Under Siege (16 page)

Saadi checked again. Only seven Iranian tanks had made it through the gauntlet to the hill. Now they jolted around each end of the line and tried to gun the Iraqi tanks positioned higher on the slope. One tried to race up the side of the first slope, but was quickly hit by a tank round and exploded on the spot. The other tanks retreated to just below the bluff and waited.

Why were they waiting, Saadi wondered? Were they waiting for the infantry to come save them? For the infantry to charge up the hill and blow up the tanks? Impossible. As he wondered, he heard the sound of machine guns puncturing the air. Then the .50 caliber rounds started slashing into the troops in the assault line.

“Down, down, everyone hit the dirt!” the lieutenants up and down the long battalion line bellowed. Saadi dove to the ground, hoping for a small depression or shell hole, but there was nothing there but the flat ground. He wondered where the artillery was. Why wasn’t it there blasting that collection of tanks? They could score dozens of hits the way the tanks were grouped together. He realized he hadn’t seen any artillery for the past eight or ten miles as they rode forward in the trucks. Did they run out of ammunition, or what? Where were the damn long guns?

The enemy machine guns kept pounding. Alternate squads lifted up and ran forward to spread out the men even more. Then the whole battalion stood and ran forward. The lines wavered and broke as some men charged quicker than others and many fell behind. The deadly machine guns kept cutting down whole squads of men at a time. The survivors dashed across the last four hundred yards, panting and swearing and firing their weapons at the tanks above on the hill. The machine guns kept firing even though they were out of targets. Sergeant Saadi had no idea how many of the Iranian infantry never made it to the shelter of the hill. His stomach lurched and he almost threw up. So many had died!

Jaafar Saadi lay in the dirt checking his body. Nowhere did he find blood or broken bones. Allah had smiled on him today. He was safe for the moment, but what now? The enemy tanks couched less than fifty yards up the hill waiting for the chance to kill them. A few Iranian tanks below the depression range of the Iraqi tank guns were little protection.

A stalemate.

The enemy tanks couldn’t take the safe routes to come down the slopes and turn and head south. Neither could the Iranian tanks turn and head north toward their homeland without being targeted.

Lieutenant Rabbo ran up to Sergeant Saadi and nodded.

“Get two good men and crawl up the slope and see if you can blow the tread off the first tank you come to. Chances are they have no men outside the tanks. Stay out of sight as long as you can. Tape three grenades together and force them between the tread and the driving wheels. Then tape a fourth grenade on the outside of the other three, holding down the arming spoon. When it’s secure, let the spoon pop off and sprint down the hill to get away from the explosion. Then creep back up and see if it blew the tread off the rollers.”

“If anyone comes out of the hatch, we’ll shoot him,” Saadi said. The officer nodded, gave him two more grenades for his web vest, and pointed them up the hill.

Saadi went first, cradling the AK-47 across his arms as he crawled up through some light brush. It was slow work. Twenty feet from the tank he stopped and looked up at the monster. The gunners couldn’t see down here. He nodded to himself and crawled forward. He was almost to the tank when he heard a scraping noise and lifted up to look. The hatch on top of the tank moved, lifted up six inches, and then went back down.

Saadi had held his breath, now he took a big gulp of air and crawled up to the tank tread. It was bigger than he had guessed. Yes. a spot to put the grenades. They had been taped together by the lieutenant. He pushed them into the slack place between the tread and the driving roller. Then the second man gave him another grenade and the sticky tape. He pulled the pin on the grenade and loosened the arming handle just enough to slip the tape under it, then bound it tightly to the other grenades. He motioned the other two men back, let go of the arming handle, and knew he had four seconds to get away. He dove down the slope and rolled twenty feet, and then hugged the rocky dirt.

The explosion was louder than he figured. It jolted into the afternoon that had turned quiet now that the machine guns and the big guns on the tanks on both sides had
quieted. He heard shrapnel from the grenades singing over his head, but none hit him.

