by Walt Gragg
“Chosen One,” General Akhtar added, “General el-Saeed’s assessment is correct. The enemy’s flanks are exposed. There’s nothing but a token force opposing us. We can change everything with a bold strike against Israel.”
“But what about Cairo?” Mourad asked. “Surely you’re not suggesting we abandon our effort to purge Egypt of those who stand in Allah’s way?”
“With the forces opposing us inside the Egyptian capital, it will take days, possibly weeks, to liberate the city. We don’t have time for the prolonged effort the house-to-house fighting will entail. The only way to assure our success is to turn from this place and head across the Sinai.”
There was much to be considered. Mourad got up. He signaled for his advisers to remain where they were. He walked east across the plateau until he neared its end. From this vantage point he could see great distances. Beyond Giza, on the eastern side of the sainted river of antiquity, Cairo began. In every direction its millions of citizens had built their structures for as far as the eye could survey. Great minarets rose above the skyline. Non-Islamic holy places also dotted the landscape. In the south, ancient handiwork and narrow alleyways were the way of life. In the northern and central parts, modern streets ran through the heart of the city. Towering hotels and sparkling office buildings accompanied the urban blight. Among them were hundreds of nightclubs and cafés where alcohol was sold to foreigner and Egyptian alike. A dozen glittering casinos, their decadence there for all to behold, were scattered about the metropolis. There could be no denying the Egyptian capital was filled with corruption and sin. Surely Sodom and Gomorrah, mentioned in the Christian Bible as having drawn Allah’s wrath, couldn’t have been more perverse than the debauchery Mourad saw before him. This hedonistic lifestyle in the middle of the Islamic world couldn’t be allowed.
He looked upon the Middle East’s greatest city. Anguish gripped him as he viewed the scene. The overpowering fear of such places, so much a part of his psyche, rose up to seize him. He couldn’t let stand this immoral blight, an affront to the pious throughout the globe. To do so, to ignore the need to crush those whose shallow beliefs made a mockery of everything for which the Mahdi stood, was beyond comprehension.
General el-Saeed was right. An attack upon the Hebrews would unify the factions waiting for a sign to join Allah’s holy battle. The general’s plan was tempting and provided a real opportunity for conquest. Nevertheless, there was no other answer. Cairo had to be vanquished before any other action could be considered.
His mind was made up. He walked back to the tent and took his place with his advisers.
“General el-Saeed, I’ve considered your suggestion. There’s much in what you say that makes a great deal of sense. Nevertheless, until we place all of Islam upon the proper path, we cannot move forward toward any other goal. Destruction of our non-Arab enemies must wait until our brothers are positioned under the one true God’s banner. Egypt must fall before we face the outside world.”
“I understand your position, Chosen One,” General el-Saeed said. “But if you insist upon the destruction of Cairo before moving on, our chances are nearly gone. We won’t prevail and many will’ve died without tasting victory.”
“An eternity in paradise will be their victory. They can ask for no greater reward.”
“Please, Chosen One, I beg you to reconsider.”
Mourad paused, going over things in his mind a final time. But he’d already made his decision. In the end there was nothing anyone could do to change it. “Our conquest will be in the manner I’ve decreed. First we destroy Cairo, then we cross the Sinai.”
The dejected general understood that the Mahdi had let the chance for world mastery slip through his fingers. His disappointment was evident. “It will be as you wish, Chosen One.”
“General, don’t be unduly alarmed. Our armies aren’t finished. Plenty of opportunities remain. At the conclusion of this afternoon’s discussions, I’m ordering our reserves to join us in our virtuous struggle. In two days, no more, they’re to begin the honored trek. They’re to commandeer every truck, bus, and automobile within our federation and cross the Sahara to become a part of our devout conflict. That should be more than enough to sway things toward Allah’s chosen. With so many new faces on the battlefield, victory will be assured.”
