The Chosen One

“Charlie, look up,” Porter pleaded.

But Sanders continued to absentmindedly prepare his explosives. The Pan-Arabs closed to within a block and a half. They’d yet to locate the figure kneeling deep within the darkness of the downtrodden structure.

“Dammit, Sanders,” Abernathy said, “what the hell’s wrong with you? Where’s your head? Look up, you crazy bastard.”

Yet Sanders’s mind was anywhere but there.

“What’re we going to do?” Porter asked.

“What else can we do? Give them another fifty yards. If they don’t turn when they reach the final side street, we’ll open fire. That’s sure to get Sanders’s attention. Hopefully, he’s still in good enough shape to run like hell. Because if he doesn’t they’re bound to nail him. If he catches a break and makes it to our position, we’ll disappear down one of the streets behind us and hightail it for home. Our lines are only three blocks away. I know we can get to safety no matter how many of Mourad’s followers are prowling around.”

They waited and watched, praying for Sanders to notice the overwhelming band headed for him. Straight and steady, the Chosen One’s soldiers came on. Doorway by doorway, house by house, they moved up the roadway. They’d nearly reached the point where Abernathy and Porter planned to open fire. The ambush team stared intently at the approaching enemy. There appeared to be no doubt. The potent force was headed for where Sanders was working. In the heavy half-light, two M-4s were raised and pointed in their direction.

Without warning, a Pan-Arab soldier stepped out of a constricted alleyway not more than twenty feet in front of the waiting pair.

“What the hell?” Abernathy screamed.

He opened fire. The Libyan fell to the sidewalk, bullet holes painted across his chest.

A second poked his head out. Porter blew it off with one quick burst. The slender passage was full of movement. A significant element had surprised the Americans.

“Where’d they come from?” Porter excitedly asked.

“Who knows? We were so busy watching Sanders that we did what he did. We got distracted. Wherever they’re from, there are way too many of them. Let’s get out of here while we still can.”

“What about Sanders?”

“There’s nothing we can do for him. He’s on his own. Let’s go.”

Both sprayed a final volley toward the sheltered opening. By the time the echoing sounds of gunfire stopped, they were gone.

A dozen of the Mahdi’s followers edged toward the front of the alley. The minute they were certain it was safe, they took up positions on both sides of the street.

A startled Sanders’s soaring daydreams were forever shattered. A hundred of the enemy were headed toward him. Still more blocked his retreat. He looked south down the side street only to find rifle-carrying figures in the distance. He was cut off. He frantically searched for a way out. None, however, presented itself.

The detachment’s junior member edged deeper into the murky protection of the old hotel. The developing night continued to mask his presence. The peeling door to the Hotel Louraine was ajar. The entrance was a few feet away. He peered inside the shrouded doorway. He could see nothing but darkness beyond the slender opening. He waited and listened. The decaying hotel was frightfully silent. Sanders took a frenzied look around, hoping to find another solution. Yet once again, no answer appeared.

With as little movement as possible he scooped up his rucksack and rifle. He eased inside the smothering building, and without the slightest sound, closed the tired door behind him.

31

7:17 P.M., OCTOBER 19

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

THE HOTEL LOURAINE

CAIRO

The dingy lobby was dank and musty. The air in the room lay heavy and stale upon the encroaching night. It pressed down upon the grimy hotel’s reluctant visitor. The pungent odors of rotting carpet and the thousands of unwashed bodies who’d passed through this place in the past century filled every corner of the cramped entryway. The fading furniture was strewn about. It was obvious, even in the scant threads of light penetrating the old structure, that the location had been abandoned in a great hurry.

To his right, Sanders could make out a timeworn stairway leading to the upper floors. A small dining area nestled behind it. Next to the stairs sat a primitive elevator of long-forgotten design. Feeling his way, his rifle poised, Sanders moved farther into the room. Step by wary step, he crept through the small foyer. His senses were keenly alive.

Smothering himself in the sheltering darkness, he eased into the hotel. He needed time to adjust to the sparse light. But he was unsure if the enemy had spotted his hasty actions. For all he knew, one hundred angry souls were closing for the kill. He stumbled over the pieces of a cheap lamp lying on the threadbare rug. He reached for his flashlight but thought better of it. With nothing but his instincts to guide him, he pressed into the nearly sightless world. Well within the room, he stopped for the briefest moment to listen for the sound of footsteps either inside or out. A haunting quiet greeted him. Nothing but calm reached his ears. The humble hotel appeared to be empty. And the Mahdi’s soldiers were moving slowly, unsure what their compatriots had stumbled upon moments earlier. They’d yet to reach the modest crossing.

