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Terry and Donovan brought the firing tubes up to their shoulders. The first pair of charging tanks was in their crosshairs. To the right of the assailed bridge, Sanders looked at the A Team commander, desperately searching for the sign to flip the switch. Morrow watched as their endless adversaries continued their frenetic procession toward Rhoda Island.
The lead tanks raced toward them. Behind them, the chaotic mob on the roadway grew. A dozen tanks and thousands of Mourad’s adherents were on the expansive bridge and pressing forward. Still more were on the way.
Their numbers were so great, their desire for conquest or martyrdom so powerful, that untold multitudes were crammed shoulder to shoulder onto the entrance to the extended span. The fevered throng was so unyielding that those who lost their footing were being trampled to death by their persistent comrades. Scores more, unfortunate enough to find themselves in an M-60’s path, were being crushed beneath a fifty-ton tank’s steel treads.
The incited enemy came on.
“Shit,” Sanders said as he watched the perverse scene, “I’m not going to have to blow this bridge. Those idiots are going to cause it to collapse on its own.”
Yet the overburdened structure somehow held. And the determined frenzy was relentless. The steadily progressing leaders soon reached Terry’s apocalyptic firing line. It was now or never for the Americans. Wait any longer and the M-60s would be too close to kill with a Javelin. If their antitank missiles were going to activate in time, they had to unleash them now.
Terry fired his unmerciful ordnance. Donovan’s leaped from its tube. The nimble killers were a blur as they ripped across the brief distance. Rather than hitting the monsters head-on, the missiles were set for a top-down attack. Each would penetrate and destroy by striking the M-60’s thinner upper armor.
The roaring Javelins ran true. A pair of thunderous explosions rocked the besieged city. An immense fireball, stretching the width of the bridge, swept out from the burning wreckage.
The ravenous blaze swiftly consumed huge numbers of the Chosen One’s followers. Fiery figures could be seen staggering to the tormented structure’s edges and tumbling into the gathering waters.
Those behind the defeated tanks were trapped. A solid wall of fatal flames blocked any movement forward. And the resolute thousands behind eliminated any chance of going back.
Terry and Donovan raced for the protection of their own lines.
“Now!” Morrow screamed.
Sanders hit the detonator switch.
A surge of electricity rushed down the primer cord. The results of the all-powerful blast that followed were appallingly certain. Five hundred yards of defeated mortar and concrete, steel and flesh, were ripped apart. Huge pieces of defiled bridge and massive weapons of war sailed into the heavens. Limitless bodies, whole, dismembered, or in butchered pieces, flew in every direction. Many of the crucified forms soared so high it appeared they were literally reaching for the promised paradise they so desperately craved.
In less than a heartbeat, thousands died. Debris and dust, stone and metal, rained down in unforgiving torrents upon the American positions. The Green Berets frantically dove for cover in a hopeless attempt to protect themselves from the lethal fallout. A red-hot piece of searing metal, razor-sharp and malicious, found Donovan as he futilely searched for somewhere to hide. From his wrist to his elbow, the metal sliced open his forearm. Blood gushed from the gaping wound. The injured soldier screamed in agony.
The sensation of a great earthquake, the result of Sanders’s handiwork, shook the beleaguered capital. Behind the Green Berets, the fragile shells of dying buildings collapsed. They crashed to the ground in a mighty gale.
The imposing river crossing disappeared. Its pulverized remains tumbled into the mighty Nile. The innumerable carcasses of once-breathing souls joined the demolished edifice. The suddenly swirling waters eagerly accepted the lifeless human forms, allowing them to accompany it on its steadfast pilgrimage. Despite being extinct in the wide delta for at least a few centuries, the unspeakable carnage and rotting flesh brought the Nile’s crocodiles north once more. They’d soon grow fat and lazy on the immense banquet Sanders had provided. Yet even the voracious crocs couldn’t consume so great a bounty. For months afterward, bloated bodies would appear at regular intervals at the marshy entrances to the Mediterranean. Always on the lookout for an easy meal, great schools of circling sharks would form at the edges of the salt water to await the next feast.
Before the dust of the cataclysmic collapse had settled, another thunderous explosion, in the far north, rocked the struggling city. A second passageway over the Nile disappeared. And a few minutes later, a third bridge was torn apart. Throughout the morning, the Green Berets would hold, and then destroy, the stretching links separating Cairo from the vast suburbs of Giza, home of the Sphinx and Great Pyramid complex.