“Thank you, Chosen One,” General el-Saeed said. “Seven million additional fighters will certainly give our opponents cause to reflect. I’m not certain, however, how much good such an order will do. This will be an extremely difficult journey. Some will have to travel two thousand kilometers to reach Cairo. Many of their vehicles are old and unreliable. They’ll break down on the desert or run out of gasoline along the way. Our reserves from the Sudan, with no one defending the southern entrances into Egypt, should find the most success in reaching us. Nevertheless, we’ve left few soldiers with combat experience behind. So it’s uncertain how effective the reinforcements will be. Most of our efforts will, by necessity, be piecemeal.”
“That’s understandable, General el-Saeed.”
“From the west, our Libyan units will be the first to arrive at the Egyptian border. Many will complete the task in a day. There they’ll run into twelve thousand American Marines in well-fortified positions. Whether we can penetrate such defenses is yet to be seen. Our reserves from Tunisia and Algeria will have to travel a minimum of sixteen hundred kilometers to reach us. There are few roads for such a difficult crossing. The Americans will send their aircraft to destroy those highways long before our soldiers reach them.”
“Of that, I’ve little doubt.”
“The going will be slow and torturous. Many of our reserves are old men and young boys. Those who survive will be less than battle ready. Only ten percent have been issued military weapons. Another twenty percent will bring weapons of their own. The rest will arrive at the Egyptian border unarmed. We’ve left no air defenses behind to protect them. The Americans, the minute they’ve spotted our troop movements, will unleash their fighter jets to annihilate those they find crossing the trackless sands. Many, possibly most, won’t endure so hazardous a venture.”
“General, are you saying our conscripts will do us no good?”
“No, Chosen One. Should the majority make it to the front, their presence would likely sway the battle in our favor. I just don’t believe most will survive the arduous trip. I’ll leave it in your hands to decide whether to call them forward on so dangerous an undertaking.”
“Jihad’s been called. And those we’ve left behind are anxious to answer its call. As you said, our reserves can turn the tide once they reach us. We must find a way to hold on until they complete their devout journey. To do that, we’ve got to delay the nonbelievers’ advances in the north. We must also find a way for our arriving troops to survive the travail. It may take every aircraft we have, but I’ll release our air forces to battle the Americans and protect our reserves as they cross the great desert. That should help. Still, the one thing that will aid us more than anything is getting them headed this way without delay.”
“Yes, Chosen One, I will issue such a command.”
“Anything else, General el-Saeed?”
“Just one more thing. You’re so exposed in this place. Even with the air defense weapons we’ve assembled around the hilltop, we cannot promise to defeat a determined air attack. I urge you to consider moving your headquarters inside the King’s Burial Chamber in the Great Pyramid. The passageway through the structure only takes moderate effort. And there’s satisfactory space inside the pharaoh’s tomb and antechamber for you and your advisers. It’s the one location where you’ll be secure from enemy aircraft.”
“Nonsense, General. I’m as safe here as I would be anywhere. Allah will protect me.”
“But surely Allah doesn’t mean for the one he’s selected to lead the way to continue tempting the fates. Even with the forces we’ve gathered on the platea
u, my men can’t guarantee your safety when you insist on remaining out in the open like this.”
“I’ll so note your request. But there’s no need for concern. No harm will befall me. My tent will stay where it is.”
“As you wish, Chosen One.”
46
6:41 P.M., OCTOBER 25
BLACKJACK SECTION, FIGHTING SQUADRON VF-57
USS ABRAHAM LINCOLN
THIRTY MILES FROM THE COAST OF EGYPT
Bradley Mitchell rocketed down the Lincoln’s deck. His Hornet roared skyward. Norm Sweeney’s catapult fired a half minute later. Blackjack Section formed and headed south. Having drawn another demanding assignment, both were feeling good about themselves.
