Wings of Fire

CHAPTER 6

The detailed briefing had just concluded, and the men and women present sat in stunned silence as the room lights were brought back up. The Air Force intelligence officer that gave the briefing was dismissed, leaving behind the members of President Thomas Nathaniel Thorn's "National Security Council." Although the Thorn administration did not have a formal NSC, Thorn met with Vice President Lester Busick, Secretary of Defense Robert Goff, Secretary of State Edward Kercheval, Director of Central Intelligence Douglas Morgan, and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff General Richard Venti to discuss any military developments.

"Damned brutal attack," Secretary of Defense Robert Goff remarked. In his mid-fifties, with a round face and compact frame, Goff was normally energetic and animated, even jovial-but the briefing he had just eceived left his features cold, hard, and angry. "What kind of a sick bastard does this?"

"Someone who obviously did not want to leave any traces of evidence behind," Vice President Lester Busick offered. He turned to General Venti. "What did our reconnaissance folks report, General?"

"Space Command recorded the explosion from geosynchronous satellite infrared sensors," Venti explained. "Based on radiation and photon levels, the Command is estimating between a point-five- and two-kiloton device-a so-called 'backpack' nuke, probably from a nuclear artillery round or torpedo warhead. It appears to have been an enhanced radiation device, what we call a neutron bomb-designed to kill humans but leave buildings and vehicles intact. Probably fired from a small artillery piece or large mortar mounted in a truck. It did its work very, very effectively."

"Radiation? Fallout?"

"None, sir," Venti replied. "Enhanced radiation devices leave no fallout, and the radiation is present for only a few seconds at most. But the damage to human cells is massive. Within a mile of ground zero, death occurs within twelve hours; within two miles, death can occur within twentyfour hours. It would take twenty feet of earth or twelve inches of steel to block the radiation enough to survive."

Thorn was leaning forward in his seat, elbows on the table, his lips hidden behind his interlaced fingers. His advisers were accustomed to talking among themselves, as if the President of the United States were not even in the room, while he processed what he heard and combined it with his unique insights, intelligence, military experience, and philosophies to come up with a plan of action. After several moments of listening, he looked at his Director of Central Intelligence, Douglas R. Morgan. "What's been the region's general response, Robert?"

"General alert of active-duty Egyptian military and paramilitary forces along the Libyan-Egyptian borderthat's it," Morgan responded, flipping through his briefing notes. "No counterattacks or mobilizations. Israel has al-

ready been on heightened alert status. I believe everyone simply considers this to be a terrorist attack, not a general attack."

"Although I'd expect a general attack to take place at any time," Secretary Goff said, "and we can't rule out the use of nuclear weapons-full-yield fission weapons-by the Libyans again."

"All of our forces in the Med are on heightened alert, sir," Venti added. "Securing ships at sea was accomplished very quickly, and the ships are positioning themselves to assist other vessels. We're hoping it won't be a killer. We're ready in case the Libyans try to take a shot at our ships or launch a rocket attack against Israel or Europe."

The President nodded, then turned to his secretary of state. "Ed? Reaction from local politicians, neighboring countries, and organizations?"

"The streets of Alexandria and Cairo are practically deserted, sir-looks like most folks expect more attacks in the cities," Secretary of State Edward Kercheval replied. Kercheval was not a Jeffersonian Party member, as was the President and the rest of his cabinet officers, but was considered a highly respected and valuable addition to the President's inner circle of advisers-even though he disagreed more with his boss than agreed with him. "Immediate and heated condemnation of the attack by Dr. Ahmed Kalir, the prime minister of Egypt and the leader of the current majority party. Dr. Kalir has requested help from the United States in fighting off an impending invasion by Libya and possibly Sudan."

"Does that appear likely?"

All heads turned to the Director of Central Intelligence. "Very possible-given the new information we've seen over the past several days," Morgan replied. "Libya has no capability to beat Egypt in a conventional conflict-Egypt has a three-to-one numerical advantage and at least a twenty-to-one technological advantage. But Egypt has no weapons of mass destruction as far as we know, and a patchwork air defense system stitched together from many countries that doesn't all work well together. If Libya de-

cides to launch a nuclear attack against Cairo or Alexandria, it might very well succeed. Plus, several thousand Libyan troops are stationed in Sudan now-they could open up a second front against Egypt at any time."

"As far as the rest of the Arab world, most nations are neither condemning nor endorsing the raid, except for other Muslim Brotherhood nations, which praised the raid as the beginning of the end of Western imperialism in the Arab world," Kercheval went on. "It appears that the leading opposition member in Egypt, Khalid al-Khan, was killed in the explosion.

"No word yet from Susan Bailey Salaam, the widow of the assassinated president, either, who is a candidate for president," Kercheval added. "Information has it that she might be under arrest or in hiding from Khalid al-Khan's men."

"I thought she was killed in that attack at the mosque a couple weeks ago."

"So did the rest of the world, Mr. President," Kercheval said. "She suddenly turned up at a National Assembly meeting to announce her candidacy for president before being refused by the Assembly on technical grounds. She was injured but not seriously."

"She's an American, I believe?" Thorn asked.

"Yes, sir. Ex-Air Force. Dual citizenship."

"She'd better hightail it back here where she belongs before her husband's assassins catch up with her," Vice President Busick idly commented. Thorn glanced at the veteran politician but said nothing.

"Recommended course of action, sir?" General Venti asked.

Thorn thought for a few moments. The "Kitchen Cabinet" was accustomed to Thorn's seemingly disconnected way of pondering an issue-he would adopt a faraway expression, as if searching through space, for an answer. Former military men called it the "thousand-yard stare," but even though Thorn was ex-Army Special Forces, no one gave him that kind of credit.

Thomas Nathaniel Thorn was the first third-party candidate since Abraham Lincoln to be elected to the White House. To be elected president of the United States without a massive, well-organized political machine behind you was unusual enough-but Thorn was odder still. He was a loner, a politician who seemingly shunned crowds and the spotlight. He was rarely seen in public, although now into the third year of his term he was seen more and more on the reelection campaign trail. He worked long hours in his private study or in the Oval Office in a very hands-on but decentralized management structure. The executive branch of government was the smallest in sixty years, all carefully orchestrated by a man who used to kill for a living but was now perceived as one of the gentlest, nonconfrontational, and nonconformist commanders-in-chief ever to occupy the White House.

As was his custom, Thorn glanced up with an unspoken request in his eyes, first to his vice president. "Park a carrier battle group off the Libyan coast," Busick said.

"I agree, sir," Secretary of Defense Goff chimed in. "One carrier battle group would just about equal the entire Libyan military's strength." Left unspoken was the fact that an aircraft carrier battle group was just about the only option open to them-since one of Thomas Thorn's first acts as commander-in-chief was to bring most troops stationed overseas home. Although the United States still had basing rights in all of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization countries and still deployed overseas often for joint military exercises, no U.S. combat forces were permanently stationed anywhere in Europe or the Middle East.

"Of course, we would condemn the attack in the United Nations, in the media, and in every appearance we made for the next few weeks," Secretary of State Kercheval said. "I think it would be easy to swing world public opinion against Libya. But I think moving an aircraft carrier off Libya's coast would send a pretty strong message as well-the United States thinks it is definitely in our best interests to defend Egypt."

Thorn turned to General Venti. "General? Who's over there?"

"The Stennis carrier group is cruising in the Med right now, sir," Venti responded. "The Reagan group is scheduled to join them in four days. They have a week of joint exercises planned in the Med, and then the Stennis was scheduled to come home. The groups have canceled their exercises and are at threat condition Delta. The Reagan sails with an amphibious squadron assigned-three to five ships, two thousand Marines. We also have an amphibious group assigned to the Med attached to the Stennis with twenty-one ships and approximately fifteen thousand Marines."

"How far out are other forces?" Thorn asked. "If we did have to go into Libya or Egypt in the next twenty-four hours, what other forces would we have to draw on?"

"Primary strike forces would be ship- or sub-launched cruise missiles, followed by carrier-based bombers," Venti replied. "Those strikes could be launched within six hours if needed and would be focusing on neutralizing air defense, surveillance, and antiship forces, softening up the beachhead in preparation for an amphibious landing. Bombers from the CONUS would then follow up and strike larger targets deeper inside Libya-infantry bases, ports, warehouses, docks, and supply lines, as well as defensive positions-concurrently with a Marine beach landing, well within twenty-four hours.

"I need a decision on whether or not to generate the nuclear forces to alert status, sir, and what targets you would like loaded up," Venti added. "The Peacekeepers can be reprogrammed for Libya-Sudan-Syria-Iraq target set in about two hours. The naval forces in the Med will take about a day to reprogram targets after they receive thenmessages-the subs take a little longer to decode valid messages. The B-2 stealth bomber fleet needs seventy-two hours to generate both squadrons, eighteen planes, to full nuclear alert status."

Most of the President's advisers were surprised by the swiftness of the President's decision: "I want a flight of B-2 bombers loaded up for nuclear strike sorties against Libyan, Sudanese, Syrian, and Iraqi targets," he said.

"Then I want them launched to positive control orbits over the Med."

"The subs and surface forces in the Med can be ready to fly nuclear sorties in half the time," Secretary of Defense Goff pointed out.

"But then the whole world will think I'm ready to go to war," Thorn said evenly. "I want the carriers and subs on full alert, but I don't want them going nuclear unless this situation gets completely out of hand."

"The rest of the strategic force, sir?"

"Get them warmed up and ready to go," the President said. "Russian and Chinese target sets-I think we'll have enough forces ready in the Med if it goes nuclear without the ICBMs." General Venti nodded as he made notes to himself. "What kind of reconnaissance do we have in place over the theater, General?"

