by Walt Gragg
Defense of the platoon from an aerial assault was in capable hands.
Yet at the moment, it wasn’t the airborne threat that worried Erickson. It was the overwhelming actions of their land-based adversary that consumed him. In combat this intense a few seconds were going to be a lifetime. And this pitched battle was going to last much, much longer. An entire division was surging toward the paper-thin American lines. In an endless stream, their unflinching opponent continued to appear in front of the bedraggled platoon. In steady succession the Marine rifles cut them down. Nonetheless, their menacing numbers, both in armored vehicles and infantry, swelled.
For the initial five minutes, things went exactly as the accomplished platoon leader had anticipated. Their foe’s ground attack was fierce and unrelenting. Straight down the inviting asphalt roared the bulk of the division’s power. The unending Pan-Arab tanks, along with the supporting foot soldiers and armored personnel carriers, hit the Americans hard. The Marines reeled beneath the immense blow. Missiles and small arms ripped through the melancholy afternoon. Both sides’ death tolls mounted. The depraved scene’s distorted images continued to expand. The hideous screams of the dying and wounded went on without pause.
The imperiled defenders staggered but held on, blunting the savage attack long enough to keep Mourad’s forces from smashing through the initial line. They clung by their fingernails and prayed for air support to arrive.
Mitchell’s Hornets appeared right on schedule. The F/A-18Es’ precision bombing and murderous cannon fire soon laid waste to the leading edge of the massive armored column. The Mahdi’s losses were great. With Blackjack Section’s assistance, the Chosen One’s promise beckoned for untold numbers to undertake their brief life’s final passage. The brutal onslaught raining down upon Mourad’s army stunned the obsessed attackers. It slowed their unending furor, giving the Marines the briefest glimmer of hope. Still it failed to stop them. When the aircraft completed their runs, the columns of fearsome tanks and determined men regrouped and pressed their advantage once more. For a second time, the Mahdi’s followers charged down what remained of the wasting highway.
Again the Americans bent but didn’t break beneath the withering advance. They scratched and clawed at their overriding enemy, forcing the fanatical attackers to consume precious time.
Their strafing mission at an end, Blackjack Section’s F/A-18Es roared low over the platoon’s lines. The fighters raced away. As the Hornets finished their destruction, Erickson expected others to take up the attack. From now until Mourad’s last fevered disciple died or retreated, there’d be no letup in the indiscriminate death screaming from above. The plan was for havoc from heaven to continue falling upon the Chosen One’s followers until none still stood. The F/A-18Es were coming to escort them to their avidly awaited resting place.
But for some unexplained reason, it didn’t happen. Inexplicably, rather than increasing as the tenacious battle went on, air support for the embattled Marines suddenly vanished.
On came an overriding force of T-72s. Guns blazing, they churned down the hot pavement toward the Americans’ makeshift positions. The ferocious fray’s agonizing texture turned one-sided.
There was little the belabored defenders could do. Without air support, the lightly armed American ground forces were severely overmatched. For five additional minutes, a thousand eternities in a clash of such magnitude, the forestalling Marines held their own. They wouldn’t, however, be able to do so for much longer. Erickson frantically scanned the swirling skies for signs of additional assistance. Yet none appeared.
With no fighter attack to slow their advance, Mourad’s tanks and armored personnel carriers rushed forward. Behind them, the desert filled with thousands of wrathful men intent on wiping out the destitute battalion. The Pan-Arabs sprang toward their besieged opposition. The Marine rifles and machine guns cut down the exposed figures. Still, for each jihadist the Americans killed, dozens more arrived to take his place.
Despite their mounting losses, the agitated aggressors were unyielding. They were going to slaughter the Americans. They were going to prevail in the reverent battle. Or die in the attempt. Their dreams of a wondrous forever spurred them toward their insatiable goal.
The intensifying conflict dragged on through incalculable lifetimes. While he watched his men fight and die around him, Erickson’s angst changed from quiet concern to mounting desperation.
