Shadows of Steel

The missiles McLanahan and Jamieson released were called AGM-154 Joint Standoff Weapons, or JSOWS. They were small, lifting-body cruise missiles that could be fitted with a variety of warheads, payloads, avionics, sensors, guidance packages, or propulsion units, so they could mix a number of these missiles on the bomber and perform many different missions. These JSOWs had special Disruptor payloads on board called “screamers” that would transmit high-frequency, high-powered jamming signals across the entire frequency spectrum and completely overload any antenna system within range. The JSOW missiles would orbit over the air defense missile and radar sites, broadcasting high-intensity “screamer” signals, blanking out radar scopes and overloading radio networks for as long as sixty-minutes—plenty of time for the Intelligence Support Agency teams to enter the area.

The B-2A crew again heard a slow, low pitched Deedle … deedle …

deedle … warning tone in their headsets, and saw the “10” symbol with a diamond around it: “SA-10 acquisition radar at Bandar Abbas … cruise missiles one and three locked on …” As each antiaircraft missile system came up, the JSOW missile’s seeker head would lock on, plot the emitter’s location, and reprogram its internal autopilot to fly to that point and destroy the radar.

Another warning tone, this time with an “H” symbol: “Hawk system acquisition radar … missile four tracking … looks like the Iranians already got another Hawk set up on Abu Musa Island. They didn’t waste any time.”

“Forget the commentary, McLanahan,” Jamieson said. “Just make sure none of those sites locks on to us.”

“Our track breakers are in standby, search radars only sweeping us,” McLanahan reported. He typed on his keyboard, and the bomber turned slightly south. “I’m heading a bit more to the right to stay away from that Hawk on Abu Musa,” McLanahan said. “If they sneaked an SA-10 on that island, too, I want to stay far away from it. The screamers should activate in a few seconds.”

The effect was frightening and surprising at the same time—as if on cue, every Iranian air defense site within fifty, miles opened fire. Eight SA-10, four Hawk, at least a dozen Rapier, and a handful of ZSU-23/4 and ZSU-57/2 sites appeared to be firing guns or launching missiles.

“Jesus H. Christ, I don’t believe it!” Jamieson muttered. Out the cockpit windows, McLanahan and Jamieson could see the sky below ablaze with missiles flying aimlessly through the sky, and boiling red and yellow from the clouds of antiaircraft artillery shells sweeping the skies.

The screamers” had activated all of the Iranian air defense site’s attack response systems, and the sites had reacted as if a massive air invasion were under way. In seconds, every missile on its launcher was in the sky, and every shell had been fired …

and they had hit nothing but empty air. Several warships docked at Bandar Abbas had also opened fire, and they even detected an anti-ship missile launch from one of the docked ships—where that missile was headed, McLanahan had no idea. Jamieson could not believe the concentration of antiaircraft systems active right now: they were flying less than forty miles south of that massive concentration of weaponry.

The scene looked much the same ahead as they continued eastward toward the Khomeini battle group in the Gulf of Oman—the carrier was lit up like a Christmas tree with threat radars, and the destroyer Zhanjiang, several miles farther southeast, was radiating as well. The threat scope clearly outlined the defensive box around the carrier: smaller vessels with short-range antiaircraft systems were surrounding the carrier, and the long-range systems of the larger escorts overlapped those of the carrier itself, forming several layers of antiaircraft protection for Iran’s prized possession.

“We’ve got four ‘screamer’ JSOW missiles programmed for the Khomeini group, with two in reserve,” McLanahan summarized. “I’m getting ready for the SAR exposure.”

Jamieson was still in shock at the reaction from the Disruptor fly-over. “I can’t believe it—they all opened up, all at once … it’ll take them two days to rearm those air defense sites!”

“Maybe not two days,” McLanahan said, “but they’ll have to reload all those sites, maybe replace some overheated gun barrels and burned-out launchers. But just about the time they’re ready to fire again, the ‘screamers’ will reactivate, and maybe they’ll launch against them again and waste some more missiles and ammunition. Eventually the JSOWs will get hit or run out of fuel and crash somewhere, but we hope not before our guys get in, poke around, and get out again. And if we’re lucky, the ‘screamers’ caused enough overload damage to take out a few older Hawk or Zeus-23 sites. It just increases their chances of penetrating those air defenses.

Now, let’s see if we can do it to their carrier and that Chinese destroyer.”

Jamieson had at first distrusted McLanahan’s Disruptor weapons—he’d wanted to see a pretty big blast if they’d had to fly all this way!—but even he had to admit that this next attack, if it worked, was going to nail the Iranians really good.

“I’ve got the final launch point fixed in,” McLanahan continued.

“Stand by for missile launch … ready … doors coming open …

missile one away …” One by one, McLanahan counted down the weapon releases until four missiles had left the two internal rotary launchers. With two missiles still in the bomb bays in reserve, the B-2A bomber banked hard right and headed back toward the safety of UAE airspace, away from the Iranian fleet and their deadly antiaircraft weapons.

Following McLanahan’s programmed flight plan, the four missiles arced north of the Iranian battle group, then turned south-southeast toward the Gulf of Oman, roughly following each other in trail 500 yards apart. The “screamer” missiles began their orbits just six miles east and west of the carrier group.

The four missiles did appear on the Iranian’s radars, but they were so small and flew so slowly that they were electronically squelched from the displays as non-hostiles.

THE ISLAMIC REPUBLIC REVOLUTIONARY GUARD AIRCRAFT CARRIER AYATOLLAH RUHOLLAiH KHOMEINI THAT SAME TIME “Sir, Bandar Abbas air defense sector reports unidentified aircraft inbound, bearing two-five-zero eastbound at five hundred knots!” the combat information center intercom suddenly blared.

“Bearing now two-three-zero, last reported range from us eighty-five kilometers and closing …”

“What!” Pasdaran Major Admiral Akbar Tufayli shouted. That jarring pain was suddenly back in his jaw, tripled in intensity.

The newcomers were over the Trudal Coast—from the direction of the United Arab Emirates! Was this another GCC attack? “What speed, what altitude?”

“Multiple contacts … three, perhaps four formations, speed five hundred, altitude ten K meters and descending.”

Major Admiral Akbar Tufayli, commander of the Khomeini battle group and nominal commander of the carrier air group, swung on his absolutely flabbergasted chief of staff, Brigadier General Mohammed Badi. “The threat has been eliminated, you say? Those radar contacts are on an attack profile, Badi! Those are UAE attack planes, and they are attacking Bandar Abbas and this battle group!”

“It is … it is unbelievable, sir!” Badi stammered. “The UAE pilots or their British mercenaries do not have the skill to perform night attacks against maritime targets!” Like many Middle East countries, the United Arab Emirates hired pilots from all over the world to fly their attack planes—but no skilled attack pilot would ever consent to fly a suicide mission such as this!

“They have no guided weapons, only gravity bombs and the cannon!

Surely they know they will be chopped into pieces long before they get within range to drop their bombs?”

“That is, if we successfully stop them!” Tufayli cried. “Engage at longest possible range! Then launch the alert fighters! I want each and every GCC fighter destroyed and the wreckage strewn across the coastal plain for all those reporters to photograph! I want to demonstrate the power of this battle group to the entire damned world, right now, tonight!”

“Hostile aircraft turning!” The Khomeini’s radar operator screamed over the intercom. General Tufayli made a mental note to tell his section chief to brief his men to remain calmer on the intercom—the operator’s voice had gone up at least one octave in the past few minutes as the unidentified attack planes closed in.

“Range sixty kilometers, decreasing slowly, altitude now below two thousand meters.

Heavy jamming detected.”

“They appear to be heading for Bandar Abbas,” Badi observed, “but they could turn in our direction at any moment. No report on what type of weapon they are using.”

“We must assume they have standoff weapons—unless they try a low-altitude suicide bombing run,” Tufayli said. He stared out the observation windows at the Khomeini’s flight deck. “How much longer on the interceptor launch?”

“Just a few minutes, sir.”

“Damn you, Badi, I want air cover up as soon as possible to chase down those attackers! I want those fighters airborne now!”

“Yes, sir,” Badi acknowledged. Badi could do nothing but pick up a phone and tell the air operations commander to speed up the launch.

Tufayli watched as crews raced for the rescue helicopters on deck forward of the island superstructure. The rescue helicopters always launched before the fighters, and took up stations beside and behind the carrier, ready to provide search-and-rescue services in case a fighter had to ditch after takeoff. “If any of those attackers penetrate within fifty kilometers of my battle group, I will execute every last air defense on this ship!”

The first rescue helicopter was just lifting off the deck and taking position on the port-side, ready to rescue any crewmen who might have to eject shortly after takeoff. It had taken more than five minutes to scramble a crew and get a helicopter airborne—that was totally unacceptable, thought Tufayli. He was going to whip this crew into shape first thing in the morning with nonstop drills The general turned from the helicopter deck forward to the short holdback point near the center of the carrier in front of the island superstructure, where a Sukhoi-33 fighter, loaded with two R-73 long-range air-to-air missiles and two R-51 short-range heat-seeking missiles, was readying itself for takeoff. This fighter had a small missile load and a partial fuel load so it could use the shorter 100-meter takeoff run, while another, heavily armed fighter could use the 200-meter run along the port-side of the ship.

Admiral Tufayli was impatient, but he knew that night carrier operations were the most dangerous and the crews were working at their best speed. “Range to those fighters?” he asked. n kilometers. They appear to be attacking the air defense sites at Bandar Abbas.

The GCC fighters had hesitated, Tufayli thought, they’d had second thoughts about attacking the carrier. Two had already paid for the hesitation and had been destroyed by missiles from Bandar Abbas. Soon the rest would be destroyed by Khomeini’s fighters.

Soon the world would know of the power of this Iranian carrier Suddenly a warning horn sounded throughout the ship—the collision-warning klaxon! At the same time, several missile and close-in weapon cannons began firing. “What is it?” Tufayli shouted. “What is going on? Report!”

“Unidentified aircraft, range … range, indeterminate!” a combat officer responded. “They seem to be right on top of us! Multiple contacts all around us! They are everywhere! Heavy jamming reported … sensors are overloaded!” Tufayli and Badi scanned the skies as missiles ripple-fired into the sky and defensive guns roared, but no aircraft could be seen—wait, there! “I see a hit!” Tufayli shouted. “Off the starboard bow … we hit one!”

“No!” Badi shouted over the roar of the erupting defensive systems. “That was our helicopter! We have accidentally shot down our rescue helicopter! Cease fire, damn it! Cease fire!”

It took several seconds for all of the Khomeini’s weapons to stop.

“Get another helicopter airborne immediately,” Tufayli shouted, “and then get those fighters up! And find those enemy aircraft!”

In just a few moments, another Mil-8 helicopter had its rotors turning, and had lifted off from the helo mooring pad aft of the carrier’s superstructure, and a few moments later, two Sukhoi-33 fighters launched from the Khomeini’s ski-jump flight deck.

But then it happened again—suddenly every radio and every radar screen was completely jammed, drowned out by noise, and the threat receivers and radars reported enemy threats all around the carrier group. The battle group’s air defense commander had no choice—he ordered his loaded and ready weapon systems to open fire at the identifiable targets. In just a few moments, the Khomeini, the Zhanjiang, and most of the rest of the larger warships in the battle group had expended most of their ordnance.

“We have lost radio contact with our fighter patrol,” General Badi reported. “His radios have malfunctioned. And the carrier commander feels it is too dangerous to continue flight operations.”

“And Bandar Abbas is under attack as well,” Tufayli said. “Order both fighters to continue their patrol for as long as possible, then recover at Chah Bahar.”

“Yes, sir,” Badi said. Then, stepping closer to his superior officer, he said in a low voice, “Sir, these strange jamming signals and the false targets they have generated have severely reduced our air defense capability. If we came under missile or bomber attack now, we would be highly vulnerable—we are down to less than fifty percent weapon load, and it will take almost an hour to service and reload some of our mounts!”

“So? Get on it, General.”

“I am suggesting, sir,” Badi said, “that perhaps it would be wise to evacuate the Khomeini. The battle group is virtually defenseless right now—no long-range detection, limited short-range detection, dwindling weapons stock, and limited or no fighter coverage. Even shore-based defenses cannot assist us. If this is a prelude to an attack, you have time to escape, perhaps with the prisoners.”

“I will not!” Tufayli retorted. “It will seem as if I am running in the face of an attack!”

“Sir, Chah Bahar can be notified that you are transferring prisoners to the naval security facility there, to begin their interrogation,” Badi suggested, emphasizing the word transferring so that Tufayli would be sure to catch his meaning. “You could see to their transfer personally.”

Tufayli considered the idea once again, then nodded. “See to it, General,” the admiral said. “Get the prisoners ready to transfer—I will see to their interrogation personally.” He clasped Badi on the arm in silent thanks, as his chief of staff hurried to carry out “his” instructions.

Surrounded by armed guards and staff members, Admiral Tufayli was spared the ignominy of looking into the faces of the sailors and Pasdaran troopers he passed as he made his way to the fantail to take the helicopter to Chah Bahar. Already waiting near the fantail was a group of men in ragged, oil-soaked clothing, handcuffed, with black cloth bags over their heads.

Tufayli stepped close to the man at the head of the group of prisoners and said over the roar of warning horns, shouting men, and helicopter rotors: “I see you are being treated well, Colonel White.”

“Why, it’s Admiral Akbar Tufayli,” Paul White said, his moisture-starved voice a hoarse croak. His face was still caked with grease, oil, and salt from the hours he spent in the ocean trying to escape after the Valley Mistress had been sunk. “What’s that I smell, Admiral? Smells like a war going on …”

A guard hit White in the solar plexus with a rifle butt; a few of the Marines surrounding him tried to break free of their guards to defend White but, weak with hunger and thirst, they were pulled back easily.

Just then, a klaxon sounded throughout the ship, and again the ship’s defensive systems opened fire, seemingly in all directions.

This time, the weapons fire lasted just a few short moments, then abruptly ended, though the klaxon was still sounding. Several officers ran up to Tufayli and gave him several reports and messages. “What was that, Admiral?” White said. “You’ve run out of SAN-9 missiles? Is that possible? You must’ve shot down one, maybe two dozen attackers to use up your long-range missiles like that.”

“You shall join your spy ship at the bottom of the Gulf of Oman if you do not remain silent, Colonel White,” Tufayli warned. “The interrogation staff at Chah Bahar will find your knowledge of Farsi very interesting.”

“We taking a trip somewhere, Admiral?” White asked. “Maybe that wasn’t war I smelled a second ago … maybe I smelled something else? Is it coming from you? What could it be, Admiral”

In response, Tufayli whipped off White’s hood and said, “I warned you to remain silent, Colonel White. You must learn a harsh lesson.” Tufayli took a rifle from one of his guards, pulled one of the Marine guards away from the group, lifted the rifle to his head, and pulled the trigger. The Marine’s head burst apart like a ripe melon.

Everyone around them jumped at the rifle report; the sound of the headless corpse hitting the steel non-slip deck seemed even louder. White’s eyes bulged in horror, and he looked as if he were going to sink to the deck himself on wobbly legs. “Any more deaths caused by attacks by your fellow American terrorists will be on your head, Colonel White,” Tufayli said. “You and your men will stand trial for all of this.”

“And I’ll see you in hell for what you’ve just done,” White said weakly. “You bastard!”

“Ah, not as glib as you were just a moment ago, I see,” Tufayli said. “Good. This will teach you to hold your tongue.” He raised his voice and said to all of them, “The United States has declared war on the Islamic Republic of Iran, so you are all prisoners of war. And since you are combatants not in uniform and are presumed to be spies, you shall not enjoy the privileges of prisoners of war as outlined in the Geneva Conventions. This means you are subject to a military tribunal without recourse.

The penalty for espionage in the Islamic Republic is death by hanging. Of course, you may confess your crimes and admit your real identities, in which case your sentence can be commuted to life in prison—perhaps even a trade can be arranged for other prisoners.

“Fuck you, Akbar,” White said. “You’re the one who’s going to die, and I hope I’m the one who does it.”

“Since you men are obviously not willing to speak openly in front of your commander here, we shall wait until we arrive in the military prison at my base at Chah Bahar,” Tufayli went on, smiling as the hood was again placed over White’s head. “The prisoner-exchange option and the chance to return to your homes is of course not available to you if you are dead, so I encourage you to accept my one and only offer. You will have a few moments to consider it, but when we arrive at Chah Bahar, I will have your answer. Confess your guilt or die.”

MINA SULTAN NAVAL BASE, SHARJAH, UNITED ARAB EMIRATES

THAT SAME TIME “Officer quarters” at Mina Sultan, the only military base in the emirate of Sharjah in the United Arab Emirates, were simple one-window, one-room concrete block buildings with flat metal roofs, purposely built with far less quality than Arab buildings to avoid the appearance that the UAE was showing any preferences toward non-Arabs in their country. Each building had its own coal-fired stove, a Fiberglass combination sink and shower with an electric thirty-liter water heater, a Porta-Potty bolted onto the back door opening, a bed, a desk with a single overhead light and a phone connected only to the duty officer at the command center, and a chest of drawers. Sometimes Briggs wished for one of the enlisted and non-commissioned officers’ rooms, which were nice, modern, air-conditioned dormitory-style brick buildings. Briggs unlocked the door, reminding himself to start placing little telltales on the door to check when the damned flight surgeon, Dr. Nick Sabin, went through his room, or maybe he’d just slap a hasp and padlock on the door and …

Briggs flipped on the light and, to his amazement, found none other than Nick Sabin himself hog-tied on the bed, his ankles and wrists bound behind him, his mouth bound with duct tape. He was still alive and unhurt, thank God, and madder than hell.

The big Colt .45 pistol was out and in Briggs’s hand in a flash, and he took immediate aim on the dark cloth in front of the only other enclosure in the building, the Porta-Potty. Sabin was flopping around on the bed muttering something, but Briggs had tuned him out. He shut off the light, crouched behind the bed, and shouted, “Come out of there now!” in English and in the best Arabic he could muster. “I said, come out!”

“I am right here, Leopard,” came a soft, silken voice. Briggs whirled. The dresser had been pushed out-several inches from the wall—dammit, he’d been so focused on the john that he hadn’t noticed—and she had been hiding behind it. He saw her hands were empty, saw … that it was Riza Behrouzi, the GCC commando! What in hell was going on here?

“Get out from behind there!” Briggs shouted. “Hands on your head! Flat on the floor!” Behrouzi complied as he ordered. “If you move, I promise I’ll fucking blow your head off!” Briggs leapt over to the Porta-Potty, ripped off the dark curtain, and aimed the pistol inside, even down inside the shithole—empty. He checked under the bed, under the desk, all around the stove—nothing. He locked the front door, checked that the plywood covering on the one window was secured, holstered his .45, then searched her right down to the skin, as roughly as he would search any other prisoner or suspect. He found no weapons.

“What in hell are you doing here?” Briggs asked, remembering not to use either her code name or her real name in Sabin’s presence.

