Wings of Fire

CHAPTER 7

"Grumble Twelve, this is Lion Seven at checkpoint two-nine-three."

Dead on course. With all the activity around the base as the division got ready to go to war with the Egyptians, it was a relief to have a helicopter crew where it was supposed to be, especially at night. "Acknowledged, Lion Seven," the Libyan air defense radio operator replied. "Radar contact, four-eight kilometers bull's-eye. Verify altitude."

"Altitude four hundred."

Checked-right on course and altitude, although he was very late checking in. If only all the army aviation guys did it this well, the air defense operator thought, his job would be a lot easier. "Acknowledged. Descend to two hundred meters on course. Are you a single ship?"

"Affirmative, Lion Seven."

The commander of the S-300 surface-to-air missile site stood behind the radar station and Optronics officer's station, listening in. He narrowed his eyes in thought. "He is very late-almost outside the code change time limit," he said, verbalizing his thoughts to the backs of his crew's heads. Radio and identification codes were changed daily, and deployed units had to return to receive new ones within three hours of the changeover time or risk getting shot down without warning. "Does his transponder check?" he asked his radio operator.

"Yes, sir."

Something still didn't feel right. The commander keyed his command channel radio button: "Lion Seven, are you single ship tonight?"

"Affirmative."

"Where are your wingmen?"

"One unit is daeyikh," the pilot of the inbound helicopter reported. That meant it had been destroyed. "The other unit has stayed behind to assist. We are returning for a code change."

"Acknowledged," the commander said. That was standard procedure: Perhaps an officer aboard the undamaged helicopter had returned with this crew to pick up new decoding documents, because no aircraft could approach Zillah, especially at night but anytime under this wartime posture, without a valid transponder code.

The S-300 commander, situated thirty kilometers northeast of Zillah, had already alerted his battery and the two flanking missile batteries of the approaching helicopter five minutes ago when it popped up on radar. The S-300 air defense system, one of the best all-altitude long-range surface-to-air missile systems in the world, had managed to pick up the low-flying helicopter ninety kilometers away even though it was only four hundred meters above the desert-the S-300's powerful multiscan radar could pick up aircraft as low as thirty meters' altitude or as high as thirty thousand meters and as far as three hundred kilometers away.

There were only three security ingress routes into Zillah, and they changed daily. All flight crews were required to cross a route entry point and then fly a designated ingress track until positive visual contact was made. The S-300 system also employed a powerful target-tracking low-light telescope, normally used in high-radar-jamming environments or when the radar was down, but was used routinely for aircraft identification. While the aircraft stayed on course, the S-300 Optronics operator could easily locate and track it. Each aircraft had an identifying infrared-fluorescent code stripe on its nose and sides to aid in long-range identification; the stripes were changed on a random basis, usually once every week.

The commander stood over the primary radar engagement officer and his assistant, frowning at his own confusing thoughts. While the radio operator verified the authentication codes, the radar officers checked the transponder identification codes, which showed up on the radar screen along with the target's speed, altitude, and call sign. Everything checked okay. So why was he so nervous about this inbound?

"Air defense alert," the commander said suddenly. He looked at his watch, then made a note in his log. "All units, prepare to repel airborne attackers. This is not an exercise."

His crew members turned to look at their commander in surprise, then snapped their necks around, frantically checking their indicators and screens for any sign of an intruder, something they missed. There was nothing. But they responded anyway: the deputy pressed a button on his control panel, which sounded a Klaxon throughout the battery that an attack was imminent; reload crews began making preparations to load another four-round missile rack onto the transporter-erector-launchers; and a warning was sent out to all aircraft and all air defense units in the region, warning of an impending attack.

The brigade command phone rang almost immediately: "Lieutenant, what do you have?" the air defense brigade commander asked.

"Inbound Mi-24 attack helicopter, Lion Seven, sir."

"Does he authenticate?"

"His codes are almost invalid, but as of right now, he has been verified."

"Any other targets?"

"No, sir."

"Then why did you issue the air defense warning, Lieutenant?"

The commander swallowed but did not otherwise hesitate: "Sir, Lion Seven left his wingman behind, even though he reported another wingman destroyed. All of our aviation units understand the importance of returning to base to be issued up-to-date authentication documents-they must do so unless they are actively engaging the enemy."

The brigade commander hesitated. The lieutenant was a prior noncommissioned aviation officer, well experienced in both air defense and aviation procedures-at least, the lieutenant hoped the brigade commander remembered.

But it came down to only one thing, which the brigade commander pointed out moments later: "That's not a violation of procedures or a cause for issuing a general air defense warning. So… you're saying you have a hunch, is that it, Lieutenant?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, you're allowed all the hunches you like, Lieutenant-it'll keep the men on their toes," the brigade commander said after another lengthy, agonizing pause. "But may I remind you that your battery will have to reposition to another location after the alert is over, so your men will be up all night."

"I am aware of that, sir." Once the missile batteries turned on their radars, spy planes and satellites could map their location easily, so it was important to move the missiles and radars around to make it more difficult for the enemy to find and target their radars. Fortunately, the S-300 missile system was very easy to relocate-it took less than a half hour to set up again after finding a suitable spot. The units were moved several times a week-no more than a few hundred meters, but far enough where garbage pits, latrines, and launcher anchor points had to be retlug each time out of the desert. That was usually the hardest part, and the aspect of the move that caused the most grumbling. "Very well." The lieutenant was one of the best battery commanders in the entire brigade. The lieutenant started out as a conscript after dropping out of high school at the age of fifteen. By the age of eighteen, he had accepted a regular enlistment, and just two years after that was made a noncommissioned officer. Being prior enlisted himself, he could handle his enlisted men, conscripts, and noncommissioned officers just fine. "Report your threat assessment and engagement to the brigade operations officer immediately after you've called off the alert." There were a few clacks in the net; then, on the brigade-wide channel, the lieutenant heard, "All units, all units, Twelve has issued a general air defense warning for the brigade. Report and correlate all contacts now. This is Brigade, out."

My God, what in hell is going on here?" Greg "Gonzo" Wickland, the mission commander aboard the EB-52 Megafortress, exclaimed. They had just launched from Jaghbub and had no sooner turned southbound on course than the entire Libyan air defense network seemed to light up all at once. "SA-10, SA-11, SA-5s-every theater and tactical air defense radar is on the air all of a sudden."

"Sanusi's men didn't make it," the aircraft commander, George "Zero" Tanaka, surmised. "The Libyans probably shot down the Mi-24, and that alerted the whole country."

"What do we do?"

"We press on," Tanaka said. "The Hind helicopter was just a feint-we can still go in on our own,"

Wickland shook his head. "This is crazy, Zero," he said. "We've got the gas to get us all the way to Iceland-why didn't he just order us to head west and link up with a tanker to send us home? We're loaded down with crappy Russian bombs and missiles that probably won't work; we're surrounded by bad guys; and this isn't even our damned fight!"

"Just button it, will you, Gonzo?"

"I'm serious here, man!" Wickland shouted. "What are we doing here? I'm an engineer, for Chrissakes! I've never been in the military! My job is designing and testing weapons and attack systems and writing software, not dropping bombs on Libyans who want nothing more than to shoot my ass off! I want to-"

"Gonzo, I don't give a shit what you want," Tanaka interrupted. "Just keep the computers humming and shut your pie-hole."

"Sure, go ahead-bitch at me. You're the ex-Air Force war hero-you get off on this shit, not me. It's McLanahan who's going to get our asses shot off! I didn't come out here to…"

"Wickland, I said, shut the fuck up," Tanaka said. "You knew exactly where we were going and what we were going to do, when we briefed this mission. You knew we were going to attack Libya, refuel and rearm, then attack again. You took the money, bought your Mercedes and your big house in Memphis, and got your big stock options. Now you gotta earn your money. So just fly the plane, keep those computers going and that nav system up tight, and shut up."

Wickland seemed to shrivel up just then. He sat upright in his ejection seat, seemingly oblivious to all the new air defense warnings popping up on their threat display. Tanaka looked over at him, and after a few moments realized that the guy was just plain scared. Tanaka, a twentyone-year veteran of the U.S. Air Force and retired lieutenant colonel, with over five thousand hours in about nine different tactical fighter and bomber aircraft, instantly felt sorry for him. Combat was just another phase of flight for Tanaka. The simulators they flew back at Sky Masters Inc.'s headquarters in Blytheville were a hundred times more hectic and every bit as realistic as the real thingTanaka thought it was excellent preparation for these operational missions, so much so that he felt ultraprepared for almost every Megafortress flight. He never realized that the other, less experienced guys might not think that way. Wickland was an engineer, a designer, not atombat aircrewman.

"Listen, Gonzo," Tanaka said, "I'm sorry. I know you're scared…."

"I'm not scared."

"Okay. That's fine. I just want you to do your job-"

"I'm going to do my job, George."

"Good. I know you will. Just think of this as just another sim ride. We're wringing out a new weapon code, that's all, nothing to it."

But as soon as Tanaka uttered those words, he knew they didn't ring true.

"I'm sorry, Greg," Tanaka went on. "We're not in the sim. We're not wringing out a new software program. This is the real thing. The missile that we fail to defeat or we don't see will kill us, not just crash the IPL or freeze the sim. I know you didn't sign up with the company to go to war. And I know you agreed to do this mission on the ground-but now we're in the air, and we're surrounded by about nine hostile SAM systems that will shoot us out of the sky the instant they get a lock on us, and you're having second thoughts." He paused, looking at Wickland, who said nothing. "Am I right?"

"Zero…"

"It's okay, Gonzo," Tanaka said. "We use these call signs and dress up in cool flight suits and pretend we're Tom Cruise and Anthony Edwards in Top Gun, but the truth is hammering us in the head right now-that we're in deep shit, that we could die any second up here; and if we do, no one will know what the hell we're doing up here. We'll be dead, and that's all." Wickland remained silent, but he turned to his aircraft commander, his chest inflating and deflating as if he was having trouble breathing all of a sudden.

"Gonzo, we don't have to do this if you don't want to," Tanaka said. "This is the general's fight, not ours. We're the crew members aboard this plane, but we're not sworn to fight and die for whoever the company is doing all this for. We signed a contract to fly planes for Sky Masters Inc., not get our asses shot at by a thousand Libyan SAMs. So if you want to break out of here, we will."

