by Walt Gragg
The large King Stallion transport helicopters appeared in the hazy sky behind them.
“All right, Sam, resupply’s here. Halt your platoon and let’s get set for the attack.”
“Yes, sir. Platoon Sergeant, stop the men and send out scouts to defend the perimeter. It’s time to get serious.”
* * *
—
The lead elements crested the final rise. The swarming desert unfolded in front of them. Two Pan-Arab divisions, nearly fourteen hundred armored vehicles and thirty thousand men, were waiting.
The reconnaissance drones had been right. Mourad’s armor was heavily dug in, attempting to hide their weaknesses and equalize their chances against the more mobile Challengers. Their defensive strategy was sound. With only their turrets rising above the sands, the waiting tanks and personnel carriers were going to make for difficult targets.
Erickson looked to his left. The platoon leader watched as a dozen Hinds rose from the Nile’s bountiful grasses and headed toward the battlefield.
The Allied forces spread out along the small rise. Three miles away, the enemy’s positions began. The time for the first of the great clashes to determine the outcome of the war had appeared. The cruel vista would soon run deep in the blood of vanquished and victor alike. When the carnage would end was anybody’s guess.
Armageddon was upon them.
The Allies were outnumbered in armored vehicles forty to one. And in men by nearly one hundred to one. But with stout reinforcements approaching and their significant air superiority, they were a heavy favorite to prevail.
Erickson turned to see the menacing Cobras approaching. When the Hinds arrived, they’d find the ruinous Marine helicopters waiting with fangs bared. A first set of Hornets appeared above the battleground. Staying above the three-mile limit of the Pan-Arabs’ older Stinger missiles, they lined up their spirit-rendering runs. It didn’t take long for the pilots to identify inviting targets. The leading fighter dropped a long string of five-hundred-pound bombs toward the waiting T-72s.
The second Hornet soon followed. The death-filled loads dropped toward their fanatical foe. A section in the center of the Pan-Arab defenses erupted in thunderous sound. For thousands, their austere death’s discordant lyric was poised to begin.
A dozen Pan-Arab tanks responded with a volley from their T-72s’ mammoth cannons. The huge shells screamed toward the surging Marines. Scores of artillery soon joined in.
The battle was joined.
53
3:22 P.M., OCTOBER 29
ODA 6333, CHARLIE COMPANY, 3RD BATTALION, 6TH SPECIAL FORCES GROUP (AIRBORNE)
IN THE WINE CELLAR, THE HOTEL LOURAINE
CAIRO
Next to him, Sanders felt Reena stir. He relit the candle. For two days, he’d lain in the basement with heaven in his arms. Since she’d come to his side of the cellar, she’d seldom left his sheltering embrace. Her strength was much improved. Her wounds were healing nicely. She could get up without assistance. And could walk across the room with comparative ease. She appeared immeasurably more comfortable with her situation. For someone who hadn’t eaten in almost a week, the boyish sergeant couldn’t have been happier. He’d gotten his wish. Despite the obstacles standing in the way of his wildest fantasies, the woman he wished to spend his life with had come around.
She opened her dark eyes.
“Reena, after two days without food I’ll bet you’re real hungry. Probably hungry enough for me to start catching the dinner waiting in the kitchen. In four hours it’ll be dark. Then I’ll sneak up these stairs and get us something to eat. Even uncooked rat meat sounds real good right now.”
She looked at him, unable to understand a word he was saying. Even so, her eyes said it all. There was something magical in those dark eyes of hers. Her look showed a sincere appreciation on her behalf. He recognized Reena’s expression couldn’t be called love. Not yet anyway. Her stunning eyes, however, were filled with affection. And for now, he was willing to settle for that. He was certain the rest would come. As far as he was concerned, food or no food, these wonderful days could go on forever.
He held her tight. She snuggled even closer.
“We’re about out of candles, Reena. So we’d better not waste any more of this one.”
Sanders blew it out. The darkness returned to swallow them.