He turned the woman over—and immediately his ears felt hot and his throat felt dry. God, she was so beautiful. This was like a damned dream!

“I came to see you,” Behrouzi replied, as Briggs let her up. She shook her head at Dr. Sabin, still trussed up on the bed. “I found this one rummaging through your room. I was going to report him to the security police when you arrived.”

“Oh, really!” Briggs couldn’t wait to hear Sabin’s explanation.

He carefully peeled away the duct tape around his mouth—good thing he kept his hair short.

“She jumped me!” Sabin shouted indignantly the instant the tape was removed. “She nearly broke my neck!”

“I have a feeling she could have done that easily if she wanted, Doc,” Briggs said with a wry smile. Sabin obviously didn’t see the humor in it, though. “Were you in my room when she attacked you?”

Sabin looked a bit embarrassed but nodded. “I came to check up on you,” he explained. “I knew your team was going out on another mission, and I didn’t find you at the command center, and I’m not allowed in the ops hangar, so I thought I’d check here …”

“I don’t like anyone coming into my room when I’m not here, Doc,” Briggs said, his voice not as stern or displeased as he’d first meant it to be. Briggs just took his time undoing the tape binding the doctor’s wrists and ankles as they spoke.

“Fine—then I’ll confine you to the clinic,” Sabin said irritably.

“I only let you out of my immediate care because you were making life miserable for me and my staff, but it was under the premise that I keep you under close observation. And since you don’t think it’s necessary to send over stool or urine samples as I asked you to do, yes, I search your laundry and your commode.

Since this is how I’m treated for trying to accommodate your wishes, I’ll be the asshole and confine you to the clinic until I’m good and ready to release you. How’s that sound?”

Hal started undoing the duct tape much quicker now—the flight doc was really pissed. In a moment Sabin was untied and back on his feet. “Sorry, Doc,” he said. “I’m a little jumpy when the team’s going out on a mission.”

Sabin looked at his outfit and nodded in disgust. “You were trying to go out with them, against my orders, weren’t you?” he observed. Briggs’s silence confirmed his suspicions. “Not only will I put you back in the clinic, but I’ll put a twenty-four-hour guard on you.”

“That’s not necessary. I’m fine, really,” Briggs said. “If I have any problems I’ll be sure and let you know. And you obviously put a real big bug in the gunny’s ear, because he booted me off. But you don’t need to confine me. I’ll do as you say.”

“Good. You’d better.” Sabin turned to Behrouzi and asked Briggs, “Now, can you please explain who this is, and what she’s doing here? You obviously know who she is.”

Briggs hesitated—he didn’t know how to address Riza in front of any outsider. But Behrouzi extended her hand, gave Sabin a mind-blowing smile that melted both men’s hearts, then showed him an ID card. “I am Riza Behrouzi, assistant to the deputy general, Directorate of Military Intelligence of the United Arab Emirates.”

She handed her ID card over to the doctor, who gave it a careful examination before handing it back. “I was ordered to interview Major Briggs immediately, since he and his forces came under attack by an unknown ZSU-23/4 system on Tumb as Sughrd on their last mission.”

“Here? Now? That seems a little strange.”

“Truthfully, Doctor, the Directorate had heard that Major Briggs was dead,” Behrouzi said with a half-amused, half-embarrassed expression. “Little of what the Americans do here at Mina Sultan Naval Base is well known in the UAE. We are also looking for Gunnery Sergeant Wohl, who apparently is also alive and well. Do you know where I can find him? I need to interview him immediately.”

Sabin looked at Behrouzi suspiciously, then at Briggs. After years of serving with special operations forces, he knew that the less he said and the more suspicious he was, the better. “You should be talking to the base commander or the operations commander, Major Behrouzi,” the doctor said. “I’m not exactly sure how you got on base without an escort, but Major Briggs seems to know you and is willing to vouch for you. I can’t help you any further. Major Briggs, are you well enough to escort Major Behrouzi to base headquarters, or should I call security?”

“I’ll handle it, Doc,” Briggs assured him. Sabin smiled and nodded—it was obvious that Briggs not only had the situation under control, but was as anxious as a love-struck teenager to be alone with this woman. The flight surgeon rubbed his aching arms and wrists once more, received another mind-blowing smile from Riza as an apology, then departed.

When Sabin departed, Behrouzi turned to Briggs and began, “Leopard … Hal, I am sorry I surprised you like this …”

Briggs didn’t let her finish. He pulled her into his arms and gave her a deep, longing kiss, and she returned it with every bit as much passion, holding him even closer. Both of their eyes were smoky, almost tearful, when they parted. “My God, Riza,” Briggs said breathlessly, “I’ve missed you so much.”

“I have missed you as well,” Behrouzi said. “I heard of your last mission just tonight. Were you hurt? The doctor said you-“

“I’m fine,” Briggs interjected. “Just a scratch.”

“A scratch? Let me look.” She zeroed in on his left shoulder as if she knew exactly where to look, and she unbuttoned his rough cotton shirt and peeled back his underwear. Heavy dressings covered the wound on both sides of his shoulder. “Entry and exit wounds, Hal? It is much more than a scratch,” Behrouzi said breathily. “I am so glad you are safe.” They kissed again, drinking even more deeply from each other than before. “You wanted to go on a mission? Tonight? Are you mad?”

“The team is flying into Iran, inspecting every safe area between here and Bandar Abbas.”

“Looking for Colonel Paul White and the survivors of the attack on your ship, I know,” Behrouzi said. “I have information for you—information on the whereabouts of your commander.”

“Paul? He’s safe?”

“For now,” Behrouzi said ominously. “He and twelve crew members were taken aboard the Iranian aircraft carrier Khomeini after his ship was

Briggs tried to hide his thoughts, but his suddenly averted eyes were a dead giveaway for a trained observer like Behrouzi. “The carrier … the Americans will attack the aircraft carrier?”

“I can’t tell you, Riza,” Briggs said. “We were told there’d be plenty of distractions while we made our infiltration into Bandar Abbas …”

“I shall see about the carrier,” Behrouzi said. She took out a cellular telephone, got the Dubai Directorate of Military Intelligence duty desk, and spoke to the senior controller at the command center. A few minutes later, she had her information: “Peace Shield Sky watch reports that there appears to have been an aircraft accident near the Khomeini—a helicopter or fighter crashed at sea, and there have been reports of antiaircraft fire.

After the accident, one helicopter was reported departing for Chah Bahar—none toward Bandar Abbas.”

“That means they’re taking their prisoners to Chah Bahar!” Briggs said. “Leopard, that helicopter could be a simple medical evacuation, or it could be just the carrier commander and his staff,” Behrouzi said. “And my intelligence information may be faulty and they could not be on the carrier after all, or they could be held on the carrier, or there could have been more than one helicopter …”

“Or this could be the best chance we’ve got to rescue our teammates,” Briggs said. “If we can get a strike team together, I’m going to give it a try. I’ve got to notify the team and tell them to back us up—there’s no time to waste!” Briggs was on the phone in an instant, notifying his command center that Wohl and the CV-22 team should return as soon as possible. “Riza, you’re wonderful,” Briggs said. “You may have saved the lives of all the survivors … but I have to go.”

“I shall go with you, of course.”

“Riza, this mission won’t be sanctioned by anyone..

“You think you shall go alone?” Behrouzi asked him with a smile.

“Will you sprout jet-powered wings and fly five hundred kilometers to Chah Bahar?”

“I’ll find a plane or a ship to take me,” Briggs said “The team will be back in less than an hour. Another hour for refueling and a briefing, ninety minutes enroute …”

“If your mission is approved by your superiors,” Behrouzi added.

“And by then, it will be daylight.”

“I told you, I’m not talking about a sanctioned mission—I’m talking about rescuing my men,” Briggs said. “They’re my men—at least they’re supposed to be, if they’d ever let me prove it to them. I could take a cargo plane, parachute in, reconnoiter the base, and report back here.”

“Are you sure you are thinking properly?” Behrouzi asked cautiously. “Are you doing this because it is your duty and you feel you can succeed—or are you doing this to gain the favor of the men who now must serve under you?”

Briggs fell silent and scowled at Behrouzi—but, dammit, she was right. “I’m not thinking straight,” he said aloud, not really talking to Behrouzi but to himself. “This is not how Chris Wohl would do it. He’d play it by the book, gather intelligence, collect the data, assemble a plan, brief it with his superiors, get approval, assemble his troops and equipment, then brief his troops. He’d be methodical, calculating, and always damned effective. But …”

Briggs stopped and looked at Behrouzi’s concerned expression.

“But, Hal,” she said softly, “you are not Chris Wohl. You are Hal Briggs. You are the Leopard.”

It was then that the light finally went on in Briggs’s brain.

“Riza … you’re right,” Briggs said. “I’m not Chris Wohl. I wasn’t trained by the Marine Corps. I was trained by my uncle, the sheriff of Camden County, Georgia; by General Brad Elliott, by John Ormack, by Patrick McLanahan, by a team of engineers and crewdogs. They always said, ‘Just get the job done. Don’t plan everything to death. Train and study hard, then use that training to decide on a course of action—then do it.” And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.” He turned to Behrouzi excitedly. “I need a plane, Riza.”

“I have my liaison aircraft available right here at Mina Sultan,” Behrouzi said excitedly. “Any other aircraft, I must take time to requisition.

“What is it?”

“A surplus aircraft from your Marine Corps,” Behrouzi said, “an OVIOD. I believe you called it a Bronco-D.”

“Your personal aircraft is an observation-and-close-air-support aircraft…?”

“In my country, we have little use for a plane that fulfills only one role,” Behrouzi said with a smile. “This belongs to Sheikh Rashid’s eldest son, who is the Minister of Defense of the United Arab Emirates. When General Rashid is away, the Directorate is permitted to use it to transport myself and others to meetings and exercises all over the region. I am well trained in how to use it for ground attack as well.”

“So it still has its weaponry, its cargo bay?”

“Of course,” Behrouzi said matter-of-factly. ‘it is a DNOS aircraft, configured for night reconnaissance as well as for ground attack and observation, with an AAS-36 FLIR turret, a Gatling gun in a helmet-aimed turret, laser designator, satellite navigation, missile warning system, chaff, and flare dispensers.

His Eminence the Sheikh spares little expense for his toys.”

“Major Behrouzi, it sounds like just the magic carpet I need right now,” Briggs said happily. “Care to offer a guy a ride tonight?”

“Only if I can ride with you, Leopard,” Behrouzi said. “If what I think you have in mind is what you will do, I wish to … how do you say, ‘be where the action is,’ no?”

In reply, Briggs gave her a kiss. “You’re on, Major Riza Behrouzi. Lead the way.”

Just twenty minutes later, Behrouzi and four men—Hal Briggs and three United Arab Emirates troopers, members of the Emir of Dubai’s Royal Guard Brigade commandos, were crammed in the tiny aft cargo bay of the OVIODNOS (Night Observation System) Bronco attack plane, speeding down the runway of Mina Sultan Naval Base, on their way to Chah Bahar Naval Base in Iran.

They didn’t have a flight plan, clearance, permission, or a real concrete plan of action, but they did have a warplane. The OVIODNOS twin turboprop attack-and-observation plane had a full attack payload configuration: fully fueled centerline and wing fuel tanks, 1,500 rounds of 20-millimeter ammunition for the six-barrel steerable Gatling gun, two pods of four AGM-1 14 Hellfire laser-guided missiles on the fuselage sponsons, and one AGM-122A Sidearm anti-radar missile mounted on the outboard side of each of the wing fuel-tank pylons.

This Bronco also had chaff and flare ejectors installed in the tail booms to assist in decoying enemy antiaircraft radars and heat-seeking missiles. It seemed as if it took every available foot of Dubai’s 9,000-foot runway to get the heavily laden Bronco into the warm, humid air.

Shortly after leveling off at cruise altitude, Briggs was on the plane’s radio on the UHF emergency frequency: “Genesis, Genesis, this is Redman, if you copy, come up on Storybook, repeat, Genesis, this is Redman, come up on Storybook.” Briggs then flipped over to a special UHF frequency that they had used back when Briggs had been the commander of security operations at the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center. One of the ranges they’d used for weapons tests had been called “Storybook,” and each range had had its own discrete frequency. Redman was Briggs’s security detail’s call sign.

“Who are you calling, Leopard?” Behrouzi asked.

“A friend that I think is flying tonight,” Briggs said. He keyed the mike: “Genesis, this is Redman on Storybook. How copy?”

“Loud and clear, Redman,” came the reply. “Fancy meeting you here. Seen any red-tail hawks lately?”

“Only in Amarillo,” Briggs replied. “Nice to hear from you again, Old Dog.”

ABOARD THE B-2A SPIRIT STEALTH BOMBER, AV-01 I “This is an open frequency, remember,” Patrick McLanahan said from the flight deck.

“What in hell do you think you’re doing, McLanahan?”

Jamieson asked. “Are you nuts? You’ll blow us for sure!”

“This is the team, the guy we’re supposed to be supporting,” McLanahan said. “He knows security better than either of us, and if he took the chance to call, it must be serious.”

“Shit, this is going to get us killed—we’re still too damn close to the bad guys here,” Jamieson groused. But now he was intrigued as well: “So what’s with this ‘red-tail hawk’ and “Amarillo’ business?”

“A private code,” McLanahan said. “A job we did not long ago.”

He keyed the mike: “What’s happening?”

“Got any screamers left?”

Jamieson looked as if he had seen a ghost as he stared in complete surprise at McLanahan. “He knows … how in hell does he know about our JSOWS?”

“He was there when we first tested and built the things at Dreamland, AC,” McLanahan explained with a smile. “I don’t know if he was briefed on our mission, but he sure as hell seems to have figured it out.” On the radio, McLanahan replied, “Affirmative, Redman. Where do you need them”

“Follow the lights,” came the response.

“What in hell does that mean?” Jamieson asked.

“It means he’s going in somewhere, probably into Iran,” McLanahan said. “Give me a one-eighty—I’ll see if I can pick him up on radar.”

“A one-eighty? You mean, fly back to where we just creamed an Iranian aircraft carrier?” Jamieson retorted. “Are you insane?”

“C’mon, Colonel, where’s your spirit of adventure?” McLanahan asked. “We’ve got the gas, and we’re outside fran’s radar coverage.”

“Hey, my butt thinks my legs have been cut off,” Jamieson said.

“We’ve still got twelve more hours’ flying time to go.” But he quickly relented, took control of the Spirit, and turned westbound toward the Strait of Hormuz again.

“What’s your altitude, Redman?”

“Shoshone,” came the reply.

“You two are just too fuckin’ cute,” Jamieson said. “Another code word from your days in Dreamland?”

“Exactly,” McLanahan said. “Shoshone Peak, in restricted aeca 4202A, sixty-five hundred feet above sea level. SAR coming on.”

McLanahan configured the B-2A’s radar, then shot a one-second sweep of the sky. The choice was fairly easy—there was only one aircraft near that altitude. “Level off at Brawley for confirmation.”

“Roger,” came the reply. A few moments later, McLanahan took another SAR shot and zeroed in on the same return—sure enough, it had leveled off at 9,500 feet above sea level—the same height as Brawley Peak in southwestern Nevada near Hawthorne.

“Radar contact, Redman,” McLanahan said. “Continue on course. We can keep an eye on you for a while, and if we see red lights, we’ll try to turn them green for you.

ABOARD THE OVIODNOS BRONCO ATTACK PLANE “Thanks, Genesis. See you when I see you. Out.”

“Can they help us, Leopard?” Behrouzi asked.

“I think so,” Briggs said with a smile big enough to be seen in the dim light of the Bronco’s cargo bay. “Whatever happened over Bandar Abbas and over the Khomeini carrier group tonight, I got a feeling these guys are gonna make it happen over Chah Bahar.”

BALUCHISTAN VA SISTAN PROVINCIAL NAVAL BASE, CHAH BAHAR, IRAN 23 APRIL 1997, 0408 HOURS LOCAL TIME

A flash of intense light like a billion-watt lightbulb instantly destroyed his night vision; followed by an earth-shattering explosion, louder than any sound felt like ten earthquakes rolled into one. The normally giant child’s hand had tossed them against the toy box, then the deck rolled hard to port, and the port rail was awash. Men were screaming, their faces yellowed by the fires, their voices as loud, maybe even louder—if that was possible—than the sounds of explosions and tearing metal.

For the second time since being transferred to the prison facility, Carl Knowlton was replaying the death of the S.S. Valley Mistress in his tortured mind’s eye. It had been the most horrifying experience of his life. He had seen the aftermath of the Iraqi Scud missile hit on the barracks at Khobar during the Gulf War, where 117 American soldiers had been killed or wounded; he remembered the thousands of square miles of burning oil fields of Kuwait, when he thought that he was seeing a bit of hell right here on earth. But the air attack against the Valley Mistress had been the worst by far. The ship had felt so small, so helpless, as the sea rushed in to claim it. As the sea had poured into the crippled ship, the old bitch had literally screamed—its oil-fired engines first grinding to a painful halt, then tearing themselves apart, then exploding from the stress and rapid cooling. The scream had been like a loud siren, like a wild animal caught in a trap This time, though, Knowlton had not been awakened by his nightmare, but by the sounds of real sirens—air raid sirens. He rolled painfully to his feet, his pants creaking from caked-on sweat, oil, and salt. The oil-fire burns on his arms, shoulders, and neck were wrapped in someone’s T-shirt, the pus and sweat making the cloth stick painfully to the burns.

“You all right, sir?” a young Marine lance corporal, J. D. McKay, asked. “You cried out.”

“Sorry, Corporal,” Knowlton said. “Real bad dream.”

“The guards might come back if they heard you—we gotta be careful,” McKay said. McKay had a right to lecture a superior officer: the Iranian Pasdaran soldiers had obviously recognized who McKay was right after his capture, because they had separated him and beaten him senseless, bludgeoning his face, breaking in teeth, ripping out hair, and breaking fingers. He definitely did not want to attract any more attention to himself.

“Right. Sorry.” Embarrassed, Knowlton stepped over to the one window in the room he and the Marine soldier occupied. The window was too high; Knowlton couldn’t see anything, and he was too weak to pull himself up onto the sill.

“Hop up, sir,” McKay said. Knowlton turned. McKay was crawling on his hands and knees toward the sound of the siren coming through the window.

“No, McKay, I can’t.

“Get up, sir, and see what’s going’ on,” McKay said, and the young Marine offered his back—probably the only part of his body not broken—as a footstool. Knowlton clapped the young soldier on the back, then painfully climbed up to peer out the window, pulling himself up onto the wall by the bars on the window to avoid putting his full weight on the kid’s back.

The window was open but covered with metal louvers, so he could see only a few slivers of open sky outside. Still, it was enough: “I see searchlights,” Knowlton reported. “Jesus, hard to believe anyone on this planet uses antiaircraft searchlights anymore …

I see a SAM lifting off north, looks like a Hawk, missile flying southwest … there goes a second Hawk … no secondaries, no flashes … third Hawk lifting off … still nothing.” He climbed down off the Marine’s back. “Somebody’s out there, dammit. I think … I hope it’s one of ours He pulled off his T-shirt, painfully ripping off the scabs and loose flesh from his burns.

