The long november, p.6
The Long November, page 6
He had to find a way out. He had to reach the hotel. He needed to be bold and beyond aggressive. He had to somehow address the heartless killers blocking his path while also reaching the waiting four thousand.
He understood there was no way Salim Basra’s unmerciful force wouldn’t hear his Humvees as they drew near. Twelve rumbling engines would see to that. Even so, he didn’t believe the enemy’s knowledge of the approaching vehicles would necessarily prove fatal. He could still take the perverse peasants by surprise. He could still rule the night.
There was an excellent chance on the evolving battlefield that each band of jihadists was essentially independent of the others. And it was highly probable there was little communication between the disjointed elements as they advanced. They were most likely acting on their own, without guidance from anyone and rare interaction with those around them.
Unaware of the Marines’ arrival, the surging jihadists would likely assume the oncoming column belonged to mobile Fedayeen forces attacking in the same area. They wouldn’t risk opening fire until it was clear who was headed in their direction.
While the Humvees continued their slow advance, he keyed his headset. “Okay. Let’s hope you aren’t wrong about those RPGs, Mayfield…. We’re facing two problems. We’ve got to get to the hotel while also addressing the elements in front of us. So here’s what we’re going to do. We’ll leave a third of our force to engage the immediate threat. Hopefully, that’ll be enough firepower to hold ’em until help arrives. Sergeant Sosa and Corporals Blithe and Connors, bring your vehicles alongside Mayfield’s team. Once you have, pick up speed. The four of you are to head up the roadway on the far left and engage the enemy without delay. Mayfield, you’ll command the attack. You’ll destroy the enemy without hesitation. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“At one hundred meters, stop, discharge your teams, and engage whatever it is you face. They won’t be expecting you to be who you are. And at that range, without night vision equipment, they’ve no chance of seeing you through the dense fog. With any luck, you’ll be able to eliminate a sizable portion before they react and counterattack. Strike as hard as you can with everything you’ve got. Hold nothing back. I want a suppressing stream of rifle and machine-gun fire and a shower of grenades raining down upon them so fierce that little in the targeted area will survive the initial onslaught. Given what’s going on, even if you handle the first wave, you can expect a continual stream of lunatics to appear behind them. Hold your positions and take them out. Is that clear? Don’t stop until you’ve finished off every last one. Your fire teams are to keep the pressure on until those on foot reach you. Once the rest of us arrive at the hotel and identify what we’re up against, we’ll let you know whether you’re to stay here to cover our return or rush to join us. Do all of you understand what’s expected from you?”
A chorus of voices replied, “Yes, sir.”
“Then let’s take it to the sorry bastards. While you begin your attack, we’ll hang back. As you put the pressure on, the remaining Humvees will form a single line and swing to the far right. The noise of your actions and the covering conditions should mask our sudden appearance. Hopefully, with the intensity of the firefight they won’t hear us coming until we’re right on top of them. We’ll hit them with our .50-calibers as we rush past. That should cripple them even more. Before the opposition realizes what’s happened, we’ll have skirted their position and be gone. You’ve got your orders: Undertake them without delay.”
“We’re on it, sir,” Mayfield said. “My force, head for the left edge of the pavement.”
The deadly quartet responded with lightning speed. In a passing moment, they were roaring side by side up the wide pavement. In frenetic seconds, they’d reach the one-hundred-meter point.
The remaining Humvees dove to the right. They lagged behind the initial grouping, waiting for the fierce encounter to commence. Once that occurred, they’d attempt to maneuver past the mortal conflict, firing as they went.
“Place the two Humvees with TOWs in the middle of the formation,” Erickson directed his remaining force. “We need to make sure they’re protected until we really need them.”
The eight arranged themselves and prepared for the moment when they’d rush forward and break through the fierce fight.
Erickson keyed his headset once again. He knew the Marines on foot would have heard everything those in the Humvees had been discussing. “Lieutenant Ambrose, get your men up here without delay,” he directed. “Assist Mayfield’s teams in taking out the opposition. When you’re through, join us at the hotel.”