"Strategic and theater recon is by satellite," Venti replied. "We usually fill in with U-2 spy planes and carrierbased unmanned reconnaissance aircraft when requested."

"You said 'usually'?" Thorn asked. "I take it in this current political climate that Egypt is not allowing us to use their bases or fly freely through then- airspace?"

"Yes, sir," Secretary of State Kercheval said. "Egypt has currently suspended overflight privileges for American military aircraft. Because of the upcoming elections and because of the confusing situation over the area now, the Egyptian Foreign Ministry says that no overflights by military aircraft or landing privileges by combat-coded aircraft of any kind will be allowed-only civil transport and humanitarian missions permitted."

"When did this happen?" Busick asked.

"Just last night our time," Kercheval said. "Shortly after it was announced that those prisoners would be taken to Egypt. Their ministry claims they don't want to accidentally shoot down any of our aircraft."

"Bullshit," Busick snarled. "It's that Muslim Brotherhood thing. Khalid Khan wanted to be elected and align Egypt with the Muslim Brotherhood, so he cut oi» military access in Egypt. Whole lot of good that did him."

"Egypt is an important friend of the United States, a moderate Arab nation, and one of the most powerful nations on the African continent," Robert Goff said emphatically. "It's also one of the most geopolitically and strategically important countries on the planet, for reasons almost too numerous to list. Whatever affects Egypt will eventually affect Europe and North America. I feel it's important to defend Egypt with everything we've got."

"I agree, Mr. President," Kercheval chimed in. "Quite frankly, sir, the Libyan action, although horrific in the loss of life and the use of nuclear weapons, was relatively minor. We still have a chance to prevent them from attempting an invasion of Egypt or widening the conflict."

"I agree with Secretaries Goff and Kercheval, sir," General Venti said. "The Libyan attack hasn't destabilized the situation in north Africa-yet. We need to get in there and tell the world that we won't tolerate any more actions like this."

Vice President Busick waited for the President to respond; when he didn't, he turned to him and said in a low voice, "I'm afraid I agree with your advisers here, Thomas. I know you don't go for things like this, but I'd like to slap Libya down hard. If you don't want to go in after Zuwayy and kick his ass for using nuclear weapons, at least park the Sixth Fleet right outside his front door and make our displeasure clear." He paused, then added, "And I know you're thinking of a second term. This would be a good time to exercise your military muscle. Libya is a pushover. If there's a shooting war, it'll be over quickly."

The President nodded that he understood the veteran politician's view, then quizzically glanced at Doug Morgan. "I have a feeling you have something else that might influence my decision, Doug," he said.

Morgan produced another briefing folder, sighed, then opened it. "I'm afraid I do, sir," he began. "I think our friends the Night Stalkers might be involved in this Libya-Egypt conflict."

"Oh, for chrissakes…," Busick moaned. "Those bastards are going to get their butts kicked one of these days."

"I think that might have already happened, sir," Morgan said. "I already reported on the unexplained attacks on that Libyan missile base where chemical weapons and possibly nuclear materials were detected. We thought it was the Israelis, and then Egyptian special forces-we still have no concrete evidence of either. I also reported that the Libyans attacked several ships in the Mediterranean Sea following that attack, apparently in retaliation or perhaps looking for the commando team's base of operations. The identities of all the ships were verified-two Greek, Italian, French, Moroccan, and a Lithuanian vessel, all sunk or heavily damaged. The Egyptian navy rescued crew members from four of the six ships, including over sixty men and women from the last ship that was attacked-the Lithuanian salvage vessel."

"Salvage vessel?" the President asked. "Lithuanian salvage vessel?"

"Yes, sir," Morgan said. He could tell the President had been doing his homework-he recognized the clues immediately.

"Don't tell me," the President said. "The so-called survivors of the Lithuanian ship captured a helicopter right off the deck of an Egyptian warship and spirit off into the darkness."

"Worse than that-I think the survivors captured the entire Egyptian warship."

"What?"

"We intercepted some interesting radio traffic between one of the Egyptian frigates and their military base at Mersa Matruh," Morgan went on. "At first we thought a little mutiny had broken out between some rival factions on the ship. But then it occurred to us that someone else other than the crew had seized the ship. A couple days later, the vessel returned to port and everything else was back to normal."

"And you think the guys that seized this frigate were Martindale's crew?" Venti asked.

"It fits," the President said. "Operating off a salvage ship-just like an Intelligence Support Agency cell, which a lot of those Night Stalkers once were. Martindale would certainly have the ability to get one of his ships flagged by Lithuania-he practically saved that country himself when the Russians attacked. And blowing up a Libyan missile base-that's signature Martindale; or, more accurately, McLanahan. Doug, did you…?"

"Ask about McLanahan? Yes, sir. We requested a report from the FBI, who still has Sky Masters under special surveillance." Morgan turned to another page in his report. "General McLanahan, his wife, Colonel Luger, and Colonel Briggs are not at the Sky Masters facility in Arkansas."

"Doesn't mean they were involved in the Libyan attack," the President said.

"Mr. President, I'll bet you my Orange Bowl box seats they're involved-up to their eyeballs," Vice President Busick exclaimed heatedly. "They have opportunity, and they certainly have the means. Are any of them traveling overseas?"

"Yes…"

"You see!" Busick exclaimed. "I'm sorry, Mr. President, but I'm getting sick and tired of that bunch of wanna-be heroes creating a mess and then fading off into the sunset, letting someone else clean up their messes afterward."

Thorn raised a hand to his vice president, silently informing him that his point of view was clearly understood and asking him to tone it down, then turned back to Morgan. "You mentioned something about them getting their butts kicked, Doug," he said. "What else do you have?"

"Another piece of the puzzle-but a corner piece, I think," Morgan said. "The remains of one Paul McLanahan were reported by customs agents in New Jersey being flown in from Tel Aviv by a funeral director based in Sacramento, California. The FBI's preliminary investigation confirms that Mr. McLanahan was involved in a suicide bomber attack in Rehoval, Israel, ten days ago. He was a guest at the Hilton Tel Aviv Hotel, checked in the day before. Airline tickets, visas, guided tour schedule-all checks. He was there on vacation."

"Baloney!" Busick exclaimed. "It's either the most incredible coincidence I've ever heard, or it's a lie, a coverup. Paul McLanahan is one of the Night Stalkers-hell, he's their main guy, next to his brother Patrick and former president Martindale himself. Martindale could have easily created the fake hotel registration, airline tickets, even police reports. McLanahan and the Night Stalkers are in Libya. I know it. He got killed in that raid on the Libyan missile base, and I'll bet the Night Stalkers are still in the region, in Egypt or Israel, getting ready to finish the jobor grab some payback."

"So if the Libyans thought the Egyptians engineered that raid, the attack in Egypt could've been retaliation," Kercheval said. "If this thing goes hot on us, McLanahan and Martindale could be responsible for igniting a major war in the Med."

"You know what it is, don't you?" Busick asked angrily. "It's Sky Masters Inc. and Jon Masters. He's supplying the Night Stalkers with the weapons they need to do these damned secret missions. Those are weapons we funded. That high-tech combat armor, the aircraft, the weaponshe's supplying them all for this private little mercenary army of Martindale's."

"We should slap Sky Masters with sanctions for their support of those nutcases," Kercheval exclaimed. "We should just shut them down, once and for all. And the Justice Department needs to conduct an investigation of Kevin Martindale. He can't be allowed to continue organizing private military operations all over the world. If Justice can't do anything, maybe the press should be told about this "

"That's already in the works," Robert Goff said. "Some of our Navy interceptors caught up with one of Masters's research aircraft-refueling a modified B-52 bomber over the Mediterranean Sea."

"What?"

"I'm afraid we have photos-positive proof," Goff said. "It appears they had expended weapons too. Ite still circumstantial evidence, but it's pretty convincing to me. We have Masters's refueling plane in Greece right now, questioning the crew, after we think they had rendezvoused again with a Megafortress bomber last night. The bomber got away both times-it's too stealthy to track except up very close, and it doesn't let us get close enough."

"Are those guys crazy?" Busick exclaimed. "Are they trying to start a war?"

"Martindale is not doing anything illegal, at least not in the United States," General Venti interjected.

"But we can refuse to shield him against foreign indictments," Kercheval shot back. "Russia, China, North Korea, Iran, Iraq, Libya, Syria, and a half-dozen other nations have all pressed criminal charges against Martindale for his activities-"

"Alleged activities."

"Call it what you want, General-you and I both know he's involved," Kercheval said. "We can threaten to not block extradition."

"We are not going to turn over a former president of the United States to any foreign country," Busick said. "That's crazy. Martindale will never believe our threat. But we can sure as hell bust McLanahan and his men."

"Let's stick with the problem at hand, shall we?" Kercheval asked. "We need some kind of consensus about what in the hell to do about Libya."

All eyes turned toward Thomas Thorn. He considered it for a few more moments; then: "Have the Reagan and Stennis groups proceed with their planned exercises," he said. "No changes whatsoever in their plans-in fact, I want Pentagon briefers to start including a few details of the exercise to the press, just so everyone knows we're not adjusting the exercise to threaten Libya."

"Sir, are you sure don't want to put any additional military pressure on Libya?" Goff asked incredulously. He was accustomed to the various surprises served up by this very new and certainly different commander-in-chief, but he still couldn't control his reaction when he made such unexpected decisions. "Mr. President, I'd like to prepare a briefing regarding Egypt's importance to-"

"Save it for now, Robert," Thorn said. "Gentlemen, I need to hear just one thing before I make the decision to commit American troops against Libya: that the people of Egypt want the help of the United States. From what you've said, that hasn't happened."

