Covenant

48

Twinkling like a galaxy amid the immense black universe of the Negev, the lights of the sprawling air base glowed blue and orange as they traced the lines of taxiways and a broad runway stretching out into the dark wilderness. Cavernous hangars loomed against the night sky, one of them with its immense doors open. Within, small groups of men worked feverishly with fuel lines and sensors, cables and satellite communication dishes.

In their midst sat an aircraft with a sleek triangular shape, looking like a fighter plane and coated in matte black paint. But there was no space for a pilot, the cockpit replaced by a sharply angled nose sheathed with dark glass that contained a multitude of cameras and sensors. The legend MACE was stenciled down the fuselage in stealthy graphite gray, and beneath it a single word: VALKYRIE.

“Clear for engine start!”

Technicians and soldiers alike backed away as the unmistakable whine of a turbine engine issued from the aircraft’s exhaust. It reached a crescendo and then settled down to a steady whistle, a series of navigation lights flickering on the wing tips as the unmanned aerial vehicle rolled out of the hangar toward the huge runway nearby.

The men watched as it turned onto the airstrip as though guided by an artificial intelligence. With a sudden howl from the engine it lurched forward, accelerating and lifting off into the darkness. The whine faded as the gently blinking lights rose up into the night sky, and then even they were extinguished.

Utterly invisible and with its small turbine engine almost inaudible as it climbed above two thousand feet, the UAV turned toward the distant Mediterranean.

Spencer Malik watched as the technicians operated the controls of the Valkyrie, one flying the aircraft and the other monitoring the weapons and guidance systems. A large screen in the office before him showed a pixelated, green-tinged image of ramshackle buildings and dusty streets illuminated by sporadic streetlights. The image jerked and lurched under the high zoom of the camera as the Valkyrie bobbed and bounced on wind currents.

“We have the coordinates,” Malik said, watching over the technician’s shoulders and reading the figures from his cell phone to them. One of the young men tapped the coordinates into a computer, and the image on the screen snapped briskly to the right.

“It’s in Jabaliya, sir,” the technician reported. “Four buildings at those coordinates.”

“Get into position,” Malik ordered. “We will launch as soon as we’ve identified the most likely target.”

“Do we have assets on the ground?” the other technician asked.

Malik stood for a moment, an image of Rafael materializing in his mind. By now the Arab would almost certainly have infiltrated the required building in order to have sent the coordinates. With only empty or incomplete apartment blocks and shattered concrete hulks visible on the screen, it stood to reason that the prisoners were being held beneath ground. Nowhere to run.

“Our asset will have left the scene by now,” Malik replied with a grim smile. “Strike as soon as you have the target in sight.”