The Chosen One

Walton and Sanchez watched the approaching formation through their night-vision system. The Iranians didn’t hesitate. Stretching one hundred and fifty yards in both directions, they rushed toward the American positions. Each Iranian was exactly three feet from the ones on his left and right. Hurdling the piles of ever-increasing bodies, they were running at top speed. The sprinting file was perfectly straight. Not one of the advancing souls surged ahead or fell back. Fifty yards behind the opening wave, political officers, swords in one hand, pistols in the other, trailed the procession.

“That’s weird,” Walton said. “Usually the Iranian attacks are really sloppy. But this one’s coming toward us with absolute precision. How are they staying together like that when they’re running as fast as they can?”

“I’m telling you, Sarge, something’s wrong here.”

At that moment, in the center of the column, one of the Iranians tripped over the putrid remains of a long-dead countryman. Instead of staying where he’d fallen, the faltering soldier was dragged across thirty yards of rock and sand. The far-off figure clawed his way to his feet. None the worse for wear, he returned to running.

Both Americans witnessed what had transpired.

“What the hell?” Walton said.

“Rope! That’s what it is. They’re tied together with a thick rope. If you look real hard, you can just make it out. They’ve got it wrapped around their waists. It’s connected to those on either side of them.”

“But that’s crazy. Nobody in their right mind sends foot soldiers into battle with those kinds of restrictions on their movement. Infantry needs flexibility if it’s going to succeed. Tied together these guys don’t have a chance. They’re begging to be slaughtered. Why in the world would they do something so stupid?”

The Iranians had covered two hundred yards. The fierce whistle, long and eerie, sounded again. A second screaming formation, identical to the first in every respect, started running toward the bewildered soldiers. Behind them, more political officers raced forward. A new group of devotees appeared on the crest and moved forward to take their places in front of the crushed tanks. They watched the events unfolding in front of them with rapt attention.

Each knew his turn would soon come.

The lead elements were eight hundred yards away. There were five hundred to go before the platoon would open fire. In the command Bradley they watched the oncoming file, waiting for the Iranians to reach the attack point Walton had drawn in the sand.

Another two hundred yards were painfully crossed. The nearly immeasurable bodies littering their path was growing. The initial order’s piercing cries of death for America weren’t as loud or as determined as they’d been two minutes earlier. The formation had completed four hundred yards of running at full speed. It was impossible to maintain such a torrid pace any longer. The extreme exertion involved in the self-destructive effort made every breath a painful one. The tethered line slowed. Yet, propelled by its own weight, it struggled forward. The political officers, berating and cajoling, spurred their floundering charges. The second group followed, an eighth of a mile behind. Another piercing whistle blast could be heard over the screaming martyrs. In front of the burning armor, the third three hundred started toward the paradise promised by the American guns.

“Fire a flare,” Sanchez said.

“What?”

“Open up and fire a flare. I want to check something.”

Both soldiers popped their hatches. Walton pointed the flare gun into the heavens and pulled the trigger. Another flare sailed into the ominous night. It burst over the center of the angst-covered ground. Its offensive glow had no effect on the shrieking Persians. Conventional infantry tactics called for the exposed order to drop to their chests and lie perfectly still until the betraying light went out. Yet even under the harsh glow, the maniacal charge didn’t pause in the slightest. The cavalry soldiers shielded their eyes and peered at the persistent enemy.

“That’s what I thought I’d seen,” Sanchez said. “I can’t imagine why but take a good look, those in the first formation don’t have rifles.”

“What? How can that be?”

Walton searched the faraway sands. Miguel was right. With the exception of the political officers, there wasn’t a weapon to be found. He scanned the more distant second and third arrangements. The results were the same. None of the agitated figures was carrying a rifle. An inquisitive expression, filled with confusion, came to the platoon sergeant’s face. What was occurring was completely illogical. He’d no explanation for any of this. And not the slightest clue what the Iranians were doing.

It wouldn’t be much longer, however, before an answer to the madness would appear. It was a result Walton never would’ve imagined, even in his wildest dreams.

