—
Blackjack Section lined up their landings. Darkness was falling full upon the Middle East. It was going to be a busy night for every Hornet crew. During the black hours, Mitchell and Sweeney would make three additional incursions to assist scattered Marine positions. Using their cannons and cluster bombs, they’d continue to deliver the hapless reinforcements to the Chosen One’s magnificent next world.
The exhausted pilots wouldn’t find their beds until four in the morning. This time Mitchell was too tired to care how many e-mails his wife had sent. His family problems could wait.
Both were asleep within minutes of crawling into their bunks. By eight the next morning, after three short hours of sleep and a hurried breakfast, they’d be back in their cockpits.
It was going to be a hectic few days for the carrier-based aircraft. So far, the Super Hornet pilots had averaged four missions per day. In the coming week that number would nearly double.
Bradley Mitchell would have little time to worry about Brooke. In his busy cockpit he would be safe and secure from her intrusions.
52
9:18 A.M., OCTOBER 29
3RD PLATOON, BRAVO COMPANY, 2ND RECONNAISSANCE BATTALION, 2ND MARINE DIVISION
IN THE DESERT
SIXTY MILES NORTH OF CAIRO
They’d reached another minefield.
Erickson signaled for his haggard men to halt. Frustration was scrawled across the platoon leader’s face. It was the same dejected look every member of the battalion was wearing. Even the tireless James Fife’s resolve was starting to waver. For four days, they’d struggled toward Cairo. On the first, confident and cocky, they’d covered a significant distance. In the past three, however, they’d barely made five miles each day. They were sixty tough miles from their goal. And they were bogged down once more. To a man, they suspected it would be many sunrises before they’d see the towering pyramids rising in the distance.
Erickson looked at the men of his platoon. After four days of combat, their numbers had fallen by six. Four wounded and two dead were all his point unit had suffered. It was a remarkable number after so many hours in the line. Still, it reflected more than anything the Pan-Arabs’ unwillingness to slug it out with the Allies.
The Chosen One’s tactics were painfully apparent. Harass and delay in the north, consuming precious time while waiting to see if the suffocating seven million he’d called forward would arrive in great numbers. The satellites confirmed that with or without those elements, the Mahdi was preparing for a massive attack upon the city.
With another minefield in front of them, there was nothing the Allies could do but stop until the path had been cleared.
“Platoon Sergeant,” Erickson said, “have the men set up a defensive perimeter until the minesweepers arrive. Tell them to dig in.”
The entire platoon groaned. They’d received the same order a dozen times since leaving the beach. Stop and dig in. Another morning, another foxhole. Most were convinced they were going to end up digging their way to Cairo.
* * *
—
By midmorning, the latest crippling field had been cleared and they were once again on the move. With each tired step, they drew a few feet closer to the end of the war. The British battalion’s thirty-four surviving tanks continued to plod along. On their right, similar advances were being made by countless units. The Allies pressed on.
There’d been no significant battles in northern Egypt. Occasionally, somewhere along the stretching line, the Pan-Arabs would stand and briefly fight. Yet such contests had been rare and uneven. The Allies had brushed their opponent aside with a modicum of effort. To a man, however, the Marines recognized things couldn’t stay this way forever.
Sooner or later, the enemy would have to hold their ground. And when they did, the British Challengers, along with American airpower, would finally get a chance to finish things. Even with their halting progress, there was little doubt they’d emerge victorious. They were certain they’d crush the Mahdi’s forces. They knew on a yet-to-be-determined day they’d reach the streets of the historic city.
It was all a matter of time.
* * *
—
After breaching the minefield, they’d been heading south for nearly thirty minutes. Captain Richards hurried up to walk beside Erickson.
“How’s your platoon doing, Sam?”
“About as well as could be expected, sir. They’re definitely discouraged by the bastards’ unwillingness to take us on.”
“That’s what I came to tell you,” Richards said. “Your men won’t be disappointed for much longer.”
“How’s that, sir?”
“Appears Mourad’s finally decided to face us. Three miles ahead, just over the next rise, two divisions of armor are waiting. There are seven hundred T-72s, with an equal number of BMPs in support. Lots of air defense weapons, artillery, and mortars too. Word is they’re not playing around this time. This’ll be no hit-and-run raid by his pathetic followers. It’s going to be one hell of a fight. I guess once we got within a hundred kilometers, Mourad decided he’d no other choice. Scout drones took a good look around as they passed over the Pan-Arabs. The enemy’s heavily fortified his defensive positions. Our opponent isn’t going to retreat this time. There’s little doubt there will be significant suffering on both sides before this one’s over. Even with air superiority, it could take a day, possibly longer, to defeat the massive force in front of us.”
“Doesn’t matter, sir, because we will defeat them. Sooner we kill every last one of the sorry excuses, the sooner we get this over with.”
“And the sooner Sam Erickson gets back to a certain beautiful reporter we all know.” Richards smiled.
“I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t part of it, sir.”
“Can’t blame you, Sam. I’d be in a hurry too if Lauren Wells was waiting on the beach for me. We’re going to halt to get resupplied. Got a couple of King Stallions filled with Javelins, LAWs, and TOWs headed this way. The helicopters should be here any minute. As soon as they’re unloaded, the battalion commander’s issuing each of your guys all the LAWs they can carry. He wants them to go after the initial line of BMPs. That will allow the Cha
llengers to focus on the T-72s.”
“Yes, sir. Sergeant Fife and I will organize the fire teams. We’ll get the men set to concentrate our part of the attack on the personnel carriers.”
“Sam, you need to take the enemy out. Each of the BMPs is armed with Spandrel missiles. We’re reasonably certain the Challengers’ frontal armor will hold against a Spandrel attack. But we don’t want to test that theory any more than we have to. So eliminate as many as you can before they’re able to launch against the British.”
“Understood, sir. This platoon will do everything possible to keep the BMPs off them.”
“Over ten percent of Mourad’s remaining armor is waiting in the desert in front of us. That’s a significant chunk of what he has left. Command element’s convinced this is one of the key moments of the war. They’ve decided to concentrate everything we have on it. Two additional British battalions are within striking distance. They, and their Marine supporters, are headed this way. They should be here in under two hours. Twelve Hornets are in the air. All twenty-four F/A-18Es from the John F. Kennedy are being allocated to this one. The second twelve will launch the minute the first dozen complete their runs. The Lincoln released a handful of Super Hornets to handle any bandits the Mahdi might send this way. Division commander’s freeing up every remaining Cobra. That’s twenty-nine angry tank killers. We’re also launching a significant force of Reaper drones. So there’ll be lots of support for our attack. And in a couple of hours, another seventy Challengers will arrive to reinforce our positions. That should even the odds a bit. Even so, it could take quite a determined effort to finish off the enemy.”
Erickson took off his helmet and swiped his shirtsleeve across his face. “Sir, we’re sick of Mourad’s games. I don’t think my guys care if we have to fight until the end of time, just as long as we’re fighting. Because until those misguided fools stand and face us, we’re never going to finish this.”