The Chosen One

61

6:51 A.M., NOVEMBER 1

4TH PLATOON, ALPHA TROOP, 1ST BATTALION, 5TH CAVALRY REGIMENT, 1ST HEAVY BRIGADE COMBAT

(IRONHORSE), 1ST CAVALRY DIVISION

SIX MILES FROM THE IRAQI BORDER

The blistering winds unexpectedly changed. After blowing from the south for the previous week, they did a complete reversal. With the welcoming sunrise, they were gusting from the north at thirty miles an hour. For the first time since the colossal conflict’s birth, there was nothing but blue skies above Walton’s position. The platoon sergeant opened his hatch. A passing grin appeared on his face. The wind’s sudden shift was a blessing to them all. On this morning, his Bradley commanders wouldn’t need their thermal imaging to find the enemy. His exhausted men in the foxholes wouldn’t struggle beneath the consuming smoke.

Since shortly after the historic conflict’s beginning, they’d been unable to see more than a few precious yards. Now, with the wind’s shift, they could see for miles. And what they beheld astounded them. The enormity of the battle came into view. Burning Iranian armor stretched far beyond where they could witness. The nearest of the smoldering tanks was less than a quarter mile distant. Miguel had defeated it with a well-placed TOW late on the previous evening. It was one of many the cavalry platoon had ravaged during the long hours.

Black plumes spewed forth from the uncountable fires. Hundreds of thousands of lifeless forms littered Saudi Arabia’s sands. Some of the Iranian dead were within fifty yards of the platoon’s firing holes.

Behind Walton’s position, one of the Multiple Launch Rocket Systems fired. He turned and watched as the world’s most lethal tank killers commenced the attack. The rockets surged skyward, intent on adding to the merciless scene. Their target was one of the few surviving enemy armored brigades. Twelve miles away, an Iranian commander had gathered his men and equipment in a desperate attempt to escape the deadly entanglement. But the massing of so large a force attracted the Americans’ attention. The Iranian’s decision had been a terrible mistake. It forever sealed his floundering brigade’s destiny. Not one of his men would survive the ruthless assault reaching for them from across the skies.

Inside each soaring rocket were five hundred and eighteen armor-piercing bomblets. Once the rockets reached the targeted area, they’d burst open, releasing the little assassins to search out and destroy. Each of the falling killers would bore through the upper armor on a personnel carrier or tank and explode inside. Two hundred armored vehicles soon would be nothing but pockmarked hulls upon the unforgiving desert. Five thousand Persians were minutes away from reaching an unspeakable end. And they didn’t even know it.

For the most part, the uneven clash had been this way. The stunned invaders were surrounded and overmatched. The anguished slaughter had been without compromise. Fifteen thousand had died with each passing hour. Yet to the relief of all, the morose spectacle was nearing its end. Few of the half million were still alive.

It had been an arduous struggle. For thirty-six hours, the 25th Infantry and 1st Cavalry had felt the brunt of the Iranians’ furious attempt to escape their hopeless lot. Once the enemy figured out what had happened, they headed north at a high rate of speed. They’d run headlong into the entrenched American divisions. The prolonged fighting had been fierce and brutal. Nevertheless, with the Allies’ domination of the airspace and their superior command and control, their foe’s frantic efforts had failed.

Not that victory was without cost. Allied casualties had been severe. The cavalry division’s medics had been stretched to the limit treating their wounded countrymen. Yet the victors’ loss of life had been reasonably contained when compared with the enemy dead.

Walton’s platoon was down to two Bradleys, the result of a barbarous clash with an Iranian division the previous morning. The Abrams platoon supporting their position had lost an M-1 during the same battle. And the platoon’s infantrymen had suffered grievously throughout the lengthy strife. Few had escaped unharmed. For a short while, as an incalculable force rushed toward them, it had been the embattled cavalrymen who’d grown desperate. Still they hadn’t panicked. And scores of helicopters filled with reinforcements from the 101st Airborne Division had arrived. With the welcome relief, the relentless combat had ended in unqualified triumph.

The Airborne Division’s soldiers had been exceptionally useful at yesterday’s sunset when a significant Iraqi force appeared in the withering desert behind Walton’s men. The onrushing Iraqis had arrived intent on freeing their confederates from the life-taking snare.

They’d gathered five of their best divisions to smash the encircling lines. Yet the battle never materialized. The fighting dissipated before it had begun. Despite the impressive arrangement of men and equipment, the Iraqi soldiers demonstrated fleeting interest in further bloodshed. Like most in this war, they’d grown disillusioned by the killing. Their counterattack had been halfhearted and piecemeal. They’d withdrawn at the initial sign of American resistance.

