The long november, p.23
The Long November, page 23
As one, the six Marines spaced along the northern wall with Javelins perched on their shoulders fired. Each missile was set for a ruinous top-down kill that would allow it to destroy the target by piercing the tank’s thinner top armor and exploding inside.
A half dozen swift Javelins were in the air. Even though their crews didn’t know it, five additional tanks and an armored personnel carrier were about to suffer the same fate as the first. In rapid succession, the horizon lit up as the deadly missiles found their prey. In a blinding flash, with blast after vivid blast, the enemy armor went down.
Yet even so forceful an action didn’t deter the ogres. Minus seven flaming brothers, the armored column roared forward. The jingle trucks’ drivers picked up speed. It was time to put an end to the one-sided clash. The surviving Al-Khalids, along with the nine armored personnel carriers and a dozen murderous trucks, were headed toward the compounds. All the Americans had waiting for them were three Humvee-mounted TOWs and one tripod-mounted tube in the process of being reloaded.
A second tank fired. In an instant, its massive round blew a gaping hole in the enclave’s deteriorating wall. Spurred on by the tank’s actions, on the ground the attack commanders threw everything they had at the defenders. The mob redoubled its efforts, intent on pinning down the impoverished force. Thousands upon thousands came on. Gunfire from the north intensified. A mass of churning humanity and sixteen armored vehicles were headed their way. A dozen annihilating trucks were close at hand. Death was everywhere, felling those on both sides. The brutal scene’s malevolent portrait, its colors goring red, was beyond heinous, with every sign indicating it would only become worse.
“Bailey, take out the bastard who just fired his main cannon,” Tomlin ordered.
“On it, sir.”
The lance corporal fired his Humvee’s TOW. In seconds, the tank’s crew would join those meeting a fateful end on this corrupting afternoon. The moment the tank was felled, Bailey began reloading his firing tube.
The unyielding pressure continued. Position by position, over and again, the Allies fell back until there was nowhere left to run. They were out of options. And little ammunition remained. Not one believed they’d be able to hold much longer.
38
6:55 P.M., NOVEMBER 4
ALPHA COMPANY, 3RD BATTALION, 6TH MARINE REGIMENT, 2ND MARINE DIVISION
UNITED STATES EMBASSY
ISLAMABAD, PAKISTAN
It had been twenty-five minutes since Genovese had disappeared behind the embassy’s walls. The fading wisps of the rain-soaked day’s twilight were being overcome by the oppressive scene’s approaching nightfall. In a steady stream, the enclave’s evacuees were covering the short distance between the two compounds and entering the embassy ground. But a thousand remained within the housing area’s battered enclosure. Many were still attempting to make their way down the crammed apartment stairwells.
The armored column was three-quarters of a mile away. The rushing jingle truck column, its bomb-loaded vehicles running full out, were seven hundred yards from the enclave.
A pair of RPGs ripped through the haze. The first well-placed projectile, coming in scant inches above a heavily fortified sandbagged barrier, slammed into the turret of the Humvee protecting the enclave’s gate. With a wail of protest the vehicle exploded, its soaring inferno rising to singe the approaching night. The rocket ripped apart the protective layer of steel shielding the lance corporal firing its machine gun. When the smoke cleared, the machine gun’s turret was nothing more than an unrecognizable mass of twisted metal.
The second RPG hit the embassy’s northern wall, puncturing the thick concrete and producing another opening. This one was three feet wide.
Under the relentless onslaught’s immense gunfire, the stream of wounded and dying was becoming a raging river as the Marines and their civilian supporters succumbed. “Man down! Man down!” the calls continued without pause.
The first of the large trucks rushed down the roadway leading to the enclave’s wrought iron gates. One hundred yards behind it, a second of similar size and composition followed. And beyond it a third, fourth, and fifth, almost without end. The lumbering beasts were crammed with hundreds of pounds of explosives. Behind the wheels the self-destructive drivers, obscene smiles on their faces, slammed the gas pedals to the floor. The deadly caravan’s speed continued to mount. Their journey to the wondrous place awaiting all the sainted martyrs was at hand. Each driver was determined to dispatch as many of the nonbelievers in the process as he possibly could.
