The Chosen One

“Roger, Echo Control. Battle zone still masked by smoke?”

“Affirmative. No significant change in conditions from this morning. Your systems will handle it just fine. Should be able to put your ordnance right on target.”

“Any bandits in the area?”

“Negative, Blackjack. Just like it’s been since the carriers arrived. No sign of enemy aircraft. Even so, we’ve got Super Hornets at thirty-five thousand feet to cover your heads.”

“What about Pan-Arab air defenses?”

“Still plenty of Stinger missiles and antiaircraft systems around. Growler aircraft will hit the strike zone with chaff and electronic countermeasures moments before you arrive. That should jam their radar and disrupt their air defenses. It’ll help with the advanced Russian stuff the Pan-Arabs are using, but once you drop your bombs and head down to attack with your Vulcan cannons, you’re on your own against the Stingers. So don’t be a hero. Use the smoke to hide your position. Drop flares and take evasive measures at the first sign of a Stinger firing.”

“Roger, Echo Control. We’re on our way.”

At fifteen miles a minute, the Hornet pilot and his wingman sprinted toward the evolving battle. The remainder of the attack squadron would be right behind. The first of the help the Marines needed was three minutes away.

The soaring duo had been flying as a section for two years. In their significant hours in the sky together, they’d learned to read each other’s thoughts and anticipate each other’s actions. Each had absolute confidence in his partner’s abilities. In a tight spot, Mitchell knew he could count on his wingman. And Sweeney knew he could depend on his section leader to make the right decision.

The swift pair passed over the North African coastline. Just over a minute before the attack would begin.

Even with a thick blanket of gray obscuring the trackless ground below, with the F/A-18E’s sophisticated instrumentation it wasn’t hard to find the unending targets.

“Worm, this is Blackjack, oncoming armor confirmed on highway and surrounding desert,” Mitchell said to his wingman. “Pan-Arab lead elements are just south of our lines and closing fast.”

“Roger, Blackjack, I’ve got them spotted.”

“There are five Hornet pairs scheduled to follow us in on the attack. They should be showing up in one-minute intervals. Let’s hit the lead elements of the enemy armored column first. That should blunt the Pan-Arab attack and give the Marines a little breathing room while they wait for further Hornets to arrive. Be real careful, though, the last thing I want is to hit our people by mistake. Bombing run first, then we’ll circle around and strafe the hell out of them with our cannons. Hopefully, the Growlers jammed things real good. But just in case, keep your eyes open for air defense radar locks or Stinger firings.”

“Roger, Blackjack, I’m wide-awake back here. Make your pass, I’ll be right behind you.”

Mitchell raced toward the surging T-72s. Sweeney hugged his tail. The F/A-18Es lined up the release point on their cockpit displays. At precisely the right instant, Mitchell dropped tons of high explosives from the ruinous stores beneath his fighter’s shimmering belly and wings. A line of thousand-pound killers tumbled from the ashen skies. They headed straight for the inviting prey striving to cross the potent desert two miles below. A brief moment later, Sweeney also hit his release. A second set of death-laden armaments fell toward the mournful earth. For the Super Hornet pilots it was a routine task. Their exceptional aircrafts’ computer systems had performed the majority of the work. When the systems told them to fire, they dropped their toxic payloads onto the targeted area. As the lethal pair circled to the rear to set up their strafing run, they didn’t give their actions a second thought.

Even so, for the followers of Islam the compelling acts of the American pilots held far greater importance. Without warning, a demonic swath of contested desert a quarter mile long erupted in a blazing corridor of death and destruction. The wide highway disappeared. Directly in front of Erickson’s position, two dozen tanks and half as many armored personnel carriers were ripped apart in a blinding flash. A ghastly inferno filled with suffering and damnation fell upon the Mahdi’s attackers in a thunderous series of explosions. The inescapable flames of an unspeakable maelstrom reached out to consume three hundred once-breathing souls. Most never knew what hit them. In another sixty seconds, a second pair of F/A-18Es was scheduled to do the same. And behind them would come another, and another, and another, almost without end, until the dreary sands in front of the Marine positions would become an inhospitable no-man’s-land filled with the charred remains of vanquished flesh and ravaged machines.

