The Chosen One

Within the targeted area, nothing survived. Men and machines perished in a swirling witch’s caldron of death and destruction.

The consuming Cobras, however, weren’t finished. Always on the alert for Stinger launches, they swooped in low with flares falling. Their bulging rocket pods were filled with further agony for those intent on a beckoning paradise. The frenetic helicopters’ armor-piercing guns also soon roared.

In an instant, the combatants’ roles had been reversed. Now it was Mourad’s dazed forces facing defeat on the Alexandria highway. Yet the Pan-Arabs didn’t yield, unwilling to admit that in a handful of fleeting heartbeats certain mastery had been taken from them. They responded with everything they had. T-72 antiaircraft machine guns fired in every direction. Stinger gunners futilely attempted to break through the staunch Cobras’ defenses and lock on to the daunting attackers.

The Mahdi’s devotees were outmatched. Still they were by no means defenseless. The first of the Cobras soon discovered how much fight remained in the stunned enemy. A Stinger suddenly reached through the confusing clutter to snatch an American crew. A second Cobra went down moments later in a hail of antiaircraft fire. The crippled helicopters smashed into the desert near their own lines. An earth-shattering blast accompanied each life-ending explosion.

For the Chosen One’s disciples such victories served no tactical purpose. They were far too few, and much too late. Yet it no longer mattered.

When the Marine division’s Abrams arrived, the Pan-Arab defeat was forever sealed. The twelve tanks waded deep into the scattered survivors to obliterate and plunder. The T-72s were excellent tanks. Nevertheless, they were no match for the top-of-line American armor. The M-1s were far too advanced, and the Marine crews much too polished, to suffer even a single defeat.

What the Cobras didn’t eliminate, the M-1’s methodically dispatched. The precision of the Abrams’ kills was a thing of distorted beauty to behold. The four-man crews loaded their huge rounds, located their targets with their fully computerized systems, and fired in such quick succession it was impossible for those on the battlements to keep up. What few rounds the T-72s got off against their superior adversary failed to penetrate the foot of frontal plating protecting the technologically superior armored vehicles. The massive shells harmlessly exploded against the M-1s’ thick hulls.

The fleeting hopes of the Chosen One’s armored division forever disappeared when the five surviving Cobras from the earlier air battle arrived at the rear of the Pan-Arab lines. The flailing division was caught in an ever-constricting death grip. The lethal Americans closed in from all sides to squeeze the final, fading embers from the defeated force. Even when their loss was there for all to see, not a single one retreated. Mourad’s obsessed adherents had arrived on the bloodstained vista intent on triumph or martyrdom. They’d come within an eyelash of the first. In the end, however, they’d have no choice but to settle for the second.

The spirit-seizing slaughter went on without letup. It wouldn’t be until early evening that the final gunfire would cease. But end it eventually did.

* * *

—

The remnants of the platoon settled into the defensive positions they’d held at the beginning of the grotesque battle. At the conclusion of the day, the Chosen One’s forces hadn’t gained an inch of ground. As the unforgiving sun disappeared, fifteen thousand fresh bodies lay on the piteous landscape. The smoldering shells of their crushed armored vehicles littered the sorrowful ground. Two hundred of the Marine battalion’s men had been killed or seriously wounded during the afternoon assault. Barely half those Erickson had taken command of a few hours prior were still in the fight.

The battalion’s final four hundred would harden themselves for the next attack. With every fiber of courage they could muster, they’d attempt to hang on until help arrived.

In three days, the 1st Marine Division would reach the North African shore. Until then, all the scarred Marines could do was lick their gaping wounds and wait for Mourad to make his next move.

Second Battalion had suffered greatly. So had many of their brethren along the defensive front. It had been an extremely difficult day for the entire division.

The same could be said for the carrier battle groups sent to protect the skies above.

24

4:22 P.M., OCTOBER 18

BLACKJACK SECTION, FIGHTING SQUADRON VF-57

USS ABRAHAM LINCOLN

NEAR THE LIBYAN-EGYPTIAN BORDER

A dozen F/A-18Fs led the way. Armed with AIM-120, AIM-132, and Sidewinder missiles, they were a formidable adversary. It wouldn’t be long before the Pan-Arab pilots tasted the immense power of the American aircraft. The Navy interceptors would attempt to stun the leading edge of the attack, buying the Americans valuable time. With a dagger’s thrust to the heart, they’d fearlessly dive into the center of the fray to disrupt Mourad’s huge air assault. Chaos would follow in their wake.

A similar number of F/A-18Es, their ground attack missions aborted, were right behind. The second wave was taking a more passive posture. They’d wait to see how the battle unfolded and try to hold the line against the numerically superior enemy until help arrived. Hopefully, they could screen most of the MiGs away from the carrier fleet. They had no other choice. This first group of F/A-18Es was limping into battle with a severe handicap. Sent skyward to destroy tanks, none was loaded with a full complement of munitions for air-to-air combat. Not one of the F/A-18Es was carrying its most powerful weapons. Without their radar-guided AIM-120s and AIM-132s, the Hornets would have to work their way relatively close to make a kill. The range of their Sidewinders was limited to about twenty miles, less than one-fifth of what an AIM-120 missile would provide.

Blackjack Section, with only a single heat-seeking Sidewinder hanging from each of its pilots’ wing tips and much of its cannon shells expended, trailed the leading groups.

All were headed west at speeds of over a thousand miles per hour.

Five hundred enemy fighters smothered the skies over the southern Mediterranean. Twenty-four of America’s finest aircraft were rushing to meet them. The opposing groups were on a collision course seven miles above the ocean’s breezes.

The initial advantage belonged to the Chosen One. Still, the Americans’ chances were improving with each passing minute. They’d been caught off guard. Yet their response to the attack was measured and proficient. Every thirty seconds, another combat aircraft leaped from one of the carriers’ decks and raced to join its countrymen. Within the hour, the entire strike force would be airborne. Even with the five-to-one odds against them, they’d be more than a match for Mourad’s inferior pilots and planes.

But the Mahdi had no intention of giving the Americans an hour to prepare. His orders were to attack with all the malice his MiGs could muster before their opponent got organized. The Pan-Arab pilots didn’t hesitate. They made a headlong rush toward the oncoming Navy fighters.

The battle was joined.

The initial dogfights were scarcely under way when the first of the Chosen One’s MiGs burst into flames. The defeated fighter, the lifeless body of its vanquished pilot strapped in his seat, began a long, slow spiral toward the waiting seas. Moments later, a second crippled Pan-Arab aircraft, a French-made Mirage, followed.

Things were heating up. One by one, pairs of freshly launched Super Hornets arrived on the scene. More were on the way. By well before the dinner hour, all eighty-eight of the carrier fleet’s combat fighters would be engaging the enemy.

The expanding battle continued to evolve.

While the hot afternoon sun made its journey toward the western horizon, the match of calculating men and streaking machines wore on throughout the length and breadth of the heavens. Like a giant game of tic-tac-toe, crisscrossing vapor trails covered the distant skies.

* * *

—

The “shoot” symbol app

eared on Mitchell’s cockpit display. A MiG-25 was dead center in his kill envelope. He fired the last of his missiles. The Sidewinder dropped from the tip of his Hornet’s left wing. It raced across the sky. Six miles separated the F/A-18E from the fleeing aircraft. The Sidewinder would cover it in seconds.