In the darkness Cold Steel’s battle position looked abandoned. For now, the majority of the company’s tanks had pulled back into hide positions. In this way, any enemy recon that made it into C Company’s sector would have difficulty establishing exactly where the company was defending. Only three tanks occupied their fighting holes at the moment, one in each of the three platoon battle positions. These tanks scanned with thermals to ensure the area remained secure until Dillon brought the rest of the company forward before first light.
Dillon’s lieutenants gathered around his tank. He’d wanted to bring all his tank commanders in, but knew he couldn’t afford to have that much of the company’s leadership pulled away from last-minute combat checks. He’d depend on the platoon leaders to relay his message.
Leaning against his tank, C-66, Dillon closed his eyes and took in the heavy smells of burning fuel and large mechanized war machines that always accompanied tank units. The muffled clink of track on sprockets as M1A1s moved in the darkness, about their preparations. God, this seemed so much like the countless field exercises they’d drilled . . . yet it was so very different.
He opened his eyes and tried to make out the faces of the nearby men. They waited for inspirational words, needing them like a starving man needs a meal, but nothing came to Dillon. He had never been in a position like this as a young lieutenant and could only imagine the thoughts running through their minds. Most of them had entered the army less than a year ago, and now the security of a nation and their men’s lives depended in large part on the decisions they would make over the course of the next few days.
It was getting too dark to see them clearly, but Dillon felt their stares as he began speaking. “I’m proud of the way you and your men have gotten in here and busted ass to get this defense set. Very proud. No one could have done more in the time we’ve had.”
He paused, praying the words they needed to hear would come. “I know you’re having doubts over whether or not you can handle the shit that’s coming down. That’s natural. Know this. I have faith in you. I have faith in your NCOs. I have faith in your men. I have faith in this company. Just do the things that we’ve been trained to do. Thad, where are you?”
Mason’s grumble sounded behind Dillon. “Here, sir.”
Dillon turned on the voice in the darkness. “Thad, if I go down, this company is yours. No time for doubts. You grab the bull by the balls and take it where it needs to go.”
“Roger, sir,” replied the big executive officer quietly.
Dillon turned on his other lieutenants. “The same goes for the rest of you, and for your men. Lives are going to be lost if no one is willing to get on the radio and make decisions. Is that understood?”
A chorus of “rogers” sprang from the night.
“I’ve heard some of your men talking about how this is going to be easy—how the Arabs can’t fight. Do not underestimate your enemy. Give him the benefit of the doubt and you’ll be less likely to make stupid mistakes. We may be better than anyone in the world one on one, but, gentlemen . . . this is going to be far from one on one. Make every round count.”
Dillon knew his lieutenants were dangling on his every word and hoping something magical would come from his lips that would guarantee their own survival along with their men, if only they listened closely. But it was too late for that. Those magic words were the ones that had been spoken during the previous months of training—the words that had been spoken during After Action Reviews, when their mistakes were exposed and solutions for fixing them were brought out. Dillon hoped the lessons had taken hold.
Bluto broke in. “Sir, any change to Team Knight’s withdrawal plan? They still coming through us?”
“Yeah, Bluto. But you guys are going to have to keep an ear to the radio. Remember, they’re not pulling until they’ve destroyed the recon from the lead Republican Guard brigade. If that brigade attacks one of the other task force sectors, the call will be made on whether Knight’s staying forward a while longer or pulling back. Either way, they’re coming through us. You have their withdrawal route, Dagger, on your overlays. Ensure your tank commanders do as well. Don’t think that the rehearsal we conducted earlier is going to make it simple. Those guys are likely to be pulling back under fire and it will not be the stately parade of vehicles coming back that you saw then. They will be hauling ass, disorganized, and the radio will be a clusterfuck with everybody and his brother thinking that his traffic is the traffic that needs to be heard by everyone else in the task force. Don’t add to the madness. Stay calm. Stay cool. Keep control of your platoon nets, and keep someone monitoring the company net for my call—either you or your platoon sergeant. Other questions?”
Doc called out, “Changes to the chemical situation, sir?”