Walton dropped into the command compartment. He looked at his Bradley’s gunner. Sanchez peered through his periscope, searching for signs of approaching Iranian armor. For the moment, however, nothing of interest was within his sights.

“How we fixed for TOWs, Miguel?”

“We’re fine, Sarge. I haven’t used but half the ones from the last resupply.”

“Why don’t you relax a bit?” Walton said. “We’re safe for the moment. There’s nothing out there but the dead and dying. Open your hatch and grab some fresh air.”

“Sarge, I’ll relax when the last Iranian’s taken his final breath,” Sanchez replied. “Until then, I’m going to stay right here, ready and waiting to kill any I see.”

* * *

—

It was late afternoon. Throughout the day the cavalry platoon had done little more than watch and wait. They could hear the conflict continuing in faraway venues. Yet none was occurring within twenty miles of their position. The sounds had been decreasing with every passing hour. Each hoped it signaled the end would soon be upon them.

The unpredictable winds changed once again. They swirled in every direction, unable to settle upon a steady course. One moment the platoon’s survivors were staring at a bright, inviting day, and the next they could see nothing in a choking ebony world.

* * *

—

Night would soon be upon the Arabian desert. The billowing smoke had engulfed the cavalry platoon’s frustrated soldiers once more. For the past minutes, however, the black plumes had been the least of their sergeant’s worries. In the Bradley’s command compartment, both cavalry soldiers were picking up notable movement. A steady advance was headed in their direction and wasn’t far away. The images were too small, and too slow, to be vehicles.

After blowing into their faces for nearly an hour, the desert gale picked that instant to shift again. The gloomy blanket rolled away. The barren world cleared. Carrying white flags, three lines of wavering forms were walking toward them. There had to be at least two thousand in their number. Some carried weapons over their heads. Most had none at all. Many were wounded. The injured hobbled across the sands with the aid of their dejected comrades. Of the half million, only a piteous few had found their way out of the abyss. Walton and Sanchez popped their hatches. Each stared at the wretched assemblage. The Iranians’ foremost elements were half a mile away.

“Jesus Christ,” Sanchez said. “Will you take a look at that?”

Walton peered at the oncoming lines. The columns stumbling toward them could only vaguely be recognized as human. “I see them, Miguel.” He paused, pondering the situation. “What in the world are we going to do with them all?”

There was a bitterness in his voice Walton had never before heard from the typically cheerful specialist. “After Sakakah the answer’s easy. Show no mercy. Kill them, and keep killing until every last one’s dead.”

> “Miguel, you know we can’t do that.”

“Why the hell not? Either you get behind the machine gun and shoot the sons-of-bitches, or move out of the way, and let me do it.”

“I’ll tell you what, let’s find out how battalion wants to proceed. If they direct us to eliminate them, I’ll gladly let you take over.” Walton didn’t wait for a response. Instead he spoke into the radio. “Two-Six, this is Alpha-Four-Five. Two-Six, this is Alpha-Four-Five.”

“Go ahead, Alpha-Four-Five.”

“Two-Six, we have at least two thousand Iranians walking toward our position. They’re carrying white flags. What do you want us to do?”

“Wait one, Alpha-Four-Five.”

As Walton waited for the radio operator to return, their subdued rival continued pressing toward the American guns. Five minutes passed. The humbled enemy was growing near.

“Alpha-Four-Five?”

“Roger, Two-Six,” Walton answered.

“Supreme Command’s got something special planned requiring the capture of a number of Iranians. The battalion commander wants you to take them prisoner. Do you understand? Do not engage. Disarm and take prisoner. Relieve them of their weapons but don’t fire unless fired upon. The platoons from the 101st supporting your position will assist in controlling them until reinforcements arrive.”

“Roger, Two-Six.”

The orders were clear. The bested Iranians were going to survive. Walton glanced at Sanchez. His Bradley’s gunner didn’t hide his unhappiness.

* * *

—

The water trucks came first. The captives were allowed to fill their canteens and return to the trucks as often as they wished. Medics appeared minutes later. They began treating the wounded. Within the hour, food arrived to fill the detainees’ bellies. At dawn, a Special Forces captain used a bullhorn to speak to the dispirited mob in Farsi. He made sure they understood it was the Iraqi failure to support them that had resulted in their defeat. He left no doubt in the pummeled prisoners’ minds that the blood of their countrymen had been spilled because of the cowardice of their coconspirators.

More food was passed out. The Iranians were allowed to refill their canteens a final time. The Americans released those who could walk. The defeated figures started shuffling across the sands toward the Iraqi border.

* * *

—

Evening had fallen and the scorching desert was beginning to cool. Not one in the platoon had fired a shot on this day. Yet it wasn’t calm everywhere. To the north, many miles distant, the sounds of another battle reached their ears. The initial clash inside Iraq was getting under way. It would be the first of many.