The Chosen One

There was nothing more for Mitchell to do than watch as the fire-and-forget heat-seeker closed with its target. The MiG’s radar screamed for its pilot to take evasive action. The panicked Libyan dove for the beckoning seas with the Sidewinder in pursuit. Flares poured from the diving plane. But it was no use. The Sidewinder couldn’t be fooled. At the last possible instant, the pilot hit the eject lever and parachuted from his craft. The MiG exploded. Pieces of the defeated plane, Mitchell’s second kill of the afternoon, fell into the watery world below.

Throughout the spanning blue, scores of Pan-Arab aircraft were meeting the same fate.

Mourad’s struggling fliers had one-tenth the training of their American counterparts. And it showed. Even with the initial twenty-to-one odds against them, the assured Navy pilots dominated the unanticipated air battle. As the extending heavens behind the first groups filled with Super Hornets, the contest turned one-sided. In the early stages, some of the Mahdi’s fighters broke through the twenty-four defenders. Those that did ran headlong into the rising formations of F/A-18s. Only a scattering of Mirages reached the fringes of the naval battle groups. Each of those was effortlessly dispatched by the swarming cruiser and destroyer air defenses. Not a single invading pilot got within thirty miles of the aircraft carriers.

The first desperate hour passed. With the Pan-Arabs’ superior forces, the Americans lost a few of their number in the solemn conflict spreading for hundreds of miles in every direction. A handful of defeated Navy planes plunged into the Mediterranean or crashed into the trackless Sahara. Sixty of the enemy were gone. All eighty-three remaining American fighters from the Lincoln and Eisenhower were engaged in the life-and-death drama. Not a single combat aircraft had been left in reserve. With so immense a strike, holding back even one was a luxury the defenders couldn’t afford.

The battle drifted west toward Libya. It looked quite reasonable to the F/A-18 pilots that their inexperienced rival was being pushed back by the Americans’ remarkable skills. Everything seemed perfectly natural. A slow retreat by their overmatched opponent was exactly what the Navy fliers anticipated would occur. A steady elimination of Mourad’s aircraft was under way. It wouldn’t be much longer before the Pan-Arab flight commanders would have to decide between withdrawing to their bunkered bases or facing certain annihilation over North Africa.

Things were proceeding exactly as the Americans had hoped. At least, that’s how it looked. In reality, the conflict was developing precisely as Mourad had laid it out. The Mahdi’s orders were for his planes to draw their opponent toward the sunset, away from the carrier task force. They were accomplishing just that. The closest American aircraft was one hundred miles from the fleet.

The Chosen One’s aim was to lure the swarming Super Hornets from their guardian positions surrounding the carriers. And by the end of the first hour he’d succeeded. The towering skies above the fleet were clear of friend and enemy alike.

Mourad had achieved his initial goal. He’d temporarily eliminated a crucial layer of the naval strike group’s defenses. The AIM-120 and AIM-132 missiles of the F/A-18s wouldn’t be waiting on the perimeter of the American fleet to shoot down his cruise missiles. He knew, however, that even with the soaring aircraft out of the mix, there were still no guarantees of success. The highly accurate shipborne Aegis air defense system would have to be overcome. This would be an impressive task. Most of his lethal missiles were bound to fail.

The great majority would never reach their destination. Of that, he had no illusion. Yet with one hundred launches within moments of each other, there remained a decent chance of overwhelming the two carrier battle groups and killing one or both of the giant ships.

The Chosen One’s plan was evolving right on schedule. With the shielding fighters pulled away, the carriers were at their most vulnerable. The time had come to unleash his concise executioners to seek out and destroy. At the launch sites in Libya, the crews readied their ground-hugging missiles. One hundred nearly simultaneous firings were about to take place. With a top speed of five hundred and fifty miles per hour, the unwavering American-made Tomahawk cruise missiles would need just under sixty minutes to reach the inviting aircraft carriers.

As he’d accomplish many times in this war, Mourad was going to slaughter the Americans with weapons of their own design.

The countdown began. A first missile rose from its launchpad. Following its on-board computer’s preprogrammed data, it headed straight for the open sea. Another soon followed. Still more spewed forth. It didn’t take long for the deadly pack to form. Somewhere out there, the enormous quarry awaited. The guiltless killers picked up the scent. A monumental game of hounds and foxes was taking shape. And the hounds’ sharp teeth were bared and lusting for blood. A fast and furious contest of hunter against hunted would soon be waged off the coast of Egypt. To the victor would go the spoils.

