by Walt Gragg
“I already know. It’ll be just like I told you.”
* * *
—
Walton walked into the wide room filled with double-decked bunks and cheap metal lockers. It was nearing the dinner hour. Behind him were eight replacement soldiers. The men of his platoon were waiting. They crowded around their platoon sergeant.
“Did you guys finish prepping the Bradleys after I left for the battalion briefing?”
“All done,” Sanchez said. “Fuel’s topped off on all three and we’ve got a combat load of everything. We’re ready to move out when the order comes.”
“Good, ’cuz if you hadn’t, I was going to haul your asses back down there to finish the job, even if it took all night.”
“You don’t have to worry about that. Even Dimmit pitched in. I swear he broke a sweat at one point.”
“Wally did some real work? That’s a sight I would’ve loved to have seen.”
“Looks like they sent some replacements.”
“Sure did, Miguel. Eight new guys to support our Bradleys.”
“Well?” Sanchez said. “What’s the word from battalion?”
“We move out first thing in the morning. We’re heading north. Attack begins at dawn the day after tomorrow. There’s a massive concentration of Iranian forces, over thirty divisions, gathered inside Saudi Arabia. They’re planning a surprise attack in a few days to breach our lines and destroy the Saudi oil fields. But it’s us who’re going to surprise them.”
“How so, Sarge?” someone in the group asked.
“Their flanks are exposed. All they’ve got holding them are a few battalions of Iraqi armor. First Cav’s job is to hit the left flank hard and smash through as quickly as we can. We’ll race around the Iranians and meet up with the lead elements of the 25th Infantry. They’ll be coming in from the right. Once we’ve encircled the sorry bastards, the 1st Armor and two French armored divisions will hammer them head-on.”
“What about the 101st?” Sanchez asked.
“The 101st will use their huge supply of helicopters to transport reinforcements wherever they’re needed. There are a half-million Iranians waiting in the trap and the 101st’s mobility will definitely help our cause. The slaughter will have begun. And we’re not going to stop until the last Iranian’s either been killed or has surrendered. Because of our combat experience, this platoon’s been chosen to lead the way. So get a good night’s sleep. It might be the last time you see a real bed for quite a while.”
“Not a problem,” Sanchez said. “After what we’ve been through, we know what to expect.”
“From this moment on, you’re confined to quarters. Miguel, take the replacements and divide them up between the three teams.”
“Will do, Sarge.”
The impromptu meeting broke up. It was obvious the platoon’s members were less than happy with being restricted to the barracks. And after their previous combat, none was excited about returning to the front.
The cavalry platoon dispersed. Walton returned to his room. Sanchez, his task completed, soon appeared.
“What’d I tell you? Big attack to put an end to this. And our battalion’s going to be out front.”
“It’s like you said, Miguel.”
“Yep, when you want the scoop on what’s happening in the 1st Cavalry Division, I’m the guy to see. Hey, Sarge, I almost forgot, mail arrived while you were at the battalion briefing. Got a letter from your wife.” The specialist dug the envelope out of his shirt pocket.
“Thanks, Miguel.”
Walton ripped the envelope open and stood next to his bunk as he started reading.
Dearest Darren,
I know you’re busy, but I wanted to drop a short note to let you know the girls and I are fine. We watch television as much as we can, hoping to catch another glimpse of you and your guys. All over Fort Hood, the war’s the only thing on everyone’s mind. There are lots of nervous people back here. I’ve got to admit I’m one of them.
Sarah’s project went well. She took third place in the school-wide competition. She worked very hard on it, and we’re all proud of her efforts. Her teacher heaped lots of praise on her in front of the entire class. Jessica’s been acting quite jealous of her big sister. It’s fun watching their antics since the awards ceremony. I know you’ll get a kick out of it when you get home.
