by Walt Gragg
The roving marauders were starting to have an impact. So far they’d had limited success in protecting the engineers piecing together the transient bridges. Nonetheless, as the horrid day lengthened, those who’d beaten the immeasurable odds were beginning to turn the Allies away from attacking their cohorts working on the critical paths.
Under withering fire, the Chosen One’s builders continued spanning the Nile in hundreds of locations. So far, few of the floating causeways had survived for long. The desperate defenders had seen to that. Only handfuls of T-72s had reached Cairo’s streets. And the Leclercs, along with the 82nd Airborne’s Javelins and TOWs, had dispatched most who’d breached the river.
Sanders had been extremely busy. For the first time, Reena had left him. If he wished to see tomorrow there’d be no time on this day to mourn. The lethal gunfire had been profound, but the adept demolitions expert had destroyed a handful of bridges before the tanks attempting to use them reached Rhoda Island. Still, for each span lost, another appeared through the battle’s thickening curtain.
Another floating form had touched the island’s soil. The Green Berets had to stop its construction before the Pan-Arabs gained a foothold and the armor started across. They’d five minutes, no more, to destroy the structure.
“Okay, Sanders, let’s go,” Abernathy said. The three of them leaped to their feet. In a well-practiced crouch, they ran toward the river.
Behind them, a British armored personnel carrier provided covering fire. Shooting their weapons as they went, Abernathy, Porter, and Sanders scrambled across the island’s lurid landscape toward the nearly completed causeway. Four of the Mahdi’s engineers were feverishly working on connecting the final piece. Porter eliminated them with two lightning bursts from his M-4. The mortally wounded Arabs tumbled from the modest bridge. Facedown, their motionless bodies floated upon the horrifying currents, slowly drifting toward the inviting sea. They’d soon join the countless souls already there.
Abernathy and Porter took up defensive positions, using the unfinished bridge for protection. While his partners fired at the western bank, Sanders reached into his rucksack and withdrew the explosive charge. Enemy fire was intense. The striking bullets came from every direction. Scores ricocheted off the bobbing bridge. They stung the ground around him. The demolition expert attached the explosives. The job, by necessity, was hurried. There’d be no need to perform the precise work of which the talented sergeant was so proud. All that was required was to destroy the floating structure to the extent its twisted pieces would be of no further use.
The explosives were ready. He motioned for Porter and Abernathy to head for cover. The moment they were clear, he set the timer and raced away. The scurrying team ran for safe ground. Fifty yards from the soiled water’s edge, they dove behind a pair of mangled automobiles. As they did, and the explosives went off, destroying the causeway, they tumbled onto two terrified Pan-Arab soldiers hiding within the wreckage.
The deft Americans instantly reacted to the unexpected encounter. Porter pointed his M-4 at the enemy, ready to pull the trigger without a second thought. Abernathy kicked their rifles away. They looked at the cowering Tunisians. Both were in their teens. The younger couldn’t have been more than fifteen, with the other three or four years older. Each was frightened beyond comprehension.
“Well, look at what we’ve got here,” a grinning Abernathy said.
Sanders stared at the cringing twosome. He was in no mood to do anything but exact revenge for what had occurred throughout the past two weeks. There was disgust in his words. “Pull the goddamn trigger already and get it over with.”
“Negative,” Abernathy said. “If you’d have paid attention during the ops briefing, you’d know we’re under orders to get our hands on a few prisoners.”
* * *
—
Captain Morrow was quite pleased when Abernathy presented the detainees.
Each of the detachment commanders had been directed to capture and interrogate any prisoners they could find. The purpose of the interrogation was twofold—to determine the precise details of the attack, and to see if they could locate Mourad’s hiding place.
They dragged the pathetic pair into the hole where the Green Berets had waited during the artillery bombardment. Both Morrow and Terry had received months of intense language training and were fluent in Arabic. Nevertheless, they suspected the process would go better if conducted by someone who’d recognize the nuances and inconsistencies in the teenagers’ words. The Alpha 6333 leader sent his senior sergeant to locate an Egyptian company commander to act as translator.
“What do you want us to do, sir?” Abernathy asked.
“I’ve got orders to get whatever information I can from whoever we get our hands on. But we’ve got to continue knocking out those bridges or we’re going to be in deep trouble. I can handle these two until Master Sergeant Terry returns. The rest of you head back to the Nile. Abernathy, you go with Donovan. Porter, stay with Sanders.”
* * *
—
Terry arrived with an Egyptian captain.
Special Forces officers spent long hours learning how to coax information out of reluctant prisoners. Their skills in judging what would get a captive to talk were well developed. Captain Lawrence Morrow was no exception. He stared at the twosome. He’d use some well-practiced interrogation techniques to see what he could obtain from the anxious teenagers. He held out cigarettes. Both shook their heads, refusing the infidel’s gesture. Morrow smiled.
He’d start with, “What’re your names?”
