Chapter 18

“Mister Watson? I’m Ashcroft.”

“How ya doin, staff sergeant? Call me Mark. And this is Bob.”

“How many pallets?”

“Five on this 141, and two on a VMGR-352 C-130 that is supposed to be in tomorrow. Where we gonna stage this stuff?”

“A warehouse about a five clicks south, it’s close to the port. Mister Wa ... uh, Mark, I have weapons and deuce gear to issue. I’ll need you to sign for them.”

“Weapons?”

“By order of the commanding general of the Second Mar Div. Otherwise, we’ll have to assign six bodies to you and him.”

“Whatever. What ya got for us?”

How fucking wonderful, 9mm pistols. Fuck this shit, I’m wearing my revolver. Probably should stash this piece of dogshit in my pack. Fucking flack jacket and helmet. I hate body armor.

“This is really stupid, Mark. They expect me to wear this shit and get work done?”

“Not within this building, but once we are on the line working with the troops, yes, the Marines expect every swinging dick to be decked out in their finest. You’re gonna have to deal with it, Bob ... Ya see Mike lately?”

“Mike? Sergeant Ashcroft?”

“Yeah, about that. While we’re in jarhead-ville, ya need to be careful about titles and how you address them. For example, Mike Ashcroft is a Staff Sergeant, not a Sergeant.”

“Good thing that you are sending me to deal with the army guys. I am liable to call these guys mom or dad.”

“Yeah, the army seems to be way more cool about that shit, you can call just about anyone with three stripes, or more, ‘sergeant’.”

“So when do I leave on my sand-borne expedition?”

“Mike said that there will be four dragon wagons tomorrow sometime between zero four and zero six. The army is supposed to provide three bodies in addition to the drivers. You need to lock on to the senior guy. I’m guessing he’ll be a sergeant first class. Get tight with the guy and do the things that he suggests. The army is really big on rote protocol.”

“It’s all good, Mark. Where you going?”

“Gotta talk to the Damman Port authority. They’re all upset that we fucked up that rag-head tryin to rip off our shit. Turns out that he was an employee of the port, and he had connections to the royal family. I’ll see ya tonight, before you mount out.”

Fuck me. Didn’t take long to go back to my Marine mind-set.

“Dude, don’t trust any of the locals. Not a single man, or camel. Got some really weird vibes from those fucker in the Port Authority office. You find yourself a senior enlisted guy to latch onto?”

“Yeah, he’s cool; said that my first army unit to cadre is over 200 kilometers to the west. You ready for this? He said that no one really knows where any particular battalion is, they just get in the general area of their last known location and then try calling people up on the radio net, then get talked in via a GPS vector. He said that these new GPS receivers are the only thing keeping us pointed in the right direction.”

“Yeah? Tits. Explains why Mike told me to never go anywhere without my GPS. I’m guessing that all the sand dunes look the same. Ya ready?”

“Yes. As ready as I will ever be. You be careful, Mark.”

“Take care, Bob. See ya in a few weeks.”

“Where’s your staff sergeant?”

“Guiding the wagons to our pos, sir.”

“Dude. I’m not a ‘sir’. What’s your names?

“Uh, I am Lance Corporal Jeremy Heeds.”

“I’m PFC Abdul Wright.”

“Good to know y’all. I’m Mark Watson. So, how many wagons we getting?”

“Supposed to get five.”

“Outstanding, Marine. That means that we can take all of this shit with us and not come back to the port.

These dragon wagons are noisy fuckers. Now I understand why I always saw the drivers wear ears ... I bet if I placed my head into Janice’s chest her tits would be perfect ear warmers and noise protection. What’s up? Why we stopping? ... Shit, not good. We’re totally in the open in the middle of sand, and more sand ... No wonder the Saudis wear huge robes. Wouldn’t wanna bang the old lady on a sand dune without several layers of clothes. That sand would get into a lot of really bad places.

“What’s up, staff sergeant?”

“Don’t know. Just got a call for all ground traffic in the area to be stationary for thirty mike.”

“Shit. Wonder if the Iraqis broke through somewhere. Is M16s all ya guys have?”

“That’s affirm, Mark. In theory, air can be on station in ten mike. In theory ... So you were a wing-wiper?”

“Yep. Worked on F-4s”

“Any of them still flying?”

“Last I heard the air farce had a squadron or two. They’re probably over here bombing the fuck outa shit, along with everybody else. Mike, do you know if the Corps has ever done anything like this, ya know, most of its ground forces in one place at the same time?”

