by Walt Gragg
—
With no time to lose, Blackjack Section roared toward the faltering Marines.
The Hornets were four miles out. They’d passed through five thousand feet and were continuing their steep descent toward the teeming Sahara. Ahead, the blowing palms were unmistakable.
“Target’s coming up, Worm. Four or five scrawny trees at two o’clock. Doesn’t look like much. But that pitiful oasis must be heaven to those on the ground.”
The F/A-18Es continued to reach out for the swaying trees. The frenetic desert clash was coming into view. The fierce skirmish’s ruthless intensity couldn’t be denied. Muzzle flashes and running figures were everywhere.
“Man, that looks rough. Are you picking up the situation on the ground, Blackjack?”
“Roger, Worm, I see it. I’m waiting for the Marines to pop smoke. Once they do, we’ll hit the sorry bastards with everything we’ve got.”
“I count a couple dozen cars, trucks, and buses near the oasis, with more on the way. Must be at least three hundred Pan-Arabs within a few hundred yards of our guys. And it could easily be twice that. Want to take them out with a bomb run and then attack with our guns?”
“Let’s play it by ear. If they’re about to overrun the place, we’ll use our cannons first. Otherwise, if we’ve got time, we’ll drop our bomb loads on the vehicles and then use the Vulcans for close-in support.”
They roared toward the watering hole. The desperate aggressors continued their furious assault. The Americans spotted the onrushing aircraft. The sergeant in charge of the nine-man outpost popped a smoke canister. He tossed it in front of their bunkers.
“There’s the smoke, Worm.” Mitchell viewed the incomprehensible scene, trying to determine the correct approach. “Things are just too tight. Let’s slide down to the deck and hit ’em with our Vulcans.”
“Roger, Blackjack. I concur. Strafing run first then finish them with cluster bombs.”
The Hornets dove for the beseeching flats. At the last possible instant they leveled off. Fifty feet above the sands, they raced forward. The pair was wing tip to wing tip as they screamed toward the perverse display.
The onrushing Pan-Arabs spotted the surging birds of prey. The threat to their existence was unmistakable. There was perilous quarry everywhere Mitchell looked. In stark panic, fleeing figures, most carrying rifles, raced in all directions. Yet there were few places to hide upon the featureless ground. Hundreds of the Mahdi’s followers raised their rifles. They squeezed the triggers, firing long, noisy bursts. Still, as those on the dying feluccas had discovered days earlier, it was hopeless. Their efforts would have no impact upon the thundering Super Hornets. The pilots ignored the futile actions and prepared to bring a life-seizing whirlwind to the world of mortal man.
“Worm, I’ll take the big group in front of the Marine positions. You hit the ones on the far side that are trying to work their way behind our guys.”
“Roger, Blackjack.”
Both pilots were so near they could see the terrified peasants’ faces. This time the killing would be up close and personal. The moment had come to lay waste to their ill-fated prey.
The Marines dove behind their protective walls of sand. They plunged into their foxholes and smothered themselves within the earth’s protective cover. The last thing they wanted was to be killed by friendly fire.
Mitchell aimed at a plentiful collection of armed figures thirty yards from the American defenses. He squeezed his cannon’s trigger. A murderous salvo spewed forth from the voracious gun.
Sweeney did the same, spewing death and destruction toward those caught in his sights.
The huge 20mm shells were designed for far more challenging targets. As the silenced victims of Blackjack Section’s earlier assaults had found, crushing pliant flesh with the powerful munitions would be a simple task.
Blackjack Section’s firing was exacting and accurate. At incredible speed, far-flung numbers of striking shells screamed across the remorseless sands. They chewed immense holes in everything within their path. In front of the shielding bunkers, well more than four score went down beneath the fearsome assembly. Hit by cannon fire, most of the tumbling figures were blown apart. Even a partial blow was enough to seize a life. With their positions exposed, none of the intruders had a chance. The omnipotent rounds hammered home. In front of the sturdy sandbags, not one was spared from Mitchell’s offensive.
