The Chosen One

* * *

—

Norm Sweeney was experiencing even greater luck than his section leader.

He had destroyed a pair of fully loaded feluccas near the center of the wide river when he spotted an immense prize. He couldn’t believe the treasure he beheld. Just ahead, on Giza’s shores, more than a dozen sails sat motionless as their troop-carrying decks were being filled with anxious soldiers. In all, nearly four hundred of Mourad’s followers were assembled on the embankment as the loading process continued.

The naval aircraft roared forward. Its pilot released the first of his large Zuni laser-guided rockets at the widespread throng. It flashed across the low skies. The stalwart Zuni pounced upon the stationary targets, devastating the northernmost elements of the impressive gathering. The crushed pieces of four feluccas were soon ablaze. In a twinkling, well more than a hundred of the enemy were gone.

On the ground, the survivors turned to run from the horrific scene. They’d, however, be far too late to save their fading lives. Another rocket, and seconds later, a third, went in search of the Chosen One’s followers. In a handful of passing moments, the toll on the western shoreline reached uncountable proportions. For hundreds, their final journey had begun.

Sweeney followed upon his murderous siege with intense bursts from his Vulcan cannon to ensure none survived. Upon the venerated river’s western shore, the slaughter was beyond description. Yet the lieutenant had neither the time, nor the desire, to consider the result of his actions. For there was a great deal of work remaining.

Like his section leader, he moved on.

* * *

—

Both reached the southern end of Rhoda Island at the same instant. Beyond the disappearing landfall, there were white sails without end upon the sweeping river.

Yet with Blackjack Section rampaging up and down this portion of the Nile, there wouldn’t be for much longer. The surging Hornets raced forward, making attack after attack as they dispatched those trapped on the waters below.

As they reached the southern end of the city, the destructive aircraft turned to make another run. Further victims called to them. And they were determined to dispatch them all.

For sixty relentless minutes, the hounding twosome made pass after pass. With each run, the gruesome result grew. Minute by minute, the sails dwindled until there were no more.

All along the Nile, the American fighters tore after the Pan-Arabs with a vengeance. The attacks went on without pause. As the hour reached its end, not a single felucca would remain on the wine-colored waters.

The Americans turned and headed home. They’d lost three of their number, downed by Stinger missiles during the furious assault. But considering the intensity of the mission and the tactics they’d been forced to employ, the result was well below the naval strike force’s expectations.

Because of the Hornets’ resounding victory, few more, if any, of the Chosen One’s disciples would find their way onto Cairo’s streets.

* * *

—

Blackjack Section’s day was far from over. There would be three additional assignments to undertake in widespread corners of the battle zone before the exhausted pilots would find their beds at shortly before midnight. The oozing scars on Bradley Mitchell’s soul were far from healed. And the unending concerns involved in dealing with Brooke remained. Still, the day’s successes had helped his battered psyche. And for the first time since his perceived failure to protect the Eisenhower, he was able to settle in for a decent night’s rest.

The same, however, couldn’t be said for another in this horrid conflict. For his sleep was far from comforting.

37

1:04 A.M., OCTOBER 22

3RD PLATOON, BRAVO COMPANY, 2ND RECONNAISSANCE BATTALION, 2ND MARINE DIVISION

217TH MOBILE HOSPITAL

NORTHERN EGYPT

Sam Erickson was having the strangest dreams. For hours on end incoherent images, vivid and distorted, raced through his subconscious at breakneck speed. Scenes of long-ago days of childhood brought momentary peace to his pummeled spirit. Wondrous pictures of the women he’d loved, and those he’d lost, teased and taunted him. Revelries filled with passion and joy were his for the taking. Fantasies littered with life’s fleeting victories, or tinged with the bitter memories of everlasting defeat, fought for center stage. Terrifying emotions crammed with fear and loathing tore at him. Surging impressions clouded with the recent remembrances of flowing blood and horrific suffering found a place to display their appalling visions.

As the lieutenant reached the twentieth hour of drug-shrouded sleep, his mind’s roller coaster neared its end. The searing nightmares of desperate battles crowded out all other thoughts and seized his tortured intellect. The angst-filled images grew grim and violent. The faces of the dead locked on to his core, refusing to release their accusatory grip upon his anguished existence.

He fought against his mind’s frightening illusions, sinking deeper into a morass of despair and pain. He had to find a way out of the agonizing dream world. If he didn’t, it wouldn’t be long before the gruesome visions would destroy him.

He awoke with a start. His crusted eyelids fluttered. His eyes struggled to open. He stared at the tent’s low canvas ceiling, unable to comprehend the unfamiliar surroundings. The aftereffects of his mind’s conflicts were evident on his disconcerted face.

Next to his bed, an attractive woman sat on an uncomfortable folding chair. In her lap lay a novel filled with mystery and romance. She looked at him and smiled, her relief evident.

“What do you know, our wayward patient’s finally awake. Glad to see you’ve decided to rejoin the living. Remember me?” Lauren Wells said. She spoke quietly in deference to the wounded around them.

“I remember. Where am I?” Erickson asked. His voice was strange, his throat hoarse.

“You’re in the mobile hospital on the beach.”

“How’d I get here?”

“They dragged you in yesterday morning. The shrapnel caused your arm to become infected. The doctors removed it, sedated you, and stuck you in with the walking wounded.”

He painfully raised his arm to examine the heavy bandages and dangling tubes.

“The good news is in a few days you’ll be just fine,” she said. “The bad news is in a few days you’ll be just fine. So it looks like your time in this insane war isn’t close to over.”

“I expected no less. Where’s my platoon?”

“They’re camped about a quarter mile from here. First Marine Division relieved your battalion early this afternoon. Your guys are catching up on their sleep and getting ready to enjoy a few precious days of R and R.”

“That’s good,” Erickson said.

“Your company commander and some of your platoon have been by twice tonight. They seemed genuinely concerned. I got the impression they weren’t real excited about heading back into this mess without you. They spent quite some time regaling me with glowing descriptions of their valiant lieutenant’s daring deeds in the deserts of northern Egypt.”

“It’s nice to know I’m appreciated. But don’t let their tales fool you, Miss Wells. Stories of wartime exploits are like children’s rumors. They have a tendency to grow with each telling. Despite what they might have said, I didn’t do any more than anyone else out there. It was simply a matter of trying to stay alive. One of the things I’ve discovered in this line of work is oftentimes people mistake necessity for bravery.”

“That may be. Or it might be I’ve stumbled across a rarity in today’s world, a truly modest man.”

“I doubt I’m rare or modest. I’m just a guy doing a difficult job the best he can.”

“Believe what you want. But I know your men will be relieved to hear you’re awake. I think I’ll wait until morning, however, to let them know you’ve returned to the world of the living. They

looked totally exhausted.”

“You would too if you’d been through what they have.”

“I can only imagine. But that’s behind your guys for the moment. My guess is your battalion will stay out of the front lines for at least three or four days. Two British armored divisions sailed from England a few hours ago. They’re headed straight for this beach. Figure you’ll wait for them and then take off across the desert to support their attack on Mourad’s forces. Seven hundred Challenger tanks are on the way. Once they land, you won’t be fending off any more Pan-Arab assaults. It’ll be the Mahdi’s turn to hold on against a superior opponent.”

“That’s a sight I know I’ll enjoy. Helping dig Mourad’s grave is something I want to be a part of.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that too much,” she replied. “Unless the doctor’s misdiagnosed your injury, it looks like you’re going to get your wish. There’s no doubt this thing’s going to wait for you to return before reaching its conclusion.”