"That's not true, Mr. President," Kercheval said. "We've had calls from the prime minister, from major opposition groups, from leaders in the Pan-African Leadership Council…"

"That's not good enough," the President said. "You say that Khan, the chief justice of their supreme court, might have been involved in the Salaam assassination-and then you tell me that he was the front-runner in the national election? This tells me that the people of Egypt condone and even embrace these actions."

"Maybe they were too scared of Khan to resist him, sir."

"I don't believe that's possible," the President said. "We've seen too many cases of common people toppling dictatorships, and we've seen too many cases of common people embracing dictatorships-not because they were coerced into doing so, but because they liked having a strongman in charge. If that's what the people choose, they can have it-and everything that goes along with it. Egypt is a progressive country. It currently has a free press, allows free expression of ideas, and easy immigration."

"Mr. President, certainly, you can't believe-?"

"I most certainly do, Edward," the President said. "If Egypt wants our help, they need to prove to me that they really want our help-we will not impose our ideals on them, no matter how much we distrust Libya." He turned to Goff and Venti and went on: "I want the theater and naval commanders fully briefed on the situation in Libya, I want our forces in the Med, the Red Sea, the Gulf of Aden, and the Persian Gulf on the highest state of alert, and I want contingency plans drawn up for air strikes against Libyan forces that move against Egypt. But I am not going to threaten Libya or come to the aid of Egypt unless the people of Egypt elect a president that wants to ooperate and work with us."

They outlined what they would discuss with the media, including a few items to be leaked by "unnamed sources" in the White House and Pentagon, and then the meeting broke up. Thomas Thorn went upstairs to the residence to see what the family was up to and visit with the kids who weren't in school, and then he entered his bedroom and shut the door behind him. The children and his wife all knew not to disturb him now.

Thomas Thorn first learned meditation in the U.S. Army Sniper School at Fort Benning, Georgia, where he trained as a sniper himself in order to be a commander of a Special Forces Group. To tell the truth, Thorn was not the best shot in the world, and he wondered if he could cut it. But he soon learned that being a sharpshooter was only twenty percent of being a sniper-the mental struggles and challenges of stalking and shooting a living target was the hard part. Snipers had to learn how to move without being detected, sometimes within there feet of the enemy, and they had to learn to detect a target out of camouflage or deep in cover. They had to have perfect eyesight and exceptional infantry and outdoorsman skills, but most of all, they had to have the mental discipline required to inflict quick, catastrophic, and "one shot, one kill" finality to a pursuit. Thorn soon learned that mental discipline-what he called "mental quietude"-was the most important qualification.

Not everyone at Benning used meditation, but it worked for Thomas Thorn. Meditation helped him relax, helped him rejuvenate his body and mind, and it helped him concentrate, focus, and clarify his task and objective. Some likened it to a catnap but, properly done, it was the exact opposite-it was a recharger, a rejuvenator. It served Thomas Thorn well after he left the U.S. Army-he had meditated for twenty minutes, twice a day, every single day since he received his mantra and learned how to do it properly.

It took only moments for Thorn to slip into his higher state of consciousness, and then the journey began. The reason Thomas Thorn never took vacations, rarely visited Camp David, played no sports other than T-ball with his children, and had no hobbies, was that he took a "vacation" twice a day when he slipped into a transcendental state. Arriving at that level was like stepping off a supersonic jet and arriving at a different place every time.

But it was not such a journey this time. Instead of traveling himself in a different world, dimension, or time, he was a spectator this time, watching events happen. That was unusual-certainly not impossible or unheard of, since the soul has no beginning and no end-but why couldn't he watch it as well as experience it?

He awoke with a start-also not an usual occurrence. He glanced at his watch and realized with relief that his meditation lasted almost exactly twenty minutes, as it should have. So why did he feel so odd?

He knew why he felt that way-he felt it for a long time now, ever since the Turkey-Ukraine-Russia conflict over the Black Sea, ever since die raid against Pavel Kazakov's base in Romania. He knew what was happening.

"Patrick," he spoke.

The gas had run out, both in their vehicles and in the men themselves. Patrick and the rest of the Night Stalkers had taken shelter in yet another complex of oil wells-these appeared to be bombed out rather than run dry. They provided minimal cover: Chris Wohl had the men dig foxholes in the burning sand to conceal themselves as much as possible and wait for rescue.

They were all exhausted, physically, mentally, and emotionally. Patrick told them about the detonation over Mersa Matruh. They had received no other reports from anyonethe electromagnetic pulse from the nuclear device had electrified the atmosphere so badly that no satellite transmissions could get in or out…

"Patrick."

Or so he thought-apparently now the satellite transceivers implanted in then" bodies were up and running again.

He recognized the voice immediately, of course-and his next move was also immediate: "Cancel Thorn to Patrick." And the voice went silent.

It was the one thing that kept Patrick and the other Night Stalkers out of prison after their first series of raids the year before: They were still tied into the subcutaneous microtransceiver system they had received while working at the Air Force's High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center in Nevada-and the President of the United States got one too, a tiny rivet-sized wireless biotransceiver injected into a shoulder, powered by a radioisotope power supply worn as an anklet. The satellite transceiver allowed global communications, tracking, biofunction monitoring, and data transmission, although the user could selectively cut off individual functions.

This was the first time the President of the United States had activated his transceiver-and it startled Patrick completely. But what surprised him even more was to hear: "Patrick. Talk to me." Even though Patrick had instructed the transceiver satellite server to cut out the President, he was still coming through!

"What is it, Mr. President?" Patrick finally responded.

"I'm sorry about Paul," Thorn said. The transmission was scratchy, but the emotion in the President's voice was still evident, still genuine. "I know you loved him, and that it hurt you to have him go into battle with you."

Patrick immediately recognized the subtle query-he was hunting for information-but Patrick didn't have the energy to try to resist an interrogation right now. "Someone had to go in and stop the Libyans," he responded. "You won't do it."

"What else happened, Patrick?" Thorn asked. "Why didn't you come home with your brother?" No reply. The President's eyes narrowed, thinking hard-and then they widened in absolute horror. "My God, not Wendy. Was she caught in the attack on your ship? Was she… oh, no… was she one of the prisoners sent to Mersa Matruh? Oh God, Patrick…"

"Mr. President, soldiers are resting here, preparing for battle," Patrick said woodenly. "You know the old saying-lead, follow, or get the hell out of the way."

"And you think Kevin Martindale is your leader?"

Patrick had to close his eyes against the pain of the dart thrust through his heart. "Damn you, Thorn!" he cried against clenched teeth. The other Night Stalkers turned toward him, but no one approached-they seemed to instantly know whom he was talking with. Patrick knew that, again, Thomas Thorn the hippie-dippie president had cut right to the heart of the matter.

Patrick didn't believe in this fight. They were fighting for money, and that was not a reason to kill and die. Worse, he had accepted the assignment, even though he had not only the power but the responsibility to refuse it. Even worse than that-he had allowed his wife and his younger brother to follow him. Now one was dead, and the other was missing and probably dead in the nuclear explosion at Mersa Matruh. He would burn in hell for all eternity for what he had done-and he knew it, and Thorn knew it too.

"I'm sorry, Patrick."

"You have access to the same information we do!" Patrick cried out. "You know what's going on out here! And yet you decided to do nothing! I did it because there's a battle that needs to be fought over here, Thorn! What are you waiting for?"

"I hope one day you'll understand why," Thorn replied. "I'm still not going to do anything, not unless the people of Egypt want our help."

"What about leadership, Thorn?" Patrick retorted angrily. "What about justice and freedom and the strong protecting the weak? Basic stuff we both learned in kindergarten! How about believing in something and standing up for it?"

"That's exactly what I'm doing, Patrick," Thorn said gently. "Tell me: What do you believe in? You are out there in' Egypt or Israel planning more death and destructiontell me, General, what is it you believe in now?"

"Go to hell, Thorn!"

"General, I want you to come home-right now."

"Why do you keep on calling me 'General,' Thorn? You fired me, remember? You involuntarily retired me."

"Take care of the proper things first," Thorn patiently went on. "Bring your soldiers home-they're tired, you're tired, and the situation there is far too desperate for you to continue. Hold your son, bury your brother, mourn your wife, console your mother and your sisters, and try to explain to them what's going on. Then come to the White House, and we'll talk."

"Trouble, Patrick," Hal Briggs called out.

Patrick turned and saw a rising cloud of dust on the horizon to the east-heavy vehicles, quickly heading their way. The Egyptian border patrols had finally caught up to them. "We're pressing on," Patrick said aloud, not to Briggs but to Thorn, and he cut the connection. This time Thorn did not override it.

What were they doing here? Patrick asked himself for at least the hundredth time in the past three days. What was the objective? Spy on the Libyans, find out if they had any designs against the Egyptian oil fields-well, that question was answered now, wasn't it? Did Paul sacrifice his life for nothing? So what if they found out that Libya had chemical, biological, or even nuclear surface-to-surface missiles ready to launch? Any smart defense planner in Egypt, Israel, Nigeria, Ethiopia, Algeria, Greece, or Italy would already assume that and be planning a counterstrike or retaliatory strike.

Just closing his eyes seemed to take away some of the pain. Paul was dead-and he was not even buried yet, still on his way back home to Sacramento for burial beside their father. Wendy was missing, probably dead. How was he going to tell her family? How in hell was he supposed to explain it to their son? Your mother won't be coming home, son. Should he tell her she was in heaven watching over him? Should he tell him about war, about fighting, about death? How do you tell a four-year-old about something like that?