Sweeney’s overriding Hornet had a similar effect on the forty or so attempting to work their way behind the Marine positions. His Vulcan chewed them to pieces. Death’s image fell upon them in scalding waves. In an instant, all but a struggling handful had perished. The threat from those attempting to encircle the embattled defenses was no more.
A fraction of a second later, Worm fired another startling burst. The destructive shells ripped into the mass of stationary vehicles on the distant side of the palms. A doomed truck soon smoldered. A shattered car burst into flames. Still more followed. Those cowering behind the blighted victims were ripped to shreds by the powerful offensive.
The Hornets roared skyward.
“Nice job, Worm. Looks like we nailed the lunatics nearest the bunkers. Let’s make another pass at the ones closest to reaching the trees. We’ll then eliminate those farther out with our cluster bombs. Once we finish the next run, I’ll move on to the groups to the south. You hit that tangle of cars and buses heading in from the northwest.”
The F/A-18Es plummeted. They skimmed the sweating sands in pursuit of the wavering aggressors. After the initial fury, the panicked survivors had turned and fled, hoping against hope to uncover a hint of concealment.
Only a smattering of vehicles near the rustling palms had survived Sweeney’s assault. Their drivers turned and sped away. Those on foot began racing after them. Farther out, others joined in the terrified flight. Yet upon the passive lands it was folly. Mitchell took aim at the running forms, speeding cars, buses, and trucks. He squeezed the trigger again and again. Hundreds of shells spewed forth from the avenger’s nose. A few seconds was all it took for a dozen vehicles to be torn apart. As the deadly fighter passed, figures dropped in twisted clumps and moved no more. Those upon the accursed Sahara were overwhelmed. Beneath the screeching American wings, splintered bodies fell to earth like fading fall leaves. Blackjack continued the grievous raid until his six-barrel Vulcan had emptied its ammunition storage drum. He headed back into the limitless blue.
Sweeney tore after the generous groupings closing in from the northwest. A flashing squeeze of the trigger and a truck filled with two dozen of the Mahdi’s fervent burst into flames. Another quick pull and a pair of automobiles were torn to pieces. One after another, he eliminated those closest to the summoning waters. A trail of existence-denying devastation followed in his Super Hornet’s wake. Smoke billowed forth over a wide swath of desert. Like his section leader, his gun brought the Chosen One’s end to enormous numbers this day.
His subjugating task completed, Worm rushed to his partner’s side.
Both pilots viewed the scene upon the unforgiving landscape. There wasn’t an attacker alive within a mile of the oasis. Vast throngs of Mourad’s adherents breathed no more.
“Okay, Worm, looks like we’ve eliminated the immediate threat. The Cobras should be here in fifteen minutes. Ready to buy the Marines some time with your cluster bombs?”
“More than ready, Blackjack.”
“Let’s split up again. Head west and pick out the biggest groupings you can find. Hit them with your cluster bombs and we’ll turn for home.”
The destructive pair soared high above the tumultuous display.
Six miles southwest, Mitchell found a surging formation of buses and trucks filled beyond their limits. He thought about saving his bombs for a target closer to the Marines. But the pickings were too good to ignore. He released the first of his bombs.
The vengeance-seeking ass
ailant dropped from the Hornet’s left wing. It spun toward the beckoning earth. While it did, the cluster bomb released its load of malignant bomblets. Two hundred and two solemn killers, each containing a half-pound explosive charge, would soon be striking a football field–size area of the withering world below. When it did, the desert would erupt in a riotous display of unspeakable proportions. Caught in the maelstrom, absolutely nothing, neither man nor machine, would survive.
Moments later, Mitchell released the cluster bomb resting beneath his right wing on a nearby gathering of Pan-Arab vehicles. The plunging killer spewed its deadly cargo. Hundreds of slaying serpents sailed toward Mourad’s hapless reserves. The maligned ground was ripped apart by the power of the impacting ordnance. Not an inch was left unscathed. The effect of the strike was predictably certain. The caravan exploded. In every corner, assailed figures dropped upon the waiting sands. Their anguished screams were carried immeasurable distances on the afternoon’s winds. Their agonizing cries, however, would soon end.
