Jihad
4.3 Saudi Arabia
by Red MacDonald
Copyright © 2013 Red MacDonald
All Rights Reserved.

The Faithful, North African and Middle Eastern Islamic nations, are plotting to seize the oil resources of the Middle East. By controlling the earth's oil and its major trade routes, they plan to bring the world to its knees. Then, when the entire world is kneeling, the Faithful of Allah will read to them from the Koran, preaching the message of Islam, the True Faith. The Faithful will stop at nothing to achieve their goal. But how far will they go? And how many lives will it cost?

4 Victory and Defeat

4.3 Saudi Arabia

* * * * *

4.3.1 Defense at Jubayl

The Twelfth Light Division had hustled for four days. Hustled in the army sense anyway. They had packed everything that they could carry on their backs and waddled as best they could onto C-5s, C-17s and anything else that could make the trip one-third of the way around the world. Then they sat, slept and tried not to think for over twenty hours. After an eternity of sitting, they packed up again and waddled into the heat and stench of the Middle East. They were bundled into trucks and delivered to their depots where they "mated" with their pre-positioned equipment. With that accomplished they were supposed to be a division. Regardless, they remained "Light" even with all their goodies.

There were big differences between "Light" and "Regular" infantry divisions. Typically a company of a Light Division had no tanks, no howitzers, and no armored fighting vehicles. They had trucks and perhaps a few tired, old M-113s to get them to where they were going. In a light division, heavy weapons were 81-mm mortars, shoulder-mounted rotary automatic weapons, shoulder-mounted rocket launchers and shoulder-mounted anti-aircraft missiles. In fact, Light Infantry was all shoulders and foxholes.

Of course, they did have some heavy equipment. Every battalion had an armored platoon with a troop of four M1A2 Abrams and four Bradley fighting vehicles to use either as the world's smallest spearhead or as a fast reaction force to head off disaster. Light battalions also had two batteries of 105-mm, self-propelled howitzers, the ancient and honorable friend of the American GI since 1940.

Twelfth Light sat on their duffs for a day and most of a night. Then, out of nowhere, orders came down. Rush here! Go there! Never mind! Dig more holes! Sooner or later somebody would tell them what they were doing here and what they were supposed to do now that they were here.

But, all of these things were imponderables to Master Gunnery Sergeant Aloisis Xavier Francis Murphy of Buffalo, New York. He'd been there before, and he'd be there again. Right now, he was enjoying a cold Coca-Cola in the bottom of his clean, dry and moderately comfortable firing pit. His ammo pack lay next to him with its flat, gray, ammo coil winding into the silvery cylinder that, at first glance, looked like a fire hose nozzle. It took a big man to carry that 60-pound load all day, and a strong one to withstand the kick of thirty 7.62-mm bullets being fired from its six-barreled snout every second. But, Gunny Murphy loved his SRAW. He always had liked something with a little kick. He loved jalapeno peppers, his feisty red-headed wife, the Buffalo Bills and a weapon that could destroy half a city block in ten seconds!

"Gunny! Gunny Murphy!"

He could hear his name being called, but he refused to answer. It was Second Lieutenant Aldrich Mohammed. Aldrich had just graduated from the Academy and was the only kid Gunny knew who was both black and green at the same time. Even worse, the kid just wouldn't listen. After twenty-two years in this man's army, Gunny had learned a thing or two, and that's why he was a platoon sergeant. At the rate this kid was going, he wasn't going to live to see twenty-two.

"Ah, deyre you is, Gunny!" A young, round, brown face stared down into the coolness of the sergeant's firing pit.

Murphy looked up at the shave-tail. "Is that how day did learn yee-all to speak up dare ad de Point? Whoo-eey, Lieutenant, you sure gots de larnin."

"OK, Gunny, shag your ass. The major wants us all at the mess tent, pronto. And, if you don't speak Spanish, that means yesterday, Sergeant."

