“Iran pissed off the wrong people,” Dawkins growled.
“The president and the British prime minister have both been briefed,” Middleton said. “The Egyptian ambassador to the United Nations will openly condemn the invasion, deny that the elected government ever asked them to intervene, and demand that they leave.”
“What about on the military side?” Dawkins asked.
“We are positioning naval strength forward, in the Red Sea and the Med, to isolate the battlefield. The Egyptian sources are urging restraint and insist that the roots of the Brotherhood uprising are weak. The army has been repositioning its forces, cleaning out the disloyal officers, and says that they are ready to commit their main battle forces and handle it on their own. They felt they could stymie the Brotherhood with minimum units, and by God they fought them to a standstill.”
“So will there be any more attempts by us to insert special ops teams?” asked Summers.
“No. No American or British or NATO combat boots on the ground. Except for Gunny Swanson, and he’s just a tourist.”
“So even if the Egyptian military and the elected government are really stronger than they appear, do they have the support of the people?”
“Looks as though at this point the people have not joined the Brotherhood’s calls for still more revolution. The regular Egyptians probably are tired of the turmoil of the past few years and just want peace,” Middleton mused. “Maybe they are just waiting for some kind of spark.”
29
A LITTLE MORE THAN an hour after the sun had set, cutting the daylight from another short winter’s day, the men who would comprise the ambush team knelt together in lines on mats and rugs to offer their evening prayers at 6:27 P.M. Kyle Swanson stood away from the group, positioned so he could watch the area outside while they were at worship, and hoped they were getting things straight with their faith. It was more than just ritual tonight. He expected that these would be the last prayers ever offered by some of them.
After the worship came a period of excitement and almost childlike exhilaration as the men hugged one another, made promises of brave acts, and shouted encouragement. They left the house at staggered intervals, one by one, with their weapons tucked into baggy clothing. carried in parcels over their shoulders, or rolled up in a prayer rug. Kyle still hung back; Abdel was the one sending them out the door.
“Did you do a count?”
“Yes. Just as you said, so I will know exactly how many we are. That seems strange. I know them all.”
“Trust the count, Abdel. You know a lot of people, and things are going to get confusing. After the action you will know exactly how many are missing, if any. The last thing you want is some outsider infiltrating your team.”
Abdel bit his lip in thought. “Will some of them die, Mr. Swanson?”
“I can’t answer that, but it’s likely. Look, my friend, there will be a lot of bullets flying out there tonight; in fact, it will be two minutes of hell. We are up against professionals, and we can’t allow them to recover from the surprise of our attack. We have to keep up our fire until they are all down.”
“What are you going to do about the tanks? They could massacre everybody.”
Kyle dug into his bag and lifted out a pair of gray hand grenades with yellow markings. “These are Willie Petes—white phosphorus—and they are absolutely brutal. When you start the attack, I will pop them into the armored vehicles, and I can guarantee destruction. These babies destroy and burn everything flammable, and that armored skin will keep most of the power inside the vehicle. You’ll see big white clouds, and an explosion that will rock the town.” He put them down. “Plus, I plan to shoot whoever is inside, particularly the guys on the machine guns.”
Abdel nodded and got up to leave. “I hope I can do this.”
Kyle just gave him an easy smile. “You’ve got the guts and the smarts to do this, Abdel. Remember that you are the leader and the others will take their strength from what you do. Now let’s go save those hostages and kill the bastards who took them captive.”
Abdel’s eyes grew hard, and he pulled his cloak around to cover the AK-47 that rode on his hip. “The Iranians should never have come here,” he said and disappeared into the thickening darkness.
* * *
SWANSON SNAPPED OFF THE light and sat alone in the house for another ten minutes, readying his head for what was to come, letting his tactical mind take over. He had done all he could to prepare the team, and now it was his turn. Although he had indicated to Abdel that taking out the armored personnel carriers would be no big deal, it actually was. On a battlefield against a comparable force, the AICs were insignificant relics, but sitting in an open park with no visible opposition, these variants of the old Russian BMPs would be lethal if given a chance. Kyle would not give them that chance.
He guessed that the troops who would become the firing squad and perimeter guards had been brought to the square in the Boraghs, the Iranian name for their modified version of the vehicles. So the soldiers would be dismounted and outside, their attention turned away from the tracked vehicles, and the sharp sloping sides of welded rolled steel armor would be no protection for them.
Still inside might be the drivers, on the left front position, and they also would be idle, watching the show; probably they would have been pressed into service outside with their mates. The commanders who sat right behind the drivers might stay with the vehicles, but as officers, they would more likely be outside, on the ground, to run the operation. That would leave the gunners in place behind the DShK 12.7mm heavy machine gun in the rotatable turret. All of the armor and weaponry were just piles of metal if not properly employed. Men were needed to operate the Boraghs, and Kyle planned to kill both the machines and the men.
