by Walt Gragg
“Worm, we’ve no more time! Fire your last 132.”
“My system’s not ready.”
“Neither is mine, but it no longer matters. Fire now!”
Both released their final radar-guided missile.
Both hurried shots missed . . .
Each aircraft pulled well away, out of the line of fire. They would have front-row seats for the final breaths of the life-and-death struggle.
The antiaircraft guns erupted in a continuous spray. Computers, radar, guns, and missiles, working as one, the anxious ships fought on. Four miles to go. Eight unrelenting murderers skimmed across the blinding waters. At three miles, chaff and decoys sailed skyward to fool the Chosen One’s cold-blooded butchers. Two missiles heading for the Lincoln swerved off course, chasing the false images north toward the open sea. Somewhere far out in the Mediterranean, they’d sputter into a watery grave.
Six cruise missiles . . . Just six out of one hundred had escaped the Americans’ grasp. Yet if placed just right, six might be enough to sink both carriers.
The last half dozen came on. Two were headed for the Lincoln. Four for the Eisenhower. One short mile before the end arrived. A handful of ticks was all that remained. It was too late for any of the ships’ missiles to activate in time to stop them.
The fleet was down to its final level of defense. Spewing thousands of rounds per minute, all eight destroyers’ and both carriers’ Phalanx and Vulcan gun systems sprang into action. Broad streams of tracers spewed toward the setting sun, searching for the elusive enemy.
A cruise missile headed for the Lincoln was destroyed in a hail of gunfire. The final five came on. Their steadfast journey was near its end. Six hundred yards remained before the target would be reached. They had to be stopped. The guns went on without letup.
Four hundred yards and closing much too fast. The watchful crews could see the unearthly silhouettes skimming across the shimmering ocean to claim them.
Three hundred yards . . . Another, the final missile aimed at the Lincoln, exploded and dropped into the ocean’s depths. Mourad was down to a final quartet. The last four were headed for the Eisenhower. Two hundred yards . . . The guns raged. One hundred yards . . .
Every weapon the Americans had was focused on the rolling waves. Given enough time, they’d get them all. But time was a gift the defenders no longer had. The fleeting seconds of a merciless clock ran out.
It was the Eisenhower that would suffer the effects of their failure. The initial one-thousand-pound warhead struck near the rear of the floating city. Twenty feet below the flight deck a massive explosion staggered the carrier. It found one of the multitudes of self-contained ammunition storage areas. A fraction of a second later, the three remaining hangmen hit a handful of feet from the first. Four nearly simultaneous explosions rocked the early evening. They obliterated that portion of the floating giant. The ammunition stores erupted, ravishing the last third of the aging carrier. Goring flames roared high into the air, singeing the clouds a mile above the crippled vessel.
Hundreds perished in the immense explosions. The death toll mounted. Despite the ship’s sophisticated suppression systems and the crew’s actions, the raging blaze was soon out of control. Fierce fires tore through the crippled aircraft carrier, consuming everything in its path. Within hours it would become apparent the Eisenhower was finished.
Circling high above the blackening heavens, Blackjack Section watched the horror unfolding. Silence filled both cockpits. A sickening feeling overcame the astounded pilots. Both understood that if they’d locked on to a single additional cruise missile the ship might have withstood the smaller assault. It was possible that even though the mighty ship would have been significantly damaged, a major part of the tragedy might have been averted and the Eisenhower saved. Innumerable lives had been lost because of the failure of each pilot to kill one more Tomahawk.
Many distant families would soon face a hideous reality.
Deep down, the somber pilots realized they’d done their best. Yet at this moment, as they witnessed the beginnings of the anguished drama to follow, such was of little solace.
