“Walid, it’s time. Regardless of what the French may know, or suspect, we have no choice but to move forward. We are too committed to turn back now. Tell our comrades to execute event zero two zero in”—he looked at his watch and compared it with the digital clock over the intelligence screen in front—“forty-seven minutes.”
He stood and followed Walid to the command, control, and communications (C3) console to observe his order being transmitted. When they received the acknowledgment seconds later, he pulled another cigarette from his pocket and lit it.
Forty-seven minutes later, Algerian and Libyan Army units crossed the Tunisian border, meeting light resistance as the surprised blitzkrieg advanced rapidly toward Tunis. Algerian and Libyan aircraft, flying low-level, attacked the Tunisian airfields, destroying most of the small nation’s aircraft before they had an opportunity to get airborne.
At midnight Algerian and Libyan forces met on the outskirts of Tunis, the last holdout against the invasion. They waited there through the night, poised to enter the Tunisian capital.
When the morning sun cast its early haze across the Tunisian countryside, Algerian and Libyan infantry began a house-to-house fight for possession of the capital, encountering fierce opposition from the betrayed patriots of pro-West Tunisia.
In Morocco, another scenario unfolded simultaneously with the invasion of Tunisia. Twelve terrorist and rebel commando units initiated a series of coordinated attacks in Rabat. A Moroccan military unit, led by a zealous Islamic major, stormed the king’s palace through a massive breach in the walls caused by a suicide bomber. Brutal fighting inside the palace sparked enormous losses for both sides. Two hours later, the rebellious major and four others, all that remained of the original twenty-five attackers, reached the monarch and fired several shots into the king’s chest before being riddled by bullets from counterattacking Moroccan commandos.
Moroccan Islamic cells captured the more popular radio and television transmission sites throughout the country. Other units destroyed stations they were unable or unwilling to use. By morning, the country was in full rebellion, with loyal Army units converging on the capital to fight the rebels. The Air Force quickly sealed its bases and refused to choose sides, preferring to wait until the victor was more clearly defined. Crew rest was the term of the day.
Fez, the historic mountain city notorious for ferocious barbarian warriors who were renowned for their love of the lance and the feel of the wind across their faces as they charged into battle, failed to live up to its reputation. Fez fell within two hours to sun-hardened Bedouins who quickly overran the city before turning their camels toward Marrakech to join rebellious Army units marching against loyal forces fleeing toward Rabat.
The Moroccan military units at Fez joined the rebellion, and along its march to support the uprising, picked up peasants, farmers, and other disenchanted citizens. Overnight a people’s crusade, like those of the eleventh century by Europeans to free the Holy Land, converged toward Tangier, intent on seizing this important seaport for the revolution.
It was strictly the decision of the colonel leading the former loyal troops as to the destination. He chose Tangier because a senior Moroccan Army general, whom he hated with a religious fever, lived there. That, he kept to himself. He promised the wealth of the city to those following. The anticipation of achieving some modicum of wealth added to the zealotry of the crusaders as they moved forward like locusts, pillaging everything in their path.
In Tangier, the military units remained evenly balanced between those loyal to the Crown, those who were fervent Islamic supporters and the undecided Army units who waited anxiously to see which side appeared to be winning before they decided their course of action. Eight hours later, the Islamic crusaders from Fez reached Tangier. At that time the undecided Army units threw their support to the Islamic revolution.
The battle for Morocco was under way. Frightened tourists streamed to the airports to discover them closed and themselves stranded as gunfire, mortars, and hand-to-hand combat flowed around various refugee pockets like streams around boulders. wa lid touched the colorh-l on the arm and lightly shook him. Colonel Alqahiray slept heavily. Sweat stuck his shirt to the plastic upholstery of the chair. An occasional throaty snore escaped to disturb the professional quiet of the command post. Walid, reluctantly, shook the colonel harder.
The colonel grunted and straightened himself upright. He pushed himself out of the chair, stretched, and rubbed his face. “It’s been a long night, Walid. What is the situation?”
“Colonel, Tunis is nearly ours. The president fled by helicopter to the Italian island of Pantelleria about an hour ago. Thirty minutes after he fled, the Tunisian General Alasousse requested a truce to meet with our combined forces leader, General Abouimin. We have this proposal from Alasousse.” Walid attempted to hand it to the colonel, who waved it away.
“Just tell me what it says.”
“He proposes to surrender the country, if we promise no reprisals and that he and his soldiers be permitted to lay down their arms and return to their homes and families. In return, he pledges, on behalf of his officers, their professional honor not to take up arms against our forces nor oppose our occupation.”
The colonel shook his head. “Not enough. Tell Abouimin to present my compliments to General Alasousse for his patriotism. Tell him that I honor his concern for his men, but we do not want their weapons, nor do we want them to go home. What we want is for him to swear allegiance to the revolution and integrate the Tunisian military into our combined forces. If he will do this, he will retain his rank and control over the former Tunisian forces during integration. If he refuses, then obviously we cannot have traitors in our midst.” He lit the morning cigarette and took a deep breath. A dry hacking cough followed. “Sound fair, Walid?” he asked.
“Sir, it is very compassionate. Such an honorable solution will show Arab solidarity.”
“You are right. But, Colonel Walid, be careful with General Alasousse.
Tell General Abouimin to ensure that Alasousse understands that failure to agree to these terms will result in renewed fighting until no one is left in Tunisia with the skills to ferment rebellion. Make sure General Abouimin knows that I want the threat portion of our reply delivered very tactfully. Do not put General Alasousse in a position where he feels honor-bound to fight. Damn Sandhurst graduate would fight just for the footnote he’d make in history and a misguided sense of honor.”
“Yes, sir.” Walid hurried to the C3 console. Twenty minutes later the reply to General Alasousse’s surrender proposal was transmitted to the Algeria-Libyan Army headquarters located on the outskirts of Tunis.
Colonel Alqahiray looked at the digital clock as it changed to 0800.
Not bad for a night’s work, he thought. The steward hurried over with several croissants and the inevitable cup of tea. The colonel motioned for the tray to be set on the small folding table beside his chair. He stood and grabbed a croissant. Then, chewing on the fresh pastry, flakes falling down his gray tunic and onto the recently swept tiles, he walked to where Walid waited for a reply.
“Walid, tell Benghazi to initiate the rescue of the American sailors at ten hundred hours.”
Walid acknowledged the colonel’s order. He turned to the console and dialed the number for Benghazi Airfield.
Colonel Alqahiray strolled across the room, leaving Walid to execute his orders. He patted the operators on their shoulders congratulating them on the night’s success. He basked in the admiration, bordering on worship. As it should be, he thought, making the mistake that charismatic leaders throughout history had made. He believed in his own omnipotence. He wiped the pastry flakes from his heavy, black mustache, and tweaked the ends to make them stand up. Self worship surpassed strong self-confidence. He had reached that righteous level where disagreement meant disloyalty. Conflicting advice, even if good, would be considered traitorous. Hidden in the dark recesses of abnormally deep sockets, his dark eyes twinkled with the realization that he was the new Nasser of the Arab world!