The lead vehicle was drawing near. In the middle of the whirling struggle, Ambrose spotted the mounting threat. He recognized the situation’s fateful consequences. If the lead truck was carrying even half the life-seizing explosives he suspected, it would take out much of the enclave with a single blow. Afterward, little more than smoldering rubble would remain. Hundreds of fleeing forms, caught in the open, would die. To a man, the Marines protecting them would join the mounting rolls. His platoon and the majority of the reinforcements would fall in a single blow.
In an instant, he was on his headset. “Simms, trucks headed this way in one hell of a hurry. Each appears to be loaded with explosive charges. You’ve got to eliminate the first one. And you’ve got to do it now.”
Standing next to the TOW missile tube on the top of his Humvee, the Marine sergeant took aim. The lead truck was in his crosshairs. “Spotted him a few hundred yards back, sir. Been targeting him ever since.”
“Take him out, Simms. There’s no time to waste.”
“He’s as good as dead, sir.”
“While Simms goes after the leader, 1st Squad, fire everything you’ve got at the second one,” the lieutenant said. “You’re the only ones with an angle on him. You’ve got to kill him as far from here was you can. If either of them gets anywhere near the enclave’s entrance and detonates its load, the explosion will create a crater so large, it’ll leave nothing but death and destruction.”
“You heard the lieutenant: I need every rifle focused on the second truck,” Sergeant Harvey, 1st Squad leader, directed his men. “Windshield and gas tank will be the most vulnerable. Do what you gotta do, but take him out.”
In an instant, all six of the squad’s survivors unleashed their rifles and a pair of light machine guns against the second of the onrushing assassins. Round after round smashed into the speeding truck.
While 1st Squad went after the trailing one, Simms tracked the leader as it rumbled across the landscape. The vehicle was four hundred yards from the compound and coming on fast. The fleeting seconds were passing. The Marine gunner had to hurry, but more importantly, he couldn’t miss. Simms took a deep breath and fired. Spitting hellfire and damnation, the missile tore from the launch tube. With so short a distance between predator and prey, it would only take moments for it to reach its objective. But the onrushing truck and its murderous cargo were coming too close for comfort. The fully focused sergeant tracked the missile’s relentless progress, making the corrections, both large and small, to zero in on its target. Never once did the truck stray from his sights.
The distance was soon covered. The noxious TOW’s ordnance-laden nose rammed home, striking the onrushing leader head-on. The mountainous explosion, startling and cruel, was immense. Its crushing image, filled with animus and fury, was beyond imagination. It carried with it unutterable violence and glaring refrain. The detonating truck disappeared. A flaming cloud rose high into the sky, its peak reaching far into the receptive heavens. The feral blast rocked every corner of the scene, reaching out for great distances. Vindictive pieces of red-hot metal hastened far and wide, cutting down the unfortunate among the running peasants. It was accompanied by an eardrum-shattering resonance of immoral proportions. Thor’s hammer, filled with thunder and lightning, fell upon the frail earth. Even in the middle of their frenetic actions, both sides turned toward the ghastly event unfolding little more than three hundred yards from the defenders’ lines.
Like a great earthquake, the world around the depraved setting shuddered. The ground beneath the Marines growled and shook, knocking more than one off his feet. When the lurid smoke cleared, the debauched fissure that remained was thirty feet deep and more than three times as wide. The massive explosion reached out to annihilate and destroy. For fifty yards in every direction, not a hapless insurgent survived, not a blade of grass remained.
And the mocking insanity was far from over. As the vanishing truck’s fires headed skyward, 1st Squad’s youngest member sent an M4 round through the second avenger’s windshield. The searching bullet struck the driver in the left cheekbone, shattering his jaw in multiple places. Its trajectory altered, the ricocheting bullet headed upward, slicing through his brain as it continued on its way. He slumped in the seat, blood and brain cells scattering far and wide across the truck’s interior. With the driver’s dead hands no longer gripping the steering wheel, the lurching monstrosity careened out of control. It swerved into the deep ditch on the edge of the roadway, tumbling over and again. A second awe-inspiring blast assaulted the combatants with a resounding roar that matched the first in every way. The horrific sounds and summoning fireball went forth to join its compatriot’s singeing refrain. Another massive hole, equal in size and composition to the earlier one, appeared at the anguished spot where the runaway truck had slipped into the channel.
