by Walt Gragg
“All right, Worm, scratch one communication center. Let’s find a secure piece of sky to wait for our guys to call us in.”
Both knew that soon would arrive the real test of their abilities. They flew west over the open wastelands.
* * *
—
In front of the descending helicopter, Erickson watched as frantic figures ran in every direction. Among them, the striking outfits reserved for the mujahideen were unmistakable. Unaware that Muhammad Mourad was not within its massive structure, most of the arriving defenders were assuming positions in front of the pyramid and on the levels of stone leading to the entranceway.
Erickson’s platoon was outnumbered three to one and the daunting odds were growing. To make matters worse, the Pan-Arabs had seized the superior fighting positions.
Touchdown was moments away. The platoon leader rushed to the rear of the craft, motioning for his Marines to stand and get ready. Each leaped to his feet and crowded around their leader. As they did, the Pan-Arab rifles opened fire in earnest.
Erickson’s Osprey was settling onto a modest roadway near the rim of the history-laden hill. The helicopter was little more than one hundred and fifty yards from the spectacular crypt.
The Americans hovered inches above the ribbon of asphalt. Before the landing gear touched, its determined passengers leaped from the open rear ramp. The moment their feet reached the contested ground the Marines opened fire. The mujahideen answered back, the intensity of their efforts steadily increasing. The first of the Marines went down. A second followed. Neither moved further. The survivors dove for cover. A handful dropped into a modest depression in front of the road. Erickson and the remainder found themselves in the one behind it. Each attempted to take advantage of the modicum of protection provided by the shallow ditches. Having deposited its human cargo, the Osprey rose. It pirouetted and rushed away with its rear gunner firing long bursts from his machine gun.
* * *
—
Morrow’s timing had been perfect. The ploy had worked. Without being detected, they found themselves walking across the northeast portion of the plateau at the exact moment Erickson’s Marines appeared. The grim helicopter was landing three hundred yards away. In front of the Special Forces detachment the stragglers they’d followed onto the sacred sands froze. A rearing inferno was roaring to life in front of them. None was prepared for the ferocious firefight erupting before their eyes.
The ragtag gathering wanted no part of the fearsome struggle. All they wished was to escape into the limitless Sahara to begin the lengthy journey home. Yet the way west was blocked. If they hoped to see the smothering sunset, movement forward was impossible. Panic seized them. They’d no choice. Before the startling onslaught reached out to claim them, they needed a place to hide. Their only chance was to rush back into Giza’s slums.
Almost as one, all forty reversed direction, intent on scurrying toward the sheltering houses.
Blocking their path were six strangers. It took a single retreating step for the frightened group to realize pieces of the scene were dreadfully amiss. Something didn’t fit. And then it hit them—they were wearing Pan-Arab headgear, but the interlopers weren’t their countrymen. The Pan-Arabs were staring into the camouflage-painted faces of a half-dozen well-armed infidels.
The Green Berets had their rifles ready. Those with weapons in the fleeing party attempted to react. But they’d been caught off guard. They’d no chance against so accomplished an adversary. Their reaction was far too slow and much too splintered.
Morrow’s force opened fire. They mowed down the disorganized collection. The astonished assembly got off no more than a few belated rounds before the last succumbed. None of their hasty shots came near its intended mark. It was over in a handful of terrifying seconds.
Forty dead lay on the blood-soaked ground. Not one in the bedraggled mob had survived.
The brilliantly quick skirmish attracted the attention of those upon the broad vista. Before the smoke cleared, the victorious Berets were diving into the rock-hard ground beneath a withering assault from dozens of angry mujahideen firing from the pyramid’s heights. The Americans were out in the open. Each was pinned down. They pulled the bleeding bodies of those they’d vanquished in front of them, hopelessly attempting to use the conquered flesh as makeshift protection.
For one, however, luck had run out. A first of the Green Berets went down.
