The Chosen One

They never would.

Whenever the Americans spotted the source of one of these unearthly appeals, a burst of gunfire reached out to extinguish the agony and escort another ill-disposed soul to the next world.

The flittering flare slowly descended toward the valley of death. Walton looked away, shielding his eyes. A wretched smile came over his face. For a week, their maniacal opponents had kept Walton’s platoon from finding all but the briefest moments of sleep.

In his battle-weary mind, turnabout was fair play. Interrupting their rivals’ fitful dreams was one of the few pleasures he’d enjoyed in the countless hours since his unit’s arrival outside Sakakah.

Other than the falling flare’s unsettling effect, there’d been no strategic reason for firing it. The Bradleys had state-of-the-art thermal night vision. In combination with the smoldering fires from the last Iraqi armor attack, these systems ensured nothing could move an inch on the piteous ground without the battalion’s men spotting it.

Even so, the Americans continued firing the flares at irregular intervals to keep their adversaries on their toes. If nothing else, they served to remind the Iranians and Iraqis that the vestiges of the proud battalion were still here, ready and willing to take their lives.

Of the thirty-four fighting vehicles with which the cavalry unit had arrived, only twenty-two had survived. There’d been four Bradleys in Walton’s platoon when they took up defensive positions six miles in front of the Saudi city and its critical crossroads. Now there were only three. Seven days earlier all four had been placed in sloped holes so only their turrets were exposed to the disdaining enemy. Even so, Lieutenant Field’s fighting vehicle had been destroyed in the fierce combat two nights prior. A lucky shot from a T-72’s massive cannon ripped the twenty-five-ton Bradley apart.

Walton glanced at the burned-out shell on his right. The skeletal remains of Field’s Bradley sat in its hole. Its scorched hull was a continual reminder of how tenuous were the lives of the cavalry soldiers. The defeated tracked vehicle’s turret was smashed beyond recognition. When Walton dragged them from the blazing Bradley, the charred bodies of its crew of three also had been unrecognizable.

Laid out in shiny coffins, the vanquished fighting team was on an Air Force cargo plane high over the Atlantic. The C-17’s hold was filled with identical silver coffins. Each contained the remains of a soldier who would, at least in this lifetime, fight no more. America’s dead were coming home. The long journey of the defeated armored vehicle’s men was nearing its end.

There were moments in the past days when Walton envied them.

The platoon’s Bradleys had carried thirty-six soldiers into battle. After a week of intense struggles, most of the six infantrymen each armored personnel carrier had transported in its rear compartment were gone. Dead or wounded, one by one, 4th Platoon’s members had been carried away.

Only fifteen of their original number endured. The three surviving Bradleys’ drivers, gunners, and commanders were still in the fight along with six of the cavalry platoon’s foot soldiers.

With the death of the platoon’s lieutenant, Walton was now in charge. The previously undistinguished thirty-two-year-old sergeant wasn’t the typical military leader. His approach had never been the stern autocratic one of the Army’s textbooks. He commanded the platoon more through his ample abilities than through his rank. Such a leadership style worked well for the brown-haired, hazel-eyed sergeant. The piles of bodies in front of their position were all the proof needed to show the success of the soft-spoken Walton’s methods.

While the settling flare sputtered and died, Walton glanced over at his Bradley’s gunner. Specialist Four Miguel Sanchez’s eyes were nearly shut.

“Miguel, you sure look like you could use a nap. Wally’s been asleep in the driver’s compartment for a couple of hours. Why don’t you get him to relieve you? If the Iraqi tanks attack again, we’ll wake you up.”

“Naw, Sarge, I’m okay. Got twenty minutes of sleep yesterday. And a half hour the day before. Let Dimmit sleep. When the time comes to leave, I want our darling private first class wide-awake to drive us out of here as fast as he can.”

“Leave? I hate to say it, Miguel, but what makes you think we’ll ever leave this place? We’ve been in this godforsaken hellhole forever. And with each passing hour, I become more and more convinced here’s where we’re going to stay until the end of time.”

