The Chosen One

“Have it your way, Reena,” Sanders said with a shrug.

He blew out the candle.

36

11:15 A.M., OCTOBER 21

BLACKJACK SECTION, FIGHTING SQUADRON VF-57

USS ABRAHAM LINCOLN

NEARING RHODA ISLAND

As the late morning rains withered and the first wisps of sunlight peeked through the clouds, twenty-four exacting Super Hornets rocketed down the Nile.

The city was drawing near.

Blackjack Section, with the farthest to travel, was in the lead. Beneath his mask a smile spread across Bradley Mitchell’s face. This was an exceptionally dangerous, highly arduous task. One demanding the most skilled of the American fliers. And Mitchell’s had been the first name the wing commander called at the early morning briefing. The struggling pilot had done nothing to hide the pride he’d felt in being designated to lead the furious assault.

It was exactly the type of action-laced mission he enjoyed. The coming hour would be filled with tension and significant uncertainty for the members of the advancing force. Mitchell’s every thought would be consumed by the enormity of the swiftly unfolding events. The assignment would require lightning-quick reflexes and split-second decisions. Just the thing to allow him to break free from his essence-consuming funk.

With the storm-induced lull in the attacks upon the Marines, the Americans had been able to focus, at least for a few hours, on another critical component in their defense of Egypt. Before that window closed they needed to strike.

Over the past days, they’d been able to use their carrier-based aircraft to destroy every temporary span the Pan-Arabs built across the Nile. Only a few of the hastily constructed pontoon bridges had survived long enough to be of any use to the Chosen One’s armored forces as they attempted to ford the wide waters. The Hornet pilots’ determined efforts had ensured no more than meager numbers of the Mahdi’s tanks reached the streets of Cairo.

They’d been far less successful, however, in stopping Mourad’s infantry from arriving on the eastern shore. Most of the ardent enemy had traversed the broad currents unopposed. There hadn’t been the time, or the resources, to halt the streams of resolved warriors from setting foot upon the eastern banks. From the northern edge of Cairo to its far southern reaches the agile feluccas had continued to cross the Nile filled with soldiers ready to join in on the visceral attack. If the Americans didn’t soon stop them, their growing numbers would permanently tip the scale in favor of the fanatics.

The outmanned defenders had no choice. They had to eliminate the legion of sailing ships to have any chance of holding on to the city. And they had to do it now.

With Mitchell in the lead, the F-18Es had sprung from the Lincoln intent on doing just that. None would return to the carrier until they had destroyed all the little boats, effectively limiting Mourad’s ability to place additional numbers on the other side. The daunting fighter aircraft would swarm over every inch of the dark waters until not a single sail remained.

Each of the deadly Hornets was configured for an air-to-ground attack. All were armed with pods filled with Hydra and Zuni rockets. Their 20mm Vulcan cannons were loaded to the brim for the close-in offensive.

Death was on the way to stalk the ancient river.

As they reached their sections of the time-honored flow, Hornet pairs began peeling away until only the final two aircraft remained. Blackjack Section had drawn Cairo’s southernmost area. They were tasked with razing every Pan-Arab sailing on the troubled currents from the northern tip of Rhoda Island to the final expanses of the great city. To do so, they would be conducting the merciless onslaught from scarcely two hundred feet above the immense currents.

“Rhoda Island coming up on our left, Worm. Get set to undertake the attack. Growler aircraft should have jammed things up real good before we arrived. Even so, there are going to be lots of Stingers in the area, so be ready to drop flares and chaff the moment your system identifies even the smallest of threats.”

“Roger, Blackjack.”

“I’ll handle the left half of the river and the eastern bank. You’ve got the right.”

The duo split, each taking a position in the middle of the targeted area. Three hundred yards apart they began hunting their prey.

Everywhere they looked there were billowing white sails on the storm-surged river. In seconds, Mitchell spotted the first that would find its way into his gunsights. The modest craft was nearing the ravaged island. Every inch of its deck was crammed with well-armed men. The struggling felucca had been built to hold no more than ten. But thirty or more fixated souls clung to its bobbing wooden deck.

The Super Hornet roared toward them. At the last possible instant, those on the ill-fortuned launch spotted the low-flying assassin. Even so, there was little Mitchell’s startled foe could do to save their lives. Their fate had been sealed by the screaming assailant’s sudden appearance. The Chosen One’s promise was coming for them all.

Many of those on the targeted sailboat began firing their assault rifles at the onrushing executioner. Hundreds of hurried rounds rushed skyward. It was nothing more than a useless gesture, filled with noisy symbolism, but little else. The fierce American aircraft was impervious to small-arms fire, no matter how accurate or intense. As he lined up his shot for this initial encounter, its pilot ignored the hapless efforts of those trapped on the accursed vessel.

Mitchell made a passing pull of his six-barreled cannon’s trigger. It was followed by a second. And then a third. Scores of 20mm shells poured from the overpowering killer. The venomous rounds raced toward the august waters. They would be more than sufficient to finish the task. The unmerciful munitions ripped into those firing from the felucca. Huge, fatal wounds appeared. Like a well-rehearsed demon’s medley, those on the boat tumbled from its crowded deck. Each fell into the reddening waters. Not a soul was spared.

The crippled craft b

egan taking on water. Within seconds it sank.

Fifty yards beyond his first victim, the Hornet pilot spotted a further offering. Having deposited its weapons-carrying cargo on Rhoda Island, this one was headed toward Giza to gather a fresh load. Mitchell was so close he could see the terrified expressions on its flailing sailors’ faces. A single burst tore from his Vulcan cannon to devastate yet another of the floundering skiffs. The vessel disappeared beneath the waters, heading for the river’s bottom.

Nearing the island’s southern tip, he found three fiercely blowing sails. Each was just reaching the decimated isle’s jumbled shoreline. The crush of soldiers on the small decks was readying to leap onto solid ground. In all, their numbers approached one hundred. The feluccas and their human cargo were tightly bunched as they touched upon the riverbank.

A wide grin appeared on Mitchell’s face. A huntsman’s feast awaited the voracious predator. The targets were far too tantalizing to resist. The American pilot moved in for the kill. He fired the first of his Hydra rockets from a pod beneath the Hornet’s right wing. The rocket leaped from the eradicating aircraft. It was a whirling blur as it rushed toward the ground.

It took no more than a heart-stopping moment to arrive. An existence-devouring blast, filled with thousands of high-velocity steel fragments, struck in the center of the arriving enemy. An immense explosion tore into the docking boats. Each was ripped apart in the all-consuming assault. Little would remain of the devastated feluccas.

The furious detonation’s crushing power reached out to cut down the luckless Pan-Arabs. Not one would survive the encounter. When the fierce rocket was through, what remained of the battered boats’ ravaged travelers scarcely looked human. Both in the crimson waters and on the blood-splattered shore, the dead and dying were everywhere.

Further targets awaited.

The F/A-18 roared south.