by Walt Gragg
“The update on the unit movements we previously discussed is a good one. A brigade from the 3rd Infantry arrived in Saudi Arabia yesterday. It took almost every cargo plane the Air Force has, but with them, they brought a full complement of armored vehicles. That’s over one hundred Abrams tanks and one hundred Bradley Fighting Vehicles. They’re presently headed toward the front lines. Another 3rd Infantry brigade’s loading onto those same transports as we speak. Five thousand French troops have arrived along with half as many British. More are on the way. The last of the 1st Cavalry have loaded onto ships in Galveston. The first elements of the 10th Mountain and 101st Airborne Divisions are scheduled to sail from Bayonne and Norfolk tonight.”
“How long before they’ll reach the Middle East?”
“With the extensive damage to the Suez Canal we’ll have to go around the Cape of Good Hope to reach Saudi Arabia. Even at top speed, it could take ten days.”
“Ten days? No sooner?”
“No, sir, not if you want them in Saudi Arabia. By ship it’ll take at least that long. We could place them in Egypt in seven, maybe less.”
“Are the British firm on their commitment to land two armored divisions in North Africa by this time next week?”
“Yes, sir,” General Greer said.
“Then let’s leave it up to the British to support our forces in Egypt. I’m still worried about Saudi Arabia. We’ve got to get significant help there as quickly as we can.”
“We’re trying, Mr. President.”
The president turned to the director of Homeland Security. “Jim, what about terrorist attacks?”
“There’ve been six suicide bombings in Europe in the past twenty-four hours, and three in this country. Boston, Atlanta, and Los Angeles were all targeted. The FBI foiled the Atlanta attack. But the other two succeeded, I’m afraid. We’re doing everything humanly possible. Even so, there’s no way we can get them all.”
The president shook his head. His frustration was obvious. He looked at the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “All right, General, go on with your report on our troop movements.”
“The last pair of fighter wings on the East Coast left early this morning. They’ll arrive in the Middle East in another four hours.”
“Are our aircraft losses as high today as they were yesterday?”
“I’m afraid so, Mr. President. Eight more in the past twenty-four hours. But you shouldn’t overly concern yourself with the air portion of the war. The Chosen One’s forces have shown an uncanny ability to use their huge supply of Stinger missiles and Russian-made air defense systems to destroy our aircraft. Still, our operations folks believe we’ve got more than enough airpower to maintain control of the skies over the entire war zone.”
“If that’s the case, should I cancel the activation of the Air National Guard?”
“Not at all, Mr. President. If the war runs beyond what we’ve projected, or our losses increase, we might need them all. The same goes for the Army National Guard.”
“Okay, continue the mobilization process. Anything else?”
“One more note, Mr. President. The final battalion of Patriot air defense missiles left El Paso yesterday morning and arrived in Saudi Arabia late last night. The battalion’s four firing batteries are in place and fully operational. In fact, one already knocked down three Scud missiles headed for Riyadh. We’re convinced the reason the Iraqi and Iranian air forces haven’t attempted to enter Saudi or Kuwaiti air space is because of their fear of the Patriots.”
“That’s something I’ll definitely mention during today’s press briefing.”
“Do that, Mr. President. And tell them one more thing. Not a Saudi city’s been touched. The same goes for Israel. We’ve put a steel curtain in front of every critical Middle Eastern country. If it weren’t for the Patriots, Tel Aviv and Jerusalem would’ve been reduced to rubble early in the war. If that had happened the Israelis would’ve had no choice but to attack the Iraqis and Iranians.”
“What a mess that would be. We’ll never extricate ourselves from this situation if the Israelis become any more involved than they already are.”
“No doubt, Mr. President.”
“Except for our snail’s pace in getting ground forces in place, it sounds like things are going as well as we could hope. General, can’t we do anything to get our men and equipment over there quicker?”
“No chance, Mr. President,” Greer said. “We just don’t have the capabilities to get combat units from Europe or America to where we need them. We’re doing everything we can. Still our options are limited.”
