by Walt Gragg
NEAR THE BEACH
NORTHERN EGYPT
Barely a week earlier, to keep Cairo from falling, the Americans had been forced to attempt a desperate landing behind enemy lines. And for the eight days following, the Marines had held on, waiting for help to arrive. With the appearance of the British tanks, the Allies suddenly were brimming with confidence. It wouldn’t be long before they crushed the Mahdi and annihilated his forces. On every Egyptian front, the war had turned. Optimism abounded. Among the Marines there was wild speculation they’d triumph in as little as four days.
The steady process of bringing men and equipment ashore continued without letup. The first arriving division’s tanks were on dry land. Over three hundred imposing Challenger 2s had reached the glistening sands of the Egyptian coast. The foul-smelling beasts covered every inch of shoreline and the scowling desert beyond. The few days of rest Erickson’s Marines had enjoyed were at their end. It was time to return to the slaughter. The bloody-nosed Americans of the 2nd Marine Division, survivors of endless hours of fierce combat, would provide the infantry support the British division required. The 1st Marines, presently holding the front against Mourad’s forces, would leave their foxholes to give similar support to the second of the British divisions.
By today’s sunset, nearly seven hundred of some of the world’s best tanks would be upon the open sands of North Africa and the Allied offensive well into its initial stage. Waiting to face them were the Chosen One’s eight thousand surviving T-72s and M-60s supported by four thousand armored personnel carriers and more than two million warriors. In their day, the Russian T-72s and American M-60s had been excellent tanks. But only the T-72 could be considered so now. And even it had severe limitations when compared with the Challenger. Each of the Mahdi’s tanks was capable of holding its own in most combat situations. Yet neither had the fully integrated shoot-on-the-move capabilities of their adversary. The enemy tanks were capable of firing upon a target from only a stationary position, a severe handicap their opponent didn’t face. In a one-on-one confrontation with the technologically advanced British, the Chosen One’s armor would stand scant chance of victory.
Fortunately for the Pan-Arabs, their armored vehicles greatly outnumbered the invaders. So tank-against-tank battles would be few. Mourad’s forces were depending upon sheer numbers and relentless determination to prevail in their holy crusade to conquer the Middle East, and beyond that the world.
In two hours, the Allies would attack across a one-hundred-mile front. Losses for both sides in so monumental a struggle would be severe. With the Americans’ dominance of the skies, such would be especially true for the Chosen One’s disciples.
At the moment, it was organized chaos along the beachhead. The steady shifting from the transport ships to the historic sands went on unimpeded. At the landing zone, men and equipment were moving in every direction. With the initial division ashore, the time had come to start the proceedings. The lead battalion’s thirty-six Challengers roared to life. Accompanied by the three hundred surviving Marines of Erickson’s battalion, they’d spearhead the attack on the eastern edge of the Pan-Arab lines. As they’d done in the beginning, his men would be out front. With a handful of replacements bolstering their numbers, Erickson’s twenty-three-man platoon, with two battle-scarred Humvees, would accompany four Challengers in their efforts to locate and destroy those who stood in their way.
The lieutenant, in full battle dress, approached the forward British platoon leader’s tank. His Marines were ready to go. Each was either in one of the Humvees or clinging to a Challenger’s hull for the ride through the sun-soaked desert. Gunny reached out and gave Erickson a hand up. The lieutenant scrambled onto the broad metal shell and found a spot next to the tank commander’s position. He turned toward the beach, searching for Lauren. In the confusion, she was nowhere to be found. For the life of him, he couldn’t understand her unexplained disappearance. She’d been called away for something urgent moments before he’d headed for the tanks. He looked toward the fluttering tents of Press City, hoping against hope she’d appear. Still, he couldn’t locate her.
The command was given. The time had arrived to drive the maniacal cultists from Egypt. The pair of Humvees headed toward the seemingly unending desert. At a cautious ten miles per hour, they’d point the way. The tanks began churning through the deep sands. Behind them, the remainder of the British battalion and its Marine supporters edged forward.
