“Almost seems like they want us to be captured, doesn’t it, sir?”
“The thought crossed my mind.”
“Are we going to surrender, Colonel?”
Gritti didn’t answer. For the third time that day, he called Warlord on the UHF/SAT channel. He had to speak quickly. The batteries were almost shot. Another shining example of America’s high-tech hardware turning to inert shit when it was most needed. Here they were, surrounded by third-world guerillas — whose equipment was more sophisticated than their own.
Gritti gave Vitale a quick version of the surrender demand. Let them chew on it, he decided. Let the brass earn their pay.
“We copy that,” said Vitale. “Stand by.”
Gritti knew what that meant. Fletcher and his staff were wringing their hands over the problem. Maybe even running it past JTF or someone in the Pentagon. It also meant, he had no doubt, that the civilian pissant, Babcock, was making the call.
“Boomer,” came Vitale’s voice again. “We have reason to think that this channel — all the channels on your field radio — might be compromised.”
“Good thinking. We figured that out yesterday.” He knew the sarcasm was spilling out, but he didn’t care. Navy dipshits.
“Your orders are unchanged, Boomer. Maintain your perimeter while the situation gets resolved diplomatically.”
“Listen!” Gritti exploded. “Before you people get the situation resolved diplomatically, the game will fucking be over. Do you understand that? When is someone going to get their thumb out of their ass and thump these guys?”
He laid down the microphone and took a deep breath. Okay, he thought, you’ve gone over the edge. That takes care of your career. But what the hell? If you live through this, you get to go fishing.
A long pause ensued. He thought maybe his batteries had finally expired.
The earphone crackled again. “Boomer, regarding the present situation, Warlord authorizes you to use your own discretion.”
Gritti stared at the radio. He felt a wave of depression descend over him. Use your own discretion. They were telling him he could keep fighting or surrender. He was on his own.
Al-Fasr paced the hard dirt outside his command bunker. When he reached the end of the path, he turned and retraced his steps. As he paced, he kept glancing at the sky, listening for the sounds of incoming aircraft.
Nothing. An hour had passed since he had sent the ultimatum to the marine commander.
No response.
Al-Fasr had monitored the radio exchange between the marine colonel and his commanders. He had heard them, with typical American military ineptitude, tell the colonel to “use his own discretion.” What did that mean? That he could surrender?
As if he had a choice.
Thinking about the incompetent commanders on the Reagan angered Al-Fasr. Why didn’t they order the marine to surrender? Where was Babcock? Why wasn’t he intervening? Babcock understood that the United States, more now than in recent times, had no stomach for casualties of war. They would vastly prefer seeing their soldiers held captive over being slaughtered like cattle.
Al-Fasr didn’t think they would deliver more air support. He had demonstrated that he could shoot down helicopters as if they were guinea fowl. The fighters were deadlier, but they had shown no further interest in using them after losing three of the outrageously expensive craft in action.
Al-Fasr himself had no need for more dead Americans. What he needed now was fifty live prisoners. Holding the marines as hostages would discourage any further thoughts by the Americans about invading Yemen or assaulting his complex.
It would buy him the time to complete his mission.
Al-Fasr stopped his pacing and peered again at his watch. Perhaps he should go himself, engage in a personal discussion with the marine officer. If the man understood how hopeless his situation was, how pointless it would be to suffer more casualties, he would acquiesce.
What if he refused?
Al-Fasr considered for a moment. Time was running out, as well as his patience. With each hour the danger was increasing that the enemy — the United States and its evil leaders — would launch an assault on his complex in Yemen.
It would be the end.
He could not allow his mission to be thwarted because of the obstinance of one blockheaded foot soldier. If the marines did not lay down their arms and surrender peacefully, he would take the perimeter by force. Quickly and without regard for life. If any survived, they would become his prisoners.
“Are we going to surrender?” asked Baldwin.
Gritti looked at the young officer. He didn’t have an answer. Not yet, anyway. He had been a marine for most of his adult life, but nothing had prepared him for this. Every fiber in his being told him to continue fighting, to tell Al-Fasr to go take a flying leap.
For what? So he and his young troops could prove that marines would rather die than surrender? What if they became hostages? If the military commanders running this operation were cynical enough to allow them to perish out here without throwing in massive quantities of firepower to support them, what the hell difference did it make? Better live hostages than dead marines.
The low point had come in the early morning, when the rescue helos had appeared — then turned back. He wondered what happened to the two downed Hornet pilots. They weren’t coming up anymore on the SAR channel. It meant they were either picked up or captured.
Conspicuously, no jets had swept in low as they did yesterday to strafe and bomb the Sherji. It occurred to Gritti that maybe Baldwin had it right. Perhaps the guys on the command ship really expected them to surrender.
The thought caused the anger to rise in Gritti again. At this very moment, he knew twelve hundred marines were poised on the Saipan to swarm into Yemen. Within six hours’ flying time, another two thousand could be on the ground here. In a day, an entire division could be airlifted from Europe.
Where the hell were they?
The fatigue was settling on him like a drug. Gritti let his mind wander for a moment. How would he be remembered after this episode? Marines had held their ground at Belleau Wood, at Iwo Jima, at Khe San. Of all the proud events marines celebrated in their long history, surrendering was not one of them.
He felt Baldwin’s eyes on him. “Are we going to surrender?” he said, repeating the captain’s question. “No, Captain, we are not.”
Baldwin gave him a curt nod. “Roger that, Colonel. What do you want me to tell Al-Fasr’s emissary?”
Gritti thought for a second. He didn’t know much Arabic, but he remembered something he’d learned in Riyadh. “Give him a little message from me. Tell him Manyouk.”
“Which means…?”
“Fuck you.”
Baldwin’s dirt-streaked face split in a grin. “Yes, sir. I’ll tell him it’s from all of us.”
“What the hell are we waiting for?” Boyce demanded. “Why aren’t we launching an alpha strike and a ground assault force now?”
Boyce’s strident tone alarmed Fletcher. Navy captains weren’t supposed to use that manner with admirals, particularly admirals who were their boss. The Air Wing Commander was coming close to insubordination.
“Because we follow orders in this battle group,” said Fletcher. “I take mine from OpNav and the Joint Chiefs and the Commander of the Joint Task Force. I’ll remind you that you take your orders from me. Lower your voice, Captain.”