The Chosen One

Mitchell dove for the ocean’s swells with Sweeney on his tail. Flying directly into the sun, a dozen feet above the blinding waters, they raced west.

Both of their radars tracked the approaching targets. The pilot’s job was to get his aircraft to the attack point, and once there, unleash his AIM-120s and 132s. While they flew toward the cruise missiles, the F/A-18Es’ computers would select and prioritize their victims.

* * *

—

To the southwest, a Super Hornet fired its first AIM-120. The initial clash of the desperate defense had begun. This opening match, the precursor of many to come, would be no contest. At six times the cruise missile’s speed, the streaking bird of prey roared across the relentless waves with sharpened talons raised. The AIM-120 soon plucked the helpless pigeon from the low skies. The impacting projectiles exploded. One cruise missile would never reach the fleet.

Ninety-nine to go. And seven minutes left.

A second AIM-120 leaped from its perch beneath a Super Hornet’s wing. A third and fourth went in search of conquest moments later. Three more cruise missiles would never reach their monumental goal. Another took up the chase. And another. Few would miss the mark.

Even with the extreme pressure, most of the aircrafts’ air-to-air missiles would find the speeding sharks. The game would go on until the last of the F/A-18Fs’ munitions reached its implacable adversary, or failed in its quest and, its fuel expended, spun into the sea.

Behind the sea-hugging Super Hornets, the cruisers’ Harpoon missiles waited. The first of the cruise missiles already was well within range of the ships’ air defenses. As soon as the Super Hornets finished their task and cleared the area, the Harpoons would fire. And behind them, the Aegis, missiles, and guns of the destroyers sat at the ready. It was all a matter of time.

Yet with so few ticks of the clock remaining, time was not an ally of the Americans.

The unrelenting moments continued to run. Another minute passed. The fatalistic enemy reached the fifty-mile mark. In fewer than six minutes the Mahdi’s minions would find the fleet.

* * *

—

Blackjack Section neared the release point for its AIM-120s.

“All right, Worm, looks like we’re all set. Computer’s got them prioritized. I know we’re in a hurry here, but let’s attempt to eliminate as many as we can. Six kills in six shots from each of us would make me quite happy.”

“There’s not much time left, Blackjack. And the cruise missiles are awfully small targets.”

“I know. But we’ll do our best and hope the ships can handle the rest. Okay, my first shot’s all set. Here we go.”

Mitchell fired an initial missile. The fast-flying armament leaped from the Hornet. The tables had been turned on one of the oncoming killers.

Another frantic chase had begun a few feet above the cool Mediterranean. And the result would be predictable. The selected cruise missile was overmatched. The smaller pack of Mourad’s assassins would soon be down to twenty-nine.

Sweeney had a parrying shot lined up. Away went a second slayer. Mitchell fired another a moment later. The F/A-18E pilots were methodically knocking one after another of the Chosen One’s dreams from the low skies.

There were less than five minutes left.

* * *

—

A final Super Hornet’s AIM-132 went forth to seek and destroy. One last kill from the F/A-18Fs. Of sixteen missiles fired, fourteen had found the mark. Still, in the main group, fifty-six of Mourad’s avenging angels remained in the air. With single-minded determination the survivors came on. The quartet of Super Hornets had done what they could. They raced skyward. It was now the cruisers’ turn. The ships fired. An initial volley of Harpoon missiles filled the air in search of prey. Others would soon follow.

More cruise missiles were about to be destroyed.

Four minutes before death’s arrival. Thirty-six miles out and coming on fast. But the first of the Harpoons would soon be upon them.

At three minutes, the destroyers entered the fray. A barrage of Sea Sparrows soared forth. An immense curtain of readying destruction rushed west to meet the invaders. The cruisers raced to prepare their Harpoons once again. Scores of defensive missiles were on the way. The covering ships gave it everything they had.

A hastening Tomahawk fell. It was followed seconds later by another, and another, and another . . . The action was so fast and remarkably furious it was impossible for Echo Control to follow. The steady elimination of the Mahdi’s missiles was relentless. It seemed to go on forever. Explosion after explosion flashed on the western horizon.

No one had a handle on what was occurring. One thing was certain: Mourad’s brutal clans were being destroyed in huge numbers. One by one, and in dying handfuls, their shattering fragments tumbled into the deep waters. In the space of sixty frenetic seconds, nearly thirty were pulled from the sky. Twenty-seven remained in the main group.

The survivors came on.

The second hand reached twelve once more. The sands remaining in the hourglass were few. Two minutes before the interminable enemy would reach their objective.

* * *

—

Sweeney brought down another target. In the distance, his impacting AIM-120 tore apart a crusading missile. So far, Blackjack Section had knocked down seven ducks with eight shots. The smaller gathering of steadfast huntsmen was reduced to twenty-three.

Their radios crackled to life. “Blackjack Section, how many missiles do you have left?” Echo Control asked.

“A pair of AIM-132s each and our Sidewinders,” was Mitchell’s reply. “But with the nominal heat source emanating from the cruise missiles and so little time left, I don’t think the Sidewinders will be of any use.”

“Hold your AIM-132s for now until we see how many the ships can handle. We?

??ll send you back in to eliminate any surviving cruise missiles once the ships complete their volleys.”

“Roger, Echo Control.”

The pair roared skyward, intent on circling behind the onrushing formation. Blackjack Section would position itself and wait to see where the last of their missiles was needed.

The swarming destroyers took over from the Hornet pair. Twelve ships were firing everything they had at the two groups of oncoming assailants. Explosion after explosion filled the western horizon. The feverish invaders were dwindling. Seventy would fly no more. Mourad’s grand plans were resting on thirty sets of stubby wings. The fixated survivors wouldn’t relent in their determined quest.

The Americans had a scant minute to go. Death was nine miles out and drawing near.

Panic was setting in. The carriers instituted severe evasive actions. The fleet’s immense array of guns prepared to enter the contest.

Blackjack Section’s Hornets chased the cruise missiles across the buffeting waves, hoping to do what they could. The fleet’s incessant firing never faltered. And cruise missiles steadily fell. But the Americans’ time was nearly up. And the lurid clock refused to stop.

The destroyers never gave in. They fired missile after missile at the incoming threat. A steady destruction of the little Algerian’s twisted plan could be traced across the ocean’s crests. Another Tomahawk exploded. The others maintained their unwavering course. Twenty missiles left . . . seventeen . . .

Forty-five seconds to go. Fifteen missiles remained. Thirteen . . .

“Blackjack Section, we’re almost out of time and there are far too many on the way to the Eisenhower. Select your targets on your own initiative and knock them down!”

Mitchell instantly responded to Echo Command’s directive. A first AIM-132 sprang into action. Sweeney was brief seconds behind. Neither would have the luxury of watching his lethal missile hunt down its perishing prey. They had to act without delay.