The Chosen One

by Walt Gragg

  The team whirled about and headed back toward the laboring platoon.

  19

  3:19 P.M., OCTOBER 18

  3RD PLATOON, BRAVO COMPANY, 2ND RECONNAISSANCE BATTALION, 2ND MARINE DIVISION

  THE CAIRO–ALEXANDRIA HIGHWAY

  Okay, Platoon Sergeant, fall the men out and have them fill their canteens.”

  Erickson lifted the flap and entered the battalion command tent. Captain Richards, Bravo Company commander, was standing inside the entrance. He stuck out his hand.

  “Been expecting you, Sam. Enjoy the trip?”

  “Let’s put it this way, sir. Next time I book a tour of the Middle East, I’m going to pick a better travel agent.” Erickson attempted to smile, but all he could bring to his tired features was a halfhearted grin.

  “Sorry to say your visit to ancient Egypt gets no better from here.”

  “What’ve you got for us, sir?” Erickson asked.

  “With the division digging in and our forces spread thin, the need for reconnaissance is on the back burner. For the moment, we’re assuming a more traditional role. As our recon battalion only has a couple hundred men, each regiment has provided a few units so that we can build our numbers to near a normal battalion’s size. I’ve been given command of three additional platoons. A few hours ago, a rocket attack took out one of the platoon leaders and his senior sergeant. You and Gunny Fife are going to have to take command of their men.”

  “How many left in the platoon, sir?”

  “Thirty last time I was up there. But they’ve still got three vehicles and ample ammunition. The platoon’s TOW-mounted Humvee just received six new missiles an hour ago.”

  “Thirty. With my men that’ll give this new platoon a full complement. Where are they?”

  “It’s real simple. Go south along the highway for another half mile. You’ll pass through three lines of defenders. When you get to the fourth line, your platoon will be waiting.”

  “How many Marines in front of us, sir?”

  “Sam, I’m sorry to say the only thing in front of you is a hundred thousand maniacs intent on killing every last one of us,” Richards answered. “You’ll have responsibility for holding the eight-lane highway and the desert for two hundred yards on either side. A platoon from Alpha Company’s on your left. One of my new platoons is on your right. If things play out like they have been, you can expect an armored attack of at least brigade size soon. At this point, we’re trying to keep our losses to a minimum. Should it look like you’re going to be overrun, fall back and link up with the next line. Keep falling back until we stop them. Right now we’re trying to buy time. Men are the precious commodity. They’re far more important than ground. So when in doubt, retreat and save as much of your platoon as you can. Still got one of your vehicles?”

  “Yes, sir. Sergeant Joyce’s Humvee is right outside.”

  “Good. A King Stallion landed with Javelins, TOWs, and a number of crates of LAWs a few minutes ago. Brought some claymores too. I’ll have your Humvee loaded with as many as it’ll carry. From what I’ve seen today you’re going to need every last one. Don’t tell anybody, but I also got my hands on some Stinger missiles. I’ll make sure you get a few of those too. Last Pan-Arab attack included a helicopter assault by Russian-made Hind-Ds.”

  * * *

  —

  Richards stood next to the idling vehicle. Every inch was crammed with missiles and claymore mines.

  “Okay, Sam,” Richards said, “there are four Stingers in there. Promise you won’t let on where you got them. Battalion commander allocated your platoon ten Javelins, eight TOWs plus two tripod launchers, twenty-four of the LAW light antitank missiles, and a dozen claymores. Use the Javelins and TOWs sparingly. Fire the LAWs when you have a choice. They’ve worked fine against the older BMPs and French armored personnel carriers the Pan-Arabs are using in this sector. But I want to warn you. They’ve been hitting us most of the day with Russian T-72 tanks. The frontal armor on the T-72s is quite stout. The LAWs can’t handle them. Every time we’ve tried to kill one with a LAW, the missile’s exploded against the hull without penetrating its defenses. So make sure you keep the Javelins and TOWs in reserve if you can. Otherwise, you’re going to find yourself defenseless against the enemy’s heavy armor.”

  “Count on it, sir. My platoon already knows what that feels like. It’s something none of us ever again want to experience.”