He checked his weapons and casually opened the door, settling into the act that he belonged there, that he was just another man on the street. He left his black special ops beanie in a pocket for the time being. Do nothing to raise suspicion, don’t stare at anyone, be totally unremarkable and stick to the shadows. Be invisible. Hide, blend, and deceive. It was a unique talent that was a vital part of who he was, something a sniper did almost unconsciously, and he fell smoothly into the rhythm of walking through the streets in a tangled route that would lead to the park, where he would come out right behind the two parked Boraghs.
Kyle soon realized that he need not have worried about being spotted. The streets of Sharm el-Sheik, almost empty and silent during the day, had become busy pedestrian thoroughfares as small groups of people, and many individuals who looked just like he did, walked with solemnity toward the execution site. Everywhere he looked, there was movement, and he worked his way into the moving throng. The city was awake and fearful and stunned; twenty of its leading citizens were to be shot to death in public by the Iranians, and there was nothing to stop it.
Swanson believed that the Iranian officers in the park eventually would notice the growing size of the crowd of spectators and alert their central command at the airbase to prepare a quick reaction force should things get out of hand. If worse came to worst, the on-site commander could have his soldiers get inside the armored vehicles, button up, and wait for help. Meanwhile, they would be able to shoot out through firing ports in the sides while the machine gunners raked the attackers. Reinforcements, Kyle reasoned, were not anticipated, and if called they would not move out with a sense of urgency.
Ahead, just around the corner, there was an aurora of light, and the crowd spilled into the park.
* * *
AT 8:30 P.M., BENEATH a scatter of stars, the prisoners were marched up the street from Government House to the park, flanked by Iranian soldiers and led by a captain. Instead of the formal uniforms of the previous night, the soldiers were all helmeted and in combat gear. The prisoners were battered—black eyes, split lips, swollen faces, cuts and bruises on arms and legs, and blood splotched on their clothing. They had endured a rough ordeal in prison as the guards tried to ge
t information about the partisan forces in the city, and now they lurched more than walked, some having to assist others. The crowd howled with cries of despair as familiar faces were seen. Even the old police chief had been taken prisoner, under the reasoning that his officers might have helped the unknown resistance force. All of the uniformed cops on crowd control duty, Kyle noticed, had been disarmed and were unsmiling. Step by step, the cowed prisoners were herded into the bright lights that glowed at the execution site.
Swanson slid to the rear of the crowd and took position in a doorway about ten feet behind the armored vehicles. These were parked at an angle, ass to ass, and the gunners had swiveled their big weapons toward the growing throng of onlookers. He spotted Abdel in the front rank of spectators on the right side of the wall of sandbags, and when the Egyptian saw him, they exchanged silent nods. The kid was doing OK, learning fast on the job, just like any new lieutenant getting lessons from a veteran gunny on determination, leadership, and discipline. Abdel seemed confident, which indicated his men were in place, and Swanson could only hope they would all hold their fire and not open up too early to revenge the obvious outrageous treatment of their people. Each man on the team had a specific target, and everything depended on that opening burst. Shooting too soon would be a disaster.
The Iranian captain leading the awful parade of prisoners was a strutting little martinet who had been second in command to Major Shakuri at the first executions. He was proud that General Khasrodad had put him in charge of this one. He would tolerate no mistakes by his troops, or any intervention by the civilians. The invisible partisan fighters hiding in Sharm el-Sheikh had to watch now as innocent friends and neighbors paid a blood price for the attacks on Iranian forces. The captain had also lost friends to the ruthless and cowardly actions of the rebels during the past few days, and there was no pity in him as he straightened his crisp olive green uniform. These people needed to feel his whip.
You’re mine, thought Kyle as he studied the commander of the execution group. Then he switched his attention back to the Boraghs. The pair of back doors on each of the big APCs hung open, and each of those thick hatch covers served double duty as an auxiliary fuel tank. Inside, he saw the padded bench on which eight soldiers would sit in each vehicle, two rows of four leaning against a common backrest that was also the main gas tank. At the front, below the gunner’s hatch, was ammunition storage. The Boraghs were universally hated by the troops who had to ride in them, because battlefield experience had proven that a land mine, an armor-piercing incendiary bullet, or a rocket-propelled grenade through the rear would utterly destroy the beast. A soldier’s best chance was riding outside, where he might risk being hit by bullets but would have a better chance by being thrown away from the blast rather than cooking trapped inside. Swanson hoped the captain had been efficient enough to top off with fuel and ammo before coming to the park.
* * *
TWENTY PEOPLE WERE TOO many to kill at one time. They had done only six the first night, and that had required a firing squad of ten men. That same number of soldiers with AK-47s set on full automatic should be sufficient this time, too, if each was responsible for the death of only one Egyptian prisoner who would be standing immobile, tied to a post. The captain had to be economical, for his overall force was obviously smaller than the crowd that was gathering in the spacious park, trampling the grass underfoot to see the dreadful execution ground.
