The Chosen One

“Nah, Miguel, you go ahead. I’m going to sit here for a while and take this in.”

50

5:57 P.M., OCTOBER 28

BLACKJACK SECTION, FIGHTING SQUADRON VF-57

USS ABRAHAM LINCOLN

THIRTY MILES FROM THE EGYPTIAN COAST

Catapult three fired. Propelled by its powerful blast, an F/A-18E hurtled down the runway. It leaped from the Lincoln’s deck and took to the rippling skies. A second Hornet soon followed. The lethal fighters headed southwe

st toward the Libyan-Egyptian border.

Bradley Mitchell was feeling better than he had in some time. And his confidence was growing.

Even so, his family problems continued to spread. Brooke had been unrelenting. But his missions had been both frequent and challenging. They’d been more than sufficient to keep his quick mind occupied for ample segments of the day. As he soared into the heavens, he was determined to keep his wife from reentering his cockpit.

The present assignment was both demanding and critical. They’d be providing close-in support to a handful of embattled Marines. The besieged Americans were holding a crucial oasis from the onslaught of Mourad’s burgeoning reinforcements. More and more, all three carriers’ Hornets were being called upon to support those holding Egypt’s western border. This was going to be Blackjack Section’s first mission to assist their countrymen in fending off the Mahdi’s swelling ranks. With every mile of harsh sands, from deep within Algeria to the Egyptian border, covered with the Chosen One’s reserves, it wouldn’t be their last. In the days to come, they’d return on incalculable occasions to dissuade and destroy.

The Allies understood the implications of Mourad’s orders. Seven million fresh faces on the battlefield would forever change the conduct of the war. If his multitudes reached the Nile, events would turn decisively in the Pan-Arabs’ favor.

Five million reinforcements were traveling east from Algeria, Tunisia, and Libya. More were headed north from the Sudan. At the moment, the Americans could do little to stop the two million journeying along the Nile. Egypt’s southern border was wide open. There were no Allied forces between the Sudanese border and Cairo. The area was firmly within Mourad’s grasp. And with the existing situation, no combat units were available to place in their path. With the relatively short range of the American naval aircraft, there was no way to defeat the northerly-flowing masses.

How the Americans would respond to the Sudanese would depend upon events in Saudi Arabia. If tomorrow’s attack went as planned, the 4th Infantry and 10th Mountain would be freed for combat in Egypt. The ships carrying both would rush from the Persian Gulf to ports on the Red Sea. There they’d unload their armored vehicles and men. They’d make a hurried trip across the Sinai. Five days from now they’d reach the Nile one hundred miles south of Cairo. Their appearance would trap the majority before they could reach the battlefield. From that moment on, not one would prevail in his quest to reach Giza. The 10th Mountain would push south toward the Sudan, intent on securing southern Egypt.

The 4th Infantry would help stabilize the defensive lines against the Sudanese. After that they’d rush up the western bank of the Nile toward Giza. When their M-1s and Bradleys were in place, they’d unleash a furious attack upon the Pan-Arabs. Their compelling action would create an additional front against Mourad’s partisans.

That was the American plan. If, however, the 4th Infantry and 10th Mountain had to be committed to the battle in Saudi Arabia, significant changes would be undertaken. The carriers would be forced to handle both the western and southern advances. When the Sudanese were within range, the fleet would send its Hornets to slaughter the approaching reserves.

For now, the Americans would concentrate on the five million coming from the west. After two days on the Sahara, many of the Chosen One’s followers were drawing near.

The Allies were confident they’d prevail even if a million additional Pan-Arabs reached Giza. Any more would likely tip the scales. They had to stop the human tsunami before it overwhelmed them. Their objective was to allow no more than insignificant handfuls to arrive at the front lines. With such an ambitious goal, the twelve thousand Marines dug in at the Libyan border were spread perilously thin.

So far, the attacks of the oncoming multitudes had been ineffectual. With little effort, most had been defeated. How much longer things would remain this way was anybody’s guess. By the hour, the situation was becoming more arduous for the sparse fire teams. The assaults were growing far more frequent and much more intense. Mourad’s incessant supporters were appearing at an alarming rate. Scattered groups of defenders were beginning to feel the impact of the Mahdi’s fiercely determined disciples.