Sweeney found similar elements, not quite as large as his section leader’s, a few miles from the oasis. He too released his munitions to destroy and dispatch. The scourging bomblets tumbled toward the flowing dunes. The ardent desert erupted once again. Hellfire consumed those it found on the unyielding landscape. Like his section leader’s, the results of his attack were breathlessly final.
Death had come once more from beneath a Hornet’s wings.
Their actions completed, Blackjack Section re-formed. They flew over the scarred trees, tipping their wings in triumph as they passed.
The F/A-18Es headed for home. Behind them, the Sahara was on fire.
* * *
—
Blackjack Section lined up their landings. Darkness was falling full upon the Middle East. It was going to be a busy night for every Hornet crew. During the black hours, Mitchell and Sweeney would make three additional incursions to assist scattered Marine positions. Using their cannons and cluster bombs, they’d continue to deliver the hapless reinforcements to the Chosen One’s magnificent next world.
The exhausted pilots wouldn’t find their beds until four in the morning. This time Mitchell was too tired to care how many e-mails his wife had sent. His family problems could wait.
Both were asleep within minutes of crawling into their bunks. By eight the next morning, after three short hours of sleep and a hurried breakfast, they’d be back in their cockpits.
It was going to be a hectic few days for the carrier-based aircraft. So far, the Super Hornet pilots had averaged four missions per day. In the coming week that number would nearly double.
Bradley Mitchell would have little time to worry about Brooke. In his busy cockpit he would be safe and secure from her intrusions.
52
9:18 A.M., OCTOBER 29
3RD PLATOON, BRAVO COMPANY, 2ND RECONNAISSANCE BATTALION, 2ND MARINE DIVISION
IN THE DESERT
SIXTY MILES NORTH OF CAIRO
They’d reached another minefield.
Erickson signaled for his haggard men to halt. Frustration was scrawled across the platoon leader’s face. It was the same dejected look every member of the battalion was wearing. Even the tireless James Fife’s resolve was starting to waver. For four days, they’d struggled toward Cairo. On the first, confident and cocky, they’d covered a significant distance. In the past three, however, they’d barely made five miles each day. They were sixty tough miles from their goal. And they were bogged down once more. To a man, they suspected it would be many sunrises before they’d see the towering pyramids rising in the distance.
Erickson looked at the men of his platoon. After four days of combat, their numbers had fallen by six. Four wounded and two dead were all his point unit had suffered. It was a remarkable number after so many hours in the line. Still, it reflected more than anything the Pan-Arabs’ unwillingness to slug it out with the Allies.
The Chosen One’s tactics were painfully apparent. Harass and delay in the north, consuming precious time while waiting to see if the suffocating seven million he’d called forward would arrive in great numbers. The satellites confirmed that with or without those elements, the Mahdi was preparing for a massive attack upon the city.
With another minefield in front of them, there was nothing the Allies could do but stop until the path had been cleared.
“Platoon Sergeant,” Erickson said, “have the men set up a defensive perimeter until the minesweepers arrive. Tell them to dig in.”
The entire platoon groaned. They’d received the same order a dozen times since leaving the beach. Stop and dig in. Another morning, another foxhole. Most were convinced they were going to end up digging their way to Cairo.
* * *
—
By midmorning, the latest crippling field had been cleared and they were once again on the move. With each tired step, they drew a few feet closer to the end of the war. The British battalion’s thirty-four surviving tanks continued to plod along. On their right, similar advances were being made by countless units. The Allies pressed on.
There’d been no significant battles in northern Egypt. Occasionally, somewhere along the stretching line, the Pan-Arabs would stand and briefly fight. Yet such contests had been rare and uneven. The Allies had brushed their opponent aside with a modicum of effort. To a man, however, the Marines recognized things couldn’t stay this way forever.