He watched a vision of his life with Wendy Tork play in his mind's eye, from the time he first met her at Barksdale Air Force Base in Louisiana during the U.S. Air Force's Strategic Air Command Bomb Competition Symposium over twenty years earlier. She was a young and talented electronics engineer; he was a young hotshot B-52G Stratofortress bombardier who had just helped his unit win the coveted Fairchild Trophy for the second year in a row, along with a long string of other trophies and awards. The old saying "opposites attract" was true only with magnets-Patrick and Wendy were as alike as could be, and they became almost inseparable from that moment on.

They had been shot at, shot up, shot down, and they did their fair share of shooting. They had flown all over the world together, sharing adventures as well as themselves. Of all the dangers they had faced together, having a baby was their most dangerous-and most joyous-moment. But even after young Bradley James McLanahan arrived in the world and Patrick was unceremoniously, involuntarily retired from the U.S. Air Force, Wendy would notcould not-leave her husband's side when he went off to battle.

Now, that dedication may have destroyed her.

The vision playing in Patrick's mind shifted from past memories to possible futures, and none of them were pleasant. Patrick believed that reality was nothing more than a state of consciousness: Reality was whatever he decided it would be. But as hard as he tried, his mind couldn't play an image of a successful rescue or escape. He saw Wendy first being manhandled, isolated, imprisoned, even tortured; then he saw her incinerated in the fireball at Mersa Matriih. It was too horrible to comprehend.

"Patrick?"

His focus snapped back to the present. His armor's sensors were inoperative-he visually estimated their range at around two miles, well within main gun range. "Any contact with Headbanger?" Patrick asked.

"No," Dave Luger replied. "EMP still has all communications shut down."

"Won't the crew see the Egyptians coming after us and launch the Wolverines?" Hal Briggs asked.

"They should-if their gear survived the blast, if our datalink is still active, and if the Wolverines can fly through the EMP," Patrick said. "It should all work, but it's not. I just spoke with President Thorn, but we can't raise the Megafortress-the EMP is really screwing up transmissions."

"What did Thorn want?"

"For us to come home and bury our dead," Patrick said. Unfortunately, they might be among the dead soon. "Master Sergeant, any advice?"

"We first send the men out as fast as possible away from the area," Chris Wohl said. "Then we take out as many of the big tanks as we can and engage the other threats as best we can."

"Do it," Patrick said. Wohl immediately ordered the Night Stalkers to retreat west. But no sooner had they started off than someone yelled, "Sir! Tanks behind us, coming in fast!"

Patrick turned, and his blood ran cold-another line of heavy armor, this one smaller than the line to the east but coming on twice as fast, had appeared as if from nowhere. A company-sized force must have managed to speed across the desert and surround them. Before he could react, some of the small tanks to the west opened fire with their main guns.

"Take cover!" he shouted. "Chris, Hal, take the tanks to the east! I'll take the ones to the west!" But even as he swung his electromagnetic rail gun west to attack the newcomers, he knew he was too late-he could hear the shells whistling closer and closer..

… but they didn't hit their position-instead, the shells started impacting near the Egyptian tanks. Their accuracy wasn't that great, but it didn't seem to matter: The Egyptian tanks took immediate evasive action, and Patrick could see the gun barrels elevating and turning, changing targets to the oncoming, unidentified vehicles to the west.

Whoever they are, Patrick thought, they're on our side, at least for the moment. He swung his rail gun back to the east. The targeting sensors weren't operable, but at this close range it didn't seem to matter. The newcomers created lots of smoke and confusion; Chris, Hal, and Patrick hit a few of them with the hypervelocity projectiles, and that's all it took. The remaining Egyptian tanks reversed direction and scattered. The Night Stalkers immediately turned their attention to the newcomers from the west.

With the threat from the Egyptian tanks over for now, the newcomers raised a large flag from the lead vehicle. It was a green banner trimmed in gold with a strange and unidentifiable crest on it, with crowns on top and a crown atop a circle ringed with nine stars with a crescent and star inside. "Who are they?" Hal Briggs asked. 'Turks? Algerians?"

The newcomers moved in swiftly. They had a collection of all sorts of vehicles, from aged M60 tanks to Russian BMPs to Humvees to Jeeps, armed with an even wider variety of weapons: heavy cannons, machine guns of all sizes, even older ex-Soviet antitank rockets and antiaircraft missiles. Their uniforms didn't help identification either: They wore everything from Bedouin robes to World War II-era Nazi-style desert uniforms to American "chocolate chip" desert cammos.

"What do you want to do, sir?" Chris Wohl asked.

Patrick hesitated, but only for a moment: "Lower your weapons."

"Are you absolutely sure, sir?" Wohl hated the idea of lowering his weapon while anyone, especially unidentified hostiles, had theirs aimed at him or his men.

"Do it, Master Sergeant," Patrick said. Patrick lowered his rail gun to port arms but did not shut it down. The others did likewise.

The scene looked like something from a bad remake of the TV show The Rat Patrol. As soon as the convoy of vehicles reached the oil wells, several of them jumped off their vehicles and motioned for them to drop their weapons and raise their hands. Their personal weapons were a mix of hardware from half the world's arms manufacturers spanning four or five decades. "I'm not surrendering to these guys, sir," Wohl warned Patrick in a low voice. "Do something, or I will."

"You Americans?" one of the men who stepped out of the lead Humvee said. He had an Egyptian accent, but it was very slight-he could've been an Arab conveniencestore clerk from Boston. "Who are you guys?"

"We're escapees," David Luger said. "We were detainees at Mersa Matruh."

"You're very well armed for escapees," the stranger said. He looked over at Patrick and the others in their Tin Man battle armor. "Very well equipped-more like attackers than escapees." He motioned to Patrick. "If I didn't know better, I'd say those were electromagnetic weapons that fire hypervelocity projectiles."

"What?" Luger was completely surprised, and he showed it. "How do you know about hypervelocity weapons?"

"You think because I live in the desert I don't know about such things?" the man asked. "I read Popular Science and Aviation Week & Space Technology. I read about the exoskeleton your friends over there are wearing in the London Times. I didn't know they actually came out with something, though. Very interesting."

"Who are you?"

"It appears we're not doing names today," the stranger said, "so I don't have an answer for you now. What I do require of you is to put your weapons down on the ground and raise your hands."

"That will not happen," Chris Wohl said.

"By the sound of it, I think you must be the noncommissioned officer in charge of this team," the stranger said. Patrick noticed then how young the man was under his black Kevlar helmet wrapped with a white turban, chocolate-chip battle dress uniform, green Nomex flying gloves, and thick-soled heavy-tread knee-high tanker boots. When he moved, Patrick actually noticed a black shirt underneath his BDUs, with a white shirt underneath that made it appear as if he were wearing a cleric's collar. "But you will be silent now. I am in command of this area, and you are the trespassers." He turned to Luger, shook his head. "And you, sir, are not the commander of this force." He looked over to the others. "I will speak to him now."

Patrick stepped forward. "What do you mean, you are in command of this area? We're in Egypt."

The man turned, and Patrick noticed a smile on his youthful face. "I assume I am addressing the infamous Castor. Finally."

"You are very astute, sir," Patrick said. "Who are you?"

"Since we are now talking in code words, I am called Dabbur-the wasp," the stranger said. "We are called the Hubub-the sandstorm. And this is my desert. It has been so for nearly two hundred years. We have protected it for that long. It is not about lines on a map or governments."

"Your intelligence system is effective-Your Highness." The man smiled, which made him look even younger than he looked at first. He issued a command in Arabic, and his men lowered their weapons.

"Who is he, Muck?" Hal Briggs asked.

"His Royal Highness, Sayyid Muhammad ibn al-Hasan as-Sanusi, the true king of Libya," Patrick said. The man smiled, shouldered his weapon, and bowed in thanks for the recognition and proper address. "The sword of vengeance of the Sahara and leader of the 'Sandstorm,' the Sanusi Brotherhood."

"You got it," Muhammad as-Sanusi said. "And who are you-other than trouble of the first magnitude around here?"

"Friends-as long as you don't align yourself with Jadallah Zuwayy."

"You mean my 'sixth brother,' Jadallah the Brave, the protector of Islam and the savior of the people of Libya? Give me a break," Sanusi said disgustedly. He took off his helmet and poured water from a canteen on his face. He had a thin, triangular face, wide eyes, and a ready smile, even while deriding someone. "But what pisses me off even more is that the people of Libya really bought his bucket of bullshit." He looked carefully at Patrick, then nodded. "You know my good 'brother,' then? So I assume you're the devil robot that nearly destroyed Jaghbub and scared the living shit out of him?"

"Maybe. How do you know about that?"

"Zuwayy's men blabbed it all over open channels all last night-you couldn't shut it off," Sanusi said. "I think your impromptu nose job improved his looks. And of course, we saw your fireworks show from twenty miles away. Very impressive. Some of my radar outposts picked up traces of an aircraft still orbiting west of here-your air support, I gather?"

"We came close to taking out your men here with our air support."

"Unless you have EMP-proof radios, I doubt it," Sanusi said dryly. "We lost contact with all our patrols the instant that device went off. God in heaven, I always suspected Zuwayy had nukes, but I never thought he'd be stupid enough to actually use them."

"You don't talk like an Arab, Your Highness."

"Oh, I can talk Arab just fine when I need to," Sanusi said. "But I've lived in the States for the past five years, and I picked up the lingo pretty well." He held out his canteen to Patrick. "Can you drink water through that thing?"

"Yes," Patrick said-but then he disconnected his helmet, pulled it off, and accepted the canteen. "But I prefer not to." He grimaced at the canteen.