It wasn’t a difficult task. Bombing a huge communication center in the middle of a wide plateau didn’t require much skill. It was the location that made the mission one calling for the most trusted of pilots. The facility sat in the middle of the hilltop where some of the most important relics of ancient Egypt rested. Just a quarter mile north and west were the three major pyramids. And a quarter mile southeast sat the eroding remains of the Sphinx. Miss the target and risk destroying some of the world’s greatest symbols of man’s resolve.
They rushed toward the coastline. As much as they tried to push the tortured image from their minds, they couldn’t forget standing in stunned silence watching the final gasps of the Eisenhower as it sank on the previous evening. Nor had Mitchell’s family concerns lessened in the slightest. Brooke had gone so far as to have her father call one of his friends in the Senate. This one was a powerful member of the military appropriations subcommittee. The senator had willingly complied with her father’s wishes. Generous donors always received their due. He made a few calls to the Pentagon. His demands were simple. The Navy was to release Mitchell from combat duty so he could return to Norfolk to take the couple’s children to his parents’ home in California. Citing the war’s pressing priorities, the Pentagon had politely withstood the unmasked pressure. How much longer they could continue to do so was anybody’s guess. Needless to say, the air wing commander wasn’t thrilled when he called in one of his favorite pilots to give him the news.
In front of Blackjack Section, six aircraft raced toward the critical target. Overhead, additional Super Hornets prowled to ensure no enemy fighters appeared to disrupt the mission. Both Mitchell and Sweeney had visually identified the sections in front of them. And the Super Hornets above.
The mission contained the classic elements of an American air assault. The leading aircraft were Growlers. The pair would arrive at the objective first. Their job would be to temporarily disable the plateau’s air defense systems using electronic countermeasures and chaff.
The Pan-Arab radars would be disoriented by the Growlers’ actions. In the confusion, the first two teams of F/A-18Es would rush in to eliminate the air defense systems. Blackjack Section would be clinging to the vapor trails of the others. At ten thousand feet they’d each release a single smart bomb to demolish the communication complex. The destruction complete, all eight aircraft would turn and race for home. It was nice and simple. Except for the added pressure of unwittingly destroying four-thousand-year-old monuments to the human race’s ingenuity and perseverance, there was nothing to it.
In eight minutes, the Growlers arrived. They instituted the countermeasures necessary to jam the radars. The first section of Hornets was seconds behind. Their objectives were the air defense complexes on the northern and western sides of the plateau. The deft Americans lined up their shots. Smart bombs were released. The pilots guided them dead center onto the targets. Without warning, the radars exploded. Shattered steel and crippled electronics flew in every direction. Razor-edged pieces of defeated equipment mowed down the unlucky. The second Hornet team was right behind. Five seconds later, the radars protecting the southern and eastern approaches were ripped to shreds. More death and destruction befell the crowded hilltop.
The regal plateau trembled beneath the high explosives falling from the towering skies. The sensation of a small earthquake gripped the revered ground. Mourad and his advisers scarcely had time to struggle to their feet, and no time at all to seek shelter, before the final Hornets arrived.
“Okay, Worm, it’s our turn,” Mitchell said. “Looks like everything’s right where it was when the reconnaissance photos were taken this morning. The communication center’s dead ahead. The radars are destroyed, so there’s little to concern ourselves with other than completing the mission. Take your time, line up your shot, eliminate the target, and let’s get the hell out of here while the getting’s good.”
“Roger, Blackjack, I’m right behind you.”
Those on the ground spotted the final pair of Hornets. Hundreds of tanks opened fire with their deafening antiaircraft machine guns. Uncountable lines of twisting tracers roared skyward. Even so, the ceaseless firing of the tanks’ weapons was beyond useless. Mitchell and Sweeney ignored the T-72s’ distracting actions and focused upon the task.
