The Long November, page 21
“Roger,” was Erickson’s response. “Any indication of what they’re up to?”
“No, sir. Way too early to know what the bastards have in mind. Could be nothing more than a show of force intended to remind us what tomorrow will bring. Or it could be the initial stages of the biggest attack we’ve seen.”
“Just spotted the same thing over here, sir,” Sergeant Michaels said. “Forces gathering in the south and moving toward us. They’re a long way off, but it looks like they mean business.”
“XO, what’s happening in the east?” Erickson asked.
“Not certain yet, sir,” Tomlin replied, “but something’s not right. There’s definitely activity. Nothing’s started this way, but that could change at any moment.”
“Sir, Italians tell us they’re seeing lots of movement in the southwest,” Lieutenant Bates added.
Inside the command bunker, the first sergeant grabbed Erickson’s arm. “In front of us, sir,” Vickers said while pointing west.
Erickson looked in the direction his senior sergeant had indicated. He peered through the torn trees and tumbled stones. It didn’t take long to spot the images Vickers had identified. A significant force, bigger than anything they’d previously encountered, was amassing in the west. Despite believing they were in the clear, there was little doubt their life-taking trials were far from over. From the reports Erickson was receiving and what he’d witnessed, Basra’s disciples were planning a decisive attack against all four walls at once.
Erickson spoke into the radio, trying to sound calm and confident. “Okay, nobody panic. Doesn’t matter how many they throw at us: we’ll handle this. And time’s on our side. Get ready to repel a final assault before darkness arrives and things turn in our favor.” As the words left his mouth, from every direction the frenzied mob started toward them.
From within their fragile defenses, the Marines could see line after line of enraged figures running across the riotous landscape. With incalculable numbers in their ranks, across the unholy ground the sandal-shoed, frayed-clothed legions came for them. Even a thousand yards from the compounds’ pummeled ramparts, the gaunt multitude’s cries of “Death to America!” filled the fading afternoon. There was anger in the incensed throngs’ urgings and hatred in their hearts. Cradled in the onrushing jihadists’ arms were satchel charges, rocket-propelled grenades, light machine guns, and automatic rifles. A curved sword, its blade sharpened to a razor’s edge, hung from every waist.
As the terrifying moments passed, the maniacal rush never wavered. With every instant they grew closer to the modest force waiting behind their sandbagged positions. Across the scorched and ragged lands, yard by yard, crater after crater, they came nearer. In slightly under sixty seconds an eighth of a mile was crossed. Eight hundred yards remained until they’d reach the steeling defenses’ forward elements. Eleven hundred yards before they’d arrive at the embassy’s walls. The Marines and their supporters waited. The advancing force was unrelenting. With each waning minute they surged two hundred yards closer to their prize. Six hundred yards from the defenders as the terrifying moments passed…
On they came. In little time, a quarter mile to the forward outposts was all that remained.
A momentous storm of suffering and death was growing clearer. The Marines readied their weapons. Each selected targets from the murderous cavalcade. Those carrying RPGs would be their top priority.
Step by lurching step, this seething ocean was growing nigh. Their soaring voices continued rejoicing in their coming conquest. Without pausing, the forward rank of running executioners leveled their rifles and opened fire. Wild shots sprayed in every direction. An initial RPG round smashed into the deteriorating northern wall of the enclave. A second roaring rocket, somewhere in the south, ripped into the embassy’s battered fortifications. To the wayward ones’ surprise, not a shot was fired in response. The Marines and their supporting forces ducked their heads and waited for the command to open fire. Yet no such directive came.
Erickson had little choice. With no ammunition to spare, the combat-experienced captain delayed giving such an order. He needed to ensure every shot counted.
Another hundred yards was crossed. The fervent attackers were three hundred yards from the first of his defenses. The embassy’s walls, battered by four days of fearsome attacks, were only six hundred yards away. The determined raiders came on, their efforts growing more self-assured as the pockmarked outposts came into view.
By all appearances, the onslaught would be considerable but straightforward. The only remarkable feature of this one was its size. At least, that was the belief of those readying for the attack. Little did they realize that the enemy was poised to spring multiple surprises. For this time they had something special planned. Something unpredictable. Something, given what had occurred over the past four days, none could anticipate.
Erickson and his men couldn’t know it, but the attacks in the south, east, and west, while giving every impression of being severe, were intended to be little more than powerful feints designed to pin down the forces in those areas. The fiendish inferno’s real goal was to concentrate an annihilating assembly against the diplomatic enclave’s brittle defenses and the embassy’s northern wall. As soon as the defenders took the bait and were fully engaged in the other portions of the battlefield, the jihadists would shift their focus to throwing everything they had against those protecting the vulnerable north. It would be Ambrose’s platoon along with the thin lines of British, Canadians, and Australians who would face the brunt of the anguish-filled assault.
Twenty-five thousand foot soldiers, supported by fourteen Al-Khalid tanks, would attack. Ten lethal armored personnel carriers armed with missiles and machine guns would be with them. As a final blow, a dozen large, brightly colored “jingle” trucks loaded with explosives would rush into the melee, heading straight toward the enclave’s main gate and any still-standing apartment buildings. Each was being driven by a suicide bomber.
