The Chosen One

THIRTY MILES FROM THE EGYPTIAN COAST

Twenty minutes after the Marines left the beach, as the catapult’s power increased, Bradley Mitchell sat in his cockpit wearing a satisfied grin. To his right, Norm Sweeney’s aircraft rested on the one next to his. This was it, Blackjack’s final mission before returning home. The Pentagon had made it clear—get on the next transport or forfeit his career. Even so, Mitchell was pleased with what had occurred in the past days. He’d done well on the unending assignments. He’d made a difference in the perverse conflict. And despite the problems Brooke had caused, he’d been selected as the lead pilot for the most important mission of the war. He was going to play a significant role in ridding the world of the Chosen One.

Things had gone exactly as he’d hoped. In a few hours, the Americans would declare victory. And he’d been able to withstand his wife’s incessant pressure, holding on until the bitter end. His plan had succeeded. With the wing commander’s help, he’d gotten away with it for a few extra days. Yet once Brooke had figured out her husband wasn’t on his way, her wails had become so shrill no one could ignore them.

There’d be hell to pay when he reached Virginia. He could hear her screaming, the ireful tirades more than he was willing to endure. He’d grab the kids and get out of there. Nonetheless, there was no doubt his transgressions would cost him. His shrew of a mate wouldn’t allow him to forget his trespasses for the remainder of his days.

In his way of looking at it, what he’d face when he got home would be worth the anguish. For the rest of his years he could hold his head high, knowing he’d done his part in this horrid contest. He could proudly smile, secure in the knowledge he’d done what was right.

Fortunately, the next transport aircraft wasn’t departing for Italy until morning. So there was time for a last sortie before leaving. One crowning achievement and he’d be on his way.

The catapult fired.

The first of the climactic operation’s six Super Hornets leaped from the carrier’s deck. Sweeney’s aircraft soon rose to join him in the southern Mediterranean sky. The F/A-18Es rapidly headed inland. In ten minutes, they’d reach the target. Once there, the skillful pilots would use their bomb loads to destroy Mourad’s communication center and remove the possibility of significant reinforcements arriving. They’d then use their lethal cannons to provide close-in support for the Marines and Green Berets.

Two additional Hornet sections would trail at five-minute intervals.

High in the heavens, Blackjack Section’s aircraft reached the bright waters’ end. They roared across the coastline.

The precious minutes slid by. With each one’s end, they’d sped fifteen miles closer to the target.

“Blackjack,” Sweeney said, “I’m picking up the Marine helicopter formation on my radar. They’re nearing the hilltop.”

“Roger, Worm, I’ve got them. Looks like we’re both going to arrive right on schedule. We should be there within seconds of the Marines touching down.”

They continued to watch their countrymen’s progress as they grew closer to the prize.

71

6:42 P.M., NOVEMBER 6

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

EAST OF THE GIZA PLATEAU

On all sides of the monument-laden ground mujahideen were stationed one hundred meters apart. In front of the northern face of the Great Pyramid a dozen stood vigilant.

The Special Forces detachment was ready. Sanders crammed his cherished beret into his pocket. He put on the soiled cap he’d liberated from a dead Pan-Arab while making his way through Giza. The ragtag headgear was two sizes too large, but it didn’t matter. It would serve its purpose. And for once Sanders didn’t care how he looked. There’d be no fetching women to impress on this trip. The members of the detachment did the same, each shoving an enemy cap down around his ears.

With silencers attached, the long black barrels of Porter and Abernathy’s sniper rifles eased out an open window. The skilled marksmen took aim.

Throughout the day, a constant stream of humbled Pan-Arabs had been withdrawing from Giza. Vast thousands had moved through the area on their way toward the mighty desert beyond. Some had been alone when passing the hiding Americans. Others had been in motley groups of varying sizes and descriptions. Many were unarmed, but a few still carried weapons.

The Green Berets would use the faltering day’s muddled events to their advantage. At a distance, in the twilight their uniforms wouldn’t look notably different from those of the enemy. They were depending upon the vague similarity, and a bit of trickery, to get them close. They’d wait for the next bone-tired file to wander by and fall in a short distance behind. If things went as planned, to the watchful eyes upon the mesa they’d look like little more than stragglers from the gathering they followed. They hoped the ruse would get the team within striking distance.

