The Chosen One

“All right, Worm, scratch one communication center. Let’s find a secure piece of sky to wait for our guys to call us in.”

Both knew that soon would arrive the real test of their abilities. They flew west over the open wastelands.

* * *

—

In front of the descending helicopter, Erickson watched as frantic figures ran in every direction. Among them, the striking outfits reserved for the mujahideen were unmistakable. Unaware that Muhammad Mourad was not within its massive structure, most of the arriving defenders were assuming positions in front of the pyramid and on the levels of stone leading to the entranceway.

Erickson’s platoon was outnumbered three to one and the daunting odds were growing. To make matters worse, the Pan-Arabs had seized the superior fighting positions.

Touchdown was moments away. The platoon leader rushed to the rear of the craft, motioning for his Marines to stand and get ready. Each leaped to his feet and crowded around their leader. As they did, the Pan-Arab rifles opened fire in earnest.

Erickson’s Osprey was settling onto a modest roadway near the rim of the history-laden hill. The helicopter was little more than one hundred and fifty yards from the spectacular crypt.

The Americans hovered inches above the ribbon of asphalt. Before the landing gear touched, its determined passengers leaped from the open rear ramp. The moment their feet reached the contested ground the Marines opened fire. The mujahideen answered back, the intensity of their efforts steadily increasing. The first of the Marines went down. A second followed. Neither moved further. The survivors dove for cover. A handful dropped into a modest depression in front of the road. Erickson and the remainder found themselves in the one behind it. Each attempted to take advantage of the modicum of protection provided by the shallow ditches. Having deposited its human cargo, the Osprey rose. It pirouetted and rushed away with its rear gunner firing long bursts from his machine gun.

* * *

—

Morrow’s timing had been perfect. The ploy had worked. Without being detected, they found themselves walking across the northeast portion of the plateau at the exact moment Erickson’s Marines appeared. The grim helicopter was landing three hundred yards away. In front of the Special Forces detachment the stragglers they’d followed onto the sacred sands froze. A rearing inferno was roaring to life in front of them. None was prepared for the ferocious firefight erupting before their eyes.

The ragtag gathering wanted no part of the fearsome struggle. All they wished was to escape into the limitless Sahara to begin the lengthy journey home. Yet the way west was blocked. If they hoped to see the smothering sunset, movement forward was impossible. Panic seized them. They’d no choice. Before the startling onslaught reached out to claim them, they needed a place to hide. Their only chance was to rush back into Giza’s slums.

Almost as one, all forty reversed direction, intent on scurrying toward the sheltering houses.

Blocking their path were six strangers. It took a single retreating step for the frightened group to realize pieces of the scene were dreadfully amiss. Something didn’t fit. And then it hit them—they were wearing Pan-Arab headgear, but the interlopers weren’t their countrymen. The Pan-Arabs were staring into the camouflage-painted faces of a half-dozen well-armed infidels.

The Green Berets had their rifles ready. Those with weapons in the fleeing party attempted to react. But they’d been caught off guard. They’d no chance against so accomplished an adversary. Their reaction was far too slow and much too splintered.

Morrow’s force opened fire. They mowed down the disorganized collection. The astonished assembly got off no more than a few belated rounds before the last succumbed. None of their hasty shots came near its intended mark. It was over in a handful of terrifying seconds.

Forty dead lay on the blood-soaked ground. Not one in the bedraggled mob had survived.

The brilliantly quick skirmish attracted the attention of those upon the broad vista. Before the smoke cleared, the victorious Berets were diving into the rock-hard ground beneath a withering assault from dozens of angry mujahideen firing from the pyramid’s heights. The Americans were out in the open. Each was pinned down. They pulled the bleeding bodies of those they’d vanquished in front of them, hopelessly attempting to use the conquered flesh as makeshift protection.

For one, however, luck had run out. A first of the Green Berets went down.

73

6:51 P.M., NOVEMBER 6

THE GREAT PYRAMID COMPLEX

THE GIZA PLATEAU

The stringent enemy response continued to expand with every frightening moment. It was far too great for twelve desperate Marines to suppress. Like the Green Berets, they had scant cover. Those in the forward ditch were especially vulnerable. Scorching bullets struck all around. Confusion reigned. A life-stealing rifle-propelled grenade fell within a few feet of a newly arriving American.

Erickson’s small force was outgunned. The survivors’ numbers were dwindling. They were severely outnumbered by their growing foe. And those continuing to appear in front of the pyramid didn’t stop. It wouldn’t be long before the Americans would be overwhelmed.

“We need to consolidate our position. Everyone fall back to the ditch on the north side of the road,” Erickson ordered.

Three of the four surviving Marines in the forward depression began withdrawing to the far side of the pavement. Fife remained, intent on providing as much covering fire as he could while waiting for the others to clear.

Satisfied that the beleaguered men had safely reached the far ditch, the platoon sergeant leaped to his feet to run across the narrow asphalt. As he attempted a first hurried step, a well-placed bullet struck high upon his right leg. It smashed his thighbone, severing it and sending splintering pieces in every direction. Sharp slivers pierced his skin in a dozen locations. He dropped to the ground beneath the excruciating pain. Blood poured upon the sweltering blacktop.

“Gunny!” Erickson yelled. “Sergeant Joyce, give me a hand. We’ve got to get him out of the line of fire.”

With relentless rounds slamming into the desolate ground, the lieutenant and team leader crawled forward. They grabbed James Fife’s arms and dragged him into the northern ditch. Joyce didn’t hesitate. He tore away the frayed uniform. Blood continued to spurt from the vicious wound. He ripped off his belt. In seconds, he was fashioning a makeshift tourniquet and applying it above the bullet’s entry point. The bleeding slowed to a manageable trickle. Satisfied with the belt’s positioning, he pulled a bandage from his first-aid pouch and applied it to the entry wound on the back of the mangled leg. When he was finished, he retrieved an identical bandage from the wounded platoon sergeant’s pouch and did the same at the bullet’s exit point. There was nothing he could do about the horrid bone fragments. Those would have to wait until they got Gunny to the beach.

“You all right, Gunnery Sergeant?” Erickson asked.

“I’m fine, sir,” Fife said through clenched teeth.

Yet each understood the grizzled platoon sergeant wasn’t okay. The injury was severe. Still, if they could contain the bleeding, it likely wouldn’t end his life.

Erickson searched the disconcerting scene, looking for the glimmer of hope. Yet nothing appeared. Forced to attack in daylight, they’d known this wasn’t going to be easy. None, however, could have predicted the dire circumstances they now faced. The Americans were struggling throughout the hilltop. On the northern end of the plateau, Erickson’s men were trapped.

If they were going to avoid swift annihilation they needed help. Erickson glanced over to see another of the Green Berets perish. He signaled for the company radioman. In a low crouch, the corporal raced through the modest trench to the lieutenant’s position. A blanket of seeking gunfire followed in his wake. He dove for cover next to the platoon leader.

“Give me the handset!” Erickson ordered.

The radioman complied. “What’s the Hornet Section’s call sign?”

“Blackjack-One, sir.”

“Blackjack-One, Blackjack-One, this is Bravo-Three-Six.”

“Roger, Bravo-Three-Six,” Mitchell answered. “This is Blackjack-One.”