Gunny clambered to his feet and saluted. "Yassir, boss. Eyes Cummin!" The shave-tail raced off on his rounds, because that's what second looeys did best. By the time Gunny arrived at the mess tent, everybody else was already there.

Major Richard Guys pointed at him. "Glad you could join us, Gunny. By the way, did you lose the tail I sent out to get you?"

Guys thought he had a great sense of humor. Gunny knew enough to smile, not say a word, and to sit down with the rest of Bravo Company where he belonged.

Captain Boswell Crocker greeted him quietly. "Figured you were sacked out, Gunny, so I waited 'til the last minute. By the way, where did you lose the kid?"

As he said it, Lieutenant Mohammed banged through the screen door, and stood for a moment looking around and mumbling to himself. Finally, he wandered over to Bravo. "Gee, Gunny, how'd you get here so fast?"

"I walked, kid, all the way."

"Attention!" The door banged with authority as Colonel Nathan Mordekai entered the small tent. He strode quickly to the front with a small covey of aides gathered around him. "At ease. I don't know if you heard, so I'm here to give it to you straight. The Saudi's got whipped real bad last night."

Lieutenant Mohammed leaned over Gunny's shoulder. "See, Gunny, it ain't the English that does it, it's the class!"

Gunny tried to ignore the kid, but it was a cute comment.

Mordekai pointed to a map hanging on the wall. "The Iragis and Iranis pulled off a perfect envelopment and trapped the Saudis up here at Suffaniyah. We only got wind of it minutes before the attack started. They tried like hell to pull out as much as they could, but it's bad. So, we've got an emergency operation to buy some time and hold the 'Iranaqis', while saving as many of the Saudi forces as we can. This operation is called Dunkirk, and our objective is just the same as it was in 1940.

"We've already dropped the 82nd here." He pointed to a spot near the Saudi coast some thirty klics northwest of Jubayl. "The 101st Air Assault Division is going in next. We will go like hell up this highway to reinforce them. Ninth Light will be on your asses.

"This is a reasonable defensive position. A large marsh is on the right which is impassable to heavy equipment year-round, but infantry can infiltrate it. The left is totally exposed, which is where the Screaming Eagles will be. We are hoping that their mobility and choppers will be more than match for any flankers during the course of this operation. We will be concentrated on and around the road itself.

"The road runs through a shallow declivity for about six klics. We will set up roadblocks, seize the heights and hold. We will rescue as many Saudis as we can, and stop the Iranaqis.

"It will take the Iranaqis time to bring up reinforcements, assess our strength and develop any kind of an attack. By that time we will be firmly in control of the road and this marsh. Ninth will form on our left with the paratroopers in reserve. Hundred-and-First will break off and begin operations behind enemy lines, attacking rear echelon troops, destroying supply lines and making Iranaqi lives as miserable as possible. This will draw off troops from attacks against us and reduce their intensity. Once we have saved all the Saudis we can, and at the appropriate tactical and strategic moment, we will withdraw towards Jubayl and ultimately, as needed, to Qatif.

"Before you march, I want you to find every piece of anything that will identify you as Americans. There could be as many as fifty thousand tired, hungry and battle-weary Saudis desperately seeking aid and comfort. If they get to your positions, they will have fought for their lives for over sixty klics. The last thing we want is for them to mistake us for the enemy. And, we want to encourage them to flee to our lines and then turn and fight. I want garrison flags strung up so that we can be clearly seen. Paint the ground in front of your positions - do anything you can think of to make it known that the Yanks are here, and that this is where they can rest.

"We'll also be broadcasting on all military frequencies, telling the survivors where we are. So, look sharp. They could come straight down the road. They could come overland along the coast. They could come in from the desert to the west. They're running, they're scared and they just fought one hell of a battle to defend their lands. Save every one of them you can. Got it? Break to your battalions and receive your orders."