That’s the good news. I’m not sure how you’ll take the rest of what I’m going to tell you. I think it’s absolutely wonderful, but I’ll let you make up your own mind. I know we weren’t planning on having more kids, but when you got orders to leave for Saudi Arabia in such a hurry, I guess I let things slip. I don’t know how to tell you other than to just say it. The doctor confirmed this morning what I’ve suspected for a couple of weeks—you’re going to be a father again. I’m definitely pregnant. Your third child’s on the way. Maybe this time you’ll get that son you’ve always wanted. With any luck, it won’t be long before you’re coaching Pee Wee football with your own child on the team. I hope after not having to change a dirty diaper for so many years, you haven’t forgotten how. Because by next summer, you’ll be getting lots of practice, whether you want it or not.
I don’t know what more to say. I pray you won’t find my news too disappointing. The girls and I love and miss you very much. We can’t wait for you to get home. Say hi to Miguel for us. Write if you get the chance. Please take care of yourself and hurry back as fast as you can.
My love always, Beth
The surprised sergeant sat down on the edge of the bunk. A sheepish grin appeared on his face. It turned into a huge smile.
“What the hell’s going on?” Sanchez asked.
Dumbstruck, Walton stared at his Bradley’s gunner. His smile stayed right where it was. “Beth and the girls said hi.”
“What? That can’t be it. You didn’t get that stupid smile on your face because your family said to say hi.”
Walton paused, gathering his thoughts. “Miguel, Beth’s pregnant. I can’t believe it. I’m going to be a father again. Isn’t that great!”
The specialist took a moment to let the words sink in. “It sure is.” A smile to match his platoon leader’s appeared on his face. “I’m really happy for both of you.”
“I’ll need to write before we move out to tell her how pleased I am. With the two girls, I hope it’s a boy this time. Although as long as the baby’s healthy, I really don’t care what it is.”
“After all we’ve been through, what I hope,” Sanchez said, “is if it’s a boy, he grows up in a world where people aren’t shooting at each other all the time. And in his entire life he never finds himself on either end of a rifle. That’s my wish, Sarge.”
“That would be fantastic, Miguel. I hope that too.”
“You know, it’s funny how things work. A little over a week ago you and I had no choice but to end the lives of so many little boys. In a strange way, your wife’s news of a new baby . . . it’s almost as if God’s trying to make a little bit of what he made us do up to you. Kinda like he’s paying you back for what he put you through.”
“I hadn’t thought of it like that. But that’s sure a good way of looking at it. One new life entering the world after the loss of so many others. It won’t replace them all, but it’s a nice start.”
“A real nice start. Ready to head to chow?”
“Nah, Miguel, you go ahead. I’m going to sit here for a while and take this in.”
50
5:57 P.M., OCTOBER 28
BLACKJACK SECTION, FIGHTING SQUADRON VF-57
USS ABRAHAM LINCOLN
THIRTY MILES FROM THE EGYPTIAN COAST
Catapult three fired. Propelled by its powerful blast, an F/A-18E hurtled down the runway. It leaped from the Lincoln’s deck and took to the rippling skies. A second Hornet soon followed. The lethal fighters headed southwe
st toward the Libyan-Egyptian border.
Bradley Mitchell was feeling better than he had in some time. And his confidence was growing.
Even so, his family problems continued to spread. Brooke had been unrelenting. But his missions had been both frequent and challenging. They’d been more than sufficient to keep his quick mind occupied for ample segments of the day. As he soared into the heavens, he was determined to keep his wife from reentering his cockpit.
The present assignment was both demanding and critical. They’d be providing close-in support to a handful of embattled Marines. The besieged Americans were holding a crucial oasis from the onslaught of Mourad’s burgeoning reinforcements. More and more, all three carriers’ Hornets were being called upon to support those holding Egypt’s western border. This was going to be Blackjack Section’s first mission to assist their countrymen in fending off the Mahdi’s swelling ranks. With every mile of harsh sands, from deep within Algeria to the Egyptian border, covered with the Chosen One’s reserves, it wouldn’t be their last. In the days to come, they’d return on incalculable occasions to dissuade and destroy.