He moved upward again to see the damage. Just as he was within ten feet of the tank, the scraping noise came again and the hatch pivoted back and a man heaved up until he was halfway out. Saadi shot him twice in the chest with his AK-47 and the man fell forward, blocking the exit from the machine.

Sergeant Saadi surged ahead, saw that the track was blown off the rollers. The tank was dead in the water until a repair rig fixed the tread. He rolled down the slope, took the other two men with him, and reported the success to his lieutenant.

Down the line they heard three more grenade explosions. Then all was quiet again. Saadi stared in amazement when he saw that the sun was almost down. It would be dark in an hour.

Lieutenant Rabbo passed the word: They had lost contact with their commanding officer. They were on their own. As soon as it was dark enough to move, the tanks would pull out and head north toward the old main line they had established. The infantry would make a retrogressive movement as well, making all kinds of speed to get back out of the range of the deadly 50 caliber tank machine guns. They probably would fire, but it would be hit or miss and at random. They would kill a few of the retreating infantrymen, but Saadi knew he would not be one of them; Allah had smiled at him this day.

Darkness at last settled in, and the infantry leaders had talked the tankers into letting the walkers go first so they could be safe from the machine guns above. They reluctantly gave the infantry an hour. They could be five miles away by that time.

They pulled out a half-hour after dark. Saadi had lost two men to the machine guns on the charge to the bluffs. They marched fast at rout step and made a little over four
miles before they heard the tanks behind them start to move. Then came the faint sound of machine gun fire as well.

By midnight they arrived back at the spot where the trucks had dropped them off that morning. They were tired and hungry but there was no field kitchen there to feed them. A major beside his Jeep said the army generals had pulled back an hour ago. The trucks that brought them here had been sent back as well. If they marched all night they should be well out of harm’s way come dawn.

“Oh, be sure your men go around any of the white powder areas you will find. It’s not hard to see. You have no biologic protection suits, so don’t go near it.”

The long night’s march began.

It was nearly four
A.M.
when they detoured around another anthrax-laden area. They had just stepped off the road when the man in front of Sergeant Jaafar Saadi stepped on an Iraqi-planted land mine. It exploded, cutting down seven men and wounding a dozen more.

Saadi was blasted a dozen feet away and lay sprawled in the dirt. He touched his chest and felt a mass of blood. It hurt so horrendously he wanted to scream, but he couldn’t. He shook his head where he lay in the Iraqi dirt and rocks. This couldn’t be happening. They were almost out of danger. Besides, Allah had smiled on him twice already today. He couldn’t die. The last thing Saadi remembered was the smile on Allah’s face fade away. Then Saadi died.

Cape Town, South Africa

Cape Town International Airport

Lieutenant Commander Blake Murdock, Don Stroh, Lieutenant (J.G.) Chris Gardner, and Lieutenant Ed DeWitt sat in the Cape Town airport manager’s office waiting. The rest of the platoon had stayed with the plane. The top man at the airport, Jeffrey Smith-Warner, was in constant contact with the tower.

“They should have landed ten minutes ago,” Murdock said. He had been growing more worried as the flight time for the Beechcraft stretched out. The surprising efficiency of the local officials had been welcomed at first, but now he was doubting them.

“Could the tower have missed him somehow? Maybe he came in under the radar and landed at that far-off runway?”

“Not a chance, Commander. Nothing moves around here in the air that we don’t know about.”

Murdock stood and walked to the window wall and looked out at the airport and the tower in the distance. How in hell had he done it? Where was he? Murdock checked his watch.

“Fifteen minutes past his maximum flight fuel supply. Which means he either landed somewhere else or ran out of gas and crashed.”

“What about small airports?” DeWitt asked. “Aren’t
there some around here that don’t have towers or controls where transient aircraft can land?”

“Yes. Several. Five at least. Yes, he could have landed at one of them and we wouldn’t even have him on our radar. He wouldn’t have a transponder on that ship or he could turn it off and we probably wouldn’t know he was coming.”

“Could your secretary give us a list of those airports and their telephone numbers?” Don Stroh asked.

“Take her about three minutes.” The manager picked up the phone and relayed the request.