* * *
—
To make room for the dying carrier’s F/A-18s the Lincoln would send away most of its nonfighter aircraft. Each flew to air bases in eastern Egypt, Israel, or Saudi Arabia. With its less critical planes and helicopters gone, the surviving Super Hornets would find a home on the final carrier’s crammed decks. For days, the Eisenhower’s fires would burn. Despite everything its dejected crew attempted, the howling flames couldn’t be contained. In the end the fiery metropolis, home to over five thousand, would have to be abandoned. At the conclusion of a tortured week, the listing ship would sink. The Eisenhower would settle into a watery grave two thousand feet below the ocean’s crest. Eleven hundred bodies would be carried into the depths with it. Millions of disbelieving Americans would sit watching their televisions as the once-invincible ship disappeared.
The Mahdi’s goals had been temporarily met. He’d destroyed one of the carriers. He’d shaken an American populace that had to this point viewed the war as little more than detached entertainment to be brought into their homes each evening.
In the end, however, Mourad’s grand plan didn’t succeed. He wanted a day’s control of the skies to eliminate the Marines. He wanted a week to crush Cairo and lead his tanks onto Jerusalem’s timeless streets. But he wouldn’t receive more than a few confusing hours of tentative mastery of the heavens. During the short window available, there was nothing he could do to capitalize on his advantage. His battered planes and demoralized fliers had suffered severe losses in the afternoon clash and were in no condition to press on toward victory. And after what had happened, the American pilots were out for blood. They were ever more determined to command the skies. If necessary, they’d fly missions around the clock to avenge the loss.
Within hours of the shocking attack, the great country took bold steps to remedy the situation. The planet’s most powerful nation dispatched its newest aircraft carriers from Virginia. By the Eisenhower’s final gasp, the Gerald Ford and the John F. Kennedy would arrive to take the defeated ship’s place. Ninety-six new American fighters would join the Lincoln’s air armada. From this point on, the Super Hornets would dominate North Africa. For as long as the war continued, the Marines would have the air cover needed to maintain their tenacious foothold.
The die had been forever cast. The Chosen One had given it his best. Yet his victory was incomplete. If he was going to conquer Egypt, he’d have to do so without mastery of the skies. If he was planning on crossing the Sinai to smite the Israelites, he’d have to contend with the swarming Americans overhead. In the days and weeks that followed, his forces were bound to suffer countless casualties as they chased their dream of world domination.
Yet none of that mattered for Muhammad Mourad. With the help of the Iraqis and Iranians, his prophetic struggle to subjugate the planet would go on.
26
2:08 A.M., OCTOBER 19
4TH PLATOON, ALPHA TROOP, 1ST BATTALION, 5TH CAVALRY REGIMENT, 1ST HEAVY BRIGADE COMBAT
(IRONHORSE), 1ST CAVALRY DIVISION
OUTSIDE SAKAKAH, SAUDI ARABIA
Standing in the open commander’s hatch of his Bradley Fighting Vehicle, Army Staff Sergeant Darren Walton pointed his flare gun toward the heavens. He pulled the stubby gun’s trigger. A phosphorus flare arched into a star-strewn sky. Directly over the killing field, the soaring flare exploded.
In the expansive desert in front of the cavalry battalion’s positions, the shimmering image shined down upon the unseeing eyes of thousands of disjointed Iraqi and Iranian bodies. In places on the gruesome battleground, mutilated corpses were stacked three high. In the distance, the ravaged remains of countless Iraqi tanks littered the sands.
The Iraqis and Iranians made no effort to remove their dead. Even the injured, no ma
tter how extensive their wounds, had been left to fend for themselves.
Those who could, crawled back to their own lines. Those who couldn’t, remained where they fell. With razor-sharp pieces of shattered limbs piercing their pliant skin, or holes in their anguished bellies so large their ruptured intestines spilled onto the blowing sands, the wounded beseeched Allah for mercy. In wails and whimpers, in plaintive pleas and pious prayers, the grievously injured begged for the end to come. The horrifying cries of the dying carried across the distant field upon the strong winds. They came to rest upon the Americans’ ears. For days without end, the living nightmare of the abandoned beings had gone on without letup. Even after a week, the pitiful sounds of unbridled suffering were something none of the men of the cavalry battalion had learned to tolerate.
They never would.
Whenever the Americans spotted the source of one of these unearthly appeals, a burst of gunfire reached out to extinguish the agony and escort another ill-disposed soul to the next world.