  “With the repeated counterattacks, some of our most critical supplies are running low. Got plenty of ammunition. And we’re hoping to have more missiles by sundown. Try to make what you’ve got last.”

  “Yes, sir. We’ll do what we can.”

  “Air support’s been real good. Call for it at the first sign of trouble. Cobras can be over your position in two minutes. Fighters off the Lincoln and Eisenhower are sitting with their pilots in the cockpits. They’ll be here in less than five if we need them.”

  “Understood, sir. Anything else?”

  “Just one thing, Sam—don’t be a hero. With the losses we’re sustaining, I’m going to need you with me for the rest of this war. And at this point it’s a hell of a long way from over.”

  “Sir, I’ve every intention of sticking around to see how this ends. I’ll do my best to keep my head down. All right, Gunny, move the men out.”

  * * *

  —

  The hard-pressed platoon wasn’t difficult to find. Neither were the Pan-Arabs. The boiling desert was littered with recently slaughtered ones. Many of the lifeless figures were still warm. The sated sands ran red with freshly flowing blood. The desolate landscape in front of the Marines also was filled with thousands upon thousands who were quite alive.

  Behind each distant dune, in every cleft and gully, the Chosen One’s anxious soldiers prepared. They prayed for the sainted word to come. Mourad’s followers knew it wouldn’t be long before the next impassioned attack. His devotees’ hearts soared with the conviction that a place in the glorious beyond would soon be theirs.

  It didn’t take Erickson long to size up the situation. Captain Richards was right. This was the end of the line. Behind them, the thin layers of immersed Marines waited. In front, the Sahara teemed with the agitated enemy. To the southeast, a short distance away, the barren desert made a remarkable turnabout as its shifting sands met the lush fields and swaying palms of the rich Nile Delta. Hidden within its fertile grasses, Mourad’s tanks waited for the order to attack. The time was drawing near. The fifth foray of the day was getting organized.

  The instant they arrived, the platoon leader sprang into action.

  “Sergeant Joyce, drop the claymores, Stingers, and two of the Javelins here. Leave the TOWs and tripods also. Then go along the line passing out the remaining Javelins and LAWs. Each squad leader gets two Javelins. Each fire team gets two LAWs.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell them there probably won’t be any more until sundown, so make every shot count.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  After they unloaded the weapons the lieutenant had identified as remaining there, the Humvee sped off toward the far left of the platoon. Joyce’s fire team was soon doling out the remaining missiles.

  Satisfied with Joyce’s efforts, Erickson turned to his recon platoon’s remaining team leader. “Sergeant Merker, your team will handle the TOWs. Set a tripod up on each side of the highway. Four TOWs for each one. Once they’re in place, take the claymores and string them fifty yards in front of the platoon. Try not to blow yourselves up while doing so. And keep your heads down. Don’t get careless and let a sniper pick you off.”

  “Yes, sir. Trip wires or detonators?”

  “Detonators for now. When the attack comes, each team leader will fire his claymore as he sees fit. If we haven’t expended them by the time it gets dark, we’ll switch to trip wires. After you’ve finished positioning t
he claymores, get behind those tripods, ready to release your TOWs.”

  While Erickson laid things out with Sergeant Merker, Gunny took a quick look around. He wasn’t at all satisfied. “Pass the word. The rest of you need to hurry up and fortify your positions. I want to see twice as many sandbags in front of you and your foxholes two feet deeper by nightfall.”

  Erickson looked in Fife’s direction. “Gunnery Sergeant, didn’t you once tell me you had experience with Stingers?”

  “Yes, sir. Haven’t fired one in a few years. But at one time I was pretty damn good with them. I can drop a few enemy helicopters for you if it comes to that.”

  “That’s good enough for me. You’ve been elected platoon air defense gunner. Mount the firing assemblies onto the first missile and get ready to repulse an attack.”

  * * *

  —

  In their foxholes, the sparse Marines crouched behind the sandbagged walls. The merciless sun beat down upon them as it continued its unwavering passage across the afternoon sky. To a man, the scattered Americans knew the killing fields would soon be upon them once again.

