by Walt Gragg
It had been a long day, but with their successes, and their superior night-fighting abilities, they’d no intention of stopping for even the briefest of moments. They were going to press their advantage and continue attacking throughout the infinite night.
As he walked, Erickson watched the progress of his Marines, judging their ability to carry the fight to the elusive enemy. Over the Challengers’ bellowing engines he talked with the men, testing their resolve. Even those taking a turn riding on the tanks or in the Humvees looked as he felt—thoroughly exhausted and ready for relief.
Always observant, they continued to shuffle along. The encroaching sunset was on their right as they moved across the unrelenting landscape in search of prey. From the distant sounds upon the featureless hills, there was meaningful fighting occurring elsewhere. But their corner of the conflict had become strangely still.
The platoon leader sensed it was almost too quiet. They’d soundly defeated their battered adversary, pushing him back. Nevertheless, something didn’t quite fit. The Mahdi had limitless divisions waiting in the Allies’ path. Where they were, and why they weren’t putting up more of a fight, he couldn’t comprehend.
It wouldn’t be long, however, before the answer would come.
Without warning, the late afternoon’s malaise was shattered. On the left, thirty yards from Erickson’s position, a violent blast hurled a plodding Marine into the air, dumping him upon the rock-strewn ground. Erickson turned toward the unexpected sound. The severely wounded private lay screaming at the top of his lungs. He flailed about, the all-consuming pain tearing at his anguished brain. His right leg, from the knee down, was gone. His left was shredded and bleeding. Erickson took an additional step and froze.
The injured American was one of those he’d taken command of earlier in the week. He wasn’t one hundred percent certain, but he believed the private’s name was Ruiz. On the far right, near James Fife, an earthshaking explosion pierced the growing evening less than a heartbeat later. Like a discarded rag doll, the British platoon’s westernmost tank was tossed upon its side. Smoke poured from the ruptured Challenger’s belly. Its left track was gone.
Erickson knew it could only be one thing. The advancing battalion had walked into a minefield. The area around them had been saturated with both antitank and antipersonnel mines.
Erickson searched the listless ground, looking for clues to where the mines had been placed. Yet he couldn’t spot anything out of the ordinary. Despite the short time they had, their opponent had done a masterful job of planting the mines and disguising their locations.
The surviving British tanks and the Humvees ground to a halt. The critically injured private continued screaming.
“Nobody move!” Erickson yelled. He signaled the platoon to freeze. “We’ve hit a minefield. Platoon Sergeant!”
“Yes, sir!”
“Take a couple of men and head over to that crippled Challenger. Before it blows, get the crew out and check on our guys who were riding on it. Once I’ve got everybody organized, I’ll try to reach Ruiz and see what I can do until we get a corpsman up here.”
“Will do, sir.” Gunny turned to the nearest Marines. “Williamson, Ayers, nice and slow move over to that tank and give me a hand. We’ve got to get them away from there before the fires reach its ammunition.”
“Private First Class Gardner,” Erickson said to the platoon’s new radio operator, “tell battalion we’ve stumbled upon a minefield. Inform them of the need for a couple of corpsmen up here on the double.” With Petty Officer Bright’s death earlier in the war, the platoon no longer had its own medic and would have to wait for outside help.
“I’m on it, sir.”
“The rest of you retrace your footsteps. Should you step on a mine, try not to panic. Leave your foot where it is, notify those around you of your situation, and wait for help to arrive.”
Erickson looked around. His men were doing exactly as he’d directed. A step at a time, each was easing away from the baneful field. The three remaining tanks and the Humvees began slowly backing, using their earlier tracks to guide them to safety. Satisfied with the platoon’s actions, Erickson edged across the leering desert toward the screaming Ruiz. With each movement, the platoon leader waited to hear the telltale click from an antipersonnel mine. The anguished teenager continued to writhe upon the bitter ground, out of his mind in pain.
Fife and his men headed toward the disabled tank. Each moved warily across the open ground. The tank’s commander and gunner, riding with their hatches open, had been blown clear by the massive explosion. They lay a dozen feet from the smoldering Challenger. The loader and driver were trapped inside its immense walls.