He tore a long strip of white cloth from the bottom of the T-shirt, then removed his trousers, tore a long strip off each pant leg, and began knotting the three pieces of cloth together.

“What are you doing, sir?”

“Trying to create a flag for whoever’s out there,” Knowlton said.

“If they see it, they’ll know where to look for us.” He ripped a piece of reinforced trim from the T-shirt’s collar, tore it into thin strips, and tied that to the louvers so it could not be seen from the cell; then he stuffed the trousers and T-shirt pieces out the window through the louvers. It was hard to tell from inside the cell that anything was hanging outside. Knowlton stepped off the Marine’s back. “Thanks, McK-“

Just then the cell door burst open, and two guards entered. They jabbered excitedly in Farsi, and pulled Knowlton across the room and up against a wall. They then kicked McKay in the rib cage, sending him writhing in pain into the corner. They yelled at both of them for a few moments. Knowlton held up his burned hands to defend himself as best he could, but they saw his burns and decided they had seen enough and departed. They did not even think to look up at the window.

“Jesus Christ, those motherfuckers,” Knowlton cursed as he rushed over to the young Marine. He looked bad, but no worse than he had with Knowlton standing on his back looking out the window. He lifted the Marine up and propped him up in the corner so he could breathe easier. “You okay, McKay?”

“The name’s J. D., sir,” the Marine said, with a weak smile. “I’m not feelin’ very military right now.”

“I hear ya,” Knowlton said. “Me neither. You breathing okay, J. D.?”

J. D. clasped his broken ribs with his bent, twisted fingers.

“For now,” he said. “I just hope the beatin’ was worth it.”

ABOARD THE OV-IOD-NOS BRONCO ATTACK PLANE “Down to twenty bundles of chaff, Major,” the weapons officer reported in Arabic on interphone. “Twenty-five kilometers until we reach the shore.”

Riza Behrouzi swore to herself, then replied in Arabic, “I won’t argue with the results, Lieutenant Junayd—we’re still alive.

Just make sure it stays that way.”

“Yes, Major,” Junayd replied. “Eighteen kilometers to go.” As bad as it was up in the cockpit, the young gunnery officer thought, it would be even worse for the five poor souls back there.

The Bronco’s threat warning receiver was beeping well before they crossed into Iran’s territorial waters; the first long-range radar at Chah Bahar picked up the Bronco 100 miles into the Gulf of Oman, and they started their descent to get under radar coverage then. At fifty miles, even though they were flying less than 600 feet above the dark waters of the Gulf of Oman, the radar had picked them up once again; at forty kilometers, the first L-band Hawk acquisition radar was detected, and a few miles later they detected the Hawk’s X-band target illuminators. That’s when they decided to go down to fifty feet, using the AN/AAS-36 Forward-Looking Infrared (FLIR) camera and the radar altimeter, which measured the altitude between the belly of the plane and the surface directly below, to keep from crashing.

When the first Hawk launched at twenty-five miles, it was like a nightmare come alive. The cockpit crew could actually see the missile lift off, its bright rocket-motor plume clearly visible on the horizon. They could see the bright yellow arc as it described a powered, semi-ballistic flight path through the sky. The pilot punched out chaff, racked the Bronco into a tight right turn using max back pressure on the control stick to get the tightest turn—but the Hawk followed. A second Hawk went up, followed by a third. The Iranian missile crews knew that the attacker might evade the first missile, but doing so greatly reduced the attacker’s speed, which made it likely that a second or third missile could claim a kill. The pilot set the radar altimeter warning bug to thirty feet; Briggs, Behrouzi, and the three UAE commandos in the cargo bay heard almost constant warning tones as the pilot edged lower and lower, trying to evade the missiles.

When the pilot banked hard, the radar altimeter completely broke lock, the warning horn sounded constantly, and the commandos all feared that it would be the last sound they’d hear before crashing into the sea.

“All chaff expended,” the gunner reported. They would be going in completely unprotected now.

Every hard bank threw the cargo bay occupants harder and harder against their harnesses, but each jarring move made Behrouzi smile. “They are working well,” she said to Briggs, motioning toward the cockpit. The noise level was very high in the Bronco’s cargo bay because they had removed the small rear door before takeoff—it would make it easier to do what they needed to do once they got over the Iranian naval base. “I think they do better than I.”

Hal Briggs was smiling, too, but his smile was just a facade—inside, his guts were twisting with worry, doubt, and downright fear. Had he made the right decision? He hadn’t expected to involve the lives of six other soldiers on this mission—and he certainly didn’t expect to involve Riza Behrouzi.

In his fantasy, he envisioned doing a HALO (High-Altitude, Low-Opening) parachute jump, solo of course, his trusty Uzi his only companion; he’d land on the rooftop of wherever the prisoners were being kept, blast his way inside, rescue the hostages, steal a cargo plane, dodge enemy fighters on the way out, bring them all back alive, be the hero, and fall blissfully into Riza’s waiting arms.

Well, this was reality: he was leading six strangers right into the well-prepared and well-armed clutches of the Islamic Republic of Iran’s army. They were still five minutes from reaching landfall, and already they were heavily under attack. Worse, he still didn’t know where the hostages were—or even if they were here in the first place!—and he had no idea how he was going to get them out. Stupid. Dumb. Asinine. If he survived this, Wohl was rightly going to kick his ass into the next century—or shoot him, if his rash actions caused the deaths of any of his men.

“How are we doing, Lieutenant?” Behrouzi called up front to the weapons officer. “Was that three Hawk missiles you evaded?”

“Yes, Major,” the weapons officer replied.

“Very good,” Behrouzi said in Arabic, her smile just as strong and as mind-blowing as always—it was more than enough to distract even Hal Briggs. “Expect a second volley in a few seconds and be sure to destroy it with the Sidearms.

If it does not come up, prepare for a Rapier or ZSU-23 radar. I don’t wish to swim to our target tonight.”

“I’ll do my best, Major—ah, damn you … my God … there!

Shoot!” the weapons officer shouted. The commandos in the cargo bay could hear the threat warning receiver beep, and the Bronco entered another impossibly tight break to evade another missile launch. But moments later they heard a loud fwooosh! from the right wing as the first Sidearm antiradar missile left its rail, and a few moments later, the threat tone abruptly ended.

“Very good, Captain,” Behrouzi called up to the pilot, smiling even more broadly, wishing that she could be watching the pilot’s actions as he fought to outmaneuver these Iranian missiles. “Keep up the good work. Let me know when you have the prison complex in sight.” The weapons officer’s response was choked off by another hard break, this time to the left, followed by another Sidearm launch. “What was that, Lieutenant? Another Hawk?”

The weapons officer was completely flabbergasted—here he was, fighting for his life, just milliseconds from getting a missile in the face or crashing into the sea, and a senior government intelligence officer, an assistant to the commanding general and the son of the Emir of Dubai, was making conversation! “That …

Allah preserve us, climb! … That was a Rapier J-band Blindfire radar, Major.”

“Ah, very good, the Iranians made a mistake,” Behrouzi said gleefully. “They activated their short-range air defense systems too soon. Did you get it, Lieutenant?”

“I … I don’t think so, Major.”

“That was the last Sidearm missile—we’re on our own now,” Behrouzi said in Arabic. “That Rapier is your first priority, Lieutenant—be sure you kill that unit right away. Range to shore?”

“Twenty kilometers.”

Behrouzi was silent—and Briggs knew why: they were still several minutes away from being able to attack any of the air defense sites with their Hellfire missiles. The longer range Hawk missile batteries could still track and shoot at them, no matter how low they flew.

Briggs clicked on the radio: “Genesis, this is Redman. The lights are bright in Broadway now. How copy?” No response. “Genesis, this is Redman, anytime now, buddy.” Still no reply. He removed the headset and tossed it aside. “Looks like our angel has flown back to heaven.”

“It was perhaps too much to hope for,” Behrouzi said. On interphone, she asked, “Range to shore, Lieutenant?”

“Eighteen kil-” He was interrupted by the threat warning receiver’s blaring alarm again—it was another Hawk missile site.

Behrouzi looked into Briggs’s eyes, and he could sense her fear—the Hawk was locked on, and there was nowhere to run now.

“Hawk acquisition … Hawk target illuminator …” They then heard the fast, high-pitched deedledeedledeedle! as the threat warning system detected the Hawk missile launch. The speed at which the Hawk system had gone from acquisition to illuminator to missile launch told them that the Hawk had a solid lock-on. The pilot started his evasive maneuvers, but everyone could sense that the maneuvers were sharper, more desperate … there was a second launch warning tone, then a third”

“Missiles in the air! Missiles tracking!” the gunnery officer shouted. “More missiles … I see more missiles in the air!”

One after another, it seemed as if the sky was filling with missiles, and now a few antiaircraft artillery sites opened up far in the distance, like a shower of fireworks. “There are missiles everywhere!” the gunner shouted hysterically. “They are everywhere! They-“

The interphone went dead, and the Bronco’s wild evasive maneuvers were cut short. A terrific explosion shook the Bronco as if a giant hand had slapped it, and there was a tremendous screech, like a man crying in terror … but they were still flying.

Behrouzi tore her headphones off and shouted, “There is a loud squeal in the radios. I cannot hear anything!”

For the first time in what seemed like years, Briggs smiled.

“That’s my angel,” he said. “Good going, Mack.”

It took several minutes for the squealing to subside in the radios and interphone. When she was able to be heard over the persistent side tones, Behrouzi asked the gunner, “What has happened, Lieutenant?”

“Every missile site in Iran opened fire on us all at once,” Junayd replied excitedly, “but all the missiles seemed to fly in every direction but ours. Then some artillery sites opened fire—but they were sweeping the skies erratically. I am still picking up missile tracking, illuminators, and up-link signals, but I see no missiles or gun sites attacking. It was as if they fired all their weapons at once at some large mass of targets overhead …

“That is good, Lieutenant,” Behrouzi said. “Our American commander brought an angel with us on the flight—I hope it stays.

Range to shore?”

“Nine kilometers, Major.”

“Good. Well within Hellfire missile range. Do you have that Rapier site yet?”

“Major, please, I’m doing the best … wait … target identified!” the weapons officer cried out suddenly. “I see it!”

“Be sure it’s not a decoy, Lieutenant.”

“I see the Sidearm impact point—the Sidearm hit a wall right in front of the unit and missed by just a few meters. Locked on!”

“Well, kill it, then, pilot, don’t just narrate,” Behrouzi screamed up to the pilot—the pilot of a Bronco controlled the attack missiles, while the weapons officer controlled the Gatling gun. Just then, the commandos heard a loud, sustained fwoooshhh!

as the first Hellfire missile left its launch tube, followed by a second launch a few seconds later. In this engagement, since the range of a Hellfire and a Rapier were almost the same, the first one to fire would probably be the winner—and Behrouzi’s crew won.

“Target destroyed!” Junayd shouted. “Target destroyed!”

“Very good,” Behrouzi said. “Be on the lookout for antiaircraft artillery sites, but it’s rare to find antiaircraft artillery units active on a naval installation.

“Now I want a careful surveillance of the facility, looking for any evidence of where those captives might be held,” Behrouzi went on. “You have the diagram of the security headquarters, correct, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, Major,” the weapons officer replied. “Our navigation coordinates are programmed for the detention facility, which is right next to the base hospital. We’ll look there first.”

“The longer you take, the less fuel you’ll have for your return flight, Lieutenant,” Behrouzi reminded the cockpit crew in an almost humorous tone.

“I understand … I have the hospital … I see the detention facility. It appears to be dark inside, Major—no sign of occupation. I see only a few lights on in the ground-floor security headquarters. The building appears deserted, no perimeter lights on in the detention facility, no vehicles outside. The hospital looks as if it is fully staffed.”

Behrouzi turned to Briggs and said in English, “You must decide, Leopard,” she said. “The crew says the detention facility appears deserted—no lights, no sign of activity. The hospital appears to be fully staffed. Shall we try?”

“The detention facility,” Briggs said immediately. “We may have only one chance at this.”

“I was in the security business for ten years,” Briggs said resolutely. “Prisoners always go to the secure facility. If they’re hurt and you’re going to treat them, you bring the doctors into the facility, not take prisoners out to an unsecure area.

And I never allowed anyone to park outside my secure areas—too easy to hot-wire a car and blow through a gate, or set booby traps, or take cover during a raid. We go in the detention area, inside the perimeter fence. Directly on the rooftop if possible.”

“Very well, Leopard,” Behrouzi said, her smile showing that she was pleased with his resolve. She pulled out her chart of the Chah Bahar Naval Base and, in Arabic and English, briefed their intended target, then ordered her three commandos to get ready.

The Bronco pilot made a high-speed approach from the seaward side of the base at very low altitude.

The weapons officer designated targets for the Hellfire missiles, identifying occupied buildings that looked as though they were headquarters buildings or communications centers, and at the same time took shots with the Gatling gun at every power transformer, large vehicle, fuel-storage tank, or anything else that he thought might disrupt things down on the base and cover their activities.

The last run was at the security headquarters, which was the lower floor of the security and detention building. They shot Hellfires at the spots where they knew important rooms were located—the communications stations, the armories, the power transformers—and shot out yard lights and any lighted doorways with the 20-millimeter Gatling gun.

“I see a long strip of cloth tied to the outside of a window on the second floor,” Junayd yelled back to the cargo bay.

“Does it form a letter?” Briggs shouted back. “A letter in the Roman alphabet?”

“Yes,” Junayd replied, using maximum power on his FLIR targeting scope. “It forms the letter M.”

“That’s one of our guys,” Briggs said, smiling broadly for the first time. “Madcap Magician. They’re down there. Let’s get ready!”

The weapons officer Junayd saved two Hellfires to blow big holes in the side of the security headquarters. About 600 yards from the building itself, the pilot started a hard climb, so he was directly over the detention facility at the crest of the climb at 600 feet. At that point, the five commandos in the Bronco’s cargo section made their static-line parachute jumps.

Briggs was going out first. He braced himself against the open door at the rear of the cargo bay, hands and toes outside. As the Bronco started its steep climb, Briggs found himself looking directly down into the security headquarters complex, a square three-story building surrounded by twelve-foot-high barbed-wire fences. Then, just before the Bronco reached the top of its climb, Briggs simply let himself fall through the opening.

He heard the roar of the twin turboprops at maximum continuous power only for a brief instant, and then he heard the wall of air-raid and emergency sirens from the base. The static line yanked his ‘chute out of its pack immediately. He heard the loud crack … whuumpp! of four other ‘chutes opening above him—very close above him. He looked up and saw Riza dumping air out of her ‘chute right away, trying to catch up with him. The three UAE commandos were doing the same, all attempting to land at the same time as their leaders.

By the time their ‘chutes opened, they were less than a hundred feet above ground—they barely had time to get their bearings before they had to steer their parachutes over the detention facility rooftop. Two of the Arab commandos missed the building completely, and Briggs’s and Behrouzi’s ‘chutes actually ran into each other as they maneuvered for their target. Briggs obviously had had a lot less recent practice in parachute infiltrations; he was drifting over to the edge of the rooftop so fast that he had to dump all the air completely out of his ‘chute from fifteen feet to make it to the roof. Behrouzi and her third Arab commando hit directly in the center.

“Are you all right, Leopard?” Behrouzi asked as she helped Briggs to his feet. He had taken a bad fall, landing heavily on his left leg, but he was on his feet and moving quickly.

“We lost two,” Briggs said to Behrouzi in reply, as he quickly clipped Simrad GNI night-vision goggles to their helmets.

Something was torn or sprained in his left knee, but he tried to ignore the pain.

“No, I directed them to land on the ground and secure the building,” Behrouzi said. Her GNI night-vision goggles and those of the commando with her were already on. “Keep alert—please do not kill them.”

“I’m hopin’ they don’t kill me,” Briggs said. “Let’s move!” It was too easy to breach the roof access door and make their way inside. The toughest resistance was on the second floor of the three-story building—all the Iranian guards on the first floor had retreated up to the second as the UAE commandos started their surprise assault; the majority of the Pasdaran guards were already stationed on the second floor.

Briggs didn’t care—if it moved, it died. He was not going to try to be neat or merciful.

The hallway was lit by emergency lights—those were shot out immediately. Briggs and Behrouzi then threw infrared Cyalume light sticks into the hallways, which would brightly light up the area only for persons wearing night-vision equipment. When Briggs confirmed that Behrouzi’s first two commandos would stay on ground level and would not stray into the line of fire, the killing began.

Briggs led the way, Behrouzi following with a Dragon twelve-gauge, twelve-round semi-automatic shotgun filled with breaching rounds, and the third commando following as rear security, carrying a suppressed MP-5 submachine gun. Trotting through the four corridors, his Uzi with its sixteen-inch suppressor fitted and loaded with thirty-round magazines of subsonic .45-caliber cartridges, Briggs gunned down anyone in front of him that was alive. He rarely needed more than two rounds to take down a guard—one shot to the chest, one to the head.

As he finished the second corridor, he heard shots coming from the next corridor to the left. He sprinted around the corner and saw a guard unlocking cell doors and firing a pistol into a cell, then moving on to the next cell. Briggs dropped the guard with a three-round burst from thirty feet. “Magicians!” Briggs shouted.

“Strike a pose!” He then checked the fourth corridor—all guards subdued. Behrouzi sent her Arab commando to guard the main stairway, and she and Briggs began checking each cell.

The cells appeared to be small dormitory-type rooms, remodeled to be prisoner and punishment-reprimand facilities. Usually it took only one shotgun blast on the top outwardly swinging hinge to crack and pull the door open. When Briggs, now with a Cyalume light stick around his neck, glanced into the occupied cell, he saw two men lying on the floor, facing away from the door, arms outstretched with only the middle fingers extended, and with one leg bent and crossed over the other leg, pointing at the other man in the cell next to them. That was Paul White’s unspoken code-sign for a friendly.

“On your feet, guys,” Briggs said. “I’m here to get you out.”

The first cell he breached had Knowlton and McKay inside.

“Jesus—it’s Major Briggs!” Knowlton said as he helped McKay up.

“I’ve got him, Hal. He’s hurt bad.”

“Thanks for the flag outside,” Briggs said, handing Knowlton a pistol from a dead Iranian guard. He was off, checking more cells. “Follow me and stay close.”

The search was not pretty, and after a very short time Briggs wasn’t feeling too heroic. There were prisoners in the cells other than Madcap Magician members. Briggs did not kill them, just searched them to make sure they had no weapons, but even though—Behrouzi warned them in Arabic and Farsi not to leave the cell or try to run until they had departed, all of them bolted for the door as soon as Briggs and Behrouzi had left the cell, and they were gunned down by the UAE commandos guarding the exits.

They could take no chances with the lives of their own.