They’d been told to conserve their armor-slaying missiles. Nevertheless, they had no choice.
Six hundred armored vehicles were rushing across the trackless sands to destroy them. Thousands of armed men were on the way. Faced with such adversity, the first row of Americans fired all of their Javelins and TOWs. With quelling effect, half the platoon’s smaller LAW missiles were sent out to greet the armored personnel carriers. One dreadful explosion after another rocked the girding scene. As the gathering flames found the dying armored vehicles’ stores of ammunition, secondary blasts splintered the afternoon. Thick plumes of noxious smoke further masked the ghastly battlefield.
The Marines’ hopeless efforts slowed the ruinous force just a little longer. Yet once more, it didn’t stop them. The determined enemy pressed his advantage. The obsessed zealots weren’t going to be denied. With each passing second, they closed with their outgunned adversary. Menacing tanks and ireful men were everywhere.
Erickson fought to control his platoon’s actions. Even so, like every battle, this one was chaotic and disjointed. It was happening in slow motion. It was happening at the speed of light.
He grabbed the radio handset. “Two-Six, this is Bravo-Three-Six.”
“Roger, Bravo-Three-Six,” the battalion radio operator answered.
“Two-Six, what the hell happened to our air support? The bastards are crawling all over us up here. Without immediate help, we’re going to be overrun. And the Chosen One’s army isn’t going to stop until they’re standing on the beach staring at the Mediterranean.”
“Bravo-Three-Six, be advised the Hornets have been pulled for a higher-priority mission.”
“Higher-priority mission? What higher-priority mission? How the hell could there be a higher-priority mission than this one? My men are getting slaughtered.”
“Understood. We’re as confused as you are. All I can tell you is we’ve already taken steps to remedy the situation. Attack drones will be here shortly. And the division commander’s freed up eighteen additional Cobras. They’re itching for a fight and on the way. They’ll be here in ten minutes. He’s also released twelve M-1s to support our position. They should arrive a few minutes after that.”
“Roger, Two-Six. But with the intensity of this attack, ten minutes is going to be forever. There’s no way we can hold that long. What do you suggest we do until the drones and Cobras reach us?”
“Initial orders are still in effect. Don’t worry about hanging on to real estate. Ground’s cheap. It’s live bodies we’re short on. Save your men any way you can. It’ll be your call. If you can’t defend your position, fall back on your own initiative. Don’t forget, there are three lines of Marines behind yours.”
“Roger. Will do what I can. Even so, with what’s headed this way, don’t be surprised if when we next talk we’re standing side by side with a T-72 bearing down on us.”
Erickson slammed the headset down. The uneven battle was worsening. To his left and right, Marine foxholes were eliminated in a single blow from a pair of tanks’ thundering main guns. Huge holes appeared in the American lines. The lieutenant realized without question that his small force would soon be overrun. He had to act. In the middle of the horrifying onslaught he had to find a way to retreat to the protection of the next line. And he had to do so while limiting his losses.
Two churning T-72s burst through the platoon’s defenses to the right of the highway.
Ignoring the gunfire all around him, Erickson leaped up, hurtled the
median, and raced across the road. The platoon leader snatched a LAW from the gnarled hands of a dead Marine. He turned toward the speeding tanks with the small, bazooka-like launch tube perched on his shoulder. The little rocket couldn’t penetrate the frontal armor of the T-72s. But if placed right, it could damn sure puncture the thinner armor on a ravaging tank’s rear. The trailing tank was in Erickson’s sights. He was a shallow breath away from pulling the trigger. But before he could loosen his scant rocket, both tanks erupted. Each disappeared in a mighty blow from the hellish power contained in a pair of TOWs. The second row of Marines had beaten the frantic lieutenant to the punch.
A continuous stream of Mourad’s infantry rushed across the depleted landscape. Erickson searched his meager defenses, looking for a glimmer of hope. There was none.
The platoons on each side of him were having no better luck than his. He was out of time. And options.
