The first thing is to find the tracks or trails left by the bad blokes, Archie said. Without that, you ain't gonna find 'em, are you? Then you study the sign and figger out the number o' the blighters, what sort they might be, that sort o' thing. I mean, if it looks like there's a hundred bloody riflemen tramping about the countryside, you don't want to take a dozen o' your mates after 'em, hey? Then, after finding the trail and who they are, I'd go after 'em. O' course, you got to have security all around, since there's always the chance they might figger someone's after 'em and double back or set up an ambush, right?
Al-Zaim nodded his approval. And what would you do once you've got them in sight?
Archie shrugged. I don't know. You're the commander. You tell me what you want me to do with the wankers.
From that point on, questions were thrown at the Brit regarding numerous subjects, including camouflage, preparation of various types of fighting positions, security during unit movement, handling EPWs, urban operations, use of supporting artillery, first aid, mines, and map reading, among others.
After two hours of intense questioning interspersed with conversation, Al-Zaim suddenly got to his feet and walked over to the door where Khalil Farouk stood. He spoke a few words in Arabic, then left the room. Farouk walked over to Archie with a smile. You are doing fine, friend Archie. Now you go to the next step. But first we must get rid of your uniform. We have some civilian clothes for you to change into.
Archie began unbuttoning his jacket, knowing that this was the final gesture of his life as a British soldier. He was saying farewell to his Army, his country, and his ethnicity.
Chapter 4
USS COMBS
ARABIAN SEA
7 APRIL
0930 HOURS
THE CHE-53 Super Stallion chopper eased toward the fantail landing deck of the destroyer, gently touching down. Commanders Tom Carey and Ernie Berringer, carrying heavy briefcases, quickly disembarked and headed forward to the ship's superstructure.
Five minutes later, the two officers entered the SPECOPS commo center. They went directly to the message distribution boxes, and each checked the contents of the ones bearing their names. I don't have a thing, Berringer said. But I really wasn't expecting much this early in the game.
Carey had one missive and he opened it, scanning the three typed words it contained:
NO FUCKING FUEL
Berringer glanced over Carey's shoulder and read it. He showed a rare grin. That's one thing about Brannigan, he remarked. The guy can sum up frustration and rage in just one simple phrase.
Carey was in no mood for flippancy. He stormed out of the center and strode rapidly down the passageway to the logistics office. When he stepped inside, he found a lieutenant junior grade and a yeoman sorting through requisitions. Carey dropped Brannigan's message in front of the officer. Operation Rolling Thunder has nine DPVs sitting at Shelor Field without a drop of gasoline for them.
The lieutenant looked over at the yeoman. Check that out, Densmore.
Aye, sir. The yeoman went to a box marked suspense and pulled out a set of forms. The requisition for fuel, gasoline, unleaded in ten fifty-gallon drums, hasn't been filled yet. This includes fifty gallons of motor oil as well.
Goddamn it! Carey cursed. When did you send it in? An hour ago?
No, sir, Yeoman Densmore answered. It's been at Station Bravo for a couple of weeks now.
Then why hasn't it been filled?
The lieutenant answered, It's a matter of priority, sir. Operation Rolling Thunder is way down the list. The operations in Iraq have first call; then a half-dozen missions in Afghanistan come next. Rolling Thunder is at the bottom.
Priorities be damned! Carey protested. Rolling Thunder was officially alerted on four April. That was three days ago.
I'm sorry, sir, the lieutenant said. I don't set the schedules. He was used to complaints and screwups, considering them as normal as breathing, eating, and sleeping. I suppose operations and logistics just aren't on the same page. He shrugged. The best I can tell you is that Rolling Thunder will get that requisition within ten days or so.
What about their chow? Carey demanded to know. Are the poor bastards going to starve to death?
Under the present SOP, the staff at Shelor Field handles that since the guys involved are billeted there.
Yeoman Densmore interrupted. Even if the mess situation gets screwed up, Rolling Thunder has two weeks' worth of MREs.
Yeah, okay, Carey said, irritated. He left the supply office and returned to the commo center. When he walked in, he shook his head to show Berringer it was useless. He grabbed a message pad and scribbled a word on it. After ripping out the page, he carried it over to the nearest RTO and dropped it in front of her. Transmit this to Operation Rolling Thunder.
Aye, sir. The young woman quickly tapped out the transmission. It contained but one word:
SNAFU.
.
UNREO CAMP
SOUTHWESTERN AFGHANISTAN
1100 HOURS
DR. Pierre Bouchier was the chief of the UN mission stationed in that area of Afghanistan. Now, after a frustrating morning of nonattendance at all the scheduled classes, he had called his entire staff to a meeting outside his tent. Most had brought camp chairs with them, while others were content with either standing or sitting in the sand. Even a casual observer could have noted that their collective morale was low.
The Belgian MD gazed sadly at the people he supervised in the humanitarian effort. I know you all feel the same frustration I do. But I ask you to 'keep the faith' as les americaines say. I suppose our assignment with Warlord Khamami's people spoiled us with its ease and success.
One of the nurses, a young Spanish woman, spoke up loudly. That was because those American soldiers were there.
They weren't soldiers, Penny Brubaker interjected. They were Navy SEALs.
An Italian dentist laughed. You should know, signorina. One of them was your sweetheart.
He still is, Penny remarked, while thinking, I hope he still is.
I think we all remember those particular Americans, Dr. Bouchier said. And I admit it is true that their presence helped us. Especially when one takes into consideration they had defeated the warlord's bandits.
They helped those poor girls too, Penny reminded him. The ones that were sex slaves.
And I am most grateful for that, Dr. Bouchier said. They saved a dozen lives that memorable day. He lit a cigarette. But now we have the problem of having to make what we offer in aid appear helpful and attractive to the people of this village on this day and at this time. Frankly, I am unable to figure out exactly what we must do. Surely, some of you ladies have ideas since you're the ones in the closest contact with the native women.
Before any of the females could respond, a shout was heard in the near distance. They all turned to see one of their Afghan security guards gesturing wildly and pointing out into the desert. A quick look showed a cloud of sand swirling near the horizon. After a minute or so, it was obvious it was coming closer. They all stood up, the apprehension on their faces evident by tightened jaws and instinctive frowns of concern.
It appears we have visitors, Dr. Bouchier said.
I hear motors, someone announced.
A French surgeon cursed. Merde! It must be some sacres americaines!
Everybody be calm, Dr. Bouchier urged them. He glared at the Frenchman. If they are Americans, we can be grateful. They will have candy for the children. That will bring everybody out from the village and maybe ease the tension here. Perhaps a little levity is what is needed.
Everyone walked around the tent to watch the approaching visitors. As they drew closer and appeared plainer in the desert haze, the UN people could see that three vehicles made up the group. Look! They are tanks! a young Polish X-ray technician cried.