The colonel and his staff huddled towards the front, while each of the three battalion commanders gathered with their company commanders, platoon leaders and their senior NCOs. It was obvious to Gunny that this was SOP. It was the same men, same trucks, same equipment in the same desert. The only good part was that he'd finally DO something.

As they walked out the door after the meeting, Gunny grabbed Lieutenant Mohammed and bodily pulled him around the corner of the tent. "Now look, kid, you may have a future in this man's army, and you may not. Either way it's up to me.

"My first job will be to keep you alive. If you're dead, kid, you ain't got a future. My second job will be to teach you what you gotta know about leading men in battle and not getting them killed. I don't have the luxury of time to do this gently, so I'm going to give it to you straight, just like the colonel.

"You're in command, but you don't know jack-squat. I've been doing this for longer than you've been. When you want to do something, ask my opinion ... something like, 'Any ideas, Gunny?'

"Don't worry about the troops. They expect officers to ask experienced non-coms. If I got something to say, it'll be a suggestion or a recommendation, like a sergeant talking to his CO.

"Then, you'll agree. It can be anything from 'Sounds good', to 'OK', I don't care and neither will anybody else. Then you give the order, like, 'Let's do it!', 'OK, what's everybody sitting around her for?' or any other way you're comfortable. All that matters is that you ask, I tell you, and you tell 'em what to do. Got it, kid?"

The lanky lieutenant looked up into the huge sergeant's white, freckled face. In his eyes, Mohammed saw great intensity, and he saw something more. He saw a man who cared deeply, who wanted to win, but also wanted to come back alive. He saw his father and knew he could trust this big, bluff sergeant. He looked up quietly, and with a mixture of dignity and humor responded, "Well, Gunny, what are we standing around here for? We got a platoon to get on the road!"

Gunny stood ramrod straight, and saluted briskly. "Yes, Sir!" The two trotted off to their platoon's bivouac. It was time to roll.

* * * * *

4.3.2 Flight from Al-Suffaniyah

For a day and a half, Lt. Hamal el Sayd a-Fayd lived a nightmare. Iranian artillery had rained down upon him. A building had collapsed on his captain's command vehicle, crushing it completely. Not only had he lost his commander, but also his communications with battalion. He was alone!

The bombardment lifted and there, not one hundred meters in front of him, was a column of tanks coming at high speed. "Designate! Sabot! Target! Fire!"

The first tank exploded, but the next three hurtled past it, opening fire as they rolled. Their first shot was high, and masonry fell on his cupola. The second hit squarely on his reactive armor and exploded harmlessly.

The American phrase formed in his mind, 'Time to get out of Dodge! He yelled, "All back! Turn this thing around and go! Go!" His tank backed, spun on its treads and sped away pursued by cannon fire.

He lost them, somehow, in the smoke and dust of the dying city. He drove quickly down a boulevard, and an M-113, as eager to escape the slaughter as he, fell into formation. Troops gathered to them like iron filings to a magnet.

A truck filled to overflowing with Saudi soldiers careened around the corner in front of him with a wheeled BTR in hot pursuit.

"Designate! Heat! Target! Fire!"

The BTR lurched, skidded on its four right wheels and plunged into a store-front smashing glass and sending mannequins flying.

He shot a quick burst from his 12.7 alongside the truck, pushing it over. "Go!" he shouted to his driver. The Abrams leapt to the head of the rapidly building escape column.

He rounded a corner. The streets were jammed with civilians. Most of them were on foot, running wildly. Both he and his driver saw them at the same time. The tank slammed to a halt. The sounds of squealing tires sliding on the pavement behind him told the lieutenant all he had to know about the rest of his column.

Directly in front of him was an old Saudi driving a 4-wheel drive truck, loaded with all his belongings and his family. Being a good, law-abiding citizen, the old man was obeying the 20 kilometer speed limit. He even stopped at the traffic light!

