The Chosen One

“Corporal Smith, let the task force know what has happened, then I want you on me.”

Erickson took a final look around, leaped to his feet, and ran toward the fuming waters. He would be waiting when the hovercraft arrived.

Other than the distant cries of their severely wounded rivals, the meager elevation went quiet once again. This time, however, the lull would be short-lived. Their hand forced, the Americans no longer had surprise on their side. And things would soon be growing worse. As he stood on the beach waiting for the hovercraft to reach them, Erickson had no idea of how quickly that would happen.

“Sir, more hostiles,” Gunny said into his headset. There was an unmistakable urgency in the platoon sergeant’s voice.

“Where?”

“South of us. Out of nowhere, eight large military trucks came roaring across the desert. They’ve stopped approximately four hundred yards from our position. There are soldiers pouring from them. From what I see, it appears to be at least a company-size unit. Three enemy mortar teams are heading off to set up their tubes. The rest are running toward us.”

Whether the new arrivals had been backup for the first group of marauders or happened to be passing through the area as the fierce onslaught began, the Marines hadn’t a clue. Yet unexpectedly the daunting numbers the platoon faced had more than tripled.

“Roger, Gunny. Reinforcements are still a couple of minutes out. Can you hold your position until they arrive?”

“Negative, sir. We’re outnumbered ten-to-one. With what I see coming this way, we’ll be overwhelmed before help can reach us. It’s not ideal, but our best hope might be to pull back and dig in on the beach. Request permission to withdraw the men and retreat toward the shoreline to buy us some time.”

Erickson had complete faith in his platoon sergeant’s judgment. “I sure hate to give up the high ground, Gunny. But do what you need to do.”

3

3:38 A.M., OCTOBER 17

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

THE SANDS OF NORTHERN EGYPT

With only the flickering flames from the destroyed trucks to guide them in the blossoming battle with the Americans, up and down the beach the Pan-Arabs were shooting in every direction. The resolute lieutenant could see the streaking gunfire. The ghastly images appeared to be coming right for him. He could sense the bullets striking all around the settling hovercraft. He could hear the lurid sounds of a seeking death whizzing past. A pair of mortar rounds exploded on his left. Deadly shell fragments ripped through the horrific night. Erickson’s agile mind registered that he was picking up movement everywhere he looked on the dunes above the beleaguered platoon. For the moment, there was no time to worry about such things. The reinforcements had to get ashore. If they failed to do so, it wouldn’t be long before the mortars found the landing craft’s range and destroyed them all with a single blow.

“Go! Go! Go!” he yelled while furiously waving his arm.

The lead Humvee, with its four-man fire team, roared out of the opening. Toward the rear of the vehicle, Sergeant Joyce was positioned behind the .50-caliber machine gun. The moment the tires splashed in the knee-deep waters, the combat-ready squad leader pulled the trigger. The first of many five-shell bursts was expelled from the imposing gun’s barrel. Corporal Johnson’s Humvee was right behind. The second vehicle’s machine gun was soon firing.

“Concentrate your efforts on the low bluffs where the beach meets the desert!” the lieutenant screamed at the passing crews. “That’s where most of the firing’s coming from.”

The initial Humvee hurried down the nightmarish seashore to the left. Johnson’s felt its way along the fierce waves on the right. They’d go out a short distance to hold the flanks and keep their opponent from getting behind the Marines as they attempted to reclaim the high ground. While they raced along the perilous water’s edge, each gunner focused on the small rise. Both came under extreme fire.

The final Humvee roared down the ramp and headed onto the thick sands. Corporal Whitehurst stood next to its TOW missile tube. A short distance from the landing craft, Whitehurst ordered his team to stop. His driver remained behind the steering wheel with the engine idling. Despite the mounting attention the stationary vehicle was receiving, Whitehurst stayed in his position just to the left of the antitank missile. He was ready to launch a TOW at the first sign of enemy armor. His 7.62-caliber machine gunner leaped from the front passenger seat. Using the Humvee for protection, he took up a supporting position. On the other side of the vehicle, the team’s final member slid from the rear seat and began shooting his M-16.

The moment Whitehurst’s Humvee cleared the ramp, the remaining fire teams scurried to escape the murderous confines of the motionless craft. Beneath a withering onslaught from the Chosen One’s defenders, they rushed in every direction.

