by Walt Gragg
Terry and Donovan brought the firing tubes up to their shoulders. The first pair of charging tanks was in their crosshairs. To the right of the assailed bridge, Sanders looked at the A Team commander, desperately searching for the sign to flip the switch. Morrow watched as their endless adversaries continued their frenetic procession toward Rhoda Island.
The lead tanks raced toward them. Behind them, the chaotic mob on the roadway grew. A dozen tanks and thousands of Mourad’s adherents were on the expansive bridge and pressing forward. Still more were on the way.
Their numbers were so great, their desire for conquest or martyrdom so powerful, that untold multitudes were crammed shoulder to shoulder onto the entrance to the extended span. The fevered throng was so unyielding that those who lost their footing were being trampled to death by their persistent comrades. Scores more, unfortunate enough to find themselves in an M-60’s path, were being crushed beneath a fifty-ton tank’s steel treads.
The incited enemy came on.
“Shit,” Sanders said as he watched the perverse scene, “I’m not going to have to blow this bridge. Those idiots are going to cause it to collapse on its own.”
Yet the overburdened structure somehow held. And the determined frenzy was relentless. The steadily progressing leaders soon reached Terry’s apocalyptic firing line. It was now or never for the Americans. Wait any longer and the M-60s would be too close to kill with a Javelin. If their antitank missiles were going to activate in time, they had to unleash them now.
Terry fired his unmerciful ordnance. Donovan’s leaped from its tube. The nimble killers were a blur as they ripped across the brief distance. Rather than hitting the monsters head-on, the missiles were set for a top-down attack. Each would penetrate and destroy by striking the M-60’s thinner upper armor.
The roaring Javelins ran true. A pair of thunderous explosions rocked the besieged city. An immense fireball, stretching the width of the bridge, swept out from the burning wreckage.
The ravenous blaze swiftly consumed huge numbers of the Chosen One’s followers. Fiery figures could be seen staggering to the tormented structure’s edges and tumbling into the gathering waters.
Those behind the defeated tanks were trapped. A solid wall of fatal flames blocked any movement forward. And the resolute thousands behind eliminated any chance of going back.
Terry and Donovan raced for the protection of their own lines.
“Now!” Morrow screamed.
Sanders hit the detonator switch.
A surge of electricity rushed down the primer cord. The results of the all-powerful blast that followed were appallingly certain. Five hundred yards of defeated mortar and concrete, steel and flesh, were ripped apart. Huge pieces of defiled bridge and massive weapons of war sailed into the heavens. Limitless bodies, whole, dismembered, or in butchered pieces, flew in every direction. Many of the crucified forms soared so high it appeared they were literally reaching for the promised paradise they so desperately craved.
In less than a heartbeat, thousands died. Debris and dust, stone and metal, rained down in unforgiving torrents upon the American positions. The Green Berets frantically dove for cover in a hopeless attempt to protect themselves from the lethal fallout. A red-hot piece of searing metal, razor-sharp and malicious, found Donovan as he futilely searched for somewhere to hide. From his wrist to his elbow, the metal sliced open his forearm. Blood gushed from the gaping wound. The injured soldier screamed in agony.
The sensation of a great earthquake, the result of Sanders’s handiwork, shook the beleaguered capital. Behind the Green Berets, the fragile shells of dying buildings collapsed. They crashed to the ground in a mighty gale.
The imposing river crossing disappeared. Its pulverized remains tumbled into the mighty Nile. The innumerable carcasses of once-breathing souls joined the demolished edifice. The suddenly swirling waters eagerly accepted the lifeless human forms, allowing them to accompany it on its steadfast pilgrimage. Despite being extinct in the wide delta for at least a few centuries, the unspeakable carnage and rotting flesh brought the Nile’s crocodiles north once more. They’d soon grow fat and lazy on the immense banquet Sanders had provided. Yet even the voracious crocs couldn’t consume so great a bounty. For months afterward, bloated bodies would appear at regular intervals at the marshy entrances to the Mediterranean. Always on the lookout for an easy meal, great schools of circling sharks would form at the edges of the salt water to await the next feast.
Before the dust of the cataclysmic collapse had settled, another thunderous explosion, in the far north, rocked the struggling city. A second passageway over the Nile disappeared. And a few minutes later, a third bridge was torn apart. Throughout the morning, the Green Berets would hold, and then destroy, the stretching links separating Cairo from the vast suburbs of Giza, home of the Sphinx and Great Pyramid complex.
The obscene death and destruction Alpha 6333 wrought upon the world was beyond even their callused comprehension. Each reeling American stared in disbelieving silence at the sordid violence. On the other side of the broad river, Mourad’s wounded and dying struggled to their feet and wandered back toward the protection of the western suburbs. The Pan-Arabs’ unsated taste for blood and desire for a rapturous eternity had been tempered, at least momentarily, by Sanders’s mighty blow. Still it had in no way been destroyed. It would take most of the day for the Chosen One’s forces to reorganize and gather their courage for another attack. But they would be back.