73
6:51 P.M., NOVEMBER 6
THE GREAT PYRAMID COMPLEX
THE GIZA PLATEAU
The stringent enemy response continued to expand with every frightening moment. It was far too great for twelve desperate Marines to suppress. Like the Green Berets, they had scant cover. Those in the forward ditch were especially vulnerable. Scorching bullets struck all around. Confusion reigned. A life-stealing rifle-propelled grenade fell within a few feet of a newly arriving American.
Erickson’s small force was outgunned. The survivors’ numbers were dwindling. They were severely outnumbered by their growing foe. And those continuing to appear in front of the pyramid didn’t stop. It wouldn’t be long before the Americans would be overwhelmed.
“We need to consolidate our position. Everyone fall back to the ditch on the north side of the road,” Erickson ordered.
Three of the four surviving Marines in the forward depression began withdrawing to the far side of the pavement. Fife remained, intent on providing as much covering fire as he could while waiting for the others to clear.
Satisfied that the beleaguered men had safely reached the far ditch, the platoon sergeant leaped to his feet to run across the narrow asphalt. As he attempted a first hurried step, a well-placed bullet struck high upon his right leg. It smashed his thighbone, severing it and sending splintering pieces in every direction. Sharp slivers pierced his skin in a dozen locations. He dropped to the ground beneath the excruciating pain. Blood poured upon the sweltering blacktop.
“Gunny!” Erickson yelled. “Sergeant Joyce, give me a hand. We’ve got to get him out of the line of fire.”
With relentless rounds slamming into the desolate ground, the lieutenant and team leader crawled forward. They grabbed James Fife’s arms and dragged him into the northern ditch. Joyce didn’t hesitate. He tore away the frayed uniform. Blood continued to spurt from the vicious wound. He ripped off his belt. In seconds, he was fashioning a makeshift tourniquet and applying it above the bullet’s entry point. The bleeding slowed to a manageable trickle. Satisfied with the belt’s positioning, he pulled a bandage from his first-aid pouch and applied it to the entry wound on the back of the mangled leg. When he was finished, he retrieved an identical bandage from the wounded platoon sergeant’s pouch and did the same at the bullet’s exit point. There was nothing he could do about the horrid bone fragments. Those would have to wait until they got Gunny to the beach.
“You all right, Gunnery Sergeant?” Erickson asked.
“I’m fine, sir,” Fife said through clenched teeth.
Yet each understood the grizzled platoon sergeant wasn’t okay. The injury was severe. Still, if they could contain the bleeding, it likely wouldn’t end his life.
Erickson searched the disconcerting scene, looking for the glimmer of hope. Yet nothing appeared. Forced to attack in daylight, they’d known this wasn’t going to be easy. None, however, could have predicted the dire circumstances they now faced. The Americans were struggling throughout the hilltop. On the northern end of the plateau, Erickson’s men were trapped.
If they were going to avoid swift annihilation they needed help. Erickson glanced over to see another of the Green Berets perish. He signaled for the company radioman. In a low crouch, the corporal raced through the modest trench to the lieutenant’s position. A blanket of seeking gunfire followed in his wake. He dove for cover next to the platoon leader.
“Give me the handset!” Erickson ordered.
The radioman complied. “What’s the Hornet Section’s call sign?”
“Blackjack-One, sir.”
“Blackjack-One, Blackjack-One, this is Bravo-Three-Six.”
“Roger, Bravo-Three-Six,” Mitchell answered. “This is Blackjack-One.”
“Blackjack-One, we’re in serious trouble. We’re pinned down in a small ditch on the other side of the road north of the Great Pyramid. We’re taking heavy fire. Our losses are mounting. The Green Berets are three hundred yards east of my position. They’re out in the open and totally exposed. They’ve already suffered casualties and probably won’t be able to hold on much longer. There are sixty to seventy mujahideen defending the pyramid. They’ve taken positions on the ground in front of, and the stones leading up to, the opening. You’ve got to eliminate them if we’re going to have any chance.”