“Don’t know. Maybe World War Two, but they were spread across the Pacific. Nam had more than 80k Marines during the late 60s. But two operational divisions in the same place doing the same thing? Probably not.”

“Any why idea why Schwarzkopf put two Marine divisions next door to Kuwait?”

“We’re the assholes that are supposed to do the fighting to take the city, then stand back while the rag-head units swoop in and claim they recovered Kuwait.”

“Sacrificial lambs?”

“Maybe. My LT says that the generals and politicians are scared shitless that the rag-heads will unite and declare a holy war if westerners take credit for this cluster-fuck.”

“Makes sense. But will el presidente stop at Kuwait?”

“Mark, between you and me, our commander-in-chief is a complete and total dumb-ass if we are ordered to go into Iraq and over-throw Saddam.”

“Yeah, fuck ‘em. They can keep that crazy fucker ... Will all the mechs and vehicles be at these outposts?”

“That’s what my skipper said. If not, we have a long drive.”

“To where?”

“Kibrit.”

“What’s that?”

“A huge cluster-fuck. Supplies and ammo dump that the log-train has stacked all of our shit into. It’s the main staging area for I-MEF.”

“How far from here and how close to Kuwait?”

“About two hundred northeast of here and about thirty or forty kilometers south of the border.”

“Really, man? They have a single-source supply point thirty clicks away from those assholes?”

“Yeah, but at least we don’t have a log train strung out from Bahrain all the way to northwest Saudi like the Army does ... this looks like our first way-point. Mark, I know that you are a former Marine, so you are not a babe in the woods. This shit is now real. Go to condition one.”

“Oscar Papa four, this is rover actual.”

“Go rover. This is four actual.”

“Sir we’re about three south. Waiting to proceed to your pos.”

“Say count, rover.”

“Five, sir.”

“Proceed northwest to the hole, then wait for my echo seven, and transport.”

“Roger, rover out ... Mark, we will drive into a depression, just around that rise. When we get there, grab your alpha-eights and whatever you need, and we’ll load it onto their hummer. Their company gunny will be your liaison. How long will this take?”

“If they’re ready, and their shit is functional, less than three hours. I’ll need those four boxes on top of the last pallet on the first wagon.”

“We’ll be ready to go when you get back.”

“If you’re referencing the DMC1535 or 25, no, I do not require those kits. My test set provides the interface to that big amphenol connector, and the D-sub behind the front panel. We will also need the SINCGARS disconnected, and the prick-68 off ... Good. Now rotate the turret to starboard so we can connect this cable...”

“How long will the test take?”

“If nothing is broken, each test is less than five mike, but set-up is ten to thirty for the three tests.”

“What verifications were run on fielded units?”

“None, gunny. We ran it on the GD simulators and on an army LAV at Yuma Proving Grounds. This first test series takes about three mike.”

The gunny sure don’t look impressed. I wouldn’t be either. I’ll walk his boys through the test sequence.

“Okay, were done. Let’s go through these error codes. Both of you Marines come run the next test set. Let’s step through each error...”

“Your mechanics are good to go, gunny. Any more questions?”

What the fuck was that? Oh shit, here we go. Looks like it’s time to rock-n-roll, boys and girls. Shit. Shit. Shit...

“You two stay with Watson. One of you get into the turret and load both weapons.”

“Aye, gunny.”

“Where are they coming from, gunny?”

“OP-4. Also getting reports that going straight down the road to Khafji.”

“Is that close to here?”

“No. It’s east of here, its on the coast. And it’s a deserted city ... Corporal Hawks! Drive up the berm. I want the night vision sights to the north and east!”

Shit. Too much shit going down at once. Why the fuck would the Iraqis attack a deserted city? And all that’s between these amored columns is a single Marine LAV company and some ANGLICO guys ... Why no calls for fire? Where is their LT? What a cluster-fuck.

“Mark! Disconnect your shit and get out! Have to get to OP-4. Go see Corporal Hyson.”

“Aye, gunny. Already disconnected.”

Shit. Shit. Shit. Guess the ground war got started on rag-head terms. Fuckin Schwarzkopf was too over-confident that his air forces would bomb them into submission. I need to find my dumb ass some more magazines, or a few TOW missiles.

“Mister Watson?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m Corporal Hyson. I’ll help carry your equipment. We need to get behind the berms and into the CP tent ASAP. The major wants to talk to you.”

Major? Guessing he’s the honcho for this dump.

