The Chosen One

“How’d you get down here?” Abernathy asked. “How the hell are you still breathing?”

“It’s a long story.”

“We figured they lopped your head off long ago,” Porter said.

“You know better than that,” Sanders answered. “Gonna take a whole lot more than a few million of Mourad’s crazies to take me down.”

“Same old Charlie,” Porter added. “Still thinking he’s invincible.”

“Hey, wait a minute,” Sanders said. “What are you two doing here? Did you get cut off behind enemy lines too?”

“What are you talking about?” Abernathy said. “We retook all of Cairo a while ago. You’re two miles inside your own defenses. Have been for the past four days.”

“Four days? I’ve been within my own lines for four days? How could that be? I don’t remember hearing any fighting around here.”

“There wasn’t much in this neighborhood. The minute the French tanks hit them, the Mahdi’s forces collapsed. By the time we got back into this part of the city, they were in full retreat. And they didn’t stop running until they were dead or had swum to the other side. Probably wasn’t a shot fired within a mile of this creepy old hotel.”

“French tanks? What French tanks? Hell, I’m so out of it I’ve no clue what’s going on. Either of you happen to have any food? I haven’t eaten in six days.”

Abernathy and Porter looked at each other. “Nope,” Porter said. “No food, but there’s plenty at the team’s base camp. There are five of us left in the detachment—us two, Captain Morrow, Master Sergeant Terry, and Staff Sergeant Donovan. With you, that’ll make six out of the original ten. Would you believe it, we’re back on Rhoda Island. British engineers rebuilt that little bridge you blew up between there and Old Cairo. Had to do it to get the Leclercs onto the island. We’re getting ready for the big counterattack everyone knows the Chosen One’s going to launch.”

“Don’t know how I feel about a counterattack, yet food, any kind of food, sounds great. But I still don’t understand one thing—what are you two doing here?”

“We came to the wonderful Hotel Louraine to see if there was any chance of finding your body,” Abernathy said.

“Or what was left of it,” Porter replied.

“We’ve been begging the captain to let us check around. Didn’t want you to be permanently listed as an MIA. Hate seeing what that does to someone’s family, waiting year after year for word that’s never going to come.”

“We knew your mother would want to bury you,” Porter said. “So we kept pushing Captain Morrow to give us permission to come looking. Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. So he allowed us to come back to make a quick search, upon the condition that after we failed to find your body, we’d never mention it again. Gave us an hour to check around and return to Rhoda Island.”

“A whole hour,” Sanders said. “God, I knew the captain really cared about me. Giving you guys one hour to travel this far and search for me. Could he have been more generous?”

Abernathy glanced at his watch. “Speaking of which, our time’s almost up and we’re still two miles from home. Sanders, are you hurt? Can you walk?”

“I’m fine. Very hungry and a bit weak, but I can make it, no sweat. Especially when there’s food waiting on the other end. Let’s get out of here. I can’t wait to see blue sky again and get some fresh air after what I’ve been through.”

“Then pick up your stuff and let’s go before it gets any later,” Abernathy said. “Otherwise, the captain’s going to hang our asses out to dry.”

Sanders reached down, gathering his gear and rucksack. The trio turned and headed toward the feeble stairs. Porter led the way, with Sanders trailing.

As he stepped over her, Porter looked at Reena lying in a pool of blood on the dirt floor.

“Hey, Charlie. Who was the girl?”

54

7:00 A.M., OCTOBER 30

4TH PLATOON, ALPHA TROOP, 1ST BATTALION, 5TH CAVALRY REGIMENT, 1ST HEAVY BRIGADE COMBAT

(IRONHORSE), 1ST CAVALRY DIVISION

NORTHERN SAUDI ARABIA

The Iranians had no idea three new American divisions had arrived. The descendants of the once-magnificent Persian Empire had gathered in the squalid desert twenty miles inside Saudi Arabia. Thirty-three divisions were ready to pounce. Half a million men and thousands of armored vehicles had come together for the overwhelming assault. They were supremely confident of victory. At sunrise, two days from now, they’d launch a brutal surprise attack against the Americans, intent on slaughtering the Great Satan’s spawn. Not one would be spared.

Yet, as they’d soon learn, the deadly surprise was going to belong to the Allies.

* * *

—

Seven a.m. Normally the fighter aircraft, attack helicopters, and artillery would have hit the enemy well in advance of the main assault, softening him up for the dagger thrust to the heart in the form of crushing American ground forces. But the Allies didn’t want to tip their hand. So they waited until the last possible instant to strike. With the monumental day’s first light shining down upon them, a dozen 1st Cavalry Apaches slammed into the thin Iraqi lines holding the left flank.

Hellfire and TOW missiles went forth to seek and destroy. An Iraqi T-72 burst into flames. A second soon followed.

The American attack had begun.

The tank-killing Apaches’ goal was to wreak havoc upon the Iraqis’ frontline armor. In the east, a similar foray by the 25th Infantry was intended to do the same. A handful of minutes after the Apaches’ assault, carrier-based F/A-18Fs swooped in from the Arabian Sea to hammer both flanks. The confused defenders attempted to answer back with their air defense missiles.

Phase two began. From their bases in Saudi Arabia, Air Force F-35s roared into the center of the Iranian lines to disrupt and confound the waiting divisions. Their primary targets were the communication systems and air defense radars. They performed scores of bomb runs throughout their stunned foe’s defenses. After an hour of intense raids, Iranian communications were no more. And the enemy’s radars were smoldering in the sands.

The Persians were blind. They’d no way of knowing what was coming.

* * *

—

Eight a.m. Explosions rocked the unmerciful Saudi desert as Super Hornets and Apaches continued to rip apart the Iraqi armor. It was obvious the F/A-18s and attacking helicopters were having their way. The time had come to let loose American armor.

Lead elements of the 1st Cavalry had hidden in the desert a scant eight miles from the lean Iraqi force. The command was given to move out. Darren Walton’s three Bradleys, accompanying a four-tank Abrams platoon, would show the way.

On Walton’s orders, the Bradleys headed north toward the Iraqi point elements. With their hatches open, Walton and Sanchez viewed the staid world. Both knew it wouldn’t be long before they reached their astonished opponent’s lines. Walton looked back. The platoon’s remaining Bradleys and the four M-1s were nipping at their heels. Behind them was a limitless line of armored vehicles.

The battle-hardened platoon sergeant was assuming the lead position for the entire division. His Bradley would be out front throughout the long day.

“Wally,” he said into the intercom, “it’ll be no problem finding the enemy—just follow the smoke from the burning T-72s. That’ll take you right to them.”

If they wanted to ensnare their gargantuan prey, they had to move fast.

* * *

—

Nine a.m. Breakout. The cavalry division smashed the meager Iraqi defenses and moved on. They rushed across the sands to close the trap on the Iranians. As they reached their assigned locations, the rear units began dropping from the endless formation. Each began setting up its defenses. An ever-tightening noose was being placed around their adversary’s neck.

“Okay, Wally, head north for another hour. That should put us a few miles from the Saudi-Iraqi border.”

The Bradley raced across the ponderous desert at thirty miles per hour. Fifteen minutes after piercing the faltering enemy, the platoon crested a high dune. As they did, they ran headlong into an Iraqi armored battalion racing toward the front.