by Walt Gragg
“What have you heard about the second part?” Watson asked.
“Nice and simple. Take the remaining elements of the 2nd Marine Division and push southeast to engage as many of the Chosen One’s divisions as they can to take some pressure off the Egyptian capital. If nothing else, they hope to buy everyone a few days of valuable time. When the 1st Marine Division arrives, its regiments will rush in to reinforce whatever’s left of the 2nd Division.”
“Certainly, Lauren, even with relentless air support, thirty-eight thousand Marines don’t expect to defeat an army of three million.”
“Tony, some pretty high-up sources have hinted such a goal’s almost laughable. There’s just not enough firepower in these divisions to do that. The Marines have always been a light, highly trained fighting force based upon mobility and the quality of its members. They don’t have the resources to destroy the vast armored force Mourad’s assembled. My God, Tony, a Marine division’s only got a few dozen tanks supported by some Stryker armored cars and Humvees. Even with what’s been destroyed in the past three weeks, intelligence estimates show Mourad’s army with nearly nine thousand tanks. It would take at least two or three of our best army divisions with their hundreds of M-1 tanks and Bradley Fighting Vehicles to engage and eliminate such a huge quantity of armor.”
“So why did we send in the Marines? Why not one of our army divisions?”
“I can’t give our audience a definite answer. But I’ve got a pretty good guess.”
“What would that be?”
“We don’t have the logistical capabilities to move an army division here quickly enough to keep Cairo from falling. Putting the Marines on planes to Italy and getting them onto ships to cross the Mediterranean’s going to happen much quicker than loading hundreds of tanks in the United States and sailing them here. Remember, during Desert Storm it took us three months to build up our forces to the point where we felt strong enough to invade. And that was a single war against one Arab nation. This time we’ve got two war zones on our hands. And we’ve had less than three weeks. It’s already been confirmed that the initial movement of our armored units who’ve arrived in the Middle East has been in support of the growing battles against Iraq and Iran. So at the moment I don’t think we’ve got anything but the two Marine divisions available to attack the Chosen One. In a week or two, I wouldn’t be surprised to find British or French or American armored vehicles rumbling through these deserts, annihilating anything in their path. But for now, it’s up to the men of the 2nd Marine Division to stand up to the enemy tanks. The Marines are here to buy time. To harass and destroy. To give Cairo and the world a fighting chance.”
“With those somber thoughts,” Watson said, “I’m afraid we’ve run out of time. Thank you, Lauren, for your insights.”
“Thank you, Tony.”
Her picture disappeared from the screen.
Watson looked into the camera and said, “This has been another edition of Seven Days, America’s fastest-growing weekly news and information program. Next week our guests will be . . .”
* * *
—
In the lifeless desert of northern Egypt, Wells handed the telephone receiver to her cameraman, Chuck Mendes. He began disassembling the mobile satellite equipment.
“Hurry it up, Chuck,” she said. “There’s an interview I’m dying to get before the rest of the press corps comes ashore.”
13
5:07 A.M., OCTOBER 18
3RD PLATOON, BRAVO COMPANY, 2ND RECONNAISSANCE BATTALION, 2ND MARINE DIVISION
THE SANDS OF NORTHERN EGYPT
The exhausted lieutenant knelt in the desolate sands. He tied a final toe tag and zipped up the body bag. That was all of them, the last of the platoon they could find enough fractured pieces of to place in the windblown green bags. He arose from the gruesome task and wandered across the invasion-cluttered beach toward nothing in particular. He could go no farther. He didn’t have the strength to take another step.
Erickson slumped upon the shifting dunes. He propped himself against an empty ammunition crate and pulled at his exhausted eyes. Weariness overwhelmed him. With much effort, he removed the tattered remains of his fatigue shirt. The once-sterile bandages on his left arm were streaked with red. The wound had reopened. A trickle of blood oozed down his upper arm and dripped upon the ground. His arm throbbed. Beads of sweat gathered upon his filthy face and tugged at the corners of his parched mouth. He sat motionless, watching the steady stream of men and equipment coming ashore.
The platoon had done it. With their lives, they’d given the Americans a fighting chance to forestall the conquest of Egypt. They’d given the West an opportunity to defeat the Pan-Arabs and save the planet from erupting in an all-consuming war.
At the moment, however, such realities were of little comfort to the battered platoon leader. He turned to stare at the long rows of fluttering bags. He knew in a few hours the chaplains and escort officers would begin the grim process of ringing the doorbells of his brave men’s families. The young wives, most with babes in arm, would learn the awful truth. The anxious parents, pain etched upon their tormented features, would never recover from the unbearable grief that soon would arrive upon their doorsteps. He understood from firsthand experience what that devastating event would feel like. He hung his head in an ever-mounting sorrow. His grief crawled deep within him and wrapped itself around his anguished soul. Lost in thought, he didn’t notice the pair approaching.
“Lieutenant Samuel Erickson?” Wells asked.
