The Chosen One

by Walt Gragg

  The 4th Infantry slammed into Mourad’s personal armored division. They’d use their superior night-fighting capabilities to turn the contest in their favor. They recognized it would be an arduous clash. These were the most fervent of the fanatics. It mattered not that they were losing on all fronts. The elite warriors would fight to their final breath.

  * * *

  —

  The rancorous night had reached its midpoint. The battle for Giza had been fierce as the cornered Pan-Arabs rallied their remaining units in a desperate attempt to hold off the advance. The fighting had been of the nastiest kind—house to house, street by street.

  The combatants’ lines were quite fluid. In some places the Pan-Arabs were still within reach of the river. In others they’d lost two or three miles. No portion of Giza was safe. Pockets of resistance remained throughout the stretching suburb.

  Near a wide boulevard, five members of Alpha 6333 assumed defensive positions in an abandoned house. They were a mile west of Rhoda Island. Heavy gunfire and life-devouring explosions were everywhere. Like every humble home around it, this one had no doors. The Pan-Arab raft builders had seen to that. His rifle at the ready, Sanders peered out a tiny window whose shattered panes had long ago disappeared.

  Ever observant, the detachment’s soldiers waited for their leader to appear. Captain Morrow had been recalled to receive an urgent directive from the 6th Special Forces Group commander. He’d been gone for two hours. It felt far longer.

  “Looks like the captain might not be coming back,” Donovan said. “What do you think we should do?”

  “We stay right here and wait,” Terry replied. “And we’ll keep waiting until someone tells us otherwise. The captain had to cross a mile of unsettled territory to return to the river, and three miles more to get to group headquarters. That doesn’t count the time he’ll have to spend going over the assignment. He’s only been gone a couple of hours. If he runs into trouble, it’s going to take a hell of a lot longer than that to get back. So we’re staying put and waiting for him to return.”

  * * *

  —

  It would be 3:00 a.m. before Morrow arrived. As he stood in the meager room catching his breath, he didn’t bother putting down his gear. The detachment leader knew they had to hurry.

  “All right, guys,” he said, “we’ve no time to lose. We’ve got to cover five miles behind enemy lines before sunrise. Pick up your stuff. We’re moving out.”

  Every member of the team looked at him in puzzlement.

  It was Sanders who asked the question poised on their lips. “Five miles behind Pan-Arab lines. What in hell’s the assignment, sir?”

  “Start getting ready,” Morrow said. “I’ll brief you while you do.” He didn’t speak again until he was satisfied the detachment’s soldiers were gathering their gear. It was obvious from his tone he was pleased with the orders they’d received. “Okay, here’s the deal. This team’s been chosen for the mission of a lifetime. We’re going to infiltrate the Pan-Arab defenses and make our way to the western outskirts of Giza. Once there, we’ll hole up until night. At one a.m. tomorrow, we’re to attack and eliminate the Chosen One. Intelligence has verified his location. Despite how they scoffed at our report, those prisoners we captured were telling the truth. The sorry bastard’s hiding inside the Great Pyramid. But with his forces falling back he won’t be for much longer. We’ve got a day, two at most. It’s our responsibility to get to him before he has a chance to escape. We’re to work our way inside his defenses, go into the pyramid, corner and kill him. Let me be clear about that. We’re to kill him. Under no circumstances will he be allowed to surrender.”

  “What kind of defenses are we facing, sir?” Terry asked.

  “He’s protected by two hundred bodyguards, some air defense personnel, and a hundred or so support troops.”

  “The six of us are expected to take out over three hundred of the enemy and then kill Mourad?” Sanders said. “Sir, you’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Sanders, it could be a hell of a lot worse. His finest armored division was guarding the Giza Plateau. But he sent them south in response to the 4th Infantry’s arrival. So we could’ve been facing fifteen thousand of his best soldiers instead of three hundred. And we’re not going in alone. It’ll be a fully coordinated effort. The carriers will provide air support. And the Marines are sending some of their best men. Their job will be to engage the bodyguards while we enter the Great Pyramid. There’s only one way in. So you know what that means—there’s only one way out. With us there, there’ll be no way to escape. I’ll go over the details once we’ve found a safe place near the target to hide until tomorrow night.”

