The Chosen One

“Chuck, get your stuff and let’s go,” she said.

He gave her a confused stare. “Where the hell’d you get that? Were we finally released to go to the front? I thought they said when they let us go, they’d be sending a military escort?”

“Never mind that. If you want to keep your job, grab your gear and let’s get out of here.”

* * *

—

A few minutes later, a lone vehicle headed into the suffocating desert. Lauren Wells was behind the wheel. Where exactly she and her cameraman were going she hadn’t a clue.

But it no longer mattered.

60

2:27 A.M., NOVEMBER 1

IN A STOLEN HUMVEE

FIFTY MILES SOUTH OF PRESS CITY

They’d been on the move for seven confusing hours. The going had been extremely slow and painful. They’d averaged less than ten miles per hour on their poorly thought-out odyssey. Having had no time to plan, they’d brought neither food nor water. Both were beyond thirsty. Wells hadn’t eaten in over a day. Each had searched for a road, yet none appeared.

With no map or compass, they’d roamed the trackless distances. Just past midnight, they’d stopped and emptied the contents of the Humvee’s lone five-gallon gas can into its bone-dry tank. Even so, it was once again critically low. They continued making their way south. On the distant horizon, a gleaming artillery duel lit up the bleak horizon. Lost and discouraged, Wells drove through the night in search of who knew what.

Her cameraman peered into the darkness. “Where the hell are we?” he said. It was the thirteenth time he’d asked during the tortured drive.

Her frustrations burst forth. “How do I know?” she said. “We’re somewhere between the beach and Cairo. We’re headed south. That’s all I can determine for the moment. Now shut up and stop asking me the same stupid question every five minutes.”

Chuck looked at the dashboard. The gas gauge was touching empty. “We’re about out of gas. Why don’t we find a good place to hole up for the night? Maybe we can locate a nice gully where we’ll be out of sight. The war’ll still be there in the morning.”

But she was determined. “We’ll stop when we’ve reached the front lines and not before.”

They drove for another half hour with no change in their predicament. Wells glanced at the Humvee’s gauges. There could be no denying their fuel was spent. Whether she wanted it or not, stopping would soon be forced upon them.

Their fortunes, however, were about to change. Even though neither knew it, they were in fact quite near the battle zone. Much to their surprise, the Humvee’s headlights picked up the outline of a figure standing on a crest a hundred yards ahead. The moment the bouncing beam fell upon him, the unidentified image dropped into the sands. The duo spotted the reaction a football field away. The movement was obviously human.

Wells looked over and smiled. “See, I told you we’d find someone.” Just then, the engine faltered. There was nothing remaining in the tank but the faintest of fumes. She patted the dash. “Come on, baby, we’re almost there.”

The vehicle lurched forward, sputtering again while struggling through the dubious terrain. She pumped the pedal over and again, coaxing just a little more out of the reluctant transport.

Ahead, the vague form got to his feet. More soldiers appeared behind him. The small rise was near. There were a handful of trucks and a few tents nearby. They were heading toward a small encampment. In the middle of the combat zone, the bivouac was pitch-black.

Neither Lauren nor her cameraman could determine its exact size or composition. The Humvee took a final gasp and died thirty yards short of the location. Wells turned off the headlights. A dozen figures walked toward them, their rifles at the ready. Others were silhouetted behind them.

If she wanted to avoid a hasty return to the beach, she knew her story had to be convincing. Yet she wasn’t overly concerned. She was immensely talented at bluffing her way out of difficult situations. She’d done it many times, and in much tighter spots than this one. She’d smile a generous smile and tell the nearing Marines that the press had been given vehicles and left the beach under armed escort in the afternoon.

She’d explain that somehow she and her cameraman had gotten separated from the rest. She’d depend upon them being too tired, or too preoccupied, to check her story further. Hopefully, she’d driven up to a platoon-size unit, commanded by no one higher than a 2nd lieutenant who’d be more interested in a pretty face than a believable story. The approaching soldiers were a few feet away.

“Boy, am I glad we found you guys,” Wells said. “After getting separated from the main convoy, we’ve been wandering around for hours. I don’t think I’ve ever been this lost in my entire life. We could use as much gas as you can spare and some directions, if you don’t mind.”

The next thing she knew, an AK-47 rifle barrel was being shoved against her cheek. She could feel the weapon’s cold steel upon her face. And the terror leaping into her heart.

In the confusion of the chaos-filled battlefield, she’d inadvertently skirted her own lines and driven into an enemy outpost. She looked up, instantly recognizing the soldier’s Pan-Arab uniform.

His companions moved forward, surrounding the vehicle. There were animated shouts and excited talk among her captors. Having spent the previous five years in the Middle East, she’d become fluent in Arabic. The group’s dialect was different from what she was used to, but she understood every word. Even so, she made no attempt to indicate she was aware of what was being said. The Americans were dragged from the front seats. Their arms were pulled behind them. Their hands were bound together. Wells’s captors began searching the vehicle’s contents. They picked up the cameras and satellite equipment, admiring the expensive electronics gear. They knew it would bring a hefty price on the black market. They opened her bag. With a hearty laugh and a few obscene gestures, they threw its contents onto the ground. The clothing was scattered across the blowing sands. The leader of the group motioned for the stunned captives to walk toward the camp.

She knew the Mahdi’s standing order was to execute infidel prisoners. She didn’t for a second believe the Chosen One’s edict excluded members of the press.

They’d already taken Chuck’s watch and wedding band. They’d wait until the executions were complete to remove the woman’s jewelry. Those who’d been involved in the capture would draw lots to see who’d receive which part of the unexpected bounty.

The camp’s political officer took out his sword. These would be the young mullah’s first beheadings. He tried to hide his nervousness. In the dim light, he hoped no one would notice his shaking hands. He needed to perform well if his men were going to continue obeying his edicts.

“The woman first,” he said.

They dragged Wells’s struggling figure in front of him. The soldiers bent her over, exposing her neck. She continued to rebel against their efforts.

“Hold her still,” the mullah said.

He raised his curved sword into the air. He was moments away from bringing it forward. With a single blow he’d separate her head from her shoulders.

“The Mahdi’s going to be quite disappointed when he finds out what you’ve done to me,” she said in perfect Arabic.

The mullah hesitated. He brought the sword down. “What did you say?” he asked.

“I said the Mahdi’s going to be extremely unhappy when he finds out you’ve executed us.”

“And why would that be?”

“Because he knows me, and I believe he considers me a friend. He’s gone so far as to ask me into his home. I’m Lauren Wells. Do you know who that is? I’m the only television reporter to have ever been invited to hear his words. Three months ago, I spent an entire evening sitting at the feet of Muhammad Mourad recording his thoughts for the world to hear. During our time he made it clear he thought highly of me and my