. If you shoot him, then I must arrest you for his murder, which would deprive us of any chance of success."

"General, that would lead to war with Tunisia. My son, the captain of the Admiral ben Ahmeed, is the light in my father's eye. As the Chief of the Council of the Faithful, he would be much displeased that Libya has arrested his son and murdered his grandson. Furthermore, my troops will not follow a Libyan. If they discovered this plot, they would attack your troops. No, General, you shall not dissuade me, nor will you attempt to carry out your puerile threat."

The Libyan shrugged his shoulders, thinking, 'Perhaps, this hard-headed Tunisian is right, and if so, he will be a hero to many. What was the fate of one incompetent colonel as opposed to Allah's great plan? Yes, let the Tunisians determine what has happened.'

Half an hour passed before an Air Force liaison officer reported, "General, you are right. The Americans are at Marsa Matrun. The British are also there and in force. They shot down one of our MiGs, and the reconnaissance aircraft barely escaped. There is no sign of any of our ships, but there are three large aircraft carriers in the region. Two are located off the coast of Marsa Matrun. The third is further west, approaching Sidi Barrani. We are preparing to attack that carrier before it strikes us."

Kamsanni's pistol fired just once. It was an old British Webley. The thirty-eight caliber bullet threw the Libyan colonel two meters across the table. Kamsanni holstered his weapon, announcing, "I shall be at Joint Headquarters planning the attack on the Americans. Will the Libyan army participate in the Jihad, or will you stand here mourning the loss of a fool who may have destroyed us all?"

The Libyan Army Chief of Staff shrugged. The two generals departed to plan their attack on Marsa Matrun.

7.4.3 Attack on Marsa Matrun

The invasion plan had looked good on paper. The smaller Tunisian army was to march down the long coastal road through Sidi Barrani, Marsa Matrun and on towards Al Alamein. The larger Libyan army would seize all the rolling stock at the western end of the rail line linking As-Sallum with eastern Egypt, to speed ahead to Alexandria.

The Libyans assumed that they would arrive in Alexandria first, thereby achieving all the glory. They did not believe that the Egyptians would move quickly to defend themselves or that the Americans would be able to interfere, except from the air. To counter this latter possibility, the small Tunisian Air Force was to accompany the Tunisian army, while the larger and more capable Libyan Air Force would attack the Egyptians.

The Libyan plan was predicated on seizing the string of small air bases that the Egyptians had been thoughtful enough to provide. The Egyptians had intended them to be used by Egyptian planes in defense of their own western regions. However, the small paratrooper force of the Libyan Army was more than sufficient to brush aside the token Egyptian resistance and secure the fields for their Tunisian allies. That was the full extent of the cooperation between the two North African armies.

General Kamsanni had arranged his ground forces in the old-fashioned Soviet manner of the Operational Maneuver Group. His three motorized infantry divisions led the way along the road into the east. On the infantry's right, bucking through the firm, sandy soil between the coastal road and the railroad, he placed his more maneuverable and heavier armored infantry division. He held his armored division to the rear, in a position to move forward to attack frontally, or to move quickly into the desert to attack an enemy force from the flank.

Kamsanni was confident that he had sufficient forces to defeat the Americans, as long as his air power could be brought up quickly enough to support them. Before the Battle of the Sicilian Straits, he had a small but well-balanced air force. But, it had been hacked to pieces by the American missiles. Half of his MiG-21s had been lost along with five of his twelve Su-22s. Only eight of his superb MiG-29s were left.

Therefore, the prospect of an air battle against the British aircraft carrier concerned him greatly. He had a total of twenty-five planes with which he could engage the British aircraft carrier, armed with over sixty planes, plus its escorting fleet of missile ships. He needed those planes to defend his troops from enemy aircraft and to cooperate in the air-ground war against the Americans.

He remembered his son's anger and fear as he spoke of the Battle of the Straits of Sicily. He remembered his horror at reading the casualty lists. His depleted numbers of aircraft was already hamstringing his attack.

Reluctantly, he vetoed the attack, in spite of his Air Force Chief of Staff's earnest desire to engage the enemy. Instead, he allowed the Libyans the honor of attacking the British with what few of their vaunted supersonic bombers had survived the American bombing raids.

While the Libyans were keeping the large carrier busy and far away from his army, Kamsanni concentrated his air power. His planes would be fighting less capable jump-jets. In that kind of a battle, even his ancient MiG-21s might have some advantages over their more nimble, but slower opponents.

Quickly, he reorganized his three infantry divisions into a "Two Up, One Back" attack formation. He ordered his armored infantry further to the right, ready to engulf the tiny American enclave. In the meantime, his armored division moved up, ready to pounce if the Americans retreated or to drive through holes created by his lead divisions.

The army closed quickly on Marsa Matrun and began receiving fire at ten thousand meters. Second Infantry Division hugged the coast while Fourth Infantry Division moved along just south of the road into the small village.

The rate of incoming fire increased. Kamsanni's big guns returned fire. The lead regiments reported heavy tank fire, as smoke and dust descended over the plain.

Both of his lead infantry divisions reported that they were stopped by tremendous volleys of tank artillery supplemented by direct fire from the ships that stood out to sea and swarms of enemy aircraft. He could do nothing about the ships, but he could do something about the enemy aircraft. He called his air commander and ordered the attack.

Moments later, eight swing-winged SU-22s flashed overhead into the smoke, creating even more in the wake of their passing. Enemy jump-jets pursued them, firing missiles. One Sukhoi fell in a ball of flame. Then a jump-jet disappeared in a cloud of smoke. The MiG-21s were at work! The air became filled with aircraft zooming and twisting. The Sukhois returned from their flight away from the battle field to aid their outnumbered compatriots.

He listened carefully to his commander's reports and studied the little blocks on the table before him. According to his officer's reports, the American ground forces were fully engaged. It was time to send the Ninth Armored Infantry in from the south.

He gave the order, and, within five minutes, the Ninth was also fully engaged. Almost immediately, his infantry commanders reported that they were making progress. The commander of the Ninth reported that the enemy was fleeing before them.

He ordered the First Armored Division to move around the battle onto the right flank. Once there, he could use it either to seal the Americans in the trap or to pursue them, overtake them and destroy them if they retreated. His great host of tanks and armored cars sped off to the right and disappeared behind the cloud of battle. Within minutes, they reported making great progress.

He was beginning the final encirclement of the Americans when new reports started coming in. "Many tanks approaching our flank from the east!"

From the east? How could that be? Were the Americans at Marsa Matrun just their advanced force? How many could there be? Even the large American divisions had only fifteen thousands of troops, and it would take a far larger number of ships than the few off the coast to carry and support them. Or, had they landed further east and were advancing west to meet him? If so, his armor would have to retreat quickly, before it suffered a powerful counter-attack on its own flank.

