Rolling Thunder (2007) (9 page)

Sikes and Farouk roomed together in one end of a hut, and spent most evenings in talk. Sikes sorely missed his British ale and stout, but enjoyed sipping thick, black khawe coffee from tiny cups. That, and smoking an argili water pipe during long quiet hours, brought him new comforts and relaxation. Farouk wanted to use those quiet times to impart further encouragement to his English friend, and he decided to tell him about the Arab Legion. Sikes listened with rapt attention as the Arab's narrative enthralled him, feeding his imagination with new fantasies of glory.

The Arab Legion was a large unit of Arab soldiers commanded by British officers. The Legion was first formed in October 1920 by Captain Frederick Peake in Transjordan from the local gendarmerie. At first, they were undisciplined and uncaring after many months without pay. Most did not bother to wear their uniforms. But Peake went to work, shaped them up, and got the right administrative and supply wheels turning to raise morale. When they were ready for active duty, he dubbed this newly reactivated unit the Arab Legion.

Peake was later joined by another Brit ranker, Major John Glubb. This latter officer was an excellent field commander, and further improved the Legion by organizing the Badieh the Desert Patrol. The fighting force battled rebellious desert tribes and infiltrators from Palestine and Syria. By the time World War II started, Peake Pasha had retired, and Glubb Pasha took over command. The next two leaders were Sidney Cooke Pasha and N.O. Lash Bey. The titles Farouk used confused Sikes, until the Arab explained that officers who held the ranks of second lieutenant and first lieutenant were called effendi. Captains through brigadiers were addressed as bey, while pasha, the highest, was reserved for major general and above.

As Farouk told of the fighting against Germans and further combat in postwar Palestine, Sikes's imagination churned up new fantasies for him. Now his boyhood dreams of becoming a field marshal in the British Army were replaced by those of becoming Sikes Pasha after leading the Jihad Abadi to a smashing victory and throwing the infidels out of the Middle East. Not only would he have high rank and glory, but he would be incredibly rich by owning thousands of acres of oil wells.

When the arms dealer Harry Turpin came on the scene with the EE-3 Jararaca armored cars, Sikes's fortunes took another turn for the better. The Iranians commissioned him in the rank of captain and gave him command of the vehicles with orders to organize them into a fighting force. Sikes and Harry became good friends during the turnover and checkout of the cars. Sikes asked the dealer if he could get him some British rank insignia. He wanted to have it on the uniforms of his men. Getting a few chevrons and pips was child's play for a man who dealt in all sorts of military goods, such as bombs, vehicles, and weaponry that could be as large as heavy artillery. The Iranians thought it would be a good idea. Conspicuous signs of rank would increase discipline and the desire for promotion.

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1900 HOURS

NOW the inspection was over, and Captain Sikes stood in front of his men with Warrant Officer Shafaqat at his side. I compliment you, Sikes said in Arabic to the armored car crews. Your vehicles and weapons are ready for action. I also wish to make an announcement. Rather than be addressed as Captain Sikes, from this moment on, I will be called Sikes Bey. Do you understand this?

The well-drilled men replied in unison, loudly shouting, Aiwa, Sikes Bey!

Tomorrow we will have reveille an hour earlier than usual, Sikes continued. After mess call, we will mount the vehicles and go directly into Afghanistan. If the UN camp is still standing, we will attack it without mercy. They have been warned to leave the area. The infidels must learn it is a deadly error to defy the Jihad Abadi!

Aiwa, Sikes Bey!

Chapter 7

OPERATIONAL AREA

10 APRIL

0645 HOURS

THE Command Two vehicle with Mike Assad and Dave Leibowitz sat some two and a half kilometers southwest of the UNREO camp. Mike straddled the roll bars above the M-2 .50-caliber machine gun, balancing precariously on the steel tubes. He peered through his binoculars in a southern direction, every nerve alert and tingling. Combat was imminent, and his prebattle nerves had kicked into a higher gear.

Dave stood on the hood of the DPV, where the M-60 7.62-millimeter machine gun would have normally been mounted if they were using three-man crews. He was performing the same watch chores as his buddy, and their viewing fields swept back and forth in opposite directions, overlapping on a bearing of 360 degrees from the front of the vehicle.