Sooner or later, the enemy would have to hold their ground. And when they did, the British Challengers, along with American airpower, would finally get a chance to finish things. Even with their halting progress, there was little doubt they’d emerge victorious. They were certain they’d crush the Mahdi’s forces. They knew on a yet-to-be-determined day they’d reach the streets of the historic city.
It was all a matter of time.
* * *
—
After breaching the minefield, they’d been heading south for nearly thirty minutes. Captain Richards hurried up to walk beside Erickson.
“How’s your platoon doing, Sam?”
“About as well as could be expected, sir. They’re definitely discouraged by the bastards’ unwillingness to take us on.”
“That’s what I came to tell you,” Richards said. “Your men won’t be disappointed for much longer.”
“How’s that, sir?”
“Appears Mourad’s finally decided to face us. Three miles ahead, just over the next rise, two divisions of armor are waiting. There are seven hundred T-72s, with an equal number of BMPs in support. Lots of air defense weapons, artillery, and mortars too. Word is they’re not playing around this time. This’ll be no hit-and-run raid by his pathetic followers. It’s going to be one hell of a fight. I guess once we got within a hundred kilometers, Mourad decided he’d no other choice. Scout drones took a good look around as they passed over the Pan-Arabs. The enemy’s heavily fortified his defensive positions. Our opponent isn’t going to retreat this time. There’s little doubt there will be significant suffering on both sides before this one’s over. Even with air superiority, it could take a day, possibly longer, to defeat the massive force in front of us.”
“Doesn’t matter, sir, because we will defeat them. Sooner we kill every last one of the sorry excuses, the sooner we get this over with.”
“And the sooner Sam Erickson gets back to a certain beautiful reporter we all know.” Richards smiled.
“I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t part of it, sir.”
“Can’t blame you, Sam. I’d be in a hurry too if Lauren Wells was waiting on the beach for me. We’re going to halt to get resupplied. Got a couple of King Stallions filled with Javelins, LAWs, and TOWs headed this way. The helicopters should be here any minute. As soon as they’re unloaded, the battalion commander’s issuing each of your guys all the LAWs they can carry. He wants them to go after the initial line of BMPs. That will allow the Cha
llengers to focus on the T-72s.”
“Yes, sir. Sergeant Fife and I will organize the fire teams. We’ll get the men set to concentrate our part of the attack on the personnel carriers.”
“Sam, you need to take the enemy out. Each of the BMPs is armed with Spandrel missiles. We’re reasonably certain the Challengers’ frontal armor will hold against a Spandrel attack. But we don’t want to test that theory any more than we have to. So eliminate as many as you can before they’re able to launch against the British.”
“Understood, sir. This platoon will do everything possible to keep the BMPs off them.”
“Over ten percent of Mourad’s remaining armor is waiting in the desert in front of us. That’s a significant chunk of what he has left. Command element’s convinced this is one of the key moments of the war. They’ve decided to concentrate everything we have on it. Two additional British battalions are within striking distance. They, and their Marine supporters, are headed this way. They should be here in under two hours. Twelve Hornets are in the air. All twenty-four F/A-18Es from the John F. Kennedy are being allocated to this one. The second twelve will launch the minute the first dozen complete their runs. The Lincoln released a handful of Super Hornets to handle any bandits the Mahdi might send this way. Division commander’s freeing up every remaining Cobra. That’s twenty-nine angry tank killers. We’re also launching a significant force of Reaper drones. So there’ll be lots of support for our attack. And in a couple of hours, another seventy Challengers will arrive to reinforce our positions. That should even the odds a bit. Even so, it could take quite a determined effort to finish off the enemy.”
Erickson took off his helmet and swiped his shirtsleeve across his face. “Sir, we’re sick of Mourad’s games. I don’t think my guys care if we have to fight until the end of time, just as long as we’re fighting. Because until those misguided fools stand and face us, we’re never going to finish this.”