Kamsanni did not hesitate. He ordered the First Armor to retreat and face to the east, while ordering his reserve infantry division to their assistance. He was confident that even if the Americans had somehow managed to bring an entire division to the coast, his army would still be able to crush them.

"They are Egyptians, Sir. It's the Egyptian First Armored."

An entire NATO-style armored division with fifteen thousand troops and over five hundred main battle tanks was counterattacking. This was a golden opportunity to inflict a devastating defeat on the enemies of Allah.

Carefully, he explained a complicated maneuver to his division commanders. First Armored Division was to continue retreating to the west and south. They were to defend vigorously, retreat slowly and under no circumstances should they allow themselves to be flanked. Their retreat would open a gap between First Armored and Ninth Armored Infantry. Fifth Infantry was to move into that gap.

It was a tricky maneuver, especially in the face of a determined enemy. However, if he was successful, Kamsanni would not only stabilize his lines, but he would be able to maintain pressure on both the Americans and the Egyptians. He could extend his line beyond theirs with heavy forces both in the center and on the flank, forcing them to retreat.

Slowly, the pieces on his board representing the individual battalions of his armored division bent backward and stretched to the south towards the desert. The gap opened. The Egyptians rushed towards it. Fifth Infantry Division raced ahead, filling the hole in Kamsanni's line. He had gambled and won!

His line was stabilized, but it snaked like the letter 'saed'. He would have to straighten it or the salient would become an inviting target. He could do that in one of two ways. He could withdraw his First Armored and Fifth Infantry divisions further to the southwest to allow his Ninth Armored Infantry division to uncoil. Alternatively, he could recommence his attack through the town while advancing his flanking divisions towards the southeast.

Flushed with success, and with his superior force fully in the field, Kamsanni chose to attack. He ordered his Second and Fourth Infantry to redouble their efforts. Almost immediately, he received encouraging replies from both units indicating that they were advancing and were approaching the eastern edge of the village. He carefully monitored their progress, and, when they were about to emerge from the village, he ordered all five of his divisions forward, placing special emphasis on his flanking tanks. They were to encircle the enemy's forces, pinning them against the coast where he could loose his greater numbers upon them.

The battle raged all through the day. The defenders were skillful and fought valiantly, as was expected from the elite of the enemy's forces. By the time night had fallen, Kamsanni had driven the enemy back more than ten kilometers.

His troops were exhausted. Their supplies of ammunition were running low, and their vehicles were in need of fuel. He had achieved a great victory over the enemies of Allah. It was time to refresh his army, rearm his men, and prepare for the morning's battle. It was also time for him to thank Allah for granting him victory over the Infidels!

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?

7. Battle in the Streets

7.5 America

7.5.1 Defeat at Marsa Matrun

The landing at Marsa Matrun and the build-up that followed had gone smoothly. Harriers from both Captain MacBean's Ajax and from Guido Guadelfono's Hornet had coordinated perfectly to provide CAP over the Marines. By the end of the first day, Marsa Matrun was as well defended as one Marine battalion and its supporting fleet could make it.

The Marine landing at Marsa Matrun stung the Egyptian high command. They had been expecting the British and Americans to disembark a token force at Alexandria and wage a defensive battle. When the Americans took up the advanced position, the Egyptian High Command ordered both their First Armored and First Infantry Divisions to move out with all possible speed. Within an hour, the Egyptian First Armored Division was on the road, while the First Infantry Division embarked on trains headed west.

Early on the following morning, Captain MacBean reported that the covering fleet had sighted two North African destroyers and sunk them. Although the sinking of enemy ships was good news, it could also mean that the North Africans had been alerted to the Americans ashore.

Several hours later, a Sea Harrier was shot down by a missile ship. Admiral Ellingstone sent three Harriers after it. One Harrier was shot down and one was damaged, but they severely damaged a destroyer, leaving it burning and dead in the water. Ellingstone reported to Breckenridge that there was no doubt in his mind that the North Africans knew the Marines had landed.

Two hours later, Blacky's Marine scouts reported a large column of enemy infantry twelve miles to the west. There was nothing his Marines could do but get ready to defend their position.

Admiral Ellingstone ordered two of his destroyers to move inshore to provide support with their five-inchers. He and Captain MacBean coordinated their air defense with Blacky. Twelve Super Harriers, armed with cluster bombs and rockets circled behind the defensive lines ready to attack enemy ground forces. A dozen more, armed with AAMRAMs and Sidewinders flew high CAP. The Marines and the fleet were as prepared as humanly possible.

The enemy approached to within ten thousand yards before the Marines opened fire. The MTAV crews were in their glory, pumping out forty-seven pound ordnance at a rate of one shot every five seconds. The two destroyers blasted away with their five-inch guns. The ground attack Harriers swarmed the enemy infantry. But, they came on undeterred

Within half an hour, Blacky knew he was in trouble. He was facing a huge force. They were pushing hard right up the road in the face of a withering Marine and Naval barrage. He was about to order his Abrams tanks forward when a call came in from his southern flank. The enemy was coming at his lines from two separate axes.

Blacky ordered his reserves to move to his left flank and called for his two batteries of self-propelled, 200-mm howitzers to support them. Then the Tunisian MiGs struck, blowing two gaping holes in his lines. He rushed his last platoon of reserves into the gaps. The enemy's southern force struck his lines, and everything began falling apart. He'd have to make a run for it!

Blacky called Ellingstone hurriedly. "It's Rhino! I'm pulling out now. I've got at least three divisions on me right now, and there's more behind them. Give me all the cover you've got!"

"Negative, Blacky," Ellingstone responded, "Hold on for five minutes. I've got important info coming in." Breckenridge watched as Elly talked on another VisiPhone. Elly spoke a few words, which Blacky couldn't catch. Then, the admiral turned back to him, "Blacky, hold your position. The Egyptian First Armored Division is less than a mile away. They can see the battle and are forming up right now. It'll take less than hour for them to go from column to front, but the cavalry is on the way. Hold your position, Blacky."

It was terrible! At least three divisions were on them like ducks on a bug. MTAVs fought and died. All four Abrams tanks were destroyed. The battalion fell back into a tiny huddle as even more enemy tanks arrived from the southeast.

Blacky's heart sank. He knew that the Egyptians had been defeated. They weren't coming. This was the end of the Second Battalion, Third Marines. At least he would die fighting like a Zulu warrior and a United States Marine should.

A Tunisian T-92 exploded! A second blew and then a third! A phalanx of German Tigers and American Abrams tanks, all with Egyptian markings, raced over the eastern horizon blasting everything in their paths. The enemy retreated!

Blacky withdrew his forces towards the Egyptians. Only nine of his MTAVs had survived and less than three hundred of his troops. But, he and the fighting Second Marines had stopped four enemy divisions dead in their tracks. The Marines had held until their allies could arrive and win the day.