Dillon involuntarily shivered. Doc had broached the subject that all soldiers hated. Chemical warfare. Fighting an enemy that not only had a chemical capability, but who’d shown a willingness to use it. “No. Right now we don’t expect them to use chemicals. Per the plan, have everyone in their chemical overgarments by zero three hundred hours and keep your protective masks within arm’s reach. The intel guys say that if they use anything, it will be nonpersistent and that they’ll save it until just before the main attack. Probably. We’re in a good position because the brigade has positioned one of its Fox chemical recon sections forward, between Team Mech and us. If any chemical hits in this area, we’ll know fast.”
Absolute silence.
“Look, if it makes you feel any better, Aref is no idiot. He knows that if he uses chemicals, the United States will bomb him back to the Stone Age and fuck what the rest of the world thinks. It is therefore highly unlikely that we’ll see any. But we’ll be prepared, just in case. Anything else?” Dillon hoped he had alleviated some of their fears regarding the chemical threat. They had enough to worry about already. Himself, he wasn’t sure that the Iraqi leader was playing with a full deck of cards. That made him unpredictable.
No one had further questions. Dillon nodded to himself in the darkness. His unit was as ready as it would ever be. “All right then, mount up and—”
A baritone voice sounded behind Dillon. “Sir, if Imay. . .”
“Yeah, Thad, what do you have?”
“Sir, I know it’ll sound a little unusual, especially from me, but could we . . . uh . . . say a prayer? I kind of promised my momma that if it looked like, well, you know . . .”
Dillon smiled. “Sure, Thad. I’ll take all the help I can get. Just keep in mind that God is on the side of the tank with the tightest boresight.”
The leadership of Cold Steel formed a small semicircle in front of C-66. Without comment, Dillon’s crew silently descended from the tank and fell in with the group of men. Mason stepped forward and his deep voice led the assembled warriors.
“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name . . .”
Lieutenant Colonel Rob Estes’s tank slowed to a crawl two hundred meters behind Anvil’s position. He was having second thoughts about A Company occupying this critical piece of terrain. More to the point, he was having second thoughts about Captain Dan Malloy being in charge of this critical piece of terrain. To an extent, you could blame Dan himself for shying away from the jobs that would have given him the experience he’d likely need before the night was over. The truth was, if they hadn’t deployed, it would have never been an issue. Dan would have done an adequate job performing his daily duties at Fort Carson, would have received an adequate command evaluation report, and would have continued his march deep into the army’s logistical circles.
Estes had minimized the situation to the extent that he could—he’d placed Malloy in the least vulnerable position within the Iron Tiger’s sector. At least it had appeared so when he and Barnett constructed the plan. They’d expected most of the action to come from the center. Anvil had been placed on the task force left flank to tie in with 2-35 Armor. Now that the Iraqis likely had a good idea of 2-35’s disposition, Anvil’s position adjacent to them was critical. If an enemy force made it through 2-35 Armor on the Iron Tigers’ left, the first thing they’d run into would be Malloy and Anvil.
“Anvil Six, Tiger Six, over,” Estes called as his tank ground to a stop.
“Tiger Six, this is Anvil Five. Anvil Six is on the ground, over.”
Estes smiled. Anvil Five was First Lieutenant Bob Waters, the A Company executive officer. One of the wiser moves he’d made as battalion commander, thought Estes, was to team Waters with Malloy. Waters was thirty years old; he had come up through the ranks. He had been a staff sergeant commanding his own tank when someone with an eye for talent suggested he go to Officer’s Candidate School. Waters was experienced and calm, traits that would be vital once bullets started flying.
“Anvil Five, Tiger Six. I just pulled behind your battle position and need to link up for a SITREP, over.”
“This is Anvil Five, roger. I have you in sight. Will link up with you at your vehicle, over.”
“Roger. Tiger Six, out.”
Estes released his CVC’s transmit switch so that he could use the tank’s internal intercom to speak to his gunner, Staff Sergeant Ike McCloud. “Okay, Ike, you’ve got the ball. We’re behind Anvil’s position. Keep an ear to the radio and local security on the tank.”
