Rolling Thunder (2007) Read online

  Then the Royal Regiment of Dragoons was sent to Iraq.

  Private Archibald Sikes' standing in his regiment was so low that he worked with civilian Iraqis assigned to the humble tasks of keeping the unit's vehicles cleaned up and topped off with fuel. Although he still had no friends among his fellow dragoons, one of the Iraqis became friendly with him. The Arab's name was Khalil Farouk, a thin, scholarly man who appeared to be in his mid-forties. He seemed to sense a smoldering resentment in the Englishman Sikes, and began engaging him in conversation. Archie at first resisted these overtures of friendship, until one afternoon when both were in the troop compartment of an APC cleaning up a hydraulic leak. They worked on their hands and knees, sopping up the sweet-smelling liquid. Even though all the hatches were open, the smell of the spill was unpleasant. Since the hydraulics were out, Archie couldn't lower the rear hatch to allow more fresh air into the interior.

  Farouk, who spoke excellent English, dipped his cleaning rag into the bucket of water they shared for the task. As he wrung it out, he said, This is not such pleasant work, is it, Mr. Archie?

  It's the bluddy shit, Archie growled.

  Why do you do this? Farouk asked. Are your officers mad at you?

  Archie's first inclination was to tell the Arab to mind his own fucking business, but he said, Yeah. They're good and mad at me. I told 'em to sod off. That's wot I did.

  Oh, you were defiant to them, were you?

  Archie stopped working and straightened up, still on his knees. Right. I wanted a fucking commission, yeah? I was a sergeant and a damn good one, let me tell you that straightaway, hey? But they wouldn't let me be an officer in this regiment. Suddenly, the words began tumbling out and he voiced all his bitterness at the system in which the enlisted men were not only considered inferior in rank, but also in worth. Everything that had gone wrong in his life, from school days to the monotony of the warehouse job, was gone over. The gist of his complaints was that none of this was his fault. He was never properly understood. He was a good man who was not being allowed the opportunity to perform at a superlative level; thus, he was unable to make a name for himself.

  Farouk was sympathetic and fed into the other man's discontentment. For the next couple of months, he was always at Archie's side during the chores in the motor pool, listening to him and making subtle inquiries and probes to get the man to open up. When the Arab got the chance, he spoke to some of the other Brits, learning that Archie's description of his former status in the regiment was not an empty boast. He had indeed been an outstanding leader and NCO, and the inability to get a commission in the regiment he preferred had turned him into a disrespectful, sullen professional private.

  Farouk had a reason to pursue the possibilities he saw in Archie. He finally got the chance he had been waiting for when the soldier's company sergeant major called Archie in and told him he was going to be kicked out of the Army as soon as they returned to England.

  Farouk then made his move.

  He told Archie he was in the wrong place. An able man like he was would never get the respect he deserved in the Western world. Islam recognized real men and gave them opportunities to go as far as they were able. It didn't matter about their families' status in society. Men were men, by Allah, and women were subordinate in Islam. They were chattel to bear children and keep their homes to please their husbands. If a man so desired, he would be allowed to marry as many as four of them. But Farouk wisely played down the religious side at this point. Instead he spoke of the holy war jihad against the unjust. Archie listened intently as Farouk explained that a soldier with Archie's abilities would be welcomed with open arms in the Muslim struggle. He would be a battle leader, eventually leading large units of mujahideen against the infidels.

  Archie let the jihad aspects of Farouk's lectures slip past his conscious consideration. But the chance of being a grand field commander stirred those deep emotions he'd had when he first decided to become a soldier. The other matter foremost in his thoughts was that he no longer had a future in the British Army, thus no hope for great accomplishments in the UK.