Yet, as he soon discovered, the day just wasn't going to be won. The enemy lines just kept stretching further and further to the south. At least five divisions faced the Egyptian First Armored and the decimated Second Marine Battalion. American and British jump-jets screamed in low pounding the enemy. Surface ships dumped arty all over the attackers. Still, they came on relentlessly pushing the Egyptians back. The attacks finally subsided after nightfall. The allies had been driven back more than six miles.

That night, Egyptian commander sought Blacky out and energetically shook his hand. In superb English, which Blacky thought he should teach to the Brits off shore, the Egyptian congratulated the two-star general on his defense of Marsa Matrun. "You held off the entire Tunisian army for almost five hours with one battalion! Your bravery and courage is an example to all of us. Tonight, my First Infantry Division will join us, and tomorrow, Second Infantry. We will have a full corps facing their Operational Maneuver Group.

"If it weren't for your audacious plan to hold this forward position, my country would still be cowering, and our army would still be hiding in the cities. We have tasted both war and victory, and learned the lesson of haste and audacity.

"Now, we have much to attend to, General Breckenridge. My field hospital has been established, and we are transporting your wounded to it as we speak. You and I will visit our wounded soldiers first, and ensure that our troops are well fed, rested, and ready for tomorrow. Then, we will retire to my headquarters for a meal worthy of a gallant soldier such as yourself.

"I know that you are an Unbeliever, General Breckenridge, but I also know that Allah sent you to us in this our hour of need. We will not forget this; not until the pyramids return to the sand!"

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

8.1 America

8.1.1 Halsey: Gulf of Oman

"Admiral," Captain Teegin called out, pointing to the horizon, "Seventh Fleet is in sight. I'm receiving a signal from the replenishment ship Lipton. It reads, 'Belly up to the bar, boys!' She's five points off our starboard bow."

Jim Duncan breathed a huge sigh of relief. "Signal Spigott to take over all fleet screening. Get the frigates refueled, first."

The frigates, almost dry from their extended period of running at high-speed, drank thirstily from Lipton's gigantic bunkers. Halsey needed both fuel oil for its turbines and jet fuel for its aircraft. Carson needed fuel, but more importantly she needed to replace the SM-4s she had expended over a week before.

Refueling is a long, boring and demanding job, requiring two ships to travel in parallel for an extended period. However, as the ships get closer to each other, the current between them sucks them together. Yet, they can not drift apart, because of the length of their refueling lines. Deft seamanship is required to keep the ships on station.

In comparison, rearming vertical launch tubes is an order of magnitude more difficult. Vertical launch tubes had been developed to maximize the number of missiles in the available deck space. They also had the advantage that there were no moving parts, such as a launcher. Once the missile was installed within the array, it was ready to fire.

In port, reloading the launch tubes is fairly routine. Depending upon the shipyard, a ship is firmly held in a stable area, such as a dry dock or alongside a pier. A crane is used to raise a launch carton containing the missile into position. A special mobile gantry is slid into place over the launch tube, acting much like a funnel. The missiles are slipped through the gantry directly into the launch bay. Once the missile is in place, a team of electronics experts plug them in and test them. Typically, a skilled team with all the right equipment can reload a Burke's eighty-two vertical mounts in an eight-hour shift.

At sea, reloading the vertical arrays was a very different story. As with refueling, two ships sail side by side for an extended period. Both ships are moving, not just ahead, but also up and down and side to side while rocking back and forth. There is no way for one ship to position a missile cartridge over a hole in another ship.

Instead, four 1500-pound, prepackaged missiles are carefully transferred from the replenishment ship to the DDG's deck. The destroyer, using its own hoists, lifts each sixteen-foot box into position. Then, as the ship rolls, pitches and yaws, a team carefully manhandles the missile into the tube, being careful not to smash it into the other ones already in the array.

As the topside crews transfer the next batch of SM-4s from the replenishment ship to the DDG's deck, technicians crawl within the claustrophobically small space beneath the missile containers to connect them electrically and test the birds. Worse still, if a missile doesn't check out, it has to be extracted and another laboriously loaded in its place.

Reloading is hard work -- both mentally and physically exhausting. Tiger teams of specialists are assigned to the task. This is their one and only job until the process has ended.

Yet, such was the skill of the specialists and the navigation crews that the process of reloading Carson's vertical arrays took only twelve hours to complete. When the job was done, the DDG was ready to fight again. Charley Taylor gave his tiger teams a full watch off, anything they wanted to eat, and a movie of their choice in the mess hall. They'd earned it.

As Sixth Fleet replenished, the commanders of the different departments met to collaborate and redefine their roles within the combined fleet, now designated the Ninth or Gulf Fleet. The commanders of Halsey's two frigates, Kimmel's three and Wasp's two met with the Screen Commander, Charles Taylor of the Carson. The missile team met under Captain George Ball, CO of missile cruiser Saratoga and his Missile Boss, Commander W. "Ralph" Rafael. The two CAGs, the Air Bosses, and Senior Commanders met to work out the fleet's air dispositions.

Vice Admiral Duncan and Rear Admiral Norm Spigott met with their senior commanders, Rear Admiral (jg) Jerry Lake of the LPHN Wasp and Brigadier General Sam Carter of the Third Marines, along with their respective J-2s to discuss the general strategy they'd use to carry out Gator Algarro's plan to destroy the Iranaqi supply lines.

Admiral Duncan kicked off their meeting. "Gentlemen, and you too, Norm," he said, grinning wickedly at his brother-in-law who, in turn, flipped the bird at his commanding officer, "as I see it, we have over two hundred miles of target and one hundred planes with which to strike it. Obviously, we have to go about this process in some other way than assigning two miles of dirt to each aircraft. We have to strike at places that will maximize our power and the damage we can do to them.

"As I see it, one place stands out clearly." He flicked a button and the big screen in his briefing room lit up with a map of the Persian Gulf. He stood, walked to the display, and pointed to the road paralleling the Gulf coast.

"This road is the main artery between Kuwait and the South. In fact, there's only one other North-South route in the whole country. Whoever controls this road controls the east." His finger stabbed at the display. "This fork, leading to Suffaniyah in the east and Qaysuma in the west, is the key. If we can control this junction, we should be able to cut the Iranaqi supply lines instantly and permanently.

"So, why hasn't the Air Force done this already?" he asked, rhetorically. "They've tried. They've thrown F-19s, F-22s, F-34s and even A-29s at it.

"But, the Iranaqis can also read maps. They refurbished two small airfields in Suffaniyah and Qaysuma, put a bunch of MiG-31s on 'em, and dared the Air Forces to do anything about them. Then, they transferred a whole lot of stuff up here to Kuwait City and Ahmadi to back up their forward bases when we do attack. Finally, they refurbished the air base at Jubayl.