The Egyptian company commander translated his words. Neither Morrow, nor Terry, let on they understood what was being said.
Either too dismayed, or simply unwilling to talk, neither prisoner uttered a sound.
“Okay,” Morrow said to the Egyptian, “tell them we can make this easy or we can make this hard. It’s up to them.”
With the horrid battle raging, the process continued for forty-five minutes without success. The Pan-Arabs said little, and what they did say was of no use. Critical time was passing and Morrow was growing impatient.
After failing to get a response to yet another question, the Egyptian looked up and shrugged. “Looks like they either won’t tell us what’s going on, or they’re just so stupid they don’t know.”
“Shit,” the frustrated Morrow said, “tell the little bastards they’ve got one minute to make up their minds. If they don’t give us what we want, I’m going to slit their throats. And when I’m through, I’m going to find the Mahdi and slit his too.”
The Egyptian translated. It was clear from the teenagers’ reactions they were startled by his comments. Both looked into Morrow’s eyes. They could tell from the American’s expression he meant every word. He’d finally gotten to them. He was convinced his threat of imminent death had done the trick. Yet it wasn’t that portion of his statement that disturbed the pair.
The younger started talking. The Egyptian commander began translating the endless stream.
“You’re a fool,” the teenager said while looking at Morrow. There was defiance in the boy’s tone. “Your threats are worthless. No nonbeliever will ever harm the Chosen One. Such is impossible. It will never happen.”
“Shut up,” the older one urged.
Yet the fifteen-year-old, his bravado building, ignored his comrade. “Allah will not allow it. The Mahdi’s invincible. No harm will ever befall him. He’s beyond your reach. You could put your rifle to his chest and pull the trigger and nothing would happen. What makes you think you could end his life? You’ve already dropped a bomb that fell right on his head and he walked away without a scratch. Try all you might, but you’ll never succeed in killing the great man.”
“If such is true, I guess it won’t matter whether we know where he is or not,” Morrow said. The Egyptian interpreted.
“It’s true,” t
he boy said. “With Allah protecting him, who cares what you know?”
“And you want us to believe someone as insignificant as you knows his location?”
“Of course I do. Every Pan-Arab soldier knows where he is.”
“Then tell us, where’s Muhammad Mourad?”
A grin came to the teenager’s face. He’d prove to the disgusting infidel that even a lowly peasant had knowledge of where Allah’s holy messenger was. “Right under your noses. He’s not more than ten kilometers from here. He’s in the King’s Burial Chamber of the Great Pyramid of Khufu.”
Morrow stopped and looked at Terry. A smile came to both their faces. The Americans had found the Chosen One.
* * *
—
Sanders attached the explosive charges to yet another pontoon and ran for cover.
Forty-five seconds later, the floating bridge exploded. It collapsed into the riotous currents.
The day of reckoning droned on. With a long night nearing, and neither side gaining a significant advantage, the relentless attack continued.
With each fleeting hour, Mourad’s chances of winning were slipping away.
59
6:04 P.M., OCTOBER 31
PRESS CITY
ON THE BEACH
NORTHERN EGYPT
Like Sam Erickson, Lauren Wells had felt a growing confidence on the day the Marines departed to support the British tanks. Conquest was close at hand, of that she was certain. She’d surrounded herself in that positive glow as she watched Sam disappearing in the distance. She was unequivocal. They’d quickly be reunited to celebrate the Allied victory.
Yet within the hour, her resolve began to fade. With him gone, his handsome face little more than a memory, the first doubts appeared. She tried to shake those loathsome emotions, but they overcame her. She longed to touch the man she adored. She craved the comfort of his enveloping presence. She needed reassurance that things were going to turn out exactly as they’d planned. In painful silence as the hours passed, she’d stood on the dust-choked spot where she’d last seen him, clinging to his dwindling essence.
Throughout the sweltering afternoon she’d remained where she was, observing one unit after another head into the unyielding desert in support of the Challengers. As sunset approached, and the final elements of the second British armored division departed, she’d little choice but to return to Press City. As she walked between the rows of tents, she felt totally alone.
The moment Wells lifted the flap and saw the wondrous place where life’s love had found her, the day’s events rose to consume her. Teardrops trickled down her cheeks for well into the night. Her anguish flowed until she could cry no more. Having rested little in the past days, she lay down and was soon fast asleep. Shortly before dawn she awoke with a start and was forced back into the here and now.
In the days that followed, the agonizing time without him refused to pass. At first, she’d nothing to do but wait. And then the medevacs started arriving. In the beginning, they were only a trickle. Every few hours a handful of wounded would reach the beach. At unpredictable moments, the dead’s spectral images were solemnly unloaded and placed in body bags for the journey home. Wells met each arriving helicopter. Her heart in her throat, she searched the wounded’s bloody faces. She forced herself to examine the staid dead, hoping against hope not to find her love. And her pleas had been answered. Sam hadn’t been among them. Yet she understood the next flight could forever change that. Her life became an appalling routine of endless hours of boredom punctuated by stark panic at the sound of a nearing medevac.