The Allies understood the implications of Mourad’s orders. Seven million fresh faces on the battlefield would forever change the conduct of the war. If his multitudes reached the Nile, events would turn decisively in the Pan-Arabs’ favor.
Five million reinforcements were traveling east from Algeria, Tunisia, and Libya. More were headed north from the Sudan. At the moment, the Americans could do little to stop the two million journeying along the Nile. Egypt’s southern border was wide open. There were no Allied forces between the Sudanese border and Cairo. The area was firmly within Mourad’s grasp. And with the existing situation, no combat units were available to place in their path. With the relatively short range of the American naval aircraft, there was no way to defeat the northerly-flowing masses.
How the Americans would respond to the Sudanese would depend upon events in Saudi Arabia. If tomorrow’s attack went as planned, the 4th Infantry and 10th Mountain would be freed for combat in Egypt. The ships carrying both would rush from the Persian Gulf to ports on the Red Sea. There they’d unload their armored vehicles and men. They’d make a hurried trip across the Sinai. Five days from now they’d reach the Nile one hundred miles south of Cairo. Their appearance would trap the majority before they could reach the battlefield. From that moment on, not one would prevail in his quest to reach Giza. The 10th Mountain would push south toward the Sudan, intent on securing southern Egypt.
The 4th Infantry would help stabilize the defensive lines against the Sudanese. After that they’d rush up the western bank of the Nile toward Giza. When their M-1s and Bradleys were in place, they’d unleash a furious attack upon the Pan-Arabs. Their compelling action would create an additional front against Mourad’s partisans.
That was the American plan. If, however, the 4th Infantry and 10th Mountain had to be committed to the battle in Saudi Arabia, significant changes would be undertaken. The carriers would be forced to handle both the western and southern advances. When the Sudanese were within range, the fleet would send its Hornets to slaughter the approaching reserves.
For now, the Americans would concentrate on the five million coming from the west. After two days on the Sahara, many of the Chosen One’s followers were drawing near.
The Allies were confident they’d prevail even if a million additional Pan-Arabs reached Giza. Any more would likely tip the scales. They had to stop the human tsunami before it overwhelmed them. Their objective was to allow no more than insignificant handfuls to arrive at the front lines. With such an ambitious goal, the twelve thousand Marines dug in at the Libyan border were spread perilously thin.
So far, the attacks of the oncoming multitudes had been ineffectual. With little effort, most had been defeated. How much longer things would remain this way was anybody’s guess. By the hour, the situation was becoming more arduous for the sparse fire teams. The assaults were growing far more frequent and much more intense. Mourad’s incessant supporters were appearing at an alarming rate. Scattered groups of defenders were beginning to feel the impact of the Mahdi’s fiercely determined disciples.
In the past day, thousands of those the Chosen One had called forward had reached paradise at the ends of the smoking American guns. The body counts were rising in front of the Marines’ bunkers—men and women, the young and the not so young, their shattered remains were there for all to see. Immense numbers also were perishing without coming near the border. The cruel wastelands were consuming them by the tens of thousands. Grotesque deaths at the end of chattering rifles, or at the unflinching desert’s hand, would continue to soar with each coming sunset. Yet such results didn’t deter the Mahdi’s dutiful servants. No matter what had befallen those who’d arrived before them, seven million were fixated upon a single aim. They’d reach Cairo and seal the heathens’ fates. Islam’s world rule was poised to begin, and Allah had decreed they’d play a crucial role in that wondrous event. Their desire to be part of the great religion’s triumph knew no bounds. Those on the monumental pilgrimage weren’t going to be denied.
As General el-Saeed had predicted, at the first sign of mobilization, carrier-bound aircraft destroyed North Africa’s scattered roads. With no other choice, the struggling reinforcements were crossing the endless plains any way they could.
