If you're both through discussing American music, let's get back to the situation at hand, the Skipper said with a frown. There is one small potential being overlooked. You mentioned rival smugglers. Don't you think if we laid enough hurt on the main bad guys, all the smugglers are going to get together to resist us?
We don't know that for a fact, Carey said.
Now Chad Murchison joined in the conversation. I can foresee yet another situation arising, sir. Could it be that our hegemony would be willing to allow this narcotic smuggling to continue if it could be removed from the Iranian sphere of influence?
I take it that, by 'hegemony,' you are referring to our command structure, Petty Officer Murchison, Carey said. Let me answer that by saying there is no way that anybody in authority, whether it be political, military, or diplomatic, is going to condone the smuggling of narcotics to the West under any circumstances. The reason this job has been handed to you is that the situation has global implications. If Operation Persian Empire isn't completely obliterated, the domino effect will be catastrophic. It would be a disaster destined to plague the civilized world for decades.
Garth Redhawk brought up another angle. But if we take out these bad guys, what's to stop the Iranians from working with those rival smugglers?
Right, Doc Bradley chimed in. The Iranians could change outlaw organizations as fast as we could knock them off.
We'd be shoveling shit against the tide, Joe Miskoski added.
The answer to that is simple, Carey said. You have to get rid of the Iranians involved. When they are gone, then things will get back to normal after a while. The rival smugglers will shoot it out, then the winner will control everything. They'll keep all the money, meaning the Iranians get nothing for their Persian Empire. He gestured to Lieutenant Commander Berringer. Pass out the maps and photos, Ernie.
Berringer had arranged packets of satellite photographs and maps of the smuggling area for the SEALs' use. As he distributed them among the Brigands, the Skipper spoke up again. What about assets? Surely, there must be one available from among all those miscreants.
Berringer walked back up to the front of the room. We do have an asset. His code name is Aladdin.
Are we going to get a chance to meet with him and ask him some questions?
Unfortunately, Berringer said, we have never met him. He transmits his intelligence from an unknown location somewhere in western Afghanistan.
Well, hell! Brannigan said. Give us his frequency and I can have Gomez contact him.
We have never had a reply when we tried to raise him, Berringer said.
Jesus Christ! Brannigan sputtered. Isn't he working with one of our intelligence agencies?
No, Berringer admitted. He just popped up out of the blue.
What the hell! Brannigan barked. Then how in God's name do you know he's reliable?
We have been assured by the CIA that the information he gives us is accurate, Carey interjected.
Shit! Brannigan said, standing up. This Aladdin son of a bitch could be setting us up for a big fall.
All I can tell you is that it has been determined that he is trustworthy.
Brannigan was really pissed off now. That isn't good enough for me, goddamn it, sir!
Now Carey lost his temper. It's going to have to be good enough for you, Lieutenant! An OPLAN has been drawn up based on Aladdin's transmissions, and you are going to turn that into an OPORD and obey any other orders you are given! Understand?
Aye, sir, Brannigan said, sitting down but still seething.
Carey checked his watch. I will expect a briefback from you at 1600 hours tomorrow. As far as assets go, you will have Lieutenant Commander Berringer and me. That's it! If you have any questions for us, we will be here to help. If we can't answer a specific inquiry, we'll contact the SPECOPS Center on the Combs. If the SF staff on board can't get an answer for you, there's nothing else we can do. Let that be enough motivation for you to be prepared for any contingency. He paused and looked at the eighteen frowns directed at him. Turn to!
The SEALs did not have time to spring to positions of attention as the two staff officers quickly exited the briefing area.
.
THE OPIUM TRAIL
16 MAY
THE attaching of the German MG-3 machine guns to the roofs of the pickup trucks fascinated Arsalaan Sikes Pasha.
The mounts had been expertly manufactured and securely attached to the vehicles with six heavy-duty fifty-millimeter bolts per weapon. The arrangement allowed an arc of fire through 140 degrees. Although the MG-3s were belt-fed, there was no problem with belts of ammo dangling off the side. These weapons had belt drums, each holding 150 rounds, that could quickly be changed when reloading was necessary. However, with a firing rate of 1100 rounds a minute, it would take only a little less than eight seconds to empty the weapons with a continual pull on the trigger. For that reason, the gunners had spent time practicing until all could manage four-and five-round fire bursts.
The gunners were professional soldiers of the Iranian Army, and they went to a great deal of trouble to keep their weapons clean and operable. Even in the dusty atmosphere of the Afghanistan high desert, the machine guns looked as if they were ready to stand a full field inspection by a regimental sergeant major. Canvas covers were kept over the MG-3s at all times, except when dismounted for preventive maintenance or during firing exercises. At any time they were exposed to the elements, the Iranians continually wiped and brushed them to make sure no foreign debris worked down into the mechanisms.
The Toyota pickup trucks were just as well maintained. The drivers were also career military, justly proud of their status as driver/mechanics. They came from a society where such skills, while not rare, were still beyond the comprehension of the average person, and their jobs gave these soldiers a prestige that did not exist in Western society. They even received extra proficiency pay.
All in all, even in comparison with the Royal Regiment of Dragoons, Sikes Pasha felt he was in excellent company.
.
1400 HOURS
THE ride across the firm desert was not too uncomfortable. The ground was firm and fairly flat, making traveling fast and easy. Sikes sat on the passenger side of the Toyota cab, dozing a bit as the journey toward Iran continued. The Iranian soldier driving the vehicle had little to say since he knew no English and Sikes had hardly any knowledge of Farsi.
The monotony of the trip lulled Sikes into his private world of fantasy. He settled back and closed his eyes as images of his glorious future floated through his mind. He could picture the lounge of the Royal Regiment of Dragoons' officers' mess:
THE large-screen TV is tuned to the BBC evening news, in Sikes' imagination, and the rankers sit around in the easy chairs and sofas, their eyes worriedly glued to the images being presented to them as they sip their after-dinner brandies and whiskeys.
The Middle East is lost! the announcer declares in his upper-class accent. The Iranian Army under the command of Field Marshal Sikes has struck its final blow in defeating coalition troops and consolidating the countries of Saudi Arabia, Iraq, Kuwait, Qatar, Yemen, Oman, Afghanistan, and Pakistan under the control of Iran. Western influence has been effectively tossed out of the most oil-rich area of the entire world! What a calamity for the West! The question is, what will be Field Marshal Sikes' next action? The Prime Minister fears this great commander Sikes will turn his military ambitions toward the oil fields of the Russian Federation!
At this point a major declares, Sikes? By Jove, chaps! That name is familiar to me for some reason.
And to me, says a captain nervously, his brandy snifter shaking in his trembling hand.