Williamson reached the tank commander. The British sergeant lay in a heap. His right arm was shattered. A jagged piece of bone had pierced the skin inches below his elbow. Blood ran down his face from a nasty scalp wound above his right eye. His left leg was twisted in such a manner there was no doubt it was broken. Williamson pulled out his meager first-aid pouch. He applied a compress to the gaping head wound. Hopefully, a corpsman would arrive soon. If not, he’d attempt to carry the British soldier across the minefield before the ravishing flames blew the Challenger apart.
The tank’s gunner had survived unharmed, but a bit disoriented. Lance Corporal Ayers helped him up and after looking him over took him to stand in the tank’s tracks. He then went after the two Americans who’d been riding on the Challenger. There was nothing he could do for the first. He moved over to the second, who had already gotten to his feet. His injuries were little more than a twisted ankle along with some deep cuts and bruises.
With his eyes scanning every inch of ground, Ayers walked him over and placed him next to the tank’s gunner. “Don’t either of you move until we tell you to,” he directed the pair. “Gunny, Nolan and the tank’s gunner are ready to be evacuated. But Corporal Reeves is dead. Looks like he broke his neck in the fall. What do you want me to do?”
Fife had reached the burning leviathan. He glanced at the fires growing within its punctured frame. He knew even with the Challenger’s excellent fire suppression system there was little time remaining before the disabled tank would explode.
“Step over here real careful like. We’ve got to get the other two crewmen out before it’s too late. I’ll crawl in after the loader. You free the driver from the front compartment.”
“I’m on it,” Ayers responded while taking a first careful step toward the crippled tank.
The pair commenced the highly dangerous task. Each knew the clock was ticking. But luck was with them. Both trapped crewmen were alive and neither was seriously injured. The crewmen were soon out of the distressing mass. Ayers took his four charges and with the tank tracks as his guide headed toward safety. Fife went over and did what he could to assist Williamson with the badly injured tank commander. As quickly as they dared, they picked him up and left the field.
Moments later, the tank exploded.
* * *
—
Erickson neared Ruiz’s position. It felt like forever, but eventually he was at the private’s side. The lieutenant examined the obscene results. There was no denying the injuries were life threatening. He put tourniquets on both legs using his belt and Ruiz’s. The wounded private continued yelling. An ashen-faced corpsman appeared with a stretcher. A shot of morphine and they placed the disabled private upon it. They were soon on their way out of the deadly field, carrying the stretcher toward safety. Erickson led, searching for the most likely location to place his feet. He was certain each footfall would be his last. Yet somehow they made their way out of the danger.
Within minutes, a medevac helicopter arrived and whisked the wounded away. The crisis was over as rapidly as it had begun.
* * *
—
The platoon would get the rest they craved. In the approaching darkness, it would take the B
ritish minesweeping tanks three hours to reach their location. And with no idea of the width or depth of the minefield, the Allies weren’t going to risk a nighttime clearance. The Marines would dig deep foxholes to support the Challengers.
Well after sunset, Erickson settled into his sandbagged world. From the beach, they’d traveled thirty-five miles on the opening day of the advance. For the next twelve hours, however, they’d be going nowhere. The platoon’s euphoria from the afternoon’s mastery was gradually ebbing.
To a man, the worn Americans suspected their dreams of reaching Cairo in four days had been wildly optimistic. All understood their triumph was going to take much longer, and involve far more suffering, than any of them cared to admit.
45
6:25 P.M., OCTOBER 25
PAN-ARAB HEADQUARTERS
BENEATH THE SHADOW OF THE GREAT PYRAMID
ON THE GIZA PLATEAU
The brightly colored nomad tent sat in the middle of the pyramid complex. A blustery wind tore at its sides. The silken structure flapped with each strong breeze, pulling at its moorings and making significant noise. Those inside its sheltering form paid no attention to its distracting efforts.
For the past week, Muhammad Mourad had called the once-sacred hilltop home. From here he commanded his massive army. Upon the mesa, the Mahdi was surrounded by Egypt’s most recognizable landmarks.