At least that was the way her wayward reality had been until two days earlier. Quite unexpectedly, everything changed. In a matter of hours, the unmerciful arrivals exploded. The King Stallions’ and Ospreys’ appearances increased tenfold. So did Wells’s torment. She watched as one after another reached the beach, unloaded its human cargo, and took to the air to pluck additional casualties from the distant field. She’d seen the hospital tents fill to overflowing. She’d viewed the constant jaunts of the landing craft as they ferried the most difficult cases to the hospital ship anchored offshore. She’d witnessed the terrifying helicopters filled beyond capacity with American and British dead. And by the hour, her misery swelled.
No one in the press corps could coax a word out of the command element. Nevertheless, something of grave consequence was evolving in the distant deserts. Try as she might, she couldn’t get confirmation from any official source. Even so, there was no denying the truth. A battle of immense proportions was occurring somewhere between here and Cairo. A demanding conflict taking many lives. She found a handful of wounded Marines willing to tell their tale in exchange for a few minutes with a pretty face and comforting smile. They confirmed her worst fears. Sam’s battalion had been the first to enter the horrific fray. And casualties on both sides were severe.
The lethargic early days without him had been anguished. Yet she’d gladly have returned to those monotonous hours in exchange for what she now faced. Her heart stopped with every arriving medevac. The landings became so frequent she couldn’t keep up. Afraid to ask, and then afraid not to, she checked with the hospital incessantly. She roamed the beach like a specter, examining the remains of those who’d fallen. Sam, however, was nowhere to be found. In stark terror, a prayer poised on her lips, she’d gone over the rolls of American dead and wounded. She’d wondered if she’d ever again see her splendid lieutenant.
Wells was beside herself as the body bags mounted on the Mediterranean’s sands. With every quarter hour, more dead and wounded appeared. Day and night, dread filled her heart as the whirling blades neared.
She searched the tents of the swelling hospital complex in hopes of finding an answer to his whereabouts. Maybe, just maybe, she’d find someone who could tell her about Sam.
Her fruitless investigation dragged on for hours. Her inquiries entered a second frantic day.
And the exacting toll kept coming. It was nearing noon. Even though she hadn’t eaten in twenty hours, she never considered stopping her decided mission.
Wells slowly walked through one of the hospital’s many tents examining the wounded. Suddenly she stopped. One of the faces looked vaguely familiar. She hesitated in front of a small cot holding a badly injured Marine. His chest and stomach were covered in bandages. His left arm was in a sling. Tubes ran into his stomach and down his shattered arm. The anguished Marine looked at her and attempted a feeble smile.
“Haven’t I seen you before?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” the Marine, his pain evident, answered. “We spoke just over a week ago in this very tent.”
An all-consuming joy came to her face. “You’re one of Sam’s men, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m Brian Merker, one of Lieutenant Erickson’s squad leaders. Or at least I was until last night.”
“Looks like you’re badly hurt. If you don’t mind my asking, what happened to you? Where’s Sam’s platoon? I’ve got to know what’s going on. I’ve got to know everything.”
After her conversation with the struggling sergeant, Wells knew what she had to do.
The time for decisive action had come. She couldn’t take the waiting any longer. She had to see for herself what was occurring on the Sahara’s stained sands. She had to find Sam.
* * *
—
Once again, her request to leave the beach had been denied. For a moment, rage filled her, storming into her worried eyes. Her anger was soon replaced with overwhelming frustration. Despite everything she’d tried, she couldn’t find a way off the beach. She couldn’t figure out how to do her job. And she hadn’t discovered an approach that would allow her to reach Sam.
In her mind’s ever-expanding fog, she walked toward Press City. Darkness was about to fall.
Another dissolving sunset had arrived without her being allowed to re
port on the greatest story of the millennium. Another day had passed without her knowing Sam was okay. Head bowed, she moved down the beach.
That’s when, to her surprise, she found it.
The answer to her prayers had appeared. In disbelief, she stared at her salvation. Sitting twenty yards from the central mess tent was an unguarded Humvee. Its engine was idling. From where it had come and to whom it belonged, she hadn’t a clue. She looked around. There wasn’t a soul in sight. Obviously, a Marine had left the vehicle and hurried inside to grab some hot food for the men in his unit.
A smile came to her face. The solution had presented itself.
They could lock her away for a long time for what she was about to do. Yet she no longer cared. She jumped into the front seat and put the Humvee into gear.
* * *
—
The vehicle screeched to a stop in front of her tent. Wells left the engine running. She had to hurry if she was going to make her escape. She leaped out and raced inside. Grabbing anything and everything, she shoved articles of clothing into an oversize bag. She was soon back behind the wheel. One more stop and she’d be on her way.
The stolen Humvee pulled up in front of a tent farther down the lengthy row. The flap was open. She peered inside. To her relief, her cameraman was sitting there cleaning his equipment.