“Roger, Bravo-Three-Six,” Mitchell said. “We’re on the way. Pop smoke and hunker down. We’ll take out anything that moves between your location and the northern face.”
“Understood, Blackjack-One.”
“Hold tight. We’ll be there in fifteen seconds.”
The Hornets raced toward the plateau. Their plan was to come in wing tip to wing tip across the front of Khufu’s enormous shrine. Mitchell’s aircraft would be closest to the age-old edifice. With an ounce of luck and an immeasurable amount of talent, all they’d need was a single pass to complete the intrepid task. They’d little doubt there would be few Pan-Arabs alive once they finished the overriding assault. That, however, wouldn’t be the end of Blackjack’s mission. With the next pair of F/A-18Es still three minutes out, it would be up to them to do what they could for the remainder of the floundering Marines upon the expansive plateau. The moment they dispatched those in front of the grand monument, they’d make a sweeping turn and strafe any mujahideen they found. As they neared the plateau’s northwest corner, the Hornets were barely two hundred feet above the barren desert. They continued to descend.
“Worm, I’ve got smoke.”
“Roger, Blackjack. I see it. And I think I’ve spotted the rest of our guys. That’s got to be the Green Berets lying out there firing toward the pyramid. We’ll need to be real precise with our cannon fire. If our Vulcans are the least bit long, we’ll hit them along with the fanatics.”
“I concur, Worm. But we’ve been in tighter spots than this in the past few days. You take those on the ground. I’ll eliminate the ones firing from the pyramid. Just keep a light touch on the trigger and we’ll be fine.”
“Roger, Blackjack. I’m right with ya.”
The pair dropped their death-tinged noses until they were hugging the frantic scene. The Hornets surged across the complex. Even in the day’s failing half-light, in their vivid outfits the mujahideen were unmistakable.
The F/A-18Es were nearly there. Straight and steady they rocketed toward their goal.
Mitchell gave his trigger a quick pull. Two dozen 20mm shells poured forth. It was followed by another light squeeze. And a third . . . An assured mortality screamed across the hilltop. The rabid munitions reached out for the pyramid’s imposing stones. As the deadly ordnance worked its way across the huge structure’s timeworn features, the rounds began striking everywhere. The ravishing cannon had an instant effect. As Erickson watched, one after another of Mourad’s disciples was crushed beneath the hellish fury that befell them. The conscious-consuming shells were ripping the defenders apart. With nowhere to hide, none would be unscathed.
Sweeney did the same, spewing a certain end upon those caught on the chronicled ground.
The pressure on the junior pilot was even greater than that on his section’s leader. In firing at those on the intemperate sands he had to avoid hitting the Americans.
Mitchell fired again. And a fraction of a second later, he squeezed his Vulcan’s trigger a fifth time. The result was startlingly predictable and exceedingly certain.
Sweeney’s firing pattern was nearly identical. The Hornets were so close Erickson could feel the heat from their engines as they ripped across the mesa. As the F/A-18Es passed, the gunfire from the substantial stones ceased. There had been at least three score fighting to protect the Great Pyramid. Only five or six were still alive. Each was hopelessly struggling to overcome his horrific wounds. The rest lay scattered and unmoving. Crimson flowed in every direction, scarring the sacred stones and seeping into the pitiful landscape.
Blackjack Section had opened the way.
The instant they reached the pyramid’s eastern end, the Hornets banked right. Each attempted to put some air beneath his wings. They wanted the added altitude in order to identify where they were needed next.
Since the battle’s beginning, a Stinger gunner had been standing in the evolving darkness on the Great Pyramid’s southern face. As they raced past, neither Mitchell nor Sweeney spotted the stealthy figure. The air defender raised his missile and pointed it toward the soaring fighters. He soon had the leader in his sights. The fatal tone sounded. With a victorious smile, he fired. A five-foot, guiltless executioner screamed into the dimming skies.
The threat was unmistakable. Mitchell’s screeching aircraft begged its pilot to take severe evasive action. Yet he was much too low, and the purposeful Stinger far too swift for him to ever hope to escape.