Thousands were struggling across the unrelenting sands in long caravans of sputtering automobiles. Multitudes were crammed into the rear of dilapidated trucks. Some had appeared alone. Many had come in ancient buses. A few had reached the border on the backs of protesting camels. Still more had shown up on foot. No matter how they’d gotten there, the Chosen One’s devotees had been staunchly determined. Seven million tortured journeys wouldn’t end until they reached the pyramids and joined in the momentous fight, or died in the attempt.
Seventy percent were without weapons. Of these, the small numbers successful in breaching the Marines’ lines had done exactly what Mourad had told Lauren Wells they would do. They’d scavenged the bloody fields, taking rifles and ammunition from the stilled hands of their vanquished countrymen. With those lethal arms, they were heading for Giza to join the assault upon the great city.
The fevered dreams of long-awaited conquest drove them all.
51
6:10 P.M., OCTOBER 28
BLACKJACK SECTION, FIGHTING SQUADRON VF-57
USS ABRAHAM LINCOLN
NEAR THE LIBYAN-EGYPTIAN BORDER
The North African coastline appeared. Blackjack Section left the dazzling waters of the Mediterranean behind. Six miles below, a colorless world settled beneath their wings.
Mitchell spoke into his headset. “Echo Control, this is Blackjack Section, we’re crossing into Egypt thirty miles from the Libyan border. Where do you want us?”
“Blackjack, we’ve got an outpost that’s catching hell. It’s at a tiny oasis eighty miles southwest of you. You can’t miss it; it’s the only place with palm trees for as far as anyone can see. There are two fire teams along with their squad leader trying to hold off a huge assault. It’s critical we keep its waters away from Mourad’s hordes, so withdrawing our guys isn’t an option. Many of the attackers have weapons. We’ve one dead and a couple of badly wounded. They’re about to be overrun. Cobras have been dispatched, but they’re twenty-five minutes out. M-1s are also on the way. Even so, the Abrams won’t reach the spot until well after dark. We need you to go in and eliminate as many of the fanatics as you can. You’ve got to take the pressure off the Marines until further help arrives.”
“Roger, Echo Control.”
“Be aware. Although it’s quiet at the moment, MiGs have been extremely active this afternoon. F/A-18Fs have shot down over a dozen in the past two hours. They’ll do their best to keep them as far from you as possible. But stay alert for enemy fighters.”
“Understood.”
“Things are
really tight at the oasis. You’re going to have to be exceptionally precise. There’s almost no separation between our fire teams and the attackers. The minute you appear, the defenders will pop smoke and head for cover. You handle it from there.”
“Roger. We’re on the way. We’ve every intention of taking the enemy out so near our guys none of the Marines will need to shave for at least a couple of days. Tell them to keep their heads down until we arrive. ETA’s less than five.”
“Roger, Blackjack. We’ll pass the word.”
The Hornets raced south. From their position both pilots could see for incredible distances. And what they glimpsed was truly astonishing. Upon the featureless ground, millions were moving in a single direction. Toward the descending sun, the scene unfolding on the desert floor was beyond description. Pan-Arab reinforcements stretched to the horizon, and for hundreds of miles beyond. From one end to the other, the somber wastelands were covered with vehicles of every sort, size, and description. Some were traveling swiftly, some at moderate speed. Others were moving not at all. Scattered among the endless vehicles were countless forms who’d experienced a breakdown or run out of gas. Those who’d suffered such a fate were undeterred. By the thousands, they were abandoning their transports and walking across the scorched landscape toward the Egyptian border.
There was little rhyme or rhythm to the muddled migration. Mourad’s fragmented forces were making their way across the trackless world any way they could.
“Jesus, Blackjack,” Worm said, “get a load of the stuff to our right. I couldn’t add up all the people down there if you gave me five years. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Nobody has, Worm. Just shows the Chosen One’s power. He snaps his fingers and they blindly follow. They’re here to do his bidding, no matter how hopeless the attempt becomes.”
* * *
