He had gotten up early this morning to check on his perimeter security units. His rapid deployment force unit had been supplemented with Iranian Revolutionary Guard regulars, some of the toughest and meanest men he had ever met up with. The problem was that the Iranians had no idea how to fire a Patriot or Hawk missile, even though Iran had had Hawk missiles for years, so Ledbetter used the Iranians as security guards. But being a mere watchdog was way beneath a Muslim revolutionary guard — in centuries past, guard duties had always been left to slaves, peasants, conquered heathens or eunuchs — and so arguments would often break out between Ledbetter's people and Iranians. Ledbetter's surprise inspections would usually help keep conflicts down and morale and watchfulness high, but he couldn't really blame the eager Iranian soldiers for grabbing an American rifle and charging Soviet-occupied Shiraz or Tehran. Even so, he tried to convince them that their responsibility was here.
Ledbetter cruised by the first sergeant's tent just as his unit's senior NCO, Sergeant Plutarsky, was emerging from his tent. "Good timing, Sergeant."
"Heard you coming, sir." Plutarsky threw his young commander a salute. The two men, the veteran NCO and the green officer, had somehow become friends after arriving at one of the hottest hot-spots in the Iran conflict. They complemented each other welclass="underline" Ledbetter knew surface-to-air missiles and electronics; Plutarsky knew his men. Seldom did the two cross, which seemed to make the unit hum along. Ledbetterr didn't mess with the men; Plutarsky didn't mess with the missiles.
Ledbetter nodded in return at Plutarsky; neither stood for much formality. "I want to take a look at Whiskey Three first." Whiskey Three, or West Three, was one of the posts guarding the main long-range search radar.
"You mean you want to take a look at Shurab," Plutarsky said. "Me too. Mister Shurab has had a stick up his rear ever since he's been here. He's got all the rest of the Iranians kowtowing to him. "
"He says he's from the family of one of the religious members of Alientar's government, or something like that," Ledbetter said. "But you're right. He acts as if this whole war is being fought for his benefit."
Along the way, they stopped and inspected several of the other components of the CAB. To reduce the risk of one bomb taking out the entire missile system, the individual units of each missile system were widely separated. The control center for the whole CAB was in a trailer that had been buried underground to protect it from attack; that was where Ledbetter slept. To help secure the site, most of the men slept at their posts. The main Patriot phased-array radar was on a hill overlooking the valley about five miles away.
In the center of the encampment Ledbetter's CAB had a standard search-radar system that provided long-range surveillance of the area. Although the search-radar was not tied into any of the surface-to-air missiles, the radar could detect aircraft approaching the area up to two hundred miles away, from ground level to well above fifty thousand feet, and the search radar could "slave" the other acquisition tracking and uplink radars with it to help the smaller radars find targets for their missiles.
The search radar had been hoisted on top of an old rusted oil derrick about thirty feet above ground, along with a satellite communications dish and other shorter-range radio antennas. Nearby was a circular sandbag bunker with another set of acquisition radars inside, and a hundred feet beyond was the first of eight four-missile Patriot missile launchers, also in a sandbag bunker. Ledbetter could just barely make out the outline of the derrick on the horizon as he blew warm air onto this hands while they approached the derrick.
"Cold, Sarge?"
"I'm from Florida, sir," Plutarsky said. "Anything below sixty degrees is the next Ice Age to me."
At the derrick a few minutes later, they heard a rustle of footsteps and the unmistakable sound of an M-16 rifle on its web sling. "Stop," a voice called out, except the heavy Maine accent sounded more like, "Stawp. Who gowahs theah?"
Plutarsky was chuckling. "These Iranians speak better English than you do, Cooper."
They heard the rifle clattering back onto the technician's shoulder. "Good moawin', First Sahgeant. Up early, ayuh?"
"Me and the lieutenant are touring the grounds. We're thinking of building a Hilton here."
"A Hilton. That's a good one."
"Where's the ragheads?" Plutarsky got a disapproving look from Ledbetter.
"Around heah somewheahs, Sahge," Cooper replied. "They's quiet like mice, don't ya know."
"Shurab too?"
"King Shurab says he switched shifts with some of his pas."
"Again?" Ledbetter said.
"I don't think he pulls any guard duty."
"I know. Damned well he don't," Plutersky agreed. "When I find him — going to ban his ass out."
"Better take it easy, Sarge, " Ledbetter said. "The Iranians are at least technically our allies, and Shurab is an allied officer. Let them run their detachment the way they want it. If he's doing something that affects security, then I will put the hammer down. Emphasis on the 'I.'"
"Yes, Sir."
They left Cooper to guard the oil derrick and continued on. After a few moments they came across a circle of five Iranian guards armed with M-16 rifles. All five came to attention, and one saluted Ledbetter. "Good morning to you, Commander," he said. Ledbetter returned his salute.
"Where's First Captain Shurab?" Ledbetter asked.
"He is at guard house, Commander."
"He's supposed to be on patrol."
The Iranians looked puzzled, as if they didn't understand. Plutarsky then stepped forward. "Shurab, dammit. Patrol. He has patrol."
"No patrol," one of the other revolutionary guards said. "I take patrol, I patrol."
"You're Khaleir, aren't you? Khaleii?" The soldier nodded. "You had the morning patrol. Shurab has the night patrol."
"No. I take." He bent to listen to one of his comrades, then said in carefully accented English, "I switch."
"Get Shurab. Bring him here," Plutarsky said. The soldiers stood around, only superficially trying to act as if they didn't understand but obviously trying to decide what to do.
"I want Shurab here," Ledbetter said.
"Yes, Sir," a voice said. Out of the darkness walked a tall, mustachioed man, unshaven, dressed in a clean desert gray combat jacket and immaculately spit-shined boots, and smoking a cigarette. He was easily the best-groomed man in camp — even the mud seemed to refuse to stick to his boots. His well-tended veneer only served to increase Plutarsky's foul mood.
"First Captain Shurab, Sir, you are supposed to be leading the western guard patrol," Plutarsky said. "Why aren't you at your post?"
"I switch with Abdul, Sir," Shurab said to Ledbetter, pointedly ignoring Plutarsky.
"You can't switch with a man who has already pulled one twelve-hour patrol," Ledbetter told him. "I won't have tired guards on duty, especially at night. We're only a few miles from Soviet-held territory—"
"I spit on the Soviets, Sir."
"Good for you." Ledbetter turned to Plutarsky. "First Captain Shurab will lead the remainder of the night patrol and the whole morning patrol. He is not authorized a replacement under any circumstances. If he is not at his post as ordered he will be reported to the revolutionary guard commandant at Bandar-Abbas for dereliction of duty. See to it, Sergeant."