  “But why us, sir?” Sanders asked as he loaded a fresh magazine into his M-4.

  Morrow smiled. “Sanders, that’s the funny part. Remember the bridge you blew up during that huge Pan-Arab attack the day after we got here? The big one running from Rhoda Island to Giza?”

  “Yes, sir. How could I forget?”

  “Guess what the name of the road was leading onto that bridge.”

  “I’ve no idea, sir.”

  “The Pyramids Road. All this time we’ve been fighting on the road leading straight to the pyramids. It’s real easy to figure out why we were chosen. This detachment’s the closest to the pyramids. So we’re the logical unit to draw the assignment.”

  Next to Sanders, Porter stood sharpening his knife. He’d likely use it on many an occasion this night. A sadistic grin came to his face. “That and the fact we’re the meanest bastards on the planet.”

  * * *

  —

  Porter and Abernathy took the point. The infiltrators needed to cover significant ground in less than four hours. If they failed to do so, the dawning light would give them away and all would be lost. Yet to traverse so precarious a distance behind enemy lines in so little time would call for a tremendous amount of ability. And more than a bit of luck. The simplest mistake would prove fatal.

  Sanders knew if anybody could do this, it was the practiced apparitions at their head.

  * * *

  —

  They reached the eastern edge of the Giza Plateau mere minutes before sunrise. In their wake, the dead ran for five miles.

  Every home in the area had long ago been abandoned. They picked one giving them an unrestricted view of the Great Pyramid’s northern face.

  There they watched the goings-on during the unending hours of a long and dangerous day. The activity into and out of the opening in Khufu’s monument occurred with regularity. Some who entered were in uniform. Others wore civilian dress. The Chosen One’s mujahideen were everywhere. That alone was enough to assure the Green Berets the Mahdi was still there.

  In the north, south, and east, the Americans kept the pressure on throughout the morning and into the afternoon.

  At 5:00 p.m. on the 6th of November, the Pan-Arab lines began to collapse. Neither side had expected events to change so rapidly. The end was near. If, however, the Americans couldn’t kill Muhammad Mourad, their triumph would have a hollow ring.

  67

  5:42 P.M., NOVEMBER 6

  PAN-ARAB HEADQUARTERS

  INSIDE THE KING’S BURIAL CHAMBER, THE GREAT PYRAMID OF KHUFU

  THE GIZA PLATEAU

  Why are all of you so glum?” Mourad asked.

  “Chosen One,” General el-Saeed said, “how can we not feel this way? Our army’s beaten. In the north the infidels are twenty kilometers away. To the south the Americans have defeated your personal armored division in fighting as determined as any in our righteous quest. We inflicted great casualties upon them. Their blood is like a flowing stream. Even so, they have reached Giza’s outskirts. And that’s not the worst of it. The enemy’s counterattack across the Nile has succeeded. More than half the city’s been lost since the assault began. We’re running out of time. I’ve directed the su
pport elements on the plateau to begin packing up and moving out. They are filling the trucks as we speak. If we wait until all are ready and leave in a large convoy, we’ll have no chance. The infidels will have no choice but to destroy so tempting a target. So as each truck is filled it will depart on its own. Please understand, our situation is growing desperate.”

  “I understand quite well. But each of you must realize one thing. Despite appearances, this is not the end. We’ve suffered a setback. It is, however, nothing more than a stumble in Allah’s grand plan. You mustn’t lose faith. We’ll rise once more. We’ll emerge victorious. In my lifetime Islam will conquer, and once it has, I will guide the world through its final days. Of that you can be assured. The prophecy has foretold of these glorious events, and as certainly as I stand before you, it will come to pass. The one true God has so decreed. For now, we’ll withdraw into the mountains and deserts from which we came. There we’ll rebuild our forces until we’re strong enough to venture forth upon the final triumph.”

