Page 6 of The Chosen One

Yet the surviving armor wasn’t dissuaded. They were a mile out and closing fast. Both had pinpointed the location of the murderous attack. The M-60 on the right raced toward the American lines. The other suddenly stopped. The halting tank’s crew started feeding in the firing coordinates for the Humvee’s position.

When he finished loading his third missile, Whitehurst looked up at their forceful adversaries. There was no mistaking that the barrel of the motionless M-60’s powerful cannon was elevating.

“Get the hell away from here!” he screamed. “He’s about to fire. If I don’t beat him to the draw, this place will erupt in about ten seconds.”

The command element and the three members of Whitehurst’s fire team raced for cover. The TOW operator stood his ground. The unflinching Marine pushed back his mounting fears. He shoved aside the bile welling within him and forced his attention onto acquiring his prize. Even with a target as easy as this one, he had to confirm the hulking brute was securely within his sights. If he released his deadly missile too soon and missed, there’d be no chance of preparing another TOW before their fearsome opponent consumed him.

Whitehurst took a deep breath and fired. Bursting from the missile tube, the next resolved killer rushed across the smoke-clogged landscape toward the stationary tank. For the highly proficient corporal the destructive mission was almost routine. As long as he remained focused, there was scant possibility his quest would fail. His eyes grew wide as the irrepressible ordnance neared its goal. A final, slight correction of the TOW’s frenzied flight was all that remained and a third life-stealing transgressor would be no more.

At the last possible moment, unaware that an unspeakable end was reaching out to claim them, the Pan-Arab crew fired. Whitehurst saw the unmistakable flash as the tank discharged its huge main gun. He knew it was too late. He had to stay with his TOW to make sure his dauntless missile found its victim. There was nothing he could do to save himself. His only hope was that the Pan-Arab crew’s aim was poor. Whitehurst peered through his scope, watching his baneful executioner race toward its objective. The last adjustment was made. It brought the approaching TOW dead center onto the massive form. The morbid machine was about to suffer a horrifying result. Hades’s fires would soon be upon still more of the Chosen One’s followers. The massive cannon shell and crushing missile reached their tantalizing targets at the exact same instant.

Neither had missed.

In a thunderous roar, the vanquished tank exploded. Its crippled remains soon burned. Engulfing flames billowed forth over a wide area, further illuminating the predawn battle.

An infinite fraction later, the M-60’s ruinous power fell upon the small combat vehicle. The impact of the striking munitions sent the devastated Humvee’s twisted wreckage sailing into the malicious night. Burning pieces of its ragged frame poured down upon the ridge like the dying essence of a well-orchestrated Fourth of July display.

The instant the last of the falling embers touched the lifeless ground, the lieutenant and his platoon sergeant ran through the smoldering sands toward the scattered ruins. Hamilton Smith was right behind. There wasn’t enough of the ravished Humvee to identify. In one swift blow, the platoon’s armored defenses had disappeared. Whitehurst was gone, his body vaporized. The minute fragments of his fragile flesh were dispatched to the four winds by the enormous explosion. A few bits of singed cloth were all that remained. Like far too many on this appalling morning, his wife and family would never have the honor of burying him. His young children would not be granted the opportunity to say their final good-byes. Their fading memories of their heroic father would soon be lost to the persistent passage of time.

The stark violence of the perverse battlefield confounded them all. A dreadful reality sank deep within the defenders. The anguished screams of the wounded. The unearthly silence of the dead. A surreal horror surrounded them. It threatened to swallow whole the struggling men. And the reviling events were far from over.

The stunned lieutenant looked upon the wide desert. He fought to control his torrential emotions. And his disavowing wits. The final assassin roared forward, intent on finishing its conquering task.

“What do we do now?” Erickson asked as he turned toward his platoon sergeant. “How do we stop that last M-60?”

Fife stared at the growling beast as it flew toward the American lines. The all-consuming worry on his face was undeniable. He had no answer.