McCloud’s voice came to him through the CVC. “You got it, sir. The lady will be prepped and ready to roll when you get back.”
“We may be staying. Likely the enemy will be testing the left flank tonight since that’s where they had success with their recon. I’ll have Lieutenant Waters pick us a good position and send someone over to guide our tank in.”
“Roger, we’ll keep a light on for you,” replied McCloud with his best Tom Bodett impersonation.
Bob Waters saw Estes’s tank clearly through the night-vision goggles he held to his face. The figure in the loader’s hatch on top of Estes’s tank, currently manning the loader’s 7.62mm machine gun, swung the weapon in Waters’s direction. Waters stopped and flicked the switch on the side of his night-vision goggles quickly two times, emitting short blasts of infrared light that were invisible to the naked eye. After he saw the loader on Estes’s tank return the signal, Waters continued forward. As he walked, the Anvil XO dropped the PVS-7s from his face and let them dangle around his neck so his eyes could adjust to the darkness. Unlike the infantry, tankers rarely mounted the night-vision goggles to the head harness that is part of the equipment’s kit, but instead pulled them up and used them as needed. Normally they depended on their tank’s thermal imaging system to do their night-vision work, using the PVS-7s only to help navigate the tank at night or to scan the local area when they pulled watch from the top of the turret.
Stopping at the front slope, Waters waited as Estes climbed down.
“What’s the good word, sir?” asked Waters.
“I was going to ask you the same, Muddy,” replied Estes as he hopped to the ground.
“You going to be setting up shop with us, sir?”
“Probably. You guys are on the seam with 2-35 Armor. I want to see how much firepower you’re going to be able to swing that way if we need it. Let me take a look at your graphics.”
Estes sensed reluctance from Waters. “What’s the problem, Muddy? Something on your mind?”
Waters hesitated. Loyalty to his boss versus loyalty to his soldiers was the issue he faced. Drop a dime on Malloy, or take a chance on Anvil soldiers dying. “Sir, I don’t know that there is a problem. I don’t have as much experience in planning as a lot of—”
Estes had a sense of what was happening. “Okay, okay. Just give me the graphics. I don’t have time for twenty questions.”
Estes turned on his Mini-Mag flashlight. He looked over Anvil’s dispositions. “I see where 2-35’s right-most company is. Have you tied in your position with theirs?”
Waters nodded. “Roger, sir. That’s B Company, 2-35 Armor, call sign Bushwhacker. I coordinated with their commander this morning. Good man. We exchanged graphics and frequencies and have overlapping fields of fire, but those wadis worry me.”
Estes’s face became confused. He looke more closely at Anvil’s graphics. Assuming the repositioning directive he sent down earlier had been adhered to, there should not be a problem. He looked up sharply after a few moments. “How many tanks can you reorient toward Bushwhacker’s position if we get a major push from that sector, Muddy?”
Silence greeted the Iron Tiger commander’s question.
Estes repeated it slowly. “Muddy, damn it . . . how many tanks can you orient over there if you have to, son?”
It was as though the words were ripped from Waters’s throat. “One, sir.”
“One! What the hell’s going on? Did the TOC not pass on my order for a platoon’s worth of tanks to be able to cover that area?”
The Anvil XO felt the weight of the world was on his shoulders, and Estes could see it.
“Listen, Muddy,” he said, not unkindly. “I understand what you’re going through. But let me make something perfectly clear. Your ultimate loyalty isn’t to Captain Malloy, or me, or Colonel Jones. Hell, it’s not even to the president. It’s to your men. If there’s a problem, it’s got to be addressed now. We don’t have a lot of time. Those recon probes and that artillery hitting throughout the area today indicate the enemy’s ready to move, probably before first light. I’ve got to have a clear picture of the situation to make the right decisions.”
Waters felt himself deflate. “Sir, when I returned from coordinating with Bushwhacker, our company was ninety percent complete in sighting in our defensive position. I went to Captain Malloy and pointed out the wadis spilling into our flank. I also reminded him of your message to focus some assets there. Since he seemed to be ignoring the fact that we might have a problem in that sector, I pointed it out to him again—that and the fact that we had no tanks—zero—which could orient fires in that direction. He said that B Company, 2-35 Armor was responsible for that area, not us. When I ‘what if’ed’ him, he got pissed and said if I was so worried about it, move my tank to cover the area.” Waters looked up from the map and into Estes’s eyes. “I did.”