Wickland's mouth opened in surprise. "You will?"

"Damn straight," Tanaka said. "I realize we're not in this to save our country. We're doing this because we like flying planes and building cool weapon systems and watching them work. So if you say so, I'll call the general right now and tell him we're aborting the mission."

"You will?" Wickland repeated, stunned.

"I said I would," Tanaka said. "We'll climb out, avoid all the SAMs and intercept radars, get out over open ocean away from all other air traffic, head toward the Scotland refueling anchor, and call for gas to take us home or land at our facility at Glasgow or Lossiemouth."

"We'll catch hell for doing that…."

"The company can't do dick to us, Gonzo. They can't fire us, they can't dock our pay, and they can't sue us."

"What about the guys on the ground?"

"If they're smart, they'll bug out shortly after we do," Tanaka said. "I'll let them know exactly what we're doing, and why." That made Wickland swallow hard-he was scared of dying, obviously, but also scared of being thought of as a coward by his cohorts. "Like I said, Gonzo, this is the general's fight, not ours. I'm flying this mission because I happen to believe that we're doing something good, something right-and besides, I like flying this kick-ass plane into battle, real battle. But I respect your wishes, too-we do this together. So what do you say?"

Wickland looked at his supercockpit display, automatically entering commands or adjusting settings. He turned to Tanaka, opened his mouth as if to say something, then turned back to his console.

"Gonzo? What's it going to be?"

The mission commander shrugged. He was called the "mission commander," but truthfully he didn't feel like a commander of anything. All he wanted to do was build and test cutting-edge neural network computer systems. He didn't want to go to war.

Still…

"Let's keep going," he heard himself say. "I spent four hours getting the interface to work between those hunks of junk in our bomb bay-now I want to see if they'll work."

"Sounds like a plan to me," Tanaka said. "Let's plot a course around as many of these SAMs as we can, then make our way to the initial point on time." He was pleased to see Wickland immediately start punching the supercockpit display's touchscreen and speaking computer commands-he was back in the lab or in the sim, where he really belonged. Whatever it took to get his head where it needed to be…

"We've got two SA-lOs, one just nine miles east of the IP, the other forty miles west-northwest," Wickland reported. "Looks like they moved them since this morning when those Libyans scouted them."

"The target run will put us just inside lethal range of the second SAM after we're IP inbound, and he'll be alerted if we have to fire on the first site," Tanaka said. "What's the computer say?"

"It says let's get the fuck out of here, go home, and have a beer," Wickland quipped. He turned to Tanaka, smiled, and corrected himself, saying, "Nah, that was me-but I'll do what the computer says: descend to computergenerated lowest altitude, replot the IP to bypass the first SAM, and attack the second SAM with one antiradar missile. It'll take the first SAM at least thirty seconds to acquire us, and by that time we'll be just a few seconds out of detection range and within a minute of flying out of lethal range. We save one antiradar missile for later." He punched up instructions on the touchscreen. "Center up on the bug to the new IP. I've got COLA terrain-following mode selected, minimum safe altitude is on the barber pole."

"Roger, me," Tanaka said. Yep, he thought happily, he's back. "Here we go."

Grumble, this is Lion Seven," the Mi-24 pilot radioed. "I copy you have declared an air defense emergency. Do you need us to reverse course and reenter the security ap-

proach? We are five minutes from bingo fuel, and we have wounded on board. We must land immediately. Over."

The S-300 battery commander had a decision to make. The proper procedure was to kick all aircraft out of the airspace and have them reenter the restricted area, usually on a different ingress route to be sure they were familiar with all the routes, not just the one they filed for. But this guy was bingo fuel, and he obviously saw some kind of action.

Well, the lieutenant thought, all that wasn't his fault. That hot prickly sensation was still hammering away on the back of his neck-no time to ignore it now. "Lion Seven, reverse course and reenter through checkpoint oneone-nine at three hundred meters."

He heard the pilot radio a muttered "Insha'allah," which in this case probably more closely meant "Who do you think you are, God?" rather than "If God wills it." But the pilot responded curtly, "Roger, Grumble Twelve. Reversing course."

"He sounded pretty mad, sir," the radar operator observed.

"If he runs out of fuel and crashes, I'll take the blame for it," the lieutenant said. "But as long as we follow procedures, we can't be faulted too badly. Clear your screens and report."

The radar operators switched their radar briefly from short-range tracking and identification to long-range search. The short-range tracking gave altitude information and more precise tracking information, but sacrificed range, so the radar had to be manually reset for longerrange scans on occasion. The Mi-24 helicopter briefly disappeared from the radar display when the mode was changed. "Radar is clear, sir."

"Very well. Continue tracking Seven to the ingress point."

"Yes, sir."

"Comm, ask him his fuel state again. If we need to, we'll have to coordinate an off-base refueling."

"Yes, sir." He turned to his radios; the lieutetlant lit a cigarette while they worked. But moments later: "Sir, no reply from Lion Seven!"

The creepy-crawling sensation on the back of the lieutenant's neck was raging now; he crushed the cigarette out with a stamp of a foot. "Radar…?"

"He just disappeared off the scope, sir," the radar operator reported. "I had his transponder signal and primary target just a moment ago-now it's gone."

"Any ELTs?"

The radio operator switched his intercom panel-and sure enough, they heard a ping-ping-ping-ping! signal on the international emergency frequency. The ELT, or emergency locator transmitter, activated automatically upon impact if the helicopter crashed.

"Shit," the lieutenant cursed, "he crashed. I thought he said he was bingo fuel-he should've had at least a thirty-minute reserve. Those hot dog helo pilots would rather kill themselves than admit they screwed up and stretched their fuel past safe tolerances. Give me a bearing to the signal, notify Units Ten and Nine and have them triangulate his position, then send it to Brigade to organize an immediate rescue." He picked up the command phone. "Brigade, Twelve."

"Go ahead."

"Sir, we have lost contact with Lion Seven. We are picking up an ELT; he may have crashed. He reported he was low on fuel, but he first reported that he…"

"Sir, unidentified fast-moving aircraft inbound, range thirty-five kilometers and closing! "

"Release all batteries!" the lieutenant shouted, still with his finger on the phone's call switch. He threw the phone into its cradle. "Release batteries and fire!" He looked at the radar screen-it was a hopeless jumble of streaks, dots, swirls, and radiating electrical noise.

"We are being jammed, sir! Heavy jamming, all frequencies!"

"Switch to optronic control, search along the last known bearing. Switch the radar to short-scan multifrequency to simulate missile guidance uplink-let's see if he switches his jammers to counter the uplink. Where's the optronic crew? Report, dammit!"

"Optronics crew searching along predicted flight path… Sir, optronic crew has detected a fast-moving target!"

"Match bearings and reacquire in medium-scan mode!"

"Target reacquired.. target locked in medium-scan mode."

It was a crapshoot after this: time for the missile to fly to its target minus ten seconds, the minimum amount of time it took to lock on with the more precise short-range scan, then transmit the uplink data to guide the missile to its target. No time for guessing now… "Release batteries and launch two."

The deputy commander hit the "LAUNCH" alarm, flipped a switch guard, and then reached down inside the switch to a covered button underneath. Moving the switch set off another alarm in the command cab; the lieutenant silenced the horn with a commander's "pickle switch" that he held in his left hand, which issued a consent command to the launch controller.

Outside, at a launcher two hundred meters away, a three-thousand-pound missile popped out of its launch tube from a slug of compressed nitrogen. The missile flew straight up for about seventy feet before the solid-rocket booster ignited, quickly accelerating the missile to well over five times the speed of sound.

"Twenty seconds to impact." Three seconds later, they heard a second loud blast from outside-the second 5V55K missile had popped out of its launch tube and was following the first on its way to the target. "Second missile away.. fifteen seconds to impact."

"Stand by to switch to narrow-beam mode.. now."

The engagement officer switched radar modes. "Target acquired in narrow-scan mode… target locked, sir! Ten seconds to-"

Suddenly the entire command vehicle violently rocked on'its eight wheels. The I radar of the S-

300 was carried aboard the same semi-trailer truck as the command unit. The lights flickered, then went out completely. Moments later, a second object struck the vehicle, harder than the first. A burst of fire erupted from the control console. "Evacuate! Now!" the lieutenant shouted. The crew members ran outside just as thick black smoke began billowing out of the command cab.

As the command crew assembled outside, the lieutenant quickly determined the cause of the double explosion-a Mil Mi-24 attack helicopter, just a few kilometers away, was firing guided antitank missiles at the S-300 battery. He realized then that the Mi-24 hadn't crashed-it had just ducked down below the S-300's radar coverage, cruised in, and attacked. It was flying perhaps ten meters above the desert, flying at just thirty or forty kilometers an hour, slowly and carefully picking its targets. Occasionally a blast of machine-gun fire erupted from its nose cannon, followed by a streak of fire as its laser-guided missiles sped off their launch rails and hit home.

In seconds, it was over-and the entire S-300 battery, eight launchers and a I vehicle, had been destroyed, and the Mi-24 helicopter simply disappeared into the night sky. Soon, only the sounds of burning vehicles and screaming men could be heard.

King Sayyid Muhammad ibn al-Hasan as-Sanusi, on board the Mi-24 helicopter in the flight engineer's station, patted the pilot on the shoulders, then turned to the radio console at the engineer's station behind the cockpit. "Headbanger, Headbanger, this is Lion," he radioed. 'Target Alpha is down, repeat, Alpha is down. Commence your run."

At that moment, he saw a long trail of fire coming from the direction of Zillah Air Base. The bombers were on their way.

He hoped to hell the Megafortress could stop them.

LADAR coming on… now," Greg Wickland reported. Seconds later: "LADAR standby." The image frozen in his wide-screen supercockpit display was almost as clear as a sixteen-color photograph. What he saw horrified him: "The bombers-they're gone."

"Oh, shit," George "Zero" Tanaka muttered. He strained to take a look at the supercockpit display. "Looks like two planes still on the base, getting ready for takeoff."