"Why would we be any better off trying to kill that road junction than the Air Force? We're attacking from the other side.

"The Iranaqis are set up to detect and defend against attacks from the southeast, south, southwest and west. We can attack them from the east and northeast.

"We can't sneak up on them. They know we're coming. They'll see us round Oman and watch us all the way through the Straits of Hormuz. They'll watch us from every island throughout that shallow pond. So, we have to make them think we're doing one thing and then do another.

"Do you remember the last war over here? Schwartzkopf called his move the pump fake. Well, we're going to do the same thing, only different. Instead of a pump fake, I'm going to do a Flea-Flicker.

"Remember your old football plays? The quarterback fakes a hand-off to the fullback, who hits the line just like he had the ball. Instead, the QB hands the ball to the halfback, who sprints out towards the end of the line. But, the quarterback continues to fade back as though he had the ball. The QB actually fakes a pass, just to keep the defense guessing.

"By the time the defenders figure out that neither the quarterback nor the fullback has the ball, the halfback is running like hell. The defense panics and sends everyone after him. But, just before they tackle him, the halfback laterals the ball back to the quarterback. The quarterback has all the options. He can run, throw the ball to the either the fullback, the halfback or one of the ends.

"The secret of the entire play, though, is that the defenders can see what's happening at all times. They can see the ball going back and forth all over the place. They protect against the fake and end up confusing themselves. Their confusion works against them, leading to a score.

"We're going to start by faking the fullback plunge where they can see us." He pointed again to his display. "Farst Island is the key. I want them to see us launch. We'll show them a fullback plunge directed at their forward airbase, here, at Jubayl. They'll have to go to full alert and scramble everything they've got to defend themselves. Instead, we'll send the halfback, our Avengers, to hit Suffaniyah!

"Now, remember that they saw our big launch. They'll have to figure that we hit Suffaniyah with those aircraft. They'll be wrong. Our Tomcats, Hornets and Harriers will be way down here, off the coast of Bahrain."

"All their aircraft from Jubayl will be in the air when they learn about our attack on Suffaniyah. What'll they do with them? They could stay home. If so, we'll out-wait them. The moment they start to cycle their aircraft down to refuel, we'll hit their CAP with our Tomcats, and blow the crap out of their airport with our Hornets.

"On the other hand, and this is what I'm hoping they'll do, they might come out after us. They might figure on hitting our planes returning from Suffaniyah to catch them while they're low on fuel.

"If they do come out, we bushwhack 'em with the T-2s. Then, we bomb their undefended base with the Hornets. Either way, we knock off both Suffaniyah and Jubayl.

"At that point, Farst Island will have outlived its usefulness. So, we'll knock it out. That's where the Marine's Harriers come in. After that, the Marines can hit the road with impunity."

Duncan sat down to let his idea sink in. He'd done his best to sell his plan. Now it was time to see if his brain-child survived.

Being senior and the other fleet commander, Norm Spigott took first turn in the barrel. "OK, Flea-Flicker, war of movement and all that, but I see a whole lot of the element of surprise built into this. They'll be expecting us and looking for an attack from the sea. As you said, they've got lookout posts scattered all through these islands, and they'll be watching us, both optically and with radar. How do we avoid detection?"

"Norm, we don't. They have to see us for the Flea-Flicker to work. I've built some surprise into it, because we have stealth and their communications are slow. But, that's all."

Spigott still wasn't satisfied. "I'm still concerned about their reaction time, Jim. Can the Air Force do something to pull the Iranaqi planes up and to the west, so that we can sneak in the back door?"

Duncan nodded in agreement. "I've already talked with Gator's staff about that. He's concerned about the timing over such long distances, and I have to agree with him on that.

"The Air Force could be a big part of this. However, they don't want to be used as our stalking horse. They're trying to invert the plan so that we get the Iranaqis to chase us, while they attack from the rear.

"This is typical college bullshit, Army-Navy game and all that crap. You know as well as I do that this kind of politics is rife in the services. So, I need to be able to do it alone if we have to."

Spigott agreed, enthusiastically, "Oh yes, Jim, if we have to, hell, we can make it work. It'd just be easier if we had a stalking horse. Other than that I can go along with it."

"Admiral," General Carter said, scowling at the big display, "I'd like to make a few suggestions. If your halfback and fullback strikes do their jobs, it really opens things up for my Marines. If we can sort of hide the Wasp after your strikes are completed, I can sneak off without the Iranaqis seeing us. I can put a company onto Farst Island to mop up after the air strike. And, I can lead the rest of my battalion to the mainland using our choppers and Ospreys. We can begin cutting the Iranaqi supply lines tonight."

"Do you really think you can pull it off, Sam?"

"Yes, Admiral, I do. If we hit Farst with the LCACs while the air strikes are going on, the Iranaqis will be looking up, not out to sea towards the fleet. The choppers and Ospreys can fly low and be concealed by the fleet. As long as they stay low, nobody will know we're in Saudi until it's too late.

"The only question, Admiral, is one of intelligence. If you can use some of your sneaky planes to reconnoiter the road, we'll be able to find a good place to ambush a supply column. With the size of the Iranaqi army, I'd expect that they've got lots of convoys coming down from Kuwait. We should be able to figure out something."

"Sounds good to me, Sam. Anybody else? No? Then, let's get the staffs together and begin working on this." He laughed. "The Air Bosses will have to work their Ouiji boards overtime!"

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

8.2 Saudi Arabia

8.2.1 24th Arrives

Captain Thomas Rudman was excited, as he stepped from the forward ramp of the flying monster called the C-5 into the heat and fetid smells of Riyadh. He hadn't been in Saudi for over two years, even though he'd tried several times for a posting to the Middle East. It wasn't that there was a lot of demand for service in that area of the world, it was just that there were few positions in these relatively closed societies.

He had kept in touch with his old college roommate, Hamal el Sayd a-Fayd. His VisiPhone bill showed it! Then the war erupted, and, try though he might, Tommy just couldn't get through to Hamal or anyone else in his family.

Then Tommy read about the disaster at Suffaniyah and understood the security problem. Hamal was in the Saudi First Armored Brigade, which had been right in the thick of it. At first, after reading the stories of the incredible defeat, Tommy had thought that Hamal was dead. However, after reading several Saudi newspapers, he saw Hamal's picture along with that of his father, the Chief of Staff. Hamal was a hero of the battle. Tommy had sent two congratulatory messages to his old friend, but neither of them had been answered.

