by Walt Gragg
“Two on, two off, just like usual,” Fife said. “We’ll let the lieutenant sleep. Pitzer, you and I will take the first two hours. Joyce, Benson, and Lewis will handle the next two.”
They settled in for their first tentative rest in quite some time.
* * *
—
That’s where Captain Richards found them late the next morning.
“Sorry I took so long getting out here, Sam,” Richards said. “But it couldn’t be helped. Been busy loading the wounded onto medevacs and identifying as many of the dead as I can.”
“How many left in the company, sir?” Erickson asked.
“Counting the six of you, I’ve located thirty-four. If we’re lucky, there might be a straggler or two out there somewhere, but probably not many more than that. Except for you and Gunnery Sergeant Fife, none of the platoon leaders or platoon sergeants survived.”
“When’s the battalion heading out again?” Erickson asked.
“Battalion? What battalion? There are so few of us left it’s less than company size. Division’s decided we’ve had enough. For the moment, our combat role’s over. The British tanks are re-forming. If all goes as planned, they’ll depart this afternoon. But we’re not going with them. A battalion from the 1st Division will be taking over for us. We’re staying here to locate any remaining wounded, and tag American and British dead.”
“Then what, sir?” Erickson asked.
“Then comes the fun part. They’re bringing in bulldozers. Once our casualties are removed, we’re going to dig mass graves for the Pan-Arabs. With this many dead in so concentrated an area, health concerns will become quite real if we don’t do something. So our job’s to get them underground.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I wish I were, Sam. Battalion’s set up its command post a half mile southwest of here. Have your men gather their equipment and head over to receive your assignments.”
* * *
—
Pitzer eased the Humvee across the seeping crimson ground. Fife walked in front of the vehicle, his rifle at the ready. In two hours of searching for the dead and wounded, they’d encountered more than one Pan-Arab with fight left in him. The last had been a political officer whose aim was no straighter than his twisted beliefs. The platoon sergeant quickly dispatched him to the exalted existence he desperately craved.
Gunny was also there to ensure in the smoke and confusion they didn’t run over a dead or wounded Marine or British tanker. Every few feet, another Pan-Arab corpse waited. For now they’d ignore the unending carcasses, concentrating on their own losses. The time would come soon enough to deal with the massive numbers of Algerian and Libyan dead.
Erickson and Joyce walked on one side of the Humvee, Benson and Lewis on the other. To this point, they’d found few Allied wounded, and far too many dead. As they discovered another lifeless American they’d pick up the shattered body and place it in the Humvee. When they reached another defeated Challenger, they’d enter its smoldering hull to retrieve the charred remains of its crew. With the aggrieved Humvee piled high with those who’d failed to survive, they’d return to the battalion command post to await the next King Stallion to land and receive its grisly cargo. That task completed, the scarred vehicle and its dazed attendants would return to the distorted circus to retrieve another gut-wrenching load.
In another day, with the Allied casualties collected, the bulldozers would arrive and the truly horrendous portion of their efforts would begin. Forty-five thousand remains would have to be gathered and dumped into the mass graves being dug throughout the unforgiving terrain.
With the desecrated battleground still filled with smoke, the enormity of what had happened hadn’t fully sunk in. It would take three days for the final banishing fires to conclude.
When they did, and the lingering shadows cleared, the ruinous sands would reveal their gruesome secret. And the hideous scene mankind would find was beyond description.
Yet in the end, none of what had happened in this place would matter, for the appalling slaughter would go on.
56
7:15 P.M., OCTOBER 30
PAN-ARAB HEADQUARTERS
INSIDE THE KING’S BURIAL CHAMBER, THE GREAT PYRAMID OF KHUFU
THE GIZA PLATEAU
General el-Saeed entered the King’s Burial Chamber. Having returned from his sunset walk along the crumbling wall next to the ancient cemetery on the western side of the Great Pyramid, Muhammad Mourad was sitting in the center of the archaic kingdom’s most sacred room.
“Well?” Mourad said, his words echoing throughout the enclosed space.