Each of the armored personnel carriers had brought eight infantrymen, for a total of sixteen. Add the dismounted drivers, and the captain had a total of eighteen on the ground in the large park, plus himself and a lieutenant who was his own second in command this time. The difference makers were the two machine gunners who remained in their overwatch positions aboard the tracks. Still, looking over the uneasy crowd, he thought about calling for reinforcements. He decided against it. The general would think he was not up to the job. Where was Shakuri, anyway?
The sad line of those chosen to be killed shuffled to a halt beside the big fountain, which the captain noted had been turned off as a silent protest against what was happening around it. He briskly counted off the first ten from his left. “Move these traitors to the wall,” he barked. “The rest will sit down here under guard to await their turn.”
Four additional posts had been planted before the long wall of sandbags that had been extended and strengthened, and an Egyptian captive was soon tied to each of the ten positions, with black hoods yanked over their heads. Two women were among the initial victims.
After binding the prisoners, the soldiers retreated across the killing field, picked up their weapons, and formed into line to become the firing squad. Three Iranians guarded the next group of prisoners seated on the grass, and the remainder of the soldiers stood at intervals facing the crowd. The captain then noticed that the police who had helped in the initial executions had vanished. No matter, because he neither needed nor trusted them. Both sides of the wide field between the shooters and the citizens tied to the posts were packed with sullen spectators who were remaining ominously quiet. Where was the weeping and the cries for mercy? Even those about to die were not struggling or calling out.
The captain took his position to the left of the firing squad, with his lieutenant standing a few steps behind. A final look around showed him that the gunners in the Boragh APCs at the edge of the park were ready in case of trouble. The squad had readied their weapons and were squared away, so the captain decided to get on with it.
“Attention!” he yelled.
* * *
KYLE SWANSON HAD QUIETLY pulled on his special ops black beanie and rolled it down so that his face was hidden but for his eyes and mouth. When the captain roared his preliminary order, Swanson elbowed roughly through a few people in front of him, uncovering his M-16A3 as he went. He was only a few steps away from the open rear doors of the armored vehicles when he snapped the rifle butt into his shoulder and put two quick bullets into the head of the unsuspecting machine gunner facing away from him on the right, then cycled and did the same thing to the one on the left. Both targets jarred forward against their weapons and bounced back, dead. “Now!” he shouted as loudly as possible, grabbing a white phosphorus grenade from his left pocket. He pulled the pin and flipped it into the open door of the left-side Boragh as he dashed between the pair of APCs.
The first volley of shots that came from Abdel’s group on the right side of the crowd was a long clatter of gunfire that indicated little discipline, but it was effective, and three members of the firing squad staggered and collapsed like discarded dolls. The volley from the second ambush team on the left took down another two Iranians, just before Kyle’s grenade exploded inside the fuel-laden Boragh armored personnel carrier, which seemed to expand like a balloon before blowing up with overheated shrapnel, which instantly penetrated the adjacent APC and detonated the gas and ammunition inside. The heavy explosions thundered, and the rolling concussion smashed Kyle Swanson facedown into the grass. For a moment, he lost his breath and had to struggle to lift his eyes as the gust of searing wind broke over him and the swelling noise shook his body.
When he regained his senses, the crowd was scattering, and the gunfire had increased in volume. The ambushers were shooting, but so were the remaining Iranian soldiers, who were trained troops and altered their aim from the prisoners to the threat of the unexpected attackers. The captain and his lieutenant spread out to direct the fight, stunned that their backup units of armored vehicles with the heavy machine guns had been destroyed.
Kyle was up and running again when the renewed fire from the ambushers clipped two more Iranians, but one of those went spinning down with his AK-47 spraying on full automatic and ripped two of the prisoners still tied at the posts. One attacker dropped with red holes dotting his white tunic, but the initial surprise had worked to make the manpower score more even, and the silence of the terrifying machine guns emboldened Abdel’s men. From the fleeing crowd came a couple of the policemen who had retr
ieved their weapons and joined the fight on the side of the rebels, and the two final Iranian guards who had been herding the seated prisoners both fell.
Swanson was only twenty yards behind the Iranian officers, and he went to a knee, steadied, and shot the lieutenant three times in the center of his back, then was up and moving again, understanding that the casualty rate had definitely swung to the plus side for his guys. Just as he thought they would win for certain, he saw Abdel take a round, blood blooming at the left shoulder as the youngster spun and hit the dirt. Nothing could take the steam out of this attack like the sudden loss of an inspirational leader, but the Egyptians had already tasted victory and kept crawling and running forward. Kyle heard the wounded Abdel calling encouragement. More men fell on both sides. People returning from the crowd braved the crossfire to free the prisoners from the poles and rush them to safety. Others picked up fallen weapons and joined the battle.
The Iranian captain was screaming at his dwindling force and firing his sidearm at random targets when he felt the barrel of a gun press against the back of his head and heard a voice say in English, “Hey. It’s over.” Swanson double-tapped the officer, and the head blew apart like a melon. A few more extended bursts of gunfire, and the attack was finished. The park lay bathed in blood and wreathed in smoke.
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