There was nothing he could do. If they stayed where they were, their devastating adversary would destroy them with ease. In seconds, they’d be wiped out by the rampant attackers. Despite the extreme danger of his exposed position, he furiously signaled his men.
“Pass the word! We’ve gotta fall back!” he screamed into his headset over the deafening noise of the blood-soaked butchery. “Humvee machine guns are to cover our withdrawal. Team leaders, fire your claymores then extricate yourselves. Each man’s on his own. Get out of here any way you can. Link up with those behind us!”
He’d be risking his Humvees, but to cover the platoon’s retreat, he had no other choice.
A dozen claymores were fired at nearly the same instant. A solid wall of voracious steel reached out to slaughter the first line of Mourad’s infantry. Many of the oncoming assailants were cut in half. Their disemboweled corpses, severed at the waist, spilled onto the crimson sands. The scorched earth eagerly soaked up their dying essence.
“Gunny, grab the Stingers and get the hell out of here! I’ll cover you.”
There’d be no chance for an orderly withdrawal. The Marines staggered from their foxholes. A volley of grenades leaped from their hands and arched toward the enemy. The Americans didn’t pause to watch their final efforts. The instant the plummeting killers were released, the platoon’s survivors turned and ran toward the second line.
As the platoon retreated, a trio of Reaper drones appeared. Each carried four tank-killing Hellfire missiles. From their monitors in Nevada, the drone operators unleashed one after another of the armor-slaying ordnance. Once again, the attackers’ leading edge was ripped to shreds. Explosion after explosion rocked the contested sands.
Moments later, the first of the buzzing drones went down. With no defenses against Stingers, it was easy prey. A second soon followed. The third, at least for the moment, continued its assault.
The retreating Marines had one hundred yards of open ground to traverse to reach the protection of the next row. For many it would be forever. Even with the Humvees and surviving drone covering their retreat, many would never make it.
Dragging their equipment with them, the fleeing men ran, dove, hobbled, and crawled toward the waiting row of sandbags.
With their compatriots in the way, the stalwart Marines of the second line could do little to help. There was far too great a chance of hitting one of the retreating Americans. From the safety of their defenses, they encouraged their countrymen’s progress. They fired at the rabid enemy wherever the situation allowed for a clear shot. And they steadied themselves for the depraved tidal wave reaching out to engulf them.
The worn platoon ran as fast as they could toward the illusory protection of the next row of rifles. The incensed rabble was right behind. On foot, or in armored vehicles, they nipped at the withdrawing lines’ heels. Steel and flesh chased Erickson’s men.
On the left of the lurching Marines, an American fell beneath the persistent rifle fire. He stumbled to his feet, dragging himself on a shattered leg across the heavy sands. His pitiful journey was slow and tortured. A trail of bright red marked his labored movements. Three eager attackers pounced. The wounded figure used every hand-to-hand skill he knew. But it was no use. The Pan-Arabs overwhelmed him. A glistening sword, long and terrifying, rose into the air. The wicked result was ruthless and certain.
With the defeated Marine no longer in the way, his obsessed killers were out in the open. An M-16 muzzle flashed from behind the second row of sand. From fifty yards away, the skilled marksman wouldn’t miss. The exposed executioners fell to earth and stirred no more.
On the right, another Marine dropped in a hail of gunfire.
In the center, a Humvee exploded. The withdrawing Americans’ losses continued to soar. Erickson turned and fired a full burst at the solid wall of marauding warriors. A handful fell. Thousands came on.
The spent platoon leader ran down the sticky pavement as fast as his weary legs would carry him. The instant he reached the second line, he dove into the foxhole of a pair of encouraging Marines.
Joyce’s Humvee roared past. The moment he reached his own defenses, he turned to meet the attackers. The desert in front of this level of sandbags was finally clear. Once more, armor-destroying Javelins and TOWs ripped through the frightful afternoon. Once again, rifle fire and LAW missiles struck down the enemy. And still the Chosen One’s masses came on.
Erickson had scarcely controlled his breathing before the second layer was overcome. This time there’d be no need to tell the hopelessly outnumbered force to withdraw.