In the past day, thousands of those the Chosen One had called forward had reached paradise at the ends of the smoking American guns. The body counts were rising in front of the Marines’ bunkers—men and women, the young and the not so young, their shattered remains were there for all to see. Immense numbers also were perishing without coming near the border. The cruel wastelands were consuming them by the tens of thousands. Grotesque deaths at the end of chattering rifles, or at the unflinching desert’s hand, would continue to soar with each coming sunset. Yet such results didn’t deter the Mahdi’s dutiful servants. No matter what had befallen those who’d arrived before them, seven million were fixated upon a single aim. They’d reach Cairo and seal the heathens’ fates. Islam’s world rule was poised to begin, and Allah had decreed they’d play a crucial role in that wondrous event. Their desire to be part of the great religion’s triumph knew no bounds. Those on the monumental pilgrimage weren’t going to be denied.

As General el-Saeed had predicted, at the first sign of mobilization, carrier-bound aircraft destroyed North Africa’s scattered roads. With no other choice, the struggling reinforcements were crossing the endless plains any way they could.

Thousands were struggling across the unrelenting sands in long caravans of sputtering automobiles. Multitudes were crammed into the rear of dilapidated trucks. Some had appeared alone. Many had come in ancient buses. A few had reached the border on the backs of protesting camels. Still more had shown up on foot. No matter how they’d gotten there, the Chosen One’s devotees had been staunchly determined. Seven million tortured journeys wouldn’t end until they reached the pyramids and joined in the momentous fight, or died in the attempt.

Seventy percent were without weapons. Of these, the small numbers successful in breaching the Marines’ lines had done exactly what Mourad had told Lauren Wells they would do. They’d scavenged the bloody fields, taking rifles and ammunition from the stilled hands of their vanquished countrymen. With those lethal arms, they were heading for Giza to join the assault upon the great city.

The fevered dreams of long-awaited conquest drove them all.

51

6:10 P.M., OCTOBER 28

BLACKJACK SECTION, FIGHTING SQUADRON VF-57

USS ABRAHAM LINCOLN

NEAR THE LIBYAN-EGYPTIAN BORDER

The North African coastline appeared. Blackjack Section left the dazzling waters of the Mediterranean behind. Six miles below, a colorless world settled beneath their wings.

Mitchell spoke into his headset. “Echo Control, this is Blackjack Section, we’re crossing into Egypt thirty miles from the Libyan border. Where do you want us?”

“Blackjack, we’ve got an outpost that’s catching hell. It’s at a tiny oasis eighty miles southwest of you. You can’t miss it; it’s the only place with palm trees for as far as anyone can see. There are two fire teams along with their squad leader trying to hold off a huge assault. It’s critical we keep its waters away from Mourad’s hordes, so withdrawing our guys isn’t an option. Many of the attackers have weapons. We’ve one dead and a couple of badly wounded. They’re about to be overrun. Cobras have been dispatched, but they’re twenty-five minutes out. M-1s are also on the way. Even so, the Abrams won’t reach the spot until well after dark. We need you to go in and eliminate as many of the fanatics as you can. You’ve got to take the pressure off the Marines until further help arrives.”

“Roger, Echo Control.”

“Be aware. Although it’s quiet at the moment, MiGs have been extremely active this afternoon. F/A-18Fs have shot down over a dozen in the past two hours. They’ll do their best to keep them as far from you as possible. But stay alert for enemy fighters.”

“Understood.”

“Things are

really tight at the oasis. You’re going to have to be exceptionally precise. There’s almost no separation between our fire teams and the attackers. The minute you appear, the defenders will pop smoke and head for cover. You handle it from there.”

“Roger. We’re on the way. We’ve every intention of taking the enemy out so near our guys none of the Marines will need to shave for at least a couple of days. Tell them to keep their heads down until we arrive. ETA’s less than five.”

“Roger, Blackjack. We’ll pass the word.”

The Hornets raced south. From their position both pilots could see for incredible distances. And what they glimpsed was truly astonishing. Upon the featureless ground, millions were moving in a single direction. Toward the descending sun, the scene unfolding on the desert floor was beyond description. Pan-Arab reinforcements stretched to the horizon, and for hundreds of miles beyond. From one end to the other, the somber wastelands were covered with vehicles of every sort, size, and description. Some were traveling swiftly, some at moderate speed. Others were moving not at all. Scattered among the endless vehicles were countless forms who’d experienced a breakdown or run out of gas. Those who’d suffered such a fate were undeterred. By the thousands, they were abandoning their transports and walking across the scorched landscape toward the Egyptian border.

There was little rhyme or rhythm to the muddled migration. Mourad’s fragmented forces were making their way across the trackless world any way they could.

“Jesus, Blackjack,” Worm said, “get a load of the stuff to our right. I couldn’t add up all the people down there if you gave me five years. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Nobody has, Worm. Just shows the Chosen One’s power. He snaps his fingers and they blindly follow. They’re here to do his bidding, no matter how hopeless the attempt becomes.”

* * *