But the final tally heartened them all: nine Madcap Magician members well and rescued. Two more members had been killed by the Pasdaran guards; one more was critically wounded. The main captive missing was Paul White himself. “Carl, do you have any idea where the colonel is?” Briggs asked.

“No,” Knowlton replied. “He was separated from us right away.”

“Any idea if there are any others in this building?”

“I don’t know, Hal, sorry,” Knowlton said dejectedly. “I was unconscious most of the time, exhausted. I don’t know how many men made it after the attack on the Mistress, how many we lost …” Briggs quickly polled the other Marines, but they couldn’t be sure how many others had been captured or killed in the attack, either. Their best guess was that they had everybody. “I wasn’t able to make contact with the others or try to find anything out, Hal, I’m sorry …

“Forget it, Carl,” Briggs said. “We’ll search the entire building.”

But there was no time for that—one of Behrouzi’s UAE commandos ran upstairs to report that several heavy infantry vehicles were on the way. “Shit, it didn’t take long for them to organize a response.”

“Our best chance is on the road,” Behrouzi said. “We should try to steal a vehicle, try to make it out into the open countryside.

The Pakistan border is only a hundred kilometers east.” Briggs knew she was right—if they stayed in that building, they’d quickly be surrounded and chewed to pieces.

But as they ran outside, they immediately drew heavy-caliber weapon fire from the infantry vehicles. The commandos’ weapons were useless against the Iranian infantry—they’d brought weapons only for close-range work, not to shoot it out with infantry forces. “Back inside!” Briggs shouted. “We got no choice!

Just then, the first infantry vehicle began to sparkle, then jump, then it burst into flames—and seconds later, they heard the OV-IOD-NOS Bronco fly overhead. The UAE Bronco crew had not high-tailed it for home after dropping their paratroopers—they were burning most of their return fuel on covering their commando’s withdrawal. “Now’s our chance!” Briggs shouted. “Run for the hospital! We’ll try to-“

The night air suddenly erupted into an ear-shattering blast of gunfire. One of the heavy armored vehicles following the infantry forces was not a troop carrier—it was a ZSU-23/4 air defense vehicle. Its four 23-millimeter cannons fired at a rate of 3,000 rounds per minute, blanketing the sky with deadly radar-guided shells. The Bronco was shredded by the murderous gunfire, cut into pieces and burning long before it hit the ground. The commandos and the rescued hostages had no choice but to retreat back into the security headquarters building. Two UAE commandos and two Madcap Magician Marines stayed on the ground floor, ready to take out the rest headed up onto the roof. the first wave of attackers “One lousy rescue this is turning into,” Briggs said. All of the Madcap Magician Marines were now armed, and together they made a formidable force—but everyone knew their options were quickly running out.

“You came for us—that’s the important thing, Major,” Corporal McKay told Briggs.

“He’s right, Hal—if you would have waited, we’d be dead,” Knowlton said. “No one was talking, so we weren’t good sources of information; we knew the U.S. government wasn’t going to acknowledge us or try to make a deal for us. They were going to discard us right away.”

“We may still be discarded.”

“But at least we’re fighting.” McKay said. The Marine had broken fingers, swollen eyes, and could hardly breathe—but he was still ready to fight. “Thanks for giving us that chance, Major—I mean, ‘Commander.””

The building was quickly surrounded by the armored vehicles and heavily armed soldiers, and the assault began immediately. Heavy 100-millimeter breaching cannons blew large” man-sized holes in the walls on the ground floor, followed by dozens of volleys of smoke and gas grenades, then by Iranian Pasdaran troopers in a hastily organized full frontal assault. The American and UAE soldiers dropped several Pasdaran soldiers as they came toward the stairwells, but were quickly forced to retreat as their number grew. The commandos were much more successful at picking off the Pasdaran troopers up on the second floor, but soon the second floor, too, was filled with gas. One American Marine was shot in the chest and was carried up to the third floor by the others.

Soon they had to retreat from that position as well, but with each retreat they were taking out plenty of Pasdaran troopers.

Up on the roof, the sound of approaching helicopters meant that their time was quickly running out. At the same time as the helicopters approached, the ground units, carrying the dead Marine, made their way onto the roof. “Too many to count,” was the simple report from a surviving Marine.

A few moments later, three Iranian Navy SH-3 Sea King helicopters could be seen through the darkness. All of them were trailing rappelling lines, ready to drop soldiers onto the roof. All of the commandos took cover as best they could around the raised rim of the roof.

Suddenly a breaching charge blew open the roof-access door, and smoke and tear gas poured through. Briggs fired, and two Pasdaran bodies piled up on the stairway sill. They were quickly dragged away by other troopers, and no others emerged. The doorway was open—a few grenades tossed through would make short work of everyone on the roof. Briggs cleared everyone from the portion of the roof facing the doorway and assigned commandos to cover it.

“Anybody got any ideas?” Briggs shouted.

“I am afraid we need to consider a surrender, Leopard,” Behrouzi said. “We are outnumbered and outgunned.”

“I don’t think the Iranians are interested in taking prisoners, Riza.”

As if to prove the point, just then one of Behrouzi’s UAE commandos jumped to his feet, dropped his MP-5 submachine gun, stretched his arms out, and began shouting something in Arabic at a nearby SH-3 helicopter. “Get down, you fool, no!” she shouted in Arabic. But it was far too late. A heavy-caliber machine gun on the SH-3 opened fire, and the UAE commando was immediately cut down.

“They aren’t going to let us surrender,” Briggs said grimly, “So we’re going to have to fight our way off this roof. We’ve got the darkness to cover us. We’ll try to pick up as many gas masks as we can along the way and take out as many of them as we can.

Everyone just keep moving, keep-“

Suddenly one of the SH-3 Sea King helicopters exploded in a huge fireball, less than 200 feet from the rooftop. Then down below, one, then two of the armored vehicles surrounding the security headquarters building burst into flames, followed by several rocking explosions in the security building itself. Briggs and Behrouzi cut down three, four, five Pasdaran troopers trying to rush up onto the roof—but they weren’t attacking, they were fleeing some devastation behind them. Seconds later, another Sea King helicopter exploded, followed by the ZSU-23/4 air defense unit.

The ammunition cooking off inside the ZSU-23/4 completely shredded the vehicle from the inside out.

“What is it, Leopard?”

“I think … I hope, it’s the cavalry,” Briggs said.

Sure enough, it was. Out of the darkness, a large aircraft appeared. It swooped in toward the security headquarters building with incredible speed for an aircraft its size, its huge twin propellers acting as helicopter rotors. A Gatling gun mounted on its nose spat fire in several directions at ground targets as the huge aircraft moved with delicate precision toward the rooftop.

With the nose and an FLIR turret peeking over the edge of the roof, the CV-22 Pave Hammer tilt-rotor aircraft settled just a yard above the rooftop, rear end in. The cargo ramp was open, and commandos were running out and taking security positions around the rooftop.

Marine Corps Gunnery Sergeant Chris Wohl ran over to Briggs and Behrouzi as several Madcap Magician commandos helped the others to the CV-22 tilt-rotor. “Let’s go, Major,” Wohl said. “We’re outta here.”

Briggs felt like hugging the tall Marine. “How in hell did you find us?”

“Later,” Wohl said. “Right now, let’s get the hell outta here.

We’re bingo fuel, and we’ve got a tanker waiting for us off the coast.

In less than a minute, everyone was evacuated off the rooftop, and the CV-22 was wave-hopping its way out over the Gulf of Oman. The CV-22’s threat warning receiver beeped a few times, but they observed no missile launches or fighter pursuit. In ten minutes they were out of Iranian territorial waters, and a few minutes later they were refueling behind a U.S. Air Force HC-130N special operations tanker that had been dispatched from Bahrain to support the Madcap Magician rescue mission.

“Practically the entire UAE government was watching you guys heading off toward Chah Bahar,” Wohl explained once they were safely refueled and on the way back to Dubai. “Peace Shield Sky-watch reported the OVIOD Bronco belonging to General Rashid heading for Iran—they thought the Emir’s son was defecting or something. When I heard about it on the air defense net, I had an HC-13ON scramble from Manama Air Base in Bahrain, we took a token on-load over the UAE, and immediately headed toward Chah Bahar. Somehow, I knew it was you: first the message about the carrier and the lone chopper heading toward Chah Bahar, then the recall message “I almost got everyone killed, Gunny,” Briggs said. “I lost two Americans, I got four UAE commandos killed, I lost their Bronco …”

“Yes, you did,” Wohl said sternly. “You executed an impossible mission without proper planning, intelligence, and preparation, including the basics like how in hell you were going to get your asses out of the target area and safely back home. You put yourself and your troops in mortal danger. It was stupid, Briggs, really stupid. You exercised poor, immature, and completely rash judgment as a commander”

Wohl stopped, then nodded resignedly and added, “But you pulled it off, goddamn your Air Force bird-brain black ass. You saved ten guys, ten of your guys, and you didn’t leave anyone behind. You improvised, adapted, and overcame. You used incredible bravery and guts, and showed real leadership. I wouldn’t have done it that way, but I’m not the commander of Madcap Magician’s strike force—you are.”

OVER THE GULF OF OMAN THAT SAME TIME “Shamu One-One, this is Nightmare on all primary, how copy, over.”

Silently, McLanahan prayed. Be there, you guys, dammit, be there “Nightmare, this is Shamu One-One, read you five by,” the KC-10 Extender aerial refueling tanker copilot responded.

“We’re just about min fuel at Watchdog. What’s your position?

Over.”

“Nightmare is two hundred west of the ARIP, headed your way,” McLanahan responded, breathing a sigh of relief. They were one hour late to their scheduled refueling, near the U.S.S. Abraham Lincoln carrier group in the Arabian Sea, and now the B-2A was critically short on fuel—but so was their tanker, a converted Douglas DC-10 used by the U.S. Air Force for long-range aerial refueling and cargo hauling. If the KC-10 Extender couldn’t stay to hook up, they would have to abort to Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean—and surely this meant their cover would be blown. One didn’t have to be a math major to draw a parallel between all the attacks on Iran and the sudden appearance of a B-2A bomber on Diego Garcia.

“We’re headed your way, Nightmare,” the copilot of the KC-10 said.

“We’re working on an alternate divert site for ourselves to get you your full off-load. If you can take a partial off-load, it would sure help us out. Over.”

McLanahan pulled up a large chart of the Pacific and Indian Ocean regions and ran several range calculations through the navigation computer. “We can take a three-quarter off-load and abort to Guam if we can’t get a tanker to meet us,” McLanahan reported. He paused, showing Jamieson the calculations: “We can also take a three-quarters off-load, fly across India, southeast Asia, and China, and get our normal refueling west of Hawaii. Tempting, isn’t it?”

“We’re not authorized to overfly any non-international air-space,” Jamieson said, “no matter how much gas it’ll save. But yes, it is tempting. Take the partial off-load, we’ll plan on aborting to Guam.”

“Agreed,” McLanahan said. He relayed the information to the tanker crew, who were very excited to hear that they wouldn’t have to try to get landing permission in Oman or fly anywhere near Iran right now—any aircraft, especially U.S. military aircraft, flying anywhere near the Persian Gulf would definitely be putting the lives of its crew at risk right now. Like a huge, angry swarm of bees, the entire Iranian air force was up, fully alerted, and looking for revenge. With a partial off-load to the B-2A, the tanker could safely make its way back to its staging base at Diego Garcia, a small island in the Indian Ocean leased by the United States from Britain for use as a military air and naval base, about 1,500 miles south.

They agreed on a “point parallel” rendezvous, in which both aircraft would fly toward each other 1,000 feet apart in altitude.

About thirty miles apart, the tanker turned in front of the bomber so it would roll out about four to five miles ahead of the bomber, within visual range, and then Jamieson would fly the B-2A up into the pre-contact position. The rendezvous was automatic—the tanker’s navigation computers performed the entire operation, backed up by occasional updates by the B-2A’s synthetic aperture radar transmitting in air-to-air mode—and a few short minutes later, the KC-10’s flying boom was nestled into the B-2A bomber’s in-flight refueling receptacle. The fuel transfer began. The B-2A needed gas badly, so the KC-10 crew turned up the transfer pumps and got the transfer rate up to 3,000 pounds of fuel per minute—enough gas to fill up sixty automobiles every minute.

The fuel transfer was about half completed when suddenly the tanker’s director lights—the rows of colored lights on the tanker’s belly that told the pilot where to fly to stay in the proper refueling envelope—flashed on and off rapidly, and the refueling boom popped out of the bomber’s receptacle. McLanahan was watching the tanker and checking to make sure the fuel was being distributed to the proper tanks when he saw the flashing lights and immediately shouted, “Break away, break away!”

Jamieson chopped the throttles and started a 3,000-foot-per-minute descent, making both crew members light in the seats from the sudden negative gravity. “Boom’s clear! Tanker climbing!”

McLanahan reported.

“What happened? What is it?” Jamieson asked, scanning his instruments. “Was it a pressure disconnect? Boom malfunction?”

“The tanker’s lights are out,” McLanahan said. “I lost sight of him…”

“Get him on the SAR,” Jamieson said. “We need this refueling.”

Just then on the radios, they heard a thick Middle Eastern-accented voice say in English, “Unidentified aircraft, unidentified aircraft, this is Interceptor Seven-Four, air force of the Islamic Republic of Iran, on emergency GUARD frequency.

You have been observed flying into Iranian airspace in violation of international law. You are ordered to follow me to a landing at Chah Bahar air base. Turn left heading three-five-zero degrees immediately or you will be fired upon without further warning!”

“What?” Jamieson shouted. “What kind of bullshit is this? We’re not in Iranian airspace!”

McLanahan made no reply—but he did reach up and hit the COMBAT switch light. The light began to blink because Jamieson’s consent switch was not in the proper position. “Give me consent for COMBAT mode, AC.”

“What are you doing?”

“Do it, Colonel!” McLanahan shouted. “Keep on descending—take it down to two thousand feet, fast!” Jamieson was about to argue again, but he flipped his consent switch to CONSENT, AND THE COMBAT light turned steady.

As Jamieson nosed the bomber over and pointed the B-2A’s beaked nose seaward, McLanahan displayed the threat scope on his supercockpit display. There was the KC-10 tanker, transmitting rendezvous beacon codes. “Shut down your transmitters, Shamu,” McLanahan prayed aloud. Another symbol, a flashing inverted-V “bat-wing” symbol with a yellow triangle emanating from its nose and overlapping the KC-10 symbol, also appeared on the scope.

“What is it?” Jamieson asked.

“An Iranian MiG-29,” McLanahan replied. “He’s got the tanker locked on his attack radar.”

“An Iranian MiG! What’s he doing way out here? We’re a hundred miles outside Iranian airspace!”

“The Iranians are sweeping the skies for whoever invaded Chah Bahar. Bandar Abbas, and their carrier battle group,” McLanahan surmised. “They’re looking for us.”

“And they found our tanker instead!” Jamieson cried. “Shit, they’re trying to get him to land back at Chah Bahar!”

“To replace the hostages Briggs got out of prison,” McLanahan said. “Jesus!”

“We gotta do something!” Jamieson shouted. “Get on that machine of yours. Call the Navy, call Washington, but get some help!”

McLanahan immediately burst out a message via satellite to the National Security Agency, warning them of the intercept and requesting that the U.S.S. Abraham Lincoln launch fighters to try to pursue and to ask American fighter patrols over the Arabian Peninsula to intercept the group over the Gulf of Oman on their way back. “Messages sent,” McLanahan said as they leveled off at 2,000 feet above the ocean.

“American tanker plane, this is Interceptor Seven-Four on emergency GUARD frequency. Change heading immediately or I will be forced to fire upon you. You have been observed trespassing in Iranian airspace and attacking Iranian military and civilian property. Turn left to heading three-five-zero now. This is your last warning!”

“Iranian interceptor, this is Shamu One-One,” the pilot of the KC-10 tanker radioed back. “We are an unarmed aerial refueling tanker aircraft. We are carrying no cargo or weapons. We were not in Iranian airspace. We are on a round-robin ICAO flight plan, destination Diego Garcia. Please maintain your distance.

Do not approach this aircraft. Do you read me?”

McLanahan switched Off COMBAT mode so he could talk on the UHF radios; as soon as the electronic masking field around the bomber de-energized, he keyed the mike: “Iranian interceptor, this is Ghostrider Zero-Five, from the U.S.S. Abraham Lincoln, United States Navy.” McLanahan didn’t know the call sign of the fighter squadrons aboard the Lincoln, nor did he know anything about Navy fighter tactics—he just hoped this would sound good. “We have you on radar one hundred twenty miles south of Chah Bahar at angels three-zero. We are rendezvousing with that American tanker aircraft you are pursuing. Back off immediately or we will attack from long range. Ghostrider flight, combat spread, arm ‘em up.”

“I hope the hell you know what you’re doing, McLanahan,” Jamieson said. He quickly placed the B-2A back in COMBAT mode as the MiG-29’s attack radar swept the skies around them. For a brief moment the fighter radar locked onto the B-2A—the MiG-29 had an excellent and very powerful “look-down, shoot-down” radar, and it was only five miles away—but as soon as COMBAT mode was reengaged, the MiG’s radar broke lock. The MiG scanned the skies again, using long-range scans, then locked back onto the KC-10 tanker.

McLanahan deactivated COMBAT mode once again, then keyed the UHF radio mike: “Iranian interceptor, we are detecting you locking on to our tanker with your attack radar at our twelve o’clock, eighty miles. I warn you, shut off your radar and return to your base, or we will attack from long range. Ghostrider flight, lock ‘em up, now.”

That time, the MiG-29’s radar slaved precisely at the B-2A bomber and locked on, the Iranian fighter’s radar triangle switching from green to yellow and back to green as it attempted to maintain a lock on the stealth bomber. While not engaging COMBAT mode, the B-2A still had a very small radar cross-section, but not small enough to evade a MiG-29 at close range. McLanahan considered telling the KC-10 pilot to do evasive maneuvers now while the MiG wasn’t locked on to him, but it wouldn’t do any good; the MiG-29 could reacquire the big KC-10 with ease. McLanahan called up the B-2A’s electronic countermeasures control panels, ready to activate all its defensive systems …

… and it was just in time, for as soon as the radar triangle surrounding the B-2A bomber on the threat scope changed to a solid yellow, it changed to red. They heard a rapid deedledeedledeedle!

warning tone, followed by a computer synthesized “MISSILE LAUNCH … MISSILE LAUNCH …

McLanahan immediately activated COMBAT mode and all of the countermeasures equipment. The HAVE GLANCE system promptly locked on to the incoming missile and fired its laser beam. “Two missiles in the air!” McLanahan shouted. “Break left!” Jamieson threw the B-2A bomber into a hard left turn and jammed the throttles to full military power.

With COMBAT mode engaged and the B-2A bomber’s “cloaking device” reenergized, absorbing every watt of radar energy striking the bomber’s electrified skin, the only solid radar-reflective object in the MiG-29’s radar sweep was the cloud of chaff the B-2A ejected, and that’s what the two radar-guided missiles struck. The radar triangle changed back to green, then disappeared.