  Chapter 3

  SHELOR FIELD, AFGHANISTAN

  6 APRIL

  1000 HOURS

  THE C-130 taxied off the runway onto the airfield proper, following a rather ragtag individual riding a battered Italian Vespa motor scooter. The aircraft's turboprop engines whipped up the thin dust layer on the hard-packed earth as it moved toward a hangar on the far west side of the facility. The weirdo on the scooter suddenly whipped off to the side. He pointed at the hangar, and the pilot took the transport over to a large cement parking area and came to a halt.

  The SEALs inside the troop compartment noted the cutting of the engines with a sigh of relief. The eighteen men were crowded in an area packed with various gear, crates, boxes, and three DPVs, all making the flight from Station Bravo both discommoding and uncomfortable. Nevertheless, there was a bright side to the situation. The cargo was for their use only during Operation Rolling Thunder.

  The loadmaster appeared from the cockpit, going to the rear of the aircraft. Within moments, a loud whine broke the silence and the rear ramp slowly opened and lowered to the ground.

  On your feet! SCPO Buford Dawkins commanded. Grab your gear and unass the aircraft. The Brigands obediently secured their equipment and other personal belongings and filed down the fuselage to follow the senior chief out into the open. He quickly formed them up into two ranks and had them set their burdens down. Okay. We had to push those DPVs aboard, so it stands to reason we'll have to push 'em out. Leibowitz! Puglisi! Murchison! Miskoski! Malachenko! Dawson! You six on the vehicles. The rest of you see to the other crap. Do it!

  The men trooped back into the aircraft to find that the loadmaster was already loosening the strap-downs. They helped him with the job, then the half dozen chosen for the vehicles pushed them down the loading ramp and out onto the parking area. With that done, they returned to help with the rest of the unloading.

  Lieutenants Bill Brannigan and Jim Cruiser watched as the work moved into high gear. Now the Vespa rode up sputtering and coughing. The rider got off and walked up to the officers. He was a short, skinny kid in bad need of a haircut and shave, and he wore a blue T-shirt with a wordy announcement in yellow letters that stated:

  IF GOD MADE ANYTHING BETTER THAN PUSSY HE KEPT IT FOR HIMSELF

  He wore shorts obviously made by cutting off the legs of a pair of BDU trousers, and his bare feet were shoved into a pair of leather sandals. A round Afghan puhtee cap, tipped like a beret, topped off his garb. Cruiser frowned at the youngster's appearance. Who the hell are you?

  I'm Randy Tooley, he cheerfully replied. You guys must be the SEALs, huh?

  Yeah, Cruiser said. What do you do around here, er, Randy?

  I run the airfield, Randy replied. I make sure all incoming aircraft get to the proper place here at Shelor. That goes for the cargo and personnel that's brung in. There's all sorts of operations using the facilities. Ever'body's got their own place. This here hangar belongs to you. Put your equipment anyplace you want to.

  Brannigan chuckled. Are you in the military?

  Yeah. I sure am, Randy said. I'm in the Air Force.

  Which country's? Cruiser inquired with a look of puzzlement.

  The United States, o' course, Randy replied. I'm a senior airman.

  That's an E-Four, is it not, Randy? Cruiser asked.

  Randy grinned. The last time I seen my pay form it was.

  Cruiser said, Now, I'm a lieutenant junior grade in the Navy. That's the same as a first lieutenant in the Air Force. And my commanding officer here is a lieutenant in the Navy. He ranks with a captain in the Air Force.

  No shit? Randy remarked.

  No shit, Cruiser said pleasantly. And I believe it is the practice of all America's armed forces that enlisted personnel utilize the titles 'sir' and 'ma'am' when addressing commissioned officers. And salutes are required when reporting to one.

  Let me tell yo
u something, Randy said. I got a lot of work to do here. I put in maybe sixteen to eighteen hours a day. And I ain't had any time off for six weeks. I see that everything runs smoothly for the comings, goings, shipments, unloading, and all that shit. I also got to arrange for quarters. An Air Force colonel is the overall commander here. He likes the way I do things 'cause I see that his headaches are kept to a minimum. If you don't like the way I look, speak, or act, you go talk to Colonel Watkins.