The platoon leader looked up with a start. He couldn’t form the words to answer.
“You’re Lieutenant Erickson, aren’t you?” she said.
“Yes, I’m Erickson.” He made no attempt to get to his feet.
“I’m Lauren Wells from ABC.”
“I know who you are,” he said.
“Mind if I ask you some questions?”
He scarcely had the ability to respond. His answer was barely audible. “Actually, ma’am, I do mind.”
“I’m sorry, what?” she said.
“To tell you the truth, I’m not in much of a mood for talking. Maybe some other time.”
Wells, however, had never before taken no for an answer. And she wasn’t about to start. She ignored his response and gave her cameraman the signal to begin rolling tape.
“You’re the one who led the invasion yesterday, aren’t you?”
“Yes. It was my platoon that came ashore first.”
“I watched the whole thing from my ship. Had a front-row seat for everything. It was quite a show you put on.”
There was a dazed look in Erickson’s eyes. He didn’t respond.
“Tell me what happened,” she said.
“What do you mean what happened? What do you think happened? The Pan-Arabs were everywhere. We killed them. They killed us. We won. There’s nothing more to say.”
“How many were there?”
“We ran into a large roving patrol, followed by a company of infantry, and then four tanks.”
“Company of infantry. That would be what? Two hundred enemy soldiers?”
“Counting those in the patrol we killed, body count was two-sixty-two last I heard.”
“And how many men did you have?” she asked.
“With the infantry squads that reinforced us there were fifty-three.”
“So fifty-three Americans killed over two hundred enemy soldiers and destroyed four tanks.”
“Many were women,” Erickson said.
“What?”
“They were women. Young girls really. Some were fourteen, fifteen years old. We killed them all. If you don’t believe me you can see for yourself. Most of their bodies are still out there in the desert.”
It was Wells’s turn to be stunned. She quickly recovered. “What about the tanks?” she said. “What can you t
ell me about the tanks?”
“They were American-made M-60s. Showed up after we battled the women. Cost me most of my men. But somehow we defeated them. To tell you the truth, it’s all one big nightmare I can’t sort out at the moment. I haven’t slept in two days and I’m real confused about most of it right now.”
“That’s okay. Can you tell us what happens next for you and your platoon?”
“What platoon? Even counting the reinforcements, I’ve barely enough men left to form a squad. Most are over there”—Erickson gestured toward the body bags—“or out on the hospital ship. The rest we couldn’t even identify.”
“Tell me about your men. What were they like?”
“What’s to tell? They were no different than any other platoon. Most were in their late teens or early twenties. All had something to live for. Over half had wives. Many had children. Children who’ll never know their fathers.”
“So with so few of you left, the war’s over for you?”
“Ma’am, until the shooting stops the war is never over if you’re a Marine.”
“But it’s obvious from the bandages on your arm you’re wounded. You appear to be bleeding. Are you badly hurt?”
Erickson glanced at the line of blood. “It’s really not much more than a scratch. My corpsman fished around in there for a while trying to get the shrapnel out. But he didn’t have any luck. Once this is over and the doctors have time, I’m certain they’ll take care of it. For now, I’ll just have to live with the pain and keep doing my job the best I can.”
“So you’re going back into combat with a piece of metal in your arm?”
“It looks that way.”
“Do you know when you’re leaving?”
Erickson rubbed his raw eyes. “We’re going to take a couple hours to get our heads on straight. After that we’ll head inland. I’ve heard my battalion got hit hard in a couple of the counterattacks. So as soon as we can, we’ve got to get to the front lines.”
“Then what?”
“What do you mean, then what? What else is there? We’re going to fight and keep on fighting until someone orders us to stop. But right now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to curl up on this beach and get a little sleep. In two hours it’ll be daylight. When the sun comes up, I’ll gather what remains of my unit and we’ll head out once more.”
“Head out for where?”
“Cairo. We’re on our way to Cairo to kill the Chosen One and put an end to this thing.”
“Cairo. Do you think you’ll get there?”
“We’ll get there. You can count on it. Those crazy Green Berets are waiting for our help. And by God, the 2nd Marine Division’s going to give it to them. Now, if you don’t mind, ma’am, I really do need some sleep.”
“Oh yes, of course, Lieutenant. Thanks for talking with us.” She motioned for her cameraman to shut down his camera.
As the pair walked away, she kept looking back at Erickson.
When they were out of earshot, she turned to her cameraman. “Chuck, let’s go find some of those dead Arab girls. It’ll make a nice addition to our piece. As soon as it’s daylight and things clear a bit, locate a spot on the beach to set up the satellite. Tomorrow all of America’s going to wake to see Lieutenant Samuel Erickson’s handsome face in their living rooms.”
“Handsome face? How could you tell he had a handsome face? He was so filthy I couldn’t tell anything about what he looked like.”
“Don’t worry, Chuck, I could tell. There’s one hell of a face under all that dirt and camouflage paint. And, Chuck . . . ?”