Sanders knew a formidable presence was drawing near. The trap was tightening. He had to find a way to escape—a side street or alleyway still clear of sword-wielding zealots. If nothing else, he had to uncover a sheltering rock to crawl beneath to plan his next move.

He spotted what appeared to be a doorway at the far end of the lobby. Always on the alert, he eased past the antiquated check-in counter. Patiently, Sanders opened the creaking door and peered inside. A small, windowless kitchen waited in the blackness. He could just make out the far wall. The modest enclosure couldn’t be wider than fifteen feet in either direction.

“I’ll bet if there’s a way out of here,” he whispered, “it’ll be on the other side of this room.”

He moved forward, hoping against hope that the dim kitchen would hold the priceless treasure of freedom at its end. To his disappointment, the only thing he found on the far side was an impenetrable wall of mortar and brick. It had to be at least a foot thick. He felt his way along it, searching for a glimmer of salvation. But none appeared.

Like so many of the structures in Cairo’s oldest section, this one had been built wall-to-wall with its neighbors. Still he needed to ensure he hadn’t missed an escape route within the meager space. The apprehensive sergeant reached for his flashlight. Its light soon shined, piercing the stifling void that closed in around him to feed upon his fears. A cursory check with the penetrating beam did little good. The results of his investigation were the same. The stout wall was a dead end. There appeared to be no way out except through the front of the hotel. And with death waiting in a hundred rifles, that was no way at all.

Sanders was surrounded. If his presence was discovered, he’d be no match for the overreaching attackers. He’d go down fighting to the last. Even so, his end would soon come.

He couldn’t chance the light any further. His flashlight was quickly extinguished.

Maybe the answer for which he was searching could be found in another part of the broken-down building. He turned to retrace his steps. That’s when he heard them—excited voices drawing near. Whether they were inside the squalid edifice or gathering in front of its framework, he couldn’t determine.

It didn’t much matter. Either way, he couldn’t chance a return to the lobby. He was trapped in the kitchen. And sooner or later, they’d stumble upon his hiding place. The sounds grew louder. He froze. Not a muscle moved. That’s when he saw it out of the corner of his eye. Waiting in an obscure niche sat another door, small and narrow.

Tucked in the wall separating the kitchen from the lobby, the indistinct area had been ignored in his initial search. The door was partially open. Sanders didn’t have the slightest clue where it went. Nevertheless, it seemed his best chance, possibly his only chance, of avoiding detection.

He moved across the room toward it, measuring each step to avoid making the slightest of sounds. He soon found himself facing the gaping doorway. He peered inside. He was greeted by absolute darkness. He had to know where it led. He had to risk the flashlight, to gamble on it not being seen once more. It was back in his hands.

With its bright glow, the riddle was partially solved. On the other side of the entryway, wooden steps led underground. To where, Sanders couldn’t determine. Yet with the enemy so near, anywhere was better than where he was. The door was ajar enough to allow him to squeeze past. He moved around it, edging inside. The first of the deteriorating steps sagged beneath his weight. He glanced back toward the kitchen, taking a final look.

He pulled the sheltering door closed and reached to bolt it. But there was no latch. He’d no way of securing it from the inside. For now, however, such problems would have to be ignored.

Ever vigilant, with the beam to guide him, he headed down into this new world. On the creaking stairs and rotting banister were the unmistakable signs of blood. Its age was impossible to determine, although it gave every indication of being reasonably fresh. From where it had come, and who’d left it, he hadn’t a clue. The solitary Green Beret’s senses heightened.

It didn’t take more than a handful of steps to realize what he’d discovered. A tiny, windowless basement. A dank environment filled with rows of wine racks. The sunken opening was the hotel’s humble cellar. In its day, each of the cobwebbed racks had held the finest wines. The British colonists had demanded no less. Now the majority of the racks stood empty. Even so, enough grit-crusted bottles were scattered about the small room to satisfy the thirst of an entire A Team for many a week.