The Chosen One

“Blackjack-One, we’re in serious trouble. We’re pinned down in a small ditch on the other side of the road north of the Great Pyramid. We’re taking heavy fire. Our losses are mounting. The Green Berets are three hundred yards east of my position. They’re out in the open and totally exposed. They’ve already suffered casualties and probably won’t be able to hold on much longer. There are sixty to seventy mujahideen defending the pyramid. They’ve taken positions on the ground in front of, and the stones leading up to, the opening. You’ve got to eliminate them if we’re going to have any chance.”

“Roger, Bravo-Three-Six,” Mitchell said. “We’re on the way. Pop smoke and hunker down. We’ll take out anything that moves between your location and the northern face.”

“Understood, Blackjack-One.”

“Hold tight. We’ll be there in fifteen seconds.”

The Hornets raced toward the plateau. Their plan was to come in wing tip to wing tip across the front of Khufu’s enormous shrine. Mitchell’s aircraft would be closest to the age-old edifice. With an ounce of luck and an immeasurable amount of talent, all they’d need was a single pass to complete the intrepid task. They’d little doubt there would be few Pan-Arabs alive once they finished the overriding assault. That, however, wouldn’t be the end of Blackjack’s mission. With the next pair of F/A-18Es still three minutes out, it would be up to them to do what they could for the remainder of the floundering Marines upon the expansive plateau. The moment they dispatched those in front of the grand monument, they’d make a sweeping turn and strafe any mujahideen they found. As they neared the plateau’s northwest corner, the Hornets were barely two hundred feet above the barren desert. They continued to descend.

“Worm, I’ve got smoke.”

“Roger, Blackjack. I see it. And I think I’ve spotted the rest of our guys. That’s got to be the Green Berets lying out there firing toward the pyramid. We’ll need to be real precise with our cannon fire. If our Vulcans are the least bit long, we’ll hit them along with the fanatics.”

“I concur, Worm. But we’ve been in tighter spots than this in the past few days. You take those on the ground. I’ll eliminate the ones firing from the pyramid. Just keep a light touch on the trigger and we’ll be fine.”

“Roger, Blackjack. I’m right with ya.”

The pair dropped their death-tinged noses until they were hugging the frantic scene. The Hornets surged across the complex. Even in the day’s failing half-light, in their vivid outfits the mujahideen were unmistakable.

The F/A-18Es were nearly there. Straight and steady they rocketed toward their goal.

Mitchell gave his trigger a quick pull. Two dozen 20mm shells poured forth. It was followed by another light squeeze. And a third . . . An assured mortality screamed across the hilltop. The rabid munitions reached out for the pyramid’s imposing stones. As the deadly ordnance worked its way across the huge structure’s timeworn features, the rounds began striking everywhere. The ravishing cannon had an instant effect. As Erickson watched, one after another of Mourad’s disciples was crushed beneath the hellish fury that befell them. The conscious-consuming shells were ripping the defenders apart. With nowhere to hide, none would be unscathed.

Sweeney did the same, spewing a certain end upon those caught on the chronicled ground.

The pressure on the junior pilot was even greater than that on his section’s leader. In firing at those on the intemperate sands he had to avoid hitting the Americans.

Mitchell fired again. And a fraction of a second later, he squeezed his Vulcan’s trigger a fifth time. The result was startlingly predictable and exceedingly certain.

Sweeney’s firing pattern was nearly identical. The Hornets were so close Erickson could feel the heat from their engines as they ripped across the mesa. As the F/A-18Es passed, the gunfire from the substantial stones ceased. There had been at least three score fighting to protect the Great Pyramid. Only five or six were still alive. Each was hopelessly struggling to overcome his horrific wounds. The rest lay scattered and unmoving. Crimson flowed in every direction, scarring the sacred stones and seeping into the pitiful landscape.

Blackjack Section had opened the way.

The instant they reached the pyramid’s eastern end, the Hornets banked right. Each attempted to put some air beneath his wings. They wanted the added altitude in order to identify where they were needed next.

Since the battle’s beginning, a Stinger gunner had been standing in the evolving darkness on the Great Pyramid’s southern face. As they raced past, neither Mitchell nor Sweeney spotted the stealthy figure. The air defender raised his missile and pointed it toward the soaring fighters. He soon had the leader in his sights. The fatal tone sounded. With a victorious smile, he fired. A five-foot, guiltless executioner screamed into the dimming skies.

