by Walt Gragg
Jethwa clearly didn’t like the ongoing discussion he couldn’t understand. He pulled the infidel woman closer, obviously upset at the conversation in the incomprehensible foreign tongue. He pressed the knife against her throat. A gaunt, red trail trickled down her neck.
“Release them if you wish to live,” Abernathy said. She repeated his words in Arabic.
The indignant mullahs stared at him, their ire all-encompassing.
“Porter, you got him?” Abernathy said without taking his eyes from the hostages.
“Yep.”
“I’ll take the other one. Sanders, get ready to grab both Americans the moment we fire.”
Only the smallest part of the Pan-Arabs was exposed. There was no margin for the slightest miscalculation. Porter knew his kill would have to be perfect. If it wasn’t, the mullah would slit her throat before Sanders could get to her.
“Now,” Abernathy said.
Both fired at the same instant. The bullets whizzed by, passing no more than a millimeter from the captives’ ears. The raucous gunfire consumed the resonating space. Behind the slain forms, the seasoned stone was splattered with exploding brain cells. Each was dead before the knife fell from his hand. They slumped against the stained wall and slid onto the floor.
Wells let out a terrifying scream.
Sanders rushed forward, grabbing the pair. He hurried them to the opposite wall. Porter and Abernathy trained their M-4s on the slender opening at the end of the space.
“How many are in the final room?” Abernathy asked.
“Aw . . . I’m not certain,” the visibly unnerved Wells said, trying to regain her composure. “People are constantly coming and going. What do you think, Chuck, probably about six or eight?”
“That sounds about right,” her cameraman said.
“Do they have any weapons?”
“Yes . . . maybe . . . I don’t know!” she said. “We were only in there once, and at the time I wasn’t in a position to notice.”
“Okay. I sure hate to lose a rifle, but we can’t take a chance with either of your lives. Sanders, give us your rucksack then get them to safety,” Abernathy said. “Collect Captain Morrow on the way and get him medical attention as fast as you can. If we don’t come out in the next twenty minutes, seal the entrance and wait for orders from the group commander.”
Sanders nodded, pulled the canvas bag up over his head, and handed it to Porter. He motioned for the hostages to follow as he headed toward the way out.
“What about my equipment?” Chuck said. “If I leave it, I’ll probably never see it again.”
Abernathy glanced at the cameras and satellite equipment. “All right, gather it up real fast and take whatever you can carry.”
* * *
—
Sanders was soon escorting the captives toward the distant entranceway. As they started into the Grand Gallery they stepped over the bodies of General el-Saeed and the dead mujahideen. When they reached the far side and entered the restrictive tunnel, Captain Morrow awaited. His unseeing eyes were set in a fixed stare. After verifying his commander was dead, Sanders decided that for the moment he’d no choice but to leave the body where it lay and lead his charges to safety.
75
7:18 P.M., NOVEMBER 6
THE GREAT PYRAMID COMPLEX
THE GIZA PLATEAU
Porter and Abernathy had reached the far edge of the final, short passage. The King’s Chamber was inches away. One more room to conquer and the war would end.
Despite everything he tried, with those in the burial vault hidden by the large sarcophagus near the opposite end, Porter couldn’t identify how many were present. He did, however, recognize the sounds of ammunition magazines being loaded, rounds chambered, and safeties released. The unidentified force within the eternal crypt definitely had weapons.
* * *
—
Upon the contested plateau, the fractious fighting was nearing its end. The swarming fighter aircraft and unyielding Marines had seen to that.
Crouching inside the wind-crusted barrier’s weatherworn crevice, Muhammad Mourad stared at the lifeless mujahideen lying in front of him. A few feet away, the misshapen bodies of the dead Stinger gunners were tossed in a brutal heap. The singular purpose for the infidels’ frenetic raid was unmistakable. He knew they’d come for him. He realized what the result would be if they discovered his presence. Even so, his faith wasn’t shaken in the slightest. Allah would protect him, of that he was certain. He was also just as convinced his God would expect him to use the infinite gifts he’d been given to find a way to save himself.
He looked at the silent images in front of him. The Americans would be after a diminutive man dressed in peasant clothing. He had to fool his determined pursuers in order to have any opportunity to escape. His sole chance was to somehow change how he looked. There weren’t many options. He couldn’t put on one of the mujahideen uniforms. The infidels would shoot, without question, anyone so dressed. That left a single choice. He crawled over and started stripping the blood-drenched clothing from the smaller of the two air defenders.
* * *
—
Much to Erickson’s relief, with the arrival of the third pair of Hornets, the swaying battle turned toward the Americans. The bullish counterattack the small band of Marines in front of the Great Pyramid had anticipated never materialized. A few groups of disorganized defenders arrived to tangle with his men. Despite their efforts, they proved to be little more than an annoyance.
It didn’t take long for the platoon leader to realize the hilltop was nearly secure. The crimson-stained robes of the slain mujahideen were everywhere he surveyed. Nothing arose to threaten the tenacious Marines. The worst was past. Other than an occasional burst of gunfire, the onrushing night was almost serene.
