The Chosen One

“Chosen One,” General el-Saeed said, “how can we not feel this way? Our army’s beaten. In the north the infidels are twenty kilometers away. To the south the Americans have defeated your personal armored division in fighting as determined as any in our righteous quest. We inflicted great casualties upon them. Their blood is like a flowing stream. Even so, they have reached Giza’s outskirts. And that’s not the worst of it. The enemy’s counterattack across the Nile has succeeded. More than half the city’s been lost since the assault began. We’re running out of time. I’ve directed the su

pport elements on the plateau to begin packing up and moving out. They are filling the trucks as we speak. If we wait until all are ready and leave in a large convoy, we’ll have no chance. The infidels will have no choice but to destroy so tempting a target. So as each truck is filled it will depart on its own. Please understand, our situation is growing desperate.”

“I understand quite well. But each of you must realize one thing. Despite appearances, this is not the end. We’ve suffered a setback. It is, however, nothing more than a stumble in Allah’s grand plan. You mustn’t lose faith. We’ll rise once more. We’ll emerge victorious. In my lifetime Islam will conquer, and once it has, I will guide the world through its final days. Of that you can be assured. The prophecy has foretold of these glorious events, and as certainly as I stand before you, it will come to pass. The one true God has so decreed. For now, we’ll withdraw into the mountains and deserts from which we came. There we’ll rebuild our forces until we’re strong enough to venture forth upon the final triumph.”

“To do so, Chosen One, what remains of our army must survive,” el-Saeed said.

“General, I agree with your assessment. We need to save our army. Weapons can be obtained, but brave men willing to serve as Allah’s sentinels are growing precious.”

“The infidels have a history of sparing their vanquished adversaries. We certainly wouldn’t do so in their place. Your advisers are confident if our men throw down their weapons, the heretics will allow them to withdraw without significant retribution. They’ll show us mercy and let what remains of the devout escape. We’re just as certain, nonetheless, that they’ve no intention of permitting you to live. Their ire toward you knows no bounds. Your death will be the prize they’ll pursue with boundless vigor. We’ve informed your loyal commanders it will be two hours before you can safely depart this place under cover of darkness. They’ve promised to hold our enemies for at least that long. Once night is fully upon us, we’ll escort you to freedom.”

“Inform my bodyguards, General,” Mourad said. “When we leave, they’re to remove their robes and headdresses so they cannot be identified. We’ll then begin our journey home to prepare for the glorious time when the world will be ours.”

68

5:48 P.M., NOVEMBER 6

ODA 6333, CHARLIE COMPANY, 3RD BATTALION, 6TH SPECIAL FORCES GROUP (AIRBORNE)

EAST OF THE GIZA PLATEAU

While Abernathy kept watch, Aaron Porter rushed to the back of the small dwelling where the other four members of the team were sleeping. He grabbed Morrow’s shoulder and shook him. “Sir . . . sir, you’d better come right away!”

The detachment commander, more asleep than awake, answered, “What’s the problem, Sergeant?”

“You need to see for yourself.”

The members of the A Team opened their eyes, each wondering what the urgency was. Porter headed back into the area in the front of the house where they could see what was occurring on the wide mesa without being seen. It wasn’t long until the others joined him. None had the slightest idea that the war’s end was occurring faster than any had planned.

“What’s the emergency?” Morrow asked while rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Half-dozen trucks are spread across the plateau, sir,” Abernathy said. “The Pan-Arabs are loading them in one hell of a hurry.”

“Couple of others already have taken off, heading for the desert,” Porter added. “They’re bugging out.”

“Aw shit,” Morrow replied while taking a long look out the shaded window. It didn’t take long for him to realize the Americans’ efforts to kill the Chosen One were in peril. “They’re definitely packing up and leaving. The mujahideen don’t appear to be involved yet. So it’s likely Mourad’s still here. But given what I’m seeing, he won’t be for long. Sticking with the original plan, we’ll have no chance of eliminating him. Attack’s still seven hours away. The Chosen One will be halfway to Libya by then. We’ve got an hour, no more, to hit the hilltop before we’re too late. If we don’t, once it’s dark, they’ll sneak him out of there and head west as fast as they can. Sanders, get me the radio.”

69

6:15 P.M., NOVEMBER 6

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

ON THE BEACH

NORTHERN EGYPT

With the assault moved up, and occurring during daylight hours, the scrambling Marines were going to be extremely vulnerable. They’d planned on the darkness concealing their sudden appearance and catching the majority of the enemy sleeping. Yet it couldn’t be helped. They had to go now.

