The Chosen One

by Walt Gragg

  Abernathy and Porter turned and started running through the enveloping gray toward the eastern end of the bridge. Sanders was right behind. Five hundred yards away members of their remote detachment waited behind a makeshift fortification of demolished cars and the crumbling remains of bombed-out buildings. Behind the precarious team’s position was nothing but the disintegrating skeletons of Rhoda Island’s assailed apartment houses and hotels. The once majestic island near the contested river’s eastern bank was scarcely more than smoldering rubble. Mourad’s artillery barrages had flattened all but a handful of the historic isle’s structures.

  “Come on, guys,” Sanders called out as they neared their own lines. “I’m serious. This is really important. How’s it look? ’Cuz it’s critical it be positioned just right. I don’t want to take any chances here. I need to be at my best. You never know when you’re going to turn a corner and find yourself face-to-face with a pretty girl with love on her mind.”

  “Sanders,” Abernathy said, “I’m afraid the only women you’re going to find out here at this time of the morning are carrying rifles. And love’s not what they’re looking for. The sole thing they’re thinking about is putting a bullet into that precious beret of yours.”

  “That’ll never happen. Not to me. Not a bullet’s been made with my name on it.”

  “God,” Porter said, “I’d almost forgotten what it’s like to be twenty-three and believe you’re invincible. So tell me, Charlie, how does it feel to still think you’re immortal?”

  “Pretty damn good, that’s for sure.”

  “Sanders,” Abernathy said, “why in the world are you worried about meeting women? What’s the matter, your three fiancées back in North Carolina not good enough for you?”

  “Don’t forget the pretty German girl who thinks he’s on his way back to marry her,” Porter added.

  “Look,” Sanders said, “a guy can never have enough women in his life.”

  “Take it from someone who’s on his third wife and speaks from experience,” Abernathy said. “You can have too many women. Just ask my second wife. She’ll be glad to explain it to you. Just like she never stops explaining it to me when I pick up the kids for the weekend.”

  The trio was in magnificent physical shape. They swiftly covered the substantial distance across the broad causeway. The instant they reached the eastern bank, all three disappeared behind the makeshift barricades. The overwhelming tension of the previous hour’s exceptionally onerous task and Sanders’s self-assured attitude were too much for them to bear. The results were quite strange, but utterly predictable. The second they were safe they burst into laughter.

  Captain Morrow, the A Team leader, was waiting. A puzzled expression came over his face at the sight of the laughing soldiers.

  “What the hell’s so damn funny?”

  “Nothing, sir,” Abernathy said between suppressed giggles.

  They glanced at their disapproving commander. Each soon realized they looked like giddy schoolgirls. The laughter stopped.

  “How’d it go?” Morrow asked.

  “Piece of cake, sir,” Sanders answered. “Only thing I need is to hook the leads to the detonator, and we’ll be all set. After that, you give the word and boom, no more bridge.”

  “Go ahead and wire it up. But don’t blow it until I give the order. I want to wait until the last possible moment to ensure anyone trying to escape Mourad’s army still has a way to cross the Nile.”

  “There haven’t been any civilians on it in nearly two hours, sir. Not since that last big Pan-Arab attack. Obviously, the enemy’s cut off the escape routes across the river.”

  “You’re probably right, Sanders. Even so, wait for my signal before you hit that switch. If there’s a chance in a thousand of saving one more person, we’ll hold out until the last possible second.”

  “I can’t believe when they’re captured,” Porter said, “the lunatics are giving the Egyptians one opportunity to accept Mourad’s brand of Islam and join their side. Men, women, children, it doesn’t make any difference to that sorry old fool’s followers. From what I heard, even the slightest hesitation and a nasty-looking sword the company political officer carries separates their head from their shoulders.”

  “At least the Egyptians are getting an opportunity to say yes,” the captain said. “If the Mahdi’s ghouls get their hands on any of us, they won’t ask a single question before the ax falls.”