To the north sat the magnificent Great Pyramid of Khufu. East and west of the Great Pyramid were large fields of rectangular, aboveground tombs containing the remains of the pharaohs’ families and the royal courts.
To the east, reaching to the broad plateau’s edges, rested the jumbled peasant houses of the encroaching Giza suburbs. The modest homes stretched unending to the Nile.
To the southeast, a quarter-mile walk from the billowing tent, the enigmatic Sphinx reclined.
To the west were the pyramid of Khafre and the smaller pyramid of Menkaure. Beyond the western edge of the plateau, after a mile or so of additional homes, waited nothing but the inhospitable desert.
The historic elevation buzzed with activity. Soldiers assigned to the command element moved in every direction. Near the huge tent, the landscape bristled with the antennas, trucks, and vans of the Pan-Arabs’ primary communication complex. On the perimeter, air defense weapons protected the sanctified ground. In every direction the eye surveyed, Mourad’s mujahideen, his two hundred fiercely loyal bodyguards, stood at the ready. Each had vowed to give his life to defend the Chosen One. Farther out, around the hilltop’s edges, Mourad’s handpicked armored division waited with their tanks and personnel carriers. They were prepared to repel an attack of any sort. The fifteen thousand soldiers of the division were the best trained and most dedicated of the Mahdi’s combat troops.
Inside the tent, he sat cross-legged on a stretching rug of indeterminate origin. The vivid hues and intricate designs of the woven fabric had lost none of their vitality throughout the long years of use. The spreading carpet reached from corner to corner in the spacious shelter. Two dozen of Mourad’s religious, political, and military advisers sat with their leader in the center of the space. Each understood that in this setting they could speak their minds without fear of recrimination. While the decisions were ultimately his, Muhammad Mourad had learned long ago to carefully consider the advice of those who served him.
“Chosen One, if you don’t act soon, all will be lost,” General Khalil el-Saeed, commander of the army, said. “This morning the last of our units was expelled from Cairo by the French tanks and the British and American soldiers. Our warriors were ill-prepared for the enemy’s assault. They didn’t fare well when faced with the French armor. In the city’s northern section, small pockets of Allah’s warriors were cut off by the forcible advance. Those in this desperate predicament are battling the intruders with every ounce of courage they can muster. They’ve sworn to fight to the death. Much of our force is gathering in Giza, waiting for your order to launch a counterattack. They’re eager to renew the battle to cast out the unbelievers and continue with Allah’s conquest.”
“General, as we discovered this morning, it’ll do no good to cross the river if we can’t hold the territory we gain.” Mourad turned to General Jehan Akhtar, el-Saeed’s second-in-command. “Like General el-Saeed, I am anxious to renew the attack. Have you devised a plan that will place enough of our tanks on the eastern banks to expel our adversary from this land?”
“No, Chosen One, we have not,” General Akhtar said. “We’re continuing to look at all options. At best it will take two or three days to develop a viable approach and an equal amount of time to prepare our soldiers.”
“Such is probably acceptable, General Akhtar,” Mourad said. “It’ll allow our warriors time to rest and gather their strength for the final assault. But we can afford no further delays. With the infidels mounting their forces in the north, time is of the essence. We must take the city before they end our chances of prevailing. Do our commanders understand the urgency of their efforts?”
“They understand full well,” General Akhtar said. “They’re quite aware of the enemy’s progress. They recognize the situation’s growing more difficult by the day.”
“What’s the latest word from the north, General el-Saeed?”
“This afternoon our forces in northern Egypt were attacked by two divisions of British Challenger tanks. The American Marines are with them. At the moment, we’re putting our efforts into placing strings of great minefields in their path. We’re building tank traps and fortifying our positions as rapidly as possible. Even so, we’ve lost significant ground. And the minefields will eventually be breached, even if they delay our foe’s actions for a few additional days. We’ve had to divert more divisions from the battle for Cairo and send them north to face this new threat. Our forces are numerous and powerful. We greatly outnumber those we face. But the Challengers are far superior to our armored vehicles. And the British crews are extremely proficient. With the American domination of the skies, we cannot expect to succeed without severe losses of men and equipment. We’ve lost many brave souls this day. Even so, our defenses stretch from the front lines to just a few miles north of here. So there’s little chance of the British breaking through and routing our army. We’ll make this a time-consuming battle of attrition for our adversary. We’ll force him to pay in blood for each meter of ground gained.”