"Fighters," Wickland said. "MiG-23s. Must be the last of the bombers' air cover." He flashed the LADAR on and off several times so he could keep watch on the fighters, taking a laser snapshot and then rolling and turning the three-dimensional image to pick up as much detail as possible. Soon he could see them rolling down the runwaythe LADAR even detected their afterburner plumes. "Looks like they're heading north-not toward us." He turned to his aircraft commander. "Our mission was to try to destroy the bombers or crater the runway so the bombers couldn't launch. We missed them. What do we do now? There's no use attacking the base if the bombers are gone." His eyes grew wide with fear as he started to guess what Tanaka had in mind: "You're not thinking of going after the bombers, are you?"

"It's our only chance of stopping them."

"We've only got eight air-to-air missiles," Wickland reminded his AC-not just for Tanaka's benefit, but also to assure himself of how dangerous this plan really was. The EB-52 Megafortress carried eight radar-guided AIM-120 Scorpion missiles in stealthy external weapon pods, along with four AGM-88 HARMs (high-speed antiradar missiles). Internally, the EB-52 carried a rotary launcher with eight AGM-154 JSOW (joint standoff weapons), which were satellite- and imaging-infrared-guided thousandpound glide bombs that could be targeted by the laser radar and attack computers; plus another rotary launcher with eight Wolverine powered "brilliant" cruise missiles, which could locate and attack their own targets. "It's crazy. I think we ought to-" +

"Listen, Wickland," Tanaka interrupted angrily, "right now, I don't care what you think." He dropped his oxygen mask and looked at his mission commander with pure anger. "I asked you before we entered hostile airspace if you wanted to do this, and you said 'press on.' Now we've stirred up the hornet's nest, we've got friendlies on the ground directly in harm's way, and we are not going to back down now."

"But you said-"

"I know what I said, and I was right-this wasn't our fight, and this is not our country," Tanaka said. "But we're committed. Do you understand that, Wickland? The time to back out was twenty minutes ago before Sanusi's forces entered defended airspace, or even five minutes ago before we started jamming the Libyan SAM sites. Now we're in the middle of the shit, and I'm not just turning around and going home. So you'd better do your job and do it damn well, or I won't wait to be blown up by a I-/'// put a bullet up your ass myself. Now give me a heading to those planes."

Wickland silently did what he was ordered to do. The MiG-23 fighters turned east-northeast, and Tanaka rolled in about thirty miles behind them to follow. Less than fifteen minutes later, they detected another flight of aircraft: three Tupolev-22 supersonic bombers, heading northeast toward the Gulf of Sidra. "There they are," Tanaka said. He began to push the throttles up until they were in full military power.

"What are you doing?" Wickland asked.

"We've got to nail those guys before the fighters join up," Tanaka said. "Those are Tupolev-22s-they're just as fast as the MiGs. Once they join up, they'll accelerate to attack speed, and we'll never catch them."

Wickland was silent, but Tanaka could sense the fear in his body as they quickly closed in. "Eight miles to go… seven miles, coming up on max missile range," he said. "Six miles… five… the bombers will still get away…."

"At this point, we'll just have to hope we take the tailend Charlie fighters out-maybe the bombers will break up once they find out their fighters are gone," Tanaka said.

"We're in max range." Wickland quickly touched the supercockpit display and spoke: "Attack target."

"Attack MiG-23 Scorpion, stop attack," the computer responded. Moments later, the first AIM-120 air-to-air missile shot out of the starboard external weapon pod and streaked off into the darkness.

But the MiGs must have sensed something was wrong, or maybe one of the pilots was checking his six, because the MiG-23 fighters suddenly peeled away from the formation, dropped decoy flares, climbed rapidly, then reversed direction. Seconds later, they heard a high-pitched DEEDLE DEEDLE DEEDLE! warning and a female computerized voice announcing, "Warning, fighter search radar, MiG-23, eleven o'clock, sixteen miles," followed immediately by a fast-paced DEEDLEDEEDLEDEEDLE! and "Warning, fighter radar lock, MiG-23, eleven o'clock, high, fifteen miles."

"The Scorpion broke lock," Wickland said. At that moment the second MiG-23 turned sharply right, and the two Tu-22 bombers accelerated and rapidly descended. "The second fighter is coming at us, and the bombers are getting away!" Wickland cried.

Tanaka hit his voice command button: "Evasive action! Configure for terrain following!" he spoke. Immediately the flight computer responded to the voice command, nosing the EB-52 bomber over in a hard twenty-degree nosedown dive. Tanaka kept the power in, diving right to max airspeed-the throttles automatically pulled themselves back to keep from exceeding the airframe's design speed. "Where are those fighters, dammit?"

"Got 'em!" Wickland shouted. "Closest one is coming around to our nine o'clock. The nearest bomber is at our one o'clock, thirty-two miles." He touched the icon for the Tu-22 bomber, then hit his voice command stud: "Attack priority," Wickland told the attack computer.

"Target out of range," the computer responded.

"We know the bomber's heading for Jaghbub," Tanaka said. "We'll head over that way and bushwhack — him." He turned the bomber farther to the northeast, cutting off the corner of the route to try to head the Libyan bombers off. "Warning, MiG-23, seven o'clock, eleven miles, high." The Megafortress was now down at three hundred feet above the desert, flying at nearly full military power at four hundred and twenty knots airspeed. "I think we're losing the MiGs," Wickland said. "They're trying to get a shot off from up high."

"Warning, MiG-23, six o'clock, eight miles, high." "If he stays high, he'll try a radar shot any second," Tanaka guessed. "If he follows us down, he'll try a heater next."

"Then let's see if we can make him stay up high," Wickland said. To the attack computer, he said, "Deploy towed array."

From a fairing in the tail of the bomber, a small aerodynamic cylindrical object extended out in the bomber's slipstream on an armored fiber-optic cable, quickly going out three hundred feet from the tail. The object was a transmitter that could broadcast a variety of signals-radar jamming, spoofing, noise, heat, or laser signals. When the array was extended, Wickland called up a program on the defensive system and activated it.

On board the Libyan MiG-23, the pilot's radar warning receivers started to go crazy-it was as if an entire squadron of American F-15 fighters was closing in on him. As he was wondering why he didn't see them coming, suddenly the radar warning receiver told him every one of the F-15s was launching missiles at him!

He knew it couldn't be true-there were no F-15s in the middle of Libya. But he could not ignore the warnings. The pilot immediately dropped radar and missile-decoying chaff and flares and executed a tight left break to escape what he believed were a dozen AIM-7 Sparrow missiles heading toward him.

The second MiG-23 did the same, breaking in the opposite direction-but not before he fired an R-60 heatseeking missile from less than six miles away.

"Warning, missile launch, MiG-23, five o'clock, six miles," the computer's female voice calmly reported. But as it reported the attack, it was already responding. The towed array instantly began transmitting infrared energy signals, making the heat-seeking missiles think they were pursuing a huge heat source the size of a house. Seconds later, the computer ejected decoy devices that emitted hot points of infrared energy that drifted down and away from the Megafortress, then shut off the infrared energy signal from the towed array. When the R-60 missile was able to pick up a target again, after being dazzled by the huge heat source, all it saw was the tiny, hot, slow-moving dot of the high-tech decoy-too inviting a target to ignore. The first R-60 missiles plowed into the decoy two miles behind the Megafortress, safely out of range.

With the decoy destroyed, the second R-60 missile fired by the MiG-23 veered back toward the Megafortress. It was too close to be decoyed by the towed array again, so another defensive system activated: the active laser defensive system. Directed by the EB-52's laser radar, a large helium-argon laser mounted in a fairing atop the Megafortress fired beams of laser light at the oncoming R-

60 missile. After a few seconds, the missile's seeker head was blinded by the laser's intense heat and light, and the missile could no longer track.

"We got it!" Wickland shouted. "We-!"

Just then, they heard a fast-paced DEEDLEDEEDLEDEEDLE! warning tone and the computerized voice say calmly, "Warning, radar missile launch MiG-23 R-

24. " The first MiG-23 had turned around, locked onto the EB-52, and had taken a shot with a radar-guided missile, then a second one.

'Take defensive action," Tanaka told the computer. The computer was way ahead of its human commander: It immediately ejected decoy devices from the left ejection chambers, tiny winged canisters that had several times the radar cross-section and infrared signature of the largest aircraft in the world-then threw the EB-52 bomber into a steep right bank. The defensive systems in the EB-52 Meg,afortress bomber were completely automatic: The tiny decoys made invitingly large targets, and with the bomber in a tight turn, the decoys were all alone in space, dangling themselves in front of the Libyan missiles. Along with the decoys, the Megafortress emitted jamming signals to the MiG-23's India-band radar that prevented the radar from tracking any other targets but the decoy.

With the power and airspeed already up, the bomber was able to sustain a tight ninety-degree bank turn for several long seconds, crushing both crew members into their seats with unexpectedly heavy G-forces. Both crew members caught a glimpse of one bright explosion out the left window-one of the missiles had exploded less than a hundred yards off their left wingtip. The second R-24 radar-guided missile was handled by the active laser defensive systemit took only a few seconds for the laser to completely blind the second missile, and it continued on straight ahead and harmlessly exploded on the desert floor below.

But after its tight defensive break, the Megafortress was dangerously slow. Tanaka rolled the big bomber out of its tight turn, keeping the power in full military power and the nose pointed down to try to quickly regain lost airspeed. The first Libyan MiG-23 had overshot the EB-52-but the second MiG-23, which had stayed down low to maintain contact, was now in perfect attack position, directly behind the Megafortress. It closed in almost at the speed of sound in seconds. "Warning, bandit six o'clock, four miles, MiG-23," the computer warned. "Warning, MiG-23 six o'clock, three miles.. warning, missile launch detected…"

The Megafortress's next defensive weapon automatically activated: the Stinger airmine system. Instead of the fifty-caliber or thirty-millimeter machine guns in earlier B-52 bombers, the EB-52 Megafortress carried a fiftymillimeter cannon that fired small LADAR-guided rockets. With a range of about three miles, the tiny rockets were steered toward incoming enemy aircraft or missiles and then detonated ahead of them, creating a cloud of titanium flak that could shred jet engines with ease. The crew heard a poof! poof! poof! sound far behind them and a hard jolt every few seconds as the small rockets were launched. The MiG-23 that stayed down low flew through a cloud of tungsten pellets that shredded the cockpit canopy and engine; the pilot punched out just before his fighter started to spin out of control.