When he reached the end of the ramp and was poised to leap into the frenetic tides, a first of the Americans went down beneath the grievous assault. The lance corporal tumbled into the unsettled ocean at the edge of the craft. His mortal wound was so shockingly sudden and totally lethal that the dead Marine uttered not a sound. Those behind him in their mad dash for the beseeching sands were splattered with flying fragments of fractured skull and shattered brain cells. A half dozen stumbled over their dead comrade and fell into the spiraling currents. Spewing salt water and obscenities, they struggled to their feet. Each of the fallen Marines fought to regain his senses. A widening pool of blood trailed from the floating body. Pushed by the angry currents, it wafted toward the shoreline. While he stood thigh-deep in the churning waters, a faint ring of red formed on Erickson’s pant leg.

Struck in the side by a burst of automatic gunfire, another Marine dropped in the ardent sea. The impacting bullets had penetrated his fleeing frame a fraction of an inch above the protection of his body armor. With great effort, he pulled himself to the violent ocean’s edge before the final labored breaths deserted him. The attackers were beginning to find the range.

The scattering squads exited the idling craft and dashed for the windswept shore. Twenty yards inland, the lead elements started digging in alongside the recon platoon. On the right, a third and fourth running figure went down. Neither had reached solid ground. The first, his kneecap crushed by an AK-47’s bullet, dragged himself onto the sands. The second moved not at all. His flowing blood soon added to the growing crimson foam tugging at the bitter waters. The incessant firing on both sides intensified. The enemy barrage zeroed in on the landing zone. Without warning, a whistling mortar round exploded in the center of one of Sergeant Joyce’s fire teams. Four fresh-faced reinforcements were added to the ever-expanding rolls of those who hadn’t survived to witness the coming day.

Radioman Smith rejoined Erickson. “Everyone’s ashore, Lieutenant,” Smith said.

“Good. Let’s get out of this damn water and find some shelter so we can figure out exactly what we’re up against.”

“I’m with you, sir.”

Erickson banged on the side of the craft. The ramp slowly rose while the anxious sailors worked to free their rebellious charge from the sandbar’s clutches. The moment it was clear of the restricting sands, it whirled about and raced back toward the fleet.

An additional mortar round exploded in the bloody tides near where the fleeing hovercraft had rested. At incredible speed, menacing fragments flew in every direction. As he fought to reach the fragile shore, the overpowering force of the explosion knocked Erickson to his knees. A sharp-edged sliver searched out the platoon’s leader. It sliced through his fatigue jacket and bored into his exposed flesh. The serrated metal embedded itself deep within the well-developed biceps on his left arm. Searing pain leaped into his startled brain. The stunned lieutenant fell face forward into the briny sea. Beneath his pack he fought with all he had t

o find his footing. The relentless tides tugged at his floundering form. The strong currents started pulling him toward the ocean’s depths. Hamilton Smith grabbed the embattled lieutenant and dragged him to his feet. Fresh blood ran down Erickson’s arm from the malicious rip in his shirtsleeve.

“You okay, sir?”

Erickson glanced at the torn sleeve. The intense anguish wasn’t subsiding in the slightest.

Nevertheless, for the moment there was nothing he could do.

“I’ll live,” he said. “Let’s get out of here while we still can.”

Beneath their antagonists’ riotous assault, Erickson sprinted forward past the line of dug-in Marines. He dove headfirst into a small depression. Smith threw himself down next to him.

James Fife raced up carrying the handful of satchel charges brought by the newly arriving squads. He joined Erickson and Smith. Sergeant Merker and one of his scouts leapfrogged forward. They took up defensive positions in front of the platoon’s leaders.

“What’re our losses so far?” Erickson asked Fife.

“At least six to eight of Joyce and Davies’s men. Three of ours including Staff Sergeant Laird. But it’s going to go a hell of a lot higher if we don’t get off this stinkin’ beach real soon.”

“Still confident we’re up against a company of infantry?”

“Yes, sir. From what I saw when they arrived, that remains my best guess.”

Erickson poked his head up from the sands. There was no letup in the onslaught. “Are we strong enough to take them out and regain control of the beachhead?”

“I’d bet next month’s paycheck on it, sir. Despite the fierceness of their attack, we really did catch them by surprise. There isn’t much cohesiveness to their efforts. They seem quite confused and have had no time to fortify their positions. If we hit them with everything we’ve got, we should be able to take back the high ground. We’ll no doubt suffer additional losses, but it’ll be far worse if we stay where we are.”