Hamal exploded in rage, and fired his machine gun next to the car. The old man never quavered! Hamal was about to do something that he'd never dreamed possible. At the next intersection, an Irani tank saved him the trouble.

As they advanced down the parallel road near the coast, the enemy gunners had kept their muzzles pointed to the right, down the long straight thoroughfares of the modern metropolis. When they saw something move, they fired. The old man and his family cooked.

"Designate! Sabot!" The big turret turned at his command. "Stop in the intersection!" It was a matter of timing. Would the Persian be able to reload in time or would the next shell find the relatively weaker side of the Abrams and cook a lieutenant and his crew? There it was! "Target! Fire!" The two cannons fired at almost the same second. But, Hamal was looking for them, and they weren't expecting him. They fired too quickly, while his sabot smashed into the side of the T-90 and an Irani lieutenant cooked instead.

His little column sped through the intersection, having grown once again. Hamal looked back and knew what the Pied Piper had experienced, except that these rats were his countrymen.

What was that? The last one in line was too squat. It had eight wheels. A BTM had joined them! "Designate! Heat!" His turret swept around through 180 degrees. His loader fell, bloodying his nose. Somehow he got the round into the chamber. His rearward facing cannon scattered his little convoy, but the BTR was too slow. "Target! Fire!" The front of the BTM lifted completely off the ground, and the whole machine landed on the pavement upside down. Another M-113 scurried around the burning Irani vehicle and joined the end of the line.

Another bend in the road. Civilians! The civvies should have been gone two days before. Instead, they were shoulder to shoulder and wheel to wheel, clogging the street. His machine gun splattered rounds over their heads. They ducked back into the shelter of the buildings, but when they saw that the tank was theirs, they rushed out towards it in greeting, hoping for salvation.

He had none. His column was running for its life and the salvation of its country. Hamal laughed at the irony. Insh'Allah was just like manana, but without the sense of urgency. 'Too bad,' he thought, 'They should have been more urgent.'

His machine gun tore up the pavement in front of the civilians, perhaps even wounding a few. It didn't matter, because they stopped. His column roared ahead.

He approached the southern edge of Suffaniyah. Beyond its streets lay only open land, a perfect killing zone extending for fifty kilometers. He'd better organize his column. "This is the leading tank. Who are you?"

A voice quavered in answer from the truck. He had no time to remember names. "You are now Truck One. Do you understand?" After some kind of a reply, he continued, "We're almost out of the town. Continue down the road at twenty, I repeat twenty kilometers per hour. If you go faster I will destroy you. Confirm!" He made sure that they understood.

"All armored vehicles in this column report in." There was no reply. "Report in or I shall assume you are the enemy and will destroy you. Designate!" His turret spun to face back down the column.

"We're the first AFV behind you, Tank One."

"We're the M-113 behind them."

When they had counted off, he had eight trucks, four M-113s and two AFVs. "AFV One form on my right as we leave the town. AFV Two, on my left. M-113 number one, you're in the lead. M-113 number two, you're behind him. All trucks follow the second M-113. M-113s number three and four, at the end of the column. Acknowledge."

It took three minutes to get it all organized and, by that time, they were into the deserted lands beyond. "Turn left here," he told his driver. He checked his column. The first truck was accelerating as fast as it was able. "Designate! Heat! Target! Fire!" The explosion rocked the truck, which veered sharply and crashed on its side.

"Truck number two," Hamal ordered, "save the survivors. Then proceed at twenty kilometers per hour or be destroyed. M-113 numbers one and two, take the lead, now!" A truck refused to move over. The lead armored personnel carrier nudged it. The truck canted up onto two wheels, careened off to the side and finally righted itself. The APC took the lead, with its machine gun facing the truck.

A Bradley pulled to his right. "Bradley one, prepare for right hand turn to parallel the column. Ready? Turn!"