“We’ve no other solutions?”
“There’s a partial one, Mr. President,” the secretary of defense said. “But you’re not going to like it.”
“What’s that?”
“Implement the War Powers Act. Take control of our merchant shipping fleet and our commercial airliners. It also wouldn’t hurt if you got your hands on every cruise ship you can find. You’ve the power to do so, and quite honestly, sir, if you don’t, we might lose this war.”
“But if I seize our commercial aircraft, I’ll basically shut this country down. Think of the consequences to our economy. It could take months to recover from such a decision.”
“It’s still better than the other outcome,” the secretary of defense said. “What are the consequences if we lose and the Pan-Arabs control the entire Middle East? Without those oil fields, the world’s economy will never recover. Mourad won’t have to raise a finger to fulfill his promise of dragging us back to the seventh century. With all that oil gone, it wouldn’t be long before the world finds itself back there on its own.”
“Anyone heard the cost of gas this morning?” the president asked.
“Seven dollars a gallon in some places,” the director of the CIA replied. “Projected to double in the next two weeks.”
“Fourteen dollars,” the president said. “Hell, that alone will shut us down. Are the rest of you in agreement with the secretary of defense’s analysis? Should I seize control of our commercial airline industry?”
“Yes, Mr. President,” the secretary of Homeland Security said. “I hate to admit it, but we need to do so. Invoke the War Powers Act and take control over this country’s aircraft.”
“Will we need them all?” the president asked.
“No, Mr. President,” the secretary of defense said. “All of the merchant and cruise ships. Probably half to two-thirds of the aircraft. The shorter-range stuff like the 737s won’t be of much use to us. We’ll need some of them, but can allow most to remain in the hands of the airlines. Still I’d like to see us get our hands on all the longer-range planes.”
The president paused. His answer was a reluctant one. “All right, I’ll announce the implementation of the War Powers Act at my noon press conference. That’ll give me time to notify the heads of the major airlines before they hear it from the media. At two o’clock, all normal aircraft traffic in this country will be suspended.”
“That’s fine, Mr. President,” the secretary of defense said. “I’ll make sure Military Airlift Command is ready.”
“Okay, General Greer, the shipping and aircraft fleets are yours. What’re you going to do with them?”
“With the airliners at our disposal, I’d recommend we take a serious look at Egypt.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask,” the president said. “What’s the latest word from Cairo?”
“Green Berets blew up every bridge over the Nile this morning. It slowed the Chosen One’s advance. But it didn’t stop him. The western part of the city’s under a fierce artillery bombardment. His followers are crossing the river in countless small boats. The Green Berets are engaged in vicious fighting to stem the tide. They’re making Mourad’s lunatics earn every inch. Nevertheless, Pan-Arab forces are moving farther into the city as we speak.”
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��How much longer before everything collapses and Cairo surrenders?”
“We’ve got no more than forty-eight hours,” General Greer said. “The Egyptians are at their end. There’s not a single unit that hasn’t suffered significant casualties and desertions to the Mahdi’s side. Some, even as large as regimental size, have switched en masse.”
“Is there anything we can do? Anything that will keep Egypt from being destroyed?”
“With the airliners we can have fifteen thousand of our best men in the Egyptian capital by this time tomorrow.”
“How?”
“I’ve been holding the 82nd Airborne in reserve. They’ve been specially trained for house-to-house fighting. We can get the entire division there with enough smaller weapons to hold the bastards for a few extra days. By then, if we’re lucky, we’ll come up with a way to keep Cairo in our hands.”
“Are you certain, General? Will the 82nd be enough to keep the city from falling?”
“Yes, sir. We believe they’ll turn the trick. Should give us a couple more days minimum.”
“Except for the Marine landing, that’s the best news I’ve heard all week. Get the 82nd ready. I’ll make sure the CEOs of the major airlines understand the urgency of making their long-haul planes available as quickly as possible.”
“That’ll help, Mr. President.”
