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  Other Books by William C. Dietz

  THE WINDS OF WAR SERIES

  Red Ice

  Red Flood

  Red Dragon

  Red Thunder

  Red Tide

  Red Sands

  AMERICA RISING SERIES

  Into the Guns

  Seek and Destroy

  Battle Hymn

  MUTANT FILES SERIES

  Deadeye

  Redzone

  Graveyard

  LEGION OF THE DAMNED SERIES

  Legion of the Damned

  The Final Battle

  By Blood Alone

  By Force of Arms

  For More Than Glory

  For Those Who Fell

  When All Seems Lost

  When Duty Calls

  A Fighting Chance

  Andromeda’s Fall

  Andromeda’s Choice

  Andromeda’s War

  RED SANDS

  WINDS OF WAR

  WILLIAM C. DIETZ

  Wind’s End Publishing

  Copyright © 2021 by William C. Dietz

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art by Damonza

  This book is dedicated to all of our men and women who served in Afghanistan.

  Thank you for your service.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Acknowledgement

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Author’s Note

  About the Winds of War Series

  About the Crickets Duology

  About William C. Dietz

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

  Leif Dolan was kind enough to give me a crash course in what it’s like to be a tanker, and teach me the technical concepts required to write this book. Errors, if any, are mine.

  Here’s Leif in his own words:

  Hello, My Name is Leif Dolan. I served in the US Army for thirteen years. I joined the Army in 1978. I went to Ft Knox for Armor OSUT, One Station, One Unit Training. I was assigned to C-1-1 First Training Brigade. I was trained on the M60A2, or the A Deuce. Some people call it The Starship. (Tanks get many different nick names.)

  From Ft Knox, I went to Ft Hood, Tx. 1/67 Armor, B Company. 2nd Armor Division, Hell on Wheels. I was with this unit for about a year and a half. Finally, it was my turn to go to Germany. The land of great tanking. And would you believe it, I went to 2/66 Armor, A company. 2nd Armor Division (FWD). It was the most northern US Army post in Germany, near Bremen. It was a nice three years in Germany. We were part of the BAOR,

  British Army of the Rhine. We went to gunnery with the British and the Canadians.

  Being a tanker is a dirty, cold, hot and sometimes hurting job. But as we say, Best Job in the World. And we all look better than Brad Pitt.

  It was time for me to rotate back to the world. I ended up going to 2/1 Cav, B Troop. 2nd Armor Division, Ft Hood, Tx again. Just like George Patton, I grew to love the 2nd AD. While I was serving with 2/1 Cav, I was promoted to SSGT, E-6.

  Now I needed a secondary MOS, and since I was in an Armored Cav unit, I learned to be a Cav Scout. (Don’t laugh at this.) Cav Scouts are the “do any job” in the Army that they can find. I learned to command a scout track, a mortar track, and how to walk many miles.

  After a year with the scout PLT, I was moved back to the tank PLT. And even though I was an E-6, I was placed as the gunner on the PLY SGT’s tank. He was a scout trying to learn how to tank. I became his gunner and trainer.

  Some two years later, time to move again. Big surprise!!! I went to 1/63 Armor, B Company. 1st Infantry Division, Ft Riley, Ks. I was working with the M60A1 tank at this time. Before long we got the M1 Abrams tank. We went through the training needed to become proficient with this tank. The M1 tank is nick named the Jedi tank, as it seems like you use the force to put steel on target.

  Now we come to the end of my time in the service. A mad man invades Kuwait, and we are sent off to the desert. About five months of sitting in the sand till the war starts. Four days later it was all over.

  I was injured during this time. Not war stuff, but simple stupid stuff. The tank turret rotated on my foot crushing it, the loaders hatch started to fall on me, and I placed my arm up to stop it, big time injured elbow now.

  Spent some time in Germany at a hospital. Returned to Ft Riley, and was placed in one of the Med PLT. Got healed up as much as I could, went to the Med Board and was retired from the service.

  I still live in Kansas with my wife and two kids. All grown up now. I am proud of them all.

  CHAPTER ONE

  On a plane over the Islamic Republic (Iran)

  The C-17 was the first of a dozen Globemasters scheduled to land on a dry lake near the city of Kashan. If the transports managed to land, unload smoothly, and take off quickly—Strike Team 3 might survive. But it was going to be tight. Iranian radars would “see” the procession of planes coming in to land, and send security forces to stop the incursion.

  How long would the Iranian response take? Half an hour? An hour? The more planes that managed to land before first contact the stronger the unit would be.

  The Strykers lined up in front of Major Sean Finn would be the first vehicles to roll off the C-17 and hit the ground. That’s what he was thinking about as a civilian plopped down next to him. The woman’s reddish hair was cut in a bob; her nose was pierced and home to a silver stud. Not a look Finn cared for. Her eyes were green and steady. “I’m Molly Keaton. I write for the New York Times. I’m sorry I missed the meet and greet and the preflight briefing, but my connections were tight. I barely made the plane. Can I ask some questions?”