* * *
—
When they reached the spot where the compressed passageway dead-ended into the original tunnel, Sanders stopped. It wouldn’t be much farther now. They were almost home.
It would be a relief to leave behind these spectral walls. Still he wasn’t about to let down his guard. Before heading up to the entranceway, he needed to alert those waiting outside of his presence. “Hey, guys . . . hey, Marines, don’t shoot, it’s Americans coming up the tunnel,” he called out. He peered up at the opening. “Did you hear me? We’re Americans.”
“We heard you just fine,” Erickson said. “Come on up.”
Wells couldn’t believe her ears. But there was no mistaking whose voice she had heard. Lauren would recognize it anywhere. For the first time in many days, she knew Sam was alive. The gritty reporter would soon exit the ancient gravesite with an unending smile upon her face.
* * *
—
Lying inside the short tunnel, out of sight of those within the final chamber, Porter and Abernathy reached into the rucksack and took out the shielding gear. They needed to shelter their eyes and ears from what was about to happen. The protective equipment in place, each soon gripped a stun grenade. Given the direction of the toss, both would have to use their left hands. Neither, however, was concerned about the added challenge. To bounce the cascading grenades off the wall behind the cowering Pan-Arabs they would only need to lob them a modest distance. And there was no need for the throws to be perfect. With the grenades’ ability to disable, especially in the encased space, all that was required was getting them close.
Unlike a fragmentation grenade, the ordnance they gripped wouldn’t explode in the conventional manner. Nor would it kill. Instead, each would send out a brilliant flash of light to blind for five to ten seconds and leave an “afterimage” that would keep the victim from focusing. Along with that would come a one-hundred-and-seventy-decibel soundwave creating hearing loss and damaging the middle ear. The resulting loss of equilibrium would temporarily incapacitate the enemy, allowing the Green
Berets to dispatch them all.
Porter and Abernathy grasped their grenades and pulled the first ring. With the grenade’s short fuse, the moment they pulled the secondary pin they had to toss them or risk losing a hand. They glanced at each other. Both were ready. Each made a second pull.
The final pins were out. They tossed the sailing ordnance toward the far wall. The moment it left their hands, they scooted toward the safety of the antechamber. With mere seconds remaining, each dove into the sheltering room. Both arching throws ran true. As the grenades hit the consecrated stones a few feet above their prey, the timers expired. Unimaginable levels of disconcerting sound and crippling light overwhelmed those inside. Behind the sarcophagus, their dazed forms were sprawled across the timeless granite.
The scrambling Green Berets rushed back into the passage. Abernathy had Morrow’s Beretta. Porter held a razor-edged knife. They clambered into the still-echoing room and headed toward the west wall. Abernathy placed the barrel against a skull and fired. He moved on. The next victim awaited. He quickly worked his way through the melee. One by one, he put a bullet into every brain. To ensure none survived, Porter walked through the devastating scene, methodically slitting each throat. In seconds, the gruesome task was over.
Both, covered in blood, looked at their handiwork. “Now all we’ve got to do is figure out which one’s the Chosen One,” Abernathy said. “Then we’ll take his sorry ass outside for the entire world to see.”
Most were badly chewed up by Abernathy and Porter’s efforts. After checking three or four, Porter said, “What’d the captain tell us he looked like?”
“Little man in his early seventies with sunken cheeks and a scraggly beard.”
“Hell, that describes almost everyone in here. Got anything else we can go on?”
“He’s supposed to be wearing peasant clothing,” Abernathy said.
“Thanks, Sarge. Except for the one in uniform, they’re all wearing peasant clothing.”
“Well, keep looking. He’s got to be one of these dead bastards.”
* * *
—
Sam was standing ten feet to Lauren’s left as she exited the pyramid. The sounds of the explosions from deep within the hallowed structure were still ringing in her ears. He saw her the moment she stepped from the cramped corridor. The stunned platoon leader’s jaw dropped. In disbelief he watched her coming toward him. She ran into his arms, smothering him with kisses.
“Sam. Oh my God, Sam. I thought you were dead.”
He stared at her, struggling to form the words. “Lauren, it’s you who’s dead. How the hell did you get here?” He was certain he’d awaken at any moment and the memory of this unreal embrace would forever dissipate.
She smiled at him, the love in her eyes as striking as anything he’d ever seen. “I assure you, Sam Erickson, I’m very much alive. I’ll tell you all about it later. For now, let’s just say it’s a long story and leave it for another day.”
Sanders exited the pyramid. He pulled his well-worn green beret from his pocket and positioned it on his head. He walked up with a wide grin to where the loving couple stood. “I see you two have met before.” He held out his hand. “Sergeant Charlie Sanders, Detachment Alpha 6333, 6th Special Forces, sir,” he said while shaking the lieutenant’s hand.
Erickson responded without letting go of Lauren. “Sam Erickson, 2nd Marine Division. Glad to meet you, Sanders.”
“Chuck,” she said, “we’re missing it. Remember my promise to record the story when the first Green Beret and Marine met. And we’re missing it.”
“We’re not missing a thing, Miss Wells.”
She turned to look at him. He was standing with his camera running.
In a few hours, the scene would play over and again as the war’s end was joyously proclaimed in every American home.