The obscene death and destruction Alpha 6333 wrought upon the world was beyond even their callused comprehension. Each reeling American stared in disbelieving silence at the sordid violence. On the other side of the broad river, Mourad’s wounded and dying struggled to their feet and wandered back toward the protection of the western suburbs. The Pan-Arabs’ unsated taste for blood and desire for a rapturous eternity had been tempered, at least momentarily, by Sanders’s mighty blow. Still it had in no way been destroyed. It would take most of the day for the Chosen One’s forces to reorganize and gather their courage for another attack. But they would be back.
The desolate detachment would have seven sorrowful hours to prepare for the next challenge. Few words were spoken for the length of the tense morning. At this point, dazed and disoriented, they took the time to gather their thoughts and prepare for whatever horrifying images lay ahead. With the first seriously wounded among them, each began to comprehend that from this moment on the continuation of their lives would be counted in precious seconds.
The team’s medics were some of the best on the planet at performing field surgery. Each Green Beret, anticipating wounded within their numbers, carried plasma in his rucksack. It wasn’t long before Donovan was stitched up and back on the line. He’d lost the use of his right arm, but at this point, half a Green Beret was still better than anyone the Mahdi could throw against them.
16
2:49 P.M., OCTOBER 18
ODA 6333, CHARLIE COMPANY, 3RD BATTALION, 6TH SPECIAL FORCES GROUP (AIRBORNE)
THE EL GIZA BRIDGE, RHODA ISLAND
CAIRO
There was nothing the detachment could do but wait to see what the Mahdi’s next move would be. Once the overwhelming enemy’s motives were clear, the small band would attempt to counter them. Throughout the long day, the most outgoing member of the team uttered not a single sound. Until well into the afternoon Sanders sat with his back to the withering slaughter, refusing to look in the direction of the demolished bridge.
From the first moment of planning for the war, Mourad had predicted the Egyptian army would destroy every boat in Cairo in an attempt to keep his troops from fording the Nile. The Chosen One had been right. The hundreds of water taxis, so popular with the tourists, and the thousands of small boats buzzing around the commanding river had been set ablaze days ago. Not one still navigated its historic waters.
With every bridge across the river demolished, and Cairo’s boats eliminated, it appeared the Allies had bought a hard-fought reprieve from the ferocious attacks. Their foe’s artillery would undoubtedly continue its fierce shelling of the city. His ground forces, however, seemed to be stuck on the western banks without an easy way to cross.
The Americans were certain they’d purchased at least twenty-four hours of precious time in their defense of the sprawling metropolis. They’d soon, however, be proven wrong.
Days earlier, the Chosen One had put his plan into motion to counter the Egyptian army’s anticipated actions. From deep within the Sudan and the farthest reaches of southern Egy
pt, his followers set sail in their feluccas. Traveling only at night to avoid detection, and hiding in the Nile’s lush grasses during the day, huge numbers had eased their way up the endless waterway. For quite some time, they’d lain in wait a few miles south of the city.
The insignificant sailing ships had made their homes on the Nile since before the days of Christ. Their simple design hadn’t changed since the times of the pharaohs. They’d carried supplies and people upon the river from time immemorial. Throughout the millennia, they’d been used to support a thousand desperate battles. On this day, they’d be called upon to assist in one more.
Detachment Alpha 6333, unsure of what would follow, sweated through the oppressive heat of midday. There was little to do but bide their time while hopelessly attempting to brush away the merciless attacks of biting flies. While the ten soldiers of the southernmost Special Forces unit scanned the western bank for signs of movement, Mourad’s edict went out. With every inch of their decks crammed with human cargo, the feluccas were launched.
They’d catch the Americans by surprise, or overwhelm them with sheer numbers. Either way, the result would be the same. By day’s end, his forces would control both sides of the wide flow. And they’d begin the final push to capture the sparkling city.
As always, Porter was the first to sense something was wrong. In the distance, the tips of billowing sails appeared on the shimmering waters. The small boats were too far away to determine what they were or who they carried. Porter watched the endless masts approaching. Their numbers were increasing by the minute.
“Captain, I think you’d better get over here. There’s something kind of strange going on.”
Morrow and Terry rushed to his position. Both stood watching the odd activity as it drew nearer.