Estes’s silence spoke bounds. Waters knew the commander was ready to blow sky-high.
When Tiger Six spoke again, his voice was icy calm. “What about the rest of the company’s positions. He did direct their emplacement, didn’t he?”
Waters shook his head, looking at the ground. “No, sir. He drew each of the platoons a goose egg on the map and told them to get busy.”
“Did he check the platoon fields of fire and conduct rehearsals this afternoon?”
“Negative. This afternoon he directed the platoons to conduct internal rehearsals once they completed weekly maintenance checks—but made sure they were clear that the maintenance checks held priority. Only one platoon conducted a rehearsal, sir.”
Estes put a hand on Waters’s shoulder. “Muddy, where’s Captain Malloy?”
Waters pointed to the east. The moon had risen, offering some illumination. “About two hundred meters over that rise, sir. He’s got his tank positioned behind Second Platoon on the company’s right flank.”
Estes’s hackles rose. “Is there a particular reason he’s not somewhere closer to the center so he can control the company’s fires? Never mind. Forget I said that. This is my problem now.” He stood silently for a moment before continuing. “Muddy, this is what I want you to do. Lead my tank into a position close to yours to help you overwatch the left flank. It’s too late and too dark to try moving one of your other platoons. Tell Ike I’ll link back up with the tank as soon as I’ve had a talk with Captain Malloy.”
Waters saluted in the darkness, managed a “Yes, sir,” and began climbing up Estes’s tank to brief Staff Sergeant McCloud.
Estes trudged through the sand toward Malloy’s position.
General Hamza, commander of the Tawakalna Division, sat back on his camp stool and looked at the American positions arrayed on the map. His commanders waited anxiously to be dismissed so they could return to their brigades.
“Gentlemen,” he began as he turned to them, “all is ready. I spoke with our president this afternoon. I gave him my personal assurance that the conditions were set and that we were ready to begin our attack. He asked me to pass on the confidence he holds in each of you, and to assure you of the special place you will hold in his heart, and Allah’s, when our country takes its rightful place in the forefront of Muslim nations.”
Many of the assembled commanders smiled at this news. Others simply nodded understanding. Not all were enchanted by the religious fervor that permeated Iraq. Most of these commanders had been members of the Republican Guard when America and her Coalition partners had humiliated their nation during the Gulf War. They were professional soldiers and knew the Republican Guard had not truly been put to the test. They savored the chance for vengeance and to prove they could fight on equal terms with anyone.
Hamza continued. “All that faces us is the Kuwaitis and one American brigade. Our initial attack will be through the Americans—after they are finished, the Kuwaitis will fall or run.” In the weak lighting, the general’s eyes took on a fanatical gleam. “One American brigade stands between us and glory!”
The Tawakalna commander let this sink in, then continued. “Our southern corp’s other divisions—the Madinah and the Hamourabi—will be moving south to reinforce us before first light.” Hamza pointed dramatically at the left side of the American defensive positions. “Our attack begins before dawn and is intended to make a penetration here for the follow-on divisions to exploit. I tell you that making a penetration is not enough. I want these dogs myself. The success of our reconnaissance today all but guarantees success in making the penetration. Our division is in a position to bring the Americans to their knees. We will not waste the opportunity. With or without the other divisions, the Americans will fall.”
General Hamza’s thoughts turned to the charred and unrecognizable corpse he had been forced to identify upon returning home in humiliation from Kuwait in 1991. His son had been a tank platoon leader during the war. He was to have followed in his father’s footsteps. The Americans had taken his son, now he would take many sons from America.
Captain Dan Malloy sat shivering in his Hummer fifty meters behind his tank’s position. He hadn’t realized the desert could get this cold.
Malloy turned to the soldier in the seat to his left. “Driver, turn the heater fan to high.”
