The Chosen One

A fleeting smile came to Sanders’s face. Upon reaching the bottom of the short staircase he picked up one of the reclining bottles, examining its label with his flashlight.

“What do ya know, after all I’ve put up with this afternoon, things are finally looking up. Thank goodness this is a moderate Islamic country where such gifts can still be found. At least I know one thing. Dying of thirst’s not going to be a problem.”

He carefully placed the bottle back on the rack. He knew it was far too soon to feel at ease. His lethal antagonists were out there, swarming over every foot of pavement between here and the American lines. And for the moment, the Special Forces sergeant had no idea what he’d find in the remainder of the tight cavern. He had to secure his hiding place. With the piercing light illuminating his path, he started checking between the wooden rows. As he made his way down the slender aisle his search was uneventful. At least that’s what he thought.

It was at the end of his brief sojourn that the biggest surprise of the day awaited. In the corner, hidden behind the final rack, a body lay with its face in the dirt. The instant his gleaming beam fell upon it he recognized the Pan-Arab uniform. The left shoulder had turned black beneath a thick pool of blood.

“Now, where the hell did you come from?” Sanders reached out and cautiously turned the Pan-Arab over. He stared at the lifeless image, the unhappiness with his discovery evident upon his face. “Look, I hope you’re not offended, but it really is kind of cramped down here. And I sure wasn’t planning on sharing this hole with a roommate. Especially a dead one.” He glanced at his surroundings. “I’ve got to tell you the selection of this dump as your final resting place definitely has me confused. If I were going to die, this is the last place I’d choose to do it.” He looked toward the doorway at the top of the stairs, his concern undeniable. “Although considering my situation, with so many of your sword-wielding friends swarming around this place, I wouldn’t be surprised if this sorry crypt’s where I’ll also take my last breath.”

It was obvious Mourad’s disciple had stumbled into the hotel after being struck by a bullet and had found the sheltering basement during the fierce fighting on the previous evening. Without medical aid, the wounded soldier had bled to death inside the solemn room. Sanders shined the light onto the enemy face. He reached down and lightly brushed away the dirt covering the Pan-Arab’s features. He was stunned by what he found. Much to his chagrin, beneath the layer of grime was the most incredible girl he’d ever seen. Even in death her beauty radiated.

“Oh, man, what a waste. You were so damn pretty. And you can’t be over twenty. What a way to complete my day. Send me a beautiful woman like the captain promised, but with one small caveat. She’s a corpse. I’ve waited for someone like you all my life and what happens? God hands me a dead one. What a sick joke. And I wouldn’t be shocked to discover I was the one who killed you. Seems to me we fought somewhere around here last night. Or maybe it was early this morning. If it was me who shot you, I want you to know you have my sincerest apologies. I’d never intentionally harm someone as attractive as you.”

Sanders bent down to examine the decimated figure. Her body was still warm to the touch. He pulled back his hand in astonishment. She couldn’t have died more than a few minutes earlier. He stared at her, wondering who she was and from where she’d come. It was then he spotted what appeared to be the slightest movement in the girl’s chest. At first he dismissed his surprising discovery as wishful thinking. But then he saw her chest rise a second time. He brought his ear next to the sweet face and listened.

She was alive. Though barely.

“Jesus Christ!”

Sanders grabbed his rucksack, digging for the plasma and medical supplies within its protective canvas. “Hang on, sweetheart. I may not be the best field medic there ever was. But I’ve been told I’m pretty damn good at this. And you’re one patient I’ve no intention of losing.”

He knew his situation was filled with desperation. The desolate American was trapped behind a ruthless enemy’s lines. An opponent who, should they stumble upon his hiding place, would show no mercy.

He’d no idea how and when his life would meet its end. Nonetheless, if he lived long enough, Charlie Sanders had every intention of saving the beautiful Arab girl.

His, however, would not be the only life that would find itself on the line.

32

2:15 P.M., OCTOBER 20

BLACKJACK SECTION, FIGHTING SQUADRON VF-57

USS ABRAHAM LINCOLN

THIRTY MILES FROM THE COAST OF EGYPT

Norm Sweeney walked into the sparse quarters he shared with his section leader and four other pilots. Bradley Mitchell was alone in the room. He lay on his bunk aimlessly staring at the low ceiling.