“Echo Control,” Mitchell said, “this is Blackjack Section. Have completed our bomb run. Beginning cannon attack.”

“Roger, Blackjack Section. Second section is thirty seconds out. They’ll commence their assault the instant you clear the area.”

Mitchell and Sweeney lined up their position behind the endless enemy. Now would come the most exhilarating, and most dangerous, part of the pilots’ mission. Screaming in so low over the blighted sands that they could see the anguished faces of those they were destroying, Mitchell and Sweeney would assail the enormous armored column with their Vulcan cannons. From above and behind, their 20mm armor-piercing shells would penetrate the upper and rear armor of a T-72 to mutilate and kill those sheltering within. Suffering and death would follow in the Hornets’ wake.

The avenging F/A-18Es roared in side by side with their shining wing tips nearly touching the rolling dunes. They streaked across the ill-prepared column at thirteen hundred feet per second. The attacking armor was right in front of them. Mitchell made a first brief squeeze of his trigger, allowing the weapon’s burst controller to determine the number of shells expelled. The shattering shells spewed from beneath the Hornet’s nose. At four thousand rounds per minute, without the burst controller he would’ve emptied his Vulcan’s chamber in six seconds. He fired another lightning burst. Sweeney unleashed a quick blast of his own. Their armor-piercing cannons tore into the stretching lines of faltering tanks and personnel carriers. At such incredible speed, the T-72 commanders had no time to react with their antiaircraft machine gun. The perishing hulks were defenseless against the shrieking raptors’ infinite power.

But the Chosen One’s air defenses were not. Thirty Stingers were lifted onto the shoulders of Allah’s warriors. The Stinger gunners fought to track the wailing bandits. If they could lock on to one of the despicable aircraft and destroy it, when their own death arrived their honored place in a blissful eternity would be assured. The air defenders begged to hear the firing tone go off telling them their heat-seeking Stinger had found the lusting target. Even so, none of the unsophisticated little missiles was capable of distinguishing the intense heat of the ground-hugging F/A-18E engines from the burning tanks and scorching sands all around them.

In seconds, the pernicious Hornets completed their run. Two hundred additional beings departed the world of mortal man. The solemn journeys across the River Styx would be many on this day. Both aircraft rocketed over the American defenses and raced back into the morose heavens. As they passed, each pilot saw the situation on the ground below. The swirling clouds of ever-darkening fires soon covered their escape.

“Christ, Blackjack,” Sweeney said. “Our efforts barely slowed them down. Did you see those sons-of-bitches? They’re right on top of our guys.”

“I saw them. Looks like the Marines are about to catch hell. We’ve still got half our 20mm shells. Let’s circle around. After the next pair of Hornets makes their bomb run, we’ll complete another quick pass before heading back to rearm.”

“Roger, Blackjack. I’m with you.”

“Echo Control, this is Blackjack Section. Our guys are in big trouble. Get the other sections in here as fast as you can. We’re about to turn and make another run to buy some time.”

“

Blackjack, this is Echo Control. Negative on that. Cease your engagement immediately. All Hornet sections are to break off their attack at once.”

“What?” Mitchell said. “Did you hear me, Echo Control? The Marines are going to be slaughtered if we don’t give them a hand.”

“Roger, Blackjack, we heard you loud and clear. But there’s something very odd going on. All of a sudden we’ve got bandits all over the place on our radar. More and more are popping up every second. And they’re headed this way. Hornet sections are to switch from ground attack to dogfight modes. Find a clear piece of ocean to jettison your bombs before heading west to meet the enemy.”

21

4:17 P.M., OCTOBER 18

BLACKJACK SECTION, FIGHTING SQUADRON VF-57

USS ABRAHAM LINCOLN