Twenty people were too many to kill at one time. They had done only six the first night, and that had required a firing squad of ten men. That same number of soldiers with AK-47s set on full automatic should be sufficient this time, too, if each was responsible for the death of only one Egyptian prisoner who would be standing immobile, tied to a post. The captain had to be economical, for his overall force was obviously smaller than the crowd that was gathering in the spacious park, trampling the grass underfoot to see the dreadful execution ground.
Each of the armored personnel carriers had brought eight infantrymen, for a total of sixteen. Add the dismounted drivers, and the captain had a total of eighteen on the ground in the large park, plus himself and a lieutenant who was his own second in command this time. The difference makers were the two machine gunners who remained in their overwatch positions aboard the tracks. Still, looking over the uneasy crowd, he thought about calling for reinforcements. He decided against it. The general would think he was not up to the job. Where was Shakuri, anyway?
The sad line of those chosen to be killed shuffled to a halt beside the big fountain, which the captain noted had been turned off as a silent protest against what was happening around it. He briskly counted off the first ten from his left. “Move these traitors to the wall,” he barked. “The rest will sit down here under guard to await their turn.”
Four additional posts had been planted before the long wall of sandbags that had been extended and strengthened, and an Egyptian captive was soon tied to each of the ten positions, with black hoods yanked over their heads. Two women were among the initial victims.
After binding the prisoners, the soldiers retreated across the killing field, picked up their weapons, and formed into line to become the firing squad. Three Iranians guarded the next group of prisoners seated on the grass, and the remainder of the soldiers stood at intervals facing the crowd. The captain then noticed that the police who had helped in the initial executions had vanished. No matter, because he neither needed nor trusted them. Both sides of the wide field between the shooters and the citizens tied to the posts were packed with sullen spectators who were remaining ominously quiet. Where was the weeping and the cries for mercy? Even those about to die were not struggling or calling out.
The captain took his position to the left of the firing squad, with his lieutenant standing a few steps behind. A final look around showed him that the gunners in the Boragh APCs at the edge of the park were ready in case of trouble. The squad had readied their weapons and were squared away, so the captain decided to get on with it.
“Attention!” he yelled.
Kyle Swanson had quietly pulled on his special ops black beanie and rolled it down so that his face was hidden but for his eyes and mouth. When the captain roared his preliminary order, Swanson elbowed roughly through a few people in front of him, uncovering his M-16A3 as he went. He was only a few steps away from the open rear doors of the armored vehicles when he snapped the rifle butt into his shoulder and put two quick bullets into the head of the unsuspecting machine gunner facing away from him on the right, then cycled and did the same thing to the one on the left. Both targets jarred forward against their weapons and bounced back, dead. “Now!” he shouted as loudly as possible, grabbing a white phosphorus grenade from his left pocket. He pulled the pin and flipped it into the open door of the left-side Boragh as he dashed between the pair of APCs.
The first volley of shots that came from Abdel’s group on the right side of the crowd was a long clatter of gunfire that indicated little discipline, but it was effective, and three members of the firing squad staggered and collapsed like discarded dolls. The volley from the second ambush team on the left took down another two Iranians, just before Kyle’s grenade exploded inside the fuel-laden Boragh armored personnel carrier, which seemed to expand like a balloon before blowing up with overheated shrapnel, which instantly penetrated the adjacent APC and detonated the gas and ammunition inside. The heavy explosions thundered, and the rolling concussion smashed Kyle Swanson facedown into the grass. For a moment, he lost his breath and had to struggle to lift his eyes as the gust of searing wind broke over him and the swelling noise shook his body.
When he regained his senses, the crowd was scattering, and the gunfire had increased in volume. The ambushers were shooting, but so were the remaining Iranian soldiers, who were trained troops and altered their aim from the prisoners to the threat of the unexpected attackers. The captain and his lieutenant spread out to direct the fight, stunned that their backup units of armored vehicles with the heavy machine guns had been destroyed.
Kyle was up and running again when the renewed fire from the ambushers clipped two more Iranians, but one of those went spinning down with his AK-47 spraying on full automatic and ripped two of the prisoners still tied at the posts. One attacker dropped with red holes dotting his white tunic, but the initial surprise had worked to make the manpower score more even, and the silence of the terrifying machine guns emboldened Abdel’s men. From the fleeing crowd came a couple of the policemen who had retrieved their weapons and joined the fight on the side of the rebels, and the two final Iranian guards who had been herding the seated prisoners both fell.
Swanson was only twenty yards behind the Iranian officers, and he went to a knee, steadied, and shot the lieutenant three times in the center of his back, then was up and moving again, understanding that the casualty rate had definitely swung to the plus side for his guys. Just as he thought they would win for certain, he saw Abdel take a round, blood blooming at the left shoulder as the youngster spun and hit the dirt. Nothing could take the steam out of this attack like the sudden loss of an inspirational leader, but the Egyptians had already tasted victory and kept crawling and running forward. Kyle heard the wounded Abdel calling encouragement. More men fell on both sides. People returning from the crowd braved the crossfire to free the prisoners from the poles and rush them to safety. Others picked up fallen weapons and joined the battle.
The Iranian captain was screaming at his dwindling force and firing his sidearm at random targets when he felt the barrel of a gun press against the back of his head and heard a voice say in English, “Hey. It’s over.” Swanson double-tapped the officer, and the head blew apart like a melon. A few more extended bursts of gunfire, and the attack was finished. The park lay bathed in blood and wreathed in smoke.
Kyle jogged over to where Abdel was pushing himself upright, holding a hand to his left shoulder but smiling broadly. His people were rejoicing; the prisoners were free, and the Iranian firing squad lay dead. Onlookers stripped the soldiers of their guns and ammo. Swanson slung his own weapon and started to tend the wound, but he was pushed away by two women who seemed to know what they were doing, while others formed a protective circle around the young man who had come out of nowhere to defeat the invaders and save their friends and neighbors.
Abdel grabbed Kyle with his right hand and pulled the black-masked man toward him. “You knocked out the tanks, just as you said.”
“Forget that. You led this attack, and just look what you did, pal,” Kyle said, watching the confidence grow in Abdel’s eyes. “You’re the leader now. They want to join you.”
It was a flesh wound, and the nurses had him bundled up, with his left arm in a sling. “What next? Just let everybody go home?”