"Don't worry-it's purified," Sanusi said. "I've lived in the States too long to drink the local water, especially from the oases. I may be the sword of vengeance of the Sahara, but the worst my stomach can handle is L. A. tap water. My men can drink month-old camel piss dug out of a hole in the desert if they had to, but not me. I've got plenty of purification tablets in there." Patrick took a deep swig, then handed it back. "What's your name?"

"McLanahan. Patrick McLanahan."

"Good Irish name," Sanusi said. "Who are you guys?

Where do you get all that firepower? U.S. Army Special Forces? Delta Force? Navy SEALs?"

"None of the above."

"Ah. Some supersecret commando job, contracted by the CIA or something," Sanusi said, taking a drink. When Patrick did not reply, Sanusi merely shrugged. "My men will find out eventually. We have spies everywhere, and neither the Egyptians nor the Libyans can keep a secretthey all think once you get out into the desert, no one can hear you. I heard a report that the lovely Mrs. Salaam and General Baris had been meeting with some special infantry teams at Mersa Matruh-I assume that's you. Good thing you got out when you did."

"Some of our guys were not so lucky."

"The prisoner exchange," Sanusi said, nodding. "I heard. I'm sorry, Patrick. So it was you guys in on that raid at Samah that started this whole mess."

"We didn't start it-but we mean to finish it," Patrick said ominously.

"I'm sure you guys are tough-and you're going to have to be, to go up against Zuwayy and his troops," Sanusi said. "They've got some mean-looking shit all of a sudden-new Russian weapons, armor, rockets, aircraft, the works, hundreds of millions of dollars' worth. Zuwayy's either been investing some of the money he and his cronies have been ripping off from the Libyan treasury and buying weapons on the international arms market with it, or he's got a wealthy new Russian sponsor."

That last comment set off nightmarish explosions in Patrick's head, but he ignored the warning bells for the moment. "We could use your help to get back to Cairo."

"Cairo? What in hell do you want to go back there for?" Sanusi asked in surprise. "I thought you said you were escapees from Mersa Matruh."

"We were being held there during the prisoner exchange so we wouldn't interfere."

"Oh really? You sure it wasn't so they'd be sure to fry you just like your friends?" Sanusi noticed Patrick's face blanch and harden to stone, and he put a hand on Patrick's shoulder. "I'm sorry, McLanahan. You lost some of your men in that explosion, I know."

Even though Patrick was beginning to trust this man, he still did not feel like elaborating. "Egypt is wide open for attack. We can help stop Zuwayy until the rest of the world organizes a defense against him."

"What makes you think they will?" Sanusi asked. "Who will lead them-Thomas Nathaniel Thorn, the so-called leader of the free world? He's too busy having seances so he can communicate with the spirit of Thomas Jefferson.

"Patrick, no one cares about Libya or Egypt-all they care about is the oil," Muhammad Sanusi said. "It's been that way since the Brits discovered oil here. The world will deal with anyone who will sell oil to them-they don't care if it's Salaam, Zuwayy, Khan, or Bozo the Clown. And when the oil runs out, the world will turn its back on this entire continent. All Arabs know the score, PatrickI'm surprised you don't. Do you really believe you're here fighting for justice or to protect the weak? You're here because of the oil-how to get it, how to keep it coming. I don't care who your employer or commander is-you're here because of the oil. Am I right, my friend?"

Patrick didn't answer-he didn't have to. King Idris the Second, the true king of Libya, nodded knowingly. "You want to fight for Susan Bailey Salaam? Well, I don't blame you-she is definitely one hot babe, even after taking one in the face in Cairo." He paused for a moment; then: "Sure is lucky she survived that blast, wasn't it?" Patrick said nothing-he couldn't, because he didn't know anything about her or the incident at the mosque. "You're sure you want to do this?"

"I'm sure."

"Okay. But I still contend: Why go back to Cairo? That's where the action's going to be soon. Either Zuwayy will chew it to pieces with his army, or it'll collapse under the pressure of its own loss of identity. Why would you, an American, hang around for that?"

"You gotta fight for something."

"Sure you do. Home, family, God. I'm out here in the

Sahara with my men instead of back at The Resort at Squaw Creek up in Lake Tahoe or my three-bedroom suite that my buddy Mohammed al Fayed owns at the Hotel Bel Air because Qadhafi chased my family out of our own country, and Zuwayy is busy raping what's left." Then he stopped and looked knowingly at Patrick. "Unless you've already lost those things-then you fight for whatever captures your heart-or your soul. Has Susan Bailey Salaam done that for you, Mr. McLanahan?" Patrick did notcould not-answer.

Muhammad as-Sanusi looked carefully at Patrick; then, apparently noticing something in the man's face, he smiled and winked. "Man, you are one out-of-place dude," he said. "I'm not sure exactly where you're supposed to be, but it is not here in the desert, wearing metal pajamas and carrying a Buck Rogers space gun." Again, Patrick couldn't respond. "Whatever. I still think it would be suicidal for you and your men to go back to Cairo or anywhere in Egypt. But I have the perfect place. If you agree to work with me and my soldiers, I'll bring you there and you guys can set up and work there."

"Where is this place?"

"Not far. About a half-day drive, assuming we don't run into any patrols." He looked at Chris and Hal, still in their battle armor, smiled that boyish smile again, then added, "But I think we can probably handle any patrols we run across out here. Let's go."

"You have a base right on the Egyptian-Libyan border that's secure from Zuwayy and his troops?"

"I didn't until today," Sanusi said with a chuckle. "Min fadlak. Let's go."

They hadn't moved far before alarms started going off in the Tin Man battle armor. "Radiation warning, Muck," Hal Briggs reported.

"How convenient-radiation detectors in that armor," Sanusi said to Briggs. "You must tell me all about that system. My men and I might be in the market for a few dozen." He turned to Patrick. "The Libyans are broadcasting that the Zionists set off an American nuclear device at Jaghbub," he said, "to kill Zuwayy. Did you have such a device?"

"You know we didn't," Patrick replied.

Sanusi just smiled. "But all of Libya and most of the world believe this is so," Sanusi said. "It'll make Libya's next move easier to justify."

"The invasion of Egypt?"

"Well, I think that's pretty obvious," Sanusi said. "The question for you is: What's the objective?"

"You said it yourself: oil."

"Libya has oil. Lots of it."

"Then Libya either wants more, or it wants to control what it doesn't have-or destroy it."

Sanusi smiled. "I think I know where you belong now, Mr. McLanahan-or is it General McLanahan? It's still not out here in the desert, though."

Soon the effects of the electromagnetic pulse in the atmosphere from the explosion at Mersa Matruh were subsiding, and shortly after that, they started receiving position data. "We're only twenty miles from Jaghbub," Patrick pointed out.

"Correct."

"The radiation levels are getting higher," Briggs said. "They'll reach danger levels soon."

"The radiation levels are high enough to affect normal radio communications," Sanusi said. "If a Libyan patrol doesn't have radiation detectors-and by now, all of them do-the disruption of radio communications would get their attention." Patrick wondered why Sanusi would bother to offer that unusual detail.

By the time they were within five miles of Jaghbub, the radiation levels had reached danger levels. From here they could see the base-and there was no doubt that the base had suffered a tremendous attack. The sand was scorched black, like the ruins of Mersa Matruh; armored vehicles, buildings, helicopters, and all sorts of objects, most unidentifiable, lay bent and smoldering. Bodies, charred black and burned almost to the skeleton, could be seen scattered everywhere, along with the carcasses of vultures and other desert scavengers who tried to feed off them. The Libyans had erected signs on every road and path, warning in Arabic and English to stay away from the area because of deadly radiation. Obviously many Libyans had ignored the warning, because they could see abandoned Libyans armored vehicles everywhere-they imagined they were filled with the bloated, rotting corpses of radiationpoisoned soldiers.

"My ancestral home," Sanusi said, "or at least what remains of it after Qadhafi and Zuwayy desecrated and perverted it."

"I'm sorry it's been destroyed," Patrick said.

"You should be-you did most of it, at least to the base," Sanusi said. He smiled, nodded, then added, "Nah, don't be sorry. The base was an abomination to the spirit of my ancestors. They created a place of worship and a place of learning here-Qaddafi and Zuwayy turned it into an armed fortress and a den of sin. You only did what I've wanted the power to do-flatten it. Come on."

"You're going there!"

"Of course," Sanusi said. Some of his men dismounted to examine the new armored vehicles; shots rang out, indicating that some half-dead soldiers were being dispatched by Sanusi's men. But then, to Patrick's surprise, the soldiers started up the vehicle and drove it off-not away from the base, but toward it!

"Patrick…"

"It's okay-I get it now," Patrick said. Muhammad Sanusi just smiled and nodded as they continued on.

As they got closer to the carnage that was once the holy Islamic town of Jaghbub, the details became clearer: Some of the corpses were real, but most of them were faked plaster or wooden mannequins. Some of the armored vehicles had been destroyed not from a nuclear blast but by regular antitank or RPG rounds or by the Wolverine cruise missile's Sensor-Fuzed Weapon rounds blowing through the weaker upper hull. The blackness surrounding the base Tvas dark sand, gravel, or charcoal, not the vaporized remains of buildings. "You faked a nuclear blast here?" Hal Briggs asked incredulously.

"It wasn't hard to do after what you guys did here," Sanusi said. 'The base had been pretty much evacuated by morning-we cleaned up a few security patrols, captured a bunch of good equipment, blew up several thousand pounds of high explosives and ammunition for realism, and used the dead and destroyed vehicles to create the look of a decimated base."

"And the radiation…?"