'Tail's clear, Zero!" Wickland crowed. "The MiG up high looks like he's staying up there trying to find us."

"Where are those bombers?" Tanaka asked.

Wickland expanded out his display. "Eleven o'clock, forty miles. Three fast-movers, low. They're within fifty miles of Jaghbub, going almost six hundred knots. I'm not sure if we can catch them. They'll be over the base in five minutes."

"Nike, this is Headbanger," Tanaka radioed to Chris Wohl.

"Go."

"You've got three inbounds, ETE five minutes. We can't catch them unless you can get them to turn around."

Wohl turned to Hal Briggs. "Sir, we need a distraction for those bombers," he said. "What do they have in storage?"

"Just about anything you want," Hal said. "I'll be right back." Briggs jet-jumped out toward the underground weapon-storage area. He came back a few minutes later carrying a twin-barreled 12.7-millimeter truck-mounted antiaircraft gun and a large metal box of ammunition. He jet-jumped to an isolated area about two miles west of the airfield, as far away as possible from the underground shelters where Sanusi's men were taking cover. 'This what you had in mind, Sarge?"

"It's about time, sir," Wohl said. He was already scanning the sky with his battle armor's sensors for the incoming bombers. "Get ready."

"Nike, one minute out. We're still just out of missile range."

Hal Briggs had to work fast with an unfamiliar weapon, trying to quickly get the ammunition belt fed-snto the feeder. Normally the action was engaged electrically in the gun, but luckily Briggs found a manual crank that he used to wind a spindle that would fire the first round-after that, gas from the cartridges should initiate the action.

"What are you doing over there, sir?" Wohl called out.

"Hey, you try and load this thing." In a second Wohl dashed over to him, gave Briggs his electromagnetic rail gun, and started unfeeding the backward-looped ammunition belt. "Now we're talking!" Briggs shouted as he hefted the big high-tech weapon.

"Just don't miss, sir-we're running out of projectiles," Wohl growled.

"Oh, pul-leese." Briggs plugged in the data cable to his belt, charged the weapon, raised it, and followed the cues in his helmet-mounted electronic visor. His visor gave him a complete status readout-Wohl was right, only two projectiles remaining. "Never bagged a bomber beforethis'll be fun."

"Fifteen seconds."

"I see it!" Briggs shouted. The Tupolev-22 bomber was coming in straight and level, about a thousand feet above ground, at six hundred knots on the dot-the target was small, fast, and low. The aiming system in the battle armor wasn't a lead-computing sight-this was going to be a thousand-in-one shot. Briggs fired at two miles out, just as he saw a stick of bombs drop from the bomb bay. "Take cover!" he shouted. "Bombs away!"

The streak of burning air from the projectile passed in front of the bomber's nose by several hundred feet-he had led the target too much.

The bomber dropped a stick of six five-thousand-pound napalm canisters that created a tremendous wall of fire and a wave of heat that nearly pushed both of them over. The intent was obvious-he was marking the target area for the second bomber.

Briggs whirled around and aimed. The first bomber was in a steep climbing right turn in full afterburner-a perfect profile. This time, the streak of superheated air passed right through the forward section of the Tupolev-22's fuselage. Just when Briggs thought he might have missed it again, a tongue of flame spat out from the left engine compartment. The Tu-22 twisted unnaturally to the left, its nose moving higher into the sky. Both afterburners winked out-Briggs could now see it through only the rail gun's electronic sights. The bomber seemed to hang in midair, like a big graceful eagle climbing on a thermal-then there were four puffs of light and smoke as all four crew members ejected, and the bomber did a tail-side straight down and crashed into the desert just north of the minefield.

Meanwhile, Chris Wohl had finally loaded the dual antiaircraft cannon. He held the gun up in his left hand by its mounting pedestal, held the ammunition can in his right hand, then swiveled to the west and scanned the sky, looking for the oncoming bombers. Suddenly, Wohl started firing into the sky. The big antiaircraft gun bucked and shook, but thanks to Wohl's exoskeleton, he was able to keep the weapon fairly steady. Every twelfth shell from the can was a tracer round, and as he swept the sky to the west, he created a snakelike wave of light in the sky. The ammunition was gone in a few seconds; Wohl dropped the gun and the ammo can, and both he and Briggs jet-jumped away from that spot-they knew what was going to happen next….

The second Tu-22 bomber veered hard to the south, away from the tracers-but the third bomber came in hard and fast and laid down a stick of thirty or forty fivehundred-pound high-explosive bombs, right on the spot where Briggs and Wohl had been positioned. The incredible pounding from the bombs knocked both men off their feet, and it seemed like dirt, dust, sand, and all sorts of debris rained down on them for at least the next ten minutes. Their battle armor's power was almost depleted by that time-but they survived the attack.

The third bomber stayed low and accelerated straight ahead without using afterburners, as it was supposed to do in a defended area, so it was able to escape. But the second Tu-22 that did the hard bank turned away from the airfield-right into the waiting missile range of the Megafortress's AIM-120 missiles. Wickland dispatched it quickly with one Scorpion missile.

"You guys all right back there?" Tanaka asked.

"Everyone's in one piece," Briggs said, "and they didn't hit the airfield, so I think we're still in business. Where did that third bomber go?"

"He's bugging out-probably wondering where his two wingmen went," Tanaka said. "We're going to head back and finish the job on Zillah, then see if there's anything we can hit at Al-Jawf. Keep your heads down. Headbanger clear."

Wickland pressed the attack at Zillah Air Base thirty minutes later by first firing one antiradar missile at the airfield surveillance radar at Zillah Air Base, then at another unexpected SA-10 mobile surface-to-air missile site that had just activated its radar, both from high altitude. After defending themselves from the SAM sites, Wickland used the laser radar and took second-long snapshots of the base, magnifying and enhancing the images until he could identify them as precisely as possible, then designated specific targets and loaded their coordinates into the AGM-154 Joint Standoff Weapons. Once the target coordinates were entered, the attack computer loaded a released track into the autopilot.

The attack computer automatically opened the bomb doors and started releasing weapons when the bomber reached the release track. The AGM-154 JSOW did not need to be at a precise weapon-release point-at high altitude, they could glide unpowered for up to forty miles and flew to their targets with uncanny accuracy. Four of the six JSOWs were programmed for Zillah's main runway, cratering it enough so no heavy or high-performance aircraft could use it. For the other four targets, Wickland switched on an imaging-infrared sensor in the weapon's nose as it got closer to its target, and if the weapon was off-course he could lock it onto their exact impact points-a building they suspected as the base command post and communications center, the fuel farm, a power plant, and the surveillance radar facility at the base of the control tower. The one-thousand-pound high-explosive warheads made short work of all targets-Zillah Air Base was effectively shut down with just eight well-placed hits.

The EB-52 then headed toward Al-Jawf, three hundred miles to the southeast. Attack procedures for the Wolverine cruise missiles were much different from those of the other precision-guided weapons: They didn't need any procedures. Each missile was programmed with a large set of targets in memory, and the missiles were simply released when about fifty miles from the target area. Wickland used the laser radar to try to spot targets and designate final impact points for the missiles, but the Wolverines liked it best when they were on their own. They used millimeter-wave radars to search for targets; then they would fly over the targets and drop either anti-armor CBU-97 Sensor-Fuzed Weapons or CBU-87 Combined Effects Munitions on light armor or other vehicles. The missiles would continue their search for targets, even turning around and reattacking if they found they missed a target. Then, before the missile's jet fuel ran out, the missile would either find a building or use a designated target sent to it from the Megafortress and fly into it, destroying the target with a two-hundred-pound high-explosive warhead.

With no air defenses detected, Tanaka and Wickland were able to orbit the area, taking LADAR snapshots of the base, looking for targets to direct the Wolverines, releasing the cruise missiles one every three to five minutes so each had plenty of time to find new targets that might present themselves. Aircraft parking areas, helipads, large vehicle parking areas, fuel storage areas, and weapon storage bunkers were favorite targets for the Wolverines' cluster munitions and sensor-fuzed weapons.

Wickland picked out buildings that looked like headquarters buildings, barracks, security buildings, and hangars for the terminal targets-but what he was really looking for were the rocket storage sheds, or even some surface-to-surface rockets themselves. According to the soldiers who joined Sanusi's Sandstorm warriors, the rockets at Al-Jawf were housed in long half-underground sheds. When it was time for deployment, trucks would hook up to the rocket transporter-erector-launchers and tow them to presurveyed launch points. They could be moved in a matter of minutes, and readied for launch in about a half hour after arriving at the launch point.

But twenty minutes after starting the attack, Wickland was disappointed. "Not one rocket anywhere," he said. "I didn't even see the storage sheds. Maybe they were one of the other buildings I attacked, but I didn't see anything that looked like it housed a Scud-sized rocket."

Tanaka checked the fuel readouts and the strategic planning chart on one of his multifunction displays. The display showed the position and fuel status of their support aircraft, the Sky Masters Inc. DC-10, proceeding from Scotland to the refueling anchor over the Mediterranean Sea. The fuel status of both the tanker and the Megafortress were represented as large circles-as long as the circles overlapped, they could rendezvous. But the edges of the circles were getting closer and closer-they couldn't wait any longer.

"Castor, this is Headbanger."

"I see it, guys," Patrick McLanahan said. He was able via datalink to look at the same strategic chart as the flight crew-and in fact he had been looking at that very display. "You're about fifteen minutes to bingo with the tanker."

"Sorry we couldn't get those rockets for you."

"Maybe you did get them-we won't know until we go in there and check. You did a good job, guys. Have a good trip home."

"Roger that. Good luck down there. Headbanger out."

Patrick met the Mi-24 attack helicopter as it settled in for a landing at one of the many helipads at the airfield near Jaghbub. He removed his helmet as Muhammad as-Sanusi climbed out of the helicopter and approached him. "It is good to see you, my friend," Sanusi said, embracing him warmly. "And it is good to see this place still in one piece." "Two bombers got in, but they dropped well short of the airfield," Patrick explained. "No damage, no casualties on our side."