“Chosen One,” General el-Saeed said, “the great battle in the north has reached its end. Our divisions fought bravely. Not one of our warriors retreated from his post. Each died honoring Allah. The exalted voyages to their honored place are assured. For many hours the fighting raged. But it was no use. Our enemies were too powerful. We’ve suffered defeat. The infidels will soon be on the march again across a wide area. Their advance elements will be within eighty kilometers of Cairo by morning.”
“Are we preparing further defensive positions?”
“Our forces are gathering. They’re digging in and readying to engage the nonbelievers in many more battles in the coming days. That should slow their progress and buy us time.”
“How much longer before those in the north reach us?”
General el-Saeed hesitated, reluctant to admit the war might soon be over. He understood his army’s destiny had been decreed the moment the Mahdi refused to bypass the Egyptian capital and attack Israel. Only a miracle, or a swift and decisive victory in the coming assault upon Cairo, could save the day. With the venerable city conquered, the general might still be able to rush his tanks across the Sinai, drawing Israel into the war. Even so, there wasn’t much time remaining.
“A week, ten days at most,” the bearded el-Saeed said.
“A week . . . What’s the word on our reinforcements?”
“It’s as projected. The Sudanese are making solid progress up the Nile. Many should be in a position to join us in a matter of days. But the American defenses on the Libyan border have proven too strong for our forces coming from the west.”
“We cannot wait for our reserves to arrive. If we do so, we’ll be too late.”
“Your assessment is correct, Chosen One. Even without the additional soldiers, we’ve devised a plan giving us a reasonable opportunity for a successful attack. Our units have been briefed on their missions. We’ve seized every piece of usable wood within Giza. Thousands upon thousands of rafts have been constructed and our bridging equipment is ready. We have a million men, with ample artillery and armored vehicles poised near the river. We’ll begin the moment you give the word.”
“We’ve little choice. Launch the attack without delay.”
“It will be done. Our artillery will strike in a few hours. Lead elements will begin crossing the river at first light.”
57
12:05 A.M., OCTOBER 31
ODA 6333, CHARLIE COMPANY, 3RD BATTALION, 6TH SPECIAL FORCES GROUP (AIRBORNE)
RHODA ISLAND
CAIRO
At midnight, the well-orchestrated prelude began. An intense artillery barrage hammered the eastern banks of the Nile and far beyond. Much of the spreading city fell beneath the colossal power of a thousand long-range cannons. Howitzers and heavy artillery pounded the anguished Egyptian capital. The French tanks answered with salvos of their own, fervently searching for the Pan-Arab weapons. Countless innocents on both sides of the contested waters were destined to die before a new day would encroach upon North Africa. Nonetheless, the French had no choice but to respond. If they didn’t, and the Pan-Arabs were allowed to assault Cairo with impunity, the result would be catastrophic.
Before the attack, the night had been eerily silent. Now,
without pause, man’s odious handiwork lit up the skyline once again. Brilliant colors stormed across the heavens to cripple and destroy. The riotous timbre was deafening. On Rhoda Island, the struggling Allies waited. The men of Alpha 6333, a dozen Leclercs, a few British armored personnel carriers, units from the 82nd Airborne, and a battalion of Egyptian infantry were well dug in. The island’s burrowing defenders crawled deep within their sheltering dens and waited for Mourad’s battering to end. Once it did, they knew his forces would undertake the onslaught to crush them.
As the unrelenting hours passed and the bombardment continued, the A Team’s survivors peered out at the malevolent landscape. Little had been standing on the isle before the attack. Now all that remained was unrecognizable rubble.
Always careful to avoid the city’s mosques, the unyielding Pan-Arab bombardment went on without respite. At shortly before two, the Hotel Louraine was struck by a thundering howitzer’s shell. Beneath the savage impact, the decrepit building burst apart. It tumbled to the ground in a whimpering roar of protest, the weight of its six stories crushing the wine cellar below. Reena’s body was buried beneath thirty feet of debris. Her sullen tomb was forever sealed.