At the last possible instant, Wells pushed through the crowds watching the initial Allied advance. Erickson spotted her.
She ran toward the slow-moving formation. “Sam!” she yelled. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to say good-bye. But this was too important. We just got word. The French armored brigade, supported by the British mechanized infantry and the 82nd Airborne, attacked this morning. We’ve retaken all of Cairo! Other than a few scattered pockets, our forces have pushed the Pan-Arabs back across the Nile.” She couldn’t tell whether he’d heard her. “Did you hear me? The French tanks annihilated them. Cairo’s back in our hands.”
He gave her a thumbs-up. “Lauren, there’s no need to say good-bye. We aren’t going to be apart that long. With the way things are going, I’ll see you in Cairo in a few days.”
Wells stopped running. The armored array continued to move onto the vast plain. She gave him a huge smile and a final wave.
The Americans were certain the end was near.
Their fervent opponent, however, wasn’t ready to agree with their assessment. For the Mahdi had significant tricks yet to play.
* * *
—
There wasn’t a cloud in the Sahara sky and the smoke had momentarily dissipated. A sweltering North African day beat down upon the procession. The Challengers steadily progressed. They were alert for a surprise attack by Pan-Arab helicopters or marauding raiders. Fortunately, neither appeared. Other than the occasional stray camel, and a slithering asp or two, the Allies saw little in the monotonous world.
Death’s disordered form, they viewed everywhere. Widely spaced, or in twisted clumps, the festering bodies littering their path stretched to the horizon.
The twenty miles to the front lines were soon crossed. They reached the wide asphalt of the Cairo-to-Alexandria highway. The Americans’ forward foxholes were ahead. Erickson and a handful of his foot soldiers dismounted and took up positions supporting the tanks. The advancing elements soon passed through the cheering 1st Marine Division’s lines. Between here and Cairo, there was nothing in front of them except two million well-armed zealots intent on taking their lives. From this point on, the bitter battle could burst upon them at any moment.
The lead platoon’s Challengers spread out and rumbled forward. The Humvees settled in on the flanks, running twenty yards ahead of the armored monsters. The ever-vigilant Sergeant Joyce and his three men held the right flank. Sergeant Merker, now in command of the Humvee on the far left, was just as wary. Both vehicle commanders had their hands on their .50-caliber machine guns. Erickson was in the center of the formation, a few feet to the left of the British platoon leader’s Challenger. While he walked, the tough lieutenant turned and looked behind.
The thirty-six tanks had taken up attacking positions. The British battalion was spread across an area two miles wide and one deep. The sounds of their thundering engines could be heard for miles. There’d be no surprising their adversary this time.
A dozen Humvees were mixed in the tank formations. The majority were armed with machine guns. A third of the Marine vehicles were equipped with TOW missiles. The battalion’s men were spread throughout the rumbling armor. Reconnaissance drones passed over the formation, heading out to scout the terrain. A dozen Marine Cobras rushed to join the advance. The low-flying attack helicopters kept a keen eye on the unyielding landscape. Their mission was twofold: protect the advancing tanks from an assault by Pan-Arab Hinds and attack the Chosen One’s armor whenever t
he opportunity arose. A further layer of Allied aggressors was overhead. High in the skies, Super Hornets from the recently arriving Gerald Ford and John F. Kennedy crisscrossed the heavens. Even higher, still others prowled to protect those below from the sudden appearance of Pan-Arab fighter aircraft.
From those on the ground to those well above, the Allies were anxious and watchful. There’d been no signs of opposition. That, nonetheless, could change in a passing thought.
The Allies continued their persistent movement forward. Each step brought them closer to Cairo and an end to the war. Erickson had expected to encounter severe resistance the minute they left their own lines. Yet much to his amazement, it didn’t happen.
Two long hours passed as the dauntless Marines plodded through the taxing environment. The torrid sun continued to hammer the exposed Americans. They were seven miles beyond their forward defenses. And there had been no sign of Mourad’s followers.
To a man, they knew the Pan-Arabs were out there, waiting and watching.
Each understood it was all a matter of time.