There was a shout behind him, and he turned just in time to see an Abrams M1B4 emerge from the gaping maw of the transport. Slowly, it crept down the ramp, followed closely by his M2C3 Bradley fighting vehicle. Those two machines, along with the Abrams' crew of four, the Bradley's crew of three and the eight dragoons that rode to war in the fighting vehicle were the plane's entire load. One plane had flown literally half way around the world to deliver one tank, one armored vehicle and fifteen men. It was an enormous waste of resources, requiring over one thousand such flights to get the entire Twenty-Fourth over here. Bravo Company alone would take eight flights, not including the spare equipment, food, supplies ammo and everything else that would be needed to keep his company in operation.

The ground crew seemed to know what they were doing, which was wonderful, because Rudman didn't. Nobody had met his flight, and he wasn't sure which way to go. As the tank lumbered by, he clambered on and hitched a ride. Half-way to wherever the tank was going, a HumVee raced by him, slammed on its brakes and screech to a halt.

"Captain, Major wants to see you."

"Where?"

"Hop in, I'll get you there."

Tommy jumped off the slowly moving tank, and ran over to the HumVee. No sooner had his tail bone hit the seat than the driver punched his foot to the floorboards, spun the wheel and peeled out to go back in the direction from which he had come. The driver either knew what he was doing or had a suicide complex. They flirted with a tank, zipped around a corner almost running into a fork-lift and barely avoided a group of three men standing near a building. After just a few minutes at that break-neck pace, the driver squealed to a stop in front of a barracks' door. Tommy entered the relatively cool darkness and stood listening to the sounds of people talking and keyboards clicking as his eyes adjusted from the outside glare.

"What the hell you doing standing there?" Major Brower's controlled alto bellowed at him.

"Can't see a damned thing, Major. Got a seeing-eye dog around here?"

"It's OK, nothing in your way. Come on, Captain."

Sure enough, he didn't trip over anything as he walked towards the Major's voice. A shadow appeared, and it turned out to be her. "Well, come on, Rudman, we've got a big meeting. The division's almost half here. We're beginning to act like a real unit rather than just a bunch of isolated Yanks in the land of the camel jockeys."

She led him around a corner, up a hallway and through a door to a second hallway. After two or three more turns, he was totally lost. "Here we are," she declared, "Home, sweet home, until we get on the road that is." She opened a door and stepped through. He followed into a brightly lit room, filled with computers, a huge screen and a bunch of people.

A noise to his left caught his attention. Colonel Dominic Swatze, CO of the 1st Regiment addressed them from the dais, "Glad you two could make it. Rudman, you're the last from this regiment to arrive, so let me officially welcome you to Saudi Arabia.

"At this point," he continued addressing the crowd of officers, "all of First Brigade has arrived. We could go operational if we had to. Instead, we're waiting until the entire division gets here, which'll take two or three more days.

"In the meantime, we're going to be training cooperatively with units of the Royal Saudi Army. We're going to be fighting right alongside of them, so the idea is to get used to each other's style. We're gonna settle any command, communication or tactical differences before we're in battle. I, for one, think it's a damn good idea. So do you!

"Remember, people, the Saudis are different from us. They eat different, they talk different, they're Moslems, and they're isolated from the world. One huge difference you'll notice is in their attitude towards women, especially female officers. The women officers of the United States Army have been instructed to be courteous at all times, but to take no crap from anybody! We've got a job to do, and both the King and the Chief of Staff of the Saudi Armed Forces have made very strong statements about Americans in general and female Americans in particular. Insubordination will not be tolerated, but that also means we don't go out of our way to pick a fight. Got it?

"OK, let me introduce you the two most important people in this theater. Attention!" Forty officers jumped out of their seats at the unexpected order.

General Algarro and General Mahumaddi el Sayd a-Fayd walked in from a side door and stepped up on the small dais. Algarro stepped forward. "At ease. Be seated." After the chairs had finished rumbling, he continued, "Let me add my welcome. Now, let's get down to business.

"The Saudi's have taken a hell of a pounding, and we're not doing any better. I will state, for the record, that we're losing this war. Right now, we're holed up in the eastern cities protecting what we can.

"General a-Fayd and I have put a lot of thought into this. The only way we can see to turn this situation around is by cooperating even more closely. I have promised him the complete support of the United States to do what has to be done to successfully conclude this war and kick those Iranaqi bastards all the way home and then some. So, to initiate this new era of cooperation, I have asked General a-Fayd to give you your marching orders. General?"

Algarro stepped back as the big Saudi Chief stepped to the microphone. "Welcome, my American friends and allies. Allah be with you.

"As General Algarro has stated, we have entered into a new era of cooperation. By this, we mean that we shall combine all our forces into one, single, overpowering army which will sweep aside our enemies and vanquish them.

"We have been able to rebuild two armored brigades from the disasters of Suffaniyah and Jubayl. You have a mighty armored infantry division. By combining our armor and your armored infantry, we believe we will create a force which will sweep the field of battle and achieve victory, with Allah's help.

"Therefore, beginning immediately, we will begin joint exercises. Each of your battalions will receive into its bosom an armored company of the Royal Saudi Army. They will eat with you, sleep with you, fight alongside of you and accept the orders of your officers.

"Additionally, one Royal Saudi armored brigade will be incorporated in the the Twenty-Fourth Division as its fourth brigade. In this way, we will increase the strength and fighting capacity of each battalion while developing an integrated armored force to act as our spearhead or as our mobile reserve.

"I will now warn our American allies, once again, that we are different from you. We do not eat the same foods as you do. We pray to Allah, bless his name, five times a day. We neither swear, as you do, nor do we drink alcoholic beverages.

"We are an old, and, yes, isolated people. You are a young, fresh and dynamic race. Both of our peoples will learn much from each other. This will take much time and effort on your part as well as on the part of the Royal Saudi Army and the Saudi people. We must be patient with each other. However, we don't have the time to waste learning everything about each other. So, we will work together.

"At this time, each of the battalion commanders and their officers will go to their designated areas here in this room. General Algarro and I will come to you in the next few minutes with the officers who will be attached to your commands. Both you and the Saudi officers have one hour to decide amongst yourselves if you can work together. If not, the Saudi officer will be reassigned. However, we have a limited number of officers who speak English. Therefore, I personally request that neither my own officers nor the officers of the American Army judge each other hastily. That is all."

Colonel Swatze returned to the microphone. "OK, you've heard the General. Find your spots and hang in there until the generals get to you. Attention! Dismissed!"

The room quickly rearranged itself, and Rudman trailed after Major Brower to their designated spot. Surrounding himself with his platoon leaders, he waited impatiently. Finally, the two generals approached, leading a gaggle of young officers towards him.

Tommy studied them carefully, and sure enough, one of them was Hamal! He rushed forward as Hamal ducked out of his crowd and raced towards his friend. They hugged each other like the long-separated, boon companions that they were.

