“It will be done,” the three said in unison.
* * *
—
Lauren Wells sat in a quiet corner of the antechamber attempting to be as unobtrusive as possible. She looked up as Muhammad Mourad appeared, giving him a huge smile. He attempted a meek one in return, but didn’t make a sound as he passed through the room.
Through the Grand Gallery and into the narrow tunnel beyond he went. It wasn’t long before he reached the opening in the pyramid’s northern face. A dying November sun rested upon the western horizon. He started toward ground level.
Once there, he turned to survey the world around him. The sounds of battle reached out for him. There could be no mistaking the threat closing in from each of three sides. Yet nothing saddened him as much as the view to the west. There, on the open desert, hundreds of thousands were walking away.
Dusk was nearly here. The time had come to surround himself in his mother’s warming memory. He started toward the disappearing sunlight, walking on the far side of the decaying wall along the northern edge of the western cemetery. Behind him two of his bodyguards kept their distance.
It was 6:47 p.m.
72
6:48 P.M., NOVEMBER 6
THE GREAT PYRAMID COMPLEX
THE GIZA PLATEAU
An initial burst of ground fire ripped through the dying day. Others soon followed. It was nothing more than scattered rifle volleys from the Pan-Arabs’ outermost sentries. As the Marines drew closer, additional assault rifles burst forth. Lengthy lines of searching tracers soared skyward. Silhouetted by the fading sunlight, their dazzling display danced on the harsh winds. The belly gunners’ Gatlings responded in kind.
Despite their surprise at the precipitous attack, on the plateau the Pan-Arabs instantly responded. Across the wide hilltop, Stingers appeared on a dozen shoulders. The air defenders fought to acquire the onrushing infidels in their sights. They pleaded for the firing tone to sound.
Hugging the frail earth, the surging American formation split into fourths. Each headed for its designated landing zone upon the historic mesa. Three of the onrushing craft continued forward, aiming for the northern edge. The foremost Osprey, carrying Erickson and his men, skimmed across the incensed desert toward the Great Pyramid. They were almost there. In seconds, they’d deposit the remnants of the beset battalion upon every side of the Giza Plateau’s sands.
The two mujahideen protecting the Mahdi saw the Americans coming. The threat was unmistakable. Near the hoary wall northwest of Khufu’s colossal shrine, the bodyguards trailing the Chosen One rushed forward and dragged him from harm’s way. They threw their leader into a weatherworn depression in the venerable barrier and stood over him. Both began firing their weapons at the oncoming aggressors. Three meters from their position, a pair of Stinger gunners took aim. The high-pitched tones went off at nearly the same instant, screaming in their ears. They’d each locked on to one of the invaders. Without hesitation, both fired.
The little killers leaped from the air defenders’ shoulders and raced skyward. There was hardly any distance between hunter and prey. Those in the advancing Ospreys never had a chance. There was nothing the condemned pilots could do to avoid the inevitable. Their destiny was sealed the instant the slender assassins were launched. In a fleeting moment, the lives of everyone on board both would reach their end.
The deadly missiles were soon upon them. The aircraft on each side of the leading one erupted. Flaming pieces of the smashed craft poured from a fiery sky.
In an instant, the battalion staff and Bravo Company commander were gone. The conflict’s leadership, along with two-thirds of the force assigned to attack the northern perimeter, had disappeared. A sole invader carrying fourteen riflemen was all that remained.
Erickson and the belly gunner had spotted the Stingers the instant they were launched. Each had seen the malicious shadows streaking across the lengthening landscape. The battle-scarred lieutenant stared in disbelieving silence as the missiles reached out for their blighted objectives. Two simultaneous explosions rocked the world around them.
With the abhorrent sounds still echoing, the stunned gunner pivoted his camera to the left and right to verify what they already knew. On each side of them, their speeding brothers had disappeared. “They’re gone, sir. We’re all that’s left,” the gunner said.
It took little more than an instant for Erickson to realize the horrible truth. He was the sole officer remaining. Whether he wanted it or not, he was now in charge of the attack on the northern face. Yet his hush didn’t last long. As the defeated Ospreys’ wreckage fell upon the unforgiving sands Erickson instantly responded.
“Did you see where the Stingers came from?” he asked the belly gunner.
“Yes, sir. Both were fired from the area near that crumbling wall on the west side of the pyramid. I can see the guys who launched them on my screen. Not too far from them, there are also a couple of figures in bright robes firing assault rifles.”
“As long as the Stinger gunners are there, they’re a threat. Take them out before they rearm and get off another shot. Nail the other two guys while you’re at it.”
Without another word, the belly gunner aimed his Gatling toward the meager wall. He opened fire, sweeping the soft limestone. He hurled burst after burst toward the four figures.
Both Stinger gunners had bent over to pick up a replacement missile. Each went down beneath the Osprey’s frenetic attack. A few tortured breaths were all either could muster before their end arrived. The danger posed by the air defenders had been eliminated. They’d have no opportunity to reload their tubes and let loose another slayer. But the belly gunner wasn’t finished.
A first of the mujahideen followed the slaughtered soldiers into the next existence. The devoted bodyguard had taken half a dozen shells in the center of his chest. He was dead before his shattered body fell in front of Muhammad Mourad. All around the Mahdi, bullets smashed into the decomposing wall. The surviving bodyguard continued firing at the rapidly approaching helicopter.
Even so, his flailing rifle was no match for the Osprey’s daunting gun. A second mortally wounded escort dropped at the Chosen One’s feet. His silken dress was flowing red. His death rattle was the final sound he’d ever make.
The gunner mome
ntarily stopped. He scanned the area, looking for another threat to his craft’s survival. Yet none appeared. The immense danger emanating from the outcropping had been eliminated. He turned his focus elsewhere.
Hidden behind his bodyguards’ tattered bodies, Mourad remained concealed in a crumbling crevice west of the Americans. Once more, he’d survived a brush with death.
The Osprey was nearing the hilltop’s northern face. The pilots queried their crewmen.
“Pilots want to know if you wish to abort the mission, sir,” the belly gunner said.
“Negative. Nothing’s changed. Get us onto that plateau.”
“But there’s only fourteen of you. With what I see gathering in front of the pyramid, you won’t have a chance,” the belly gunner responded.
“Doesn’t matter. The mission’s too critical. Tell the pilots to put her down.”
The platoon leader looked at the screen. In significant numbers, the mujahideen were gathering in front of the harsh monolith. With each moment, more running figures were arriving.
The belly gunner relayed Erickson’s message. He turned to the lieutenant once again. “I’ll do what I can to pin them down, sir. But with as low as we are and my gun’s positioning, once we descend farther I won’t be able to do so any longer.” He fired a lengthy burst toward the pyramid.
* * *
—
At ten thousand feet, Blackjack Section roared over the mesa.
Mitchell headed for the center of the ancient burial ground. Sweeney was tight to his wing.
The target, its many antennas reaching skyward, was unmistakable.
Blackjack lined up his run. At precisely the right moment, he released a radar-guided bomb. Worm did the same. Whistling death plunged toward the remorseless planet. Neither pilot wavered. Each stayed with the quarry until their munitions arrived at the impact point. The communication center was struck by the plummeting armaments. The complex’s metal framework and sophisticated electronics were torn into a million shattered pieces. When the F/A-18Es were through, little more than a smoldering pile remained. A dozen soldiers had been working within its structure. None had survived. The Pan-Arabs’ ability to call for help was gone. The Hornets sped off a short distance.