The Chosen One

The roving marauders were starting to have an impact. So far they’d had limited success in protecting the engineers piecing together the transient bridges. Nonetheless, as the horrid day lengthened, those who’d beaten the immeasurable odds were beginning to turn the Allies away from attacking their cohorts working on the critical paths.

Under withering fire, the Chosen One’s builders continued spanning the Nile in hundreds of locations. So far, few of the floating causeways had survived for long. The desperate defenders had seen to that. Only handfuls of T-72s had reached Cairo’s streets. And the Leclercs, along with the 82nd Airborne’s Javelins and TOWs, had dispatched most who’d breached the river.

Sanders had been extremely busy. For the first time, Reena had left him. If he wished to see tomorrow there’d be no time on this day to mourn. The lethal gunfire had been profound, but the adept demolitions expert had destroyed a handful of bridges before the tanks attempting to use them reached Rhoda Island. Still, for each span lost, another appeared through the battle’s thickening curtain.

Another floating form had touched the island’s soil. The Green Berets had to stop its construction before the Pan-Arabs gained a foothold and the armor started across. They’d five minutes, no more, to destroy the structure.

“Okay, Sanders, let’s go,” Abernathy said. The three of them leaped to their feet. In a well-practiced crouch, they ran toward the river.

Behind them, a British armored personnel carrier provided covering fire. Shooting their weapons as they went, Abernathy, Porter, and Sanders scrambled across the island’s lurid landscape toward the nearly completed causeway. Four of the Mahdi’s engineers were feverishly working on connecting the final piece. Porter eliminated them with two lightning bursts from his M-4. The mortally wounded Arabs tumbled from the modest bridge. Facedown, their motionless bodies floated upon the horrifying currents, slowly drifting toward the inviting sea. They’d soon join the countless souls already there.

Abernathy and Porter took up defensive positions, using the unfinished bridge for protection. While his partners fired at the western bank, Sanders reached into his rucksack and withdrew the explosive charge. Enemy fire was intense. The striking bullets came from every direction. Scores ricocheted off the bobbing bridge. They stung the ground around him. The demolition expert attached the explosives. The job, by necessity, was hurried. There’d be no need to perform the precise work of which the talented sergeant was so proud. All that was required was to destroy the floating structure to the extent its twisted pieces would be of no further use.

The explosives were ready. He motioned for Porter and Abernathy to head for cover. The moment they were clear, he set the timer and raced away. The scurrying team ran for safe ground. Fifty yards from the soiled water’s edge, they dove behind a pair of mangled automobiles. As they did, and the explosives went off, destroying the causeway, they tumbled onto two terrified Pan-Arab soldiers hiding within the wreckage.

The deft Americans instantly reacted to the unexpected encounter. Porter pointed his M-4 at the enemy, ready to pull the trigger without a second thought. Abernathy kicked their rifles away. They looked at the cowering Tunisians. Both were in their teens. The younger couldn’t have been more than fifteen, with the other three or four years older. Each was frightened beyond comprehension.

“Well, look at what we’ve got here,” a grinning Abernathy said.

Sanders stared at the cringing twosome. He was in no mood to do anything but exact revenge for what had occurred throughout the past two weeks. There was disgust in his words. “Pull the goddamn trigger already and get it over with.”

“Negative,” Abernathy said. “If you’d have paid attention during the ops briefing, you’d know we’re under orders to get our hands on a few prisoners.”

* * *

—

Captain Morrow was quite pleased when Abernathy presented the detainees.

Each of the detachment commanders had been directed to capture and interrogate any prisoners they could find. The purpose of the interrogation was twofold—to determine the precise details of the attack, and to see if they could locate Mourad’s hiding place.

They dragged the pathetic pair into the hole where the Green Berets had waited during the artillery bombardment. Both Morrow and Terry had received months of intense language training and were fluent in Arabic. Nevertheless, they suspected the process would go better if conducted by someone who’d recognize the nuances and inconsistencies in the teenagers’ words. The Alpha 6333 leader sent his senior sergeant to locate an Egyptian company commander to act as translator.

“What do you want us to do, sir?” Abernathy asked.

“I’ve got orders to get whatever information I can from whoever we get our hands on. But we’ve got to continue knocking out those bridges or we’re going to be in deep trouble. I can handle these two until Master Sergeant Terry returns. The rest of you head back to the Nile. Abernathy, you go with Donovan. Porter, stay with Sanders.”

* * *

—

Terry arrived with an Egyptian captain.

Special Forces officers spent long hours learning how to coax information out of reluctant prisoners. Their skills in judging what would get a captive to talk were well developed. Captain Lawrence Morrow was no exception. He stared at the twosome. He’d use some well-practiced interrogation techniques to see what he could obtain from the anxious teenagers. He held out cigarettes. Both shook their heads, refusing the infidel’s gesture. Morrow smiled.

He’d start with, “What’re your names?”

The Egyptian company commander translated his words. Neither Morrow, nor Terry, let on they understood what was being said.

Either too dismayed, or simply unwilling to talk, neither prisoner uttered a sound.

“Okay,” Morrow said to the Egyptian, “tell them we can make this easy or we can make this hard. It’s up to them.”

With the horrid battle raging, the process continued for forty-five minutes without success. The Pan-Arabs said little, and what they did say was of no use. Critical time was passing and Morrow was growing impatient.

After failing to get a response to yet another question, the Egyptian looked up and shrugged. “Looks like they either won’t tell us what’s going on, or they’re just so stupid they don’t know.”

“Shit,” the frustrated Morrow said, “tell the little bastards they’ve got one minute to make up their minds. If they don’t give us what we want, I’m going to slit their throats. And when I’m through, I’m going to find the Mahdi and slit his too.”

The Egyptian translated. It was clear from the teenagers’ reactions they were startled by his comments. Both looked into Morrow’s eyes. They could tell from the American’s expression he meant every word. He’d finally gotten to them. He was convinced his threat of imminent death had done the trick. Yet it wasn’t that portion of his statement that disturbed the pair.

The younger started talking. The Egyptian commander began translating the endless stream.

“You’re a fool,” the teenager said while looking at Morrow. There was defiance in the boy’s tone. “Your threats are worthless. No nonbeliever will ever harm the Chosen One. Such is impossible. It will never happen.”

“Shut up,” the older one urged.

Yet the fifteen-year-old, his bravado building, ignored his comrade. “Allah will not allow it. The Mahdi’s invincible. No harm will ever befall him. He’s beyond your reach. You could put your rifle to his chest and pull the trigger and nothing would happen. What makes you think you could end his life? You’ve already dropped a bomb that fell right on his head and he walked away without a scratch. Try all you might, but you’ll never succeed in killing the great man.”

“If such is true, I guess it won’t matter whether we know where he is or not,” Morrow said. The Egyptian interpreted.

“It’s true,” t

he boy said. “With Allah protecting him, who cares what you know?”

“And you want us to believe someone as insignificant as you knows his location?”

“Of course I do. Every Pan-Arab soldier knows where he is.”

“Then tell us, where’s Muhammad Mourad?”

A grin came to the teenager’s face. He’d prove to the disgusting infidel that even a lowly peasant had knowledge of where Allah’s holy messenger was. “Right under your noses. He’s not more than ten kilometers from here. He’s in the King’s Burial Chamber of the Great Pyramid of Khufu.”

Morrow stopped and looked at Terry. A smile came to both their faces. The Americans had found the Chosen One.

* * *

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