The Chosen One

“So with so few of you left, the war’s over for you?”

“Ma’am, until the shooting stops the war is never over if you’re a Marine.”

“But it’s obvious from the bandages on your arm you’re wounded. You appear to be bleeding. Are you badly hurt?”

Erickson glanced at the line of blood. “It’s really not much more than a scratch. My corpsman fished around in there for a while trying to get the shrapnel out. But he didn’t have any luck. Once this is over and the doctors have time, I’m certain they’ll take care of it. For now, I’ll just have to live with the pain and keep doing my job the best I can.”

“So you’re going back into combat with a piece of metal in your arm?”

“It looks that way.”

“Do you know when you’re leaving?”

Erickson rubbed his raw eyes. “We’re going to take a couple hours to get our heads on straight. After that we’ll head inland. I’ve heard my battalion got hit hard in a couple of the counterattacks. So as soon as we can, we’ve got to get to the front lines.”

“Then what?”

“What do you mean, then what? What else is there? We’re going to fight and keep on fighting until someone orders us to stop. But right now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to curl up on this beach and get a little sleep. In two hours it’ll be daylight. When the sun comes up, I’ll gather what remains of my unit and we’ll head out once more.”

“Head out for where?”

“Cairo. We’re on our way to Cairo to kill the Chosen One and put an end to this thing.”

“Cairo. Do you think you’ll get there?”

“We’ll get there. You can count on it. Those crazy Green Berets are waiting for our help. And by God, the 2nd Marine Division’s going to give it to them. Now, if you don’t mind, ma’am, I really do need some sleep.”

“Oh yes, of course, Lieutenant. Thanks for talking with us.” She motioned for her cameraman to shut down his camera.

As the pair walked away, she kept looking back at Erickson.

When they were out of earshot, she turned to her cameraman. “Chuck, let’s go find some of those dead Arab girls. It’ll make a nice addition to our piece. As soon as it’s daylight and things clear a bit, locate a spot on the beach to set up the satellite. Tomorrow all of America’s going to wake to see Lieutenant Samuel Erickson’s handsome face in their living rooms.”

“Handsome face? How could you tell he had a handsome face? He was so filthy I couldn’t tell anything about what he looked like.”

“Don’t worry, Chuck, I could tell. There’s one hell of a face under all that dirt and camouflage paint. And, Chuck . . . ?”

“Yes, Ms. Wells.”

“I’ll tell you something else.”

“What’s that?”

“When Erickson gets to Cairo and shakes hands with the first Green Beret, you and I are going to be there to film it.”

“Sounds like a great idea, but you’re forgetting one thing.”

“What’s that?” she asked.

“If we’re going to do that, there have still got to be some Green Berets alive when we get there.”

14

6:39 A.M., OCTOBER 18

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

THE EL GIZA BRIDGE, RHODA ISLAND

CAIRO

In the murky no-man’s-land between the combatants’ lines, Army Sergeant Charlie Sanders dangled over the side of the aging bridge. To the west, the landscape teemed with Mourad’s zealots. To the east, across the wide span, the safety of the tenuous American defenses was more than a quarter mile away. Fifty feet below, the Nile’s historic waters meandered past on their four-thousand-mile journey to the sea.

The autumn night had been unusually cool. A heavy fall mist, gray and clammy, rose from the dark currents. A thick blanket of fog reached out from the passing waters to cover the lengthy expanse. Throughout the beset city scores of great fires burned. The moist river haze mixed with the thick smoke to devour the predawn landscape.

The African American sergeant adjusted the nylon lifeline, bringing himself closer to a massive pylon. Sanders fished around in his rucksack, withdrawing the plastic explosives. The Green Beret engineering specialist, an expert at building or demolishing nearly any structure, pulled a roll of heavy tape from the canvas bag. He started attaching the powerful explosives to the substantial bridge support. Above him, Sergeant First Class Matthew Abernathy and Staff Sergeant Aaron Porter stood on the damp pavement with their rifles at the ready.

“Sanders, hurry it up,” Abernathy said in hushed tones. “It’s nearly sunrise. If Mourad’s forces catch us out in the open like this, we’re dead men.”

“Take it easy, Sarge, this is the last one. I’ll be finished in five minutes.”

“Make it three,” Abernathy said.

“My mother always told me when a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right. So do you want it fast, or do you want it right?”

“I want it right and fast. What I really want is to be back on the other side of this stupid bridge before it gets any lighter. And I also want to tell Captain Morrow this thing will be blown to kingdom come when you hit that detonator.”

“What the hell’s the name of this bridge anyway?” Sanders asked while securing the deadly explosives.

“Who friggin’ cares,” Porter said. “Just finish up. I’ll feel a whole lot better when we’re back inside our own lines. I’m not exactly thrilled to be standing here waiting for a bullet to arrive.”

“Relax,” Sanders said. “I’m almost done.”

“Finish it already and let’s get out of here,” the anxious Porter said. “The enemy’s near. I can sense it. And you know I’m never wrong when it comes to stuff like that. What’s left of the buildings on this side of the river are crawling with the Chosen One’s creepy little friends.”

But Sanders wasn’t concerned in the slightest. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. No one’s going to bother either of you. With all this gray swirling around, anyone who sees you will think you’re nothing more than a couple of ghosts rising up from the Nile.”

“We’re going to be real ones soon if you don’t hurry up,” Abernathy said.

Sanders fastened the long strand of detonator cord to the explosives. The final connection had been made. Each of the tired passageway’s huge pillars was wired to blow.

Throughout the length of Cairo, on every span across the great river, other Green Beret units were doing the same. Their orders were clear, the consequences obvious—leave a single bridge standing and the city could fall before sunset.

Sanders checked his handiwork. “Okay, all done. Going to be a hell of a show when this thing goes up. Sure glad I’m going to have a front-row seat for the festivities. Pull me up and let’s head home.”

Four strong arms reached out and lifted the Special Forces A Team’s engineering expert o

nto the wide stretch of steel and concrete. Porter handed Sanders his M-4 rifle.

“All right, let’s go,” Abernathy said.

“Hold up a minute,” Sanders responded.

From his earliest days Charlie Sanders had been bold. Not once had he turned away from a challenge or dare. And he had the ample scars to prove it. He’d always been confident and a bit cocky. But he’d also been quite good at anything he’d ever tried. It hadn’t taken long after his entry into the Army for him to recognize that Special Forces was the ideal place for someone with his intellect, talent, and temperament. His assessment had been correct. This was the perfect world for the young sergeant. He’d survived the relentless horrors of Green Beret training with relative ease and quickly learned his new job duties. Through long hours of practice, he’d become exceptionally skilled at destroying things.

The presumptuous Special Forces soldier reached into his fatigue jacket and pulled out his green beret. He fastidiously went about the process of placing it at just the right angle on his head. Then he primped and preened a moment longer. When he was satisfied the headgear was properly positioned, he turned to the others.

“How do I look?” he asked.

“Jesus, Charlie, you’ve got to be kidding,” Porter replied. “Who gives a damn how you look? Let’s get the hell out of here while we still can.”