The tanks and armored personnel carriers were presently hanging back, out of sight of those defending the two compounds. They were waiting to see if the massive infantry elements would be able to complete the conquest without them. The valuable armored vehicles would be dedicated to the conflict only if absolutely necessary. While the Pakistani army remained on the run, there were still many battles to come. And the seized armored force was too precious to waste. So if it could be helped, it would remain in reserve. The jingle trucks, however, were of far less importance and would be committed no matter what.
For decades, the flamboyant trucks had formed the transportation backbone upon which the country’s two hundred million people depended. Piled high, they’d carried, day after day, year after year, vast quantities of supplies into and out of the largest cities and the meekest hamlets. Without them, the Pakistani economy would have collapsed. They were also one of Pakistan’s primary art forms. Their owners painted them from head to foot with bright images of every sort, size, and description. Religious symbols, images of the country’s heroes and politicians, along with popular movie stars, flowers, animals, anything and everything, adorned them. They were vividly decorated in every color of the rainbow. The more they stood out on the busy highways, the prouder their drivers became.
On this day, the twelve waiting out of sight of the enclave were intended to stand out in a far different way. For once the attackers smashed the infidels’ defenses, the jingle trucks would rush in to finish the job. With the northeastern compound conquered and the embassy’s northern wall breached, any surviving jingle trucks would roar across the short distance between the enjoining locations to punch further holes in the embassy’s walls. The nonbelievers’ defenses defeated, thousands of warriors would enter into the heart of the final obstacle. There, they’d slay all they encountered. None would be spared.
Unaware of the drama unfolding, Erickson began playing his few remaining cards. “Mortar teams, open fire. Don’t stop until you’ve released your final round. Once the enemy’s crossed another hundred yards, Humvee machine guns, join in. After that, fire team leaders, unleash your .30-calibers as you see fit. Those with individual weapons are to follow.”
Unaware of the insurgents’ grand plan, the mortar teams started releasing shells at a furious rate toward the approaching hordes. Slicing through the low-hanging heavens, the soaring succession of ordnance sailed across the unforgiving skies. One after another, the whistling shells reached out for the unfortunate with round after round of gut-ripping steel. The fierce detonations cut huge swaths through the exposed jihadists’ numbers. By the scores, it cut them down in midstride. With every striking round, with every new explosion, the wounded and dying continued to mount. Nonetheless, it did nothing to slow the ardent attackers.
Critically short of mortar rounds, the lethal bombardment didn’t last long. In less than a minute the last of the scant reserves were released. The Americans had lost a critical defensive element.
It couldn’t be helped. The surging tsunami’s leading edge was two hundred yards from the forward defenses and closing much too fast.
In the north, a trio of Humvee machine guns opened fire, adding to the blossoming contest’s carnage. The Humvees protecting the other three sides soon contributed their own malevolence to the horrifying scene. They cut the murderous multitudes down at an appalling rate. Row after row of blood-splattered invaders were felled by the solid wall of .50-caliber rounds. By the score, the mortally injured fell. They joined the lifeless images spread far and wide across the roadways and fields throughout the profane panorama.
Yet the pitiless zealots were in no way dissuaded. Their leaders had brought them to a fevered pitch and their insatiable lust remained unabated. This was going to be the virtuous battle to slay the interlopers. An hour from now, as night took hold, those cowering inside the fortified walls would experience their final moment. And the victory the attackers were determined to achieve would arrive.
The first of Ambrose’s Marines went down. Directly behind his position, a pair of civilian fighters, both hit by multiple rounds, joined him. They would be the first of many.
A ravaged Humvee was soon burning. The pernicious conflict’s thunder consumed the devolving day. The reviling humanity came on. Inside their bunkers the Marines and their allies unleashed everything they had. Behind them, the rows of civilians waiting with automatic rifles joined in. A steady torrent of life-taking ordnance stung the blighted afternoon. Still, it did little to dissuade the fearsome onslaught.
The time to smash the barriers and massacre the heretics was here. All around the destitute defenders a mountain of mortal rounds struck the contested ground. Despite what was approaching, not one of the embassies’ protectors panicked. Time, they were certain, was on their side. All they needed to do was hold out until darkness fell. With it would come the enormous advantages the night would provide.
In the west, a second Humvee exploded as an arriving RPG tore it apart. The agitated peasants, their numbers rising, continued their murderous rush. With each passing moment they closed for the ultimate conquest over Satan’s spawn. The moment had come for the insurgents to spring the trap. Once more the strident whistles blew.
This time, however, it wasn’t to signal the end of the battle. The sharp sounds were a sign of its actual beginning. The majority of those in the east, south, and west started to slink away. Skirting the American rifles, they swung north to join their valiant brothers.
With minimal losses, the French, Germans, and Dutch, along with their Marine and civilian supporters, abruptly found themselves more than holding their own. The same was true in the west, where the fighting had been extremely heavy. Suddenly, to the surprise of all, it wasn’t nearly as intense as it had been. In fact, much of the massive force headed in their direction had evaporated. The experience of those protecting the east was similar. Smaller groupings continued to attack in each of those directions, picking their way through the rubble while taking a far more cautious approach.