43
3:54 P.M., OCTOBER 25
3RD PLATOON, BRAVO COMPANY, 2ND RECONNAISSANCE BATTALION, 2ND MARINE DIVISION
UPON THE GREAT DESERT
NORTHERN EGYPT
A reconnaissance drone was the first to spot the danger. Their elusive opposition had appeared. Over the next rise, as the highway went through a confining canyon scarcely a half mile wide, a brigade of M-60s, supported by armored personnel carriers and infantry, waited. More than one hundred Pan-Arab tanks were positioned in the rocky gorge. The stationary M-60s would attempt to hold off the aggressors within the enclosed space to limit the superior maneuverability of the Challengers. Three thousand infantry, many armed with antitank missiles, were hidden within the steep crags or scattered among the tanks and armored personnel carriers.
Until the last instant, Mourad had insisted on fighting in attack mode rather than defending the ground they held. He finally had relented. Even so, none in the canyon had been given time to dig in or fortify their defenses. It was a result that would severely hamper the M-60s’ chances.
The Cobras raced toward the canyon. The Hornets plunged from on high to strike the armored brigade. The British tanks, having stopped to allow the remainder of the Marines to dismount, picked up speed. Those on foot started running across the flowing sands.
Mourad’s brigade of aging M-60s was going to be hit by three groups of overriding assailants, one right after another. The tank-destroying helicopters crested the final ridge. The bristling canyon unfolded in front of them. There were targets everywhere the pilots looked. A Cobra’s weapons acquisition officer unleashed an initial TOW. He guided it toward an exposed Pan-Arab tank near the gorge’s northern end. As the missile reached its impact point the M-60’s hull was ripped apart by the ordnance’s irrepressible power. Burning pieces of the demolished giant surged skyward. Ear-shattering sound and soul-stealing fires rushed into the heavens. The stark violence stunned defenders and attackers alike. The deafening explosion echoed throughout the limiting space. The defeated tank’s consuming flames rose, singeing the gorge’s time-weathered walls.
A second attack helicopter followed with a Hellfire missile. The result was lethally startling and brutally predictable. Another wrecked tank exploded, its objecting roar crushing the contrite afternoon. Two Pan-Arab crews had found the promised paradise. Many would soon join them. Always on the alert for Stinger firings, the voracious Cobras sprinted through the canyon to seek and destroy. The stalwart avengers gave it everything they had. Death and destruction followed in their wake. A solid wall of cannon fire, missiles, and rockets tore into Mourad’s exposed force. A dozen hapless giants were soon ablaze upon the canyon floor. Ten crushed personnel carriers joined the mounting fires. Scores of infantry went down beneath the darting Cobras’ profound attack. Explosion after explosion ripped through the struggling garrison. The dazed defenders tried to answer back. But they were overmatched.
The M-60s’ air defenses were ordinary at best. They posed little threat to the spitting Cobras. A hundred tank-mounted air defense machine guns opened fire at the same instant. As they raced through the modest strait, the insatiable helicopters continued their unerring mission to maim and devastate. As quickly as they had begun, the swirling attackers finished their run. They soared over the jagged outcroppings and disappeared. Behind them the devastated canyon was burning. They formed for another assault.
A Hornet duo appeared in the blackening sky above the exposed brigade. Each dropped a string of five-hundred-pound bombs upon the center of the striving defenders. The deadly warheads screamed toward the earth. As the high explosives reached their impact point, a grimacing refrain of life-taking detonations shook the anguished world. The results of the run were swift and certain. The calamitous desert shuddered and yawed beneath the impaling ordnance. The men and equipment caught in the awe-inspiring assault were torn apart. The fearsome aircraft swooped in to follow up on the onslaught. Their armor-piercing cannons blazed as they raced forward. Two additional pairs of F/A-18Es were right on their tails. They screamed in for the kill. More were on the way. In the choked terrain, striking bombs and spewing cannons went on without pause. Mourad’s armor withered beneath the dismaying attack. The flailing opposition was being hacked to pieces. Thirty tanks were on fire. As the swarming Hornets left the canyon, a third of the Mahdi’s force was gone.