“Watson. This is not good. We have three columns of Iraqi armor heading south. The western-most column will probably be in our area within ten to fifteen hours if we cannot get air or arty. I understand that you are a former Marine?”

“Correct, sir.”

“That’s good. But still, I do not know what to do with you. We are going to war, son.”

“I’ll be okay. I’ll stay outa your way, major.”

“How many LAVs were you able to complete?”

“Eight full test suites, one partial, sir. And eleven mechs trained.”

“Good enough. But we need to get you to Third Tracks so you can start on the AAVs, but it might be too late if we cannot get support.”

“I’m good to go whenever you’re able to transport, major.”

“Sergeant Buford!”

“Sir?”

“Yourself and Corporal Hyson belong to Mister Watson. Get his gear loaded on a six-ton and standby for transport orders. And get that 151 with the Mark 19.”

“What’s the latest, sergeant?”

“Massive gaggle-fuck, sir. The major said that the air force general in charge of air flat-out said that Marines are lying, and there could not possibly be multiple Iraqi columns heading into Saudi Arabia.”

“Dude, I’m not a ‘sir’. I’m Mark. What’s your name, sarge?”

“Don.”

“So the air force fairies actually said that the Marines are lying about hundreds of tanks and BMPs rolling south?”

“That’s exactly what that air force general said. But we do have our own air, so they can go pound sand.”

“Watson, the drivers have the coordinates for the track platoon locations, and Third Tracks has our schedule. They are expecting you. My people are yours for the duration.”

“Thank you, major. See ya, sir.”

“Corporal! Put your eyes on and get on the berm. Take the spark with you.”

“Lima one, this is three.”

“Go Three.”

“We got a war going on, sarge. About half a click to the southeast.”

“Uh, Don, this can’t be good, man.”

“Can it, Mark.”

Shit. When will I learn to shut my trap? Gotta let the grunts do their grunt stuff.

“Ashton, We have confirmation that OP-4 engaging hostiles?”

“That’s affirm, sarge. Looks like they’re attempting to breach at the hole.”

“Drivers! Rally up! Fucking now, people!”

I’m thinkin that this young sergeant is about to go Audie Murphy on me. Whatever.

“You people’s job is security for Mister Watson and his equipment. I’m taking the 151 with Corporal Hyson to the east; going to attempt to catch those assholes in a crossfire. If you don’t hear shit from us within three hours, head southwest ... Mark, if you bug-out, sit in the lead wagon and navigate two three zero true using this GPS. Try to find the div CP. Here’s the map. You fuckers be safe.”

“Don! Wait one!”

“What?”

“The third wagon. There’s ‘bout four or five cans of Mark 19 ammo.”

“Really? Sure was nice of the first shirt to not tell me about that. Thanks, Mark. Be safe, and stay cool people. They’re yours, Mark. Bye.”

What the fuck, over? Did he just put me in charge of these four troops? A member of the First Civ Div? Damn.

“Lance Corporal. You the senior guy?”

“Uh, think so, sir.”

“I’m not a sir. I was a sergeant. My name is Mark. What’s your name, Marine?”

“I’m Jamar.”

“What’s yours and the other’s MOS, Jamar?”

“We’re all out of Motor-T, 3531s.”

“So what sorta weapons we got?”

“M16s. The second wagon has a turret with an M-deuce.”

“Anyone got night vision?”

“We only had one. Corporal Hyson took them.”

“Great ... What we got for comm?”

“Each wagon has a prick.”

“What net they set for?”

“Just for us. The pricks in the 151 was set up for the log-O and the battalion.”

“So only Sergeant Buford can talk to the boss back at the log dump?”

“I guess so. Why?”

“Anyone have a radio card for the area?”

“I do, sir.”

“I’m not ‘sir’, I’m Mark. Okay, how ‘bout this? You monitor the people back at the logistics CP, the other three stay on this net ... Jamar, listen up and let me know if this is too stupid ... The dragon-wagon with the Ma Deuce will be east-most, facing south.”

Oh shit! What the fuck was that? Did someone drop a 250-pounder?

“Look at me, people. Let’s get set up. Everybody position your wagons facing south to southwest, at a right angle to the base of the berm. Keep engines runnin, stay with your wagon. If Jamar or myself give the signal, we head southwest, per Sergeant Burford. If the bad guys are coming, we don’t shoot the fifty unless they’re within 200 to 300 meters. We don’t have shit to use against armor. If we bug-out, the first three wagons will withdraw directly over that ridge to the south, while we cover with the fifty.”