The north, however, was a different matter. There, things were growing worse. The vaunted enemy was swarming, their numbers expanding with each passing moment.
Forty minutes until night’s veil would fall. Inside the command bunker, Erickson listened to Ambrose’s men’s excited chatter and their lieutenant’s rapid commands. He could hear the platoon’s thirty surviving Marines and the seventy-five civilian fighters protecting the enclave screaming animated directives to each other.
“Brown! There’s three of them right on top of you. Keep your head down but toss a grenade a few yards in front of your bunker,” one of the team leaders yelled.
“Dammit, I’m hit,” a member of Ambrose’s 3rd Squad screamed.
“How bad?” his team leader asked.
“Bad enough,” was the reply as the wounded Marine fired his rifle at a quartet of approaching attackers. All four went down and moved no more. “But it’s not so bad that I can’t take out a few more of those sonsabitches.”
“I’m down to my last two magazines,” another announced. “Anybody got any ammunition they can spare?” His inquiry was met by silence. No one in the platoon had much more than he did.
“Sergeant Reilly, how do things look with the British?” Ambrose asked.
On the far left of the platoon’s lines, the platoon sergeant, his concern obvious, responded. “Struggling like everybody else, sir. The buildup in front of them is every bit as intense as what we’re facing. There appears to be thousands upon thousands headed their way.”
While Erickson took in the unfolding events, he was growing more than a bit alarmed. Every frenzied clash he’d ever been in had had a level of unpredictability. But for some reason this one felt acutely so. The company commander scanned the areas he could see in the west. Marshall’s and Bates’s men were still engaged with the persistent attackers. However, with a modicum of effort, each was holding his own.
Erickson couldn’t put his finger on it, but he didn’t like how this was unfolding. Something was wrong here. Of that, he had no doubt. For the most part, each of their opponent’s previous actions had followed the same unimaginative script. This time, however, the pieces didn’t fit. For now, he wasn’t certain why.
“XO,” Erickson said when the animated talk momentarily died down, “is the enemy still attacking in the east?”
“Yes, sir,” was the response from Scott Tomlin. “We’re getting hit, but it’s nothing like it was a couple of minutes ago.”
“Same over here. It’s still ongoing, but what started as one of the fiercest battles we’ve faced is presently half-hearted at best.”
Tomlin glanced to his left, looking toward the enclave and the relentless action occurring in the areas to the northeast. He didn’t like what he saw. Instead of evaporating as it had in the other locations, the intensity of the attack was building. And the situation was deteriorating much too fast. He could see Marines, the pressure immense, falling back from the forward bunkers.
“From my position I’ve got a clear view of a great deal of the enclave’s defenses. They’re being hit big time, sir. And there’s no indication it’ll end anytime soon. Our guys appear to be in real trouble.”
“Lieutenant Ambrose,” Erickson called out. “What’s your status?”
“Uh…we’re trying to hold on, sir. Same goes for the British, Canadians, and Australians. The Fedayeen are crawling all over us. We’re cutting them down as fast as we can, but they keep coming. At this rate, even if we’re careful, we’ll have expended our .50-caliber rounds in the next ten minutes and our small-arms stuff in twenty. I’m not sure we’re going to be able to keep the enemy from breaching our lines and entering the enclave. There could be as many as twenty thousand in front of us.” It was at that moment Ambrose saw the jingle trucks and cautiously advancing armor. “Oh, Christ! They’re a long ways off, but there’s no doubt about what I’m seeing, sir. There are a number of tanks headed this way.”
“Have you got a count on how many?” Erickson asked.
“Negative, sir, not a precise one. Six…seven…eight…is what I’ve spotted. But they’re too far away to get an accurate number. They’re a mile from us and moving slowly. With them are armored personnel carriers. And we’ve picked up something else. It appears to be a widely spaced convoy of large trucks.”
There was little doubt things were suddenly dire. Nevertheless, Erickson understood he needed to convey steadfastness and control. While Ambrose had never faced anything this severe, his subordinate did have significant combat experience.
“All right, whatever you do, don’t panic,” the company commander said. “Let me get further support headed your way. While I do, align all of your antitank weapons to face the immediate threat. We’re not helpless here. If we can get it positioned in time, we’ve got enough firepower to handle what you’ve spotted.”
Erickson had conveyed far more bravado than he was feeling. The situation demanded it. With such a force looming, his Marines were outgunned. Even so, his measured words provided the calming effect for which he was hoping.
“I’m on it, sir,” Ambrose assured him. He began arranging his antitank weapons to meet the newfound threat. “Sergeant McGuire, get your Humvee aligned to take on the tanks in the middle of the formation the moment they move toward us. Wait for my order to take them out. After that, select your targets and fire on your own initiative.”
“On it, sir,” his TOW-mounted Humvee’s commander reported.
“Corporal Alexander, same orders apply to your tripod mounted TOW. Focus on the middle.”
“I’m zeroing in as we speak, sir,” Alexander said.
“First and 2nd Squads, get your Javelins in place and ready to fire.”