Their engines running, the transport helicopters waited. Twelve MV-22 Ospreys, with the capability to act as both helicopters for vertical landings and takeoffs, and conventional aircraft for faster flight, were committed to the battle. The final mission of the war, its timeline altered, had begun. Erickson’s battalion would be the first of the swarming raiders to get under way. When they touched upon the Giza Plateau, they’d be outnumbered nearly two-to-one. With the daunting odds, all one hundred and sixty-eight of the proud unit’s survivors would take part in the foray.

They had to reach the target at precisely 6:48 p.m. if the attack was going to succeed. The timing would be crucial. If they arrived too soon, their appearance would alert Muhammad Mourad. Before the Green Berets could seal the escape route, he might make it to ground level and flee. To make matters worse, if they were early American air support would be minutes from the hilltop, leaving the Marines alone to face a furious counterattack.

If, however, the Ospreys were late, the Green Berets would be on their own as they attempted to move toward the objective. Exposed and isolated, they’d stand no chance against the meaningful force on the sacred elevation. And with the plateau bristling with Stingers, the fighter aircraft providing close-in support would be at risk. Without the Marines to address the majority of the Pan-Arab air defenses, the Hornets would be vulnerable to a deadly assault.

The incursion had called for the Ospreys to be accompanied by Cobras. Unfortunately, with so many of the attack helicopters lost in the endless battles, the few that remained presently were involved in the British and American onslaught pushing toward the Egyptian capital. With the sudden change of plans, none would reach the beach in time to rearm, refuel, and join in on the assault. The formation would be on its own. They’d have to depend on the Ospreys’ weapons—a machine gun mounted on the open ramp that could only fire to the rear, and a three-barrel Gatling gun nestled in its belly capable of addressing targets in every direction. Neither weapon was intended for anything more than self-defense. Without the night to shield them, they were going to be quite exposed. For that reason, while the transports were capable of carrying twenty-two Marines, each would contain only fourteen.

Their faces covered by their forearms, the battalion shuffled through the swirling sands toward the spinning blades. They began to enter their assigned craft.

Erickson walked up the rear ramp and into the lead Osprey. He selected a spot near the helicopter crewmember who would handle the belly gun. As they neared the landing zone he’d use the gunner’s television screen to view what was occurring around the Great Pyramid.

One by one, thirteen additional Marines entered the windowless hold. Carrying ample arms and munitions, they clambered down the narrow aisle. Each aircraft soon filled.

The loading completed, the strange-looking transports rose. The wide formation was soon rushing south with Erickson’s Osprey slightly ahead of the rest. The battalion staff and a handful of riflemen rode in the helicopter to his left. The company commander to his right. The plan was straightforward. Richards’s thirty-four men, accompanied by the command element, would handle the most critical element of the endeavor. They would touch down directly in front of the Great Pyramid. It would be up to them to gain control of the northern portion of the spanning vista and the area in front of the

ageless edifice. They’d eliminate those guarding the towering form, opening the way for the Green Berets to enter within its venerable walls.

The remaining Osprey trios would land on the eastern, southern, and western edges of the mesa. While the Green Berets were entering the pyramid, the arriving Marines would eliminate the mujahideen on all four sides of the plateau. They knew the staunch bodyguards were fearsome fighters whose loyalty went beyond anything they could comprehend. Each of the two hundred would have to be dispatched if the attack was going to succeed.

The droning Ospreys continued on. As the relentless miles passed, Erickson’s Marines sat in self-imposed silence. None could hide his growing apprehension. They knew they faced an immense challenge. And all had seen far too much of death to question his mortality. They’d been promised this would be the final battle, but they couldn’t afford to look beyond the here and now. To do so would prove fatal.

With the lingering sun edging toward the horizon, they rushed south. The historic moment would soon be upon them. On the television screen, Erickson could see their destination drawing near. In the distance, the pyramids were rising in front of them. It wouldn’t be long now. They’d soon attempt to settle in the midst of the ferocious stronghold.

The platoon leader stared at the timeless relics as they grew larger with every disappearing second. The fleeting strands were ticking on an immutable clock. A few miles more and the landing zones would be reached. The war’s concluding struggle was about to begin. The copilot relayed the information to both crew chiefs.

The belly gunner turned toward Erickson. “Sixty seconds, sir.”

70

6:37 P.M., NOVEMBER 6

BLACKJACK SECTION, FIGHTING SQUADRON VF-57

USS ABRAHAM LINCOLN