"Turn right," he commanded his driver. The first AFV stuck with him like glue, but the one that should have been to his left was gone. He spun around to find that it was behind him.

"Bradley Two, why are you not where I ordered?"

"We tried, Sir, but you turned away from us too quickly. We did the best we could! Don't fire!"

His column was under control. "Bradley One, Bradley Two, we will form up on the rear of the column. Get into formation and hold position. Turrets to the rear. Bradley One, you've got the right flank. Bradley Two, you've got the left flank. I'll take anything behind us. I'll be watching. Shoot anything that doesn't look friendly."

A mass appeared off to the column's left, which was Hamal's right as he faced to the rear. A white cloud erupted from Bradley Two, and for a moment he thought that it had been hit. But no, the Bradley had fired a laser guided, anti-tank missile! The black blob blew up! His Bradleys were taking no chances.

Another truck appeared in the west, heading south and fast. It looked like one of theirs. He tried to raise it on the radio, but it wouldn't answer. "Bradley One, go get that truck. Bring him back into the column."

"But, Sir, he's not one of ours."

"He is now. Bring him in."

The AFV veered out of formation. Hamal watched it closely. The truck sped up, but the Bradley was in its element. With tracks flying and rooster-tails of sand blowing up behind, the twenty-five ton fighting vehicle closed the gap with the overloaded truck. A quick burst from the Bradley's 25-mm chain gun got their attention, and they turned to the right. Another burst, and they turned again. Hamal thought it was like watching a sheep dog at work. Finally, as the truck approached the tail of the column, the two M-113s veered in front of it, machine guns at the ready. The truck screeched to a halt. One more sheep in the fold!

Half an hour later, Hamal spotted another column of Saudi trucks. He radioed, "Get over here under our protection."

The lead truck responded immediately and headed to join them. A voice replied, "Who's in charge of this column?"

"I am. The guy in the tank!" Hamal wasn't ready to argue with anybody. If he was wrong, perhaps his father could save him. Right now, he had the power to enforce his own rules.

"This is Captain Akhmed. Identify yourself."

"Designate," he ordered. "Join my column or I will destroy you." Although the radio remained silent, the trucks obediently fell in between the M-113s

He drove on for half an hour. He had stopped shaking. His urge to retch had finally subsided. His cupola swung back and forth across his rear, as he looked for any sign of a pursuing enemy. That was how he saw the plane, low on the horizon. "Air Raid! North! Scatter and keep moving!"

Trucks and APCs raced in every direction trying to avoid the inevitable. The plane raced towards them, covering one kilometer for every meter they traveled. A white cloud passed over him heading north at high speed. The plane was blotted from the sky.

Hamal's radio came alive. "Captain Akhmed to I AM. Not all of us have lost our poise. I have three more AAMs. Thanks for your raid warning. We didn't see it until you called. Out." Akhmed's message needed no reply.

Half an hour later, a cloud of dust began to form behind them. If they were Saudis, he should slow down. If not, he should increase speed. Suddenly, his lack of experience overwhelmed him. In seconds, he had gone from a firm confident leader to a simple sheep-herder lost in a morass from which he could never escape. 'But, they are my sheep,' he reminded himself. Mastering himself, he radioed, "Tank to Captain Akhmed."

"Akhmed."

"We have company back here. Take command of the column. Proceed at twenty kilometers per hour. I will drop back with the Bradleys to investigate. If they are Saudi, you will slow the column to allow them to overtake and join us. If they are not, I will inform you. If so, they are in your hands and those of Allah. Allah is great! Out."

Hamal's Abrams and the two Bradleys pulled up behind a dune-like hill to the west of the road to wait. Hamal's driver asked, "Sir, if we're stopping here, would it be a good time to refuel?"

Hamal almost wet himself! He had gone through a battle with two 100-liter "Jerry cans" of petrol attached to the sides of his tank. One shot would have been all it would have taken. "Do it," he answered, "and, if we have enough, refuel the Bradleys, too. We'll be here for a while."