The threat was unmistakable. Mitchell’s screeching aircraft begged its pilot to take severe evasive action. Yet he was much too low, and the purposeful Stinger far too swift for him to ever hope to escape.

“Break it off! Break it off!” Mitchell screamed. “I’m picking up a missile firing.”

Sweeney instantly reacted. He banked left toward Giza.

“It’s right on top of me, Worm!”

“Blackjack, bail out!” Sweeney pleaded. “Bail out while you still can.”

Mitchell hit his afterburners and rocketed across the hilltop with the resolute missile on his tail. The Stinger was rapidly closing. In another second, no more, death would come to claim him. There was no time to release flares to fool the primitive heat-seeker. He’d one chance. He’d have to eject from his aircraft. He knew at so low an altitude, if he survived at all, the drastic action would likely cripple him. It was his final, fading gambit. He reached for the canopy release. Yet for some ill-defined reason, he hesitated. The stark, suicidal thoughts he’d encountered over the Libyan air base returned to tug at his mind. He’d no desire to live as an invalid. And he’d been given a second opportunity to avoid an anguished existence with Brooke. Unlike during the frightening events over the enemy airfield, the corrupting sensation didn’t pass. He started to pull the handle. Yet without conscious thought he’d made his choice.

He relaxed his grip. His innate need to live dissipated. A final crooked smile found its way to the corners of his face.

At that moment, the Stinger found him.

It smashed into the Hornet. The massive explosion destroyed the right engine and blew off its wing. The doomed fighter’s shattered shell spun out of control, plunging for the muted ground. Ravenous flames roared toward the cockpit.

Strapped in his seat, Mitchell was very much alive. Still, he knew his last moments were an instant away. There was no chance he could control the mangled aircraft. And no time to bail out. He couldn’t avoid the inevitable. All that remained was the crowning finish. He prayed he’d perish before the uncontrollable fires found him. The plane, its burning fuselage and remaining wing fully engulfed, twisted over and again as it headed toward an enraged earth.

His F/A-18 was nearing its impact point. Yet much to his surprise, his wounded Hornet was no longer reaching out for the center of the plateau. The missile’s impact had redirected his fiery tomb. He was hurtling toward an area southeast of the Great Pyramid. He couldn’t believe what his eyes beheld. To his astonishment, his passing was going to be far more memorable than he could have ever imagined. His ill-fated aircraft was on an uninterrupted course toward the Sphinx. The spectacular stone structure was right in front of him. Closer and closer the disabled fighter approached its inevitable end.

Mitchell’s mangled Super Hornet smashed into the eroding won

der. Porous limestone and shattered metal flew in every direction. When the dust settled, and the determined fires died, the Sphinx’s time-honored image was gone. What had taken ancient man eons of creativity and backbreaking labor had been destroyed by his descendants in a single, vehement act.

* * *

—

Erickson surveyed the damage the Hornets had wrought. Lifeless mujahideen were sprawled across the death-spattered framework. While the torrid battles in every corner of the hilltop raged, rifle fire from those guarding the entrance into the Great Pyramid had ceased.

The Marines had their opening, but they needed to move fast. Others might soon appear to take the deposed defenders’ places. The lieutenant leaped to his feet. “Now’s our chance. Get out of this ditch and let’s go!”

He started running toward the towering artifact. His men were right behind. Firing at anything that moved, they scurried toward the rising stones. A handful of severely wounded mujahideen tried to answer back. But it was no use. With ruthless intensity, they were dispatched without further losses among the Americans. Erickson was soon clambering up the rows of stones to claim them as his own. With Benson and Pitzer’s assistance, the wounded platoon sergeant brought up the rear. Every hobbling step on his remaining good leg was sheer agony.

* * *

—

Morrow watched the Marines charging across the contested ground. He could tell his team’s survivors were anxious to join in. Much to their displeasure, he motioned for them to stay where they were. Having sacrificed two of his men, he couldn’t afford getting involved in the attack for fear of losing any more. If the detachment’s numbers declined further, their assault upon the King’s Chamber would be in peril. He’d no choice. Until the perimeter was secured, they would wait.