"Some captured medical radioisotopes, scattered along the roads and paths. Not enough to be picked up by a radiation-detecting aircraft or satellite, but plenty to be picked up by ground-based sensors. You don't need much if you got the rumor mill going properly-start spreading rumors by radio and teletype that there's been a nuclear detonation in the desert, and bad news travels real fast."

"So all the messages and reports about an American nuclear attack…?"

"Provided by us," Sanusi said. "Complete with pictures, eyewitness accounts, sensor data, even some soldiers suffering radiation sickness. Combined with what's happened at Mersa Matruh, folks will believe anything now."

"Eventually the army will send in troops to secure this base," Chris Wohl said. "You can't fool them forever."

"We'll be out of here before they get brave enough to send someone with more brains, Sergeant," Sanusi said. "But I think the action will be starting elsewhere, and they'll hold off on investigating Jaghbub for a while."

"Why do you think that?"

"Because I'll be the one starting the action," Sanusi said with a smile. "And now, with your help, we'll make an even bigger splash."

They drove out to the flight line, where the burned-out hulks of several helicopters and one large jet, about the size of a Boeing 727, sat. The runway was lined with dozens of bomb craters-there didn't appear to be more than one or two hundred feet of usable pavement any-

where. But Patrick already figured that Sanusi and his men were masters at concealment and camouflage. "Okay, Your Majesty-how did you do it?"

"A little sand, a little wood- it won't stand up to closer scrutiny, but visually, they look real enough," Sanusi replied. "A couple men can sweep them off to the side in a few minutes, and it takes less than an hour to put them all back in." He stopped his Humvee. "Your attack destroyed most of the buildings and facilities aboveground, but not all of them-and best of all, the POL storage is intact."

"It is?"

'The army put most of the petroleum storage underground, so your big explosive didn't destroy it," Sanusi explained. "The fuel farm your bombs blew up were the old tanks. The underground tanks were topped off, toothere's probably one hundred thousand gallons of jet fuel down there, ready to go. Maybe more. All his weapons are underground, too-bombs, missiles, rockets, guns, rifles, and ammunition from seven-millimeter to fifty-sevenmillimeter. I would need a thousand men to help me haul it all away." He looked at Patrick. "And I'll trade it all for some help."

"What do you want us to do?"

"Stop Zuwayy and whoever's behind this sudden military buildup of his," Sanusi said. "Zuwayy's got something up his sleeve, and he's getting some big-time financing to do it. I'm only irritating him right now-but you could really put the hurt on him. I assume that because you were still in the vicinity of the base, you didn't use all your resources here-I'm convinced you can destroy any base, any military site, in Libya or Egypt."

Just then, Patrick heard, "Tin Man, this is Headbanger."

"Go ahead, Headbanger."

"Thank God we got you, sir," George "Zero" Tanaka, the pilot aboard the EB-52 Megafortress bomber, said. "We were just about to bug out for an emergency landing strip. What's your situation?"

"We're secure," Patrick reported. "What's youi status?"

"We're a few minutes past bingo for the secondary recover base," Tanaka said. Patrick knew that the secondary recovery base for the EB-52 was an isolated abandoned air base near Vol'vata, in the extreme southern tip of Israel-no support, no fuel, just a relatively safe piece of concrete on which to set a two-hundred-thousand-pound plane and wait for help. It was also their last planned emergency recovery base-any other emergency strips they might use from here on out would be in Egypt, Libya, Sudan, or Algeria-or they would ditch in the Mediterranean Sea or Red Sea. "We lost our tanker support. Got any instructions for us?"

The question, Patrick thought, was rather moot now. Patrick knew he shouldn't trust anyone, especially a Libyan, but Muhammad as-Sanusi was different-or so he hoped.

"Yes, I have instructions," Patrick said. "Get a fix on my location-you'll find a seven-thousand-foot concrete airstrip here. We have fuel, possibly weapons, some support equipment."

There were a few moments of silence as the Megafortress crew plotted his location; then: "Ahh… verify this location, sir?" Tanaka asked.

"The location is accurate: Jaghbub, Libya."

"And you are secure?"

"Affirmative."

"Then you wouldn't mind telling me the nickname of the base where we launched from."

Their conversation was on a secure satellite link, but Patrick was still pleased that the Megafortress crew thought of a code phrase to use that only a few folks would know; plus, by saying a nickname, if Patrick was under duress, he could make up any name without arousing suspicion. "Hooterville," Patrick replied, giving the nickname the B-52 crews once used for Blytheville Air Force Base in rural northeastern Arkansas.

"Good copy, Tin Man," Tanaka replied. "We'll see you shortly."

Patrick turned to Muhammad as-Sanusi and extended a hand. "You've got yourself a deal, Your Majesty," he said. "My first plane will be here in a few minutes."

Sanusi issued orders in Arabic, and most of his men raced off in their vehicles. "My men will have the runway, taxiways, and hangars cleared away for your aircraft immediately," he said. He shook Patrick's armored hand. "Welcome to Jaghbub, United Kingdom of Libya. Ahlan wa sahlan, es salaem alekum. You are most welcome." He looked at Patrick's gloved hand, touching the strange BERP fabric and composite exoskeleton with wonder. "I have got to get me a few of these!" he said with glee.

Shortly after the 1986 American air attacks, the late Libyan dictator Colonel Muammar Qadhafi built a complex called Ginayna-"the Garden"-under the streets of the town of Hun. Ginayna was actually an immense complex of underground tunnels, shelters, alternate command posts, and military storage facilities, extending out several dozen kilometers around the city. Despite its size, it was possible to reach any point of Ginayna from anywhere on foot within an hour. When fully staffed-as it was right nowGinayna housed over thirty thousand persons.

The complex-five stories underground, shielded by six layers of Kevlar and steel and with its own power generator and air scrubbers, was meant to protect Qadhafi and his personal protection forces in case of another massive attack. It was said that Ginayna was the Doomsday shelter-since a very large majority of the personnel staffing it were women, it was said that Qadhafi planned to repopulate Libya with the personnel housed within Ginayna.

Jadallah Zuwayy considered Ginayna his primary residence. It was craziness to live anywhere else. He was surrounded by plenty of security, they were safe from most all bombs and missiles-the complex was considered strong enough to withstand anything except a direct hit bj a nuclear weapon-and there were plenty of escape routes out "of there. Sure, he lived like a rodent-but better to be a live rodent than a dead king.

Ginayna was broken into sections controlled by the various branches of the armed services, but Zuwayy stayed mostly in the section reserved as the operational headquarters of the Revolutionary Guard. This was Zuwayy's personal protection force; five thousand men and women, equipped with the best weapons and afforded the best training of all the Libyan armed forces. The main corps of the Revolutionary Guard was the Praetorian Guard, the unit charged with protection of Zuwayy himself, as opposed to all of the king's residences and offices.

It was the only unit in all of Libya that Zuwayy would trust with this particular group.

Thirteen men and one woman-that was all that was left of all the persons taken from the Mediterranean Sea during the air attacks on the ships suspected of staging the raid on the missile base at Samah. They were taken and separated from the others for one reason only: They looked, spoke, or behaved like Americans. And of the group, the most important and the most intriguing one was the woman.

She was hanging, naked, from manacles bolted to a concrete wall. Her strength had given out days ago-she was no longer able to support herself except for a few brief hours every day, so her wrists were blackened and the flesh had been scraped almost to the bone. Her hair was thin and falling out from dehydration; her ribs protruded so far that they appeared as if they would likely pop right through her skin.

Zuwayy thought she had been very pretty, once. Not anymore.

The lights were turned on as he stepped into the cell. The one lightbulb was like a red-hot poker to the woman's eyes, but she could not shield them. "Any more information, Sergeant?" Zuwayy asked.

"No, Your Highness," the jailer responded. "Her response to all questions is 'Help me, please.' No names, no other information."

Zuwayy examined her. The interrogators had tried every possible combination of physical torture, drugs, deprivation, and disorientation to try to break her. He was impressed. "Very strong, very tough young woman," he said. He was surprised when she opened her eyes and moved unsteadily to her feet. "I see you are awake. How are you feeling today, miss?"

"Help me, please," she muttered through swollen, cracked lips. "Please, sir, help me."

"I will be glad to help you," Zuwayy said. "All you have to do is tell me your name."

"Help me. Please."

"You don't need to resist," Zuwayy said. "Your comrades have told us everything about you. You were responsible for infiltrating and attacking a Libyan military base, then escaping via helicopter to your ship. We know everything. We know you are American commandos, on a secret mission to inspect and, if necessary, destroy our military weapons. You might as well talk. If you do, we will treat you like a combatant instead of a spy and afford you treatment under the Geneva Conventions. Do you know what that means?"

"Please, Your Highness… please, help me, I beg you… "

"I see you recognize who I am? Good! I can guarantee you much better treatment, everything to which a captured combatant is entitled-food, water, clothing, medical attention, and contact with the International Red Cross."

"Please… help…"

"But under the Geneva Conventions, as you know, you must first tell me your name, rank, serial number, and date of birth," Zuwayy went on. "We'll start with your name. That is not a violation of your oath as an American soldier. It is not a national secret. You won't be disgraced or prosecuted by your government, I assure you. Most of your comrades have already told me this information, and that's why they are no longer in here with you-they are being fed, they have seen a doctor, and they have even filled out their Red Cross contact cards."

"Please, Your Highness… please, help me? I beg you…."

This was getting nowhere, he thought-the same mindless imprinted resistance babble for days on end. "Where is that band she was wearing?" Zuwayy asked.

The guard brought it to him. "We have determined it is some kind of power source," the guard said. "We searched her body and found this." He showed Zuwayy a device about the size of a tack. "It is some kind of transceiver. We checked it; it is deactivated. It may have been some sort of locator, perhaps even a communications device."