* * *
—
On the hilltop, the firing had stopped. Only the cries of the wounded disturbed the coming evening. The medevac helicopters would be busy on this night.
A beaming Sam held Lauren so tight he nearly crushed her. But he was still in charge and there were a few more actions to undertake.
“Sergeant Joyce, take half the men and comb the area around the pyramid. While you’re at it, check real close in the cemeteries on both sides of this place and anywhere the enemy might be hiding. Orders still stand. If they look like they’re not going to surrender, kill every Pan-Arab you find.”
“Will do, sir,” Joyce said. “Okay, you guys, the war’s not over quite yet. Let’s go clean this place out.”
* * *
—
Pressed against the northern side of the crumbling rocks, the Mahdi watched as the Marines moved about checking the dead and wounded. A couple of wary Americans, their rifles ready, were starting to move in his direction. He knew if he stayed where he was, he’d soon be discovered. Yet despite his perilous position he was certain Allah would intervene. His God would allow him to emerge unscathed, but only if he showed the courage expected from a true believer. He looked about, unsure of what to do. The pair was coming toward the eroding barricade. To the west, a scant twenty meters away, the decrepit wall all but disappeared. Still, he had no choice.
He’d show how much faith he had.
His conviction growing, Muhammad Mourad stood and started toward the sheltering desert. The primitive bulwark he walked next to was at least a foot taller than he was. No one on its southern side could see him as he moved along its rough exterior. He was so confident of his salvation he was almost strolling as he tramped next to the masking obstruction. From the look on his face and the ease in his stride, he didn’t appear to have a care in the world. The twenty meters was soon covered. He didn’t hesitate when he reached the wall’s end. Walking on, he headed for the open sands.
Erickson spotted the furtive figure in the deepening twilight. He pushed Lauren aside and picked up his rifle. He had the Pan-Arab in his sights. For some reason he’d never be able to explain, at that moment Mourad sensed the danger. He stopped and turned to face his tormentors. Even in the fading gloom, the Marine platoon leader could see that the pitiful person in the bloody, ill-fitting uniform had to be quite elderly. The insignificant enemy was almost comical in his appearance. Erickson put his finger on the trigger.
Despite his change of clothing, Wells instantly recognized the fleeing figure.
She knew what she had to do. The Mahdi had spared her life. Now it would be her turn to save his. She couldn’t tell Sam at whom he was aiming. If she did, the man she loved would have no choice but to finish him. “Sam, don’t. For my sake, please don’t,” she begged. “There’s no reason to take another life if you don’t have to.”
Erickson stood there frozen. The bedraggled shape was certainly not a member of the mujahideen. From his dress, the weaponless old man couldn’t have been more than an ordinary soldier. With as blood-soaked as he was, he probably wouldn’t last much longer before his wounds ended his life.
“Let him go, Sam.”
The exhausted lieutenant hesitated, taking in her haunting words. Ever so slowly, he dropped the weapon from his shoulder.
The Chosen One looked at Lauren Wells. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments. Even so, she didn’t let the growing satisfaction appear on her face. She didn’t want to do anything that would give away her secret. The aging Algerian shifted his gaze to the American Marine. He stood motionless, staring at Erickson. A hint of an ironic smile appeared on the Mahdi’s lips. The little man did something resembling an ill-practiced bow, turned, and headed toward the desert.
The smothering night would soon hide him from those who would do him harm.
EPILOGUE
NOVEMBER, TWO YEARS LATER
As they’d always done, the moment the shooting stopped the Americans packed up and returned home. The sordid conflict was over and the time for cele
bration had come. They’d leave a token force in Egypt to act as a trip wire. And with the Iraqis and Iranians continuing to battle, they’d bolster their defenses in Kuwait and Saudi Arabia.
At least for the time being.
* * *
—
Sam and Lauren hurried off to renew the fervent romance they’d begun in a dour place called “Press City.” They spent an incredible month visiting London, Amsterdam, and Paris. They had a marvelous time touring Europe. It further reinforced the beguiling feelings they held for each other. Their month filled with unrepressed desire soon passed.
When it was over, there was no doubt this was a once-in-a-lifetime love. Each accepted it without the slightest hesitation. Yet in the end, neither was capable of relinquishing their first love. Their parting in Paris had been memorable. It was filled with gut-wrenching emotion and unending tears.
She remained at her post in the Middle East. He returned to the 2nd Marine Division in North Carolina. Lauren did everything she could to create reasons to travel to the States. When she did, she’d find a way to return to Sam’s arms. Sometimes they’d be together for a few fantastic hours. Occasionally, they’d hold each other for a whirlwind day. Once, they’d developed an elaborate scheme to spend an entire week addressing their longing. Each missed the other terribly in the spanning stretches apart. Nevertheless, both continued to cling to their life’s goals.
Wells’s ever-expanding fame was heightened by the war. Her book on the days spent with the Chosen One inside the Great Pyramid was a runaway best seller. It failed, of course, to mention the circumstances surrounding Mourad’s miraculous escape. She’d become a household name. In another few years, if her career stayed on this course, she’d be sitting behind the anchor desk at a major television network.