he was. Theyâd roll over him.
The causeway was behind; the city rose ahead. Soon the heavy elements would counterattack. Theyâd need someone to spot fire for them, call air and artillery and naval gunfire from offshore. If they could find an observation point in Khafjiâ¦He told the guys what they were going to do. Theyâd have to abandon the vehicles, leave them some distance from wherever they holed up. Otherwise, if the Iraqis saw them, theyâd do a house-to-house search.
By midnight they were barricaded in the cab of a container crane at the port, in sight of the Khafji Beach Hotel, looking down at the Iraqis as they edged into the deserted city and began looting. They stayed for two days, along with another team from First Recon, calling in fire on the Iraqis and dodging from building to building to evade them, until the Saudis retook the town.
Â
THEY FLEW west. The sun gave him that much; and for a while he tracked the berm in the distance, the border between warring principalities and powers; then it angled off in the great northwest tangent that would end eventually at Jordan. He and the captain and Zeitner and Vertierra and Nichols sat wordlessly, butts cradled in nylon webbing, cranials and Mickey Mouse ears insulating them as effectively as if they sat in separate rooms. F.C. looked haggard. He had cammie paint in the creases behind his ears. Gault sign-asked if he was okay. He said he was. The sky went blue, then gray again, but theyâd left the Destructo Zone of oil haze and overhead doom.They landed only once, along a road that came straight as a taut wire over one horizon and disappeared over the other. A deuce and a half was waiting, and when the skids went down another marine swung out of it and trotted toward them. Gault didnât recognize him; a young guy. As soon as he was aboard they lifted off again and settled back into that western-heading groove. And gradually the droning vibration and the missing sleep got to him, and his head sank.
Arrowing westward over the empty desert, Gault slept.
Â
THE ROOM was unpainted concrete block, with no windows and a buzzing fluorescent light. The floor was concrete painted brown, with a drain in the center. He didnât know what base this was. Coming in, heâd seen an airstrip, protective wire, guard towers. Cobras sitting in revetments. Tents. Conex boxes. More revetments around ugly warthog A-10s, like tadpoles with stubby wings, and off on the far side of the strip enormous mounds of green-painted bombs from which yellow forklifts shuttled back and forth. No chairs, so they settled on the concrete, looking up at a stand with a display. It was covered by opaque plastic marked SECRET . Vertierra broke open the shrink-wrapped case of water and passed bottles around.
The captain stood up front, looking even larger in the small room. Too large, Gault thought, looking at his bull neck, his tree-trunk thighs. The big guys didnât seem to make it in the recon community. The best physical type was neither tall nor short, neither skinny nor bulked. Team guys were buffed but not grotesquely so. Kohler passed out memo books and pencils, like a teacher before a test. Then went back to his modified parade rest.
âAs of now, weâre in lockdown for mission prep. No phone calls, no mail, no leaving the base. No discussion of the mission outside these rooms, even among yourselves. Everybody understand?
âFor those who havenât met me yet, Iâm Captain Kohler, with S-2 of First SRIG. Personel from I MEF and possibly from Riyadh will also be part of the briefing team. Theyâre on their way here now. Lieutenant Colonel Anders Paulik is the S-3 of First SRIG. Heâll be here shortly too. Till then, heâs asked me to give you a quick mission brief so you can start planning.
âWhy are you here? Two reasons. First, youâre all recon marines. Second, we wanted street fighters. Most of youâve
The causeway was behind; the city rose ahead. Soon the heavy elements would counterattack. Theyâd need someone to spot fire for them, call air and artillery and naval gunfire from offshore. If they could find an observation point in Khafjiâ¦He told the guys what they were going to do. Theyâd have to abandon the vehicles, leave them some distance from wherever they holed up. Otherwise, if the Iraqis saw them, theyâd do a house-to-house search.
By midnight they were barricaded in the cab of a container crane at the port, in sight of the Khafji Beach Hotel, looking down at the Iraqis as they edged into the deserted city and began looting. They stayed for two days, along with another team from First Recon, calling in fire on the Iraqis and dodging from building to building to evade them, until the Saudis retook the town.
Â
THEY FLEW west. The sun gave him that much; and for a while he tracked the berm in the distance, the border between warring principalities and powers; then it angled off in the great northwest tangent that would end eventually at Jordan. He and the captain and Zeitner and Vertierra and Nichols sat wordlessly, butts cradled in nylon webbing, cranials and Mickey Mouse ears insulating them as effectively as if they sat in separate rooms. F.C. looked haggard. He had cammie paint in the creases behind his ears. Gault sign-asked if he was okay. He said he was. The sky went blue, then gray again, but theyâd left the Destructo Zone of oil haze and overhead doom.They landed only once, along a road that came straight as a taut wire over one horizon and disappeared over the other. A deuce and a half was waiting, and when the skids went down another marine swung out of it and trotted toward them. Gault didnât recognize him; a young guy. As soon as he was aboard they lifted off again and settled back into that western-heading groove. And gradually the droning vibration and the missing sleep got to him, and his head sank.
Arrowing westward over the empty desert, Gault slept.
Â
THE ROOM was unpainted concrete block, with no windows and a buzzing fluorescent light. The floor was concrete painted brown, with a drain in the center. He didnât know what base this was. Coming in, heâd seen an airstrip, protective wire, guard towers. Cobras sitting in revetments. Tents. Conex boxes. More revetments around ugly warthog A-10s, like tadpoles with stubby wings, and off on the far side of the strip enormous mounds of green-painted bombs from which yellow forklifts shuttled back and forth. No chairs, so they settled on the concrete, looking up at a stand with a display. It was covered by opaque plastic marked SECRET . Vertierra broke open the shrink-wrapped case of water and passed bottles around.
The captain stood up front, looking even larger in the small room. Too large, Gault thought, looking at his bull neck, his tree-trunk thighs. The big guys didnât seem to make it in the recon community. The best physical type was neither tall nor short, neither skinny nor bulked. Team guys were buffed but not grotesquely so. Kohler passed out memo books and pencils, like a teacher before a test. Then went back to his modified parade rest.
âAs of now, weâre in lockdown for mission prep. No phone calls, no mail, no leaving the base. No discussion of the mission outside these rooms, even among yourselves. Everybody understand?
âFor those who havenât met me yet, Iâm Captain Kohler, with S-2 of First SRIG. Personel from I MEF and possibly from Riyadh will also be part of the briefing team. Theyâre on their way here now. Lieutenant Colonel Anders Paulik is the S-3 of First SRIG. Heâll be here shortly too. Till then, heâs asked me to give you a quick mission brief so you can start planning.
âWhy are you here? Two reasons. First, youâre all recon marines. Second, we wanted street fighters. Most of youâve
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