An hour passed. Another ticked by. She fell asleep once again. The artful Green Beret continued planning his attack to catch tonight’s dinner. There was nothing else to do but wait for evening to arrive. Boredom overcame him. His head slowly drooped. Despite his best efforts, his tired eyes closed. He was soon deep within his wayward dreams.
He’d never be certain how long he’d been unconscious before it happened. It could have been as little as a handful of minutes or as long as sixty. Yet suddenly the idyllic afternoon’s peace was shattered. He awoke with a start. Reena had roused a brief moment earlier. Above him, he could hear the squealing rodents scampering in every direction. For the moment, his muddled mind couldn’t comprehend why.
The answer soon came. Without warning, there were footsteps. Muffled voices accompanied the telling sounds. There were people overhead. But the conversation was much too suppressed for Sanders to determine what was being said or how many were present.
Reena hesitated, trying to decide what to do. Her hatred for the American had greatly lessened in the past days. Because of his kindness, she’d actually begun to care for him. Nevertheless, at her core she was still a Pan-Arab soldier, and the infidel next to her remained a sworn enemy. It was her responsibility to her God, and to the Mahdi, that came before all else. And her august duty called for her to alert those above of the rival soldier’s presence.
She pulled away, leaping to her feet. The girl yelled something in Arabic.
“Reena, don’t!”
He attempted to grab her leg. In the absolute darkness his aim was off ever so slightly. She broke free and ran toward the stairs. As she did she screamed again, long and loud. If she continued, there was no way those in the kitchen wouldn’t hear her.
Sanders scrambled to his feet. He hurried toward the sound of her plaintive voice. “Reena, stop,” he whispered.
She shouted something in Arabic once more. He blindly swung a powerful arm, knocking her to the floor. He leaped upon her, desperate to keep her from calling out. She struggled beneath him, striving to set herself free. While she fought, she continued to shriek. Sanders placed his hand over her mouth. She bit him as violently as she could. He instinctively pulled back. He could feel the warm, sticky liquid oozing from the nasty wound she’d opened beneath his thumb. The frantic girl furiously kicked and punched her captor. This time, she wasn’t going to be denied.
“Reena, stop!” he whispered again. “You’re going to give us away.”
She screamed over and over. She wouldn’t relent until those above came to kill the interloper and rescue her from this prison.
Sanders’s survival was on the line. He knew he had to silence her. Without realizing he’d done so, he instinctively felt for his knife. The lethal weapon was soon in his hand. She continued to strain against his actions.
“Reena, you’ve got to stop! Please, Reena, I’m begging you.”
She sensed the long knife inches from her throat. Still, that wasn’t going to keep her from completing her reverent task. She was going to alert her compatriots of the heathen’s presence or die trying. She raked her fingernails across his face, tearing chunks of flesh from beneath his left eye. A trail of red ran down his cheek. She cried out, an endless stream of indecipherable words escaping her mouth.
He couldn’t let her continue. It was his life or hers. He was out of options. Without conscious thought, he slit her throat.
Reena’s screams stopped in mid-sentence. Her head slumped to the side, blood gushing from the wound. Sanders drew back. In stunned si
lence he knelt over her, unwilling to accept the despicable act she’d forced upon him. In one startling moment, his idyllic dreams were forever lost. Her life had ended. And he’d soon be joining her if he didn’t move quickly.
He raced over, scooped up his rifle, and ducked behind the wine rack farthest from the slender door. Covered in Reena’s blood, he crouched in the dirt, waiting and praying those above hadn’t heard her pleas.
The doorway opened. A flashlight’s seeking beam shined into the foul-smelling basement. Whoever was behind the shimmering glare was being extremely cautious. The light pierced the blackness, exploring the cramped room without placing its holder in a position where he’d be exposed to anyone within the space. The person at the top of the stairs knew what he was doing.
Sanders raised his rifle. He’d no idea how many there were, but he wouldn’t go down without a fight.
“I’m telling you, Sarge,” an American murmured, “this is the place. There’s a body lying on the floor. And I’m certain the yelling we heard was coming from here.”