Jamieson descended down to 100 feet above the Gulf of Oman, daring the Iranian MiG to fly down to that dark expanse of open ocean to pursue. “He might be trying a heater shot,” McLanahan said, warning Jamieson to get ready to counter a heat-seeking missile shot. But the MAWS radar showed the fighter still up at 30,000 feet, not yet pursuing.

“C’mon, this guy’s got to be running out of fuel,” Jamieson said.

“We’re nearly three hundred miles away from his base.”

“With three external tanks for an air patrol mission, he’s good to go for almost a thousand miles,” McLanahan said. He deactivated COMBAT mode once again, keeping the MAWS tracking the fighter.

“Iranian interceptor, this is Ghostrider flight of two, you just committed an act of war,” McLanahan radioed. “Turn back immediately or we will …”

But the ruse didn’t work. The B-2A’s threat scope showed the MiG-29 briefly transmit with its N-019 pulse-Doppler radar, lock on to the KC-10 tanker once again, then flick off. The MAWS radar tracked the MiG-29 until it closed within five miles of the KC-10 …

“Jesus, no!”

“Mayday, Mayday, Mayday, Shamu-One-One on GUARD,” the pilot of the KC-10 Extender shouted on the international emergency frequency.

“Position, two hundred miles south of Chah Bahar airfield. We have been attacked by an Iranian fighter, repeat, we are under attack! We have been struck by missiles fired at us by …” And the radio went dead.

“Good-bye, Yankee cowards,” the Iranian pilot radioed, and the MiG-29 turned and headed back toward Iran.

As Jamieson set up an orbit over the area, McLanahan sent another message to the National Security Agency and the Air Intelligence Agency, detailing the events. Using intermittent bursts of the SAR, they orbited the Gulf of Oman over the KC-10’s wreckage for another hour until no more radar-significant debris could be detected. Silently, afraid to speak, frozen and riddled by guilt and anguish, the crew started to climb and set a course for Diego Garcia to arrange another refueling for the long trip home.

THE PENTAGON BRIEFING Room 23 APRIL 1997, 0904 HOURs ET

“I just wanted to express my concern over recent events in the Middle East,” Secretary of Defense Arthur Chastain began.

“Apparently, late last night Iran time, Iran fired several volleys of missiles from air defense sites in the Strait of Hormuz and from their aircraft carrier in the Gulf of Oman.

“The President immediately spoke to President Nateq-Nouri of Iran, who explained that there has been an air defense integration problem with the aircraft carrier battle group, and that a false alert over Bandar Abbas in the Strait of Hormuz caused a similar false alert over the aircraft carrier, causing the missile launches. At last report, no vessels or aircraft were in danger of being struck by these missiles.

“The President conveyed his deep sense of concern over this apparent demonstration of power, and he said that such demonstrations might affect the proposed summit of Middle East nations and negotiations over Iran’s proposal to exclude land-attack warships from the Persian Gulf region. The President, as you know, has endorsed President Nateq-Nouri’s proposal and has even suggested expanding the ban to land-attack aircraft. The President is awaiting a formal draft treaty before presenting it to the congressional leadership.

“To summarize: Iran apparently fired several dozen air defense missiles, anti-ship missiles, and antiaircraft artillery guns into the sky last night, Iran time. No aircraft or ships were struck, and no countries were in danger. Neither the United States nor any of the countries bordering the Gulf has put its forces on alert in response to this demonstration of power. The Defense Department speculates that this was either a malfunction, a response to a false attack alarm, or some kind of demonstration of air defense power that, frankly, wasted a lot of missiles and bullets for nothing. The President has said that he is still committed to peace in the Persian Gulf region and will not let such blatant demonstrations sway him from that objective. Thank you. What are your questions?”

“… No, we are in direct and constant communication with President Nateq-Nouri and Foreign Minister Velayati of Iran, and they assure us that Iran is not gearing up or mobilizing for war in the Persian Gulf or Gulf of Oman, or anywhere else for that matter,” Chastain replied. “He did admit that there are very pro-military persons in the Iranian government that see the Persian Gulf demilitarization treaty as a sign of weakness and as undercutting Iran’s sovereignty and national defense. Privately, some analysts have speculated—and this is only speculation—that these hawkish military leaders staged this air defense demonstration not only to threaten the Gulf Cooperative Council states and others sailing the Persian Gulf, but members of their own government as well. Yes?”

“… Yes, we’ve heard that other Iranian military bases reacted as well, and that Iranian fighter planes were flying around on full alert, but they are farther away from international waters and from routine monitoring by Gulf Cooperative Council forces, so we don’t know much about those reports. Yes, Iran’s chief of staff General Buzhazi is claiming that the United States is flying stealth bombers over his country and is threatening to attack. The idea is ridiculous. The United States has a grand total of ten B-2A bombers in the inventory, and all ten of them are still at Whiteman Air Force Base in Missouri, and they’ve never left. In addition, the bomb wing there is not scheduled to be operational until October first.

“Let me make this point very clear, ladies and gentlemen: Iran is not threatening war with anybody, so why should we fly any aircraft over their country? In fact, President Nateq-Nouri has gone a long way toward promoting peace for the Middle East, and the President of the United States will do nothing to hinder that.

What the right-wing fanatical military leaders or the fundamentalist clerical leaders of Iran will do, and whether or not President Nateq-Nouri can control them or gain their support, is a question I just can’t answer.”

TEHRAN, IRAN LATER THAT MORNING “You arrogant, incompetent fool!” Islamic Republic of Iran President Ali Akbar Nateq-Nouri shouted angrily. He and his Cabinet ministers were meeting with military chief of staff and Pasdaran commander Buzhazi in Nateq-Nouri’s office—the meeting had been bombastic, angry, and threatening to go out of control right from the start. “How dare you march into my office, deliver a report like this to me, and have the unmitigated gall to tell me that I am preventing you from doing your job! I should court-martial you for dereliction of duty—no, I should have you sent to prison for the rest of your life for insubordination as well as dereliction of duty! But this will wait for a better time—the Supreme Defense Council is waiting.”

The Iranian Supreme Defense Council was the approving authority for all military matters in Iran. Along with its president, the Defense Minister, it consisted of the Prime Minister, Hasan Ebrihim Habibi; Buzhazi’s friend, protege, and confidant and commander of Iran’s air forces, Brigadier General Mansour Sattari; ground forces commander General Abdollah Najafi; commander of the navy Rear Admiral Ali Shamkhani; chairman of the Majlis’s Armed Services Committee, Qolam Adeli; and Hamid Mirzadeh, director of the Islamic Republic News Agency and the chief of war propaganda.

“What in the name of God …?” Nateq-Nouri exclaimed under his breath, as he entered the cabinet room. Buzhazi noticed with delight that Nateq-Nouri had just realized that both Imams representing the Leadership Council were present for this meeting.

The religious leaders of the Council, together with the Faqih, His Eminence the Ayatollah Khamenei, exercised ultimate political power in the government and ultimate spiritual power in most of the Twelver Shiite Muslim world. It was unusual to have anyone representing the mullahs here at a Supreme Defense Council meeting—everyone was here but His Holiness, the Leader of the Islamic Revolution, Ayatollah Ali Hoseini Khamenei himself.

“Is this a trial or an execution, Mr. President?” Buzhazi asked sotto voce to Nateq-Nouri.

“I advise you to shut your insolent mouth, General,” the President said as they took their seats at the cabinet table.

Buzhazi saw with interest that a political crony of the Defense Minister, an old lingham-sucker named General Hosein Esmail Akhundi, was sitting behind Defense Minister Foruzandeh. So apparently they had already picked his replacement, Buzhazi thought with interest. Akhundi had no military education, no experience—nothing but money and political contacts, and had been awarded a commission and instant promotion to general with seniority by presidential decree. He represented Nateq-Nouri’s slant away from the powerful, hard-line expeditionary military that Buzhazi was trying to build, and a clear movement toward a toothless dragon used merely to bully other Muslim nations.

Just before he took his seat, Buzhazi turned to his aide and said, “Bring him here and wait for my command.”

The aide hurried off to do as he was ordered—this demonstration had been arranged in advance.

Nateq-Nouri nodded to the two Imams present. “We are honored to have the representatives of the Leadership Council in our presence today. We are here to receive the report from General Buzhazi on the attacks against the Islamic Republic that occurred earlier this morning. As you all know, there were three separate incidents: an unknown air attack against Bandar Abbas; the mishaps aboard the aircraft carrier Khomeini that caused considerable damage to that vessel; and the assault on the security complex at Chah Bahar Naval Base.”

The Iranian President turned to Buzhazi. “General, we shall surely get to the matter of the Khomeini soon, and your theories about what happened to that ship and the Chinese destroyer. But I wish to query you on the attack at Chah Bahar first, since this was obviously an assault made by GCC and American forces. Your report states that our radar planes and ground radar stations detected the intruder almost two hundred kilometers from Chah Bahar, and yet not one fighter launched? How is that possible, General?”

“The intruder aircraft was flying less than three hundred twenty knots, it was a single aircraft, and it was flying on an established airway,” General Buzhazi explained. “Night intercepts are dangerous, and several fighters from Chah Bahar were on patrol searching for the attackers overlying Bandar Abbas, so no additional fighters were launched against this lone, non-threatening target. When the intruder did not answer any of our challenges, it was engaged by ground-based air at maximum range.”

“And it evaded all of them?”

“The aircraft was equipped with very sophisticated defensive equipment, including chaff dispensers and threat warning receivers,” Buzhazi noted. “The aircraft was shot down over the base …”

“After shooting up more of our armored vehicles, even after dropping five paratroopers right on our security facility!

… and we have examined the wreckage of the aircraft,” Buzhazi struggled on. “It was the personal aircraft of Sheikh Muhammad ibn Rashid all-Maktum himself, the son of the Emir of Dubai—a sentence of death should be placed on this infidel immediately. The aircraft was fully armed and was also equipped for low-altitude flight and precision navigation.

“But the main factor was the state of the air defenses around Chah Bahar. As I said in my report, sir, the Hawks placed there were some of our poorest-maintained units. I have ordered SA-10 units and more Rapier air defense units, but my requests have been constantly overridden …”

“There was no use in putting a costly SA-10 air defense site at a naval base that is still uncompleted after five years in construction and an oil pipeline terminal that is still uncompleted after ten years,” Minister of Defense Muhammad Foruzandeh interjected. “Chah Bahar is nothing but random piles of concrete buildings, mostly vacant or in partial stages of completion, surrounding an obsolete air base and a shallow-water port facility that cannot accommodate anything larger than a tugboat, let alone a major warship or a supertanker. Your budget has been increased every year for the past three years to complete that base, and yet the projected completion date is moved back every year. Where is all that money going, General? To your private offshore bank accounts, your homes in Indonesia and South America, your private jets?”

“How dare you insinuate that I have embezzled government funds!”

Buzhazi retorted. “I demand an apology!”

“Enough, enough!” Nateq-Nouri shouted. “The general will have his opportunity to answer all of these charges very soon, I guarantee it.” He got to his feet and paced behind his desk. “So then a single aircraft shoots up the base, destroys the power plant and all base communications, then drops five”—he shook his head as if scarcely believing what he was saying—”… five paratroopers into a security compound with thirty-two armed Pasdaran guards on duty, kills or wounds each and every one of them, rescues all the American prisoners, then holds off an entire infantry company of Pasdaran shock troops until they are extracted by another single American aircraft? I cannot believe this, Buzhazi. The Islamic Republic will be the world’s laughingstock by the end of the day.”

“Mr. President, we were unprepared for the arrival of those prisoners from the Khomeini,” Buzhazi said. “The security facility had a normal complement of troops for the number of inmates already present, which were all low-risk disciplinary cases. The base commander already had orders to double the guards at the facility when he learned of the transfer of the prisoners.”

“That seems to be the reason for all that has happened in the past few hours, General—you were unprepared,” Nateq-Nouri said. “You were unprepared for the assaults on Bandar Abbas or on the Khomeini carrier group, unprepared for the attack and assaults on Chah Bahar … So, you have a theory as to how all these attacks made it through your vaunted defenses, General?”

“The same as the mysterious unidentified aircraft that ‘attacked’ Bandar Abbas, sir—they were cruise missiles, decoys, launched by American stealth bombers,” Buzhazi said. He could see Nateq-Nouri, Foruzandeh, and most of the others roll their eyes in exasperation. “Yes, stealth bombers, gentlemen. The same as was reported by the MiG-29 pilot over the Gulf of Oman with the American KC-10 aerial refueling tanker. The Americans are conducting illegal, warlike reconnaissance flights over our country with stealth bombers, launching sophisticated decoy missiles over our forces that fool our air defenses into thinking we are under massive attack so we quickly expend all our weapons.”

“I see, I see,” Defense Minister Foruzandeh said scornfully, clearly unimpressed by Buzhazi’s explanation. “We are all going to blame this on shadows of steel, on bombers loaded with intelligent cruise missiles that fly with complete impunity over our radars and missile fields. General, you have said yourself that the American stealth program is a sham, a program foisted on the American people to benefit the aircraft manufacturers and to bankrupt the former Soviet Union by forcing them to spend billions on weapons to defeat them.”

“The American stealth bombers and their new generation cruise missiles are real, Minister,” Buzhazi said. “That is what I have been trying to prepare our country to defend itself against!”

“This testimony will make fascinating reading at your court-martial, General.”

“Do not threaten me, sir!” Buzhazi shouted. “if you wish to relieve me of my office—if you have the stomach to try to remove me—you may do it at any time.”

Nateq-Nouri looked as if he were ready to kill his military chief of staff with his bare hands. “But you may not threaten me with punishment for trying to do my duty!”

“It has been how you have tried to ‘do your duty’ that has bankrupted our country and forced us to the brink of war with the Americans,” Nateq-Nouri said angrily. “It will continue no more.

Dr. Velayati.”

Ali Akbar Velayati, the Foreign Minister, held up a communiqud, nestled in a blue diplomatic folder. “A message from the American Secretary of State,” Velayati said to Buzhazi and the rest of the Defense Council, “received late last night. The United States accepts in principle the Islamic Republic’s proposal to ban all land-attack warships from the Persian Gulf, including aircraft carriers, and to allow the Islamic Republic to maintain an equal number of warships in the Persian Gulf as Gulf Cooperation Council warships.”

“How dare they issue a statement like that, after wantonly attacking our air defense forces as they did last night?” Buzhazi retorted.

“Silence, General Buzhazi,” President Nateq-Nouri ordered.

“Continue, Dr. Velayati.”

“The United States wishes to schedule a summit of all interested nations for this September, where a treaty will be signed,” the Foreign Minister went on. “Secretary of State Hartman further recommends that this proposal be extended to the boundaries of the Gulf of Oman and the Gulf of Aden west of the sixtieth meridian …”

“What?” Buzhazi retorted. “The sixtieth meridian? That is … that is just west of Chah Bahar Sir, do you realize that is almost the entire coastline of Iran!”

“And that is the entire coastline of all of the Gulf Cooperation Council states,” Nateq-Nouri said. “We shall have an equal number of warships as all of our adversaries in the oil-transit areas, but we will be free to sail expeditionary warships from Chah Bahar Naval Base if we so choose—but they will not be allowed to enter the Gulf of Oman, the Gulf of Aden, the Strait, or the Persian Gulf if they exceed the number of warships of GCC states.”

“This is utterly insane!” Buzhazi shouted. “You cannot do this!”

“Pending successful treaty negotiations between now and September, ratification by the Majlis, approval by the Council of Guardians, and the blessing of the Faqih,” Nateq-Nouri said, “we will sign such an agreement. We shall then seek a new treaty to limit similarly the number of attack planes over the Persian Gulf region.” Buzhazi was completely speechless—he was watching his newly redesigned military going right down the drain.

“As proof of our good intentions and our desire for peace and prosperity,” Nateq-Nouri went on, “I am ordering that the aircraft carrier Khomeini and the destroyer Zhanjiang be returned immediately to the People’s Republic of China. Their presence only exacerbates the tensions in the region. In return, the United States has promised not to send another aircraft carrier or marine aircraft assault ship into the Persian Gulf or Gulf of Oman. We are most heartened by these developments and feel this is the beginning of a new era of peace.”

“Peace! What peace?” Buzhazi exploded. “Did you not hear what I have said, Mr. President? I believe the United States overflew our country, violated our sovereign airspace, and attacked our cities and our aircraft carrier with stealth aircraft and cruise missiles. In return, we are agreeing to disarm ourselves? Sir, the Americans attacked our aircraft carrier because they knew what kind of threat it was to their security and the security of their Gulf Cooperative Council and Zionist lackeys. We cannot surrender to their blackmail and threats!”

“It is already done, General—I have so ordered it,” Nateq-Nouri said. “That monstrosity has always been an embarrassment to the Islamic Republic, General. The money we spent in so-called training can better be spent on our cities, on the needed infrastructure in the remote provinces, and on our people. We can spread the Islamic revolution easier with well-educated, successful citizens than we can by force. It is so ordered.”

One of the Imams, the Ayatollah Bijan Kalantari, raised his hand, and a crier behind the Imams ordered silence. “General Hesarak all-Kan Buzhazi,” the old man said in a deep, surprisingly strong voice, “the loss of prestige in the eyes of the true believers around the world has offended the Faqih, and he has demanded an explanation. You may speak in the presence of Allah, his servants of the Leadership Council, and all those true believers present here, and may you be struck down by the hand of the righteous if you do not tell the truth.”

This was it, Buzhazi thought as he got to his feet. His days were numbered, his replacement was present, and the firing squad was undoubtedly waiting outside for him—his fate would be decided by the words he was to say right now “Our aircraft carrier, the city of Bandar Abbas, and the Chah Bahar Naval Base were attacked by the air and naval forces of the United States,” Buzhazi said in a firm, loud voice, pointing a finger directly at a stunned President Nateq-Nouri, “as part of a conspiracy between our traitorous pro-West, pro-Zionist President, Ali Akbar Hashemi Nateq-Nouri, the American Central Intelligence Agency, the Gulf Cooperative Council states, and the United States government. Before Allah and all of you, I swear this is true—and I have proof.”

The cabinet chamber exploded in bedlam. Nateq-Nouri was on his feet in indignation, sputtering unintelligible words, shooting a shocked expression all across the room because, to Buzhazi’s surprise, the allegation had hit home. The president looked as if he were ready either to kill Buzhazi or run out of the room like a madman—and the image was not lost on the rest of the Supreme Defense Council. Everywhere Nateq-Nouri looked, he saw another confused and suspicious face staring back at him.

“Admit it!” Buzhazi shouted at Nateq-Nouri. “Admit the truth!

Admit that you conspired with the United States to dismantle the Islamic Republic’s navy!”

