Jack Terral - Rolling Thunder (2007)

He also decided that those of his Arabs waiting for him back at the stronghold would also return to wearing their own keffiyehs. He had noticed that several of his men had adapted the puhtee as he did, since it served better than the Arab head coverings in the cooler climate of the Afghan mountains.

Sikes, during the hours of riding in the truck, had turned his daydreaming from fantasies of martial glory to the more practical matters of what he was going to do with his twenty-man force that was the remnant of the former armored car company. The Iranian Special Forces showed every intention of allowing them to remain under his personal intimate command, and Sikes wanted to take advantage of the situation. He had every intention of using them as the cadre of an elite strike force.

The first thing to do, of course, was to make it obvious they belonged to him. The outfit needed an impressive name, and Sikes now knew enough Arabic to come up with something. At first he considered Rafir-min-Sharaf (Guard of Honor), but that seemed too plain and commonplace. Any bunch of soldiers marching at the head of a parade as a color party could be referred to as an honor guard. He needed something that would translate into the English language in a most impressive way; after all, his twenty men would eventually be increased in size to at least a brigade-size unit. That meant it would be reported about in tones of awe by television commentators all over the world for decades to come.

Sikes was completely lost in thought as the Toyota bounced across the desert. After nearly an hour of staring blankly and unseeing out the windshield while his creative mind whirled with ideas, he finally came up with the name he was looking for; and it was simple, direct and impressive: al-Askerin-Zaubi the Storm Troopers. He was ignorant of the fact that Adolf Hitler used that name for his Nazi street thugs during his rise to power in pre'World War II Germany.

Sikes' countenance assumed a smug grin as his imagination once more created the sound of a frightened BBC news commentator beginning the evening news that would be heard all over the UK. The upper-class, cultured voice began dancing through his mind as he sat in the passenger seat: The fanatical and elite al-Askerin-Zaubi, the Storm Troopers of Field Marshal Arsalaan Sikes Pasha, struck today at...

There was naught but glory and fame ahead for Archie Sikes of Manchester, England.

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NORTHERN OA

0815 HOURS

PETTY Officer Second Class Garth Redhawk leaned across the boulder with his binoculars up tight against his eyes. The field glasses were in perfect focus, providing a clear image of the desert out to the front of his position. The young Kiowa-Comanche from Oklahoma was doing what sailors did better than anyone else, keeping watch on an assigned area of responsibility. For Redhawk, this would be the expanse of terrain across which the returning smuggling convoy would travel on their way to their rendezvous site. He grinned to himself, wondering what they would think or do if they knew their destination was a pile of smashed mud structures filled with the battered corpses of their buddies.

Pech Pecheur, sitting down beside Redhawk, leaned against the boulder. He yawned and stretched. Cain't you see nothing yet, Garth?

Just a few dust devils spinning and hopping around.

Pecheur spit. I hate this place. Man! I come from the swamps where things is wet. Hell's fire! Even the air you breathe is wet. And it's hot, y'know what I mean? Like folks has got boiling pots all around.

Well, it ain't like Oklahoma either, Redhawk said. It gets right warm back home, but if that prairie wind is blowing hot and dry on a summer's day, you feel like you're in a furnace.

In the summer in Louisiana, folks say that it ain't the temperature, it's the humidity that's uncomfortable, Pecheur commented.

In the wintertime back home, they say it ain't the temperature that makes it cold as hell, it's the wind, Redhawk pointed out. He pulled the binoculars from his eyes just long enough to blink a couple of times to get some tears flowing for moisture. Anyhow, I don't like mountains no matter what the weather is like. You can't see far 'cause the terrain gets in the way. Out on the prairie, you have almost an unlimited view all the way to the natural horizon.

Gutsy Olson, trying to snatch a morning's nap nearby, angrily sat up. Will you two guys shut the fuck up? It's bad enough sitting out here in the middle of nothing without having to listen to a couple of dickheads carrying on a boring conversation. I wish to hell you'd-

Target in sight! Redhawk interrupted.

Both Olson and Pecheur jumped up and pulled out their own binoculars. They peered out over the desert as Lieutenant Junior Grade Jim Cruiser and Doc Bradley joined them. By the time Pete Dawson came up, the sight of the convoy could easily be discerned in the distance.

Alpha One, this is Bravo One, Cruiser said into his LASH. The enemy is in sight. I can't get an accurate count on 'em because of their formation. But they're five hundred meters distance, traveling due east at approximately thirty to forty miles per. Over.

Roger, came back the Skipper's voice. Charlie One, did you monitor that transmission? Over.

Affirmative, Senior Chief Dawkins replied. His section was to the east, directly in the path of the approaching convoy. We're ready. Out.

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SMUGGLER CONVOY

THE dozen vehicles, consisting of six transports and six armed pickups, moved at fifty kilometers an hour at a slight east-by-south course across the firm terrain. The layer of fine dirt was thin in the area, and they kicked up a minimum of dust clouds as they rolled toward their objective. The Iranian drivers were thinking about the cold fruit juices and hot food awaiting them, and the Pashtun mujahideens' thoughts were of getting back up into the Gharawdara Highlands and how happy their families would be with the delicacies and other items on the donkeys' backs.

The transports were in the middle of the formation, while one pickup traveled on point at the head of the group. Two other of the small vehicles were on each side of the convoy, while one Tail-end Charlie brought up the rear. Military discipline was being observed in a haphazard manner, and while the gunners were in proper positions by their weapons, most had their minds on other things besides security. They stood up in the backs of the smaller trucks, keeping an inconstant vigilance in their areas of responsibility. Some were close to falling asleep, but having to stand in the swaying vehicles prevented even short naps.

Arsalaan Sikes Pasha, the commander of the fierce al-Askerin-Zaubi Storm Troopers, still sat in a contented frame of mind as he fantasized about his coming fame back in Blighty after the Iranian Army's conquest of the entire Middle East.

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BRAVO SECTION

JIM Cruiser had gotten his two vehicles moving as soon as practical. He kept the Skipper informed of his progress as he tailed after the smugglers, remaining out of sight to their rear. The lieutenant junior grade drove the DPV carefully, making sure he followed the tire tracks left by the bad guys. Pech Pecheur, up above at the M-2 .50-caliber, cautioned him when they drew too close to their quarry. His weapon, like those of his gunner partner, Dawson, along with Doc Bradley and Garth Redhawk in Bravo Two, was locked and loaded, ready to spit out the armor-piercing tracer ammo when the confrontation began.

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CHARLIE SECTION

CHARLIE One and Charlie Two, fully manned and ready, were parked side by side on the east side. They faced due west on the guesstimated azimuth of the approaching enemy. Senior Chief Buford Dawkins, the section leader, listened through his LASH at the conversation between Cruiser and the Skipper, ready to order his two DPVs into action as soon as they were needed.