“Break it off! Break it off!” Mitchell screamed. “I’m picking up a missile firing.”
Sweeney instantly reacted. He banked left toward Giza.
“It’s right on top of me, Worm!”
“Blackjack, bail out!” Sweeney pleaded. “Bail out while you still can.”
Mitchell hit his afterburners and rocketed across the hilltop with the resolute missile on his tail. The Stinger was rapidly closing. In another second, no more, death would come to claim him. There was no time to release flares to fool the primitive heat-seeker. He’d one chance. He’d have to eject from his aircraft. He knew at so low an altitude, if he survived at all, the drastic action would likely cripple him. It was his final, fading gambit. He reached for the canopy release. Yet for some ill-defined reason, he hesitated. The stark, suicidal thoughts he’d encountered over the Libyan air base returned to tug at his mind. He’d no desire to live as an invalid. And he’d been given a second opportunity to avoid an anguished existence with Brooke. Unlike during the frightening events over the enemy airfield, the corrupting sensation didn’t pass. He started to pull the handle. Yet without conscious thought he’d made his choice.
He relaxed his grip. His innate need to live dissipated. A final crooked smile found its way to the corners of his face.
At that moment, the Stinger found him.
It smashed into the Hornet. The massive explosion destroyed the right engine and blew off its wing. The doomed fighter’s shattered shell spun out of control, plunging for the muted ground. Ravenous flames roared toward the cockpit.
Strapped in his seat, Mitchell was very much alive. Still, he knew his last moments were an instant away. There was no chance he could control the mangled aircraft. And no time to bail out. He couldn’t avoid the inevitable. All that remained was the crowning finish. He prayed he’d perish before the uncontrollable fires found him. The plane, its burning fuselage and remaining wing fully engulfed, twisted over and again as it headed toward an enraged earth.
His F/A-18 was nearing its impact point. Yet much to his surprise, his wounded Hornet was no longer reaching out for the center of the plateau. The missile’s impact had redirected his fiery tomb. He was hurtling toward an area southeast of the Great Pyramid. He couldn’t believe what his eyes beheld. To his astonishment, his passing was going to be far more memorable than he could have ever imagined. His ill-fated aircraft was on an uninterrupted course toward the Sphinx. The spectacular stone structure was right in front of him. Closer and closer the disabled fighter approached its inevitable end.
Mitchell’s mangled Super Hornet smashed into the eroding won
der. Porous limestone and shattered metal flew in every direction. When the dust settled, and the determined fires died, the Sphinx’s time-honored image was gone. What had taken ancient man eons of creativity and backbreaking labor had been destroyed by his descendants in a single, vehement act.
* * *
—
Erickson surveyed the damage the Hornets had wrought. Lifeless mujahideen were sprawled across the death-spattered framework. While the torrid battles in every corner of the hilltop raged, rifle fire from those guarding the entrance into the Great Pyramid had ceased.
The Marines had their opening, but they needed to move fast. Others might soon appear to take the deposed defenders’ places. The lieutenant leaped to his feet. “Now’s our chance. Get out of this ditch and let’s go!”
He started running toward the towering artifact. His men were right behind. Firing at anything that moved, they scurried toward the rising stones. A handful of severely wounded mujahideen tried to answer back. But it was no use. With ruthless intensity, they were dispatched without further losses among the Americans. Erickson was soon clambering up the rows of stones to claim them as his own. With Benson and Pitzer’s assistance, the wounded platoon sergeant brought up the rear. Every hobbling step on his remaining good leg was sheer agony.
* * *
—
Morrow watched the Marines charging across the contested ground. He could tell his team’s survivors were anxious to join in. Much to their displeasure, he motioned for them to stay where they were. Having sacrificed two of his men, he couldn’t afford getting involved in the attack for fear of losing any more. If the detachment’s numbers declined further, their assault upon the King’s Chamber would be in peril. He’d no choice. Until the perimeter was secured, they would wait.