“You will be silent!” Nateq-Nouri shouted at Buzhazi. “I will not dignify such outlandish claims with a denial! You are a liar and an inept despot seeking only glory and power for yourself-“

“Admit the truth!” Buzhazi interjected. “Admit that you have been keeping regular contact with members of the U.S. State Department and the American President’s National Security Advisor, informing him of our nation’s military secrets and operations and in return receiving favors and tribute from the Turkish and American governments!”

“That is another lie, Buzhazi!” Nateq-Nouri shouted. But his denial was not as strong as the first, and came after a brief hesitation, and that silenced the chamber almost as quickly and as surely as if Nateq-Nouri had admitted his guilt. Nateq-Nouri quickly added, “Well-known associates of members of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs have had brief contacts with American bureaucrats, yes—but that is because we have no embassy in Washington, and a more direct form of communication was deemed necessary. That is all.”

“So you deny that your so-called associates—spies in your employ—spoke directly with General Philip Freeman, the American President’s National Security Advisor and overseer of American Central Intelligence?” Buzhazi asked.

“General Buzhazi, you are creating some kind of wild conspiracy fantasy. These were routine back-channel informational not government contacts by Iranian loyalists, and you know it. I will not tolerate this,” Nateq-Nouri said angrily. “I am the President and commander in chief, and I order you to be silent or I will place you under arrest. I do not report to you, only the Faqih and the people …”

“Very inspirational, very touching, Mr. President,” Buzhazi went on, “but you refuse to answer my question or refute my charges.

Are you or are you not in contact with the American Central Intelligence authorities? Are you or are you not working in concert with the corrupt and immoral United States and the Arab traitors to Islam in the Gulf Cooperative Council, to preserve your own power and position at the expense of the Islamic Republic of Iran’s military forces? Did you or did you not know that the Khomeini battle group would come under attack, but did nothing to stop it and even ordered me to withhold my defensive forces and even to dismiss me, so that the attack against us could succeed?”

“Silence, General, or I will have you placed under arrest!”

Nateq-Nouri shouted. “I will not tolerate this any longer!

The Ayatollah Kalantari held up his hand, and the crier shouted the order, “Silence all, the Imam shall be heard!” The cabinet room immediately fell silent.

“Excuse me, Mr. President,” Kalantari said, in a low, barely audible voice. “The charge of conspiring with the Americans and the Gulf Cooperative Council, two of our chief adversaries, is a serious one. General Buzhazi risks much by leveling such a charge against you. If he is proved false, he is disgraced before the Supreme Defense Council and is subject to immediate imprisonment.

Although the general is still your subordinate and faces disciplinary action if he wears the uniform but does not obey your command to be silent, we wish that this matter be resolved. We wish to hear your response to these charges.”

“My response is that General Buzhazi is a liar, and is levying these charges merely to cover up his desperate attempt to precipitate a war with the Gulf Cooperative Council and the United States, his failed military operations, and to try to avoid demotion or dismissal,” Nateq-Nouri said. “I strongly deny all his charges, and as commander in chief I hereby relieve him of command of the Pasdaran and the armed forces of the Islamic Republic.”

The Imam turned to General Buzhazi and said evenly, “General, you may speak. President Nateq-Nouri has denied your charges. Under pain of dismissal and disgrace, you must prove your allegations. What is your response?”

“Here is my response, Your Holiness,” Buzhazi shouted, raising a hand. The doors to the Cabinet chamber swung open, and two armed guards escorted a prisoner inside. The man wore a green-and-yellow prison jumpsuit and was chained at the wrist, ankle, and neck, plus handcuffed in front of his body for added effect. Both eyes were swollen and discolored, and his fingers were heavily bandaged. The barefoot prisoner walked with a great deal of pain.

“This man was pulled out of the Strait of Hormuz on the night of the enemy reconnaissance on the Khomeini carrier group,” Buzhazi shouted, pointing a finger at the man in chains. “He was aboard the vessel that shot down two of our carrier-based fighters that evening. We have reason to believe that this man’s vessel was the launch and control vessel for a small but sophisticated stealth reconnaissance aircraft that was photographing the Khomeini carrier group and was in fact passing along information to the American CIA, forces of the Gulf Cooperative Council, and Israel.

Our fighters sank his vessel, but not before several of his fellow crewmen abandoned the ship and escaped safely to the United Arab Emirates.”

Buzhazi looked at his prisoner and smiled eerily. “We recovered several bodies as well, some of whom appear to be American military personnel, possibly American Marines.” The prisoner closed his eyes, as if in great pain; the assembled men noticed this and nodded, as if he had just admitted the fact. “Their clothing had been carefully stripped of all identifying tags. My staff says this is a typical procedure for a spy vessel.”

The Ayatollah Kalantari motioned for the guards to bring the prisoner forward, toward the Cabinet table; room was made for him at the table, and he stood before the Imams, battered and weak but head erect, staring at the clerics and the others assembled around the table. “Your name, sir?” Kalantari ordered. “You have permission to speak.”

His order was translated by his crier, and the response translated for the Council: “My name is Paul White,” the prisoner replied.

“I’m the executive officer and purser of the S.S Valley Mistress.

Look, Your Honor, I haven’t been able to call my family and tell them I’m all right, and I haven’t been allowed to call the U.S. consulate. Your jets sank my ship, several members of my crew are dead, and I demand to know-“

“Silence, Mr. White,” Kalantari said through his translator. “You will be allowed to contact your family only after your identity and purpose for your voyage have been confirmed.”

“But, Your Honor, I was nowhere near your aircraft carrier,” White interjected. “My ship was at least fifty miles away-“

“Silence, or you will be returned to your prison cell,” Kalantari said. “Answer my questions. What kind of ship is this Valley Mistress?”

“It’s a rescue-and-salvage vessel,” White responded. “We can raise small ships, recover items from deep water, tow large vessels, conduct major power-plant and hull repairs afloat or-“

“What were you doing in the area shadowing our aircraft carrier group?”

“I run a salvage operation, Your Honor,” White said. He cracked a thin smile and shrugged, giving the council members a sheepish expression. “Frankly, Your Honor, your ships were in pretty poor shape, and you were pushing them hard. My ship can … er, could, take any one of your ships in tow, including your carrier, and we can fix any power plant with the exception of course of your nuclear stuff. We’re pretty good at minor repairs, too—motors, engines, appliances, electronics. Plus, we carry a goodly amount of supplies—oil, gasoline, diesel, frozen food, electronics, videotapes—and many vessels invite us to trade with them. But I never came near you guys, Your Honor. Usually if someone needs help, we’ll come running, but we never approach unless waved in because we’re afraid of making you nervous, and you got all the guns. I swear, we never-“

“If I may, Your Holiness?” Buzhazi asked. Kalantari raised a hand, permitting him to continue the questioning. “Do you also carry Stinger antiaircraft missiles as part of your ‘rescue’ inventory, Mr. White?” Buzhazi asked through the interpreter.

“Stingers? I don’t know anything about any Stingers, Sir …

“Our patrol helicopter observed two Stinger missile launches coming from your ship, Mr. White … or should I say, Colonel Paul White,” General Buzhazi interjected. Reading from a folder handed to him by an assistant, he continued in a loud voice: “Colonel Paul White, supposedly retired United States Air Force. Your last military assignment was the 675th Weapons Evaluation Group, Hurlburt Field, Florida, as an engineer working on weapons and equipment for secret special operations units—this Hurlburt Field is very close to the American special operations headquarters in Florida and the United States Air Force’s special operations wing at Eglin Air Force Base. Six months after your official retirement in 1990, you are manifested as the purser aboard the salvage vessel Valley Mistress as you transit the Red Sea, and later as you transit the Strait of Hormuz, destination Bahrain, just before the start of hostilities against Iraq …”

“Hey, General, everyone knew a war was starting in the Persian Gulf—I wasn’t alone,” White said. “Lots of opportunities for a good salvage company, as long as no one confuses you for a warship and puts a bomb down your stacks.”

“How does a retired Air Force officer secure a position on a salvage vessel sailing through the Middle East?”

White shrugged again and replied, “I needed the work, and they needed an electronics guy. Lots of jobs were opening up before the war—even in Iran. Everyone knew the shit … er, pardon me, sir, everyone knew there was going to be trouble.”

“It seems your Valley Mistress was right on the spot in many such conflicts,” Buzhazi went on. The rest of the Council, except Nateq-Nouri, were fixed at absolute attention.

“Your ship was in the Philippines before the start of hostilities with the Chinese; in the Yellow Sea just before the accidental conflict between North and South Korea involving the hypersonic Aurora spy plane; in the Baltic Sea just before the start of hostilities between the United States and Russia over Lithuania; in the Adriatic during the recent Marine invasion of Bosnia; and even in the Bosporus just before hostilities between Ukraine and Russia.”

Buzhazi gave the folder back to his aide. “In each one of these incidents, Colonel White, the United States had sent secret paramilitary and special forces troops into the area to conduct espionage, demolition, search-and-destroy, sabotage, assassination, and kidnapping missions. In several such instances, helicopter-borne forces appeared out of nowhere, and it was determined in some situations that the aircraft could have come from nowhere else but your ship. Your ship, it has quite a large helicopter platform, does it not?”

“It did—before your fighter jocks sank it, killed my men, and put me out of business!” White retorted. “Listen, General, Your Honor, sure, I was at all those places, but I run a salvage-and-rescue company—we’re supposed to go where the fur is flying, if you know what I mean. Sure, I used my buddies in the Air Force to find out where something was going to go down. We always sit near where something might happen because we make our money by recovering items of value. Yes, we have a large helicopter pad and a small hangar facility, but that’s because a helicopter gives us added speed and reach—we are a rescue company also, as well as salvage. Lots of private companies and contractors have used our facilities, but I’ve never had any spies on board! That’s crazy, General.”

“Then perhaps you can tell us,” Buzhazi said, accepting a large black-and-white photograph from his aide, “why a salvage ship would be using an SPS-69 air search radar’?”

“A what? Excuse me, General, but I don’t know what that-“

“An SPS-69 radar, capable of searching for aircraft out to ranges in excess of one hundred fifty kilometers,” Buzhazi explained. “A rather sophisticated piece of equipment for a salvage vessel. Our naval forces found such a device just a few hundred meters from your ship. Here is a photograph of the antenna after it was recovered from the bottom of the Strait of Hormuz.”

“Oh, you mean that old piece of … er, that old thing?” White responded innocently, trying to smile through the pain in his legs and back. “We recovered that off the coast of Florida near the U.S. Navy’s junk area. We use it for publicity photos for the company—it makes our ship look real high-tech. I honestly have no idea what that thing did. If you say it’s an air search antenna, General, I believe you, but we certainly don’t go around tracking aircraft. Why would we?”

“We have also found significant amounts of debris on the bottom, mostly electronic devices—they appear to have been destroyed by small explosive charges planted inside them, as if someone did not want them identified,” Buzhazi went on. “We are retrieving them as quickly as possible, and we will make identification shortly.

The commander of the Khomeini carrier group also reported encoded satellite transmissions from your ship, which he believed were used to send signals to a stealth reconnaissance aircraft that overflew the battle group.”

“I swear, Your Honor, I don’t know what he’s talking about!”

White pleaded. “We use satellites for navigation and communications, sure, but we don’t use it to steer stealth reconnaissance planes—I don’t even know what that is.”

“You are a spy, Colonel White,” Buzhazi shouted, “employed by the American Central Intelligence Agency and working in concert with Ali Akbar Nateq-Nouri to undermine our country’s defensive military forces and make us vulnerable to the despotic, imperialistic West.”

“A spy! CIA! Me, working with your President? That’s insane!”

White retorted in shock and surprise—it was the best acting job he had ever done, because he was fighting for his life. He turned to Nateq-Nouri and said, “Tell them, Mr. President. Tell them I’m not working for you.” He affixed Nateq-Nouri with a determined, warning stare and, carefully emphasizing his words, said, “Tell them I don’t know a damned thing about the CIA or spying or anything but fixing radios and running a salvage ship.”

“General Buzhazi is lying, Mr. White,” Nateq-Nouri said in Farsi, understanding White’s English well enough without having to wait for the translation. “He is trying to cover up his failures by accusing me and anyone else he can of conspiracy. You may indeed be a spy, and I would suspect as much, but we are not working together, and I never would.”

Buzhazi turned to the Ayatollah Kalantari. “Your Holiness, I ask that the prisoner be held in maximum security until more evidence of his espionage activities can be collected. I anticipate this will take at least four to six more weeks. No one in the United States has complained yet about Colonel White’s absence, lending even more credibility to his role as a spy.”

“Your request is granted,” the Ayatollah Kalantari replied. “We find more than sufficient evidence to hold this man to stand trial for espionage and for attacking and destroying Iranian government property on the high seas. Take the prisoner away.”

Guards grabbed White and pulled him toward the door. “Hey, General, Your Honor, can’t I call my family? Can’t you treat my injuries? Why are you treating me like an animal? I don’t know anything about Stinger missiles or radars or spies or anything!

I’m innocent, I swear to God and on my mother’s eyes, I’m innocent!”

“Do not use the name of God to cover your lies!” the Ayatollah Kalantari shouted. “Blasphemer! Tool of the devil! Take his filthy carcass away!”

White ignored Kalantari and Buzhazi, looked directly at President Nateq-Nouri and said in passable Farsi, as if no one else were in the room, “Mr. President, think of the future. Your chief of staff is betraying you. You need help. Help me, and I will help you.”

“You see! You see!” Buzhazi exclaimed. “The prisoner knows our language, and he attempts to communicate with his co-conspirator! That proves Nateq-Nouri’s guilt!”

“I demand to notify the American authorities of my capture!”

White shouted in Farsi. “I demand justice! What kind of government is this?” But they all ignored him as he was dragged out of the council chamber.

When all was quiet again, Kalantari addressed Buzhazi: “This is remarkable testimony, General, and will be given full weight in regard to the United States’ treacherous activities.” He cleared his throat. “However, although highly inflammatory and serious, nothing we have heard proves President Nateq-Nouri’s complicity in any conspiracy against the military. If you have any evidence, now is the time to present it or accept the consequences. Do you have any such evidence?”

“I do, Your Holiness,” Buzhazi replied. Time for the final toss of the dice. His aide passed him a folder. “A transcript of a phone conversation between the senior assistant minister of defense, Minister Foruzandeh’s chief deputy, and a Turkish civilian named Dr. Tahir Sahin. Sahin had apparently just met with the American President’s National Security Advisor and the American Secretary of State and warned Foruzandeh of an imminent attack on the Khomeini battle group by unnamed American military forces. The attack began minutes after this phone conversation; Minister Foruzandeh met with President Nateq-Nouri and Foreign Minister Dr. Velayati about a half hour later. Yet no one in the Minister of Defense’s office, the Foreign Ministry, or the President’s office bothered to contact me or warn anyone of the Minister Velayati’s office did make several calls to the United States and to the unbeliever Muhammad ibn Rashid of the United Arab Emirates.”

“Again, General Buzhazi is dramatizing routine diplomatic contacts,” President Nateq-Nouri interjected. “Yes, I directed Dr. Velayati to contact the UAE foreign office, but only to advise them that military aircraft would be departing Bandar Abbas on emergency air patrols over our own airspace—it is a routine courtesy call, nothing more, designed to prevent any danger of appearing as if we are attacking them.”

“A ‘routine courtesy call,’ put through directly to the tool of Satan, the Emir of Dubai himself? It sounds like more than a simple ‘courtesy call,’ Mr. President. Yet you did not think it necessary to notify me or your field commanders of information of an impending attack on the aircraft carrier battle group or on Chah Bahar Naval Base—an attack that was conducted by an attack aircraft owned by the Emir of Dubai himself, flown by UAE commandos in the employ of the Emir of Dubai? It sounds as if you cleared this attack plane to attack yourself, Mr. President! The conspiracy is clear, Your Holiness!”

“The attack was already in progress by the time we were in contact with Dr. Sahin, a loyal and trustworthy servant of Allah and of this government—there was nothing we could do except prepare for the possibility of hostilities breaking out all across the region, if this was part of a larger attack against us.” Nateq-Nouri turned angrily at Buzhazi. ‘None of this would have happened, Buzhazi, if you had not sunk that American vessel in the first place!”

“I was trying to protect our military forces from another sneak attack by the Gulf Cooperative Council states and their overlord, the United States,” Buzhazi shot back. “Because of your order, I was prevented from employing my ground forces adequately to stop any further attacks, and the result is what you have seen.” He turned to Kalantari. “Your Holiness, we have suffered great damage, and it is because of this man. I demand that he resign his office and turn control of the government over to the Leadership Council until the crisis has subsided and new parliamentary elections can be held. If he will not step down voluntarily, I ask that the Leadership Council strip him of his office and conduct an investigation of his criminal activities.

To allow him to continue his evil activities for even one more day may harm the Islamic Republic for decades yet to come! I demand-“

“Silence, General,” the Ayatollah Kalantari interjected. The President and the general glared at each other, Buzhazi with a satisfied grin, Nateq-Nouri with a confused and overwhelmed expression. “General Buzhazi, you have not yet proven your case before us, but the charges are serious and the evidence against the President, although circumstantial, is compelling.” He turned to Nateq-Nouri and said in a low voice, “Speak Mr. President. What will you do?”

Nateq-Nouri was thunderstruck. Buzhazi was going to win either way, and there seemed nothing he could do to prevent it. It was time to save his own skin, so there would be a skin to save later on when Buzhazi’s plans failed and Iran’s military forces were crushed. “Your Holiness, the Leadership Council and the Council of Guardians has the power at any time to assume administrative leadership of the Islamic Republic,” Nateq-Nouri said. “I serve at the pleasure of Allah, His Holiness the Faqih, and the chosen of the Leadership Council. I swear to you that I am no traitor, and that I have not conspired with anyone against the Islamic Republic. But if you wish me to step down, I will agree.” The Cabinet officers surrounding Nateq-Nouri couldn’t believe their ears. It was obvious that General Buzhazi, disgraced in the eyes of everyone in government, had been shooting in the dark with his accusations and wild stories—but no one had expected Nateq-Nouri to bend to his threats and accusations! Was there really something to all of Buzhazi’s charges?

“I promise that if you have need of my services in the future, when General Buzhazi’s lies are uncovered and all is in turmoil, you may call upon me, and I will serve the Republic once again,” Nateq-Nouri went on. “I ask that I be provided with a security detail of my own choosing, because I fear I am not safe from the Pasdaran troops and Capital Guards commanded by General Buzhazi.”

“Your request is granted,” the Ayatollah Kalantari said. “Until a tribunal is convened to hear the general’s charges against you, you shall enjoy all the rank and privileges of the President of the Republic, and you may form whatever personal guard you desire.”

The Ayatollah Kalantari turned to the members of the Supreme Defense Council and said in a loud voice, “It is hereby ordered that His Holiness the Faqih, the Leader of the Islamic Revolution, Ayatollah Ali Hoseini Khamenei, assumes leadership of the government of the Islamic Republic of Iran this day and assumes the role of commander in chief of the armed forces of the Republic. President Nateq-Nouri, his family, and his associates are not to be harmed in any way by any man, upon pain of punishment of the Leadership Council.”