"And your bomber is heading home?"

"He is a few minutes from rendezvousing with a tanker aircraft as we speak."

'Too bad. I would have liked to learn more about that plane's capabilities."

"We struck targets in Zillah and Al-Jawf," Patrick said. "The runway appears to have been cratered nicely, so the bombers and fighters there should've had to move to Surt Air Base. We struck several targets at Al-Jawf, but we can't be sure we hit any rockets. I'm afraid that threat still exists."

"But you have given us precious time to finish capturing the weapons stored here," Sanusi said. "By tomorrow afternoon, we should be long gone, with several million dollars' worth of weapons-enough to keep our little army going another few months. Thanks to you, my friend."

They heard the sounds of an approaching heavy helicopter, and a few moments later a CV-22 Pave Hammer tiltrotor aircraft settled in for a landing. Patrick extended his hand, and Sanusi took it. "I wish you luck, Your Highness," he said. "I don't know what's going to happen, but I was glad to be on your side."

"You are a good man and a fine leader, Mr. McLanahan," Sanusi said. "I am sorry about your wife; I hope God protects her. You will go home now to see your son, I presume?"

"Yes. But I have a little unfinished business in Alexandria first."

"You do not seem to be the vengeful type to me."

"I really don't know who or what I am anymore, Your Highness."

"I think I do-and I like what I see. I hope your superiors see it the same as I." Sanusi looked carefully at Patrick, then said with a faint smile, "I have a feeling we'll be seeing each other again, sir. I hope it is in happier times.

"I hope you're right, Your Highness," Patrick said. "But I don't think so."

From the seventeenth-floor high-rise apartment, one of the best high-rise condominiums in all of Egypt, Susan Bailey Salaam had an extraordinary view of Alexandria. From her living-room balcony she could see west all the way to the Corniche and Fort Qayt Bay, built on the site of the Pharos, the four-hundred-foot-tall lighthouse that was one of the seven wonders of the ancient world. From her bedroom, she could see all the way down Abu Qir Bay, the mouth of the Nile, and at night even see the glow of Cairo far on the southern horizon.

That evening, Susan was standing on the living-room balcony, smoking a cigarette and letting the cool Mediterranean breezes wash over her. Inside, General Ahmad Baris was inside, sorting and organizing sheaves of documents. He was having a difficult time keeping her attention.

"The death toll at Mersa Matruh is… is enormous, Sekhmet," Baris said tonelessly when he joined Susan on the balcony a few minutes later. "They fear over eleven thousand perished in the attack. The entire Ramses Corps has been destroyed, and the Amun Fleet lost almost fifty percent of its men and ships, with the fatalities increasing by the hour."

"Bastards," she replied woodenly. "How dare they lay waste to our nation like this?"

'The weapon that detonated at Mersa Matruh was an enhanced-radiation thermonuclear device with an estimated yield of one to two kilotons, or one to two thousand tons of TNT. Everything within two kilometers was hit with a massive dose of radiation that killed them within a few hours, slowly and painfully. I'm sorry.

"In addition, Libyan and Sudanese ground forces have crossed our southern border and have surrounded the entire

Salimah complex," Baris went on. "They are obviously ready to stage an attack on the Salimah oil fields, probably within the next few days."

"Why haven't we searched for survivors at Mersa Matruh yet?" Susan asked. "Maybe Patrick is alive."

Aha, Ahmad Baris thought, it was Patrick McLanahan and his commandos that were occupying her mind. Could he be occupying her heart as well…? "Are you all right, Sekhmet?"

"Fine… just fine." She went over and sat down on the sofa.

Captain Shafik answered the phone in Susan Bailey Salaam's home office. Her eyes grew wide with surprise, and she gave the phone to General Ahmad Baris-and moments later, his eyes grew wide with shock as well. "What is it, General?" Susan asked, returning to the living room.

"I just heard from my sources in the Ministry of Defense. Two bases in Libya have just been struck from the air."

"What? Which ones? Which bases?"

"Zillah and Al-Jawf. Reports say that a number of Libyan aircraft were also shot down," Baris went on.

"The Americans…?"

"Dr. Kalir has been in contact with the American embassy, and they insist that no American forces are involved."

"Could it have been some of our air forces?"

"All Egyptian military air forces have been dispersed and brought in toward Cairo to protect the capital," Baris said. "But in any case, we don't have that kind of firepower, unless we massed every aircraft in our entire arsenal. Planning an operation of that magnitude would take weeks."

It was Patrick, she thought. It had to be. He must be alive! But where did he get the support? Where were his air forces? They couldn't possibly be in Egypt-Baris would have known about that. Certainly not in Libya. Israel? Offshore in the Mediterranean Sea somewhere? He might be able to sneak in one large "baby" aircraft carrier into the area without anyone knowing, but would that carry enough firepower to destroy two Libyan military bases? Impossible… or was it?

"Could it have been McLanahan and his men, General?"

"They must have died in the nuclear explosion," Baris replied. "The bunker they were based in was guarded by troops day and night, and all of those troops were killed by the radiation."

"But they were underground…."

"The radiation kills humans even in bomb shelters," Baris explained. "Besides, they were just high-tech infantry forces-even with their fancy suits of armor, they could not have destroyed two Libyan military bases in one night. Only a few nations have that kind of firepower-the United States, Russia, maybe Germany, perhaps Israel. But we certainly should have known something was going to happen. It had to be in retaliation for the explosion at Mersa Matruh-but who could have done it, and why would they not have consulted us?" Susan did not answer. Her eyes were darting back and forth, as if examining the scene of a terrible traffic accident just moments after the crash.

"What are you thinking about, child?"

"Nothing… nothing," Susan Bailey Salaam said absently. "Thank you for the information. I need some rest now. Is there anything else?"

"Only to ask you once again-what do you want to do, here, in Egypt?" Baris asked, stepping over and standing beside her. "We are officially in protective custody, by order of the Supreme Judiciary, but I assure you, we can leave anytime we please-my friends in the Ministry of Defense and the Intelligence Bureau will see to that. The security forces of the Supreme Judiciary are nothing more than Khalid al-Khan's hired goons, easily brushed aside. I have access to aircraft, safe houses, visas, and many friends overseas, especially in the United States."

"I… I don't know, General," Susan said. "I don't want to leave Egypt now, at a time like this, with Libya threatening our very existence almost every day."

"Why? What are you concerned about, Sekhmet? Our nation is strong, despite Libya's aggression. They never had enough strength to destroy Egypt militarily, with or without nuclear weapons. We will survive." He paused, looking carefully at Susan; then: "Or are you concerned more about how you might be looked upon by the people of Egypt if you left?"

"Are you saying that because I'm American, I needn't be concerned about Egypt?" Susan retorted. "I've lived here for many years, General. I speak Arabic. I consider myself an Egyptian. Are you saying that I'm only concerned about myself and not Egypt?"

"Of course not, Sekhmet," Baris said. "What I'm concerned about is that you might put yourself in grave danger by staying, in some misguided notion that you need to stay because this is where your husband is buried… or, yes, because you may think that the people's memory of your late husband or yourself might be tarnished if you left now. Your loyalty for our country is inspiring, Susan, but you are not safe here."

"What if I were president?"

Finally, the truth comes out, Baris thought-this was the secret she had kept to herself all this time. "Being president will not relieve you of the danger you faced from Khalid al-Khan and the Muslim Brotherhood," Baris reminded her. "You will always be the wife of their political adversary, the wife of the man that Khan conspired to murder in order to form his ideal Islamic government. In fact, I believe you will face even greater dangers, greater pressures.

"The real struggles will be political. You and the National Democratic Party will be blamed for every wrong, every deficiency, and every failure. You will be accused of impeding progress and delivering privileged information to enemies of the state and to anarchists. There are many citizens and government officials who agreed with Khan and were happy to see your husband assassinated-and would happily do the same to you. Your enemies will know your every move-if they want to ambush yoti, they'll know exactly when and where you'll be at all times. You are putting yourself in the lion's jaws, Susan. Why?"

"Because I feel I can do more inside the government than outside," Susan replied. "As simply the widow of a dead president or leader of the opposition, I create nothing but background noise. Let me trade on my name and my being a widow. Maybe I can do some good."

Baris studied his young friend for a few moments. Her words sounded determined, conclusive, and decisive-but he still felt uneasy, uncertain. What else was wrong? What wasn't he noticing?

"I suggest you leave Egypt," Baris said evenly. "Once in Italy, or England, or the United States, you can get on all the talk shows and news programs and talk about your vision of Egypt. You can raise money, attract attention to your ideas, and gather support. If you try to do it now, with the nation in chaos and the Libyans threatening to blow the entire country into atoms, your voice will be lost in the cries of confusion and fear-not to mention your life will be in terrible danger, just because of who you are." He took her hands. "Think about it, my friend. I am only concerned for your safety now-Egypt can wait, for a little while."

"I'll think about it."

"Good." He kissed her hands, smiled warmly at her, and then departed.

Khalid al-Khan was dead. The government was disorganized, frightened. Egypt was in grave danger. She had to do something….

"They can't pin this on me," Jadallah Zuwayy said proudly. "An entire military base destroyed, and they have no idea who did it to them. God, I wish I could have seen it for myself." Beside him, General Tahir Fazani, his military chief of staff, and Juma Mahmud Hijazi, his foreign minister, looked on with disbelief and fear…

… but mostly they were trying to decide how to get out of this predicament with their skins still attached to their bodies. "Jadallah, let's not celebrate just yet," Juma Hijazi, the Libyan foreign minister, said. "Egypt and the entire world are going to be on high alert after that weapon went off at Mersa Matruh."

"Our plan to take the Salimah oil fields is still on schedule," Zuwayy said. "We still have almost fifty thousand troops surrounding Salimah, plus another twenty thousand Sudanese mercenaries. We can send in every piece of air defense equipment we own to protect them. Once we move in, we can wire the place with explosives and threaten to blow it up unless we make a deal for coproduction rights."