The Americans stood. “Thanks for your help,” Stroh said. “We’ll catch this guy eventually.” The four went out to the secretary and took the sheet of paper she handed them.

Five minutes later in the airport terminal, the men had made four calls. Gardner looked up from the telephone and motioned to Murdock.

“I’ve got him. Beechcraft Bonanza landed about twenty minutes ago. Little grass strip north of town ten miles called Niles’s AirField.”

Murdock put down his phone. “Let’s go,” he said, and they headed for the taxi stands at the front of the terminal.

A half-hour later the taxi driver found the right road and rolled into the airfield. It was small, one grassed strip about five hundred yards long, one T-hangar, a small office, and a repair shop also in the form of a T to accommodate the wings and still give room to work on the engine or body. One beat-up Plymouth sat in the space next to the office. To the far side just beyond the T-hangar sat a Beechcraft Bonanza.

Stroh told the cabbie to wait for them and they went toward the office. A small black man with grey hair and a left-footed limp came out to meet them. His back was broom-handle straight and he grinned when he saw the cammies that the two SEALs wore. There had to be some military time in his background. His face was pock marked and there were only a few teeth left around the front of his
mouth. He nodded and Murdock saw that the older man almost saluted.

“You must be the gentleman who called me. Can’t tell you much more than I did on the phone. They came sailing in about an hour ago. Told me the plane was rented and I should notify the home field listed on the papers. I called a cab for them and the four of them got in and it drove away.”

“Were they Arabs?” Murdock asked.

“Could be. I’m not much on foreigners. Could be. The guy who did the talking was dark and had a black moustache and black hair. The woman was taller than he was but they kept her far away from me and I had the idea that she wasn’t happy and didn’t want to go with the men. She was white, and tall, brown hair. An American I figured.”

“What cab company came to pick them up?” Gardner asked.

The black man pointed at the waiting taxi. “Same one you have there. They have a sub-office out this way. Your driver can take you there.” He hesitated. “You Americans, right. And you two must be military. Special forces?”

“Yes, we’re military,” Murdock said. “U.S. Navy. About all I can tell you.”

“Classified. Yes. Navy, so you could be SEALs. Heard about you rattlers. You’re damn good.”

Stroh took a hundred dollar bill from his wallet and held it so the black man could see it. “Could you disable the plane so-it won’t fly without some minor fix? Then if the same people come back to fly it, tell them you can fix it in two hours, and give me a call at the number on the back of my card.”

The owner of the small airport eyed the money and nodded. “Yes, I can do that. They would never guess.”

Stroh handed the man the card and the bill.

“If you don’t hear from them in twenty-four hours, give me a call and tell me.”

They said goodbye and ran for the taxi.

“You’ve got a regional office out here?” Stroh asked the cabby as soon as the doors closed.

“Yeah, sure, about five miles away.”

“See how fast you can take us there,” Stroh said.

When the taxi carrying Badri and the other three came into downtown Cape Town, Badri ordered the cabby to take them to a computer store where they could get on-line access to the Internet.

“Sure, no problem,” the young cab driver said. “Most let you do that for free. Some charge by the hour. Here’s one.” He pulled to the curb.

“You charge us waiting time. And stay here. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

Inside, he got the clerk and access to the computer and stroked in a remembered Web site:
www.playgroundaccess.org
. It came up a moment later and Badri began entering coded words. When he navigated to Cape Town he smiled. Then he entered “Active Playground” and found three listings. He wrote down the addresses and phone numbers and hurried back to the cab. The first one on the list was always the best cell. He gave an address near where he wanted to go. There couldn’t be any loose ends for the chasers to find.

On the sidewalk moments later, they walked down three blocks and over one and Badri found the address he wanted. He left the three on the sidewalk and knocked on the door of a stand-alone building in a mixed residential/business neighborhood. The place had been a business once, but had been cut up into four large apartments.

The man who answered the door at B-1 was dark with a moustache. Badri spoke rapidly in Arabic and the man grinned then kissed Badri on both cheeks and invited him inside. A few minutes later he came out and brought in the other three.