The heat in the Kuwaiti desert wasn't just a physical weight; it was a living thing that pressed against Sgt. John Bradley’s lungs as he adjusted his gear. He looked at the three men around him—Foley, the calm sniper who had nearly been lost in an Iraqi prison; Connors, the heavy weapons specialist currently checking the belt on his M60; and Jones, the squad’s engineer and medic, who was busy double-checking their C4 charges.
The squad fell back, leapfrogging under the cover of smoke grenades as the desert behind them erupted into a pillar of orange flame. The SCUD launcher was gone. conflict-desert-storm
"Jones, you're with me for the charges. Connors, find a spot to lay down covering fire if things go south," Bradley ordered. The heat in the Kuwaiti desert wasn't just
"We're made!" Connors roared, his M60 beginning its rhythmic thumping. The squad fell back, leapfrogging under the cover
Foley didn't say much. He just shouldered his rifle and moved toward a high ridge. A few moments later, his voice came through: "I’ve got eyes on the site. Two tanks guarding the perimeter. Guard patrols are tight."
The squad moved like a single organism. While Foley picked off the tower guards with silent efficiency, Bradley and Jones crawled through the sand, avoiding the sweeping searchlights that cut through the desert night. They reached the first mobile launcher, the massive SCUD missile looking like a white ghost in the moonlight. Suddenly, a flare hissed into the sky.
"Target's the SCUD battery at the edge of the dunes," Bradley said, his voice a low gravel over the comms. "If those missiles launch, the whole coalition coalition could splinter before the ground war even starts".