“Got it, sir. We’re on our way,” was the response.
The running Marines picked up the pace.
8
1:53 A.M., NOVEMBER 1
ALPHA COMPANY, 3RD BATTALION, 6TH MARINE REGIMENT, 2ND MARINE DIVISION
ON CONSTITUTION AVENUE
ISLAMABAD, PAKISTAN
“One hundred meters! Halt your vehicles and engage the enemy!” Mayfield screamed. “Don’t hold anything back.”
All four Humvees slammed to a stop, skidding on the glistening pavement. Three Marines leaped from each. In an instant, twelve expert marksmen spread out across the open thoroughfare. Each dropped to a prone position on the dank ground and prepared to open fire. They had the enemy in their sights.
In unison, the Americans standing behind the powerful .50-caliber machine gun mounted in the center of each Humvee unleashed their weapons. A steady stream of devastating five-shot bursts spewed defiance and death at the ill-prepared forms caught in the rapidly exploding maelstrom. From behind the protective metal barrier shielding them from harm, all four machine gunners laid down a destructive curtain. The heavy machine guns overwhelmed the startled jihadists. The passing rounds, tearing through their flailing bodies, crushed them all. In ones and twos or muddled clumps, they dropped to the ground. Caught in the open, waves of stunned combatants went down. Yet the interlopers’ agony scarcely had begun.
Near the stilled Humvees, a quartet of .30-caliber light machine guns joined their powerful brothers. Each spewed death toward the startled invaders. The quartet of marksmen armed with M4s squeezed off the first of many rounds from the highly accurate rifles, their night vision easily identifying each inviting target in the faltering queues. At this distance, there was no chance even a single bullet from the talented Americans would miss. With absolute precision, figure after distorted figure fell.
Most moved no more. For the bewildered horde, the furtive journey to a beckoning next world had begun. They were followed by another…and another…and another…without pause.
At the same instant, each of the fire team gunners armed with grenade launchers began inserting a crippling 40mm canister into the stubby launcher beneath his rifle’s barrel. All four readied their murderous munitions. Before the dazed swarm could react, an initial launcher trigger was pulled. Others soon followed. Cutting through the hovering mist, each headed straight for the startled throngs clustered in the wide grasses. A fraction later, an initial spirit-seizing detonation arrived. Three more soon followed. Four devastating explosions rocked the lurid night. Absolute violence and certain extinction filled the tumultuous scene.
Without conscious thought, the Americans mowed them down. The unanswerable horror that reached out for their stunned victims was beyond description. The lethal poison that struck the faltering cultists was absolute. The mighty strike, certain and precise, swallowed them whole.
Each of the four gunners reached for a second grenade. At a rate of seven or eight per minute, the relentless Americans tore their adversary’s world apart. Caught in the open, the initial Fedayeen force was ripped to shreds. In little more than the blink of an anguished eye, ten…twenty…thirty…forty were felled. Most never knew what hit them. In seconds, only a faltering handful of the first fifty survived. The rest lay dead or dying upon the dew-clutched soil at the edge of the significant avenue.
The survivors dove for elusive cover that was nowhere to be found upon the well-manicured lawns. Each blindly attempted to return fire at an antagonist they could neither see nor identify. From one hundred meters distant, the Americans’ muzzle flashes were swallowed whole by the elements, masking their positions.
Behind the ill-fated marauders, the far more significant force reacted. Each threw himself onto the ground close to the nearest building and opened fire. Still others appeared from the rear of the imposing structure. In a steady buildup, unyielding numbers joined in on the intensifying clash. Erickson’s men spotted each distant invader hurrying toward the scene. An immense gathering of dissidents was in progress. Their numbers, reaching into the hundreds, were rapidly evolving.
The Americans had the element of surprise and the superior weapons. The grappling jihadists had the significantly larger force. In the beginning, surprise was winning. The slaughter was hideously brutal. Still the Marines’ struggling opponent soon regrouped, got to their feet, and began edging forward. No matter the cost, they refused to disengage and withdraw. As the vicious battle mounted, they continued their dogged efforts, moving inch by inch, foot by foot, toward Mayfield’s modest force. The gathering rabble knew only one way to fight and it didn’t involve retreating even when the situation called for such an action.