All the officers, except General a-Fayd, were surprised at the boisterous antics of the two young men. They were even more surprised at the language they used to greet each other. The two friends were speaking a hybrid of Arabic and American using the words and phrases from each language that expressed their thoughts most eloquently.

Their greeting was interrupted by a throat-clearing close by. General Algarro laughed, as he asked General a-Fayd, "I take it these two young men know each other?"

"Why yes, General. General Algarro, please let me introduce to you my son, Captain Hamal el Sayd a-Fayd, and my son's friend, Captain Tommy Rudman."

The young officers shook hands with the American general, who asked, "Rudman, where did you and the Captain meet?"

"We were at the Point together, Sir. Hamal and I visited my home in Iowa, and I've visited with him and his father, the Chief of Staff, on two occasions. I've tried for a position here a couple of times, Sir, but things just haven't worked out. Come on over, Sirs, and let me introduce you to Second Battalion."

Tommy and Hamal led the way, talking animatedly in their intermix of English and Arabic. Upon arriving at the battalion's area, Tommy began the introductions, "General Algarro, General a-Fayd, our CO, Major Julliette Brower. Major, General Algarro, General a-Fayd. And, Major, this is my old friend from the Point, Captain a-Fayd. Hamal, this is Major Brower. Don't let her glower or her shouting get to you. She's one damned fine officer, and you'll love Second Battalion."

The two generals smiled at each other. General A-Fayd commented, "Well, Gator, it looks as though everything will work out well in Second Battalion." He turned back to Tommy and his son, "If you can tear yourselves away, will you both join me this evening for a light meal?"

"Yes, Father, I would enjoy that."

"Yes, Sir!" Tommy answered enthusiastically. "It'd be my pleasure, Sir. I was looking forward to the time when we can once again sit quietly in your home and enjoy the company of my other family. How, is my other mother, Sir? Has Allah smiled upon her, also?"

"Indeed, other son, she sends her greetings and wishes you good health. She prays to Allah for both of you boys, as do I. Tonight, my young friends. And, perhaps, for one evening, we shall not talk of war."

8.2.2 The King's Concerns

The light rapping on the door frame wouldn't stop. Mahumaddi a-Fayd tried to ignore it, but it persisted. He went quietly to his door and opened it only a crack. "Yes? What can I do for you at this late hour?"

"I have a message from the King!"

"Allah save me from my cousin the King who thinks that because he is the King he knows more than I!", he cried to himself. To the messenger, he replied, "Blessed is he who receives messages from the King, the Protector of all Islam. Hand me the message. I shall read it and draft a reply to my cousin."

"A reply is not necessary, General. The King says that this is for your information and consideration." The messenger handed him a small sealed envelope and left.

The general hurried back to his bed to fetch his glasses. The King's handwriting was small, delicate and almost indecipherable. Yet, this handwriting was large and clear. It was the Chamberlain's hand!

My dear cousin, and Chief of Staff of the Royal Armies, Greetings! I hope that this missive finds you well and that Allah has smiled upon you and your efforts this day.

I leave you with the thought that I read the Koran and seek the insight of Allah. It is my prayer, since you do likewise, that we shall come together in Paradise at His knee and understand His nature and Exalt in His Glory. May the blessings of Allah be upon you, my cousin, and may His Paradise be yours.

The message was sealed with a wax impression, made by the ring of the Chancellor of the Realm.

At first, Mahumaddi discounted the long and wordy letter, but as he tried to relax in sleep, its message resounded in his mind. He wondered who would attack civilians on a Pilgrimage? All Moslems were required to seek the opportunity to go to Mecca and worship at the Mosque of The Prophet. He, himself, had done so on many occasions, and had always found it to be the fulfillment of his deepest religious desires. Others of the Faith were protected by the laws of Islam while on Pilgrimage.

He lay in his bed, thinking, "Only the most foolish, or Infidels, would dare interfere with a Pilgrim, unless they are desperate. What would drive bandits to such desperation that they would attack so many Pilgrims that it would come to the King's attention? Why are they so desperate that they attacked the King's Own Palace Guardians? Could they be killing Pilgrims to hide their nefarious activities? If so, what machinations could be so important that they feared discovery? And, where would they find jet aircraft?"

He sat bolt upright. "Jet aircraft! That is it! Bandits do not have jet-powered warplanes. Countries do. And, what countries would dare to have their jet warplanes within this Kingdom? The same ones that have already dared to have their armies within our borders. Allah! Allah, protect us!"

The general sprang from his cot and raced to his intercom. "Get me my aide, and then get me the American, General Algarro."

His aide rushed into his compartment within the minute, just as a tired-faced and unshaven American appeared on the Saudi's VisiPhone screen. "General Algarro, I am pleased that I did not awaken you, even at this late hour."

"General a-Fayd, my friend, do not let this casual appearance deceive you. I have been asleep for over twenty minutes now and had set my heart of hearts upon at least twenty minutes more before this war ends. Nonetheless, my friend, I welcome you, in Allah's name and in the name of the Prophet, and invite you to coffee. If you will drink, then I shall also. Since we drink together, it is as though we were together. How may I help you, my friend?"

"It is a matter of extreme urgency, I assure you, Gator, my friend. I will drink with you, for this may, indeed, be another long night for us both. However, what I have to show you and to tell you is of some degree of confidentiality, which I would not wish to discuss over these airwaves. Therefore, I plead with you, my friend, to arouse yourself and to depart immediately to my rooms. It is, as I said, urgent. Coffee awaits you. Allah be with you on your journey."

Six minutes later, Gator Algarro arrived at the Saudi Chief of Staff's "rooms". The American was ushered in quietly, and, as promised, a small cup of very strong and incredibly sweet coffee was pushed into his hands. General a-Fayd was waiting for him, similarly armed. "My heart is gladdened at your arrival, my friend. I see that you are becoming refreshed after your journey."

"Indeed, my friend and brother in battle. Your coffee is excellent, probably the best I have ever tasted, except, of course, that fine blend served by your cousin, the King. Now, of what shall we speak? What is so important that you would disturb the sleep of your friend, ally and brother in war?"

"Do you read Arabic, my friend?"

"Yes, but haltingly. I try to keep up with current events, and I have found that it is always best to read about them from a variety of points of view. One must read a little Chinese and Japanese to understand the eastern perspective. One must read some Latin, Italian and Spanish to understand large portions of this world. I have even tired to master Russian and Swahili, but, I must admit, they are difficult for me. Why do you ask?"

"This letter arrived this evening, and I thought you wiould find it interesting." He handed it to the American, who perused it.

"General, my brother in war, this is from the Chancellor. Should I read a message such as this?"

"Indeed, read it."