Three hundred yards distant the assured assassin identified the spot for which he’d been searching. He churned to a stop on the highest elevation for miles around. From here, he’d be able to attack anything on the beach or in the nearby waters. The platoon’s survivors dove for whatever protection they could find. But there was little to be found. The tank’s deadly pair of machine guns started firing, strafing the entire length of the ridge. The violator’s spirited guns zeroed in on the thin line of widely scattered Marines. Ever so methodically, the vindictive killer’s turret turned from right to left and back again as it concentrated its ardent fire upon the small rise. The steady assault from the unmerciful attacker went on without pause. This time it was the swelling ranks of dying and wounded Americans that filled the blood-creased desert.

With an endless chorus of crushing rounds smashing into the acidic world around them, the overcome Marines attempted to respond. But the lethal dragon was too far away and its thick plating much too imposing to conquer with their individual weapons. Without Whitehurst’s armor-razing TOWs, there was little they could do to defend against so ravenous an intruder.

The vile assailant’s turret halted. Its main gun lowered until the target was squarely within its sights. The stirring enemy fired. The repressive cannon’s ear-shattering thunder consumed the North African coast. A mighty explosion tore apart Johnson’s Humvee. His fire team vanished from the battlefield. The despairing Marines were outgunned.

“We can’t just lie here while he takes his time and finishes us off. We’ve got to do something,” Erickson yelled over the sounds of the slaughter. He glanced behind him. “The first wave’s just outside the breakwaters.”

Transporting an entire battalion containing more than nine hundred Marines, a wide line of AAVs—assault amphibious vehicles, or “amtracs” as the Marines called them—was pushing through the rough waters toward the coastline. A second wave was right behind. Each of the twenty-nine-ton armored vehicles carried a crew of four and twenty-one Marines. When they reached the beach the plan was for the tracked vehicles to come ashore and carry their passengers farther inland.

Their thin armor and modest weapons were no match for a tank.

Having not yet spotted those in the water, the leering image continued its highly accurate fire toward the little mesa. Without pause, its murderous guns spit death upon Erickson’s Marines. The platoon’s fleeting numbers were swiftly disappearing.

Another Marine, somewhere on the far left, screamed in agony when struck by multiple machine-gun bullets from the flailing M-60.

A feeling of helplessness sunk deep within them all.

5

4:03 A.M., OCTOBER 17

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

THE SANDS OF NORTHERN EGYPT

How long before the Hornets get here, sir?” Gunny asked.

“Five minutes, possibly more.”

“The amtracs will reach the beach in two. Given three unfettered minutes, that tank could destroy a dozen or more before the first Hornet shows up and takes him out. That’s at least three hundred men, sir.”

The frantic lieutenant had no answers. He’d promised the division commander he would eliminate the tanks. But he’d failed. And because of it hundreds would die.

Lying next to the platoon leader, his nose buried in the sand, Hamilton Smith had seen the horrid carnage. He’d heard the conversation between the platoon’s leaders. He took a quick

glance to his left and right. The dead and dying were everywhere.

“I can’t let this happen,” Smith said, his voice little more than a whisper. “I just can’t . . . I’ve lost too many friends on this damn beach this morning. I refuse to do nothing while the rest of them are killed and countless others are slaughtered. Along with those in the amtracs, what’s left of this platoon is going to survive.”

Without Erickson or Fife noticing, he slipped off the radio and grabbed a satchel charge. Before either could react, the radioman was on his feet, running toward the relentless slayer.

“Smith, don’t!” Erickson screamed. “You haven’t got a chance.”

Yet the platoon radio operator no longer cared. Through the strafing fields of machine-gun fire the young Marine raced straight for the demanding armor.

Unfortunately, his determined efforts wouldn’t get far before the full force of the Chosen One’s vassals fell upon him. At the exact instant of Smith’s ill-conceived charge, their rampaging guns were nearing the center of the ridge. The primal firing was much too intense for the sole American to overcome.