  “I tell you what, sir,” Porter added. “I’m already so sick of all this I’m about to puke. If I see another innocent person’s severed head, I’m personally going on a one-man scouting expedition to locate the Mahdi’s headquarters. If I find him, he won’t get a chance to say anything either before I slit his throat from ear to ear. I’m sure we’d all love to see how his perverted little head looks once it’s dangling from a pole.”

  Each of those present, however, realized with millions of the Chosen One’s henchmen closing in, they weren’t likely to get such an opportunity anytime soon. From the looks on their faces, they all understood the grim reality of their situation.

  Sanders didn’t care to think about it further. He suspected if he stayed busy, the desperateness of the assignment would temporarily fade. The detachment’s junior sergeant took the wire cutters from his rucksack and stripped the tips from the primer cord. In the dull half-light, he attached the leads to the detonator. It wasn’t until he finished that he realized three of the team’s members weren’t present.

  “Where’s Staff Sergeant Donovan’s team?”

  “They haven’t come back from wiring the bridge behind us to blow,” Master Sergeant Terry, the team’s senior operations sergeant, said.

  “I hope nothing’s happened to them,” Morrow said. “If Mourad’s forces have gotten around behind us and captured the second bridge, we’ll be trapped on this island with no way of escape.”

  “I’d be more worried, sir, about being stuck here because Donovan screwed it up and blew the passage behind us by mistake,” Sanders responded.

  “Okay, Charlie, that’s enough,” Terry said. “We all know how you feel about Donovan’s demolition skills. Why don’t you cut the guy some slack? We’re short an engineer, so even though it’s Donovan’s secondary specialty, he’s having to fill in.”

  The Special Forces detachment was supposed to have twelve men: two officers, two operation sergeants, two medics, two weapons specialists, two communication specialists, and two engineers. Each member was proficient in one of the other skills as a secondary specialty. With such an arrangement there’d be redundancy for every activity. Like most A Teams, however, this one was short a few people. Detachment Alpha 6333 had arrived in Cairo thirty-six hours earlier with only ten men. They were minus one officer and an engineer. Thus far they’d been extremely lucky. In their hours on the front lines they hadn’t lost a single member. Even so, each understood such good fortune wouldn’t last forever.

  Minus an engineering specialist, the team’s newest member, Staff Sergeant Donovan, had been forced into performing his secondary skill.

  “But Donovan hasn’t done a single practice demolition right since he joined our team last month,” Sanders said. “Captain, why don’t I go back and check on them?”

  “That’s just what I need,” Morrow responded. “Send my sole engineer out to search for a missing team. What a brilliant idea. We’re going to need someone to handle all kinds of demolition projects in the coming days. What do you suggest I do if you don’t come back, Sergeant Sanders?”

  “If I don’t come back it’ll probably be because I’m dead. So to be honest with you, sir, at that point I’d probably not care much one way or another what you do.” A silly grin came over his face.

  “Very funny, smartass. The answer’s no. You’re staying right here to blow this bridge.”

  “Even so, sir,” Terry said, “Sanders has a point. Th
ey’re overdue. It’s only six blocks to the other side of the island. Maybe we’d better send someone back to check on them.”

  “Okay, Abernathy and Porter, if you think you can stop laughing long enough to help us out here, why don’t you head over to find them.”

  “Sir,” Abernathy said, “if you’ll promise to keep Sanders here, we assure you there’ll be no more laughter on our part.”

  “Count on it. I’ll tie him to the hood of this car and let the Pan-Arabs use him for target practice if it’ll help this team accomplish its mission.”

  * * *

  —

  Fifteen minutes later, the first light of the arriving day pierced the gloomy morning. With the coming of the warming sun, the smothering fog began to dissipate. It wouldn’t be long before the dreary mist disappeared and the swirling smoke was all that remained to mask the battered landscape. As the tentative dawn appeared, Abernathy and Porter returned with the missing members of the team.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Morrow asked.

  “Took longer than I’d anticipated, sir,” Donovan said. “But I finally got it wired. The detonator’s hidden under a palm tree on the left end of the bridge. All we’ve got to do is hook up the leads and it’ll be ready to blow.”