  “To do so, Chosen One, what remains of our army must survive,” el-Saeed said.

  “General, I agree with your assessment. We need to save our army. Weapons can be obtained, but brave men willing to serve as Allah’s sentinels are growing precious.”

  “The infidels have a history of sparing their vanquished adversaries. We certainly wouldn’t do so in their place. Your advisers are confident if our men throw down their weapons, the heretics will allow them to withdraw without significant retribution. They’ll show us mercy and let what remains of the devout escape. We’re just as certain, nonetheless, that they’ve no intention of permitting you to live. Their ire toward you knows no bounds. Your death will be the prize they’ll pursue with boundless vigor. We’ve informed your loyal commanders it will be two hours before you can safely depart this place under cover of darkness. They’ve promised to hold our enemies for at least that long. Once night is fully upon us, we’ll escort you to freedom.”

  “Inform my bodyguards, General,” Mourad said. “When we leave, they’re to remove their robes and headdresses so they cannot be identified. We’ll then begin our journey home to prepare for the glorious time when the world will be ours.”

  68

  5:48 P.M., NOVEMBER 6

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

  EAST OF THE GIZA PLATEAU

  While Abernathy kept watch, Aaron Porter rushed to the back of the small dwelling where the other four members of the team were sleeping. He grabbed Morrow’s shoulder and shook him. “Sir . . . sir, you’d better come right away!”

  The detachment commander, more asleep than awake, answered, “What’s the problem, Sergeant?”

  “You need to see for yourself.”

  The members of the A Team opened their eyes, each wondering what the urgency was. Porter headed back into the area in the front of the house where they could see what was occurring on the wide mesa without being seen. It wasn’t long until the others joined him. None had the slightest idea that the war’s end was occurring faster than any had planned.

  “What’s the emergency?” Morrow asked while rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  “Half-dozen trucks are spread across the plateau, sir,” Abernathy said. “The Pan-Arabs are loading them in one hell of a hurry.”

  “Couple of others already have taken off, heading for the desert,” Porter added. “They’re bugging out.”

  “Aw shit,” Morrow replied while taking a long look out the shaded window. It didn’t take long for him to realize the Americans’ efforts to kill the Chosen One were in peril. “They’re definitely packing up and leaving. The mujahideen don’t appear to be involved yet. So it’s likely Mourad’s still here. But given what I’m seeing, he won’t be for long. Sticking with the original plan, we’ll have no chance of eliminating him. Attack’s still seven hours away. The Chosen One will be halfway to Libya by then. We’ve got an hour, no more, to hit the hilltop before we’re too late. If we don’t, once it’s dark, they’ll sneak him out of there and head west as fast as they can. Sanders, get me the radio.”

  69

  6:15 P.M., NOVEMBER 6

  3RD PLATOON, BRAVO COMPANY, 2ND RECONNAISSANCE BATTALION, 2ND MARINE DIVISION

  ON THE BEACH

  NORTHERN EGYPT

  With the assault moved up, and occurring during daylight hours, the scrambling Marines were going to be extremely vulnerable. They’d planned on the darkness concealing their sudden appearance and catching the majority of the enemy sleeping. Yet it couldn’t be helped. They had to go now.

  Their engines running, the transport helicopters waited. Twelve MV-22 Ospreys, with the capability to act as both helicopters for vertical landings and takeoffs, and conventional aircraft for faster flight, were committed to the battle. The final mission of the war, its timeline altered, had begun. Erickson’s battalion would be the first of the swarming raiders to get under way. When they touched upon the Giza Plateau, they’d be outnumbered nearly two-to-one. With the daunting odds, all one hundred and sixty-eight of the proud unit’s survivors would take part in the foray.