The desolate detachment would have seven sorrowful hours to prepare for the next challenge. Few words were spoken for the length of the tense morning. At this point, dazed and disoriented, they took the time to gather their thoughts and prepare for whatever horrifying images lay ahead. With the first seriously wounded among them, each began to comprehend that from this moment on the continuation of their lives would be counted in precious seconds.
The team’s medics were some of the best on the planet at performing field surgery. Each Green Beret, anticipating wounded within their numbers, carried plasma in his rucksack. It wasn’t long before Donovan was stitched up and back on the line. He’d lost the use of his right arm, but at this point, half a Green Beret was still better than anyone the Mahdi could throw against them.
16
2:49 P.M., OCTOBER 18
ODA 6333, CHARLIE COMPANY, 3RD BATTALION, 6TH SPECIAL FORCES GROUP (AIRBORNE)
THE EL GIZA BRIDGE, RHODA ISLAND
CAIRO
There was nothing the detachment could do but wait to see what the Mahdi’s next move would be. Once the overwhelming enemy’s motives were clear, the small band would attempt to counter them. Throughout the long day, the most outgoing member of the team uttered not a single sound. Until well into the afternoon Sanders sat with his back to the withering slaughter, refusing to look in the direction of the demolished bridge.
From the first moment of planning for the war, Mourad had predicted the Egyptian army would destroy every boat in Cairo in an attempt to keep his troops from fording the Nile. The Chosen One had been right. The hundreds of water taxis, so popular with the tourists, and the thousands of small boats buzzing around the commanding river had been set ablaze days ago. Not one still navigated its historic waters.
With every bridge across the river demolished, and Cairo’s boats eliminated, it appeared the Allies had bought a hard-fought reprieve from the ferocious attacks. Their foe’s artillery would undoubtedly continue its fierce shelling of the city. His ground forces, however, seemed to be stuck on the western banks without an easy way to cross.
The Americans were certain they’d purchased at least twenty-four hours of precious time in their defense of the sprawling metropolis. They’d soon, however, be proven wrong.
Days earlier, the Chosen One had put his plan into motion to counter the Egyptian army’s anticipated actions. From deep within the Sudan and the farthest reaches of southern Egy
pt, his followers set sail in their feluccas. Traveling only at night to avoid detection, and hiding in the Nile’s lush grasses during the day, huge numbers had eased their way up the endless waterway. For quite some time, they’d lain in wait a few miles south of the city.
The insignificant sailing ships had made their homes on the Nile since before the days of Christ. Their simple design hadn’t changed since the times of the pharaohs. They’d carried supplies and people upon the river from time immemorial. Throughout the millennia, they’d been used to support a thousand desperate battles. On this day, they’d be called upon to assist in one more.
Detachment Alpha 6333, unsure of what would follow, sweated through the oppressive heat of midday. There was little to do but bide their time while hopelessly attempting to brush away the merciless attacks of biting flies. While the ten soldiers of the southernmost Special Forces unit scanned the western bank for signs of movement, Mourad’s edict went out. With every inch of their decks crammed with human cargo, the feluccas were launched.
They’d catch the Americans by surprise, or overwhelm them with sheer numbers. Either way, the result would be the same. By day’s end, his forces would control both sides of the wide flow. And they’d begin the final push to capture the sparkling city.
As always, Porter was the first to sense something was wrong. In the distance, the tips of billowing sails appeared on the shimmering waters. The small boats were too far away to determine what they were or who they carried. Porter watched the endless masts approaching. Their numbers were increasing by the minute.
“Captain, I think you’d better get over here. There’s something kind of strange going on.”
Morrow and Terry rushed to his position. Both stood watching the odd activity as it drew nearer.
“What do you think?” Morrow, his concern obvious, asked.
“I think we’re about to be flanked, sir,” Terry answered. “Looks like our plan to keep the enemy out of Cairo has failed.”
“Epstein,” Morrow said to the team’s senior communication sergeant, “get on the radio and tell group headquarters significant Pan-Arab forces are landing along the eastern bank. Thousands more are on boats sailing up the river toward the center of the city.”
The communication specialist was soon relaying the message. In less than a minute, the 6th Special Forces Group commander would receive the shocking news.
“What’ll we do now, sir?” Terry asked. “It won’t be long before they enter the little inlet on the other side of the island and get around behind us.”
“What we do is get the hell out of here. If not, we’ll be dead long before sundown. Pass the word, we’re leaving. And we’re doing it now. Gather up the weapons and gear.”
“Yes, sir!”
There was nothing they could do. If they stayed where they were, the detachment would be cut off in less than an hour. Their demise would soon follow.
The time had come to abandon Rhoda Island. In minutes, loaded down by their equipment, the Green Berets were making their way across the isle’s battered landscape. They were heading toward the southern part of the infinite city. Six blocks away waited the small bridge that would take them into the most ancient section of Cairo. From this point on, Old Cairo, with its dark streets and veiled bazaars, would be their home for as long as they survived.
Porter and Abernathy led the way. Both had years of experience at traversing myriad terrains. For the moment, the route appeared open. Yet each understood that looks are often deceiving. In the next doorway, or around the coming corner, death might be lurking. Neither could let his guard down for the briefest of moments. If a trap was waiting, the highly proficient soldiers wouldn’t miss it. If an ambush was out there, the odds were great the pair would circle it and slice the enemies’ throats before they knew what hit them.