Every arriving zealot quickly joined in the erupting fray. With only the echoing battle sounds to guide their wild efforts, they opened fire on the unseen assailants. An immense barrage began stinging the ground around the idling American vehicles. Ricocheting bullets struck the Humvee’s motionless frames over and again. Death’s unrelenting image surrounded each of the compelling Marines.
“God, they’re everywhere!” Mayfield yelled into his headset. “My team’s got those on the extreme left. Connors, your Humvee will take any force appearing on or near the roadway. Sosa and Blithe, your men will handle the center.”
The moment the life-crushing contest began, the trailing Humvees roared forward. One hundred meters behind Mayfield’s group, with Erickson in the lead vehicle, they raced toward the furious encounter.
“The moment you’re past our guys, open fire with your .50-caliber,” the company commander directed his force. “Select your targets on your own initiative and let them have it. Get off as many bursts as you can as we rush by. After that, it’ll be up to Mayfield to hold them until Ambrose’s force arrives. Drivers, don’t slow no matter what. Just keep going. We’ve got to reach the hotel.” With rounds stinging the ground around them, the first of the racing combatants roared past their own defenses. “Now!” Erickson screamed.
Above him, his crew’s machine gunner opened fire. Even at a full sprint, the malignant shells tore into the encroaching enemy. The crushing .50-caliber armaments, adding to the swirling turmoil, ripped the unfortunate apart. Scores of mangled bodies fell once more. A fraction later, the second Humvee in the tightly bunched line opened up, stinging the exposed mob. Like the first, the adept gunner’s efforts staggered their unending opponent. The passing line and Mayfield’s Marines had them in a cross fire. The shocking assault appeared to be hitting the confused peasants from every direction. Who was inflicting it, and where they’d come from, they hadn’t a clue.
The third American crew in the speeding line joined the raging storm. As it did, Erickson’s team, free of the skirmish, ceased fire and headed toward the turnoff for the hotel. Seven more would soon follow. Machine guns two and three also went silent as both crews escaped the spider’s web of death and destruction. For the briefest of moments, the firing from the eastern side of the roadway paused as the two Humvees carrying TOW missiles rushed past. But the lull was swiftly shattered as the final three in the speeding line scurried by with .50-calibers blazing. Unharmed, the entire file vanished. Aga Khan Road was growing near. A final turn to the left at the next intersection and they’d head for the beleaguered hotel.
On the bloody ground behind them, the first of Mayfield’s Marines went silent. A haphazard bullet in the center of his face had ended the unfortunate lance corporal’s life. With the intensity of the hundreds of rifles firing in their direction, he most certainly wouldn’t be the last of the Americans to fall on this night. The remaining fifteen fought on with incredible bravery, hoping to hold the relentless attackers until help arrived.
Six hundred meters south, Ambrose’s final forty, running as fast as they could, spied the thunderous conflict unfolding ahead. Ricocheting shells, wild and unpredictable, began striking the area a few hundred yards in front of the oncoming Marines. Each hit the unyielding pavement and continued upon its way. More than one whistling bullet brushed far too close to a scurrying American’s ear.
Ambrose reacted immediately. “Everyone keep running, but head over to the grassy areas to the left,” he ordered. “That should take us out of the line of fire.”
Even weighed down by the soft, clinging grasses, three minutes, no more, and they’d reach the evolving battle.
9
1:54 A.M., NOVEMBER 1
THE MARRIOTT HOTEL
AGA KHAN ROAD, SHALIMAR 5
ISLAMABAD, PAKISTAN
The hand grenade flew high, landing within a few feet of its target. In a blinding flash, the British machine gun guarding the main entryway into the Marriott was torn apart. Its gunner was felled. The faltering members of the desperate detachment fired their assault rifles again and again at the endless lines of onrushing figures. Masked in heavy gray, a handful of deviants went down. But the overriding remainder continued their assault upon the hapless defenders.