“Mail’s in,” Sweeney said. “You got another letter from your wife.” He tossed it onto Mitchell’s chest.

Mitchell glanced at the expensive pink envelope, sent express mail, and frowned.

“They want us in the ready room in fifteen minutes,” Sweeney said.

“Another raid on the Libyan air bases?”

“Looks that way.”

“Have you noticed since the Eisenhower was hit we’ve done nothing but fly routine missions against stationary targets?”

“I’ve noticed,” Sweeney answered.

“Every time they need someone for a high-priority mission another section’s been chosen. I doubt it’s coincidence, Worm. We used to be this wing’s fair-haired boys. Now we’re drawing assignments normally going to the least-experienced crews. Appears they’ve lost some faith in us.”

“Kind of looks that way. To be honest, for the past couple of days I suspect we’ve acted like we’ve lost faith in ourselves.”

Mitchell held his wife’s letter. “Might as well read this before we go. My afternoon’s shot anyway.”

He sat up, ripped open the envelope, and unfolded the pages. His wife’s handwriting was precise and flowing. There could be no misreading what the letter said. Her stinging words spewed forth.

Dearest Bradley,

Every day for over a week I’ve written asking you to call me. And yet, as I stare at the phone, it refuses to ring. Each of my e-mails has also gone unanswered. I cannot understand your continued refusal to do what I’ve asked. Such a simple request and still you choose to ignore it. The only conclusion I can reach is your failure to respect my wishes is a direct reflection of your lack of concern for my problems.

Mitchell shook his head.

“What now?” Sweeney asked.

“Still bitching about the fact I haven’t called her.”

“Look, it’s obvious she isn’t going to stop. I know it won’t be fun, but why don’t you go up to the satellite telephone area, call her, and get this over with? Maybe that’ll shut her up.”

“I wish it were that easy. But knowing Brooke, it will have the opposite effect. It’ll just give her another way to continue haranguing me. Once my calls begin, she’ll be demanding I spend every minute on the phone listening to her incessant demands. If she finds out how easy it is for me to call, she’ll make my life even more of a living hell than it already is. I’m still upset she found out we had e-mail.”

Mitchell returned to his reading.

How could you leave me in this dreadful situation? I hate this horrid backwater town. I’m sick of Norfolk. I wish I’d never seen this sorry excuse for a naval base and its awful base housing. And I’m sick of being the proper officer’s wife, expected to act in a certain way in order to further her husband’s career. There was nothing to do here as it was. Now all anyone talks about is that stupid war you’ve gotten yourself involved in. With each passing day I’m getting more disgusted with the whole thing.

The children have become unbearable. I don’t know how I make it through the long hours. If it wasn’t for the time they spend at school an

d the young girl down the street who’s willing to babysit on a moment’s notice, I believe I’d lose my mind. All they talk about is what Daddy’s doing and when Daddy’s coming home. Because of your refusal to call, I don’t know what to tell them. They can’t comprehend what’s going on. To tell you the truth, neither can I.

My parents have invited me to the Hamptons for a few months. Of course, the invitation doesn’t include the children. After Joshua hit Mitsy with that stick during our last visit, Mother refuses to allow him and Jennifer within five hundred feet of the house.

Who can blame her? She’s had Mitsy for nearly ten years. That dog means everything to her.

Your parents said they’ll take the kids, but with your mother’s health, they’ve refused to come get them.

They made it clear it’s up to me to get Joshua and Jennifer to California. The good news is the airlines said since the children are now five and seven they’re old enough to travel without an adult. The bad news is because of the president taking away most of the planes for the war, the waiting list for travel is presently two weeks and growing by the day.

They’re starting some kind of priority system, so I may not be able to send them at all. My father’s trying to call in some favors to get them on a flight, but so far nothing’s worked. I don’t know what to do. With gas nearly ten dollars a gallon and rationing beginning, even if I was capable of driving across the country to California, it’s simply out of the question. You’ve got to tell me what to do about these children.