  Finn remembered the briefing from Colonel James Selton the day before. “The people at the Pentagon decided to issue a reporter to each Strike Team. Yours is a woman named Keaton. Take care of her Major … And remember, the people back home need some good news. Especially after the attack on Okinawa.”

  Now the reporter was seated next to him. Finn forced a smile. “No problem. Shoot.”

  As Keaton removed a recorder from her knapsack Finn saw that she had a full sleeve of tattoos … No, make that two sleeves. Because tats covered her left arm as well. “Where are we going?” Keaton inquired. “And more importantly, why?”

  Finn eyed her. “Do you have a sat phone?”

  Keaton’s eyes narrowed. “Yes.”

  “Please hold what I’m about to tell you for twelve hours. Then you can send it minus names and specific locations. As we move forward, please check with me before you file additional stories. Lives are at stake.”

  The kind of restrictions Finn sought to impose were SOP. Keaton appeared to relax. “I understand. No prob.”

  “Good. We’re on our way to Namak Lake. It’s a salt flat. We’re going to land on it.

  “Most of the surface is flat but some areas are covered with ridges. That could result in a bumpy landing. More 1
7s will follow at fifteen-minute intervals.

  “The Iranians are sure to take notice,” Finn told her. “And send a force of unknown size and composition to kill us. We will kill them instead.”

  That was far from certain of course. But it was the right thing to say.

  “Then,” Finn added, “once their response team has been neutralized, we’ll proceed to the Natanz nuclear facility which is located sixty miles from the lake. It’s heavily defended, so we’ll force our way in.”

  Keaton frowned. “Why not just bomb the crap out of it instead?”

  Finn ginned. “That’s the right question. There are two reasons. The first is that the Natanz complex was designed to be bomb proof. The stuff that matters is located twenty-six feet underground and protected by eight-foot-thick concrete walls.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, Major … But a GBU-57A/B Massive Ordinance Penetrator ‘Bunker Buster bomb’ can dive 200 feet down. End of problem.”

  Finn couldn’t help but be impressed. Never mind the Goth look. Keaton knew her shit.

  “You’re correct,” Finn told her. “And that brings us to reason two. The CIA, the NRO (National Reconnaissance Office), and the ants in the Pentagon want us to search the site for nuclear bombs. Three of them. And we won’t be able to do that if the jet jockeys drop a MOP on the facility.”

  “Finished bombs?” Keaton demanded. “The kind that could go boom?”

  “Precisely,” Finn said. “The spooks are certain that the bombs exist. But it’s possible that they’re stored somewhere else. That’s why there are five Strike Teams. One for each nuclear facility in Iran.”

  Keaton’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Is your team trained to disarm nuclear devices?”

  “No,” Finn answered. “But experts will arrive on the next plane. That said, it’s unlikely that any device we come across will be armed, since that would be dangerous to the Iranians.”

  “So,” Keaton said, “the people on this plane are supposed to secure an LZ.”

  “That’s correct. You did your homework.”

  “I was aboard the fifth helo to touch down in Prague,” Keaton replied. “This isn’t my first rodeo.”

  Finn winced. The Battle of Prague was the worst battle the Allies had fought thus far. A win, but just barely, and at a terrible cost. Keaton had been lucky to survive. And most of the soldiers who’d been on her helicopter were probably dead. “I’m sorry.”

  The pain was visible in Keaton’s eyes. She nodded. “Thanks. So, you’re going to secure an LZ. Why lead with Strykers? Why not Bradleys or tanks?”

  Strike Team 3 was a combined arms company which included Strykers, Bradleys, and tanks. By then Finn felt sure that Keaton knew the answer to her question, and was asking on behalf of her readers.

  “I chose the Strykers because they’re heavily armed and extremely agile,” Finn told her. “A C-17 can carry three of them and no more. A fourth truck will arrive later.

  “Three vics should be more than enough to handle the civilian salt harvesters we expect to find onsite. As for the reaction force from Natanz, it’s my hope that we’ll have an hour to prepare.”

  The recorder disappeared into a vest pocket. “Thank you, Major. You know your shit. I’ll be around.” Then she was gone.

  A female voice came over the PA system. “We’re fifteen from dirt. Sit down and strap in. We may have a bumpy landing. Once the aircraft comes to a full stop, and the loadmaster gives you a thumbs up, please get your collective asses off my plane. Another C-17 is fifteen minutes behind us. Thanks for flying blue … And have a nice day.”

  “You heard the lady,” First Sergeant Sam Dyson said, as he passed Finn. “Return to your seat Chan … What’s up, Odell? Put that shit away … Where’s Norville? In the can? Well, go get her! Damn, what a bunch of fuck ups.”

  Finn stood and made his way to Stryker 1. The back ramp was down and his gear was waiting for him. The truck was designed to carry six soldiers plus a crew of three.

  After securing his tac vest Finn wrinkled his nose. “Something stinks.”

  Four soldiers, and an Air Force officer were sitting with their backs to the hull, knees touching. The enlisted men laughed and pointed to PFC Jeffers. He made a face. “Sorry, sir.”

  Finn smiled. “Keep that weapon ready, Jeffers. We might need it.”

  The comment produced gales of laughter. Not because it was especially funny, but because the joke came from Finn, and the soldiers were nervous.