The flittering flare slowly descended toward the valley of death. Walton looked away, shielding his eyes. A wretched smile came over his face. For a week, their maniacal opponents had kept Walton’s platoon from finding all but the briefest moments of sleep.
In his battle-weary mind, turnabout was fair play. Interrupting their rivals’ fitful dreams was one of the few pleasures he’d enjoyed in the countless hours since his unit’s arrival outside Sakakah.
Other than the falling flare’s unsettling effect, there’d been no strategic reason for firing it. The Bradleys had state-of-the-art thermal night vision. In combination with the smoldering fires from the last Iraqi armor attack, these systems ensured nothing could move an inch on the piteous ground without the battalion’s men spotting it.
Even so, the Americans continued firing the flares at irregular intervals to keep their adversaries on their toes. If nothing else, they served to remind the Iranians and Iraqis that the vestiges of the proud battalion were still here, ready and willing to take their lives.
Of the thirty-four fighting vehicles with which the cavalry unit had arrived, only twenty-two had survived. There’d been four Bradleys in Walton’s platoon when they took up defensive positions six miles in front of the Saudi city and its critical crossroads. Now there were only three. Seven days earlier all four had been placed in sloped holes so only their turrets were exposed to the disdaining enemy. Even so, Lieutenant Field’s fighting vehicle had been destroyed in the fierce combat two nights prior. A lucky shot from a T-72’s massive cannon ripped the twenty-five-ton Bradley apart.
Walton glanced at the burned-out shell on his right. The skeletal remains of Field’s Bradley sat in its hole. Its scorched hull was a continual reminder of how tenuous were the lives of the cavalry soldiers. The defeated tracked vehicle’s turret was smashed beyond recognition. When Walton dragged them from the blazing Bradley, the charred bodies of its crew of three also had been unrecognizable.
Laid out in shiny coffins, the vanquished fighting team was on an Air Force cargo plane high over the Atlantic. The C-17’s hold was filled with identical silver coffins. Each contained the remains of a soldier who would, at least in this lifetime, fight no more. America’s dead were coming home. The long journey of the defeated armored vehicle’s men was nearing its end.
There were moments in the past days when Walton envied them.
The platoon’s Bradleys had carried thirty-six soldiers into battle. After a week of intense struggles, most of the six infantrymen each armored personnel carrier had transported in its rear compartment were gone. Dead or wounded, one by one, 4th Platoon’s members had been carried away.
Only fifteen of their original number endured. The three surviving Bradleys’ drivers, gunners, and commanders were still in the fight along with six of the cavalry platoon’s foot soldiers.
With the death of the platoon’s lieutenant, Walton was now in charge. The previously undistinguished thirty-two-year-old sergeant wasn’t the typical military leader. His approach had never been the stern autocratic one of the Army’s textbooks. He commanded the platoon more through his ample abilities than through his rank. Such a leadership style worked well for the brown-haired, hazel-eyed sergeant. The piles of bodies in front of their position were all the proof needed to show the success of the soft-spoken Walton’s methods.
While the settling flare sputtered and died, Walton glanced over at his Bradley’s gunner. Specialist Four Miguel Sanchez’s eyes were nearly shut.
“Miguel, you sure look like you could use a nap. Wally’s been asleep in the driver’s compartment for a couple of hours. Why don’t you get him to relieve you? If the Iraqi tanks attack again, we’ll wake you up.”
“Naw, Sarge, I’m okay. Got twenty minutes of sleep yesterday. And a half hour the day before. Let Dimmit sleep. When the time comes to leave, I want our darling private first class wide-awake to drive us out of here as fast as he can.”
“Leave? I hate to say it, Miguel, but what makes you think we’ll ever leave this place? We’ve been in this godforsaken hellhole forever. And with each passing hour, I become more and more convinced here’s where we’re going to stay until the end of time.”