  First came the unmistakable rumble of three hundred tank engines springing to life. The motors of an equal number of armored personnel carriers howled in unison. Moments later, the high-pitched screech of steel treads was added to the devilish refrain as the rebellious T-72 and BMPs slithered from the abundant grasses near the river’s edge. This was no brigade-size attack. An entire division of armored beasts was on the move. Twenty-four whirling Hind helicopters rose from their hiding places. The Chosen One’s artillery screamed into action, intent on softening up their vastly outnumbered opponent. A fierce barrage tore through the disagreeable desert in search of the sheltering infidels.

  The determined Marines answered with their howitzers.

  Across the unforgiving landscape the vulgar tanks roared. The earth shuddered beneath their immense power. With every yard the T-72s covered, shadowy men carrying assault rifles sprang from their burrows to run alongside the massive hulls.

  The fateful directive had arrived. It would be an all-out assault by one of the most loyal of the Chosen One’s divisions. Brought to a frenzied state by the political officers, fifteen thousand enraged fanatics would attack the six hundred survivors of the reinforced Marine battalion. The Mahdi’s army would concentrate everything it had on smashing the center of the Americans’ lines with a swift and crushing blow so awe-inspiring nothing could withstand its mighty force. Their target was the sticky ribbon of wide asphalt leading to Alexandria and the glistening sea beyond.

  Eternity was upon them. This time they’d fight to the last man. In the coming battle, the lovers of Islam would stop for nothing until they’d hurled the heretics back into the Mediterranean, or having failed, found their way to a martyr’s dream.

  Erickson didn’t hesitate. He knew they were severely overmatched.

  “Get on the radio and call in air strikes,” he directed Fife. “Cobras, drones, and fighters.”

  The platoon’s sergeant grabbed the radio handset. As he did, the first of the plundering tanks crested a rippling mountain of sand no more than a mile away. Behind it, Mourad’s malignant throngs appeared.

  20

  4:07 P.M., OCTOBER 18

  BLACKJACK SECTION, FIGHTING SQUADRON VF-57

  USS ABRAHAM LINCOLN

  THIRTY MILES FROM THE COAST OF EGYPT

  With its engines now running, Lieutenant Commander Bradley “Blackjack” Mitchell sat in his F/A-18E Super Hornet’s cockpit reading a letter from his wife. The mail had arrived minutes before Mitchell went on deck. It had taken the naval pilot significant time to gather the courage to open the sweet-smelling envelope. The lengthy text was yet another of his pampered spouse’s endless harangues. From the look on his face it was obvious he was troubled by its stinging words. There was no way around it. The shrill letter, along with the four equally disquieting e-mails she’d sent since yesterday morning, was a distraction. And in his line of work, distractions could get you killed.

  Along with his wingman, Lieutenant Norman “Worm” Sweeney, Mitchell had been sitting in his fighter aircraft on the deck of the Lincoln for more than an hour.

  To Mitchell’s right, another pair of fierce Super Hornets brought their deafening jet engines to life. The frantic preparations on the aircraft carrier’s flight deck increased tenfold. All around him, flight personnel raced to their fighters. Deck crews scrambled to prepare the Hornets scheduled to support the embattled Marines.

  Erickson’s desperate plea had reached the carrier task force. Pan-Arab forces were gathering for another offensive against the beleaguered Americans. In less than a minute, the first of the ground attack fighters would be launched to support the outnumbered defenders. That F/A-18E would be piloted by Mitchell. Twelve of the Lincoln’s Super Hornets would be committed to battle the Chosen One’s tanks. A few miles north, another dozen waited on the aircraft carrier Eisenhower. Should the first dozen fail to stem the tide, the second group would spring into action.

  The furious activity on the Lincoln’s deck continued to balloon. Every forty-five seconds, an F/A-18F two-seater or F/A-18E single-seater Super Hornet landed. Every minute or two, another pair catapulted down the runway. Each screamed across the rippling waters. All were capable of attacking both air and ground targets. While the F/A-18Es were presently handling the ground attack role, the F/A-18Fs were protecting the carrier battle groups from the threat of hostile aircraft or cruise missiles. Since their recent arrival off the coast of Egypt, such patrols had become routine, and for the most part downright boring. None of the Chosen One’s ample air forces had attempted to test their abilities against the fleet’s daunting defenses. Not one of Mourad’s MiGs had challenged their impressive adversary.