The Marines turned and ran toward the third array.
23
4:24 P.M., OCTOBER 18
3RD PLATOON, BRAVO COMPANY, 2ND RECONNAISSANCE BATTALION, 2ND MARINE DIVISION
THE CAIRO–ALEXANDRIA HIGHWAY
Mourad’s faithful could sense the noose tightening around the exposed Americans’ necks. It spurred his rapturous followers. Their lust for blood knew no bounds. They would annihilate the invaders. Not one of the nonbelievers would still be breathing when sundown came.
There was no longer any doubt. This would be the moment for which all had waited. This would be the time of conquest over the hated infidels. Satan’s unholy servants would be destroyed. Theirs would be the victory that would turn the tide of battle back toward Allah’s chosen. They’d drive their contemptible adversary into the sea and reclaim northern Egypt before night fell.
Once they wiped the heretics from the face of the earth, the Mahdi’s followers would return to capturing Cairo. With the destruction of the great city complete, they’d make a headlong dash across the Sinai to face the one true curse upon the Arab world. The sainted battle with Israel would begin. Revenge for decades of indignities, real and imagined, would be theirs for the taking. After today’s unqualified mastery, nothing would stand in their way. The Chosen One’s tanks would be rolling into Jerusalem within the week. Islam’s triumph over the world of the faithless was taking shape.
With unbound fury, the Pan-Arabs chased the struggling Marines. Victory was within their grasp. Another one hundred yards of fallow ground was lost as the stumbling Americans ran before the pillaging armored division. Another round of agony and death reached out to claim the defiling Americans. The narrow third line held their positions and waited for their comrades to clear the field. Their weapons were locked on the unending targets.
The last of the faltering figures was soon out of the way. The instant they were clear, the anxious defenders unleashed everything they had. Missiles and machine-gun fire stung the immense attackers. And as before, scores of fierce eruptions rocked the desert air.
But Mourad’s army wasn’t going to be denied. The assured aggressors barely slowed. The third line rapidly consumed their insignificant reserves. Yet their unbending antagonists were still coming. What remained of the first three orders was soon struggling toward the final defensive positions.
For a fourth time, the maligned scene would be repeated. Dea
th, turmoil, and destruction ruled the day. There was nothing the halting Americans could do except use the limited supply of weapons in the remaining row’s arsenal. To slow the Pan-Arabs, the Marines fired everything they had. The last of the battalion’s antitank missiles were unleashed. More burning intruders were added to the perverse display.
Still the suicidal attackers didn’t stop.
The resigned Marines were out of options. There was nowhere left to run. And nothing remaining to slow the lusting tanks. Even so, the Americans would stand their ground.
Thousands of Pan-Arab soldiers and hundreds of weapons of war surged forward, determined to claim a share of the hallowed conquest. Mourad’s armor crowded together in a mad dash to vanquish their debased opponent. The Chosen One’s victorious infantry rushed shoulder to shoulder toward what remained of the disappearing defenses. The onerous battle was at its end.
The lethal blow would be swift and certain.
* * *
—
Side by side, eighteen Cobras roared over the shifting landscape. The instant the overpowering executioners reached the scene, they released a barrage of Hellfire and TOW missiles so mighty nothing could withstand its concussive force. It was a supremely powerful blow. Four hundred yards of desert erupted in a frightful no-man’s-land of blistering fires and searing infernos. A sizable portion of the Pan-Arab armored division disappeared in one swift strike. The earth shuddered and collapsed beneath the Mahdi’s fanatics.
On the ground, the startled Marines watched as fiery figures emerged from the unspeakable holocaust. Fully ablaze, the sightless forms staggered a short distance into the desert before their suffering mercifully ended.
Even the most hardened of the Americans turned away in abject revulsion at the lurid sight. The anguished wails of those who’d been caught in the furious attack would never be forgotten by the horrified men of the Marine battalion. The endless streams of tormented cries would shatter their fitful dreams for the rest of their days.