“Yes, Ms. Wells.”
“I’ll tell you something else.”
“What’s that?”
“When Erickson gets to Cairo and shakes hands with the first Green Beret, you and I are going to be there to film it.”
“Sounds like a great idea, but you’re forgetting one thing.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“If we’re going to do that, there have still got to be some Green Berets alive when we get there.”
14
6:39 A.M., OCTOBER 18
ODA 6333, CHARLIE COMPANY, 3RD BATTALION, 6TH SPECIAL FORCES GROUP (AIRBORNE)
THE EL GIZA BRIDGE, RHODA ISLAND
CAIRO
In the murky no-man’s-land between the combatants’ lines, Army Sergeant Charlie Sanders dangled over the side of the aging bridge. To the west, the landscape teemed with Mourad’s zealots. To the east, across the wide span, the safety of the tenuous American defenses was more than a quarter mile away. Fifty feet below, the Nile’s historic waters meandered past on their four-thousand-mile journey to the sea.
The autumn night had been unusually cool. A heavy fall mist, gray and clammy, rose from the dark currents. A thick blanket of fog reached out from the passing waters to cover the lengthy expanse. Throughout the beset city scores of great fires burned. The moist river haze mixed with the thick smoke to devour the predawn landscape.
The African American sergeant adjusted the nylon lifeline, bringing himself closer to a massive pylon. Sanders fished around in his rucksack, withdrawing the plastic explosives. The Green Beret engineering specialist, an expert at building or demolishing nearly any structure, pulled a roll of heavy tape from the canvas bag. He started attaching the powerful explosives to the substantial bridge support. Above him, Sergeant First Class Matthew Abernathy and Staff Sergeant Aaron Porter stood on the damp pavement with their rifles at the ready.
“Sanders, hurry it up,” Abernathy said in hushed tones. “It’s nearly sunrise. If Mourad’s forces catch us out in the open like this, we’re dead men.”
“Take it easy, Sarge, this is the last one. I’ll be finished in five minutes.”
“Make it three,” Abernathy said.
“My mother always told me when a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right. So do you want it fast, or do you want it right?”
“I want it right and fast. What I really want is to be back on the other side of this stupid bridge before it gets any lighter. And I also want to tell Captain Morrow this thing will be blown to kingdom come when you hit that detonator.”
“What the hell’s the name of this bridge anyway?” Sanders asked while securing the deadly explosives.
“Who friggin’ cares,” Porter said. “Just finish up. I’ll feel a whole lot better when we’re back inside our own lines. I’m not exactly thrilled to be standing here waiting for a bullet to arrive.”
“Relax,” Sanders said. “I’m almost done.”
“Finish it already and let’s get out of here,” the anxious Porter said. “The enemy’s near. I can sense it. And you know I’m never wrong when it comes to stuff like that. What’s left of the buildings on this side of the river are crawling with the Chosen One’s creepy little friends.”
But Sanders wasn’t concerned in the slightest. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. No one’s going to bother either of you. With all this gray swirling around, anyone who sees you will think you’re nothing more than a couple of ghosts rising up from the Nile.”
“We’re going to be real ones soon if you don’t hurry up,” Abernathy said.
Sanders fastened the long strand of detonator cord to the explosives. The final connection had been made. Each of the tired passageway’s huge pillars was wired to blow.
Throughout the length of Cairo, on every span across the great river, other Green Beret units were doing the same. Their orders were clear, the consequences obvious—leave a single bridge standing and the city could fall before sunset.
Sanders checked his handiwork. “Okay, all done. Going to be a hell of a show when this thing goes up. Sure glad I’m going to have a front-row seat for the festivities. Pull me up and let’s head home.”
Four strong arms reached out and lifted the Special Forces A Team’s engineering expert o
nto the wide stretch of steel and concrete. Porter handed Sanders his M-4 rifle.
“All right, let’s go,” Abernathy said.
“Hold up a minute,” Sanders responded.
From his earliest days Charlie Sanders had been bold. Not once had he turned away from a challenge or dare. And he had the ample scars to prove it. He’d always been confident and a bit cocky. But he’d also been quite good at anything he’d ever tried. It hadn’t taken long after his entry into the Army for him to recognize that Special Forces was the ideal place for someone with his intellect, talent, and temperament. His assessment had been correct. This was the perfect world for the young sergeant. He’d survived the relentless horrors of Green Beret training with relative ease and quickly learned his new job duties. Through long hours of practice, he’d become exceptionally skilled at destroying things.
The presumptuous Special Forces soldier reached into his fatigue jacket and pulled out his green beret. He fastidiously went about the process of placing it at just the right angle on his head. Then he primped and preened a moment longer. When he was satisfied the headgear was properly positioned, he turned to the others.
“How do I look?” he asked.
“Jesus, Charlie, you’ve got to be kidding,” Porter replied. “Who gives a damn how you look? Let’s get the hell out of here while we still can.”