The Chosen One’s prize was the two carriers’ eleven thousand lives and the destruction of a pair of the world’s greatest warships. His ultimate goal, control of the skies over North Africa and defeat of all Allied forces in Egypt, would be at hand.

In the next hour, the Pan-Arabs’ chances for conquest and Mourad’s eventual world domination would become much clearer. Win this afternoon, and triumph over the infidels was all but assured. Lose and face the stark reality of a forever-steepening struggle to defeat those who stood in Allah’s way.

Unaware the second act in the Mahdi’s life-and-death drama was playing out, Bradley Mitchell contacted the EC-2 command and control aircraft.

“Echo Control, this is Blackjack Section. Have expended our missiles. And our Vulcan cannons are almost empty. Request permission to return to the boat to rearm and refuel.”

“Okay, Blackjack Section. We’ve got a few other Super Hornets that are low on fuel and will reach the Lincoln ahead of you. But by the time you arrive, you should be able to land immediately. Bring it on in.”

“Roger, Echo Control, we’re on our way.”

After searching the widely scattered clouds to ensure the enemy wasn’t hiding nearby, the pair of Hornets swung around and rushed back toward the east. In seven minutes, they’d reach their destination. Alert for lurking Pan-Arab aircraft, Blackjack Section closed with the fleet.

It wasn’t long before the fearsome aircrafts’ screeching wheels reached the deck and each Hornet’s hook grabbed one of the stout runway’s arrester wires, slamming them to an abrupt stop.

The tired pilots crawled from their cockpits. The maintenance and armament crews were there to meet them. Mitchell searched out his crew chief.

“How much time until we’re back in the air, Chief?” he asked.

“Normally I’d tell you an hour, sir. But with the present tactical situation, our orders are to have you strapped in your cockpits and headed to the catapults in thirty minutes.”

“Looks like there’ll be no rest for the wicked today.”

“No, sir. Word is this probably won’t be the last time in the coming hours we prepare you to launch. Fuel and weapons teams are ready and waiting. They’ll start getting your Hornets into dogfight mode before you’ve cleared the deck.”

“Thirty minutes,” Mitchell said. “Worm, we’re going to earn our paychecks today. Let’s go below, grab some coffee, and shove down a sandwich or two while we can.”

“Sounds good to me,” Sweeney said. “While we’re at it, maybe we should stop by and talk to Naval Pilot Union Local 114’s shop steward about putting us in for some overtime. That time-and-a-half money will sure come in handy with all the pretty girls in Naples who’re waiting for my handsome face to return. Ya know many of them

believe I’m some sort of deity whose every command mortal women must obey.”

“You wish. It’s not those homely features of yours that makes you so attractive to the women around the Naples piers. None of them care a lick about what you look like. It’s that fat wallet of yours they’re really interested in. But you’re right about the money. After what we’ve gone through this week, I know why on my first day in the Navy they made it clear we were being paid twenty-four hours a day, three hundred sixty-five days a year. If they ever gave me overtime for all the hours I’ve put in during the past twelve years, I could retire tomorrow.”

Side by side, the pilots of Blackjack Section swaggered across the deck and disappeared down the stairs.

* * *

—

The Chosen One’s cruise missiles had been in the air for fifteen minutes. If not stopped, a fiery end would reach the floating cities in three-quarters of an hour.

Just a few feet from the water, the missiles skimmed the whitecapped sea. As they crossed the twenty-minute mark, each reached the outer edges of the EC-2’s three-hundred-mile radar limit. A large cluster of unexplained symbols, their outlines vague and distorted, appeared at the fringes of the controllers’ screens. The command and control aircraft was nearing the end of its five-hour shift. All three battle controllers were consumed with the enormity of guiding the intensive air combat. None picked up the images hugging the ocean’s waves.

Another ten minutes passed. Mitchell finished a first sandwich. He glanced at his watch and reached for another.

The air battle was reaching its peak. The EC-2 controllers had their hands full. Straight and steady the cruise missiles came on. They were ninety miles closer to their goal.