Five minutes later, the distant vehicles were just dots wavering in the heat waves, even in Hamal's 7x35 binoculars. He waited. Five minutes later, the dots were clearly identifiable as tanks. Five minutes later, he knew recognized the tanks. They were T-90s, definitely not Saudi.

Yet, on both the eastern and western horizon there were other smaller dust plumes. Were they all enemies, or were one or both of the flanking columns Saudi? There was no way to know. "Bradley One, investigate dust cloud west of our position. Bradley Two, check the one east of us. Hurry! The column coming down the road is enemy. Call in. I will cover you as long as I can. Allah be with you!"

As his two consorts rolled away over the sands, Hamal felt as alone as he had ever felt in his life. He had to keep busy, and his training came to the forefront. "Designate," he ordered, and his turret swung slightly and the cannon elevated to its maximum. "Range?"

"Out of range, Sir."

"Range, damn it!"

"Seven-triple-Oh"

Seven thousand meters. At twenty-thousand meters per hour, they'd be here in twenty minutes. But, they were traveling faster than that and he knew it.

"Tank One, Bradley Two. They're Saudis. Request orders."

"Do they have any tanks or Bradleys?"

"Negative. Twenty-five trucks, eighteen APCs. Zero Tanks, zero Bradleys."

"Direct them to the road, and rejoin at my position. Enemy will arrive in one-zero minutes. We'll have to slow them down or they'll overtake the column!"

"Yes, Sir. Will rejoin in five minutes. Out."

A few seconds later, Hamal received similar call from his other sheep dog. This escaping Saudi column was huge: over a hundred trucks that had escaped from An-Naqirah. There were no tanks and only one Bradley. And, that Bradley wouldn't come east. Hamal thought about it for a second. "Return to formation, Bradley One. We can't do anything about him right now, but if we live through this, I'll roast him slowly over a hot fire."

"Yes, Sir. Returning to formation."

The Bradleys were back before the head of the column had closed to three thousand meters. He radioed, "Pick your targets. I will clear you to fire on a target. You do not, repeat, do not have weapons free." It'd be several minutes before his cannon could be brought to bear.

"Bradley One, here. I have the lead tank locked up. Ready to fire."

"Shoot!"

The missile's tiny brain came to life as the rocket engines ignited. The 20-G acceleration would have crushed bone and muscle into a sticky bloody mass, but the electrons never felt their change in velocity. The ultra-small-scale electronic device only knew one thing. A spot of light was out there. Regardless of anything else, it was to direct its entire short existence into following that light. It wasn't like the religious fervor of the pilgrim or the passion of the obsessed. Light was the only thing it knew. The missile had one and only one goal in life. Wherever that light was, it was to follow.

Hamal watched in breathless anticipation. The missile seemed to jump up at first. Then, it dropped so precipitously that it seemed to be crashing into the desert. Then, it flew on. The enemy tank veered rapidly to the left, but the missile tracked it. The tank jogged back to the right and then zigged to the left, but still the missile unerringly sought it out. Then, just as it seemed it would miss, flying high over its target and on until its motors failed, the missile blew down. The anti-tank weapon had deliberately flown above its target where its shaped charge could destroy the tank from its most vulnerable position, the top.

The enemy column stopped, turned and retreated!

Hamal's mind screamed, Retreat! He grabbed his microphone. "Bradley One, Bradley Two, follow me! We're going south!" His Abrams backed, spun and accelerated with its companions close on its heels. In two minutes, they were back on the road, racing southward at 60 kilometers per hour.

He had traveled at that speed for ten minutes before he saw the dust on the horizon. It took another ten minutes before he closed on the column. "Captain Akhmed, well done. You are relieved of your burdens. I will take command. Tank out."

"Who is this?" a new voice appeared on the network.

"This is the guy in the tank. Identify yourself."