He’d barely covered seventy-five yards when a slamming bullet from the tank commander’s .50-caliber machine gun struck his rib cage, breaking his stride and knocking him off his feet. It was a glancing blow, and for the moment it saved him from an instant death from the potent shell. His body armor slowed the powerful projectile, but it was no match for so significant a weapon. The forceful round bored through the vest and tore into the meager existence within its false womb.

The lone Marine staggered and fell upon the unforgiving ground. A nasty pain gripped him, tearing at his side. It felt as if an enraged scorpion had stung him in the center of his right ribs. He stared at the hole in his uniform. Blood poured from the mocking wound. Even so, the fixated corporal didn’t waver. A single bullet, even one this destructive, wasn’t going to stop him. That tank was going to be destroyed. Its perverse crew was going to find their promised paradise this morning. He would see to that. It would take much more than a searing scorpion’s sting to dissuade him from finishing his perilous task. He ducked his head, fighting to catch his breath, and waited for the M-60’s turret to move past his position. The moment it did, he was on his feet again, running as fast as his faltering legs would carry him toward the corrupt form. More than two hundred yards of open ground remained between the stoic Marine and the beseeching target.

Satchel charge in hand, the grave figure sprinted across the lifeless ground as rapidly as his tattered body would allow. A lengthening trail of blood marked his path. With steadfast conviction, second by second, the grim Marine cut the distance by half.

The exacting M-60 finished its slow sweep to the east. The unrelenting turret turned back toward the west. The machine gun’s crippling streams neared the center of the line once again.

While he ran, Smith reached for the munition’s detonator. He willed his distressed body forward. His assailed lungs burned. His mind cried out in anguish. The nasty scorpion stung him over and again. Despite the agony, he pressed on. The squalid objective was getting nearer with each moment. With every grappling stride the ground passed beneath his feet. It wouldn’t be much longer until he reached his prize.

Fifty yards to go. Smith gave it everything he had.

The tank’s gunner spotted the lone Marine. He refocused his machine gun on the running American. The approaching heretic was squarely within his sights. The rushing figure was scarcely twenty-five yards away when the Chosen One’s devotee opened fire. A line of 7.62mm bullets ripped into the struggling form. This time his damaged body armor stopped a significant portion of the smaller-caliber shells. But it couldn’t defeat them all. A pair of seeking shells dug deep within the startled corporal’s chest.

The crushing blow staggered him. He dropped to his knees and crumpled to the hard ground. He could feel his shattered heart pounding in his throat. With every halting beat, he could sense the life spurting from his mangled body. A river of red flowed onto the macabre landscape.

The latest threat defeated, the cocksure crewman returned to firing at the handful of surviving Marines on the western portion of the battlefield.

For an instant, Smith felt nothing. And then the devastation arrived, ripping apart his battered soul. Each languishing breath from his bullet-shattered lungs was filled with inescapable suffering. In disbelief, he stared at the warm, sticky blood. Despite his tender age, he refused to fool himself in the slightest. He understood his suffocating wounds were fatal. He realized he was going to die.

Anger overwhelmed all conscious thought. That spirit-encompassing rage turned into herculean certainty. No matter what it took, no matter how great his misery, he wouldn’t fail. That tank was going to die with him.

With superhuman effort Smith pulled himself to his feet. The bubbling pool on the front of his shirt was expanding by the second. The precious streams of life-sustaining liquid that dropped onto the pitiless ground went on without pause. His distorted mind screamed from the unending angst. The wounded Marine felt death’s shadow growing near. It threatened to overpower him. He stared into the abyss. His life’s final, wretched moments would soon be consumed on the distressing sands of this foreign land. Yet it no longer mattered. If his end was to occur in this forsaken place, he was determined to drag the Pan-Arabs into the farthest depths of hell with him. He was going to save the remaining men of 3rd Platoon. He was going to save the arriving battalions.