"Just a couple months is all we need," Fazani said. "Once we have the first shot of cash in our hands, we head for Malaysia or some island in Indonesia and relax."

"Or we can get the hell out now" Hijazi said. "Damn it, Jadallah, we've got more money than Bill Gates tucked away in secret bank accounts all over the world-why are we staying here acting like targets? Let's get the hell out."

"I can't leave!" Zuwayy retorted. "I am the king of united Libya! I am the head of the Muslim Brotherhood! I can't run! I am the leader of a quarter of a billion Muslims around the world…"

"Jadallah, give it up, will you?" Fazani interjected. "You are not a fucking king, and the Muslim Brotherhood would gladly turn you over to Kazakov or Salaam or anyone else for the right amount of cash."

"I say let's end it-right now," Hijazi insisted. "Let's get while the getting's good."

"If you want to go so badly, go," Zuwayy said morosely.

Hijazi had thought about doing exactly that, and he had spoken about it at length with Fazani. But they needed Zuwayy-not because of any misguided sense of loyalty, but because only Zuwayy had the bank account numbers and access codes they needed to tap into the full range of money they had stolen from the Libyan government's oil revenues. As the mastermind of their operation, Zuwayy had all the codes-Fazani and Hijazi had only the codes for — their own accounts. If they simply ran, Zuwayy would eventually hunt them down, slaughter them, and keep all the money.

"We're in this together, Jadallah," Hijazi lied. "We stay together." Together-until they got the codes from Zuwayy, at which time they would jettison his ass and be done with his delusions of grandeur. "Tahir, let's take another look at the military forces we have remaining-I think we should beef up security here in Tripoli and around our headquarters first, then see how many troops we can commit to Salimah." Fazani was more than happy to comply-and if it turned out that they needed all available troops to secure Tripoli and all of their secret headquarters and shelters, so be it. No one was anxious to march out into the open and have a cluster bomb dropped on them anyway.

While Zuwayy and Fazani worked to reallocate troops in the wake of the nuclear detonation at Mersa Matruh, Hijazi went to the outer office to have a cigarette and clear his head. The situation was becoming desperate, he thought. He had to try to convince Jadallah to escape. But if he wouldn't, Hijazi thought, he might have to hire his own strongmen to kidnap Zuwayy and force him to turn over the bank account numbers and access codes. He wasn't going to wait much longer for him to-

"Excuse me, Minister," Zuwayy's private secretary said, interrupting his thoughts. "There is an urgent phone call for His Highness."

"Take a message."

"Sir, the caller is Madame Susan Bailey Salaam of Egypt."

"Salaam?" What was she calling for? "Send the call to my office immediately. I'll take it there." He thought quickly, then added, "And if the king or General Fazani want to know where I am, tell them I'm dealing with the Egyptians-don't tell them who called."

"Yes, Minister."

Hijazi fairly ran down the hallway of the presidential palace to his office, then closed the door behind him. He took a shot of whiskey first to calm himself, then lifted the receiver. "This is the Minister of Arab Unity," he said in his most officious tone. 'To whom am I speaking, please?"

'This is Susan Bailey Salaam, Mr. Hijazi," Susan Bailey replied. "Do you need more proof of my identity?"

"That depends on what you have to say to me, Madame," Hijazi said. "What do you want?"

"I wish to end this war between us," Salaam said. "I wish for the violence and destruction to end. We have both suffered greatly in the past few days. It is time to make peace."

"What are you talking about, Madame?"

"I'm talking about the attack on Jaghbub last night, Minister."

Hijazi's mouth dropped open, and he had to struggle to maintain his composure. "What do you know of this, Salaam?"

"I know everything. I know about the attacks on Zillah and Al-Jawf tonight, too."

"Hold," Hijazi said. He frantically punched the call from Salaam on hold, then hit the button to the outer office. "Put in a call to the commander of Zillah Air Base, and I want him on the line now."

Hijazi was on hold for over three minutes. Then: "This is Colonel Harb speaking."

"This is Minister of Arab Unity Hijazi, Colonel, speaking from His Majesty's residence. I have been informed of an attack tonight on your base. What is happening?" There was a long, maddening pause. "Colonel!"

"The attack ended only minutes ago, Minister-"

"What attack?"

"We… we don't know any details, sir," Harb stammered. "We were hit by antiradar missiles first, and then our runway was bombed. We've lost several fighters and two bombers."

"Who did this?"

"We don't know, sir…. Can you please hold, sir? I have casualty reports coming in, please-" +

Hijazi hung up. It was true… God, it was true. He didn't need to call Al-Jawf to know that it was hit too. It didn't matter that he didn't know what the damage was; enemy aircraft had invaded Libya only minutes ago, and Susan Bailey Salaam had told him about it-before his own military did!

Hijazi's head was tingling with confusion as he punched the line button on the phone: "I thought you weren't coming back, Minister."

"How… how in hell did you know about this, Salaam? Did you order these attacks? Did you?"

"No, I did not-but I know that more attacks are forthcoming, unless Zuwayy or Idris or whatever he calls himself negotiates with me."

"Is Egypt involved in the attack on our bases, Madame?"

"No. But I control the ones that are. If you wish the attacks to stop, you must deal with me right away. I know you have only a few hours left before the deadline."

"I'm listening, Madame."

"The attacks are a retaliation for prisoners your naval forces captured in the Mediterranean Sea, meant to force Zuwayy to surrender them. "

"Then tell me where the terrorists and bombers are, Madame Salaam. Turn them over to the king for justice, and we will withdraw our forces."

"I suggest you withdraw those forces today, Minister, or they'll be destroyed. And once we have destroyed your invasion force in both Libya and Sudan, we'll destroy your palaces and headquarters in Tripoli. In time, we'll level every government and military structure in your entire nation."

"With what air force? I don't know who has done these attacks, but they are not Egyptian military forces. Who did you have sex with to get access to such weapons, Mrs. Salaam? It couldn't have been the American president, Thomas Thorn-everyone knows he has no balls. What new American comrades have you been sleeping with lately?"

"We'll see how glib you are after they're done bombing Tripoli, Minister."

This was going nowhere, Hijazi thought-better see what she has in mind quickly, before she hangs up. "So what do you propose, Madame Salaam?" Hijazi asked.

"You will announce a cease-fire agreement has been reached in secret negotiations between the king and myself, acting as a representative of the Egyptian government."

"You are not the Egyptian government."

"For your sake, you had better hope I will be," Susan Salaam said. "You will not be able to negotiate a thing with Prime Minister Kalir or anyone else in our government after you have attacked us with nuclear weapons. Again, I am your only hope."

"You have to do better than that, Mrs. Salaam," Hijazi said sternly. "You are asking for everything, and are not giving anything in return."

"You have nothing that belongs to you, and you have everything to lose," Salaam said. "How many more bases do you think we need to bomb before the people start losing confidence in their so-called king? Or perhaps all it will take is one raid on Tripoli?"

"Libya wants part of the Salimah oil production rights," Hijazi said. "Libya has nearly one hundred thousand workers fully qualified and ready to work, but they will not be hired by your Western cartel."

"Libya's past record in dealing with its neighbors in coproduction deals has not been very encouraging," Salaam said. "Usually such coproduction deals end up being invasions. Besides, your government insists Libyan oil workers get higher-than-average wages; and in the past Qadhafi has insisted on sending troops to 'protect' the workers. Egypt will not allow that."

"What do you give the Central African Petroleum Partners to take your oil? Twenty percent? Thirty? Forty? More? Much more than Libyan workers ask for, I'm sure."

"So I see-this is all about the oil, is it, Minister?" Su-

san asked. "Not about the Muslim Brotherhood, or religion, or faith, or Arab unity-it's about the damned oil."

"Your country, and mine, would be nothing without the 'damned oil,' " Hijazi said. "Don't pretend that you don't realize this. Turn the tables the other way, Salaam-what if it was Libya who had the largest oil reserves in Africa sitting beneath your feet, and you have sixty percent unemployment, but your neighbor hires Europeans and Asians and even Anglos to work the fields? I think you and your husband would be spouting a lot more about Arab unity and Arab cooperation, instead of back-stabbing and fucking their neighbors just for more money."

"And don't try to pretend that you give a rat's ass about those sixty percent unemployed souls in Libya or Egypt or anywhere else-all you care about is yourselves, you and Zuwayy and Fazani," Susan shot back. "You want the oil revenues. You've been stealing money hand over fist from the Libyan treasury since the moment you marched into the presidential palace in Tripoli. But you're taking as much as you possibly can from your own oil fields, so now you want a piece of Salimah. You found some wealthy partner to finance you. He gives you money to buy weapons. But Zuwayy is too stupid to hold on to those weapons, and now he's completely fucked everything up for you. Now you're in danger of losing everything-your cushy little ministry, your private bank accounts, and your fat expense accounts."

"You think you're so smart, Salaam? As smart as your husband?" Hijazi asked derisively. "Tell me what your husband's legacy will be. He sells the largest oil fields in Africa to a bunch of nonbelievers. Do you think Egyptians will praise him for that a hundred years from now?

"Your husband was a traitor to his people, and you know it. Ask your pal General Baris. Ask any Egyptian who fought over a lifetime to try to repel the outsiders, the Jews and the British and the Americans. The Arabs in north Africa have been struggling for three generations to benefit from the natural wealth of their own homelands, like the Persian Gulf Arabs have done, and your husband negates it all with one stroke of a pen. He made a deal with Qadhafi and then Zuwayy to coproduce those oil fields, and then he backed out and signed with a fat cat Western oil cartel. He spat on his fellow Arabs. He should have gone through with the deal-"

"Why? So you could have marched your troops in to try to take over?"

"So he could have led a new generation of Arabs, a new generation that is hungering for a leader," Hijazi said. "Instead, he did what all the other scum-sucking Westernloving traitors do-he sold out, sold out his own people. He'll be hated for a century. Your husband created clowns like Zuwayy, Salaam."

"What in hell are you talking about?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about," Hijazi retorted. "Kamal Ismail Salaam was hailed for years as the new Nasser, the new leader of the pan-Arab world. But he did what Sadat and Mubarak did-they sold out to the Jews and the Westerners for cash. The Arab world was begging for a leader, and Salaam abdicated. When Zuwayy became Idris the Second, everyone knew he wasn't a king-but they accepted him anyway. Why the hell do you think that is, Madame?" No response.