"This is Major Summan. Identify yourself and report to me."

"Major, this is the guy in the tank. I am the shepherd of this flock. I have returned with my sheep dogs after destroying the big, bad wolf who would have eaten you alive. This is my flock. I will bring it back to the fold, or die in the attempt. Allah be praised!"

"I'll have you court-martialed, tanker! My vehicle will be dropping out and returning to your position."

"If you get out of line, my sheep dogs will shoot you. If you persist, I shall blow you to Paradise. Are you ready to meet Allah today, Major?"

Not a vehicle strayed, nor even hesitated. Like sheep, they kept to the path. Like sheep, if one veered each in its turn veered in the same manner.

"Tank, M-113 number one. Road junction ahead. No sign of movement. Orders?"

The major's radio blurted in, "Go south to Jubayl!"

"Repeat, Tank, repeat."

The major shouted again, "Go south, fool! Follow your orders!"

Hamal radioed, "M-113 Number One, go left. Go south towards Jubayl. Accelerate and hold at thirty kilometers per hour. Acknowledge."

"Acknowledged tank. South, Jubayl, thirty."

"Major," Hamal radioed, "if you ever pull a stunt like that again, I will have you dragged from your vehicle and shot! Acknowledge!"

The silence would have filled a tomb.

* * * * *

4.3.3 Sanctuary

Hamal pushed them steadily into the afternoon. The sun baked his steel monster, but he dared not open the hatches. It was hotter still outside, and the dust was almost impenetrable. Better the comfort of this discomfort.

This time, Hamal didn't see it first. The commander of Bradley One saw it. "Tank, Bradley One. Dust behind us and to the west. It seems to be one huge cloud."

Hamal didn't have to check his maps. The cloud was coming from the northwest, from An-Naqirah. Something that big could only be the enemy. Too many ... far too many for one tank and two AFVs, but his column contained over two hundred other vehicles. Perhaps as many as one thousand lives depended upon him. He estimated that they were only thirty kilometers from Jubayl. At their speed, that was less than an hour away. If he could buy them just fifteen minutes, they'd be safe in Jubayl, however safe that was. At least, he could give them a chance.

"Major, respond."

"Tank, this is Major Summan."

"Major, this is Tank. We have company to the rear. The shepherd and his sheep dogs will drop back to see what dangers the flock might be facing. If they are ours, I will call you on the radio. You will then slow to fifteen kilometers to allow our brothers to overtake us. If they are not, I will inform you. You may take such actions as you see fit at that time, but not before. Acknowledge." The radio was silent.

"Captain Akhmed, this is Tank. Come in."

"Akhmed here."

"Captain Akhmed, did you hear my communication with Major Summan?"

"Indeed, I did Tank. He did not respond."

"That is true. Therefore, you are in command of this column. Acknowledge my instructions."

"Yes, Sir. Maintain speed until you report. If enemy is sighted, make best speed for Jubayl. If elements to the rear are Saudi, slow to fifteen and allow them to overtake. Orders acknowledged."

"Confirmation of orders, Akhmed. If that major interferes, arrest him and put him under guard."

The tank and the AFV's dropped back, looking for a place to hide. The best places seemed to be in the east, closer to the sea. They climbed a small bluff and eased over the crest. Slowly, the three units turned and again approached the edge. They stopped as if on queue as their command turrets gained a view of the terrain below them. Once again, the long wait began.

This time the wait was not as bad because Hamal knew what to expect. At the same time it was far worse. Earlier, he had waited for a single cloud and a single column. It had also taken only a single missile killing a single tank to throw the enemy into disarray. This thing was huge, like a desert storm boiling up and throwing the dust of centuries into the stratosphere.

Hamal measured the dust cloud approaching them. It seemed to increase its angle, and, from his basic geometry, he calculated a battle front of over twenty kilometers! Twenty kilometers were filled with tanks, BTMs, BTRs and all the other equipment of a modern army. He faced the approaching front with just three vehicles covering a front of less than twenty meters. "Insh'Allah," he laughed, "but without the sense of urgency!"

