The Chosen One

As the Americans had anticipated, after their forceful expulsion from Saudi Arabia, the Iranians and Iraqis, enemies for untold millennia, had turned on each other. A new war was beginning. It would involve many years of useless struggle and the wasting of hundreds of thousands of lives.

Saudi Arabia and Kuwait were safe. This decisive portion of the war was over.

Walton’s brigade had been the original force to reach the desperate conflict. Once it was certain they wouldn’t be needed in Egypt, they’d be the first to go home.

In a few weeks, he would arrive. His joyous family would be waiting on the docks in Galveston.

62

10:47 A.M., NOVEMBER 2

BLACKJACK SECTION, FIGHTING SQUADRON VF-57

USS ABRAHAM LINCOLN

CAIRO

A few hundred feet off the ground, Blackjack Section’s Hornets roared up the Nile. Both pilots were alert for Stinger firings. The fighters had reached the northern tip of Rhoda Island. As the unremitting assault went deeper into its second day, the gunfire from both sides was extremely heavy. Mitchell had expended his rocket pods on a trio of recently constructed bridges. In front of him, innumerable Pan-Arabs were visible upon the quarrelsome waters. Those on the makeshift rafts could see them coming. Many raised their rifles and fired long bursts. A few panicked at the sight of the marauding Americans. They leaped into the harrowing river.

Mitchell squeezed his cannon’s trigger. A line of rebellious rounds spewed from the F/A-18E’s nose. Their life-taking ordnance reached out for those upon the spreading swells. Once more, death and suffering poured forth to claim those caught by the powerful attack. The rounds tore into one pathetic craft after another. Countless bodies tumbled into the flowing waters.

“All right, Worm, that about does it for me. My Vulcan’s nearly empty.”

“Same here, Blackjack.”

“Let’s head back to the boat.”

Their first mission in days directed toward anything but the desperate battles on the Libyan border was at its end.

* * *

—

The decisive duo hurried below to grab a hasty lunch. Sated, they headed for their room. There’d been few opportunities to catch their breath in the past days and both were planning on savoring each precious minute.

Mitchell was soon lying on his bunk while Sweeney played on the computer. They hadn’t been there long when the squadron commander appeared.

“Brad, the wing commander wants to see you.”

“Did he say what he wanted, sir?” Mitchell asked.

“Nope. Just said to tell you he needed to speak with you right away.”

“All right, sir. I’ll head to his office immediately.”

“Thanks, Brad. Stop by on your way back and fill me in on what he has to say.”

“I’ll do that, sir.”

The squadron commander disappeared. Mitchell looked at Sweeney. From the expressions on their faces, each suspected whatever the wing commander wanted wasn’t good.

* * *

—

Mitchell knocked on the open door. “You wanted to see me, Admiral?”

The wing commander was a legendary flier whose exploits were known by every pilot in the Navy. His rank and age had pushed him behind a desk. He didn’t like it one bit.

“Yeah, Brad, come in and take a seat. It’d be best if you closed the door behind you.”

Mitchell did as he’d been told. He settled into the chair, the worry on his face evident. “What’s up, sir?”

“I’ll come right to the point. I sure hate losing a damn fine pilot in the middle of this, but I’ve been ordered to send you home. You’re to catch the next transport to Naples. From there you’re to take the first available commercial flight back to the States, pick up your kids, and drive them to California. Then get back here as soon as you can. You’ve ten days, no more, to take care of your family situation and return to the Lincoln. Is that understood? Until you’re back I’ll assign Lieutenant Sweeney to fly with one of the sections who’ve lost a pilot.”

Brooke and her father had gotten their way. The Pentagon had folded beneath the unrelenting pressure.

“But, sir, in ten days this’ll be over,” Mitchell said. “And until it is, Norm Sweeney belongs on my wing not somebody else’s.”

“I know that but it can’t be helped. This directive came from high up, and neither of us is in a position to question the reasons behind it.”

“Sir, we both know where it came from.”

“Yeah, Brad, but that doesn’t change anything.”

“You may be right, sir. But I’ve got another mission in an hour. I can’t just walk away and force some other section to pick up the slack in my absence. I’d never forgive myself if someone got killed while completing a job assigned to me. Can’t you at least let me complete that one before I go?”

The admiral paused, weighing his options. He liked Mitchell and thought highly of his skills. In many ways, he reminded him of himself when he was younger. “I certainly understand how you feel. I’d feel the same way if I were in your shoes. Hell, what’s the Pentagon going to do if I let you take another assignment? As cantankerous as I am

, with as many enemies as I’ve made, I’m sure as hell not going to get any more stars on my collar. To tell you the truth, I don’t know how I got this high. They’re probably going to force me into retirement when this is over. Take that last mission before you go.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t worry about it. Just come back in one piece so I don’t have to explain why I let you fly.”

“If that happens, sir, tell them you got the message after I left for the mission. In all the confusion, you could probably say you never received it at all.”

“You’re right about that. With everything going on, half my stuff’s getting lost in transmission or routed to the wrong place. Some things are showing up days after they should.”

There was a lull in the conversation. A slow smile came to Mitchell’s face. The admiral had given him a possible way out of his dilemma. If he could get his superior to go along, he’d figured out how to stay in the war.

“You know, sir, if that’s the case, why don’t we act like this message got lost? With the way things look, in three or four days the war could end and I can leave in good conscience.”

Mitchell could tell his superior wasn’t thrilled.

“And you’d not have to sweat it one bit, sir,” Mitchell added. “I’ll make sure your backside’s covered. Worse comes to worst we tell them you gave me the order but the transport aircraft to Naples were full and we’ve been waiting for a seat to open up.”

The wing commander sat taking in his words. He hated the thought of one of his best pilots leaving before the fighting was over. His answer contained a hint of reluctance, but nevertheless he acquiesced. “All right. Like I said, even if we’re caught, what the hell are they going to do to a used-up old fighter pilot like me? They’re not going to courts-martial me and let it become public some money-hungry senator put the squeeze on the Pentagon in the middle of the war to satisfy a wealthy donor. The worst they’re going to do is quietly end my career.”