The Chosen One

“What have you heard about the second part?” Watson asked.

“Nice and simple. Take the remaining elements of the 2nd Marine Division and push southeast to engage as many of the Chosen One’s divisions as they can to take some pressure off the Egyptian capital. If nothing else, they hope to buy everyone a few days of valuable time. When the 1st Marine Division arrives, its regiments will rush in to reinforce whatever’s left of the 2nd Division.”

“Certainly, Lauren, even with relentless air support, thirty-eight thousand Marines don’t expect to defeat an army of three million.”

“Tony, some pretty high-up sources have hinted such a goal’s almost laughable. There’s just not enough firepower in these divisions to do that. The Marines have always been a light, highly trained fighting force based upon mobility and the quality of its members. They don’t have the resources to destroy the vast armored force Mourad’s assembled. My God, Tony, a Marine division’s only got a few dozen tanks supported by some Stryker armored cars and Humvees. Even with what’s been destroyed in the past three weeks, intelligence estimates show Mourad’s army with nearly nine thousand tanks. It would take at least two or three of our best army divisions with their hundreds of M-1 tanks and Bradley Fighting Vehicles to engage and eliminate such a huge quantity of armor.”

“So why did we send in the Marines? Why not one of our army divisions?”

“I can’t give our audience a definite answer. But I’ve got a pretty good guess.”

“What would that be?”

“We don’t have the logistical capabilities to move an army division here quickly enough to keep Cairo from falling. Putting the Marines on planes to Italy and getting them onto ships to cross the Mediterranean’s going to happen much quicker than loading hundreds of tanks in the United States and sailing them here. Remember, during Desert Storm it took us three months to build up our forces to the point where we felt strong enough to invade. And that was a single war against one Arab nation. This time we’ve got two war zones on our hands. And we’ve had less than three weeks. It’s already been confirmed that the initial movement of our armored units who’ve arrived in the Middle East has been in support of the growing battles against Iraq and Iran. So at the moment I don’t think we’ve got anything but the two Marine divisions available to attack the Chosen One. In a week or two, I wouldn’t be surprised to find British or French or American armored vehicles rumbling through these deserts, annihilating anything in their path. But for now, it’s up to the men of the 2nd Marine Division to stand up to the enemy tanks. The Marines are here to buy time. To harass and destroy. To give Cairo and the world a fighting chance.”

“With those somber thoughts,” Watson said, “I’m afraid we’ve run out of time. Thank you, Lauren, for your insights.”

“Thank you, Tony.”

Her picture disappeared from the screen.

Watson looked into the camera and said, “This has been another edition of Seven Days, America’s fastest-growing weekly news and information program. Next week our guests will be . . .”

* * *

—

In the lifeless desert of northern Egypt, Wells handed the telephone receiver to her cameraman, Chuck Mendes. He began disassembling the mobile satellite equipment.

“Hurry it up, Chuck,” she said. “There’s an interview I’m dying to get before the rest of the press corps comes ashore.”

13

5:07 A.M., OCTOBER 18

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

THE SANDS OF NORTHERN EGYPT

The exhausted lieutenant knelt in the desolate sands. He tied a final toe tag and zipped up the body bag. That was all of them, the last of the platoon they could find enough fractured pieces of to place in the windblown green bags. He arose from the gruesome task and wandered across the invasion-cluttered beach toward nothing in particular. He could go no farther. He didn’t have the strength to take another step.

Erickson slumped upon the shifting dunes. He propped himself against an empty ammunition crate and pulled at his exhausted eyes. Weariness overwhelmed him. With much effort, he removed the tattered remains of his fatigue shirt. The once-sterile bandages on his left arm were streaked with red. The wound had reopened. A trickle of blood oozed down his upper arm and dripped upon the ground. His arm throbbed. Beads of sweat gathered upon his filthy face and tugged at the corners of his parched mouth. He sat motionless, watching the steady stream of men and equipment coming ashore.

The platoon had done it. With their lives, they’d given the Americans a fighting chance to forestall the conquest of Egypt. They’d given the West an opportunity to defeat the Pan-Arabs and save the planet from erupting in an all-consuming war.

At the moment, however, such realities were of little comfort to the battered platoon leader. He turned to stare at the long rows of fluttering bags. He knew in a few hours the chaplains and escort officers would begin the grim process of ringing the doorbells of his brave men’s families. The young wives, most with babes in arm, would learn the awful truth. The anxious parents, pain etched upon their tormented features, would never recover from the unbearable grief that soon would arrive upon their doorsteps. He understood from firsthand experience what that devastating event would feel like. He hung his head in an ever-mounting sorrow. His grief crawled deep within him and wrapped itself around his anguished soul. Lost in thought, he didn’t notice the pair approaching.

“Lieutenant Samuel Erickson?” Wells asked.

The platoon leader looked up with a start. He couldn’t form the words to answer.

“You’re Lieutenant Erickson, aren’t you?” she said.

“Yes, I’m Erickson.” He made no attempt to get to his feet.

“I’m Lauren Wells from ABC.”

“I know who you are,” he said.

“Mind if I ask you some questions?”

He scarcely had the ability to respond. His answer was barely audible. “Actually, ma’am, I do mind.”

“I’m sorry, what?” she said.

“To tell you the truth, I’m not in much of a mood for talking. Maybe some other time.”

Wells, however, had never before taken no for an answer. And she wasn’t about to start. She ignored his response and gave her cameraman the signal to begin rolling tape.

“You’re the one who led the invasion yesterday, aren’t you?”

“Yes. It was my platoon that came ashore first.”

“I watched the whole thing from my ship. Had a front-row seat for everything. It was quite a show you put on.”

There was a dazed look in Erickson’s eyes. He didn’t respond.

“Tell me what happened,” she said.

“What do you mean what happened? What do you think happened? The Pan-Arabs were everywhere. We killed them. They killed us. We won. There’s nothing more to say.”

“How many were there?”

“We ran into a large roving patrol, followed by a company of infantry, and then four tanks.”

“Company of infantry. That would be what? Two hundred enemy soldiers?”

“Counting those in the patrol we killed, body count was two-sixty-two last I heard.”

“And how many men did you have?” she asked.

“With the infantry squads that reinforced us there were fifty-three.”

“So fifty-three Americans killed over two hundred enemy soldiers and destroyed four tanks.”

“Many were women,” Erickson said.

“What?”

“They were women. Young girls really. Some were fourteen, fifteen years old. We killed them all. If you don’t believe me you can see for yourself. Most of their bodies are still out there in the desert.”

It was Wells’s turn to be stunned. She quickly recovered. “What about the tanks?” she said. “What can you t

ell me about the tanks?”

“They were American-made M-60s. Showed up after we battled the women. Cost me most of my men. But somehow we defeated them. To tell you the truth, it’s all one big nightmare I can’t sort out at the moment. I haven’t slept in two days and I’m real confused about most of it right now.”

“That’s okay. Can you tell us what happens next for you and your platoon?”

“What platoon? Even counting the reinforcements, I’ve barely enough men left to form a squad. Most are over there”—Erickson gestured toward the body bags—“or out on the hospital ship. The rest we couldn’t even identify.”

“Tell me about your men. What were they like?”

“What’s to tell? They were no different than any other platoon. Most were in their late teens or early twenties. All had something to live for. Over half had wives. Many had children. Children who’ll never know their fathers.”