“Man, you couldn’t be more wrong. Haven’t you heard, Sarge? This is our last night in this filthy little corner of nowhere. We’re leaving in ten hours. By midday we’ll be on our way out of here. Two brigades from the 3rd Infantry arrived yesterday. A friend at battalion called on the radio while you were out checking on the platoon. At this moment, one of those brigades is headed this way to relieve us.”
“An entire brigade to take our place? Miguel, your stories get wilder by the minute. I’m afraid this sounds like nothing but wishful thinking. Wasn’t it two days ago someone told you the 82nd Airborne was making a parachute drop behind our lines? And yesterday your best source had it from the battalion commander himself that a Marine division was going to land in Kuwait and fight their way across the desert to reinforce our position.”
“I know I said those things, Sarge. But you’ve got to understand, those were just crazy rumors created by guys with too much time on their hands. You really can’t pay much attention to that sort of stuff. I’m telling you, though, this one’s no rumor. It’s really true. There are one hundred and twelve M-1s, one hundred and twelve Bradleys, all kinds of artillery, and more Apache attack helicopters than you can shake a stick at on the way. They’ll be here by noon at the latest.”
“Is that a fact? And what happens to us when they get here?”
“My friend didn’t know for certain. Word is we’re headed back across Saudi Arabia to the Persian Gulf. We’re to wait for the rest of the division to arrive from Texas. They won’t be here for at least another week. Until then, unless these lunatics break through, we kick back and relax. When the division gets here we’re supposed to lead some kind of top secret mission to crush the Iranians and Iraqis.”
“Oh my God, now we’re going on a top secret mission? Miguel, you know I like you and everything. You’re the best damn gunner I’ve ever served with. You don’t miss with those TOW missiles of yours. But where do you come up with some of these insane ideas? I swear, the lack of sleep is causing you to hallucinate.”
“Sarge, I’ve spoken nothing but the truth. We’re getting out of here. Twelve o’clock, you’ll see. This is our last night in these lousy holes. By this time tomorrow, this will be nothing more than a distant memory. We’ll be lying on the beach dipping our toes in the bright blue waters while Red Cross donut dollies feed us grapes and caress our tired brows.”
“Miguel, you’re losing it, man.”
“Okay, I made up the donut dolly part. But the rest is true. Come midday we’re leaving.”
“Then I guess it’s official. Specialist Miguel Sanchez has announced for the world to hear that by noon the desert behind us is going to fill with M-1s. Looks like I’d better start pack
ing. Sure wouldn’t want to be in the way when all those Abrams show up.”
“Sarge, they’re on the way . . . You’re going to be sorry you ever doubted me when the 3rd Infantry gets here.”
“All right, Miguel, whatever you say. Let’s hope for the next ten hours those idiots on the far side of the dunes leave us alone. Who knows, maybe they’ll decide to sleep in tomorrow. If we’re lucky, their commanders might elect to catch up on their beauty rest. Because it sure would be a shame to get killed at this point when you’ve stated so much help’s coming.”
An exhausted smile spread across Walton’s face.
“I can’t believe you’re even questioning me,” Sanchez said. “You know darn well I’m one of the best sources of information in the entire battalion. Remember back at Fort Hood when I told you they were calling a surprise inspection to check the barracks for drugs with one of those dogs? I was right then, wasn’t I? Then there was the time Dimmit got caught doing the colonel’s daughter on the parade field. I was right about that too. And I’m right now. With my track record I can’t understand why you’re doubting what I’m telling you. This is starting to tick me off. I mean really tick me off. Just for that, for not believing me, when this war’s over remind me to never speak to you again.”
“Whatever you say, Miguel. Now why don’t you try to get some sleep? Everything’s quiet. Sure looks like the enemy’s sleeping right now. So should you.”
“Naw, Sarge. I’m staying right here to wait for the 3rd Infantry to come over those ugly hills behind us. Don’t want to miss the look on your face when the M-1s arrive.”
“I hope you’re right about those tanks. Nothing would please me more than being wrong about this one. Unfortunately, I’m afraid I’m not. And I’m sure going to hate seeing the expression on your face when they don’t show up tomorrow.”