  Intelligence sources confirmed the majority of the Mahdi’s aircraft had survived the three weeks of air-to-air combat with the Egyptian air force. Even so, no sign of them had been seen in the past two days. They remained on the ground, hiding within the relative safety of their bases in Libya and Algeria. There was nothing astonishing in the Pan-Arabs’ unwillingness to tangle in the stained skies with the world’s best pilots. That surprised no one. Why the Mahdi had failed to use his generous supply of cruise missiles at any point in the war was far more puzzling. The Americans were beginning to believe they were facing a seventh-century warrior in a twenty-first-century war.

  That was exactly what the little Algerian wanted them to think.

  * * *

  —

  Mitchell’s radio crackled to life. “Blackjack, this is launch control. Massive attack has commenced against Marines holding the Cairo–Alexandria Highway. Your aircraft will move into position on catapult one.”

  “Roger, Control.”

  Mitchell shoved his wife’s letter into his flight suit and started preparing for the launch. His life would soon be on the line. For now, he’d push his family problems into the deepest recesses of his mind. It was something he’d long ago trained himself to do. His overindulged wife and her incessant demands forgotten, he sat watching as his staunch aircraft was towed onto the catapult.

  Lieutenant Sweeney’s settled onto the one next to Mitchell’s.

  Tow bars were being placed on another pair of Super Hornets. It wouldn’t be long before all four of the aircraft carrier’s steam-operated catapults were occupied.

  The time had arrived for Mitchell’s third mission of the day. The veteran pilot turned to watch the catapult control officer standing on the deck to his left. The launching system gained power. Mitchell revved his jet engines in preparation for takeoff. His F/A-18E’s engines were so powerful he wouldn’t need to go to afterburners to slingshot off the deck. Without the tremendous waste of fuel involved in firing his afterburners, he’d be able to spend far greater time over the battlefield.

  The catapult control officer held up his cha
lkboard, indicating everything was ready.

  Mitchell checked his instruments. Satisfied, the Hornet pilot gave a thumbs-up. The green light lit on the controller’s panel. The blast deflector rose behind the aircraft. Mitchell put his hands on his helmet so the deck crew could verify there was no possibility he could accidentally hit the wrong switch and release his weapons while sitting on the deck. The armament specialists raced in and removed the safety pins from the Hornets’ loads of bombs and Sidewinder air-to-air missiles. The show was getting under way. The control officer signaled. Mitchell increased his F/A-18E’s power even further. The controller held up a green flag. Everything was ready. The accomplished pilot saluted. With a crisp chop of the controller’s right arm the flag fell.

  In an instant, the catapult fired. With incredible force it threw the lethal plane down the abbreviated runway toward the open sea. The aircraft leaped from the giant ship. It soared into the steaming afternoon. Sweeney soon joined him. The pair raced into the heavens at tremendous speed.

  The control officer headed over to the Super Hornets on catapults three and four. Another pair of F/A-18Es moved up to catapults one and two. It wouldn’t be long before twelve angry Super Hornets were swarming over the unbounding desert to annihilate the Pan-Arabs.

  “Echo Control,” Mitchell said into his radio, “this is Blackjack Section. We’re armed and ready. Request flight instructions.”

  From high above the southern Mediterranean the EC-2 command and control aircraft answered. “Roger, Blackjack. Enemy has launched a division-size ground attack. Tanks and armored personnel carriers are attempting to break through our lines. Cobras have arrived and are dueling Mourad’s attack helicopters. They’ll join you in protecting the Marines as soon as they chase the bad guys away. Attack drones have been launched. We need you to blunt the lead elements of the tank column and slow them down. Once you’ve used up your munitions, return to the Lincoln to rearm and refuel. Looks like you can plan on a few return trips to the desert before this day ends. With the persistence of those lunatics, we anticipate you’ll spend most of the coming hours greeting the Chosen One’s followers.”