Well, Nateq-Nouri thought, it was not a total victory for Buzhazi.

Under Khatnenei, the government would lean further to the fight, but it would not move any faster and would probably crawl to all but a complete stop. Buzhazi still didn’t have his total …

“It is also hereby ordered,” the Ayatollah Kalantan continued, “that because of the nature of the military emergency that exists with the wanton attack upon the military forces of the Republic, that a state of national emergency exists in Iran, and that it is necessary to establish martial law within the Republic. It is hereby ordered that General Hesarak alKan Buzhazi shall retain his full rank and privileges and should now have full authority over all government offices and services to do so as he shall see fit to protect the government of the Islamic Republic of Iran and the lives of all the true believers. It is the will of Allah and the command of His Holiness the Faqih, so let it be done. General Buzhazi, the Council is at your command.”

“No!” Nateq-Nouri shouted, jumping to his feet. “This cannot be!

Iran is not under a state of emergency—it is an emergency created by Buzhazi for his own aims!” But the Imams representing the Leadership Council were heading for the door, eyes averted, refusing to speak. It was Khamenei, Nateq-Nouri decided. The Faqih had decided that now was a good time to flex some Iranian military muscle. The only way to bypass the constitution and advance those plans was to put Buzhazi in charge, and that meant martial law.

Buzhazi got to his feet, amused eyes on Nateq-Nouri. “Guards, escort Their Holinesses out of the chamber,” Buzhazi shouted. At that moment, several dozen armed Pasdaran soldiers rushed into the Cabinet chamber, heavily armed, with assault rifles at port arms. A dozen Pasdaran guards surrounded the two high priests as they departed the chamber. As soon as they departed, the chamber erupted into complete bedlam. “Silence!” Buzhazi shouted. “Come to order immediately, or I will see to it that you are all removed!

Several Pasdaran guards rushed over toward Nateq-Nouri, and were immediately blocked by a small contingent of Nateq-Nouri’s personal bodyguards, seven ex-Syrian special forces soldiers.

Although outnumbered three to one, it was obvious they would protect their charge to the last man. “Hold!” Buzhazi ordered.

“His Holiness the Ayatollah Kalantari has ordered that the former President not be harmed or detained in any way. The former President shall be escorted safely out of the chamber and immediately to his residence, where he shall be placed under protective guard.

Colonel, see to it immediately.”

Nateq-Nouri was surrounded by his own personal guard, then by Pasdaran troops, and then by his advisors and Supreme Defense Council ministers sympathetic to him, but he raised his voice enough to be heard above the throng around him: “General Buzhazi, your days on earth are numbered, and I shall be there to see your last day, just before the firing squad’s bullets riddle your worthless body.”

“Brave words from a traitor,” Buzhazi shouted back. “All but Nateq-Nouri must stay. I have a few more matters to discuss.”

“I swear to Allah, I shall see to it that you are hanged by your own words,” Nateq-Nouri said, as he let himself be led out of the chamber.

As the room cleared and grew ever quieter, several shocked and incredulous eyes turned toward General Buzhazi. “You must be mad, Buzhazi, utterly mad,” Muhammad Foruzandeh, the Iranian Defense Minister, finally said acidly. “You know all that the President has said is true—he is not a traitor, and the back-channel communications he has had are perfectly legal and aboveboard—you have used them many times yourself in the past.”

The Prime Minister, Hasan Ebrihim Habibi, spluttered, “You dare attempt a military coup against the legitimate government?”

“Silence, all of you,” Buzhazi said. “This is no coup, gentlemen—this is an order from the Leadership Council that the Islamic Republic is in grave danger and is in need of help right away. Nateq-Nouri is weak and has chosen the way of cooperation and free exchange with the very agents of imperialism and oppression that seek to destroy us. I on the other hand refuse to sit by and watch my country suffer.

“Effective immediately, by the power invested in me as military leader of the Islamic Republic, I hereby suspend and disband the Majlis-i-Shura, the Supreme Court, and the High Judicial Council, until further notice.”

“What?” several of the civilians shouted. In one sweep, Buzhazi had just dismantled Iran’s civil representative government—the 270-member Islamic Consultative Assembly, the Supreme Court, and the entire federal judiciary branch of the government. This left only the three major religious organs—the Leadership Council, led by Leader of the Islamic Revolution, Khamenei; the Council of Experts, led by the Ayatollah Meshkini; and the Council of Guardians, led by the Ayatollah Yazdi—along with the military, to rule the Iranian government. All of these mullahs were very pro-military and extremely fundamentalist, dedicated to exporting the Islamic revolution—led by them and the Shiite Muslim sect, of course-all over the world. Now, under martial law, they had the military backing them up. “Buzhazi, you do not have such authority!”

“Under martial law, crimes against the government will be punishable by military courts, and reviewed by the Council of Guardians and the Council of Experts,” Buzhazi said. “The Cabinet and the Supreme Defense Council are also hereby disbanded; the Cabinet ministers retain their positions and authority, but now report to me through my General Staff officers. The newspapers Kayhan, Ettela’at, Tehran Times, and all other public or political organs will immediately suspend publication; only Jum-hurie-Islami will be allowed to continue operations, under command of the Office of Public Affairs of the General Staff. All broadcasting, except for Radio Naft-e-Melli, will immediately suspend all operations; INTELSAT earth station operations and radio relay station operations, except for military-only base operations, will be suspended immediately until military control can be concluded”

“There will be panic in the streets of Tehran, General,” Prime Minister Habibi said angrily. “You cannot simply shut off all media sources and expect to control a population of seventy million.”

“I shall deploy the entire Niru-ye Entezami-e-Johuriye Eslami-ye Iran, reinforced and led by the Pasdaran, to maintain order in the cities,” Buzhazi said sternly. “The Security Forces of the Islamic Republic have a duty to maintain order and uphold the law.

I will mobilize the Basij and federalize them under active-duty control of the Pasdaran to reinforce the internal security forces and border guards.

“But most important, I will issue orders to my staff to carefully instruct all members of the Cabinet on how to conduct your day-to-day operations in the face of this emergency. Martial law does not mean the end of the Republic, only that extraordinary measures must be taken to ensure our safety and security. I expect all government offices and ministers to properly convey that message. Further instructions will be issued by my chief of staff. You are all dismissed. Summon my battle staff and get them in here immediately.”

Buzhazi was intently studying a chart of the Middle East, with Iran centered on it, when the senior members of the Islamic Republic’s joint chiefs of staff hurried into the Cabinet room.

“I want full territorial security established immediately,” Buzhazi ordered. “The Strait of Hormuz is hereby off limits to all foreign warships. I want every vessel in our inventory in the strait shadowing every vessel that passes through.”

“We will need the reserves, sir,” army commander, Brigadier General Mohammed Sohrabi, said.

“Then order a full reserve mobilization,” Buzhazi said. “Use the Basij to fill in as necessary, but I want the sea lanes full of Iranian patrol vessels immediately—not six or twelve months from now—shadowing every tanker and every cargo ship that moves through the strait. And I want full air patrols as well—around-the-clock, low-altitude, sustained combat air patrols. I want our forces to be visible to anyone within two hundred kilometers of our shores. Test the GCC and American air forces. How do the Americans put it? Play ‘Red Rover’ with them, probe their weaknesses.”

“I may have found one, sir,” air forces commander Brigadier General Mansour Sattari interjected. “We saw the American’s stealth bomber last night.”

“You what?” Buzhazi dismissed his other staff members, and sat down with Sattari, his handpicked man, hopefully soon to be his chief of staff when he became President. “How was this done?”

“Sir, stealth works because of two things: the stealth aircraft absorbs some radar energy and redirects the rest into thin lobes that point in directions other than back at the transmitter—the net result is that the transmitting radar antenna gets very little of its signal returned, so it fails to correlate the data and form a radar return,” Sattari explained. “The energy absorbed by the skin of the plane and other systems—the so-called cloaking device these aircraft are rumored to employ—is relatively small, perhaps ten to twenty percent. The rest of the energy is still out there, but it is simply not returned to the radar system that it should.”

“Get on with it, Mansour.”

“Sir, the problem is not that we cannot receive the signals, or that the signals are not strong enough—the problem is that the antenna that must receive the signal is in the wrong place. If it were possible to move the receiving antenna and synchronize it with the transmitting antenna, or use several different antennas so synchronized, the redirected radar energy would be detected and the plane would appear on radar.

“For very brief moments, this occurred last night. Purely by chance, we had two radar facilities in perfect synchronization, an A-10 Mainstay radar plane over the strait and a radar facility at Bandar Abbas; both stations were electronically linked with each other, sharing radar data. When the radar aircraft transmitted, the ground station received, and the stealth bomber appeared on Bandar Abbas’s radar screen. It was lost a second later, not enough time to track it or even reacquire it, but it did appear.”

“So if we synchronize two radars deliberately,” Buzhazi said, “or even more than two, we could spot the aircraft long enough to track it.”

“Yes, very possible,” Sattari said. “I have my best engineers on the problem right now. I assumed that you wanted to protect the Khomeini carrier group as best as possible, so I am setting up the system using the Khomeini’s long-range radar as the master, with Chah Babar’s long-range radar and with an A-10 Mainstay radar plane’s radar as the slaves. We must precisely match their frequencies and timing so that when the master transmits, the slaves receive, and vice versa. The slaves then report their findings back to the master by datalink, which assembles the data and puts it together into an image. The best part, sir,” Sattari went on, smiling a satisfied, evil smile, “is that the stealth aircraft may not even know it is being tracked!”

“How is that possible, Mansour?”

“Because we will be vectoring fighters in on the aircraft using long-range search radars only,” Sattari explained. “The stealth aircraft believes it is invulnerable to these radars. The radar of the fighters that will have the honor of shooting down the stealth bomber will not be locked on to the aircraft until very close in, and they may be able to lock a heat-seeking missile on long before the stealth bomber’s crew suspects that we see them!”

“Excellent, Mansour, excellent,” Buzhazi said excitedly. “You will receive a promotion to deputy chief of staff if this works.

Implement the system immediately. Then see to it that we have massive fighter formations in the air. If the Americans launch four fighters, I want eight to counter them.”

“Sir, it may be unwise to begin such a mobilization so suddenly.

It will inflame the entire world against us!” Sattari protested.

“The world, and especially the Americans and the Gulf Cooperative Council, will soon learn how dangerous it is to provoke us!”

Buzhazi said. “I want the Strait of Hormuz sealed tight, and I want the Khomeini battle group to spearhead it, supported by fighters and bombers from Chah Bahar. The Persian Gulf will be ours now!”

ANDERSEN AIR FORCE BASE, YIGO, GUAM 24 APRIL, 1997, 1838 HOURS LOCAL

The dream was so real, he could feel it, hear it as clearly as if he were there with the doomed plane—the screams of the KC-10 cockpit crew as their tanker began spiraling in its death dive into the Gulf of Oman; the horrible crushing impact as the plane hit the water at terminal velocity; the feel of the cold sea, as hard and unyielding as rock, as it crushed their bodies, then dissolved them into the brine. They were shouting, screaming his name, cursing it, cursing him, cursing his parents, cursing his stupidity Dammit, he had killed them, Patrick McLanahan thought. He never should have requested that tanker to come anywhere near Iran after the attacks on Bandar Abbas, the Khomeini carrier group, and Chah Bahar. He knew the Iranian air force would be on high alert, knew they’d be patrolling the skies looking for revenge He could feel the ocean swallow them up, feel the salt water carry them out, away from help, away from home It was salt water, yes, but not from the Gulf of Oman—they were tears. Patrick found himself crying in his sleep, mourning the loss of the KC-10 Extender crew. But as he awoke, he found they were not only his own tears, but from …

“Wendyl” Patrick exclaimed. “My God, it’s you.” He embraced his wife warmly, and they held each other tightly for several long moments. The bandages were off her neck now, and a bit of hypoallergenic makeup covered the wounds. Her hair was longer, tied in a complex-looking weave on the back of her head.

“I came in and I saw you crying in your sleep,” Wendy said to her husband. “It hurt me so much to see you like that. I didn’t want to wake you, but I didn’t want you to be in such pain.”

“Wendy, what are you doing here?”

“When you radioed NSA to tell them you got a tanker and that you were going to land on Guam, Jon Masters loaded up his DC-10 launch aircraft, chartered about a half dozen other cargo planes himself, and we hurried out here,” Wendy said. “He’s got every NIRT-Sat and PACER SKY satellite, every ALARM booster, every Disruptor-class weapon in his inventory out here, and he’s after blood for what the Iranians did to the Valley Mistress and its crew.”

“You’re with Sky Masters now?”

“I signed up shortly after you left with General Freeman,” Wendy said. “I’m his new vice president in charge of development. Jon got us a condo in San Diego, a car, a plane to take us to his plant in Tonopah, the works.”

“The tavern …?”

“I leased it out to that development group,” Wendy replied. “I’m sorry I didn’t ask you first, Patrick, but we both know you weren’t happy there. This way you still keep ownership of the place, we have a little positive cash flow coming in, and you’re free to save the world instead of busing tables. You can have it back next year, or you can sell it to the group at any time. I hope you don’t mind, but …”

Patrick took her hand, squeezed it reassuringly, then kissed her fingers. “You did the right thing, Wendy,” Patrick said.

You’re right: I wasn’t happy there. But I didn’t have the courage to say so.” His eyes drifted away for a moment, staring at some scene replaying in his mind’s eye.

But Wendy took his face in her hands and said sternly, “Stop that right now, Mr. McLanahan. I know what you’re doing: you’re imagining those KC-10 crew members dying after being shot down.”

“You heard about that?”

“Not officially … but yes, Jon Masters monitors everything,” Wendy said. “We heard what you did with his Disruptors over Bandar Abbas, over the Khomeini carrier group. But we found out that you weren’t tasked to go in and launch ‘screamers’ against Chah Bahar. Hal Briggs put that rescue mission together himself, then called you, in the blind, asking for your help. Patrick, that strike was a complete success! I heard Briggs found many of the survivors, got them out. Why are you so unhappy?”

“Wendy, that KC-10 crew, they’d still be alive if I hadn’t told them to come get us all the way into the Gulf of Oman,” Patrick said. “I wanted to get a refueling so I could continue back to Whiteman instead of having to abort to Diego, so I practically ordered those guys to come in and get me. They died because of my stupidity.”

“Those guys died doing something they loved to do,” Wendy said.

“If you hadn’t asked them to come get you, they would’ve come in anyway. They accepted the risks because they wanted to fight, wanted to make a difference, wanted to be part of this operation as much as you did. It’s a shitty job and a shitty way to die—you said so yourself. You know about it as much or better than anyone. But I know you, Patrick: the second you step onto that ramp, you’ll want to be back up there. Wait until you see the stuff Masters brought with him—you won’t be able to wait to shoot a few of those things off.”

Sure enough, his eyes began to glisten with anticipation as she mentioned Jon Masters and his new missiles. He started to sit up in bed, but Wendy placed a hand against his chest and pushed him back down.

“If you get up, if you go out there, you do it with no regrets,” Wendy said. “You can’t have it both ways. The things you will say and do once you go out there will set other lives, other futures in motion, do you understand, Patrick? It will cut some of those futures off, and it will affect them all—some good, some bad. If you say yes to the next mission, you put other lives in jeopardy again. Can you live with that?”

“I want revenge, Wendy,” Patrick said, sitting up in bed, his eyes blazing into hers. “I want to make the Iranians pay for what they did to the Valley Mistress, what they did to that KC-10 crew. Is that okay with you?”

“What you’ll get is more killing, Patrick,” Wendy said. “It won’t stop until someone calls for peace instead of war. You’re a war maker, not a peacemaker, Patrick. Is that okay with you?”

“You’re damned right it’s okay with me!”

“Then stop giving me that thousand-yard stare,” Wendy said angrily. “Stop crying in your sleep mourning other warriors who only want what you yourself want! If you’re going to go out there and kill, do it well and get it over with and come home and be a husband and father. Don’t feel guilty because you’re doing something you believe in. Do it and let’s go home—together.”

In reply he drew her to him and hugged her as if he would never let go.

DUBAI, UNITED ARAB EMERATES THAT SAME DAY

The pallbearers were all in uniform, and they carried the wooden coffin with military precision down the street about a mile to the military cemetery.

The coffin was open, the body of the UAE commando in full dress uniform, draped with the flag of both the UAE and of the emirate of Dubai, and piled high with flowers atop the flags. Along the way, mourners stopped and bowed their heads. Some touched their fingers to their lips and held them up to the passing coffin;

a few even touched the coffin itself, or the shoulder of one of the bearers.

The procession was led by Riza Behrouzi, acting as representative of the Emir himself, but custom dictated that she walk behind the air forces commander, the highest-ranking military man in the procession, and be with the commando’s wife and family. The commando’s wife walked straight, her head uplifted, her chin strong, as did her three children; again, per custom, the commando’s mother cried openly and loudly, announcing the heroic death of her son to every stranger she encountered on her way to the grave site.

Behrouzi didn’t notice at first, but soon she realized that the air forces commander was whispering excitedly to one of his aides.

Riza looked up and, to her astonishment, saw two rows of U.S. Marines on the side of the road leading into the cemetery—and there, standing in the center of the road in front of the cemetery gates, was Hal Briggs himself, dressed in his Air Force class-A uniform, wearing his Rangers beret. He and his Marines wore side arms in ceremonial white web belts—it was highly illegal for foreigners to carry weapons in the emirate of Dubai, even U.S. soldiers—and the Marines also carried ceremonial swords at carry-arms. Riza immediately realized that the eight Marines present were the ones that had been rescued from the Iranian prison in Chah Bahar!

The procession stopped several yards from Briggs, unsure whether or not to continue, not knowing if these armed Americans might be a threat. The air forces commander looked as if he were going to explode with indignation and anger for interrupting their procession in this manner, but before he could do or say anything, Briggs commanded, “Detail, render arms”—the Marines lowered their swords, spinning the hilts so they gleamed in the sunlight—”hu!”

and the Marines raised their sword hilts to their chins, the blades angled above them toward the casket. Briggs saluted the coffin, held it for a long moment, lowered it, then ordered, “Detail, ready”—they lowered their swords again, spinning them as they extended them again—”hu!” and they placed them again pointing up in front of their shoulders at carry-arms position. On a final command from Briggs, the detail sheathed their swords and returned to attention.

The air forces commander from Dubai could stand this interruption no longer, and he stormed over to Briggs, stood just a few inches in front of his face, and began to scream epithets at him in Arabic and English. Briggs just stood there at attention, eyes caged, face completely impassive. “I order you, whoever you are, to stand aside and let us pass!” the air forces commander spat in English, “and then I will see to it that you are removed from this country in disgrace!”

“Yes, sir,” Briggs said. He saluted and moved to step aside …

… but Riza Behrouzi caught his arm. “You and your men will accompany us to the grave site, Major Briggs,” she said. “It is so ordered.”

