Chapter 39 #2
Coleman nodded, his eyes locked on the sandy length of terrain stretching away from Route 1.
Getting into Iraq wasn’t exactly a cakewalk, but it was doable.
For reasons known only to him, Saddam Hussein had taken to thumbing his nose at the UN-imposed ceasefire restrictions by periodically activating his antiaircraft radars and locking up the coalition fighters who patrolled Iraqi skies to enforce the no-fly zone.
The president responded by authorizing strikes against the radars and the surface-to-air missiles batteries to which they supplied targeting information.
And not just the offending radars. Using a language in which the Middle East was well versed, American fighter bombers replied to Iraq’s provocation with overwhelming force, eradicating not just the radars that had been radiating but other random-seeming installations miles from the offending sites.
But there was nothing random about the choice of targets.
The chairman of the Joint Chiefs knew that the record-breaking one hundred hours it had taken for coalition forces to win the ground fight during Desert Storm was only possible because the air campaign had neutralized targets for the preceding ten weeks.
The Marine general didn’t believe the Iraqis would be foolish enough to allow America to prep the battlefield for that long if hostilities kicked off a second time.
With this in mind, he’d ordered his air-battle planners to produce a list of targets that could be whittled down every time the Iraqis powered up their radars.
Because of his foresight, a corridor through Iraq’s air defense network had already been created.
That was the easy part.
The harder chore had been finding a plot of land suitable for the C-130s tasked with flying chemical weapons out of Iraq to set down that was close enough to the road and still sheltered from prying eyes.
The special operations version of the venerable four-engined propeller plane could land on a postage stamp, but the aircraft was uniquely vulnerable on the ground.
All the pre-mission bombing campaigns would be for naught if an Iraqi Republican Guard patrol stumbled upon the idling planes.
A single well-placed RPG or burst of machine-gun fire would turn the staging site into a catastrophe that would make the eight servicemen and two aircraft lost during the ill-fated 1980 attempt to rescue the Americans taken hostage by Iranian revolutionaries a campfire in comparison.
Coleman’s conversation was forcing him to confront an uncomfortable truth: in his eagerness to assure his superiors that SEAL Team 6 was ready to deliver on an operation that required such audacity, he may have inadvertently signed his men up for the impossible.
Swallowing his pride, Coleman asked the question he should have voiced much earlier in the operational planning cycle.
“How would your Unit brethren skin this cat?”
Elvis’s gaze snapped from the terrain board to Coleman, his eyes widening. “Look, sir, I didn’t mean to imply that—”
“I know,” Coleman said, waving away the commando’s objections, “and this isn’t a trick question.
There’s a reason why the JSOC commander instituted this exchange program.
We’re supposed to learn from each other.
You’ve gone out of your way to avoid stepping on toes or wearing out your welcome, and I appreciate your discretion.
But we’re both professionals, and I’d be a fool not to welcome another professional’s opinion.
So lay it on me, Elvis. If this was a Delta Force op, how would you execute? ”
Elvis held Coleman’s gaze for a long moment.
Then he slowly nodded.
“Okay, sir. Like I said before, I think your frogmen are hell on wheels when it comes to actions on the objective. What you need is time. Time to flex your assault element to a second kill box, or better yet, time to influence the route the weapons convoy takes if they decide to make a detour. If this was my squadron’s op, I would put in an R-and-S team.
They can set up a patrol base in this wadi about four kilometers southwest of Routes 1 and 11.
The quick reactionary force and the team’s vehicles can loiter in the wadi while the R-and-S team sets up a hide site that gives them eyes on the intersection. ”
Elvis stabbed two spots on the terrain board, leaving finger-sized indentations in the sand. “The scout sniper team will pick their own hide-site location, but I’d probably use these bluffs, since they provide line of sight to most of the convoy’s potential routes of travel.”
Coleman put himself in the boots of Elvis’s fictional reconnaissance and surveillance, or R-and-S, teams. He liked what he saw.
“The R-and-S teams drive in?” Coleman said.
Elvis nodded. “Drive to the patrol base. Then walk to their hide site. You can’t insert them by helicopter.
Too noisy. The locals will report the unusual activity, and someone will come looking.
Best case, the Iraqis decide to change the date and time of the convoy or use a different border-crossing spot.
Worst case, the team gets compromised and they find themselves in a gunfight with a numerically superior Iraqi force.
After the hit on the convoy, they can either drive to the C-130s and catch a ride home with them or move to a separate landing zone and get exfiled by helicopter. ”
“You sound like you mighta done this before,” Coleman said.
Elvis smiled. “I did a rotation in B Squadron’s reconnaissance and surveillance troop, and during Desert Storm I was part of the Unit element tasked with hunting down Saddam’s Scuds. I’ve got plenty of experience sneaking and peeking in Iraq.”
“Thought so,” Coleman said, scratching his beard. “My SEALs don’t. Our bread and butter is maritime reconnaissance. Sneaking SEALs onto beaches or sending them up contested riverine routes. Long, overland infils are not the kind of thing we train for.”
“I get it,” Elvis said. “And I’m more than happy to help with planning, embed with an R-and-S team, or even lead one, but I had a different thought.”
“What?”
“We have two Tier One units for a reason. Why don’t we divide this op between us? Like I said, your SEALs are hell on wheels on the objective. Concentrate your frogmen there and ask to borrow a Delta R-and-S troop. I’ll serve as your liaison. They can be the eyes and ears for your hammer.”
Coleman’s first urge was to insist that his SEALs were capable of handling the entire operation without the Army’s help. But even if that were true, it wasn’t the point. His frogmen didn’t need to do this alone, especially with a Delta recon unit already in country.
“I can run it up the flagpole,” Coleman said, “but if the unit troop commander doesn’t want to do the mission, this thing will be dead in the water. You think he’ll go for it?”
“I’ve known Major Taylor since he was a platoon leader in the Ranger regiment,” Elvis said. “He’s a professional who will jump on this in a heartbeat. Besides, it’s not every day you get to hold a SEAL by the hand and show him where to point his rifle.”
Coleman laughed. “If this goes through, I know one thing for sure.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“The SEAL jokes from your Unit boys are going to be insufferable.”