"Do you think Libyans are stupid? Do you think we're that gullible?" Hijazi went on. "We're not stupid, and we're not gullible-not any more than the Germans were before the rise of Adolf Hitler. Libyans were searching for a leader. We would have gladly accepted Kamal Salaam-yes, even an Egyptian, just as many of us accepted Gamal Abdel Nasser. Instead, Salaam turned his back on us. We embraced the first figure that showed any sort of leadership, who showed any amount of sympathy to the plight of the Arabs-Jadallah Zuwayy. He may be a psychopath, but he's also smart-he did his homework. He knew that Libya was thirsting for a leader, even a monarch, after the mess Muammar Qadhafi left. He adopted the whole Sanusi king thing because he knew Libya needed a king, a leader. He could have called himself Jesus Christ, and Libya would've followed Him.

"So you want to hide behind the Americans and their high-tech toys?" Hijazi went on. "I've got a prediction for you, Madame President-you'll end up with a suicide bomber in your face too, just like your husband. And you know what's even more ironic? The most moronic, the most comical, the stupidest one of us all, Jadallah Zuwayy, will still be in power, calling himself a king. We'll be dead, and he'll still be sodomizing his country-and the people will gladly bend over and let him do it, because he chose to be an Arab. You know it, and I know it."

There was silence on the phone. Hijazi was going to ask if Salaam had hung up, when she said, "If you try to touch Salimah with your army or with any of your Nubian goons, I'll blow you and your pretender king into the Red Sea."

"Tough words-from an Arab hiding behind American bombs and missiles."

"You will withdraw those forces from the border areas immediately," Salaam demanded, "and you will deactivate all remaining rockets, artillery, and aircraft stationed within two hundred kilometers of the border. Otherwise, I will destroy them all."

"You dare to try to negotiate with a gun pointed to my head, woman? Who the hell do you think you are?"

"I will be the new president of Egypt, sir, thanks to Zuwayy's lunacy," Susan Bailey Salaam said. "I also will be the instrument of your destruction if you do not complyand then I will still become president, and I will crush whatever is left of your so-called king and his corrupt, morally bankrupt partners. Think carefully, Minister-but not too long. My warriors have itchy trigger fingers."

This time, Hijazi hesitated. This was an opportunity to get out of this whole mess intact-and perhaps come out a little ahead, if Salaam was willing to discuss the Salimah coproduction deal again.

"I will speak with His Highness about this, Madame," Hijazi replied. "But I need some assurance to take to him. You will agree not to stage any more attacks on our bases, and you will agree to open negotiations with the Central African Petroleum Partners to hire more Libyan workers. Otherwise, Madame, we are still at war-and we will use the last of our military might to destroy Salimah and render it useless to anyone for fifty years. It is you who have forced us into this desperate situation, Madame-but you can end it too."

"We will not fly any more missions over Libya unless we are attacked," Salaam said, "if you promise, in writing, to withdraw all your artillery, rockets, and aircraft beyond two hundred kilometers from the border."

"While your forces stand ready right at the border? Unacceptable."

"We will pull our forces back as well."

"And the Americans?" Hijazi had no idea that it was the Americans actually performing the bombing raids on Samah, Jaghbub, and now Zillah and Al-Jawf, but it was a logical guess.

"All bombers will be pulled out," Salaam responded.

It wasn't what she said, but how she said it-it was the Americans, all right. Hijazi was positive of it. "And of Salimah?"

Salaam paused for several long moments; then: "I will agree to immediately propose legislation that will create a worker's visa program to allow Libyan and Sudanese laborers to enter the country so that they may apply for work in Salimah. Then I will-"

"Not good enough. The Western cartel must increase hiring of qualified laborers from Libya and decrease hiring of Asian, European, and Western laborers. And Libya must be able to become a partner in the consortium."

'That is up to the partnership."

"Egypt is a partner-or is it?"

"Of course it is."

"We do not seek a majority-only a rightful share of African natural resources. We shall pay for the right of admission, of course-say, for a one-third share."

"Egypt will retain majority ownership in the partnership," Salaam said after another long pause. "But Egypt will grant one-third of its share in the partnership to Libya, but only under the condition that Libya buys twenty-five percent of the cartel's shares. Then Egypt's share of the partnership will be forty percent, and Libya and the cartel's share will each be thirty."

"Agreed. And as far as Libyan laborers at Salimah…?"

"Arab laborers must exceed the number of other nationalities in Salimah," Salaam said. "I will not give preferential treatment to any nationality. It's about time we are all referred to as 'Arabs.'"

"A wise judgment, Madame. This includes supervisory and management positions."

"Including management and supervisors."

"Equal pay, equal housing, equal benefits-no forced segregation, no discrimination in jobs or locations. Full access to all government entitlements."

"Agreed."

"And the Muslim Brotherhood."

"Minister…"

"His Highness will ask. I must tell him something."

Another pause; then: "I will not oppose or block legislation or debate on the subject of membership into the Muslim Brotherhood in the People's Assembly, and I will allow Brotherhood officials to obtain temporary visas so that they may enter the country to meet with our lawmakers and government officials to discuss membership. But I promise, I will slam the door shut again if I learn that the Brotherhood tries to organize antigovernment movements within Egypt, or they try to funnel weapons or money to any antigovernment organizations within Egypt."

'This I cannot guarantee."

"Then our negotiations are ended. I will allow open, free debate on the subject of Brotherhood membership, Minister, but I will not tolerate sedition or conspiracy. We'll let the people decide, without bribes or payoffs."

Hijazi paused. They were certainly not going to negotiate every last detail-the important point here was that Susan Bailey Salaam was talking, negotiating, not threatening. Hijazi at first thought that perhaps she didn't have those American forces under her command anymore, that maybe all this was a bluff-but now was not the time to think about that either. A turning point was happening. He could either seize it, or let it slip out of his fingers.

"Very well, Madame. All this is subject to further negotiation, a written agreement, and His Highness's concurrence," Hijazi reminded her.

"Our deal will also have to be ratified by our People's Assembly," Salaam said. "And it of course presupposes that I will be given authority to negotiate anything with Libya."

"Of course. I understand."

"I have a demand, Minister," Salaam said.

"I thought you said we have nothing to offer you, Madame."

"This you will do, or all our negotiations cease immediately and we go back to war."

"Another ultimatum? How unskilled you are at negotiations, Madame. But please, proceed anyway."

"Zuwayy, you, General Fazani, and the entire Libyan government will endorse and support me as the next president of Egypt," Susan Bailey Salaam said.

"What? We… endorse you?"

"Not only you personally and as representatives of your government, but the king as leader of the Muslim Brotherhood," Salaam went on. "A full and public endorsement, without any reservation. I require an endorsement from all the other leaders of the Muslim Brotherhood as well."

"If you want their endorsement, Madame, ask them yourself."

"If Zuwayy is indeed the leader of the Muslim Brotherhood, then his word should be all that's required to give me what I want," Salaam said. "If the Brotherhood is nothing more than a paper tiger, then this is a good opportunity for me to find out before I give any further support for it."

"I… I cannot go in front of Zuwayy…. I mean, His Highness, and ask him to throw all his support behind the person who attacked his holy city."

"You will do it, or Libya does not get its partnership in Salimah, your workers stay in your country and fester in their poverty, and the Muslim Brotherhood starts to look on you and your king as a gutless failure while "Egyptian warplanes cruise their skies."

"This… this will be most difficult…."

"Then we have a deal, Minister?"

He hesitated once more-but there was no reason to do so. "We have a deal, Madame," he said. "If His Highness agrees, our forces will pull back immediately."

Juma Mahmud Hijazi walked into Zuwayy's office several minutes later, his face completely expressionless. "Where the hell have you been, Juma?" Tahir Fazani asked irritably. It appeared as if Jadallah Zuwayy was even more morose and depressed than before.

Hijazi ignored Fazani. "Listen, Jadallah, I think we have a solution to the problem," he said. Fazani looked quizzically at his longtime friend and coconspirator, but wisely kept silent.

"What are you talking about, Juma?" Zuwayy asked.

"A… a back-channel contact I've been developing in the Egyptian government," Hijazi replied carefully. "I just got a call from them. They're willing to talk. The government wants to negotiate a cease-fire."

"I will only accept a surrender," Zuwayy said. "The Egyptians surrender to me, and they allow us to occupy the Salimah oil fields as reparations for the death and destruction they've caused in Libya." Both Hijazi and Fazani both rolled their eyes in complete exasperation-now, they realized, Zuwayy had gone completely over the edge. He wasn't thinking clearly at all anymore.

"Don't worry about anything, Jadallah," Hijazi said. "The Egyptians will agree to aU our demands. They will cease attacking our bases, they will lay down their weapons, and they will withdraw from the frontier."

"I want Salimah too. They will cede Salimah to me immediately."

"Jadallah, they're not going to just cede Salimah to us or anyone-we have to pay to become part of this cartel."

"Pay? I'm not going to pay them to belong to something that is already ours!"

"Jadallah, we will become equal partners with the consortium of Western oil companies that built the pipeline and are drilling the wells-and we don't have to lift one shovel or get our hands messy," Hijazi said. "Our investment could be returned to us a hundredfold per year. They will also allow Libyan workers in to work there."

"What good is that?"

"We need to show that we won something from this battle," Hijazi said. "We can say we forced them to give us a stake in that oil project, but they can't say we forced them into giving it to us. We also take care of our workers by giving them access and jobs in the world's largest and richest oil project. They look weak because they handed over part of their project to us, and we look like a partner because we paid for our percentage."

Zuwayy shook his head in confusion. "I don't know what you're talking about, Juma," he said. "I want to just go in and take that oil field. Tahir says our troops are in place-"

"Then we risk getting bombed again by the Egyptians and whoever else they have working for them," Hijazi said. "We haven't been able to touch the forces that attacked Samah or Jaghbub-we certainly won't be able to get them over Egypt." He glared at Fazani, silently ordering him to start arguing on his side, or else.

