It took less than two minutes for Merker’s men to reach the rise and head down its far side. It felt significantly longer for those waiting near the angry tides. As Merker’s team disappeared, the time had come for the command element to move. Erickson came up from his crouch and headed inland. The others followed.
“Sergeant Ingram, when we reach the top, set up your machine gun in the middle of our defenses,” Erickson whispered.
“Will do, sir.”
“Corporal Smith, stick with me every second. I’ve got to have the radio where I can get to it without delay.”
“Just try to get away from me, sir,” the likable corporal from the tough streets of central Los Angeles said.
“Petty Officer Bright, stay by Gunny’s side so he can provide supporting fire should we have wounded needing attention,” Erickson directed the platoon’s corpsman.
“Yes, sir.”
It wasn’t long before Erickson and Fife were lying on the crest surveying the staid world around them. From their position they could see the three teams moving toward their objectives. Each had covered a quarter mile, halfway to their initial goal.
While the command group watched the trio’s progress, Hamilton Smith was on the radio with the invasion task force. He looked over at the lieutenant. “First wave of amtracs will launch in a few minutes, sir. Twelve M-1s are being loaded onto hovercraft as we speak. Tanks should be here within ten minutes of the amtracs.”
“Thanks, Corporal. Let them know that so far things are going as planned. No sign of anyone or anything near the beach.”
Without responding, Smith spoke into the radio once again.
The relentless minutes slowly passed as the cautious Americans reached the boundaries of their search areas. A half mile inland, Merker’s team set up a small defensive position directly in front of the center of the mile-wide landing zone. Laird and Charles finished their treks along the pounding waves and turned south, heading into the Sahara. Without incident, the torturous moments, one after the next, plodded on. Things couldn’t be proceeding any better. At least that’s how it appeared.
The situation, however, was about to change.
* * *
—
It was Laird’s scouts who first heard, and then moments later saw, the approaching enemy.
The Pan-Arabs were coming up a desert draw that until this moment had masked their presence from the recon team. There could be no mistaking what was headed their way. A significant force crammed in the rear of a lengthy line of battered pickup trucks was churning across the inhospitable sands. So far, the roving patrol had yet to spot the Marines. Even so, the struggling formation was moving directly toward them.
“Sir, we’ve got company!” Laird’s senior radio operator exclaimed.
“Where and how many?” Erickson replied.
“They’re less than a thousand yards away, coming up that big ravine south-by-southeast of us. Got to be at least a dozen small trucks, each carrying a number of men. Must be sixty of them, possibly more. Most are holding rifles, with some RPGs mixed in. Wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve also got a few machine guns and possibly a mortar team or two. What are your orders, sir?”
The threat was far too real. Unless the enemy changed course or the recon team took evasive action, there was no way the Pan-Arabs wouldn’t spot Laird’s men.
With so many in the approaching force, the lieutenant had little choice. “All three teams are to fall back on my location. We’ll consolidate our rifles and call for help. Is that understood? Avoid detection at any cost and fall back on my position immediately.”
After each team leader gave an affirmative response, Erickson turned to Hamilton Smith. “Tell Joyce and Davies to launch without delay.”
As the teams scurried toward the rise, the combat-experienced Erickson began plotting the potential engagement. He would use the two things the Americans had going for them—the black of night and the element of surprise—to his advantage. Before they could respond, he would hit the oncoming intruders with everything he had.
The platoon’s members soon arrived. Erickson turned toward Laird. “How far away is the enemy patrol?”
“Six hundred yards or so, sir. They should be leaving the gully soon and heading onto the open desert. As we watched their movements, they didn’t seem to be in a hurry. The trucks appeared to be going less than ten miles an hour as they pushed through the deep sands.”
“Were there any indications they’d spotted you?”
“No, sir, we were extremely careful to make sure that didn’t happen.”
“Good. With as slow as they’re moving, we’ve ample time to set up a nice little trap. Given the time of night and the fact they’re so far behind their own lines, the chances of them being prepared for what’s about to hit them are pretty slim. With any luck they won’t even realize we’re here until they’re right on top of us. By then it will be too late.”
* * *
—
Still unaware, the quarry came on. Erickson had been correct in his assessment. After far too many nights patrolling the same tired stretch without the slightest incident, the approaching force had become lackadaisical and more than a bit bored. Little did they know what awaited.
The ambush was set. The motionless Marines lay in a straight line facing southeast with the machine gun in the middle and the three Americans with grenade launchers attached to their M-16s dispersed throughout the force.
“Don’t fire until I give the command,” Erickson ordered. “Best thing that could happen would be for them to pass without ever realizing we’re here.”
But luck wasn’t with the hidden Marines. The roving patrol was headed straight for the furtive onslaught. Relentlessly, the ill-prepared prey came on, drawing closer and closer to the deadly trap. Barely one hundred yards separated them from an all-consuming tempest. The stilled Marines, hiding in the darkness, selected their targets from among the approaching line. The apathetic Pan-Arabs were about to pay dearly for their mistake.
“Open fire!” Erickson screamed.
In less than an instant, machine-gun bullets, accompanied by nineteen spitting rifles, ripped through the foreboding night. Lines of vivid tracers roared toward their ill-destined foe. Almost as one, all three grenade launchers fired. In seconds, a trio of lethal explosions tore through the black void. Each swiftly reloaded the tubes on the front of their rifles and launched a second grenade. The platoon of highly skilled marksmen brought a raging firestorm down around their overwhelmed opponents’ heads. In a handful of seconds, four crushed trucks were ablaze. Five . . . ten . . . fifteen souls were gone without ever realizing what had hit them. More would soon follow. The horrific screams of the wounded and dying filled a dispassionate world.
Unprepared and confused, the floundering patrol’s response was slow and disjointed. Erickson’s platoon didn’t hesitate, hitting the stricken ones with everything they had. Those in the front of the convoy had no chance. Before they could leap from the rear of the dilapidated trucks, they were devoured.
The staggering survivors turned their vehicles and ran toward the open sands. The Americans cut them down in great numbers. In the end only a single truck, its assailed engine releasing a steady stream of gray smoke, and a fortunate handful of soldiers would escape the malignant encounter.
It was over almost before it began. As the scant survivors disappeared, Erickson ordered his men to cease fire. He took a quick look around, quite satisfied with the result. More than fifty Libyans lay dead or dying. The scouts had survived nearly unharmed. Two wounded, neither seriously, was all they had suffered in the uneven struggle. The lieutenant understood, however, that with their foe now aware of their presence, they couldn’t let down their guard.
“Gunny, Joyce and Davies squads should be here in the next couple of minutes. Can you handle things here while I head back to the
beach to get them organized?”
“Absolutely, sir.”