Private Army by Phil Ward

Author:Phil Ward [Ward, Phil]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2015-04-07T22:00:00+00:00

THE SHATT AL-ARAB RIVER IS FORMED BY THE CONFLUENCE OF THE Tigris and Euphrates Rivers out of Iraq, with the Karun out of Persia as a tributary. It is a dirty river that ranges from 750 to 2,500 feet wide. And it runs through the world’s largest date palm forest—which some claim is a remnant of the Garden of Eden.

At night, the river is a dark, spooky place.

Captain “Geronimo” Joe McKoy had a thirty-foot inboard pleasure craft belonging to the Anglo-Persian Oil Company standing by; it was topped off, ready for the run upstream to Khurramshahr.

As the Raiding Forces team boarded the boat, King handed Capt. McKoy the 9mm Beretta MAB-38 submachine gun with the ammunition pouch he had jumped in for him.

Once the boat shoved off, the team members passed Captain “Pyro” Percy Stirling the extra ten pounds of Nobel 808 plastique explosives that each one of them had jumped in, to add to the forty pounds he had brought to blow the Persian Radio Station building and the gunboat docked at the pier leading to it.

The 18.4-kilometer trip up the river was uneventful. Soft, velvet quietness shrouded the riverbanks in the dark. Persians stayed off the waterway after nightfall.

The only craft they sighted the entire way was Lieutenant Pamala-Plum Martin’s Walrus bobbing next to the bank near the last turn in the river before they reached Khurramshahr.

When the Hudson returned to the departure airfield to pick up Lieutenant Westcott Huxley’s pathfinder team for their drop at Haft-l-Khel, Lt. Plum-Martin had transitioned to the Walrus and flown back to the Shatt al-Arab—only a short hop.

Everyone on board waved as the boat motored by. But in the poor light, no one could see for certain whether Lt. Plum-Martin waved back.

Capt. McKoy briefed Lieutenant Colonel John Randal during the run up the river.

“Made this trip last night, John,” Capt. McKoy said. “There’s five “T” piers at Khurramshahr. A Persian Navy sloop, the Babr, is docked at one of ’em on the north bank near the naval barracks.

“At the radio station on the south bank, a gunboat’s tied up at the pier—pretty big, ’bout a hunert feet’s worth. No sentries posted on the dock. Can’t say ’bout on board. I didn’t see any when I walked by.

“There was a couple of sentries on duty outside the radio station, though.”

“Town lit up?”

“Like a Christmas tree,” Capt. McKoy said. “The Persians ain’t acting like they’re expecting trouble.”

Lt. Col. Randal said, “That’s how we like it.”

Khurramshahr swam into sight around the bend in the river. As advertised, the military installations and civilian parts of the town were not blacked out. However, it was late … or more accurately, early—0330—and there were not many lights showing.

The only lights on the pier were those at the far end. Low-wattage bulbs were illuminating the exterior of the Radio Station in a pale yellow glow. All the palm trees made the place look more like a remote jungle outpost in a Tarzan movie than the military headquarters of a province in a Middle Eastern country.

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