"Did the others have it?"

"No, Highness. She could be valuable…."

"Or she could be a real danger," Zuwayy said. "If she was missing, she'd be just another casualty-but here, she could destroy us if they found out she was alive."

"Torture doesn't seem to be working, Highness," the guard said. "Maybe we should try nursing her back to health. We can always eliminate her later."

"Perhaps…"

"Help me… please, Highness, help me… I beg you…."

Zuwayy reared back and slapped her across the face with the back of his left hand. There was no blood-her face, in fact most of her extremities, had long ago lost the ability to bleed. "Stop begging to me, bitch! You disgust me, you weak sniveling American whore! What is your job onboard your ship-servicing the real warriors, the real soldiers? Are you the unit's traveling whore? Why are we even bothering with this one? We won't learn any information from prostitutes. Throw her disease-infected body into the trash with the other garbage."

"Please… please, help me…."

"Your name, whore," Zuwayy snarled. "All I want is your name. First name, last name, it doesn't matter. Is keeping that useless bit of information from us worth risking your life? When was the last time you felt your fingers? When was the last time you had a drink of water? We will give you proper medical care and start treating you like a human being and an American soldier instead of a stupid American cocksucker if you will only tell us your name."

No response. She looked as if she might pass out-she was beginning to slump against her chains again. "One last time, bitch-your name. Right now." Again, no response.

She is strong, Zuwayy thought. But they were wasting too much time with her. She was a novelty because she was a woman-one of the few captured-but it was too risky keeping a woman imprisoned in a place like this. "Has she made any contact with any of the others?" Zuwayy asked the jailer. "Talking, tap code, hand signs, anything?"

"No, Highness. When they were together, they did not even look at each other. They never tried to communicate."

Very well-trained indeed. He examined her face once more. Her eyes were ready to roll back into her head; her tongue was swollen and almost black; and blood was seeping from her eyes, ears, and mouth. "Get rid of her," Zuwayy said. "She's practically dead already. Bury her in the desert. The last thing we need is for her to be caught in here like this. Make it quick, and make it untraceable. I want to see the others."

Zuwayy was almost out of the cell when he heard her mutter behind him-and it didn't sound like "Help me, please" this time. He turned and went back to her. She had completely slumped against her chains now. He grabbed her hair and yanked her head up. "What did you say, bitch? Repeat! What did you say?" She muttered something unintelligible. He put his ear as close as he dared to her lips. "Speak up! What did you say?"

Through her cracked lips and swollen tongue, he heard her utter, "M… Me… McLanahan," just before she passed out again.

It was hard, steamy, sweaty work-no other way to describe it; and there was no other way to do it except virtually by hand. At first Patrick McLanahan spelled trie flight crew in the cockpit while the plane was being refueled — they had to use water pumps and fire hoses to get the fuel out of the underground storage tanks, and then gravityfeed it into each of the Megafortress's twelve fuel tanks. Patrick kept one engine running through the entire refueling just in case they came under attack and he had to start all the other engines, but he acknowledged to himself that there was almost no chance of getting the Megafortress off the ground unless they had at least twenty minutes' warning. But in about a day, the EB-52 Megafortress bomber was fully fueled.

King Idris the Second of Libya, Muhammad as-Sanusi, was nowhere to be seen until dawn, out on patrol all night with his "Sandstorm" desert warriors. The effects of the electromagnetic pulse had subsided, so Sanusi could maintain radio contact with his men while taking a closer look at Mersa Matruh. "The destruction is total, my friend," he told Patrick after he returned, putting a hand on Patrick's sweat-bathed shoulder. "The dead are everywhere-it is the most horrible sight I've ever seen. I know you told me it would be safe to go there, that the radiation dissipates almost immediately, but my men refused to go near the place, and I chose not to force them. I am truly sorry, McLanahan. Very sorry." Patrick nodded-he was beyond feeling sorrow or despair. Once the Megafortress touched down on Jaghbub's runway, he was all business again. "Very cool bird you have here, Mr. McLanahan," he said. "Unreal."

"Thanks."

"So you will be departing soon?"

"I assume that the Libyans will start getting curious about Jaghbub and send a force down from Tobruk or Benghazi to investigate," Patrick said. "I'll bet scouts are already on the way. The bomber needs to be gone by then. We can have a special-operations aircraft meet us here tonight to get us out of the country."

"Well, we're as ready as we can be," Sanusi said. "My men picked up some shoulder-fired antiaircraft missiles from their underground arsenal, and we've taken them out so we might have a chance of tagging an attack helicopter or two before it gets close enough to lob a missile in on us."

Patrick didn't like hearing that. "What will you do, Your Highness?"

"I need enough time to cart the weapons away, that's all," Sanusi said. "I've called for all the men I can muster, but they won't start filtering in for several hours. Once they get here, I'll load up as many weapons and as much fuel as I can carry, then head off to our desert bases. But we know Zuwayy's scouts will be back here before long-like you said, they could be here tomorrow morning, or even tonight." He paused, then nodded at the EB-52 Megafortress. "We sure could use your little toy there to help us hold off the heavies."

It was risky-too risky. The EB-52 had enough fuel to make it to Scotland, where a Sky Masters Inc. DC-10 I aircraft could meet them to refuel and take them back to the States. Jon Masters used to have secret deals with the British government to use their facilities in emergencies-perhaps that still held true. Bottom line: They had a pretty good chance of making it out of here if they got out tonight.

But Patrick also knew that angry Libyan soldiers could surround Muhammad Sanusi and his men any minute now. He couldn't just leave these guys to their fate. He spoke: "Patrick to Luger."

"Go ahead, Muck," David Luger responded. Sanusi shook his head and again silently marveled at the technology these Americans possessed.

"Let's get the Megafortress uploaded with target information for Zillah Air Base and Al-Jawf Rocket Base," Patrick said. "We'll have to use the intel we got from the Egyptians."

"It's several days old, and a lot of shit has happened since then," Luger pointed out.

"I don't think we have any choice," Patrick said. "Time's running out. We need to…" Just then Sanusi received a frantic call on his portable radio. "Stand by, Dave."

"I'm afraid time may have run out already," Sanusi said. "My scouts reported a convoy of four tanks af?d five armored personnel carriers heading south. They're about forty kilometers north of here, coming fast. They have also seen several helicopter patrols heading this way, but they have lost contact."

"Low-level helicopters-could be attackers," Patrick said. "Dave, let's get the Megafortress ready to launch. Me, Chris, and Hal will have to go out with the king and his men and see what we can do, but if the helicopters get past us, the Megafortress will fight better in the air."

The Sanusi Brotherhood "Sandstorm" warriors raced across the desert at full throttle in their jeeps and Humvees, leaping up and over sand dunes and gullies at more than sixty miles an hour. If they encountered a minefield, Patrick was sure they'd never set any mines off because they hardly touched earth at all. They passed the remains of one Mil Mi-8 helicopter gunship, downed by one of the warriors with a Stinger shoulder-fired missile; a few kilometers away, they found the remains of the warriors and their vehicle, blasted apart into a twisted hunk of burning metal and human tissue.

"Sorry about your men, Your Highness," Chris Wohl offered over the roar of their speeding vehicle. "They took on a gunship and defeated it."

"I wish I could say that their death made a difference, or that they will find peace in God's hands as a reward," Muhammad as-Sanusi said. "All I can tell their families and their fellow warriors is that they died trying to win back a kingdom we all believe in so much. All the others can hope for is the chance that their death might rally others to our cause. We shall see."

They proceeded another few miles until they met up with one of the Sanusi Brotherhood patrols on a slight rise, about two miles west of the Tobruk-Jaghbub highway. From there they crawled over to the edge of the rise, where they could see the oncoming Libyan scouts approaching, now about five miles away.

"I think I found the one thing this battle armor doesn't do very well-you can't fight very well on sand," Hal

Briggs observed. "You sure as hell can't crawl around with it, and the thrusters don't work very well unless you find a patch of hard-packed sand."

"All true-that's why we can't fight like the king does," Patrick said. "Your Highness, I recommend you stay in hiding and keep an eye out for newcomers or anyone who tries to escape. We'll engage-our way."

"We could use a few of those tanks and armored personnel carriers, Tor," Sanusi said, using his new nickname for Patrick in his battle armor, "Tor," meaning "bull." "Try not to destroy all of them, my friend." Patrick nodded and moved off. Patrick had Hal circle around to cross over to the east side of the highway, keeping Chris on the west side. Patrick took the middle-the highway itself.

The line of Libyan armor was following the highway but staying well off of it, spread out about a mile either side of the highway. The armored vehicles stayed on the roadthey were wheeled, not tracked-with gunners at the ready in the cupolas. The armored vehicles had AT-2 antitank missiles fitted out on the front of the vehicles along with a fifty-seven-millimeter rapid-fire cannon and a 12.7-millimeter machine gun for the commander; the tanks were ex-Russian T-60s with one-hundred-ten-millimeter main guns. They were not moving very quickly-they were probably playing it cautious after losing contact with their helicopter gunship.

The commander of the lead armored vehicle was surprised to see a lone figure standing in the middle of the highway when he crested the slight rise in the highway. He was standing right there, not moving or attempting to get away or hide. He might have been a hitchhiker-except for the weird head-to-toe outfit he wore. Both armored personnel carriers' fifty-seven-millimeter cannons trained on the solitary figure as they approached, but the stranger did not move.

"Wa'if hena," the lead APC commander ordered. The stranger was dressed unlike anyone he had ever seen. It resembled a chemical warfare exposure suit, whichrts why he ordered his column to halt-if there were biochem weapons around, he didn't want to go charging in blindly. "What in hell does he think he's doing?"