“Briggs? This is Major Harold Briggs, the one who led the expedition into Iran, the one who got our men killed?” the colonel said in Arabic. “This incompetent ass dares bring his men to this holy place?”

“It is a great honor to have them here, Colonel,” Behrouzi said.

She motioned to the Marines on the side of the road. “These are the men that were rescued by our soldier’s heroism. They have come to pay their respects to their comrade.”

“They have done so, then,” the colonel said. “Now get them out of my sight immediately!”

“Sir, I have one last request …” Briggs said.

“You will remain silent!”

“I will hear it, Colonel,” Behrouzi said. “It is an order.” The dead commando’s mother had a look of sheer horror on her face at the sight of a woman, even such a high-ranking woman as Behrouzi, raising her voice to a military officer. “What is your request, Major?”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Briggs said. By way of reply, he raised his voice and said, “Detail, take positions of honor, hu.” And at that, the Marines stepped forward to the casket directly beside each pallbearer, close enough to touch the casket but not so close as to block their way.

“What is this … no, no, I forbid it!” the air forces commander retorted.

But at that same moment, one of the UAE pallbearers looked into the eyes of the Marine next to him, nodded, and allowed the Marine to take his position. The Marine put the casket of the dead commando on his shoulders; the UAE pallbearer touched his fingers to his lips, touched the Dubai flag, and stepped away, taking a position beside the American at attention.

“This is strictly forbidden! This is not permitted! This is an insult!” But one by one, the Marines were allowed to take the pallbearers’ places, until the casket was completely borne by armed U.S. Marines.

“It appears as if your men have decided that their dead should be carried to his final resting place on the shoulders of American Marines,” Behrouzi said in Arabic. “It is not your position or mine to argue.” The dead commando’s mother was still wailing away, more from fear, protest, and confusion now than sorrow, but a stern glance from Behrouzi and a defeated look from the colonel silenced her outrage. “Major Briggs, take your place at the head of the procession as commander of the detail of honor.”

Briggs saluted again, then stepped over in front of Behrouzi and the dead man’s family, in a position to the left and one pace behind the air forces commander. Before he did so, he turned to the dead commando’s family, bowed his head, and rendered a salute.

“On behalf of my men and their families, madam, thank you for your sacrifice. God bless you and your country,” Briggs said in a low voice, then once again saluted and bowed his head. His words, understood or not, were accepted by the widow, and his salute was returned proudly by the dead man’s eldest son.

The procession continued, to the astonishment of the onlookers, into the cemetery, where no non-Muslim had ever before set foot, and the ceremony continued in peace.

“That was a very beautiful thing you did today, Leopard,” Behrouzi said that evening. She had invited him to dinner at her quarters at Mina Jebel Ali Air Base in Dubai. “Thank you. It was a thing no Dubai soldier will soon forget.”

“I tried to get permission to attend the funeral, but no one would return my calls,” Briggs said. “I finally decided just to do it, just show up. I’m sorry if it embarrassed the colonel.”

“He is one of those hard-liners who believe in nothing but religious and ethnic purity,” Behrouzi said. “They are not just in places like Iran or Saudi Arabia. He may squawk to the Emir all he wants—the soldiers support what you did, and the Emir loves all his troops.” She gave him a satisfied smile, and added, “Again, you see, when you know something is right and you take the initiative, you can succeed.”

“I don’t feel as if we’re succeeding at all, Riza,” Briggs said.

“The Iranians still have Colonel White, and now they’ve declared martial law and are trying to seal off the Persian Gulf. Most of America hardly knows what’s going on out here. They know oil prices are skyrocketing and Iran has been shooting off a few missiles at shadows, but no one in my country realizes how close we are to a global crisis. Hell, half of America couldn’t find Dubai, the United Arab Emirates, the Gulf of Oman, or the Strait of Hormuz on a map, even though half their oil passes through those places every day!”

“You are beginning to sound like a tired, bitter old soldier, like the ones that sit out in the marketplace every day smoking their hookah pipes, fingering their worry beads, making up stories about fantasy exploits in battle, and complaining about everything and everybody, especially know-nothing civilians,” Behrouzi said with a heart-churning laugh. “We chose this life, Hal Briggs. Being a soldier means being a servant to the state, a servant of the people. Our training and experiences give us knowledge of the world that is foreign to our own people, and it can be frustrating. Do not give in to your frustrations. You have learned to fight well—you must learn how to live—and love-well, too.”

Briggs smiled and nodded at Riza. He looked at the untouched beer on the table. Where Riza had found any alcoholic beverage, much less his favorite beer, here in the heart of Muslim Arabia, he had no idea. “I’ve got to be going …”

“The briefing is not until twenty hundred,” Behrouzi said. “We have time.”

“I should see to my troops.”

“You have trained them, counseled them, and fed them today—let them enjoy a little rest, too,” Behrouzi said. “We start all over again tomorrow night. Tonight belongs to the living, to us—at least for the next forty-five minutes.” She rose, took his hands, and helped him to his feet. “For the next forty-five minutes, I am yours to do as you wish, Leopard,” Behrouzi said. She untied a pale yellow silk scarf from around her neck, letting it fall beside her breasts, and she followed his gaze as his eyes explored her body. “I am your prisoner.”

Behrouzi turned her back to Hal Briggs, then removed her blouse, keeping the silk scarf across her neck. She then felt Briggs’s strong hands on her shoulders, massaging her shoulders, then her arms, then her breasts from behind. He slipped her brassiere off her shoulders, lightly touching her naked breasts, barely touching the skin. The almost imperceptible touch of a finger against her erect nipples was so exquisite that it made her gasp. Still from behind, he removed her boots, then her slacks and underwear, and he gently touched her skin, softly exploring every inch of her body.

The room was cold, but his fingers felt as if they were on fire.

He did not squeeze her, just continued touching her here and there. It was like some sort of exotic torture technique—she longed, then ached, then begged to be grasped. But he didn’t stop. His fingers gently touched her buttocks, then her neck, then imperceptibly her nipples. She reached behind her, grasping for him and finding him erect and quite hard. “Stop this torture, Leopard,” she breathed. She reached up and looped her hands behind his neck, stretching her lean body up and pressing her buttocks into his groin. “Take me, Leopard, now, please.”

Briggs ran his fingers up along her sides, gently around her breasts, then down her arms to her hands. Goose pimples leapt across her brown skin, and she gasped in excitement. Kissing her neck, he clasped her hands in his, brought them down her back near his groin again … then, the scarf was pulled away from her shoulders and, before she knew it, her hands were secured behind her back with the scarf. “Yes,” she breathed. “I am yours now, Leopard …”

“Turn,” he ordered.

She slowly turned to face him, her face aching from her longing, her lips parted from her labored breathing. Riza Behrouzi was thin, but her arm and shoulder muscles were thick and heavily defined; her breasts were small, round, firm globes over a smoothly muscled chest; her stomach was flat; her buttocks were round and thin; and her legs were strong and powerfully muscled.

She had an athlete’s body, but it obviously had not been shaped in a gym or spa with weights or fancy machines—it had been chiseled out in the harsh highlands and deserts of the Middle East, exercised by carrying guns and cameras, and hardened by numerous confrontations with soldiers and interrogators and informants of many nationalities. Like his, her body was a weapon—but, at least not for the next few precious minutes, it was not going to be used to kill or to spy.

Slowly and deliberately, he began to remove his clothes before her. It was almost like a striptease, revealing one tantalizing feature of his hard, chiseled body after another in slow, agonizing bits. Her chest was rising and falling heavily, as if she had just run up six flights of stairs, well before he finally unfastened his belt, eased his trousers off, and revealed himself to her. Her eyes told him that she was at once both intimidated by him and eager to sample him.

“That was delicious, Leopard,” Behrouzi said breathlessly. “It is my turn to please you now.”

They made love quickly, wildly, explosively. Both knew what was out there waiting for them; both knew how much time they didn’t have, what was expected of them, what other governments and officials demanded of them. For now, right now, all they demanded of the rest of the world was each other, if only for a few brief, passionate minutes. His scars, and hers, were visible to each of them, but it didn’t matter.

Like a nighttime commando raid, it was over quickly; but, like combat, they were both filled with an intoxicating mixture of tingling excitement, adrenaline, and weariness when it was done.

They stayed tightly intertwined until their internal timers told them their time together was running out. He helped her to her feet, then embraced her once again as if this would be the last time. After she dressed, they were both on the phone again immediately, talking to their respective command centers, ordering all the charts, intelligence data, support personnel, and soldiers they might need.

Neither of them would ever forget the moment they had shared together … but now it was time to join the fight once again.

IN THE ARABIAN SEA, EAST OF THE GULF OF OMAN, 300 MILES SOUTHEAST OF CHAH BAHAR NAVAL BASE, IRAN 26 APRIL 1997, 0251 HOURS LOCAL TIME

“Aardvark-121 flight, Wallbanger, vector heading two-eight-five, take angels thirty, your bogey is bearing three-one-zero, three-zero-zero bull’s-eye.”

“121 flight copies,” Lieutenant Scott “Crow” Crowley, lead pilot of the two-ship F-14B Tomcat flight, responded. Perfect timing, he thought—he had just about taken on a full tank of gas, and his wingman, Lieutenant j.g. Eric “Shine” Matte had just tanked a few minutes earlier. “Lizard-520, disconnect.” Crowley hit the AP,/NWS/Disc button on his control stick and watched as the large cloth-covered basket-shaped refueling drogue popped off his refueling probe on the right side of his cockpit. The KA-6D tanker of VA-95 Green Lizards quickly reeled in the drogue and cleared the flight of two F-14B Tomcat fighters from VF-114 Aardvarks, from the U.S.S. Abraham Lincoln, to the bottom of the refueling block. Once level 2,000 feet below the tanker, the F-14s executed a tight left turn and headed northwest on their new vector.

“21 flight, check,” Crowley radioed as soon as he finished his post-air refueling checklist. He knew that Matte would be finishing his checklist as well, and then hurrying to catch up and stay in formation, which for them was loose fingertip formation.

“Two,” was Matte’s quick reply. That meant everything was OK—fuel feeding OK, full tanks or as nearly full as possible, instruments OK, systems OK, oxygen OK, GIB (Guy in Back, the radar intercept officer) OK. Crowley looked at his fuel and deducted about half an hour’s worth of his wingman and a bit more “for the wife and kids” and guessed he had about two hours’ worth of “play time” out here before they had to head back to the Lincoln, which was about 300 miles behind them right now.

Each F-14B Tomcat was similarly equipped for this medium-range Force CAP night patrol: two 1,110-liter external fuel tanks on the pylons under the engine air inlets; two radar-guided AIM-120A AMRAAMs (Advanced Medium-Range Air-to-Air Missiles) and two AIM-9M Sidewinder short-range heat-seeking missiles, on the wing glove pylons; and four huge AIM-54C Phoenix long-range radar-guided missiles on the fuselage stations. With the Lincoln battle group so far out in the Arabian Sea, the primary threat to be countered by the F-14 air patrols was from Iranian long-range fighter-bombers and long-range patrol aircraft, so these Tomcats carried two extra Phoenix missiles per fighter—the Phoenix missile had a range of over ninety miles, well within radar detection range but far enough out of the range of most of the Russian-made air-launched anti-ship cruise missiles that Iran had in its inventory.

A few minutes after receiving their vector from the E-2C Hawkeye radar plane, from VAW 117 Wallbangers, orbiting 200 miles northwest of the Lincoln carrier group, Crowley’s radar intercept officer had the bogey on radar: “Radar contact, one-seven-five miles, off the nose.”

“Aardvark flight, that’s your bogey,” the Hawkeye radar officer said, verifying the RIO’s report. The Tomcats now took over primary responsibility for the intercept.

It was a cat-and-mouse game that had been played every night for the past few nights. These were “ferret” flights, probes of the Lincoln’s air defense capability, by a wide variety of Iranian aircraft, from top-of-the-line MiG-29 Fulcrum, MiG-25 Foxbat, and MiG-31 Foxhound supersonic fighters to giant lumbering P-3 Orion and EC-130 surveillance aircraft. The smaller Iranian combat aircraft—already at the limit of their fuel reserves, because the Lincoln was still very far offshore—would simply drive in as close as they dared toward the carrier group and watch to see what sort of response the Americans would make. With one E-2 Hawkeye orbiting over the carrier and one Hawkeye stationed between the carrier and the Iranian mainland, the carrier group had “eyes” out at least 200 miles around the ship, and a narrow corridor of radar coverage on a straight line from the carrier to Chah Bahar Naval Base, over 400 miles away.

Most times, the Iranian “ferret” planes would zoom in—probably recording all of the electronic signals generated by the Lincoln, its escorts, and its patrol aircraft—then, once it was “paired” with a Tomcat, it would turn around and head for home. The Iranians knew all about the F-14 Tomcat and the AIM-54 Phoenix missile—because they still employed both of them. In the mid-1970s, when the Shah had been in power, the United States had transferred 100 of the advanced fighters to Iran; the exact numbers were unknown, but Iran probably still had a dozen operational Tomcats and about 100 Phoenix missiles in good condition. The Iranians knew to give the Phoenix missile a lot of respect, so at the first squeak of the Tomcat’s AWG-9 radar, they usually turned tail.

But not this time Wallbanger picked this guy out at almost three hundred miles—that’s the limit of his radar,” Crowley observed, thinking aloud. “He’s gotta be a big guy. You got numbers on him, Sunrise?”

“Range one-five-zero miles, still closing fast,” Crowley’s RIO, Lieutenant Adam “Sunrise” Lavoyed, reported. “Altitude angels forty, speed … shit, speed seven hundred.”

“He’s not an Orion then,” Crowley said. Iran flew American-made P-3 Orion sub-chasers—another leftover from the Shah’s regime—which were capable of carrying Harpoon or Exocet antiship missiles, but Orions were big, lumbering turboprop-powered planes, max cruise speed about 380 knots—this one was going almost twice as fast. “What’s our bull’s-eye?”

“Coming up on three hundred bull’s-eye,” Lavoyed responded, giving range back to the carrier.

“What are we up to tonight, asshole?” Crowley muttered on interphone to the unknown aircraft. “Who are you? What are you?”

Just then, Lavoyed shouted, “I’m picking up a second bogey …

shit, Crow, second bogey climbing through angels forty … angels fifty, speed twelve hundred … I’m picking up a third bogey, right behind the second, passing through angels forty, speed eleven hundred knots … bandit one turning northwest and accelerating!”

“Kitchens,” Crowley shouted, jamming his throttles to max afterburner and raising the nose to pursue. On interplane frequency, he yelled, “Home plate, Kitchen, Kitchen, I am tracking two fast-movers passing angels fifty, speed Mach two”

“Go weapons hot, go weapons hot,” came the reply. The call “Kitchen” was an all-inclusive call warning of the launch of a large anti-ship missile. For years the standard Soviet bomber-launched anti-ship missile, the AS-4 Kitchen, was a 14,000-pound liquid-fueled cruise missile that could fly at over three times the speed of sound for more than 200 miles—and the Tu-22M Backfire bomber could carry as many as three of these huge weapons. The AS-4 was armed with a 2,200-pound conventional high-explosive warhead, big enough to sink a small warship with one missile …

… or, in Cold War days, a 350-kiloton nuclear warhead, big enough to destroy an entire carrier battle group.

“Shine, you got the second Kitchen, I got the first,” Crowley shouted on interplane frequency.

“Two!” came the strained reply—Matte’s heart was in his throat right now, just like Crowley’s—you could hear it in his voice.

In the blink of an eye, Crowley was in range, and he fired his first Phoenix missile—the first time in his career he had launched the big P. He squinted against the glare as the Phoenix raced off its rail and arced to the right and skyward, the huge blast of the Phoenix rattling his Tomcat’s wings and shaking the canopy. Crowley had to pull his Tomcat in a hard right turn to keep the AWG-9 radar locked onto the Kitchen missiles long enough to guide the Phoenix until its own radar could lock on. When he was sure he was locked on, he fired a second Phoenix, now on a tail chase. Crowley considered firing his third and possibly even his fourth Phoenix, but by then the Kitchen missiles were out of range—they were flying well over Mach two, twice the speed of sound and faster than the Phoenix missile itself!

Crowley watched the rest of the incredible chase in complete fascination. He saw a bright flash, then another, far off in the distance. “Clean misses,” Crowley’s RIO reported. “Bandit two heading straight for home plate at Mach two-point-four, angels sixty and still climbing.” Crowley could see that Lavoyed still had the AWG-9 radar locked on to the first Kitchen missile, but they were well outside Phoenix range. It was up to any other fighters airborne and the Lincoln’s air defense screen to stop the first Kitchen now.

Matte was more successful: “Splash one Kitchen!” he shouted happily. “Got it!”

“I missed,” Crowley admitted on interplane frequency. “C’mon, Lincoln, nail that bastard!”

Far off in the distance, Crowley could see a few flashes of light, and he could even see a faint streak of light shoot up in the sky—it was the Lincoln’s escorts, the outer air defense screen ships, launching missiles. A split second later, they saw a huge lightbulb POP! of brilliant white light very high in the dark sky. “Splash one Kitchen,” the combat officer aboard the E-2C Hawkeye reported.

“Lake Erie got it.” The U.S.S. Lake Erie was one of Lincoln’s AEGIS guided-missile escort cruisers. “Aardvark-121, bandit one is retreating, fly heading one-one-zero, maintain angels thirty, this’ll be vectors back to your tanker. Aardvark-122, squawk normal … 122, radar contact at angels three-five, 121, your wingman is at your two o’clock, thirty miles, above you.”

“Roger,” Crowley acknowledged. As he waited for Lavoyed to lock on to the Tomcat in front of him, he held out his right hand in front of his eyes—his hand was shaking. “Jesus, Shine,” he said on interphone, “the Iranians launched two missiles at the Lincoln.

That was a close call!”

“Those were Backfire bombers launching those things, too,” Lavoyed added. “Intelligence has been speculating that the Iranians bought Backfire bombers from the Russians for years—I guess it’s true,’cause they just used one to launch Kitchen missiles at our carrier.”

It took twenty minutes for the two F-14 Tomcats to join up and maneuver themselves behind a new KA-6D tanker. The radios were crazy with chatter. The Lincoln was launching three extra flights of F-14s, making six flights of two total; they were also in the process of launching a third E-2C Hawkeye radar plane to cover the airspace farther north of the group. The group was transitioning from a peacetime ForCAP, or Force Combat Air Patrol—which generally extended 100 to 200 miles from the carrier—to a BarCAP, or Barrier Combat Air Patrol, which would double that distance.

Soon, almost anything that launched from Iran would be intercepted, and any aircraft that was large enough to carry an AS-4 Kitchen missile would surely be destroyed long before it got within range. Undoubtedly the battle-group commander was rearranging the sea-borne escorts as well, spreading his forces out a bit more to get air defense missiles out farther from the carrier, while keeping one or two guided-missile cruisers or destroyers in close to provide last-ditch protection for the carrier and its five thousand crew members.