Like its brother, beneath a blinding flash the vividly colored truck vanished. Yet, despite the unspeakable outcome that had seized their comrades, the trailing convoy never faltered. One hundred yards behind, the next in line swerved into the blighted field, regained its footing, and continued on. No matter their losses, the deadly pack wasn’t going to be denied.
That, however, wasn’t the Americans’ only concern. On the far left, two tanks’ main guns were lowering. Each would soon zero in on its target and be ready to fire. From little more than four hundred yards away there was little chance either would miss.
“How many TOWs are ready to fire?” Erickson asked as he watched the devilish display of trucks and armored vehicles through pain-filled eyes.
“Mine, sir,” Corporal Kitchens, 2nd Platoon’s TOW Humvee gunner, answered.
“Just finished reloading, sir,” Alexander responded.
“Won’t be ready for another half a minute,” came a final reply.
It wasn’t going to be enough. Despite their massive losses, more and more of the jihadists were appearing. And with the majority of the defenders down to their final thirty-round magazine, the desperate battle’s ghastly conclusion was upon them.
“Select a target and fire on your own initiative,” Erickson directed the TOW operators. “The remainder of you, concentrate on the enemy infantry. Make every shot count.”
“Firing now, sir,” Kitchens replied. In a flash, his TOW was on its way. Another tank crew was about to perish.
Alexander released a second missile. Another massive explosion rocked the grievous scene as a third jingle truck was ripped apart.
Half-crazed souls were running everywhere. Cradling his rifle under his good arm, Erickson squeezed the trigger. Thirty yards away, a pair of wild-eyed miscreants went down.
Moments later, the loss of blood seized him. The last thing he heard was another “Man down! Man down!” ringing in his ears. And then there was nothing. Erickson’s world faded to black. He dropped to the ground unconscious.
One after another, his men fired their final rounds. The remainder of the death-laden trucks neared. Like a swarm of ravishing locusts, the jihadist foot soldiers lay down a blanket of gunfire so thick that nothing could withstand it. The surviving defenders had little choice but to dive deep within their makeshift bunkers. The game was nearly over.
39
6:59 P.M., NOVEMBER 4
ALPHA COMPANY, 3RD BATTALION, 6TH MARINE REGIMENT, 2ND MARINE DIVISION
UNITED STATES EMBASSY
ISLAMABAD, PAKISTAN
“Fix bayonets!” Tomlin screamed into his headset.
An eighth of a mile remained before the armored column would reach the battered compounds. The now-leading jingle truck was three hundred yards from the enclave. The omnipresent running figures were seconds away from reaching the defenders’ lines. As the third tank from the right roared forward, it lowered its massive main cannon. The target was soon within its gunner’s sights.
“Fire!” the tank’s commander yelled.
An overpowering shell ripped from the barrel of the recoiling tank. The lethal killer screamed over the Marines’ bunkers, smashing head-on into what remained of the enclave’s northern wall. Shattered cement, crushed stone, and steel rebar flew in every direction. Twenty feet in front of the gaping opening, a demolished bunker was ripped apart by the flying debris. Inside its false protection, two of Steven Gray’s men lay dead.
The tank’s automatic loader inserted another round. Along with its brothers, the conquering beast continued its frenetic rush toward the prize. As it did, Ambrose watched the tank’s main gun elevate. It didn’t take long for the next victim to find itself dead center in its sophisticated targeting system. In seconds, the Al-Khalid’s crew would send out another of death’s messengers. When it did, its noxious ordnance would obliterate another of the enclave’s apartment buildings. This one would strike at the base of the structure. Inside, a hundred fleeing people would soon be feeling the effect of the mortal assault. Few within its walls would survive what was about to befall them.