“I expect no less, General el-Saeed.”
“Chosen One, it’s my duty to give you an honest assessment of our military capabilities. As things stand, I don’t believe we can defeat our opponent. He’s growing stronger by the day and we’re growing progressively weaker. After a month of fighting, many of our soldiers have lost their enthusiasm for battle. I’m ashamed to report that there have been incidences of retreating, deserting, and surrendering on the battlefront in the north and in our struggle for Cairo.”
Mourad turned to Kadar Jethwa, the high cleric of Algiers, and his handful of religious advisers. There was indignation in the Mahdi’s voice. “Such cowardice won’t be tolerated! This is your responsibility. You’re the ones charged with watching over our political officers. You must ensure they’ve properly instructed our legions. They must instill the desire to emerge victorious or die a martyr’s death. It’s you who must answer to Allah for such blasphemy. It’s your immortal souls that are at risk if our soldiers aren’t prepared. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Chosen One,” the bearded mullahs muttered.
“Contact those within your charge. Have them relight the flame in the heart of every soldier. They’re to ensure no one draws away from their rapturous duty. Their swords are to bring swift retribution to anyone attempting such acts. We may not emerge triumphant from this, the first chapter of our holy struggle, but in defeat our every action will be to honor Allah. I promise you in my lifetime Islam will rule the world. Yet, as I’ve always professed, so great a victory, so momentous
a venture, will involve extreme sacrifice from all true believers.”
“Yes, Chosen One,” Jethwa answered. “It will be done.”
The Mahdi turned to General el-Saeed. “Even if our political officers do everything possible to bolster our warriors’ resolve, how long before our army’s overwhelmed?”
“If things stay as they are, two weeks at the very most.”
“We’ve two million soldiers still involved in the battle,” Mourad said. “There must be something we can do.”
“Of that, you’re correct, Chosen One. All’s not lost. Satan’s disciples have left a fatal opening that will lead to their demise. If we move quickly, success is within our grasp. If you’ll change our plan of battle, Islam will prevail.”
“What do you propose, General?”
“Bypass Cairo and attack Israel. There’s never been a better time. While we’re struggling within the great city and the far north, such is not the case everywhere. The enemy’s wide open to a flanking movement. Right now the only things north and south of Cairo are demoralized Egyptian units whose lines are perilously thin. Behind them there’s nothing. If we move immediately, we can begin an overwhelming assault under the cover of tonight’s darkness. When we undertake this operation, we will stretch the American air forces beyond their breaking point. They won’t be numerous enough to stop the bridge building taking place in countless locations. In a few hours, much of our armored force will cross the Nile and smash the insignificant defenses we’ll face. Once we do, our tanks will race across the Sinai and reach Israel in less than a day. When the Israelites respond, Syria and Lebanon will seize the opportunity and strike from the north while the Palestinians do battle from within.”
“Do you believe the plan you propose will achieve such results?”
“Our emissaries assure me all of Islam is awaiting a sign to begin the final battle to conquer the heretics. And this time, when we attack Israel, things will be quite different than in the past. It won’t be like the fruitless battles in previous wars. We’re too strong, and too determined. We’ll place a death grip upon the interlopers. From every direction, we’ll squeeze the life out of those who for more than seventy years have shamed us and denied the Arab world’s rightful place in Palestine. In three days, you’ll ride triumphantly into Jerusalem. It will be a grand sight, forever uniting two billion believers under your banner. We won’t be denied by the Jews this time. Victory will be ours. With your own hands, you’ll tear the first stone from the Wailing Wall and forever remove the Hebrew scar from the sacred mosque at the Dome of the Rock.”