Khadid responded, saying, "I am ready, Brigadier!"
Within half a minute the German machine guns and Spanish automatic grenade launchers employed by Iranian soldiers began laying down covering fire that pounded into the American line.
AT the same moment that the incoming barrage plastered the SEAL positions, Brannigan noted that the Zaheya infantry units were pulling out of the valley. That left him two choices; one, duck down and avoid casualties; or two, mount a rapid attack and stream down into the valley and rush across to close with the retreating enemy before they could reach safety. It took him one immeasurably short spark of time to reach a decision.
"All sections, counterattack! Chief Gunnarson, whip those M-sixties up on the enemy support fire elements!"
The SEALs, grabbing extra bandoliers at their feet, slung them across their shoulders and climbed over the positions to scramble down the incline into no-man's-land. The SAW gunners and grenadiers continued to coordinate their efforts, firing across the two hundred meters of space to where the Zaheya riflemen were making a disciplined withdrawal from the battlefield.
NOW both sides were locked in a massive firefight. A couple of Iranians and an Arab dropped to the ground as the exchange of gunfire built up in intensity. Two SEALs-Paul Schreiner of the Second Assault Section and Paulo Garcia of the Third--went down under incoming slugs from FA-MAS rifles.
Sikes and Khadid practiced fire-and-maneuver smoothly, keeping their battlefield formations moving slowly, albeit effectively, toward the slope leading to their fortification. They and the SEALs began to catch glimpses of each other, exchanging bursts of fire. The Americans' initial headlong rush toward the enemy had now slowed to their own careful, coordinated efforts as they continued keeping pressure on the Zaheya riflemen, who resisted with fierce determination and skill. The covering fire from the M-60 machine guns back at the base camp whipped over the SEALs' heads as Gunnarson's men ignored the heavy fire from the other side's support weapons.
The fluid movement of the fighting now came to a standstill as both sides found cover and concealment on their particular side of the valley. The fighting men locked into the battle, settling down to take potshots at each other that were punctuated occasionally with grenade bursts. Out of sheer desperation, everyone was ready to slug it out in the wild hope of victory. Above, on both sides of the valley, the fire support elements had all but neutralized each other. They could not exchange fire without getting into a no-win situation of eventually being blasted out of their fighting positions, and that also meant they could no longer cover their comrades-in-arms below, in the valley. All machine gunners and grenadiers were hunkered down, having thoughts about damning convention and logic to battle it out and destroy each other.
Stalemate.
Unknown to each other, the field commanders of the combatants in no-man's-land reached a mutual decision that the battle had now turned to one of attrition in which there would be no winners. At almost the same instant, Sikes Pasha and Lieutenant Bill Brannigan decided it was time to break it off, and each ordered a withdrawal to their own positions. The two sides put out fusillades of gunfire as they made their retrograde movements, not really trying to hit each other but concentrating on keeping the other guy from showing any tendencies toward aggressive behavior.
The battle that had begun at begun at dawn came to an anticlimactic finish at midmorning as the participants hurriedly ascended the slopes and disappeared over their parapets, carrying their KIAs with them.
CHAPTER 14
WASHINGTON, D. C.
3 AUGUST 1530 HOURS
DIRK Wallenger's spacious home was on fashionable R Street Northwest, and was an old two-story brick edifice with four bedrooms, three baths, living room, family room, dining room, kitchen, den, office, breakfast nook, gym, and solarium, all conveniently arranged in eight thousand square feet.
Wallenger sat behind the desk in his den after deciding that particular spot would give him a psychological advantage as he gazed across its teakwood expanse at his two visitors. One was Liam Bentley, the Federal Bureau of Investigation's White House Liaison Officer, and the other was also an agent from the FBI. He was John Wright, who worked in both domestic and foreign intelligence, and was a profiler, specializing in the shadowy world of operatives, informants, and wannabe spies. After his introduction to Wallenger he had remained silent while his partner did most of the talking.
While Bentley carried on the preliminary steps necessary for a visit of this nature, Wright's mind was busy categorizing Wallenger. The profiler saw that here was a dedicated elitist leftist who thought of himself as the champion of the common man, yet had a family background that included privilege and wealth, with access to educational and professional opportunities that were far beyond that of the average American. Some photos of the journalist riding horses were on the desk.
Wallenger's personal economic situation certainly allowed him to be part of the "horsey set," but Wright couldn't see him playing polo. He just wasn't the type.
Wallenger had a keen mind, no doubt, yet his perceptions had been clouded by an inability to fully understand the realities of the typical American life--easy to do when one has an abundance of money and no pressing economic problems. The concept of not being able to afford purchasing something was an alien concept to this man, born with that proverbial silver spoon clenched tightly between his teeth. Here, decided Wright, definitely was a well-placed individual who had done nothing to achieve this advantageous position other than being sired by a wealthy pater.
Additionally, Wright saw Wallenger as a pudgy little fellow who had gone through life trying to make up for his lack of physical attractiveness with a sneering display of intellect. No doubt he had known bullying in his boyhood at boarding schools when larger, more aggressive boys harassed him for no other reason that to have some fun at the little fellow's expense. Wright noted another photo on the desk. This one was also of Wallenger in past years, as a cadet at a private military academy. It was quite evident that his father had sent him there for some discipline and toughening up. Any man who would name his son "Dirk" obviously expected him to grow up to be an alpha male. And Wright would have bet his FBI pension that that boy had learned to hate the military with an unending passion. Wright doubted if he had spent more than a year at the institution, probably much less before dismissal as temperamentally unfit.
As Wright analyzed his subject, Bentley spoke in a friendly tone, showing a smile that was almost apologetic. "This is purely an informal call, Mr. Wallenger. I hope you understand that."
"I understand perfectly," Wallenger said coolly. "And please don't think me stupid enough to believe that two FBI agents have called on me to spend an amicable afternoon in pleasant chitchat."
"Well, Mr. Wallenger," Bentley said, "I certainly don't want to give the wrong impression either way. I think you'll agree that these are difficult times we're going through. The whole world is in turmoil because of situations our Western civilization has never faced before. This means that those of us in law enforcement and national defense services must leave the comfort of our offices to go out and speak to people. We are seeking help, and we can only get it by communicating with those we wish to serve."
"How very noble."
As the conversation between the two continued, Wright let his gaze slowly take in the bookcases around the room. Most were political tomes that covered recent history. This could be expected in the library of a contemporary journalist. He also noted that other subjects, such as biographies of Mao Zedong, Che Guevara, and Josef Stalin, were included. A couple of shelves down from that were books on Adolf Hitler, Francisco Franco, and Benito Mussolini. A further search revealed Karl Marx, Heinrich Himmler, Ralph Nader, and William Buckley. Wright smiled slightly to himself; the little guy seemed to be covering all bases in his research. His ultimate decision to lean politically to the left must have been genuine.