Along with the detachment’s other five survivors, Sanders hid within the protective womb they’d hollowed out beneath the island’s shattered remains. In the two days since he’d returned, the once-affable sergeant had been a recluse. A dark mist hung over him. They all saw it. Something was wrong with the team’s youngest member. Each recognized the person in front of them wasn’t the one who’d disappeared behind Pan-Arab lines on an ill-disposed October evening. Yet they were far too preoccupied preparing for the coming assault to explore the situation further. So they’d left him to sulk and suffer while continuing with their endless tasks.
At first, he’d denied the horrific reality of the wine cellar. He’d done his best to pretend it was nothing but a reviled dream. But he’d failed miserably. The enormity of his life-taking actions gripped his soul, tearing at the fabric of his being. Reena’s death was on his hands. And no matter how hard he tried to wash the blood away, he could sense its cruel presence upon his skin. The appalling event weighed heavy upon him. He thought of little else. He shunned his comrades, keeping to himself and wallowing in self-pity.
The Green Berets had drawn an exceptionally dangerous assignment. They’d expected no less. They knew Mourad’s hordes would have to traverse the wide river in innumerable locations. In overwhelming numbers, the Chosen One’s supporters needed to ford the Nile if they were going to claim their prize.
Just how this was to be accomplished was uncertain. All the Allies could do was wait and wonder. Once the Mahdi’s plan became clear, the determined defenders would respond with every measure of fire and fury they could muster. One thing was certain: the Pan-Arabs had to get great quantities of tanks onto the eastern side if they were going to stand any chance against the proficient French crews and their superior Leclercs. And the only way to do so was by erecting huge sums of makeshift bridges across the challenging waters. The attackers’ assault would undoubtedly call for a significant attempt to build and hold scores of temporary spans. That’s where the Green Berets came in. From Alpha 6333 in the southern reaches, to Special Forces stretching to Cairo’s northernmost limits, they waited. Each would move to the consecrated river’s edge to destroy the Mahdi’s hastily constructed crossings the moment they touched the eastern bank.
The detachment would split into two teams. Morrow and Terry would accompany Donovan. They’d attempt to protect him as he hurriedly prepared each new passageway for destruction before the Chosen One’s armor could rumble to the eastern side. Abernathy and Porter would do the same for Charlie Sanders. With the battle raging, each member of the team would be exposed to enemy fire for extended periods. They’d be extremely vulnerable. Still there was no other choice. Someone had to stop the fanatics. And even in his present state, Sanders was still as good as there was at destroying things.
The cannons’ contest went on without end. For over six hours, without the briefest pause, the big guns laid waste. It felt like forever, crouching in the gloom waiting for an explosive round to find you or the artillery duel to cease. The dawn was near. The faintest signs of the coming morning were tugging at the horizon. As suddenly as the artillery assault had begun, the shelling stopped. The Leclercs responded in kind, saving their ammunition and waiting for the next element of the assault to begin. The world went quiet. The Green Berets understood what the silence meant. It signaled the next overture in Mourad’s murderous symphony was about to begin. They scrambled from their holes and moved toward the water’s edge. Sanders trailed as they slipped in and out of the murky rubble. Throughout Cairo, their counterparts were doing the same.
In incalculable numbers, the Mahdi’s tanks roared to life. The furtive morning’s momentary lull was shattered. From inside Giza, the T-72s and M-60s started toward the ancient Nile. A mile from the contested river, they stopped and waited. Pan-Arab infantry edged forward, ready to support the tanks. Among the disintegrating buildings they settled in, preparing for the daybreak offensive to begin. The time for the armored invasion wasn’t yet here. The building of the bridges would have to come first.
The initial wave was about to attack. The trucks carrying the cumbersome bridging equipment struggled through Giza’s splintered remains. The going was, by necessity, slow. Many streets, blocked by fractured mortar and tumbling stone, were impossible to traverse. The detours were unpredictable and frequent. Each vehicle, however, eventually found its way. They halted a few blocks from the great flow.