  By God! Cruiser sputtered, you listen up-

  Brannigan cut off Cruiser by grabbing his arm. He smiled at the senior airman. We understand, and we appreciate what you're doing, Randy. Let's just let it go at that.

  Sure, Randy said with a smile. I was told there was eighteen of you and that you don't require separate accommodations for the officers. You'll be in Barracks Two just behind the control tower. The chow hall is a couple of buildings down from there. It's easy to see because of the all the Afghans hanging around the garbage cans.

  Great, Brannigan said. Anything else we should know?

  Well, Randy replied, a half-dozen DPVs arrived about a week ago that's supposed to be for you. I already had 'em put in your hangar.

  Thanks, Brannigan said. We've just brought three more with us. Where do we top 'em off?

  Sorry, Randy said. I don't have a single drop of fuel for you guys. And I can't recall any incoming manifests that list any. I can get you a storage area, chow, and a place to sleep, but that's about all for today.

  Cruiser glanced over at the bundles and crates being off-loaded by the SEALs. Isn't this a hell of a note? We have ammo, MREs, and even extra clothes. But no goddamn fuel.

  Shit happens, Randy remarked. But if I can help, let me know.

  Okay, Randy, Brannigan said. Thanks.

  Right, Randy said. Well, I got another flight coming in and an Army Special Forces team has to turn in their barracks in about an hour. Them guys aren't really into spit and polish, so I got to make sure the place is left decent for my next tenants. See you later. He went to his Vespa, leaped aboard, and sputtered away.

  Cruiser frowned. That little bastard needs some discipline.

  His discipline is the homegrown variety driven by personal pride, Brannigan said. He does an excellent job because he wants to and he won't let anything else interfere with his performance. He sighed. Well! I better get Gomez on the Shadowfire and find out about this fuel glitch.

  .

  UNREO CAMP

  WHEN Penny Brubaker first signed on with the United Nations Relief and Education Organization, she was naive, eager, and dedicated to the group's mission of aiding Third World people to improve their lives. UNREO had multiple programs of medical examinations and treatment, instruction in sanitation and hygiene, and provided logistical aid to supplement or replace archaic procedures in the recipients' lifestyles and environments.

  Unfortunately, Penny, a strikingly beautiful young lady from a background of wealth and privilege, had very little understanding of her fellow Americans, much less these unfortunate people she wanted to help. And now, after two years, Penny had become a jaded young woman. Her first clash with cruel reality occurred when her team first arrived in Afghanistan to help the people who had lived under the autocratic rule of a cruel Pashtun warlord for several years. The bad guy's reign came to an end when his private army was defeated by a platoon of U.S. Navy SEALs. During his power days, he had kidnapped some young girls and women from a subordinate clan and forced them into prostitution for the pleasure of his mujahideen. When the SEALs liberated the sex slaves, they were warned they could not return the females to their homes. According to Islamic traditions, the women had disgraced their families even though they had been forced to endure almost continual sexual abuse over a long period of time. Their male relatives, rather than taking them back, were planning on murdering them in a ritual known as honor killings. It was only with help from the SEALs that an escape could be organized for the doomed women. They were flown away in a UN transport aircraft to safety while the Navy men held the male kin back through the liberal and violent application of punches, kicks, and intense pummeling.

  Now Penny was still in Afghanistan, working in yet another rural area as she and her colleagues attempted to enlighten the tribal people to improve their lives. But ignorance, apathy, and distrust stymied the programs. When medical examinations were made, the women were not allowed to be seen undressed by the male physicians. A Pashtun man would bring in his wife, then describe the symptoms to the doctors in a vague, confusing manner through an interpreter. All that could be done by the doctors was to make an educated guess on the nature of the illness, then pass out the medicine and hope the doses would be given in a timely and proper manner. Children suffered from illnesses that had disappeared from the civilized world generations before. Yet even when told there was a cure for the ailments, the illiterate parents, constrained by their religious beliefs, hardly ever responded to those offers of help. The foreigners who had come among them were infidels, damned to an eternity in hell by Allah and not to be trusted.