“Somebody, take him out!” Ambrose screamed into his headset.
The beleaguered lieutenant was hoping against hope that another of his men’s TOWs was in a position to fire. But he knew the awful truth. No one was able to do so. Helplessly, Ambrose stared out upon the dreadful field. The offending tank’s cannon was ready. Once more the monstrous image’s commander screamed, “Fire!”
The Al-Khalid’s gunner was only an instant away from unleashing the terrifying round. Little did he know that he would never release the death-dealing killer. For he didn’t have a moment to live.
In a brilliant flash the tank exploded. A thunderous fireball rose from yet another blast. Flaming pieces of defeated metal soared into the darkening skies. Two hundred yards from the embassy’s battered wall, the tank disappeared in a feral blaze. The confused Ambrose looked to the left and back again, trying to figure out the crippling shot’s origin.
A startling breath later, a second Hellfire air-to-ground missile devoured the Al-Khalid next to it. An additional outcome struck the hellish scene. A pair of armored personnel carriers fifty yards behind the fiery monsters joined in as Hydra rockets tore their upper armor apart. Once again, monumental explosions surged through the evolving day. The astonishing events stunned attacker and defender alike. As for what had caused the cataclysmic outbursts, no one had a clue.
From out of nowhere, three Apaches sliced through the rancid rains, roaring across the low skies. There was quarry in every direction the target acquisition officers looked. They went after the endless figures closest to reaching the Marines’ lines. Silhouetted by the fading twilight, their 30mm chain guns ripped apart those they found struggling across the calloused scene. A curtain of death poured forth in lightning bursts at a rate of ten rounds a second. The large 30mm shells tore the jihadists’ world apart. Like a well-choreographed demon chorus, all in the slayers’ paths fell in the unmerciful onslaught. Beneath the surging American craft, they perished in uncountable numbers. The abject savagery was beyond belief. None in the first wave survived the daunting attack. Behind the defeated ones their comrades’ actions ground to a halt.
Corporal Genovese’s frantic calls had taken precious minutes to wind their way through various levels. Finally, his pleas had reached the powerful force gathered at Camp Nowhere. Unaware of the camp’s existence, those defending the compounds were as confused as their foes by the Apaches’ presence.
Each attack helicopter’s half-frozen pilot and target acquisition officer had been waiting in their craft. Should word come, they were ready to leave on a moment’s notice to support the Green Berets holding the invaluable nuclear facilities. The distress call they’d received was one they hadn’t anticipated. But it was as urgent as any they could have envisioned from the Special Forces units. Thousands of lives were on the line. Without hesitation, they responded to the embassy’s desperate pleas. Swiftly rising, they took to the dimming heavens. They were soon roaring, engines running full out, through the treacherous mountains toward Islamabad. Their fangs were bared and ready. They covered the forty miles between Camp Nowhere and the capital in fourteen minutes. None of the astonished crews could believe their eyes when they arrived on the scene. Inviting targets, like an irresistible siren’s song, were everywhere.
A second trio of flight crews had raced to their helicopters and launched five minutes behind the first. They were closing with the aberrant spectacle.
It’d be up to the buzzing Apaches to turn back the incensed throngs. And they were more than equal to the task. The initial trio split, the first two banking sharply left and right, while the trailing one remained on the same path. It didn’t take long to find further prey.
The astonished peasants did their best to fight back. In the heat of battle, a dozen Stingers were lifted onto insurgent shoulders. Most of those cradling the little heat-seekers had neither the patience nor the ability to wait for the firing tone to sound, telling them their air defense missile had acquired the target. One after another, they pointed the Stingers in the low-flying helicopters’ direction and squeezed the trigger. Released before they were ready, the majority of the searching air defense missiles careened away. Only a couple of the nasty killers were being held by jihadists with both perseverance and some degree of skill. Within moments of rocketing off their shoulders, both came near to striking their targets. Still, the Apache pilots were more than prepared for such an eventuality. Each instantly released red-hot flares and chaff to fool the mindless threat. In every case, the purveyor of certain death chased one of the false images and sped away.