Algarro's brows knitted into a scowl as he struggled to unravel the courtly language. It wasn't the Koran, which he had studied, and it wasn't newspaper script either. In fact, it was tough going, and it took him five minutes just to get the general idea. He looked up apprehensively, asking, "My friend, I admit to my ignorance, but I seem to get the idea that His Majesty's brother is concerned about bandits. Yet, he speaks of jet fighters strafing innocent Pilgrims. Would you read this to me so that I can more fully understand His Highness' message?"

The chief of staff laughed. "You are right, my friend! Those are the Chamberlain's exact concerns. Bandits are attacking Pilgrims going to Medinah and Mecca, which is against all Islamic law. He states that bandits are in possession of advanced jet warplanes. Bandits cannot afford such luxuries, nor could they afford to pilot such machines, service them, fuel them or arm them. Yet, they exist in the region of Ha-Il. How would you answer the Chamberlain, who speaks in the King's ear?"

"Whoa! Mahumaddi, are you saying that we have reliable witnesses to a jet aircraft carrying out bombing and strafing missions in the west?"

"Indeed!"

"Jesus Christ! Oh, excuse me!"

"Why should you be excused for calling upon a prophet? I call upon Mohammed regularly, and I find that he is of help to me in my deliberations. He was a great general, as you know."

"Yes, I have studied his battles and his victories. But, to return to our earlier conversation, are you saying that there are enemy forces in our rear? If so, where?"

"Yes, I am saying that," he unrolled a small and very old map of Arabia, and pointed to one road, "and my guess is here.

"These are ancient lands, my friend. Centuries before your ancestors knew how to weave cloth, shape iron or plant crops, we had great trade routes throughout Europe, Asia and Africa.

"One of those trade routes began on the Red Sea, in such ancient places as Mecca and Jiddah, traversed our lands to Baghdad and continued north all the way to China in the east and the barbarian provinces of your ancestors in the west. By such trade we became wealthy and powerful. It is my opinion that it is by this ancient trade route that we have been invaded.

"While our eyes were focused on events in the east, our enemies advanced by this ancient route into our heart, near the timeless city of Ha-Il. Nobody knows how old the city is. Every time one has dug into its past, dating its remains with the most modern means, one arrives at an even earlier time. In our count of the years, it has been continuously inhabited for over ten thousand years. Yet, there is another level below that. If I am correct, our enemies lie less than eight hundred kilometers away, and are now, even as we speak, advancing upon us."

"Jesus Christ!"

"Mohammed!"

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

8.3 Iran

8.3.1 Logistics at Ha-Il

Major General Tavid Hammedyanni was in a foul mood. His logistics were a nightmare, and he was forced to work with fools. His "pipeline" began in Baghdad, which was part of his problem. The Iraqis were corrupt, and half of everything that began its way south disappeared. From Baghdad, all his army's supplies and equipment went south through An-Najaf, Ash Shabakah and across the border to Ratha. Once they arrived in Ratha, they were under his control. Until then, everything, even goods from Iran, was stolen, pilfered and looted by the Assyrians, the lowest scum in all of Islam.

Once the shipments came under his control, things ran far more smoothly. He had seen to that. He had personally traveled the five hundred kilometers from Ratha to Ha-Il many times. On his first trip, he had found a driver asleep at the side of the road. Without announcing himself in any way, he had walked up to the truck's cab and had shot the driver once through the head. He'd tumbled the body out onto the road to be an example to others. Later, he was informed that the truck was broken. Regardless, the man should not have been asleep while on duty. The state of repairs of the truck had nothing to do with the alertness of its driver.

Thereafter, he made the long trip at least once a week, checking for slothfulness, lassitude or the ultimate horror in any command, insubordination. He always found at least one driver, loader, handler or expediter who was shirking his duties. He had but one rejoinder. They had been warned of the consequences of failure and lassitude. He carried out his just punishment immediately to instill fear and respect into the others, and especially the Iraqis.

Shipments began arriving more regularly. However, after three weeks of steady improvement, shipments began to fall off again. For some reason, crashes began to happen mysteriously all along the route. He suspected sabotage, and if his suspicions proved to be correct, he would have firing squads ready!

He began by back-tracking the most recent incident. He questioned the driver first. Initially, the man insisted that something had run across the road in front of him, so he had swerved to avoid it. But, after he had been beaten for two days, the culprit admitted that he had fallen asleep at the wheel. Not only had he delayed a vital shipment, but, in his foolishness, he had buried the truck up to its hubs in soft sand. It had taken two other trucks three hours to pull it out, thereby delaying them all.

Such negligence could not be tolerated. His death would be an example to them all. The driver's body was flung onto the roadway so that others would understand that the trucks they drove and the supplies they delivered were more important than their own miserable lives.

Yet, the number of crashes only increased, and he was both frustrated and angry. He had to do something to get at the bottom of this. His drivers alone could not be responsible. They were too frightened and too stupid. Somebody higher up, somebody with brains had to be behind this sabotage. That meant an officer. If officers were involved, that meant treason. So, he hunted for a traitor.

He began his search at his major supply depot in Ratha. He carefully studied the work routines, yet discovered nothing but competence in his officers. In fact, the major in charge of the depot was most capable. He drove his lazy, stupid loaders in twelve hour shifts, with five breaks for prayers. His men were expected to take no longer than fifteen minutes to pray, eat and take care of essentials before they went back to work.

The captain, who commanded during the second twelve-hour shift, was almost as good as his major. He also had five rest breaks during the course of his watch, and they were also of fifteen minute duration. Yet, his people did not load as much as quickly. Hammedyanni questioned the captain, discovering that the major had taken all the best men for his shift, which explained the slight differences. So, after two days of investigations, Hammedyanni was satisfied that the officers were doing their job, which meant that the traitor was closer to the front.

He made the long, two hundred kilometer trip south to Turabah, the second of his depots, by truck with one of the convoys. He sat in the high cab, watching everything with a keen eye.

Each truck had two drivers, one who slept while the other drove. The trucks proceeded at exactly twenty-five kilometers per hour, as he had so carefully and explicitly commanded. The convoy arrived without incident almost exactly on schedule nine and one-half hours after it had started. There had only been the five stops for prayer, for relief and to exchange drivers, once again as he had specified.

After the general had eaten, washed and telephoned his headquarters, he renewed his quest for the traitor. The terminal at Turabah was also commanded by a major, who welcomed Hammedyanni, cordially. As before, things seemed in order. The truck's crew had re-embarked in another lorry returning to the north. Two new drivers, who had just arrived from Ha-Il, hurriedly refueled their vehicle and returned southward within the prescribed half hour.

Hammedyanni did not go with them. He needed more time to study this second leg in his logistics artery.

The major in charge also drove his men in two twelve-hour shifts. However, he also had a second responsibility. He had to take in the trucks that had broken, either on the trip north or south, and perform appropriate maintenance. Of course, no Iranian or Iraqi would lower himself to grovel in oil, grease and grime. Palestinians, Pakistanis and others had been hired to perform these lowly tasks.