The PFC looked at Malloy through the darkness. “Sir, when the heater is turned on high, we have a hard time hearing the radios. I thought I heard Tiger Six trying to call you earlier, so I turned the heater down.”
Malloy shook his head. “Look, soldier, when I give you an order, just execute. Your job is to keep this vehicle up to the standards I dictate and to monitor the radios. Period. If you can’t do the job, I’ll find someone else to put in here and you can go back to a tank crew.”
The soldier considered the offer. He was tempted to take his commander up on it, as Malloy was a royal pain in the ass. Anvil 6 couldn’t see the PFC shake his head slowly, making up his mind that it was worth putting up with an asshole to keep his cushy job. He was Malloy’s fourth driver. Unlike his predecessors, the soldier meant to hold on to the position for a while—life on a tank could be hard. Reaching forward and turning the heater toggle switch to high, the driver then traced the handset cables for the radios set to the task force and company command nets. Once he had the cables straightened out, he stuffed the handsets underneath his helmet, one in each ear. By this means he could hear radio transmissions over the handsets themselves even though he couldn’t hear the speakers from the noisy heater.
As the vehicle warmed up, so did Malloy’s disposition. “There you go, soldier. See what a little initiative will do for you? Keep this up and you’ll be promoted to specialist in no time.”
The driver shook his head. What a dick.
Malloy sat back and mentally reviewed the past couple of days. Were they really going to war? He had a hard time believing it. There was just no way that Iraq would attack Kuwait again.
He and his company had been moved twice before settling into this battle position. Malloy was sure that once 3rd Brigade was set, the Iraqis would cease their saber rattling and head north. The artillery that had been received earlier, in Malloy’s opinion, had been their final snubbing of the nose to the American force across the border. Hell, as bad as the Iraqi army was, it was probably just coincidence that they had hit anything.
With that thought in mind, Malloy turned his mind to other necessities, such as sleep. Even though this whole affair would in all likelihood result in no further shooting, he was sure the powers that be would leave them in this hellhole of a country for at least a month or two, so he wasn’t about to start letting his body get run down. He owed it to himself and his men to be one hundred percent.
As he closed his eyes and the clicking sound of the heater fan lulled him to sleep, Malloy reflected on the problem of his executive officer. Waters knew his tactics, Malloy gave him that much. The problem was his attitude. At times it was as though Waters . . . looked down on him. Take the issue of their left flank. Given the simple mission of going to the tank company on their left and making coordination, Waters comes back and begins repeatedly pointing out that the company plan was off. Malloy knew he had done all that he could for Waters. Maybe the guy just felt he had to overcompensate for his enlisted background. But when he started questioning his commander’s plan, that had been the last straw. Malloy’s last coherent thought before dozing off was to talk to Colonel Estes about getting a replacement for Waters. Didn’t Team Knight have a senior platoon leader who had gone to West Point? A likely candidate, that young man. Malloy could mold him into a real leader. Just as he began snoring, Malloy found himself hurtling towards the ground as someone jerked his Hummer’s door open.
Anvil’s first sergeant reached down to help Malloy to his feet. “Sorry about that, sir, but you’ve got to get this vehicle back. It’s way too far forward. If we receive any contact at all, it’s going to get blown to hell!”
Malloy was using the time spent brushing himself off to wake up. After a few moments he stopped, seemingly satisfied with his efforts. “First Sergeant Wiley, if I thought this vehicle was in any danger, do you really think I’d have it here?”
The senior NCO of Anvil shook his head in disbelief. “Sir?”
Malloy’s voice took on a high-pitched, squeaking quality as he became angrier. “I said, if I thought this vehicle was in any danger, do you think I’d have it here? Simple question, First Sergeant.”
Wiley considered his response carefully. He found there really was no correct answer, but finally settled on one. “I like to think not, sir.”
Malloy threw a finger in Wiley’s face. “And you would be correct, First Sergeant! Despite what our higher headquarters is saying, I really don’t see this developing into a shooting war.”
Wiley looked at Malloy incredulously. Why, after all his years in the army, did he have to get this knucklehead as a commander now?