Over to the north in Command Three, Frank Gomez and Doc Bradley did the same, while Green Two, manned by Chief Matt Gunnarson and Chad Murchison, was on guard to the east. The side to the direct west of the large perimeter was only given cursory attention because that was where the impassable salt marshes that led into Iran were located. Intelligence analyses indicated that attacks from that direction were impossible.

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UNREO CAMP

THE remaining six DPVs were scattered among the tents with all weapons personal and vehicular locked and loaded. The dozen SEALs were the only human beings present within the bivouac. Every member of Dr. Pierre Bouchier's UN staff was now in the hangar at Shelor Field, waiting for Brannigan's Brigands to deal with the mysterious Englishman and his trio of armored cars.

The nearby Pashtun village was quiet and subdued, as if the population anticipated some calamitous event to occur at any moment. Although the SEALs kept the place under surveillance, they had not spotted one living creature other than a couple of mangy curs who trotted among the huts, scavenging for scraps of food. Guy Devereaux stood behind the machine gun on Command One, while Brannigan sat in the driver's seat with his legs dangling out the side. The Skipper checked his watch, then pressed the transmit button on the LASH headset. Watch vehicles, this is Command One. Report. Over.

This is Command Two, came Dave's voice. Negative report. Out. Command Three and Green Two made similar transmissions.

This is Command One. Stay on your toes out there. We don't want Lawrence of Arabia and his bumbling Bedouins to sneak up on us. Out. Green One, this is Command One. What's your situation? Over.

Nothing but empty country out there to the east, Jim Cruiser reported. Out.

Guy Devereaux patted his machine gun. Maybe they ain't coming, sir.

It's early yet, Brannigan said. Dr. Bouchier said the guy had given them until noon to get out of the area.

Oh, well, Guy said, yawning. I figure the son of a bitch will be anywhere from two to twenty-four hours late. Them fucking camel-jockeys ain't exactly the saints of punctuality.

This guy's a Brit with an obvious military background, Brannigan said. He'll be on time. Maybe early.

How many are they? Guy asked. I forgot.

Three, Brannigan replied.

Hooray! Guy exclaimed with just a touch of sarcasm in his voice. For the first time I can remember, we'll outnumber the bad guys. And at three to one!

Yep, Brannigan said, the gods of war can't shit on us all the time.

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1125 HOURS

IT was quiet and still within the UN camp. The calm had lulled the Brigands into a lethargic state of near-dozing. Now and then, someone would yawn widely out of sheer boredom.

BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM!

Heavy automatic fire suddenly erupted from the western side of the camp, sending hundreds of slugs slapping into the tents, shaking the SEALs out of their collective doldrums.

Senior Chief Petty Officer Buford Dawkins yelled into his LASH even though he could have easily been heard if he whispered. Red Section! Port around starboard! Return fire!

Red One, Two, and Three's motors were quickly started, and the drivers whipped the DPVs to the right, swinging 180 degrees around to face the incoming rounds. The machine gunners began pumping out spurts of slugs even though they had yet to spot any obvious targets. The idea was to throw out a heavy fusillade to get the unknown attackers to duck down or pull back.

SIKES Bey had been standing in his command hatch as the UN camp's tents first came into view. The sight of the structures still standing infuriated him. He had brought all twenty of his EE-3s with him, and they were well positioned in a line of attack. He grabbed his microphone and pressed the transmit button.

Atlak! he yelled. Open fire!

The gunners, peering through their periscopes with gunsights etched on the lenses, quickly aimed into the center of the tents. The twenty Dashikas blasted the heavy 12.7-millimeter slugs straight into the area in combined bursts of 180 rounds a second.

Now unexpected return fire splattered among the EE-3s, smacking and clanking on the armored hulls. Sikes Bey and the other vehicle commanders quickly dropped down into the interiors, slamming the hatches shut.

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UNREO CAMP

THE exchange of machine-gun fire built up in intensity, the choppy detonations echoing off in the desert sky. Brannigan ordered the vehicles to the west side of the defensive perimeter to find good fighting positions. At the same time, transmissions over the headsets came hot and heavy.

This is Red One. I can count twenty of the bastards. Out.

This is Green Three. They are starting to curve around our right flank. Out.

This is Red Three. Same on our left. Out.

This is Command One, Brannigan said. Section leaders spread your vehicles out to avoid letting the enemy outflank us. Out. Then he turned his attention to the DPVs out on watch. Hey! You goddamn three blind mice, what're you doing out there? Sitting around with your heads up your asses?