In the middle of the immense gathering was the unmistakable objective. The F/A-18E pilots aligned the victim in their sights and each released a single smart bomb. They guided their plummeting ordnance toward the objective. The screaming munitions plunged toward the consecrated earth. Mitchell’s smashed into the tangled mass. A fraction of a second later, Sweeney’s did the same. Two mighty blasts shook the ancient setting fifteen seconds behind the initial attacks. The middle of the hilltop was torn apart. Limitless lives were stolen. Blackjack Section’s pilots turned and headed back toward the fleet without giving it more than a passing thought. Not one of the Americans had the slightest notion they’d dropped tons of high explosives upon the Mahdi’s head.
Those inside Mourad’s tent were knocked from their feet by the precisely timed raid. The powerful blow sent searching shrapnel flying in every direction. It carried with it the shattered remains of the communication complex and the surrounding vehicles. The flowing tent was little more than fifty yards distant. The tenuous structure was far too close to ever hope of surviving unscathed. Chunks of flaming metal reached out for those within its walls. Unending scores of terrifying shards tore through the shredded tent’s sides. Those clustered upon the ancient carpet would soon be receiving the brunt of the corrupting assault.
The rushing carnage ripped through the flimsy framework, slicing up the waiting flesh and exiting on its eastern end. Strife and chaos followed in the attackers’ wake.
Five of Mourad’s most trusted advisers lay dying. Two were already dead. The remaining sixteen had received wounds running from mild to severe. Within seconds, from all around the mesa, the Mahdi’s frantic followers were running toward the shredded shelter. Medical help would arrive before the dust had settled.
Of the two dozen within the tattered tent, a single person had escaped the onslaught unharmed. Incredibly, Muhammad Mourad didn’t have a scratch on him.
The Americans’ attack would be yet another thing added to the prophetic legend of the Chosen One. Word would soon spread on the swirling desert winds of the miracle occurring near sundown beneath the shadow of the Great Pyramid. For his obsessed multitudes, it was an unmistakable sign of Allah’s intentions.
The little man stared at the death and destruction. As he observed the grisly scene, there was true sadness in his eyes. Many of those who’d fallen had been with him since the beginning. Yet his God had chosen this moment to take them. Even so, his grief wouldn’t linger. For he knew each who’d succumbed had died a valiant death in a holy struggle. And an exquisite eternal existence would be their reward.
There was blood running down General el-Saeed’s face. His right leg was badly injured. He spoke through clenched teeth, fighting the incredible pain. “Chosen One, now will you listen? You’re much too exposed here. You must do what we’ve been urging. Move your headquarters inside the burial tomb of the Great Pyramid. It’s the only way to guarantee your s
afety.”
Mourad looked at his bloodied leadership. There was no other response he could give. “All right, General. Following my walk to honor my mother, I’ll move inside. Have your injuries tended to. Then have your men move our command element into the pyramid.”
“Thank you, Chosen One. It will be done.”
The decision had been made. For the remainder of the war, Muhammad Mourad would make his home within the consecrated walls of the pharaoh’s burial chamber.
47
6:51 P.M. (EASTERN STANDARD TIME), OCTOBER 25
THE OVAL OFFICE, THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
For the first time in a month, the president was all smiles. Even the Eisenhower’s sinking couldn’t put a damper on today’s events. “Let’s start with the good news,” he said. “How do we look in Cairo, General Greer?”
“A hell of a lot better than we did a week ago, sir. The Nile’s running red with Pan-Arab blood. Other than scattered fighting with those cut off by our advance, the city’s in our hands. The French Leclercs and British mechanized infantry did the trick. And the 82nd Airborne and our Green Berets did a magnificent job of holding on until help arrived. We couldn’t have asked for more from them. Because our aircraft kept blowing up every bridge he built over the river, the Mahdi was never able to get more than a handful of tanks across. As soon as we hit them with the French armor they collapsed. Still, we don’t think that’s the end of it. He’s got more than a million men in Giza alone. We expect him to counterattack at some point. Even so, our forces in the city are ready.”