  “Run into any of the Chosen One’s followers?”

  “No, sir,” Donovan said. “No sign of them anywhere.”

  “What about the Egyptian infantry company that’s supposed to help defend this sector? They were due two hours ago.”

  “No sign of them either, sir.”

  Each member of the team understood the significance of the supporting force’s failure to show. If the last thirty-six hours were any indication, there was bound to be a fierce struggle for Rhoda Island, and quite soon. Without the infantry support, the ten men of Detachment Alpha 6333 would be on their own against Mourad’s hordes. Nevertheless, the vastly outnumbered Green Berets were too well trained and certain of their abilities to panic.

  “Obviously, they’re not coming,” Morrow said. “With each passing hour, the Egyptians are getting less and less reliable. I guess after three weeks of this shit they’ve about had enough. Looks like we’ll have to handle this ourselves. Everyone get into position. With the sun starting to rise, it won’t be much longer before the fireworks begin again. Find a good spot and get ready for another enemy advance. If the past hours are any indication, the Pan-Arab attack will commence soon.”

  15

  7:09 A.M., OCTOBER 18

  ODA 6333, CHARLIE COMPANY, 3RD BATTALION, 6TH SPECIAL FORCES GROUP (AIRBORNE)

  THE EL GIZA BRIDGE, RHODA ISLAND

  CAIRO

  Morrow was right. Seven minutes was all it took for a first furtive figure to appear in the dissolving mist on the far side of the Nile. The Pan-Arab scout approached the broad entrance to the bridge. A second stealthy form crept from the fragmented remains of the building directly in front of the wide, eight-lane span. He joined his comrade. The Americans understood thousands would soon follow. Before springing into action, the Green Berets waited to ensure the duo across the river weren’t Egyptian civilians.

  “Okay,” Morrow said, “they’re hostiles. Porter, Abernathy, they’re all yours.”

  The A Team’s weapons experts put down their M-4 assault rifles and picked up their single-shot sniper rifles. Both raised the thin black barrels and pointed them toward the elusive forms masked in the settling gray.

  “I’ll take the one on the left,” Abernathy said.

  “Five bucks says my kill’s cleaner than yours,” Porter answered.

  “You’re on.”

  Porter squeezed the trigger. A shot rang out. The exacting bullet sliced through the dreary dawn. A fraction later, Abernathy fired. The Pan-Arab soldier on the right silently slumped to the ground. The one on the left also dropped. But the second kill wasn’t nearly as precise as the first had been. The Pan-Arab screamed as he fell to the rough pavement. He struggled to escape his lethal wounds, painfully dragging himself a few feet before stirring no more.

  Abernathy reached into his pocket and took out a five-dollar bill. He handed it to his smiling partner. The money exchanged, both accomplished assassins inserted another round. As they did, a dozen new individuals appeared on the far approaches. The arriving squad inched toward the sedate structure.

  “Double or nothing,” Abernathy said.

  “That’s a bet I’ll gladly take,” Porter answered.

  The nebulous images crept forward. They displayed a wariness that hadn’t been often seen in the past three weeks. It was apparent none was eager to be the first to reach the avowed paradise this morose morning. The deadly rifles were back on the Green Berets’ shoulders. Two more shots rang out.

  A second pair fell onto the glum street. Neither moved further. Two clean kills. This time both Americans agreed the grisly competition had ended in a tie. The rest of the startled enemy dove for cover. But there was little protection to be found on the treeless avenue. The entire Special Forces detachment opened fire. The team’s machine gun pounded their outgunned foe.

  The Green Berets’ individual weapons had a far greater effective range than that of the enemy rifles. In their adept hands, the Americans ripped the survivors apart. Their opponents tried to respond with their Czech-made AK-47s. They fired wild bursts toward the distant shore. Still they were no match for their multitalented antagonists. The one-sided encounter was soon over. Each Libyan lay dead on the bloodstained asphalt. Not a single American had suffered the slightest harm. The immensely gifted team stopped firing and waited. To a man, they knew things would get more difficult from here.