"We need time and money to regroup, rearm, and reorganize our forces," Fazani said tenuously. Hijazi nodded. "This deal will give us the time and the money to do that." Zuwayy looked at both his friends and advisers, and seemed to be relenting.

"And all we have to do is endorse Susan Bailey Salaam as president of Egypt," Hijazi added quickly.

"What?" both Fazani and Zuwayy asked in unison.

"We need to do this, or this whole thing unravels," Hijazi explained. "Salaam is seen as the hero in all this, even though she did nothing but screw some American commander into bombing targets in Libya for her. She is inexperienced, naive, and idealistic. She will allow Muslim Brotherhood representatives into Egypt to argue before the People's Assembly for membership-that alone is worth ther price. If Egypt becomes a full member of the Brotherhood, all African and Middle East nations will soon follow suit. But in order for this to happen, Salaam must become president of Egypt. If you endorse her, and get all the other Brotherhood leaders to do the same…."

"What? Have all of the other members endorse an American to be president ofEgyptl Are you insane?"

"Jadallah, the Muslim Brotherhood can step out of the shadows and take its place in the center of the world stage if this happens," Hijazi argued. "Salaam is that powerful, that well known-and after this offensive against us, she looks more and more like a defender of Egypt. We need to tap into that power-and the best way for that is to embrace her as an equal, not as a victor. Only you can make this happen. She needs this from us as much as we need Salimah, Jadallah. Do it."

Fazani was still looking quizzically at Hijazi, still trying to figure out what his game was, but he nodded as he turned to Zuwayy. "Let's do this, Jadallah," he said. "Once we have our people in Egypt and get our cut of the oil revenues, then we can set about destroying Salaam and taking over. We'll put our spies in place all over Egypt, and we'll keep an eye on every move her military forces make. We'll play her game for a while, let her think she's won-and then, when she's gotten a little fatter off the oil money, we'll stomp her once and for all."

Zuwayy still didn't look pleased. He looked warily at both Hijazi and Fazani. "I will not wait long for all this to happen," he said. "A month or two, no more. We get our concessions from Egypt, and then we move in-and Salaam dies, this time for good."

At Amina Shafik's urging, Susan left the balcony of her Alexandria home late at night, got undressed, showered,

then stood in the steamy bathroom for several minutes, staring at the hazy reflection in the mirror. She had plenty of questions for that person in the mirror, but no answers were forthcoming.

Her eyes roamed over her wet, naked body, pausing on the still-unhealed scars from the blast that took her husband's life. Her breasts were spared, but the blast had chewed and scorched large segments of her left shoulder, arm, and hand-a few more feet closer, the doctors said, and the blast would've taken her arm. Her left eye was still intact and would require several more surgeries to get any vision at all, but the doctors warned that if the vision in her right eye started to get worse, they would have to enucleate the left eye to keep it from sympathetically damaging the right.

She was lucky to be alive, she thought. Somebody up there still likes me. It also meant that if she was still alive, her mission here on Earth was still not yet finished. But what was her mission? Was it to avenge her husband-or was it something else? It was too late, and she was too tired, to think about it any more.

Susan shook her head at the sad, scarred reflection in the mirror, mercifully shut off the bathroom light, and stepped into…

… a dark figure standing directly in front of her.

"Major! Ilha'uni!" she shouted. She swung with her right fist, but her blow was effortlessly turned away.

Behind the figure, the bedroom door burst open. Amina Shafik, crouching low behind the doorjamb with her side arm pointed inside, shouted, "Wa 'if! Yiden ala tul! Imshi! Stop! Hands up! Move away!" But Susan felt a crackling of electricity, like stiff cellophane being crunched inside her skull, and Shafik collapsed to the floor.

"Amina!" Susan cried. She tried to rush to her bodyguard's side, thinking she was dead, but the dark figure roughly pushed her away onto the bed. "Who are you?" Susan shouted. She hoped one of the outside guards might hear her, but they were all probably dead too. "What do you want?"

The figure reached out and flipped on the bedroom light. To Susan's immense surprise, it was one of the American commandos, dressed for full combat in the electronic battle armor and strength-enhancing microhydraulic exoskeleton. "Patrick? Is that you?"

Patrick McLanahan turned, lifted Shafik in his hydraulically augmented arms, carried her into her bedroom next to Susan's, and gently laid her on the bed. Susan felt the breeze blowing in off Abu Qir Bay through the bedroom patio doors and realized that Patrick had to have climbed up seventeen floors, or jumped at least a hundred feet from the nearest building, to get over to her bedroom balcony. He returned to the bedroom moments later and removed his helmet, rage blazing in his eyes.

"I thought you were dead," Susan said, pulling on a thin, silky dressing gown.

"I thought we were going to go after the ones who killed your husband," Patrick said. "I thought you were going to help me find my wife and my men."

"I am helping you."

"By making a deal with Zuwayy to take the prisoners to Mersa Matruh and lock us up in the bunker so he could wipe us-and your political rival Khan-out with a nuclear weapon?"

"You think I had something to do with that awful attack? I'm as horrified as you are," Susan said. "I've been under house arrest here in Alexandria. I never heard from Zuwayy or anyone from Libya. As for Khan-I'm glad he's dead, the murderous bastard, but I had nothing to do with it. He was double-crossed by his buddy Zuwayy-why, I don't know. It's all part of Zuwayy's twisted scheme for power."

"And you didn't bother telling me about this? We thought you had turned us all in-we got out as soon as we could."

"You didn't bother telling me you were going after Zuwayy."

"I told you I was going to try to recover Wendy and my men, or go after Zuwayy to force him to give them upthat was the best way I thought of doing it," Patrick said. "I didn't tell you because I didn't know if I could trust you. Apparently I was right."

"So what are you doing here now?" Susan asked. "Why risk climbing a seventeen-story building and confronting a dozen armed guards? You won't find your wife here."

Patrick clenched his fists in anger, the flexible electronic armor in his gauntlets and exoskeleton making little humming noises. "I'm going to go home, Susan. I've already attacked Zillah and Al-Jawf. I'm tired, and my men are tired."

Susan's mouth dropped open in surprise. "How can you do this? You and your men alone couldn't possibly have the power to do this."

"It's done." He paused, looking at her with a strange, faraway expression. "What will you do?"

"I'm going to fight-what else do you think I'd do?" Susan replied hotly. "I don't care if Zuwayy attacks my country and blows up my bases-I'm going to stay and fight! While my name and my dead husband's name still mean something in this country, I'm going to use them to bring peace and justice to Egypt."

"So you can become president?"

"I want to see General Ahmad Baris made president of Egypt. He has the experience, and he is completely loyal to Egypt." She saw Patrick imperceptibly nod his approval. She moved off the bed and stepped toward him. "Patrick, I need your help."

"What am I supposed to do?"

"Be my instrument of war," Susan said. "I can't trust anyone: not the military, not even my personal guards-Khan had them all on his payroll, and I think they're just looking for an opportunity to strike again without revealing their treason. The Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt will certainly move to assassinate me and make Egypt a theocracy. They mean to create a strong union between Egypt, Libya, and the other Muslim Brotherhood states-with Zuwayy pulling the strings. If I can uncover the plot or conspiracy to undermine the law in Egypt in favor of Libya, I can pave the way to elevate General Baris to the presidency."

"What kind of conspiracy?"

"The conspiracy to kill my husband, for starters," Susan said bitterly. "I know Khan and Zuwayy were both involved. I also suspect there was some kind of conspiracy to force withdrawal of foreign oil companies from Egypt." Susan stepped closer to him and placed her hands on his chest, looking deeply into his eyes. "Will you help me? As the wife of a martyred president, I can offer much assistance to you." He hesitated, his eyes staring at a spot beyond her shoulders. "Is your mission complete? The reason you came here, the reason you attacked Libya-is it over?"

For a moment, it looked as if Patrick might crumble. His shoulders slumped, his eyes drooped, and his Adam's apple bobbed. "Yes," he finally responded woodenly.

"Then take on a different mission-help me uncover and remove the traitors from Egypt," Susan said. "Egypt is in danger of becoming another theocratic dictatorship-or, worse, a stooge of Jadallah Zuwayy. Help me stop this. Use your power for real justice, not just for a few dollars."

He looked down at her, and she could see his eyes roam from her eyes to the wounds on her shoulder and arm, the anger in his eyes turning to empathy. She turned her eyes away from his and backed away from him. "What's the matter?" Patrick asked.

"Don't look at my wounds, dammit," she said. "Don't take pity on me." She pulled her gown down off her shoulders-purposely a bit farther down her chest than necessary to show the majority of her wounds. "You want to take a look? Take a good look." He did-including the parts of her naked body that were not damaged, she noticed. Maybe this guy didn't have quite the stone heart she once thought. Now was the time to drive the message home….

"Don't you dare pity me, McLanahan," Susan went on. "I don't wear a suit of armor like you-I'm fighting this battle with all the weapons I have, which is just about what you see here. I don't need your pity." She took his armored hands into hers, squeezed them, then placed her right hand on his chest. "I need these fighting hands, Patrick, and I need this heart. Be my champion, Patrick. Help me. If you've had enough of fighting for money, then try fighting for justice. Fight for me instead."

He didn't say anything-but his eyes replied for him. The pity had turned to something else-not quite trust, not quite friendship. But he would be back.

"You're going to leave me, aren't you?" she asked sullenly.

"I have to."

'To bury your brother. I know." She lowered her eyes. "And to mourn your wife. I know all about mourning-I've done a lot of that lately." She pulled up her robe over her shoulders, but did it in such a way that covering up was even more seductive than exposing herself. Patrick picked up his helmet, fastened it in place, and then stepped to the bedroom patio. "Patrick." He turned, the helmet's bug-eyes looking sinister and comical at the same time. "You will always have an ally here in Egypt. I will always be here for you."

He nodded, once, slowly, and then turned. In a blink of an eye and a loud hiss of compressed air, he was gone. Susan thought she heard a clunk of boots on the rooftop across the street, but she couldn't see anything.

McLanahan was an emotional wreck right now-his brother dead, his wife blown to atoms, his men decimated, his mission failed and shattered. Did she actually expect him to be able to fight?

The quicker he was out of the country, she decided, the better.