“What’s the latest word on the Marines?”
“They made definite progress after their landing. Covered about twenty miles before the enemy got organized and launched a series of counterattacks. Late last night, lead elements of the 2nd Marine Division captured a section of the Alexandria-to-Cairo highway and severed Mourad’s forces in the northern part of Egypt. With the Marines’ help, Alexandria appears to be solidly in the Egyptian army’s hands. In the past hours, however, the attacks against our positions have been relentless. One armored division after another has smashed into our lines. The Marines’ advance has come to a standstill. Our forces are settling into defensive positions in an attempt to hold off the Chosen One’s tanks. At the moment, things are pretty rough. But as long as our air superiority remains, we’ve got a decent chance of staying right where we are until the 1st Marine Division comes ashore in three or four days.”
“No possibility of the Marines reaching Cairo?” the president asked.
“None whatsoever, Mr. President,” General Greer said. “At least, not until the British arrive next week. Until then, we’ll be lucky to hold on to the territory we’ve gained. But you’ve got to realize that even though the Marines aren’t directly relieving Cairo, they’ve accomplished what we sent them there to do. Mourad’s had to turn thousands of his tanks away from the city to battle our forces. Without the Marines’ help, the Egyptian capital would’ve fallen last night. His tanks would’ve reached Israel today. So our plan’s working. We just need more time. If we can figure that part out, with seven hundred British Challenger tanks on the way, we might have a chance of winning this thing.”
“Sounds like you could describe our situation as desperation with a tinge of optimism.”
“Exactly, sir.”
“At the moment, I can live with that. What’s next?” the president asked.
“We’ve still no word on Mourad’s location,” the director of the CIA said. “Based on Pan-Arab radio traffic, we know he’s somewhere near Cairo, but so far we’ve struck out in locating him.”
“Keep looking, Chet,” the president said. “If we eliminate the Mahdi this thing will collapse. Without his leadership, Islam’s dreams of world conquest will be lost. So our top priority continues to be finding and killing the Chosen One. This is one war we can win by eliminating a single man.”
“We’ll stay on it, sir.”
“Do that, Chet. Find the sorry son of a bitch and take him out.”
“Yes, sir. He’s definitely near the battlefield. So we’ll spot him sooner or later.”
“Make it sooner.” The president paused. “Is there anything else?”
No one said a word.
“Okay, I won’t keep you any longer.”
The four stood to leave. The president looked at General Greer. “General, I’m curious. Will you give me an honest answer to an honest question?”
“I’ll try, Mr. President.”
“If you had to guess . . . What would you estimate our chances are of winning this thing?”
The chairman of the Joint Chiefs paused. His answer was a truthful one. “At the moment, somewhere around fifty-fifty, Mr. President.”
18
2:57 P.M., OCTOBER 18
3RD PLATOON, BRAVO COMPANY, 2ND RECONNAISSANCE BATTALION, 2ND MARINE DIVISION
NEARING THE CAIRO–ALEXANDRIA HIGHWAY
With the Humvee in the lead, the modest formation of bone-weary Marines trudged the final miles toward the American defenses. So far they’d been lucky, surviving the arduous journey without any additional killed or wounded. Each prayed their good fortune would hold. This early in the North African campaign the front lines were ill-defined and porous. The rampaging enemy was taking full advantage of the situation. Roving bands of Pan-Arabs were making the Egyptian Sahara a fiercely inhospitable place.
Sergeant Joyce’s hands were wrapped around the .50-caliber’s grips. He was ready to squeeze the machine gun’s trigger at a moment’s notice. The Humvee’s fire team was anxious and wary. Should another assault come, it would be on them to repel the insurgents long enough for the depleted platoon to find cover and get organized.
During the twenty-mile trek, they’d successfully survived two marauding attacks. The first, from a battered pickup truck carrying four hooded men holding rifles and rocket-propelled grenades, had happened in the early hours of the march. At the initial sign of trouble, Joyce’s team rushed forward to engage the insurgents. The small skirmish was swift and decisive. The sergeant’s skillful men hurriedly dispatched their overmatched foe.