Morrow checked his watch. In six minutes Alpha 6333 needed to reach the northeast corner of the plateau. He’d timed the various collections as they’d struggled past to determine how long the average one needed to reach the rise. He’d calculated the typical formation required four minutes to make it to that point.

The detachment’s six men needed to arrive at the exact moment the Ospreys touched down. With the Marines engaging the mujahideen, it would take his soldiers another four minutes to cross the plateau and battle their way up the pyramid’s ancient stones. If things went as planned, eight minutes after stepping from their hideout they’d be standing at the massive structure’s entrance.

From watching the activity into and out of the timeworn monument, Morrow knew many who entered weren’t armed. Whether or not there were additional weapons inside its sacrosanct walls he’d been unable to ascertain. He also knew from the Pan-Arabs’ movements that the overwhelming majority of the mujahideen were stationed outside. Throughout the day he’d identified less than a handful entering and exiting the portal into the immense tomb. Nevertheless, he didn’t have an exact count of who or what they’d face once the detachment breached the opening. And despite their planning, there would be events none could anticipate.

There were also important political considerations. They were under strict orders to keep the damage to the pyramid’s internal structure to an absolute minimum. There’d be no using anything beyond their M-4s and a few stun grenades while within its rugged walls. In place of explosives, Sanders’s rucksack contained the grenades along with sight and hearing protection for the team.

Morrow and his men had examined the maps of the ancient pathway to the King’s Chamber. The timeless route was imprinted on every brain. He knew the tunnels would be somewhat restrictive, with scarcely enough room for one person to move through at a time. The detachment commander was unsure of the difficulties they’d find within the narrow confines. Even so, he suspected it wouldn’t take long to reach the spot where the Chosen One was hiding.

Twenty minutes from now Muhammad Mourad would be dead.

Morrow glanced at his watch. The time had arrived to initiate the operation. They’d received the signal—the Marines and Hornets were in the air.

A short distance away, more deserters were approaching. Another line of haggard Algerians was nearing the sheltering house. There were nearly forty in their number. A dozen carried rifles. Lagging behind the plodding group would soon be six new individuals.

The beaten-down gathering was a minute away from passing their hiding place. Morrow signaled. Abernathy and Porter fired. Each was a long, difficult shot. Silhouetted in the blinding sun, their objectives were a quarter mile away. Yet the bullets ran true.

Both mujahideen guarding the northeast corner went down. The Green Berets grabbed their weapons. One after another, they stepped out moments after the disjointed stragglers passed. None in the struggling band noticed the added presence at their rear.

They headed toward th

e plateau.

* * *

—

Inside the King’s Chamber, the harried departure’s preparations continued.

In response to a comment, the Mahdi said, “Thank you, General. While you do so, I’ll make my sunset walk.”

“Please, Chosen One, I beg you not to attempt such a perilous act,” el-Saeed replied. “Things are quite unstable. To venture outside at this moment could be extremely dangerous.”

“Nonsense. I’ll be fine.”

* * *

—

At 6:44, as the Green Berets stepped from their hiding place, Muhammad Mourad entered the first of the modest passageways that would take him to the outside world.

Moments after he left, Kadar Jethwa turned to his closest lieutenants. “I know what the Mahdi’s commanded, but each of you is to listen,” he said in whispered tones. “In another hour, when he’s made his escape from this place, you’re to take the nonbelievers outside and remove their heads. If we’re to avoid Allah’s wrath, before we leave, the presumptuous infidel woman and her companion must forfeit their lives.”

“Why don’t we do so now, while the Chosen One’s momentarily away?” the junior of the mullahs asked. “We can slay them in the antechamber. It will take a minute, no more. Their heads will be removed and placed on display long before he returns.”

“No, we cannot disobey his decrees, even one as misguided as this, for fear of losing Allah’s favor. But once he’s gone, it’s my interpretation of our laws that his order sparing the pair no longer stands. So we’ll wait. The moment the Mahdi leaves, kill them both.”