Sanders knew that voice. It was one he would’ve recognized anywhere. “Porter? Is that you?” he called out.
“Charlie?” Porter said. “You down there, man?”
“Hell yes, I’m here.”
Porter turned to the figure standing behind him in the kitchen. “You’re not going to believe this, but it’s Sanders.”
Porter and Abernathy started down the short steps. At the bottom of the rotting stairs, they stepped over the lifeless girl.
“Man, Charlie, you’re one lucky son of a bitch,” Porter said. “All this time stuck in this hole and you’re still alive.”
“How’d you get down here?” Abernathy asked. “How the hell are you still breathing?”
“It’s a long story.”
“We figured they lopped your head off long ago,” Porter said.
“You know better than that,” Sanders answered. “Gonna take a whole lot more than a few million of Mourad’s crazies to take me down.”
“Same old Charlie,” Porter added. “Still thinking he’s invincible.”
“Hey, wait a minute,” Sanders said. “What are you two doing here? Did you get cut off behind enemy lines too?”
“What are you talking about?” Abernathy said. “We retook all of Cairo a while ago. You’re two miles inside your own defenses. Have been for the past four days.”
“Four days? I’ve been within my own lines for four days? How could that be? I don’t remember hearing any fighting around here.”
“There wasn’t much in this neighborhood. The minute the French tanks hit them, the Mahdi’s forces collapsed. By the time we got back into this part of the city, they were in full retreat. And they didn’t stop running until they were dead or had swum to the other side. Probably wasn’t a shot fired within a mile of this creepy old hotel.”
“French tanks? What French tanks? Hell, I’m so out of it I’ve no clue what’s going on. Either of you happen to have any food? I haven’t eaten in six days.”
Abernathy and Porter looked at each other. “Nope,” Porter said. “No food, but there’s plenty at the team’s base camp. There are five of us left in the detachment—us two, Captain Morrow, Master Sergeant Terry, and Staff Sergeant Donovan. With you, that’ll make six out of the original ten. Would you believe it, we’re back on Rhoda Island. British engineers rebuilt that little bridge you blew up between there and Old Cairo. Had to do it to get the Leclercs onto the island. We’re getting ready for the big counterattack everyone knows the Chosen One’s going to launch.”
“Don’t know how I feel about a counterattack, yet food, any kind of food, sounds great. But I still don’t understand one thing—what are you two doing here?”
“We came to the wonderful Hotel Louraine to see if there was any chance of finding your body,” Abernathy said.
“Or what was left of it,” Porter replied.
“We’ve been begging the captain to let us check around. Didn’t want you to be permanently listed as an MIA. Hate seeing what that does to someone’s family, waiting year after year for word that’s never going to come.”
“We knew your mother would want to bury you,” Porter said. “So we kept pushing Captain Morrow to give us permission to come looking. Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. So he allowed us to come back to make a quick search, upon the condition that after we failed to find your body, we’d never mention it again. Gave us an hour to check around and return to Rhoda Island.”
“A whole hour,” Sanders said. “God, I knew the captain really cared about me. Giving you guys one hour to travel this far and search for me. Could he have been more generous?”
Abernathy glanced at his watch. “Speaking of which, our time’s almost up and we’re still two miles from home. Sanders, are you hurt? Can you walk?”
“I’m fine. Very hungry and a bit weak, but I can make it, no sweat. Especially when there’s food waiting on the other end. Let’s get out of here. I can’t wait to see blue sky again and get some fresh air after what I’ve been through.”
“Then pick up your stuff and let’s go before it gets any later,” Abernathy said. “Otherwise, the captain’s going to hang our asses out to dry.”
Sanders reached down, gathering his gear and rucksack. The trio turned and headed toward the feeble stairs. Porter led the way, with Sanders trailing.
As he stepped over her, Porter looked at Reena lying in a pool of blood on the dirt floor.
“Hey, Charlie. Who was the girl?”