  Finn was seated by the time the TC (truck commander) spoke over the intercom. “Thirty-seconds.”

  Finn held his M4 muzzle down as the plane neared the ground. The mission was about to begin. How would it go? Would he survive?

  The C-17 had fourteen wheels and they hit hard. The plane bounced into the air, made a second landing, then started to slow as the thrust reversers cut in.

  Finn knew the Globemaster could land on runways as short as 3,500 feet. And, since the lakebed covered 690 square miles, there was plenty of room. But had the jet jockeys been able to put the Globemaster down where he wanted them to?

  The ideal spot was adjacent to the rocky hill at the south end of the flat. If worst came to worst the mound of dirt would provide his soldiers with high ground they could retreat to. Not to mention the cover offered by a scattering of boulders. Those advantages could prove critical if the Iranian reaction force arrived quickly.

  Finn clenched his teeth as the plane’s wheels made contact with a section of corrugated hard pan. Gear rattled and a coffee mug fell out of an overhead bin. Then they were clear. And the ride was smooth by the time the plane came to a stop.

  “Be sure to post a review on Yelp,” the pilot said, as the plane’s cargo door opened and the ramp went down. “Five stars would be nice.”

  The Stryker engines were running by then. Replies, if any, went unheard—as the truck rolled down the ramp and bumped onto the hardpan. “Jammer on,” the TC reported. “Civilian vehicles at 10 o’clock.”

  Finn was wearing a CVC, or Combat Vehicle Crewman helmet. It was equipped with a boom mike. The three-way switch put him on the company frequency. “This is Six actual. Truck 1 will block the road south. Trucks 2 and 3 will close with the civilian workers, collect their phones, and give the interpreters an opportunity to interview them. The more we know about the local situation the better. Over.”

  The truck commanders had been given their assignments during the preflight briefing. But Finn was a firm believer in the axiom: “Tell ’em what you’re going to tell them, tell ’em, and tell ’em what you told ’em.” A flurry of double clicks served to confirm his orders.

  Finn felt the Stryker swerve as it turned south. It came to a stop two minutes later. “We’re in position,” the TC announced.

  “Drop the ramp,” Finn ordered. “Prepare to engage incoming hostiles.”

  Finn left the hardwired CVC behind. A ball cap and headset replaced it.

  The lakebed was hot. Damned hot. The fire team took positions facing out, weapons ready. Situational awareness. That was Finn’s first priority.

  Engines roared and dust flew as the C-17 turned, taxied, and took off. Finn watched it climb. The sky was blue and empty except for a scattering of high cumulus clouds. And that, at least, was consistent with expectations.

  The Allies owned the sky, and had since the beginning. There were two reasons for that. The first was that American pilots were good. Very good.

  The second reason was that Americans, never mind the Allies, had roughly 13,000 planes and helicopters worldwide, while the Iranians were believed to have about 350 when the war started. Now they were down to something like half that number.

  The Allies’ air superiority had a great deal to do with overall strategy, and the specifics of Strike Team 3’s mission. The Allies had no desire to invade Iran, and thereby repeat the mistakes made in Iraq and Afghanistan. In the words of NATO’s Supreme Allied Commander, “Attempting to occupy Persia doesn’t make any goddamned sens
e.”

  No, the plan was to defang Iran by neutralizing its nuclear capability, and cut the country off from the other Axis nations. Finn brought his binoculars up for a quick 360. The hill was close by! That meant the advance party had a place to retreat to.

  As Finn panned from left to right, he saw the plume that dust Stryker 1 produced as it sped west to take up a position facing south.

  Now, as it came to a stop, the vic was in position to delay the Iranian reaction force when it arrived. Two and three would rush to help.

  A voice interrupted Finn’s train of thought. “Warlock in from the north, sir … Right on time.”

  Lieutenant Linda Pinnick was an Air Force TACP (Tactical Air Control Party) officer who would handle any air support requirements that Strike Team 3 might have. As such she had volunteered to track the incoming C-17s. She was standing a few feet away holding a radio in her hand. Finn assumed that “Warlock” was the C-17 pilot’s callsign.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant. That means we’ll have an M-1 tank, and more troops on the ground soon.”

  It was a stupid thing to say, since Pinnick knew what the C-17 as carrying. Finn made a note to avoid meaningless blather in the future.

  ***

  Second Lieutenant Tim Scott was in charge of the tank platoon, and in command of the M-1 called AXIS ACE. His would be the first tank on the scene. And, should the Iranians throw some armor into the mix, Scott would be expected to grease the bastards.

  But this was his first time in combat. What if he choked? What if he shit his pants? What if he failed his platoon? Scott preferred death to any of those possibilities.

  The crew was on board the ACE as the C-17 made its approach. The commander and the gunner were seated to the right side of the turret, with loader Bob Tatum on the left, and the driver center-front.

  The commander’s station was equipped with six periscopes which, taken together, would provide Scott with a 360-degree view of the tank’s surroundings.

  Moreover, the Independent Thermal Viewer (ITV) would provide a stabilized day and night view, plus sector scanning, and target cueing to the gunner’s sight.