Five minutes later the mirages danced and jittered just over the horizon. The atmosphere enlarged and magnified their shapes, but distorted them at the same time. His 7x35s helped. There was no doubt as to their identity. They were Russian tanks, hundreds of them as far as the eye could see.

"Captain Akhmed, this is Tank." Hamal had to repeat his call before the weak signal came back to him.

"Tank, this is Akhmed. Repeat message."

"Akhmed! Enemy! Go to Jubayl!"

"Acknowledged, Tank. Allah be with you!"

'Yes, may Allah be with us. '

The mirages flickered and disappeared only to be replaced with the dark shapes of reality. "Spread out," he ordered his sheep dogs, "We don't want to go to Paradise together in the same explosion."

Slowly the Bradleys moved off a hundred meters in either direction. Missile launchers extended from their turrets, and their range finders pointed forward like the ears of dogs listening to a distant sound. Five minutes passed, and the enemy tanks approached to six thousand meters.

"Tank, Bradley Two. Enemy lead tank at extreme range. Permission to fire?"

"Negative. Wait until you can be sure of a killing blow."

Three minutes later, Bradley One called. The voice quavered slightly, but it was filled with resolve. Hamal gave permission to fire and a gray cloud accelerated towards their enemies. Bradley Two called in with a target, and another missile erupted on its single-minded errand of death. Another was fired from Bradley One and one from Bradley Two. Four kills burned in the desert, but the brown wave of dust swept down on them. Two more missiles and two more kills. Bradley One was out of missiles and Two had only one left. The range was down to three thousand meters.

"Designate! Heat! Target! Fire!" Twenty nine hundred meters. "Designate! Heat! Target! Fire!" Twenty-eight hundred meters. How many times did he say it? He lost count. He ran out of HEAT rounds, but the range was shorter so he could switch to sabots. Tanks burned, BTMs died and BTRs were crushed. But, still they came on.

Both Bradleys opened up with their chain guns. They couldn't do anything against tanks, but the more lightly armored BTMs and BTRs took a terrible pasting. He opened up with his own 12.7-mm, but it was like throwing rocks into the sea.

The enemy closed on his tiny group. Bradley One spouted smoke! The four crewmen clambered out. Three of them struggled to put out the fire that engulfed their companion.

Hamal's tank lurched to one side as a thunderclap echoed within the turret. He was deafened, and blood ran from his nose and ears. But, his doubly reactive armor had done its job. "Target! Tank! Sabot! Fire!" The T-90 or was it a T-92....? The question seemed very important, and his mind refused to surrender any of its capacities until the issue had been resolved.

Flashes appeared all around him. Tanks and armored vehicles exploded all about as though the very hand of Allah had reached down into this tiny spot on this little world just to save him. His radio hammered in his ears. "Saudi tank! Saudi tank! Get the hell out of there!" His mind cleared. Only Americans swore like that!

"Move your ass, Saudi tank! Move due south. American lines are ten klics due south."

More explosions rent the land around him, and he needed no more encouragement. He popped the top of his cupola, and yelled down to his four men, "Jump up here and hold on!" He slammed the hatch, "Bradley Two, follow me. Due south. The Americans are here!"

His tank bucked off through the dunes followed closely by the remaining Bradley. They clawed their way back to the road, and raced southward on its smooth surface at over sixty kilometers per hour. Overhead, Hamal could see fast moving shapes going northward. Every once in a while, he spotted the ungainly shape of a tank killer low to the ground.

"Saudi tank, Saudi tank, better slow down a little. You're almost on friendly ground. Good luck, fella. Tank Buster, out."

He came over a small hill, and there before him on a rise of land was the largest American flag he'd ever seen. Tears welled up in his eyes. The Yanks are here!