After lunch at the command post, Qusay followed Muhammad to the firing range.
The range was a patch of derelict high ground; any lower and it would have turned into swamp.
Several imposing tanks stood ready in the field, crews at their posts awaiting their superiors.
Word was a VIP would inspect them, so for this demonstration they had prepared down to the last detail—pre-loading explosives in the targets so a single round would give a spectacular blast.
"Salute!" As the brigade's off-roader rolled in, every soldier snapped up his right hand.
Muhammad returned the salute smartly; the vehicle halted beside the nearest tank.
Qusay stepped out. He had only seen this type on television. Trained on the most advanced hardware at the academy, he was used to the Type 96; this Soviet-looking, Chinese Type 69-style machine felt alien.
Now he could finally examine one up close.
Five road wheels, broad tracks for better swamp mobility, a 580-hp engine straining to push forty tons. The low, cast turret was textbook Soviet: simple to build, small target—but cramped inside.
Soviet designers never cared for comfort: no air-conditioning, only a fan. In Middle-Eastern heat the noise, stuffiness and jolts made tank duty brutal.
Qusay gazed at the crews, filled with respect. These are Iraqi soldiers—history must not repeat itself on them!
A tank needs four: a driver up front, commander and gunner in the turret basket, and a loader squeezed deepest inside; autoloaders on newer models finally eliminated that fourth man.
He itched to shout, "Comrades, hello!" and hear the reply, "Hello, Leader!"—then, "Comrades, you've worked hard!" What a feeling that would be.
"Report! Four combat vehicles of 3rd Company, 2nd Battalion, 35th Armored Brigade, assembled for live-fire demonstration, awaiting orders. Company Commander Ali Tikriti." The stocky man beside him spoke clearly beneath a bushy beard.
Muhammad glanced at Qusay.
Qusay nodded approval.
Muhammad said, "Company Commander Ali, commence!"
Ali barked the order while handing each dignitary a pair of binoculars to watch his men's precision.
Boom-boom-boom! The tank engines fired up, black smoke belching from the rear decks.
The crews sealed their hatches and returned to the sweltering steel ovens.
Drivers guided the tanks toward their marked firing lines.
The steel beasts rumbled forward, guns traversing; a sudden halt, a lurch, and a shell streaked from the barrel.
Blam! The distant target disintegrated in a geyser of smoke—an impressive sight.
All four tanks scored direct hits.
Outsiders watch the show; insiders watch the craft. Through his binoculars Qusay studied the blast radius and grew skeptical—even a HE round shouldn't be that powerful.
Tank rounds come in AP (solid), HEAT (detonates before contact), HESH (detonates after contact), and HE (impact or air-burst). The T-62 carries forty: usually 17 HE, 13 APFSDS, 10 HEAT (HESH is obsolete).
Against tanks you need AP, which doesn't explode—he wondered what they had actually fired.
He also disliked the halt-to-fire drill; it invited return fire. In this era, practical on-the-move gunnery was still experimental.
Static targets prove nothing—enemy tanks won't politely park and wait.
"By Allah, every round hit," Muhammad said. "Qusay, are you pleased with the demonstration?" He assumed the visitor from Baghdad must be impressed.
Qusay answered coldly, "Brigadier, I'm not satisfied. Do we have moving targets?"
Muhammad turned to Ali. "Captain, let's have the men engage something that moves—static targets are pointless."
Moving targets? Sweat beaded on Ali's brow. "Sir, this range is newly built; the mobile targets haven't arrived yet."
Muhammad gave Qusay an apologetic look. "Qusay, we don't have moving targets here."
No moving targets? Qusay thought for a moment. "Then pull back five hundred meters. I believe the effective range of our tank gun is at least fifteen hundred meters?"
Fifteen hundred meters? Ali was stunned; this young-looking man actually knew everything! Firing at a thousand meters just now had already been the limit, and he'd thought it would satisfy the senior officers—he never expected it to be pushed to fifteen hundred.
Even that thousand-meter shot had been a cheat. At fifteen hundred, forget it. Ali felt as if the other man could see right through him. Could he know that his unit hadn't used those damned fire-control systems at all?
Watching the hesitant Captain Ali, Qusay knew he'd found their weak spot. No matter how advanced a weapon is, it still needs people to wield it—especially when the weapon itself isn't even that advanced.
He remembered the instructor saying that Iraqi tankers had poor training: they aimed by feel and never used the fire-control system. In tank battles they'd been knocked out by Iranian Chieftain Tanks from fifteen hundred meters away, unable to fight back.
Now that he was here, that would not be allowed to happen again!
As soldiers, they had to master the weapons in their hands—and bring out every ounce of those weapons' power!
"Well? Is that a problem?" Qusay asked.
"No problem, we guarantee to complete the mission!" Ali suddenly had an idea: he'd have to use the same old trick—bury explosives next to the target. No matter where the shell landed, detonate the charge and fake a hit; maybe he could bluff his way through.
"Remember, use armor-piercing rounds this time," Qusay added.
Ali's hand holding the radio trembled. Armor-piercing? How would an AP round explode? The act couldn't go on.
"All units, fall back five hundred meters, re-set the targets, and fire armor-piercing rounds." Ali spoke into the mike, sending the order into the tanks.
The tanks stopped, turned, and reversed.
By now the tankers were probably cursing up a storm inside their heads.
They were the best soldiers picked from the whole brigade, yet they could only aim visually from five or six hundred meters—that was their most accurate range, and what they'd always trained at.
Beyond that they were helpless. Although they had fire-control systems, most of the men were illiterate and had no patience for fiddling with something so complicated.
They'd managed the thousand-meter hit earlier only because they'd calculated the target and vehicle positions in advance, driven to the predetermined spot, and fired using the pre-set data. In other words, they hadn't aimed at all—it had all been a performance.
Now, to shoot from fifteen hundred meters without the fire-control system was absolutely impossible.
They began powering up the infrared lamps, preparing to work with the complicated-looking gear.
After the tanks halted, only vehicle 039 fired within a minute; the rest took at least five minutes of fumbling.
In a real war they would already have eaten a dozen shells.
"Boom—boom, boom." At last they all opened fire.
Qusay raised his binoculars. This time all three targets were still standing intact—only the 039 had scored a direct hit.
So not every one of them was a fool; at least someone could use the fire-control system, Qusay mused.
"Have the crew of vehicle 039 come here," Qusay said to the brigade commander.
Muhammad, face dark, told Ali to summon the four tankers.
"Which of you is the gunner?" Qusay asked.
"Report! I'm the gunner. My name is Allad." A voice rang out.
Qusay looked: a youth who couldn't yet be twenty, with bright eyes.
"Was that shot just now aimed by you?" Qusay asked.
"Yes, sir, I aimed it," Allad answered.
"How did you aim? Can you handle the fire-control system proficiently?" Qusay continued.
"Yes, I used the tw2Б-41y Telescopic Sight to aim, and the vehicle commander corrected my lay," Allad said.
"Good. From now on you are the instructor for the 35th Brigade's Armored Battalion. Within half a month you must teach every tanker in the brigade to use this fire-control system and achieve an eighty-percent first-round hit rate at fifteen hundred meters." Qusay finished and glanced at Muhammad. "Brigade commander, am I overstepping my authority?"
"Not at all—I was about to order the whole brigade to master the firing essentials." Muhammad was full of amazement: Saddam Hussein's son really had keen insight; every trick his men had tried had been seen through.
"Yes, sir! We guarantee to complete the mission!" Allad answered loudly.
The whole brigade had to start intensive training, otherwise Iranian Chieftain Tanks could blow T62s to pieces from fifteen hundred meters away.