The second encounter had been far more serious. Halfway through their desert crossing, they’d stumbled toward three dozen jihadists waiting in ambush in a concealing ravine. The result could have been disastrous for the struggling remnants of Erickson’s men. Fortunately, two passing Cobra attack helicopters had spotted the trap moments before the enemy opened fire. With a life-stealing barrage from their Gatling cannons, the fearsome pair swooped in and destroyed the threat.
Behind the Humvee, the remaining ten Marines dragged through the shifting sands. Gunny brought up the rear, encouraging the floundering force to take another step. For seven difficult hours, the fourteen survivors of yesterday morning’s battle had made their way across the infinite desert toward the battalion’s defenses. Misery was painted on their grizzled features. The relentless winds tore at their stoic faces. The endless sojourn’s unmerciful heat pressed in upon them. It threatened to devour the haggard Americans.
There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Yet the dismal heavens were as dark as the bleakest New England January. A blanket of suffocating smoke, so thick it consumed every labored breath, covered the tedious landscape and overwhelmed the sun’s light. The smoldering corpses of destroyed enemy vehicles stretched to the horizon. Pan-Arab remains, twisted and rotting, cluttered the landscape. Some of the decomposing bodies had been in the sweltering Sahara for nearly three weeks. With so great a bounty, the vultures and carrion eaters had grown indifferent.
Death’s reviling stench clung to the exhausted platoon. Decay oozed into their sand-clogged pores and assailed their senses. The putrid smell of suffering and disease tore at their nostrils. Although the men on the ground couldn’t see them, the sounds of soaring aircraft filled the spiteful afternoon. Throughout the long hours, Super Hornets from the aircraft carriers Lincoln and Eisenhower flew sortie after sortie over the Nile Delta. Attack and reconnaissance drones crisscrossed the dingy heavens. At regular intervals, groups of lethal Cobras screamed overhead. The low-flyin
g merchants of death skimmed the dunes, tearing through the narrow valleys and treacherous landscape as they rushed toward the burgeoning battles. Artillery duels rumbled incessantly. With each painful stride Erickson took, the sounds of the fearsome struggles reached out for him. With every passing minute, the platoon grew closer to the menacing clashes.
The depleted lieutenant adjusted the fifty pounds he carried on his back. The pack’s straps dug into his slumping shoulders. It tore at his battered flesh. His left arm throbbed. Mind-numbing pain, sharp and unpredictable, flashed down his wounded biceps and surged toward his tingling fingers. The acidic air overwhelmed him. Dirt crept into every crevice of his distress-filled face. He raised his hand to tighten the filthy scarf covering his mouth and nose. The small cloth secure once more, the platoon leader removed his sunglasses and wiped the sweat from his brow.
It had been an extremely long day for the men of 3rd Platoon. And it was far from over.
A few hundred yards ahead, the glistening blacktop of the Alexandria-to-Cairo highway called to them. The beckoning conclusion to their extended effort was nearing.
“Sergeant Joyce,” Erickson said. “There’s a checkpoint up ahead. Drive up and see if they know where the battalion’s located.”
“Okay, Pitzer,” Joyce told his driver. “You heard the lieutenant. Get this thing in gear and let’s check it out.”
Kicking up clouds of sand, the Humvee raced ahead of the platoon. A quarter mile away, four Marines waited behind a sturdy sandbagged barrier on the edge of the multilane highway. The vehicle roared up and stopped.
“You guys in 2nd Recon?” Joyce asked.
“Yeah,” the corporal in charge of the checkpoint said. “Alpha Company.”
“Any idea where we’ll find battalion headquarters?”
“Straight up the road about three-quarters of a mile. You can’t miss them, they’re the ones with all the burning tanks in front of them.”
“Thanks. Pitzer, let’s go tell the lieutenant there’s less than a mile to go.”
