Jack Terral - Battleline (2007)

The Russian supervisors took advantage of a series of caves in the area, connecting them with deep trenches and well-fortified fighting positions that faced eastward, toward Afghanistan. Wells were also sunk to bring up pure cold artesian water. No doubt the veterans of the Soviet-Afghan War among the job bosses were delighted to be constructing a project that had a realistic potential of dealing death and destruction to the Afghan fighters who had made their lives so miserable back in the 1980s.

The Iranian officers coordinating the effort emphasized the need for protection against aerial attack, since the chance of Western air forces being engaged against the site was almost a certainty. The Russians complied by reinforcing the fortifications with tiers of heavy logs and packed earth. The caves required no additional construction or alterations.

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0700 HOURS

BRIGADIER Shahruz Khohollah stood in front of his assembled force in the field that once served construction helicopters. To his left he looked on Sikes Pasha and his twenty-man force of al-Askerin-Zaubi. The Storm Troopers looked magnificent and nearly exotic with their keffiyehs as they stood at a strict position of attention. They gave the impression of soldiering in the old British colonial days when white officers, often from working-class backgrounds, turned to the dangers of isolated areas in Queen Victoria's empire as their only chance for military glory and high rank. The old tradition was now being carried out in a twisted manner by Archibald Sikes, an English lad from working-class Manchester.

The middle formation of the brigadier's force was made up of Captain Naser Khadid and the twenty Iranian Special Forces troopers. They had adopted the name Shiraane Saltanati (Imperial Lions). The Shiraane--as they were referred to within the Zaheya--were clad in camouflage battle dress, sporting the black berets of Special Forces. These were modern empire builders, drawn into an impending do-or-die war by a fiercely ambitious government.

And over to the brigadier's right was the fire support group led by Captain Jamshid Komard. They were dressed in the same uniforms as the Special Forces, except their headgear consisted of small black turbans styled in the manner of those widely worn in northern Iran. This detachment was divided into three two-man crews for the Spanish LAG-40 grenade launchers, and seven two-man crews for the German MG-3 machine guns. These were pragmatic, determined men who had taken no special name for themselves. It was enough knowing that the riflemen would depend on them for covering fire to accomplish assigned missions, whether attacking or defending.

Now Brigadier Khohollah called the Zaheya to stand at ease. "Soldiers!" he addressed them. "You have been brought here as a vanguard. This is a great honor for a small fighting group such as we. There are great plans that will result in our nation and religion avenging the past injustices and encroachments of the West. These are humiliations that have been forced on us for more than ninety years. When you have finally prevailed in this holy struggle, the people of the Middle East will revere you; the people of Europe and America will fear you; and Allah will reward you."

He had chosen his words carefully to placate Sikes Pasha's men. They would be needed, like all their brethren, to advance Iran's ambitions. Later, when that area of the globe was completely dominated by Iranians, the Arabs' native countries would be ruled by military governors sent from Tehran. This was the colonial modus operandi of the ancient Persian Empire.

Now Khohollah began pacing as he continued. "There have been setbacks, as we all know. But such unfortunate instances were expected, and we do not reel from these small defeats. The big attack will begin from here and by you. Are you ready?"

Cries of "Bale, Satrip"and "Aiwa, Zaim" came from the Zaheya troops as they made affirmative replies in Farsi and Arabic. The enthusiasm in their voices was in perfect tune in spite of being shouted in two separate languages.

"Detachment commanders!" Khohollah bellowed. "Take charge of your commands and move them into their fighting positions."

Sikes Pasha, Captain Khadid, and Captain Komard called their separate units to attention, then faced them to the west to begin marching to what was to become their front lines.

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SHELOR FIELD, AFGHANISTAN

5 JUNE 1430 HOURS

TWENTY-THREE men arrived on the latest flight from Kuwait to be added to the roster of Brannigan's Brigands. However, one was not exactly a reinforcement. PO2C Arnie Bernardi was a Brigand reporting back from Kuwait, where he had been on TDy, on a training mission. Bernardi's initial joy at being reunited with his old outfit was dashed when he learned of Milly Mills' death. His mood spiraled rapidly down as he experienced a combination of sadness and guilt at not being with the detachment during the battles out on the desert. He truly felt he had let his buddies down, and nothing they said to the contrary eased his feelings of remorse.

Bernardi's fellow passengers had been dispatched into the OA for this one specific operation, of which they knew nothing. They would have been surprised to learn that their new commander was as uninformed as they. This new mission had evolved out of an earlier one, titled Operation Rolling Thunder, and was renamed Operation Battleline by the powers-that-be who ran Special Operations in the Middle East. The Skipper, Lieutenant Bill Brannigan, found it irritating to be moved laterally from one tactical situation to another without feeling the first had been satisfactorily wrapped up as an undeniable victory. Bruno Puglisi, the detachment's ever-verbose weapons specialist, felt the same, and was not bashful about expressing his disenchantment: "The whole thing is too fucking half-ass to suit me," he stated candidly and loudly. "It's like changing opponents at halftime in a football game. There ain't no final score!"

The C-130 that brought the personnel to Shelor was one of a quartet that had been arriving since the day before. The earlier trio was crammed with ammunition, equipment, rations, and other warmaking materiel. The logistics of Shelor Field were under the control of a diminutive senior airman named Randy Tooley. Randy had been going crazy coordinating unloading, storing, quartering transit personnel, and all the other headaches that go with the preparatory activities for a campaign in the mountains.

Randy's basic attitudes would not be considered militarily correct. He found it inconvenient to wear a uniform, salute, or use the title "sir" or "ma'am" when speaking to commissioned officers. In fact, his normal apparel consisted of T-shirts and cut-off BDU trousers, and he openly disliked observing any military protocol whatsoever. However, he was the base commander's fair-haired boy. Colonel Watkins always looked the other way when it came to the little guy's transgressions, and for good reason. The kid was fast and efficient, keeping the operations of the facility going smoothly and on time through his totally dedicated efforts. The CO's life was made easier and less stressful because of Randy's innate talents. And due to this new set of circumstances that had evolved into a problematic turmoil, the colonel became even more tolerant of Randy's unconventional behavior. Packing him off to the stockade for insubordination would not only accomplish nothing in reforming the young guy, but also would create a loss to the Air Force during his incarceration. Things ground to a standstill badly enough when Randy became upset by a dressing down from some chickenshit NCO or officer, and he would go off by himself to sulk for a day or two. There was an unofficial standing order that he was never to be carried AWOL on base personnel reports.

Randy had a misappropriated desert patrol vehicle that a grateful Lieutenant Bill Brannigan had given him for past services rendered. The young airman, knowing well when guile and subterfuge were necessary, immediately had it painted Air Force blue and stenciled some phony registration numbers across the hood. He happily zipped around in the purloined conveyance as he tended to his duties.