The launching of the rafts would be the signal for the first of the bridging components to move to the river’s edge. Once those on the crudely created watercraft reached the far bank and began battling the defenders, the construction of the spanning equipment would commence. If all went well, in a few hours Mourad’s tanks would roll into Cairo. Yet before that could happen, they had to get soldiers onto the other side to protect the engineers as they bolted together the floating pontoons. To reach the distant shore, they needed to let loose thousands of primitive watercraft. Four to ten men struggled through the decaying streets carrying each of the strange objects over their heads.
Their construction had been a unique effort, filled with ingenuity and resolve. There was scarcely any wood in Giza. The rafts, varying in size, shape, and composition, had been fastened together using anything that would float. Not a single door remained on the widespread suburb’s houses. Not a tabletop or scattered tree had been left untouched. Wooden headboards, empty oil drums, and pieces of Styrofoam were strung together in haphazard fashion. Running behind those carrying the floats, others cradled armloads of table legs and hefty tree limbs. These would be used as makeshift paddles during the hurried crossing.
As they passed through the chaotic streets, thousands joined the extended procession. They’d be the initial force ferried to the distant shore.
The raft carriers would launch their rudimentary dories. Paddling furiously, loaded with Allah’s holy, they’d cross the hundreds of yards of water separating them from the far bank. Their human cargo unloaded, they’d turn and head back to gather more of their federation’s anxious men. They’d go on without reprieve, paddling from shoreline to shoreline until either exhaustion or the next world found them. Gunfire from the infidels’ defenses would be severe. They knew their losses would be extreme. They’d be in the open for expansive periods and highly susceptible to their antagonists’ actions. The paddlers understood most wouldn’t survive even a single journey.
If their desperate effort was to succeed, they needed to launch the rafts in so massive a quantity the heretics couldn’t contain them all.
Their plan was to overwhelm the unbelievers with sheer numbers.
58
7:05 A.M., OCTOBER 31
ODA 6333, CHARLIE COMPANY, 3RD BATTALION, 6TH SPECIAL FORCES GROUP (AIRBOR
NE)
RHODA ISLAND
CAIRO
An initial raft tumbled down the Nile’s western bank, splashing into the waters across from Rhoda Island. Chasing after it, a dozen Pan-Arab soldiers slid down to the river’s edge. They clambered on board the wallowing craft, loading it to overflowing. Their human cargo in place, the determined paddlers began the precarious trek. A second strange raft appeared. And behind it another . . . and another . . . and another . . . without end. Like the first, the odd creations struggled into the languishing flow.
The Chosen One’s plan was evident. Throughout the length of the city, the Leclercs, supported by the 82nd Airborne, along with British and Egyptian infantry, were waiting on the eastern side. The entrenched defenders opened up with everything they had upon the crude vessels. The searing battle was joined. The crackling sounds of small-arms fire turned into a thundering crescendo.
Mortar rounds, machine-gun fire, automatic rifles, and cannon shells poured down upon the perilous souls caught upon the brutal currents. Those on the dubious rafts attempted to answer back. Their comrades on the western end also responded, determined to pin down their outmanned opponent.
Initially, it was little more than a slaughter. One at a time, or in hulking handfuls, the Mahdi’s followers were ripped apart. With each passing minute, death came to claim them by the hundreds. Their trifling floats were torn to pieces, or grossly overweight, floundered and sank in the stretching river. Few in the first wave would survive the grievous crossing. Even so, the Pan-Arabs saw no reason to panic. They’d anticipated such losses. Replacements for those who’d fallen in the bold venture would keep coming, hour after hour, day after day.
The momentous strife wore on throughout the morning. A regal sun rose high over the bloated battleground. The Nile’s burgundy waters shone, its blood-streaked currents the color of the reddest wines. The unsated brutality refused to abate. Incalculable numbers were dying with every hour. Yet more and more of the persistent rafts were succeeding in their quest to reach the eastern bank. Mourad’s immense force was beginning to take its toll. Nine out of ten disjointed barrages never experienced a single successful journey. Yet through sheer determination and unconquerable vision, the Pan-Arabs were finding ways to deposit significant amounts of armed men upon the far shore. And that force was growing.