  Silence gripped the grievous scene. The waiting defenders held their collective breath and watched the decaying buildings on the western edge of the magnificent Nile. Not the slightest sound or movement was detected on the distant side. The anguished day grew strangely calm. Second by second, an interminable minute passed. It felt like an hour to the determined men. Another torturously dragged by. Still nothing. The embattled detachment’s ten soldiers were keenly alert. They knew their remorseless foe was out there and probably quite near. They understood the time for great conflict would soon be at hand. Beads of sweat appeared on their upper lips. Rows of sticky moisture formed on Sanders’s forehead. It trickled into the corner of his eye. He brushed it away with a swipe of a soiled sleeve. And the detachment waited even longer.

  But the tense interval was almost over. For their obsessed rival was, in fact, close by.

  The frightening sounds, reaching out to assail them, came first. The thunderous dissonance of uncounted tanks drawing near. The lumbering machines’ growling engines sliced through the listless gray to assault the defenders’ senses. An eerie chorus, surreal and terrifying, soon joined the rancorous tanks. The indecipherable refrain grew louder. It filled every corner of the dejected dawn, drowning out the scores of armored vehicles. It overwhelmed the Americans’ understanding. The Green Berets were at a loss to explain the strange mixture of forbidding noises tearing at their ears.

  One by one, the perplexed soldiers recognized the source of the riotous discord. The horrific resonance devouring their world was man-made. The fearful strain belonged to thousands upon thousands of expansive human voices. The Pan-Arabs were gathering their courage. Their acknowledged journey to the astonishing next world was upon them, and Mourad’s followers wanted to ensure their God recognized the worthiness of their sacrifice. The frenzied voices, rejoicing while they ran toward their inevitable deaths, were chanting at the top of their lungs.

  The reveling drone swelled. The attackers were drawing close.

  “Sergeants Terry and Donovan,” Morrow said, “grab your Javelins and cover the bridge. Unless you’re certain a tank’s about to unleash its main gun, hold your fire. We’ll permit them to get sucked in so deeply there’ll be no chance of escape. If the situation allows, do
n’t release your missiles until the enemy’s at least halfway across the river. That’ll jam them up with nowhere to go. Let’s entice as many onto the bridge as we possibly can. Once they’re trapped, we’ll blow the sons-a-bitches to kingdom come.”

  Terry and Donovan picked up their powerful shoulder-mounted missiles. Each crept to the abutments at the eastern end of the broad causeway.

  “Sanders,” Morrow said, “slide over to that detonator and get ready. But don’t set off the explosives until you receive my command.”

  The anxious soldier crawled over to take his position. He reached for the detonator and waited. The queuing tanks and beseeching voices continued to expand. The enemy was upon them. It wouldn’t be much longer before the desperate struggle between ten fearless men and thousands of crazed cultists would be joined.

  The Chosen One’s followers arrived at the Nile.

  A pair of M-60s smashed through the faltering walls of the shattered building in front of the bridge. Side by side, they roared toward its wide entranceway. The instant they reached the river crossing, the rumbling tanks’ machine guns blazed.

  Their vastly outmanned opponents ducked their heads and waited. Behind the M-60s, hundreds of screaming fanatics scurried through the opening the rushing tanks had created. More armored vehicles appeared. In an endless stream, sprinting men and maniacal machines poured onto the southernmost structure into Cairo. The torrent of agitated humanity and rampaging steel appeared to go on without end. The proficient Green Berets readied their weapons.

  A raucous day of reckoning burst upon the great city. The exploding sounds of pitched battles erupted up and down the Nile. The men of Alpha 6333 weren’t the only ones facing incredible odds on this grievous morning.

  Morrow signaled and the death-dealing Special Forces’ rifles opened up upon the surging masses. In large clumps, Mourad’s followers fell upon the battered pavement. Many of the mortally wounded stumbled to the lethargic bridge’s low railing and dropped the fifty feet into the shimmering waters. The languishing currents were soon a flowing crimson. The Pan-Arabs returned the Green Berets’ fire. Shooting in every direction while racing across the broad expanse, they continued their suicidal charge.