The staggering corporal dragged himself toward the M-60. Every fleeting movement was laced with unimaginable terror. Each suffering second threatened to be his last. Twenty-five yards was agonizingly cut to fifteen. Fifteen became ten. With halting strides and endless stumbles, ten painfully dropped to five. The tempting tank was close. The inviting beacon called to him.

Nevertheless, his trembling legs could carry him no farther. His quivering knees buckled. He fell a final time upon the blowing sands. For what seemed an eternity, the dying American lay unmoving just a few arm lengths from his considerable quarry. The M-60’s incessant firing went on without pause. Still Smith refused to give in. He stirred, fighting with all he had to reach his fading existence’s final objective. He tried again to stand. But it was no use. He didn’t have the strength to regain his footing.

The vicious scorpion had grown to immense proportions.

Erickson watched the woeful scene, convinced the radioman’s heroic effort had come up short. He stared helplessly as the platoon’s last chance began to dissipate. He was certain it was over. He was convinced the dying Marine had failed.

Hamilton Smith’s tenacious life was nearly spent. His impending passing was perilously close. He could sense its crushing presence. Yet despite the severity of his wounds and his all-encompassing distress, he remained unwilling to accept defeat. On his belly, his grief-stricken face pressed against the ground, he slowly pulled himself toward his objective. With his final, halting breaths he dragged his dispirited body across the unending desert. Inch by inch, the dying American neared his lasting goal.

The short ordeal felt like a journey of a thousand frightful miles. With each plaintive endeavor he drew closer. Four feet, three feet, two . . . He looked up, the severe pain on his swollen features forever seizing him, and realized his horrid mission was at its end. One more lunge and he’d touch cold steel. With his last measure of strength he pulled himself forward. The instant he reached the obscene image he turned back toward the crest and smiled an ironic smile. Calmness came over him, settling in his eyes. The martyred Marine set off the detonator.

In a mighty explosion, he vanished. The tank’s assaulted frame erupted. Its crushed metal workings spilled forth upon the sterile land. Rabid flames licked at its vanquished sides. It wouldn’t be long before the ravaging fires reached its ample ammunition. The hatches on the top of the M-60 flew open. Its four crewmen scrambled for safety. A dozen determined rifles open

ed fire upon the Pan-Arabs. The fleeing enemy was ripped apart. None would reach the beckoning ground. Moments later, the scorching blaze found the tank’s huge shells. A feral blast tore the M-60 apart.

The platoon’s dazed survivors looked out upon the austere plateau. Four defeated tanks were brightly burning. The smoldering pieces of a pair of crushed Humvees added to the demonic display. Except for an occasional secondary explosion and the haunting pleas of the platoon’s wounded, the coming morning went quiet once more.

The first AAVs churned out of the water. Scores would follow. A few minutes later, the soaring Hornets appeared, ready to take the fight to their foe. The crippling naval broadsides began. In the distance, the shuddering land yawed and bowed with every furious strike.

* * *

—

The platoon’s losses were severe. Yet the stark reality of what had occurred hadn’t fully sunk in. There’d be plenty of time later to reflect and grieve. For the moment, there was only one thing the survivors understood—they’d won. The devastated wastelands would soon belong to the Americans. And the battle-scarred lieutenant and his tough platoon sergeant allowed for the briefest of congratulatory moments.

Fife looked at Erickson. “Well, sir, looks like we did it. The history books are going to say that on this day, despite unbelievable odds, the Marines landed in North Africa.”

“Yep, Gunny, I’d say the Chosen One’s had far better days than this one’s going to be.”

6

At precisely midnight on the fourteenth of May 1948 a male child was born in Aynorian, one of the poorest villages in the unending wastelands of southern Algeria. The birth had been a difficult one and the frail newborn scarcely made it through the ordeal. The midwives did what they could. Even so, each held little hope for the struggling infant’s survival.

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