“Man, you couldn’t be more wrong. Haven’t you heard, Sarge? This is our last night in this filthy little corner of nowhere. We’re leaving in ten hours. By midday we’ll be on our way out of here. Two brigades from the 3rd Infantry arrived yesterday. A friend at battalion called on the radio while you were out checking on the platoon. At this moment, one of those brigades is headed this way to relieve us.”

“An entire brigade to take our place? Miguel, your stories get wilder by the minute. I’m afraid this sounds like nothing but wishful thinking. Wasn’t it two days ago someone told you the 82nd Airborne was making a parachute drop behind our lines? And yesterday your best source had it from the battalion commander himself that a Marine division was going to land in Kuwait and fight their way across the desert to reinforce our position.”

“I know I said those things, Sarge. But you’ve got to understand, those were just crazy rumors created by guys with too much time on their hands. You really can’t pay much attention to that sort of stuff. I’m telling you, though, this one’s no rumor. It’s really true. There are one hundred and twelve M-1s, one hundred and twelve Bradleys, all kinds of artillery, and more Apache attack helicopters than you can shake a stick at on the way. They’ll be here by noon at the latest.”

“Is that a fact? And what happens to us when they get here?”

“My friend didn’t know for certain. Word is we’re headed back across Saudi Arabia to the Persian Gulf. We’re to wait for the rest of the division to arrive from Texas. They won’t be here for at least another week. Until then, unless these lunatics break through, we kick back and relax. When the division gets here we’re supposed to lead some kind of top secret mission to crush the Iranians and Iraqis.”

“Oh my God, now we’re going on a top secret mission? Miguel, you know I like you and everything. You’re the best damn gunner I’ve ever served with. You don’t miss with those TOW missiles of yours. But where do you come up with some of these insane ideas? I swear, the lack of sleep is causing you to hallucinate.”

“Sarge, I’ve spoken nothing but the truth. We’re getting out of here. Twelve o’clock, you’ll see. This is our last night in these lousy holes. By this time tomorrow, this will be nothing more than a distant memory. We’ll be lying on the beach dipping our toes in the bright blue waters while Red Cross donut dollies feed us grapes and caress our tired brows.”

“Miguel, you’re losing it, man.”

“Okay, I made up the donut dolly part. But the rest is true. Come midday we’re leaving.”

“Then I guess it’s official. Specialist Miguel Sanchez has announced for the world to hear that by noon the desert behind us is going to fill with M-1s. Looks like I’d better start pack

ing. Sure wouldn’t want to be in the way when all those Abrams show up.”

“Sarge, they’re on the way . . . You’re going to be sorry you ever doubted me when the 3rd Infantry gets here.”

“All right, Miguel, whatever you say. Let’s hope for the next ten hours those idiots on the far side of the dunes leave us alone. Who knows, maybe they’ll decide to sleep in tomorrow. If we’re lucky, their commanders might elect to catch up on their beauty rest. Because it sure would be a shame to get killed at this point when you’ve stated so much help’s coming.”

An exhausted smile spread across Walton’s face.

“I can’t believe you’re even questioning me,” Sanchez said. “You know darn well I’m one of the best sources of information in the entire battalion. Remember back at Fort Hood when I told you they were calling a surprise inspection to check the barracks for drugs with one of those dogs? I was right then, wasn’t I? Then there was the time Dimmit got caught doing the colonel’s daughter on the parade field. I was right about that too. And I’m right now. With my track record I can’t understand why you’re doubting what I’m telling you. This is starting to tick me off. I mean really tick me off. Just for that, for not believing me, when this war’s over remind me to never speak to you again.”

“Whatever you say, Miguel. Now why don’t you try to get some sleep? Everything’s quiet. Sure looks like the enemy’s sleeping right now. So should you.”

“Naw, Sarge. I’m staying right here to wait for the 3rd Infantry to come over those ugly hills behind us. Don’t want to miss the look on your face when the M-1s arrive.”

“I hope you’re right about those tanks. Nothing would please me more than being wrong about this one. Unfortunately, I’m afraid I’m not. And I’m sure going to hate seeing the expression on your face when they don’t show up tomorrow.”