Dragging as many of their dead and wounded with them as they could, for a third time the British sergeant ordered his men to fall back. Less than ten of the original thirty were still in the fight. And their numbers were dwindling. Forty feet from the hotel’s glass doors and floor-to-ceiling windows, the stubbornly retreating force stopped. There was nowhere left to go. The surviving few turned and formed a semicircle around the entryway. They had no choice but to make their final stand where they were. And to hope the American Marines were drawing near. If not, they’d every intention of going down fighting. They were determined to drag into the netherworld as many of the raging opposition as they could.
The dejected sergeant took up a defensive position directly in front of the lobby’s wide entrance. He glanced at the blood pouring from his left side, the horrific result of a recently fired enemy round. That portion of his uniform was turning a sickly red. The bullet had broken his ribs as it made its disjointed journey through his exposed torso. Every labored effort, each shallow breath, was filled with agony. Still, his injuries, no matter how severe, didn’t dissuade him. He’d keep on fighting until the bitter end. The remnants of an earlier head wound continued to stream into his eyes. A pervading sadness was written on his blood-streaked face.
The opposition’s advance had been far too rapid and much too powerful. It was well beyond anything he’d expected. Still, when the debased ones broke through, they’d have to do so by taking him down. He had every intention of making sure that was no easy task.
Still limited in their severe actions by the stifling fog, his grinning foe began gathering for a final push. In moments they’d begin an enormous onslaught.
The concluding assault roared forth. A discordant chorus of small-arms fire beset the Marriott and its frantic occupants. There could be no denying that the horrific end was nearly here. The ruthless jihadists would be soon upon them. Running figures, their automatic rifles blazing, rushed toward the building without the slightest hesitation. With their night vision to guide their concluding actions, the languishing British cut them down. The dedicated assailants, however, kept coming.
* * *
• • •
In the middle of the chaotic lobby’s highly polished floor, Lauren Wells gripped the microphone with all her might. For once, she didn’t care that her hair was disheveled and her appearance haggard. She had little doubt the sparkling marble beneath her feet would soon be stained with the blood of thousands of slain people whose only crime had been finding themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Behind her, terrified individuals were everywhere. She tried to appear calm and professional as she stared into the camera, but the harsh reality of the situation was imprinted upon her every movement. She’d been in tough spots before. There were almost too many to count. Over the years, she’d witnessed far too many people die in the most hideous of manners. With more than one bullet flying in her direction, she’d become acutely aware of the inherent frailties of life. Yet, until now, she’d somehow survived each dangerous encounter unscathed. Nonetheless, this time the ruinous feeling sinking deep within her was different. A morose pall had enveloped the struggling reporter’s core.
She knew the truth. The perverse beings attempting to breach the hotel’s defenses cared nothing about the untold humanity within its sheltering walls. Like those around her, it wouldn’t matter who she was or what she was here to do: they’d gleefully take her life in the most horrifying of ways. Death’s shroud, dark and strangling, hung over the despairing scene. It weighed heavily upon the doomed hotel like a hellish, soul-devouring tapestry.
Chuck Mendes fought to hold the camera steady. He signaled he was ready.
She could scarcely be heard over the urgent screams and frantic directives of those around her. “This is Lauren Wells. I’m speaking to you from the Islamabad Marriott,” she said in a stiff monotone. “I hope what I’m relaying is somehow found and that my words will eventually find their way to our television audience. It is shortly before two a.m. on November first. The hotel and its thousands of occupants have been under an overwhelming siege by an undetermined force for nearly ten minutes. The British soldiers guarding the enclosure are attempting to hold them back. They’re fighting with incredible bravery. At the moment, however, there appears to be little hope of them emerging victorious. There are too many rifle-carrying marauders outside. We’re about to be overrun. What the hopeless defenders face is simply too much for them to overcome. In a matter of minutes, possibly less, they’ll likely be defeated and the sadists will prevail. A crazed legion of Basra’s fanatics, sadistic smiles on their bearded faces, will enter the hotel. Once they breach the entrance, there’s little doubt what the result will be.”