"What kind of uniform is that?" the other commander radioed in response. "Could it be one of our men, maybe a survivor from Jaghbub? Maybe that's a protective suit he's wearing. Who else would be stupid enough to be walking right up to an armored patrol unarmed in the middle of the day?"

"Ordinarily I'd say yes-but we just lost contact with one of our scout helicopters, which means everyone's an enemy until we find out otherwise. Stay back: I'll go have a chat with him. Everyone else, stay alert." He ordered his men to dismount. Eight heavily armed Libyan soldiers ran out of the back of the APC and took up defensive positions on either side of the highway. The lead APC then began to roll forward toward the stranger.

The APC hadn't gone fifty feet when suddenly two tanks, one on either side of the highway, disappeared in a ball of fire-the dismounts heard only a faint plink sound, and then the tanks exploded. The soldiers had just enough time to dive for cover in the depression on the side of the highway before they were showered with burning debris. Huge gushes of fire fed from ruptured fuel tanks poured across the desert floor, and the dismounts got to their feet in a hurry and retreated back toward the remaining APCs, firing in the general direction from where those projectiles came.

"Attention, Libyan soldiers," he said through his electronic synthesizer and translation system. "I am Castor. I order all of you to surrender immediately. Do not traverse your gun turrets or you will be destroyed."

"The east tank's turret is moving toward you," Briggs reported.

"Kill it," Patrick said. Briggs fired a hypervelocity round into the tank, and it blew even more spectacularly than the first two. That's all it took-one by one, the Libyan soldiers popped hatches and started climbing out of the tanks, hands upraised. "Your Highness, the Libyans are surrendering," Patrick radioed to Sanusi. "You can move-"

The helicopter came out of nowhere, popping over the sand dunes only a few feet above the desert floor-a Mil Mi-24 attack helicopter, fully configured for combat with a four-barreled 12.7-millimeter remote-controlled cannon in the nose and two stubby wing pylons filled with a variety of rocket pods, bombs, and missiles. It was firing its machine guns almost as soon as it popped into sight.

Hal Briggs's position was hit first, and the gunner's aim was perfect. The hail of bullets from the gunship was like a massive swarm of fifty-caliber bees-they were beginning to sting, and after enough stings, they could kill. "Motherfucker!" Hal Briggs cursed. "That bastard got my rail gun. Chris has the only one left."

The Libyan soldiers cheered and dashed back into their vehicles, ready to resume the fight. Chris Wohl turned and aimed his rail gun at the retreating helicopter gunship-but at that moment, another Mi-24 appeared from the east, no more than fifty feet above the desert, and launched a salvo of rockets at Wohl's position, while the gunner started hammering at Patrick with the steerable cannons.

The gunner swung his cannon away from Patrick after only a quarter-second burst, choosing to concentrate fire on the armed stranger and assuming Patrick would go down under the barrage of gunfire. That gave Patrick his chance. As the Mi-24 cruised over the highway, Patrick used his thrusters and leaped at it. He landed on the left side of the helicopter right between the gunner and pilot's cupolas. Patrick drove his left hand through the bow in the pilot's forward windscreen, drove his left foot through the gunner's left window, then punched through the pilot's left window with his right fist.

The pilot screamed. Patrick grabbed the pilot's throat with his armored right hand. "Wa'if! Awiz aruh hena, ala tul!" he said over the roar of the huge rotor overhead through his electronic translator. "Stop and land it right here." The Mi-24's flight engineer, seated right ehind the pilot in a small jump seat, tried to pull Patrick's hand off his pilot's neck-Patrick finally knocked him out with a bolt of electricity from his shoulder-mounted electrodes. Threatened with having his throat crushed, the Libyan pilot set the big gunship down, and Patrick knocked him out too with an electric shock.

Meanwhile, Chris Wohl rolled to his feet and checked over his rail gun-still operational. He was going to line up on the second Mi-24, which was wheeling back around for another pass. "Sarge! The tank!" He saw that the Libyan tank's crew members had almost reached the entry hatch. He fired one shot that blew the driver's upper torso apart, spattering the entire top of the tank with blood and gore. The other tankers froze and raised their hands in surrender.

Hal Briggs tried to make a jump for the road, but his thrusters wouldn't push into the sand, and he could only jump a few feet into the air. But suddenly, behind him, Muhammad Sanusi's Humvee roared toward him. Without slowing, Sanusi steered right for Hal. With perfect timing, Hal jetted up just before the Humvee reached him, and Hal landed on the Humvee's hard top. He clutched onto the roof as the Humvee roared toward the highway. Just before reaching the highway, Hal jetted off the roof and landed on the easternmost armored personnel carrier just as the last man was climbing aboard. He took command of the 12.7millimeter machine gun on the commander's cupola, swung it around, hit and killed one APC commander who was covering his men, then raked machine-gun fire over the heads of the other APCs beside him until the crews froze with their hands in the air.

The second Mi-24 was coming around again. Wohl turned to fire at it, but the rail gun was out of commission, damaged in the rocket attack. The Mi-24 attack helicopter's steerable cannon lined up on Sanusi's Humvee. Hal fired from the commandeered Libyan APC, but the Mi-24's armor was too strong and the bullets had no effect. "Chris! Tag that son of a bitch!" But he saw in his own electronic visors that their last rail gun was out of commission. "Look out!"

Suddenly, a small explosion erupted on the right side of the Mi-24. Another of Sanusi's Sandstorm warriors in what looked like a World War II-vintage jeep had fired an RPG round at the helicopter, missing the tail rotor and cockpit and hitting only the heavily armored side. The Mi-24 wheeled in an impossibly tight right turn and fired a rocket salvo, and at that range the attack was devastating. The jeep exploded in a twisted, burning hunk of metal. Hal continued to fire on the Mi-24, hoping that his shells would hit something vital, but he couldn't tell if he was hitting anything at all.

Then he saw Sanusi's Humvee stop, and Muhammad asSanusi himself climbed out, went into the back of the vehicle, and emerged with a man-portable Stinger missile system. But the Mi-24 pilot saw him at the same time, and he wheeled the helicopter left to line up on him-the nose cannon was already leading into the turn. "Sanusi! Take cover!" Briggs shouted.

But Sanusi stood his ground. With his men firing rifles at the oncoming helicopter, the king stood calmly, his feet together, and hefted the Stinger to his right shoulder. He activated the battery, powered on the unit, then pulled a lever with his right thumb, uncovering the missile's seeker head. The Mi-24's cannon started firing long before the pilot finished the turn, and at less than a mile away, he couldn't miss. The shells made a rooster tail of sand race across the desert, headed right for Sanusi. The ripple of sand reached the king just as Sanusi pulled the launch trigger and sent the Stinger blasting out of the launch tube.

The missile exploded on the Mi-24 gunship's left engine intake, and the force of the explosion followed by the complete destruction of the left engine caused the Mi-24's main rotor to fly off in a cloud of fire. The helicopter plunged straight forward into the desert floor, then flipped upside down on its back before exploding less than a hundred meters from where the king of united Libya stood.

It was as if everyone, including the Libyan soldiers, were stunned motionless as they saw the sand and dust settle and King Idris the Second still standing, holding the Stinger launcher triumphantly in one hand, laughing loudly as the smoke and debris from the wrecked helicopter gunship wafted near him-but it was as if even the smoke and flames dared not touch him. His men cheered as they rolled up to cover him, but Zuwayy's soldiers did not try to run or fight-instead, moments later, they joined in the cheering.

"Pretty good shooting, Your Highness," Patrick said as he and the other Night Stalkers joined him a few moments later.

"Shukran gazilan," Sanusi replied. He looked at the other Mi-24 gunship and nodded happily. "Pretty good piece of flying yourself, Mr. McLanahan." Sanusi's men were already taking possession of the vehicles that were still intact-one T-60 tank, four armored personnel carriers, and a Mil Mi-24 helicopter gunship.

To Patrick's surprise, Sanusi's men and a good number of the Libyan soldiers were greeting each other like longlost brothers-the Libyan soldiers were tearing off insignia and patches that had anything to do with Zuwayy's regime, and Sanusi's men were giving the defecting soldiers imperial insignia to wear. Moments later, they were all lined up before the king and each individually swore loyalty to him in front of the others. They all did so without one moment's hesitation. The two surviving officers refused to swear loyalty to the true king of united Libya-and were executed on the spot by a knife thrust to the heart, by their own men.

"Turns out most of these men were from the same town, west of Tripoli," Sanusi said several minutes later after he rejoined Patrick and the other Night Stalkers. "They are based at Al-Jawf. They were sent out to investigate the reports of nuclear weapons and possible hostile military presence at Jaghbub. They believe that if they made contact with any enemy forces Jaghbub was going to be attacked by attack helicopters and bombers from Zillah or rockets from Al-Jawf."

"Strange that the Libyans haven't sent more troops, Your Highness," Hal Briggs observed as the day wore on. "They lost three attack helicopters and a light armor scout platoon-I thought they'd be a bit more curious as to why."

"They didn't lose them," Sanusi replied with a smile. "The platoon has checked in every hour on the half hour, as ordered. The platoon is continuing their search of Jaghbub. They have encountered heavier-than-expected radiation levels, however, and are advising against sending any more forces toward the town." He was pleased at Briggs's smile.

"Clever, sir. But you realize that won't last long."

"We have extended the fiction another day or two, I think," Sanusi acknowledged. "But soon the platoon will be relieved, and that's when Zuwayy will strike with force."

"That's why we need to attack," Patrick said. "Let's get back to Jaghbub and get our planes in the air."