And the uneven struggle was scarcely two minutes old.
The Pan-Arabs staggered beneath the airborne offensive. The British crested the final rise and reached the soiled ground. The Marines were with them. Out of breath, Erickson looked upon the hideous scene. Everywhere he surveyed, a grinning Mephistopheles was making his rounds. The Challengers surged forward, intent on finishing their crippled foe. The lead platoon’s tanks spewed smoke from the five-barrel dischargers on the fronts of the lumbering beasts. The swirling gray clouds would mask the attackers’ positions from the M-60s and the soldiers waiting with antitank missiles. Even with the self-induced haze, using their sophisticated thermal systems the Challengers could see their targets as clearly as if it were the brightest of days.
The British would concentrate their fire on the remaining M-60s and wait for the Cobras and Hornets to return. Erickson ordered his men forward. The foremost platoon’s tanks locked on to their quarry. The Challengers’ computers verified their targets were ready for the kill. All four tanks fired within seconds of each other, each destroying his floundering adversary. The one-sided battle’s deaths grew.
The Humvee machine guns fired upon the force hidden along the condemned canyon’s edges. Another Challenger platoon unleashed its 120mm main guns. Erickson’s men opened up with their M-16s. Additional Marines rushed to join them. The British tank commanders fired their machine guns. Those in the canyon answered back.
The venomous Cobras returned. The horror began once more. The Pan-Arab commander attempted to rally his scalded force. But there was nothing he could do. The stark chaos and consuming terror were beyond anyone’s control.
An arriving pair of Hornets released long streams of bombs. Hell’s merciless images had nothing on the spectacle below. The overwhelmed Pan-Arabs broke and ran. On foot, or in armored vehicles, the survivors turned and scurried toward the safety of the south. Erickson watched as the turbaned political officers attempted to keep Mourad’s defeated followers from retreating. Yet it was no use. What remained of the ravaged brigade couldn’t be stopped. The desperate mullahs fired upon the fleeing soldiers, killing more than a few. Even so, they couldn’t slow the panic-stricken elements from running for their lives. In a matter of minutes, what remained of the devastated force was gone.
As the fleeing enemy disappeared, the Hornets and Cobras gave brief chase before returning to their guardian positions. Their primary responsibility was to protect the British, and no matter how tempting the prize, the
y could not leave the tank battalion vulnerable to a Hind counterattack.
The Challengers would’ve loved to press their advantage. What remained of the defiled Pan-Arabs could easily have been annihilated. Still, it couldn’t be done. For the moment, the flaming canyon was impassable. And the Allies were trapped on its northern side. Their advance was halted by the raging fires and constant secondary blasts on the horrid gorge’s floor. There was nothing they could do until the persevering blazes subsided. They’d have to wait for things to die down before crossing the simmering inferno.
Erickson organized his men into a defensive perimeter as far into the canyon as he dared.
44
6:14 P.M., OCTOBER 25
3RD PLATOON, BRAVO COMPANY, 2ND RECONNAISSANCE BATTALION, 2ND MARINE DIVISION
UPON THE GREAT DESERT
NORTHERN EGYPT
Eventually, it was safe to move on. The Allies passed through the smoldering wreckage, continuing their relentless advance. Nothing in the past hours had shaken their confidence. Each was certain in a few sunsets they’d reach Cairo and end the war.
The victorious attackers had survived the unequal battle with a dozen wounded and six dead. Erickson’s Marines hadn’t suffered a single casualty. Even so, the platoon leader understood such good fortune wouldn’t last forever.
They left the essence-stained canyon and the wide highway behind. They were back on the open Sahara. The lead elements pushed south, heading toward the Egyptian capital. The sunset would soon be upon them. The Marines and the British armor trudged forward.
Since their earlier dominance, there’d been little sign of their rival. A few hit-and-run skirmishes and a halfhearted defense by a battalion of T-72s were all the dogmatists could provide.
Erickson had anticipated significantly stiffer resistance than what they’d encountered so far.