54
7:00 A.M., OCTOBER 30
4TH PLATOON, ALPHA TROOP, 1ST BATTALION, 5TH CAVALRY REGIMENT, 1ST HEAVY BRIGADE COMBAT
(IRONHORSE), 1ST CAVALRY DIVISION
NORTHERN SAUDI ARABIA
The Iranians had no idea three new American divisions had arrived. The descendants of the once-magnificent Persian Empire had gathered in the squalid desert twenty miles inside Saudi Arabia. Thirty-three divisions were ready to pounce. Half a million men and thousands of armored vehicles had come together for the overwhelming assault. They were supremely confident of victory. At sunrise, two days from now, they’d launch a brutal surprise attack against the Americans, intent on slaughtering the Great Satan’s spawn. Not one would be spared.
Yet, as they’d soon learn, the deadly surprise was going to belong to the Allies.
* * *
—
Seven a.m. Normally the fighter aircraft, attack helicopters, and artillery would have hit the enemy well in advance of the main assault, softening him up for the dagger thrust to the heart in the form of crushing American ground forces. But the Allies didn’t want to tip their hand. So they waited until the last possible instant to strike. With the monumental day’s first light shining down upon them, a dozen 1st Cavalry Apaches slammed into the thin Iraqi lines holding the left flank.
Hellfire and TOW missiles went forth to seek and destroy. An Iraqi T-72 burst into flames. A second soon followed.
The American attack had begun.
The tank-killing Apaches’ goal was to wreak havoc upon the Iraqis’ frontline armor. In the east, a similar foray by the 25th Infantry was intended to do the same. A handful of minutes after the Apaches’ assault, carrier-based F/A-18Fs swooped in from the Arabian Sea to hammer both flanks. The confused defenders attempted to answer back with their air defense missiles.
Phase two began. From their bases in Saudi Arabia, Air Force F-35s roared into the center of the Iranian lines to disrupt and confound the waiting divisions. Their primary targets were the communication systems and air defense radars. They performed scores of bomb runs throughout their stunned foe’s defenses. After an hour of intense raids, Iranian communications were no more. And the enemy’s radars were smoldering in the sands.
The Persians were blind. They’d no way of knowing what was coming.
* * *
—
Eight a.m. Explosions rocked the unmerciful Saudi desert as Super Hornets and Apaches continued to rip apart the Iraqi armor. It was obvious the F/A-18s and attacking helicopters were having their way. The time had come to let loose American armor.
Lead elements of the 1st Cavalry had hidden in the desert a scant eight miles from the lean Iraqi force. The command was given to move out. Darren Walton’s three Bradleys, accompanying a four-tank Abrams platoon, would show the way.
On Walton’s orders, the Bradleys headed north toward the Iraqi point elements. With their hatches open, Walton and Sanchez viewed the staid world. Both knew it wouldn’t be long before they reached their astonished opponent’s lines. Walton looked back. The platoon’s remaining Bradleys and the four M-1s were nipping at their heels. Behind them was a limitless line of armored vehicles.
The battle-hardened platoon sergeant was assuming the lead position for the entire division. His Bradley would be out front throughout the long day.
“Wally,” he said into the intercom, “it’ll be no problem finding the enemy—just follow the smoke from the burning T-72s. That’ll take you right to them.”
If they wanted to ensnare their gargantuan prey, they had to move fast.
* * *
—
Nine a.m. Breakout. The cavalry division smashed the meager Iraqi defenses and moved on. They rushed across the sands to close the trap on the Iranians. As they reached their assigned locations, the rear units began dropping from the endless formation. Each began setting up its defenses. An ever-tightening noose was being placed around their adversary’s neck.
“Okay, Wally, head north for another hour. That should put us a few miles from the Saudi-Iraqi border.”
The Bradley raced across the ponderous desert at thirty miles per hour. Fifteen minutes after piercing the faltering enemy, the platoon crested a high dune. As they did, they ran headlong into an Iraqi armored battalion racing toward the front.