Hammedyanni suspected them, immediately. Yet, once again, he was frustrated. The major had kept close track of all repairs, spare parts, lubricants and the time it had taken for each operation by each one of his maintenance personnel. The general could find nothing wrong.

On the following morning, Hammedyanni observed that the trucks that had returned empty from Ha-Il were parked and readied for the return trip. Their drivers were loading the vehicles with the detritus of war and broken machinery. He watched as tires and wheels, empty drums and barrels, old cases and boxes were loaded to go north.

As the next south-bound convoy was about to depart, Hammedyanni climbed aboard one of the lorries to complete his round-trip. Hammedyanni watched carefully as the truck began the long descent from the high plains towards the lower desert. He noticed that the driver had placed the truck in a low gear, allowing the engine to retard the vehicle as it snaked through the cut-backs on its way towards the desert floor below.

He glanced at the speedometer. It read only fifteen kilometers per hour! Aha! He had found the culprits! "Speed up to twenty-five kilometers as specified," he ordered the driver.

The old man driving the truck glanced at him, smiled and continued to drive as before.

Insubordination! Hammedyanni pulled out his service revolver, and pointed it at the driver, demanding, "Drive as ordered, or I will shoot!"

The driver laughed and lifted both his hands from the wheel. The truck plunged straight ahead, while the road turned sharply to the right. The driver laughed again. "Soon, we will travel far faster than twenty-five kilometers, but only for a short time!"

"Put your hands on the wheel and drive!"

"No! You will shoot me. Instead, we will go to Allah, and each of us will lay our plea before Him."

"I'll shoot!"

"You'll die, unless you throw that toy out of the window."

The edge loomed. Hammedyanni could see the road far below him, and another cut-back far beyond. He was too frightened to think! He did as he was told and threw the gun out of the window.

The old man laughed scornfully. He stamped on the brakes and, with a mighty yank on the steering wheel, put the heavy vehicle into a skid. The rear wheels slid towards the brink, as the driver stomped on the gas. The truck rocked back and forth, and it seemed as though the front tires passed beyond the edge of the precipice.

Hammedyanni screamed, as he pressed both his feet into the firewall as hard as he could. The truck lurched again before sedately proceeding back onto the road and down the steep incline.

The old man leered at the general and announced scornfully, "When you have driven this road as many times as I have, then you can decide how to drive a loaded truck along it. Until then, you are a passenger, and an unwanted passenger at that. So, shut your mouth, or get out and walk."

"You insubordinate son of a camel! Do you know who you are talking to? I am Major General Hammedyanni!"

The old man slammed on the brakes bringing the truck to a screeching halt. He grabbed Hammedyanni by the lapels, dragging him bodily across the cab. "So you are the stupid bastard who kills my drivers! Now, you will drive this truck, and I shall laugh!" He quickly swung his leg over the general's. Hammedyanni was behind the wheel, and the old man was next to him. "Drive, General, drive. Let us see how quickly you will go to see Paradise." He laughed, uproariously.

Hammedyanni had no choice. He had no weapon or troops to come to his aid. He disengaged the clutch, shifted into first gear, and let the clutch out slowly. The big lorry jolted and bucked against the General's uncoordinated effort and lurched forward.

Hammedyanni pulled at the steering wheel, but the truck aimed towards the precipice! He pulled harder. The edge veered away, but a cliff of rocks and boulders loomed before him. He fought the surging vehicle back into the center of the road, but it would not stay there. It careened first to one side and then the other, sometimes going with the turn of the road, and sometimes against it. He battled the recalcitrant beast with all his might, not daring to loose his hands from the wheel to attempt shifting into a higher gear.

The old man laughed derisively, as he leaned over to his young companion. "Look at the mighty general who knows all things. He has achieved the colossal speed of ten kilometers per hour. Shame, general, you are not keeping to the schedule. Step on the gas, shift to a higher gear. Go faster, or you will be shot! Go! Hurry! General, if you do not go faster, I will shoot you!" He laughed uproariously at his joke and slapped the general's leg.

The general started at the unfamiliar and seemingly intimate touch. His foot tromped on the throttle for just a second, and the truck leapt ahead, straight towards the edge! He pulled on the wheel, but it was too late! They were going over the edge!

The old man grabbed the wheel and spun it through Hammedyanni's clenched fists. The rear wheels skidded, sending them even closer to the cliff. The old man snapped the steering wheel back and forth in ever decreasing arcs, until the truck settled once again on the road down the hillside. "It is not so easy, is it, General?"

When they finally reached the bottom, the driver reached over and shut off the key. The engine backfired loudly, and the general's chest collided with the steering column, as the truck shuddered to a halt. "I will drive now, General," the old man announced. "Go relieve yourself."

Hammedyanni clambered out. His knees collapsed as his feet touched the ground. Slowly, he struggled to the side of the road and reached for his zipper. The front of his pants were soaked! He looked back towards the truck, and the two men were laughing at him! At him! He went back to the cab and started to climb in.

"Oh, no! You ride in back. We live in this truck or one like it all the time, every day. We are never out of it except to pray, to eat or to relieve ourselves. We will not sit in your urine. Sit in the back with the rest of the things that smell bad."

Hammedyanni fell amongst the cargo as the truck lurched forward. He clambered to the back of the cab to peer through the rear window. Along the flatter sections, he saw that the driver was speeding at over fifty kilometers per hour, trying desperately to make up for the time he had lost coming down the long grade into the lower desert. He choked on the dust raised by the speeding vehicle. For over two hours, he was thrown into hard cases and sharp edges as the truck bounced, tipped, swayed and lurched.

Then, the road began to climb up out of the desert reaching towards the high plain surrounding Ha-Il. Hammedyanni watched the truck's speed fall as it labored mightily. He listened to the growling whine of the truck's lower gears playing their mechanical tune. Finally, after eight hours of travel, the truck ground to a halt at the supply depot in Ha-Il.

Hammedyanni clambered out of the back of the truck, shouting for his depot commandant. A sergeant, surprised to see a dust covered, unkempt general descending from the rear of the truck, saluted him. "Bring your commanding officer here, now!" Hammedyanni screamed.

Five minutes later, the sergeant returned with a major in tow. "Major, hand me your pistol," Hammedyanni demanded, holding out his hand. The major did as ordered. Fifteen seconds later, the old driver and his young companion lay dead next to their truck.

Hammedyanni had found at least two of the traitors. Now, he knew where to concentrate his efforts. He would whip them into line and make them understand fear. Then, those drivers would obey his orders, get his supplies delivered on time, reduce the damage to his equipment and reduce their accidents. If they didn't, he would shoot them all and get drivers who could do the job as ordered.

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!"