By necessity, their halting actions were precise and caution-filled. Even so, they beat Mourad’s forces to the inlet with time to spare. In ones and twos, the Green Berets made their way across the narrow waters.
When the team was safely on the far side, Morrow turned to Sanders. “Might as well not make it any easier than we have to. Once we’re clear, blow this thing.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sergeant Porter will wait for you in the row of buildings across the street.”
Morrow motioned for the detachment to blend into the shadows and move deeper into the sinister surroundings. While the Green Berets disappeared into the restrictive half-light, Sanders located the palm tree where Donovan had hidden the detonator. He knew that even though he appeared to be alone, Porter would be somewhere nearby, alert and ready. Sanders stripped the ends off the primer cord. The wires were soon attached. Everything was ready. There wasn’t a moment to waste if he wished to hold a beautiful woman in his arms again. He pushed back the panic rising deep within him. They were in a tough spot. Now, however, wasn’t the time for a mistake. He hit the detonator, obliterating the shorter bridge. The last route off the vanquished island disappeared.
After a quick check to ensure unfriendly eyes weren’t watching, Sanders turned and ran toward the ever-deepening twilight. He disappeared into Old Cairo’s dark world. Porter stepped out from nowhere to join him. The watchful duo inched their way through the maze of fearful streets and menacing alleyways. Every few steps, they stopped to listen for anyone foolhardy enough to follow. The going was slow, their movements calculated.
It would take the A Team an hour to cover the twelve blocks to the rendezvous point. But the careful group of ten all arrived. While the Green Berets scrambled to prepare defensive positions, Sanders said the words each was thinking.
“Someone better get us some help here real soon.”
17
7:02 A.M. (EASTERN STANDARD TIME), OCTOBER 18
THE OVAL OFFICE, THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
The secretary of defense, secretary of Homeland Security, director of the CIA, and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff settled into their seats for the early morning meeting. The president got down to business. There’d be no pleasantries or small talk on this morning.
“Let’s start with Saudi Arabia and Kuwait,” the president said while looking at the secretary of defense. “Mr. Secretary, what’s the latest from the battlefront?”
“Our forces in Kuwait are holding their own. The Kuwaiti capital is safe for the moment. Wish I felt as comfortable about Saudi Arabia. A battalion from the 1st Cavalry stopped the enemy once again near the city of Sakakah late last night. Iranian infantry made another suicide attack this morning. When that was repelled, Iraqi tanks raced in to duel our Bradley Fighting Vehicles. We suffered heavy losses. But our forces didn’t surrender an inch. I’ve been told there are Iraqi and Iranian dead everywhere.”
“Sounds encouraging,” the president said.
“Thank God the 1st Cavalry won,” the secretary of defense said. “For the moment there’s no one behind them. We’re trying to rectify that. But should the enemy break through, there’s little to stop them from racing across the desert to destroy the Saudi oil fields.”
“I still can’t believe the Iraqis and Iranians are fighting side by side.” The president turned to the director of the CIA. “You’re certain, Chet, this was their plan the entire time? When they massed all those troops on their border and threatened war with each other, they sure had me fooled.”
“They fooled everyone, Mr. President. But at this point, there’s no doubt it was all an elaborate ruse. When you put the pieces together it’s obvious Mourad set the whole thing up. The Iraqis and Iranians never intended to do anything but turn and attack Saudi Arabia and Kuwait.”
“So you’re telling me two countries who’ve been enemies for thousands of years are fighting together like the best of friends?”
“I don’t know if they’re the best of friends, Mr. President,” General Greer, chai
rman of the Joint Chiefs, said. “But they’re definitely fighting as one on the battlefield. So far, we’ve found no chink in their armor in that regard. Whatever distrust they have for each other hasn’t affected their ability to coordinate their actions.”
“You’ve got to remember,” the director of the CIA added, “that while they loathe each other, they despise the West a thousand times more. Their hatred for the Great Satan and for Israel consumes them. Don’t forget the old Middle East proverb—an enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
“All right,” the president said. “Not much we can do about it now other than hold them off long enough to get reinforcements in and save the oil fields. I want all of you to continue working on coming up with an angle to get the Iraqis and Iranians to turn on each other.”
“I still think the answer’s right in front of us, Mr. President,” the secretary of defense replied. “Ask my former wife. Nothing rips a shaky marriage apart like a setback. If we can lay a big defeat on them, I wouldn’t be surprised to see their alliance crumble. I’ve got the best minds at the Pentagon working on a plan to hurt them and hurt them bad. Then we’ll see how solid their friendship is.”
“You may be right,” the president said. “It may take nothing more than a good, old-fashioned butt kicking to get the job done. That’s why I’ve gone along with your recommendation that we concentrate our efforts on Saudi Arabia. Which brings us to our second item of business. General, how are our mobilization efforts proceeding? Are we getting any closer to creating a level playing field? Give me the specifics first, and we’ll move to the bigger picture from there.”