  Penny had to admit to herself that she now thought of them as the stupidest, most backward beings on the face of the earth. She sincerely felt sorry for their suffering, but things had reached a point where the efforts to help them just weren't worth it. A cynical American doctor had remarked that the villagers' refusal to accept medical aid was nature's way of thinning the herd. A proper British orthopedic surgeon had summed it up with the more refined Survival of the fittest and all that, old chap. Natural selection, what?

  Another, more personal situation also weighed down on her emotions. An old boyfriend of hers had been among the SEALs during the episode with the Pashtun clans. His name was Chad Murchison, and he came from the same wealthy class of Boston aristocrats as Penny. The couple had known each other all their lives, gone to prep school together until Chad, a year older, had gone off to Yale. During her senior year after Chad had left for college, she fell for a member of the prep school varsity football team. This was Cliff Arm-brewster, a good-looking muscular guy who had swept her off her feet. She broke up with Chad and became engaged to Cliff. The romance was a disaster. He had the intellect of a fence post and was going to get a position in an insurance firm where his father was chairman of the board. The schmuck didn't have a mind of his own, and his mom was even planning every single detail of the wedding while ignoring Penny and her own mother. At that time, she realized the big mistake she had made. Chad was a skinny, sweet guy who was handsome in a sort of gawky way, but he was very intelligent and had a great future ahead of him either with his banking family or by going off on his own. She hoped to make things up to him, but learned he had dropped out of Yale and joined the Navy.

  The next time she saw him was there in Afghanistan when his SEAL detachment showed up at the UN camp after winning a series of battles against Pashtun mujahideen. She hardly recognized her former boyfriend as this rugged, fully armed, capable SEAL whose commanding officer was a fierce fellow called Wild Bill Brannigan. They got back together, even had sex, but something in Chad's attitude rattled her. He looked at her in a different way, and her bold attempt to get them engaged to be married had been met with a marked hesitancy on his part. After he was withdrawn from the area to go back to the States, they stayed in touch by letter, but he had not made any serious attempts to deepen their relationship. This was something she found very difficult to deal with. Penny had always been the belle of the ball, and wasn't used to being treated in such a cavalier manner.

  Now, sitting on her bunk in the tent used by the sanitation teachers, Penny held the last letter she had received from Chad Murchison. It had been a nice, polite missive, telling her about a training exercise he had gone through on the island of San Clemente. But there was no outpouring of romantic affection, no expression of desire to see her again. She now seriously considered the very real possibility that she had lost him forever. Penny decided that the next time she saw Chad, she would turn on the charm
, the sex, and the tears to bring him back under her power.

  Penny!

  She looked up, startled to see the German dietician, Erika Maanchen, standing in the tent flap. Yes?

  Have you lost track of time? Ericka asked in a disapproving tone. Already we wait for you to present your class on how to be washing the babies. Are you ready for it?

  Yes, Penny answered.

  She slipped Chad's letter in her pocket, then picked up her notes and the videotape. She slipped from the tent and walked over to the instruction area ready to speak to the Pashtun women on a subject in which they had no interest.

  .

  SOUTHWESTERN AFGHANISTAN DESERT

  1800 HOURS

  CAPTAIN Arsalaan Sikes, nee Archibald Sikes, stood in the hatch of his EE-3 armored car. He pressed the transmit button of the Russian R-108 tactical radio. It, like the Dashika heavy machine guns, had been gotten by the Jihad Abadi in a roundabout manner. The Iranians obtained the weapons from Afghan mujahideen who had looted them from ambushed Soviet troops during the USSR's invasion of their country. The Iranians eventually passed them on to the Arab insurgents.