For some inexplicable reason, one of the stumbling figures attracted his attention. The muddled form looked like all the others, but something about the striving Iranian caught his eye. He raised his binoculars. From across the cluttered landscape, he stared at his ardent adversary. With the blinding flare’s sheer light raining down, the oncoming individual was as clear as if he were standing a few feet from the Bradley.

Walton could see every crease in his ragged uniform. The fatigue-clad Islamic was racing as fast as his despairing legs would carry him toward a certain death. The platoon leader raised the binoculars to look at his fateful foe’s face. Unbelievably, the doomed figure was actually smiling.

Through the field glasses, Walton watched the soldier’s painful progress, trying to comprehend what was so powerful it could cause a person to ignore the instinct for survival. For a moment, his thoughts wandered.

Suddenly the startled cavalry soldier realized there was something else hidden in the features of his dirt-streaked opponent. Something so horrible his mind denied its existence. For a split second, he refused to accept what his eyes were seeing. Yet it couldn’t be rejected for long. Like a bolt of lightning, the truth of Walton’s discovery struck deep within him. The startled Bradley commander froze. He did a double take, hoping against hope his sleep-starved brain had erred in its observations.

He lowered the glasses to his chest, unwilling to accept the sinister secret he’d uncovered. He shoved the binoculars back to his face and took a second look. He had to ensure he wasn’t mistaken.

But the results were the same. There could be no doubt what he beheld.

The running Iranian was a child.

28

2:53 A.M., OCTOBER 19

4TH PLATOON, ALPHA TROOP, 1ST BATTALION, 5TH CAVALRY REGIMENT, 1ST HEAVY BRIGADE COMBAT

(IRONHORSE), 1ST CAVALRY DIVISION

OUTSIDE SAKAKAH, SAUDI ARABIA

Walton quickly focused on the screaming image to the boy’s left. He held the binoculars steady, searching a second set of features. Once again, the outcome was the same. It was another child. He frantically scanned the procession, hoping for an answer. When he was through, he let the binoculars drop.

He instantly understood the monstrous result the enemy was going to force upon him. Sadness overwhelmed the stunned American. Pain welled deep within his disbelieving psyche. His sorrow burst forth, racing through him with electrifying speed. Consuming agony came to rest in the platoon sergeant’s eyes.

“Miguel, they’re children. Boys of nine or ten. Got a few little girls

mixed in.”

“What? Are you sure, Sarge?”

Walton passed the binoculars to his gunner. Sanchez looked upon the grievous ground. It didn’t take long for the normally animated specialist to confirm his platoon sergeant’s findings.

“My daughters are that age,” Walton said.

“I don’t understand. This doesn’t make any sense. What are children doing in the middle of this nightmare?”

“I wish I knew.”

“Wake me up and tell me this isn’t happening. They should be home playing Little League or dressing their Barbies. Instead they’re running to their deaths in this godforsaken place. Jesus, they don’t even have a way to defend themselves. Give me one good reason why they’re sending children out to be butchered.”

The answer came to Walton. “The bastards are using them as cannon fodder, Miguel. I’d heard they did similar things when they fought the Iraqis back in the 1980s. Gave mothers extra food if they handed over their children to be used as human minesweepers. Until this moment, I hadn’t believed those stories. But there’s no doubt what they’re doing. They’re sacrificing the children to force us to expend our ammunition. Once we’ve run out, they’ll send their regular units and the Iraqi armor to finish us off. What they don’t realize is with the battalion’s last resupply, their plan will fail. As of an hour ago, we’ve got enough ammunition to kill all the children the Iranians send against us until time itself runs out.”

“What’re we going to do? I sure didn’t enlist to murder helpless babies.”

Walton paused. He turned to his gunner and spoke in a voice devoid of emotion. “What choice do we have? It’ll be like gunning down my own daughters. But we’re left with no options. We’re going to kill those children. If we don’t, with or without weapons, they’ll sweep across this disgusting desert and overwhelm us. Once they have, those sweet children you’re worried about will take your knife and slit your throat from ear to ear. When they’re through they’ll rip out your entrails and joyously dance upon them. So there’s nothing we can do. Whether we want it or not, this has been forced upon us. We’re going to aim our machine guns and rifles onto that field and we’re going to pull the triggers. We’re going to kill them. And we’re going to continue doing so until none are left. Now button up your hatch and get ready.”