  They had to reach the target at precisely 6:48 p.m. if the attack was going to succeed. The timing would be crucial. If they arrived too soon, their appearance would alert Muhammad Mourad. Before the Green Berets could seal the escape route, he might make it to ground level and flee. To make matters worse, if they were early American air support would be minutes from the hilltop, leaving the Marines alone to face a furious counterattack.

  If, however, the Ospreys were late, the Green Berets would be on their own as they attempted to move toward the objective. Exposed and isolated, they’d stand no chance against the meaningful force on the sacred elevation. And with the plateau bristling with Stingers, the fighter aircraft providing close-in support would be at risk. Without the Marines to address the majority of the Pan-Arab air defenses, the Hornets would be vulnerable to a deadly assault.

  The incursion had called for the Ospreys to be accompanied by Cobras. Unfortunately, with so many of the attack helicopters lost in the endless battles, the few that remained presently were involved in the British and American onslaught pushing toward the Egyptian capital. With the sudden change of plans, none would reach the beach in time to rearm, refuel, and join in on the assault. The formation would be on its own. They’d have to depend on the Ospreys’ weapons—a machine gun mounted on the open ramp that could only fire to the rear, and a three-barrel Gatling gun nestled in its belly capable of addressing targets in every direction. Neither weapon was intended for anything more than self-defense. Without the night to shield them, they were going to be quite exposed. For that reason, while the transports were capable of carrying twenty-two Marines, each would contain only fourteen.

  Their faces covered by their forearms, the battalion shuffled through the swirling sands toward the spinning blades. They began to enter their assigned craft.

  Erickson walked up the rear ramp and into the lead Osprey. He selected a spot near the helicopter crewmember who would handle the belly gun. As they neared the landing zone he’d use the gunner’s television screen to view what was occurring around the Great Pyramid.

  One by one, thirteen additional Marines entered the windowless hold. Carrying ample arms and munitions, they clambered down the narrow aisle. Each aircraft soon filled.

  The loading completed, the strange-looking transports rose. The wide formation was soon rushing south with Erickson’s Osprey slightly ahead of the rest. The battalion staff and a handful of riflemen rode in the helicopter to his left. The company commander to his right. The plan was straightforward. Richards’s thirty-four men, accompanied by the command element, would handle the most critical element of the endeavor. They would touch down directly in front of the Great Pyramid. It would be up to them to gain control of the northern portion of the spanning vista and the area in front of the
ageless edifice. They’d eliminate those guarding the towering form, opening the way for the Green Berets to enter within its venerable walls.

  The remaining Osprey trios would land on the eastern, southern, and western edges of the mesa. While the Green Berets were entering the pyramid, the arriving Marines would eliminate the mujahideen on all four sides of the plateau. They knew the staunch bodyguards were fearsome fighters whose loyalty went beyond anything they could comprehend. Each of the two hundred would have to be dispatched if the attack was going to succeed.

  The droning Ospreys continued on. As the relentless miles passed, Erickson’s Marines sat in self-imposed silence. None could hide his growing apprehension. They knew they faced an immense challenge. And all had seen far too much of death to question his mortality. They’d been promised this would be the final battle, but they couldn’t afford to look beyond the here and now. To do so would prove fatal.

  With the lingering sun edging toward the horizon, they rushed south. The historic moment would soon be upon them. On the television screen, Erickson could see their destination drawing near. In the distance, the pyramids were rising in front of them. It wouldn’t be long now. They’d soon attempt to settle in the midst of the ferocious stronghold.

  The platoon leader stared at the timeless relics as they grew larger with every disappearing second. The fleeting strands were ticking on an immutable clock. A few miles more and the landing zones would be reached. The war’s concluding struggle was about to begin. The copilot relayed the information to both crew chiefs.

  The belly gunner turned toward Erickson. “Sixty seconds, sir.”

  70

  6:37 P.M., NOVEMBER 6

  BLACKJACK SECTION, FIGHTING SQUADRON VF-57

  USS ABRAHAM LINCOLN