“Sir, I—”
“Now, First Sergeant, I suggest that you get back to your job of worrying about our combat trains and let me worry about things up here. Have all of the crews performed full maintenance checks today? If they have, was the paperwork turned in to the Maintenance Team in a timely manner? What time are chow and fuel being picked up in the morning? We are having hot chow, aren’t we, not MREs again? You see, First Sergeant, those are the kind of issues you should be worrying about, not what’s going on forward. That’s my department.”
Wiley shook his head disgustedly. Fuck this shit. “Sir, with all due respect, you need to get this vehicle back a couple of kilometers with the rest of the ash and trash.”
The squeak returned, higher now. “First Sergeant, perhaps I’m not being clear with you. . . .”
Wiley had had enough. “Oh, you’re being clear all right, sir. Crystal. That’s what scares me. Someone has got to point out the realities of this situation to you and—”
“You couldn’t be more right, First Sergeant,” came a quiet voice from behind the two men.
Malloy and Wiley wheeled. Lieutenant Colonel Estes stood ten feet away, arms folded across his chest. He had obviously been watching the men and listening to their conversation for some time.
Malloy felt his stomach sinking as his commander dropped his arms to his sides and began walking toward them. He began to salute, then remembered that Estes hated being saluted in the field. “Good evening, sir. How good to see you. I was just telling my first sergeant—”
“I heard what you were telling your first sergeant, Captain Malloy.” Estes turned to Wiley. “That will be all, First Sergeant. You know what needs to be done.”
Wiley nodded and headed back toward his M113 Armored Personnel Carrier, hidden in a depression one hundred meters behind them. He turned back toward the two officers. “Colonel, may I—”
“Yeah, Top. Take your commander’s Hummer with you. Get it back and behind some cover.”
Wiley nodded in the darkness and began walking around the vehicle to speak to Malloy’s driver.
Seeing First Sergeant Wiley beginning to lead the Hummer to the rear, Estes turned his attention back to Malloy.
Malloy smiled. “Sir, if I might explain—”
Estes shook his head. “Shut up, Dan. I don’t have the time or the inclination to listen to excuses. You are relieved of command as soon as I can get someone up here to take your place.”
“But, sir, I—”
“Am I being clear, Captain? Is there something you don’t understand?”
Malloy straightened. “Sir, with all due respect, do you have the authority to relieve me? I would like to take this up with the brigade commander.”
Rob Estes laughed. “Indeed that is your right. When your replacement arrives you can go to the rear and do just that. I’m sure Colonel Jones will enjoy the distraction. Until then, you’ll get on your tank and command this company. Again, are you clear on this, Captain Malloy?”
Malloy came to attention. “Yes, sir.”
Estes turned and began walking away. “Then you’re dismissed. I’m heading back to my tank. It’s going to be colocated with Lieutenant Waters’s tank on the left flank. I will call you when I get there. You will use the time between now and then to get this company to full-alert status. Clear?”
“Clear, sir,” Malloy said to the retreating figure.
Malloy watched his commander disappear into the shadows with dawning disbelief on his face. This would ruin his career. Four years at West Point and six years in the army down the drain. And for what? Having a clearer appreciation of the tactical situation than his commander? Well, he’d discuss it with Colonel Jones. Surely he’d understand. For now, he had no choice but to do as Estes said.
As Estes approached his tank he heard a high piercing noise in the night sky to the west. The artillery impacted in the 2-35 Armor positions to the Iron Tigers’ left. More barrages quickly followed, all in the 2-35 sector.
No great surprise there, thought Estes. When you intend to attack a position, you prep it first. Of course, the Iron Tigers would receive their share of the shelling tonight as well. The enemy was generally pretty good about not letting you feel neglected. A little artillery, maybe a SCUD or two, hopefully nothing with a chemical payload. Life was interesting enough already without that twist.
An earsplitting boom directly overhead caused Estes to drop to the ground, thinking some of the artillery was finally coming their way. He felt foolish when he realized it was friendly fighters, heading north into Iraq to take the war to the enemy. Estes stood, silently wishing them good hunting, hoping that the American military had a few goodies to even up the odds for the Iron Tigers and the rest of 3rd Brigade.