Wings of Fire

CHAPTER 8

The answering machine picked up for the sixth or seventh time that evening; again, Patrick ignored it.

It was an exceptionally warm evening, so Patrick was out on the big bayview balcony, sipping a Grand Marnier and watching the activity in San Diego Bay. He could see all the way from the Thirty-second Street Naval Base to the south to North Island Naval Air Station and Point Loma Naval Base to the north. North Island, the home of the Navy's Anti-Submarine Warfare Center, was a buzz of activity-it usually was, with aircraft of all sizes buzzing down the Pacific beaches of Coronado, right behind the Del Coronado Hotel, coming in for a landing. To the south on Coronado was the Navy Basic Underwater Demolition Service Training Center, the home of the Navy SEALs; one could usually see inflatable boats going up and down the coast all year long, day and night.

It was hard to tell from the level of activity in the harbor what was happening in the world. North Island had two carriers in port right now-that was unusual. Thirtysecond Street Naval Base was busier than Patrick had ever seen it before-every pier looked occupied. Would it be busier if war was imminent as ships prepared for deployment, or would it be quieter because all available warships were heading into battle? Patrick didn't know. A trained spy might be able to deduce the answer to that, but Patrick wasn't a spy.

He wasn't anything right now-not a military man, not a Night Stalker. Just a man with a young son, a missing wife, a dead brother, and not much else-not even a future.

After the last strikes against Libya by the Night Stalkers and the Sky Masters Inc.'s EB-52 Megafortress, Patrick finally got his men out of Egypt. They first flew by CV-22 Pave Hammer tilt-rotor aircraft to an isolated base in southern Israel, where they sanitized their gear and received civilian travel documents. They drove to Tel Aviv, flew via commercial airlines to London, then to Los Angeles, and finally to San Diego.

Coming home was without question the happiest-and the saddest-day in Patrick's life. Little Bradley was brought to San Diego-Lindbergh International Airport by Patrick's mother and sisters; they hugged Patrick warmly, but they wore stony, stern expressions on their faces-they were silently accusing him of killing both Paul and Wendy and nearly orphaning his son. Patrick ignored their anger. He hugged his son long and hard right at the Jetway door, ignoring the aggravated comments of the others who had to maneuver around them. One look at Hal Briggs, Chris Wohl, and David Luger, however, and the complainers fell silent and went about their business.

But no sooner did they turn away from the Jetway than five-year-old Bradley asked, "Dad, where's Mom?"

Patrick was dreading this moment. He took his son aside to an isolated set of seats near a big picture window, motioned the others to go on ahead, and sat his son beside him. Despite his request, his mother and sisters stayed, respectfully apart from them but close enough to atch and listen.

"Brad," Patrick said, "Mommy's not coming home with us."

Bradley's blue eyes instantly filled with tears. "Why?"

"Mommy was hurt," Patrick replied. "She was helping me, and Uncle Paul, and Uncle Hal, and Uncle Dave, and Uncle Chris, and a bunch of our other friends, and she got hurt real bad."

"Is she dead?"

Patrick took immense comfort and drew a lot of strength from little Bradley's maturity. He wasn't sure if Bradley completely understood what death was, but the very fact that he asked if she was dead made Patrick think that he understood a little of what death meant. Bradley watched a lot of movies that should probably not be watched by young children, and then he liked to act out the fight scenes with his father and baby-sitters. But in the movies, the dead guys all came back to life when he replayed the movie; in their playacting, Daddy always got up moments after Bradley delivered the coup de grace with his plastic laser-sword. Was that his only concept of death?

"She's missing," Patrick told him. When Bradley furrowed his eyebrows, Patrick went on, "The bad guys got her, and they took her to a place where a lot of people were killed. We haven't found her yet."

"Mommy was killed?"

"I don't know, buddy…."

"Mommy's deadT Bradley asked, louder this time. Patrick's mother rushed over and grabbed Bradley in her arms. The suddenness of her movements startled him, and he started to cry. Patrick's sisters looked at their brother with a strange, painful mixture of pity and contempt as they followed their mother out to the parking garage.

That was a few days ago. They had gone back up to Sacramento for Paul McLanahan's memorial service and interment beside their father in City Cemetery in downtown Sacramento. His sisters offered to take Bradley, but Patrick insisted on bringing his son home with him to their high-rise condominium on Coronado Island. That did not please them at all.

Patrick also did not offer any explanations to his family on what happened to Paul or to Wendy. That made them even angrier. His mother and sisters hugged Bradley tightly as they got on the plane to San Diego, but Patrick could have hugged pieces of plywood that had more warmth or tenderness than he felt from them.

He had an entire day by himself with Bradley. They made their usual stops: out to North Island Naval Air Station to watch the Navy planes come and go and to see if they could spot any submarines over at Point Loma; a visit to the Star of India, the old sailing barque on the San Diego waterfront, standing on deck pretending to be pirates; out to the Windsock Grill at San Diego-Lindbergh Airport to have lunch and watch the airliners as they seemingly threaded between the high-rises of the downtown district and skimmed the top of the parking garage on their way to the runway; then out to the lawns on Shelter Island where they tossed a Frisbee around and watched the Navy warships, yachts, and tour boats head out to sea. By then Bradley was ready for a nap; Patrick carried him to his room, as he usually had to do after all-day outings like this.

While Bradley napped, Patrick checked his e-mail-no messages. That meant they had been dumped or erased by Sky Masters Inc., or intercepted by the feds. He checked his cell phone-no service, which meant either that service had been cut off or the secure system was detecting eavesdropping and deactivated itself. He tossed the phone onto his desk-frankly, he was glad to be rid of it.

The phone calls started shortly thereafter. The first one, which Patrick let the answering machine pick up, was from former President of the United States Kevin Martindale. "I heard you were back in town, Patrick. Call me right away." The second call was also from Martindale just ten minutes later; Patrick again did not answer. By the third call, Patrick had shut off the ringer.

After a one-hour nap, Bradley came into th e living room, biting his red blanket. He had given up his blankets almost a year earlier, calling them silly and childish. Patrick had cut up all but one of them, making little kid handkerchiefs out of them, but Wendy had insisted on keeping one intact, the red one, his favorite. Patrick hadn't seen it in many months; he didn't know how Bradley found it, but he did, and he held it tightly against his face and chest as he walked into the room. "Hi, big guy," Patrick greeted his son.

"Where's Mommy?" he asked, his voice muffled by the blanket.

"Mommy's not here, Bradley," Patrick said, choking down yet another lump in his throat. He wondered where his glass of Grand Marnier was right now. "We're going to look for her soon, remember?"

"I want my mommy," Bradley said tearfully.

"I know, big guy. Don't worry. Everything will be okay." Patrick rose to go hug his son, but Bradley ran back to his room and closed the door. When Patrick went inside, he found him curled up in the middle of the floor. Oh, shit…

He picked him up and held him tightly. Bradley wasn't crying; he bit his blanket and stared straight ahead, hardly blinking. Scared, Patrick went back to the living room and held him until, thankfully, he fell asleep again, and then carried him into his bedroom and put him under the covers, on Wendy's side of the bed.

Patrick stayed with him and waited to see if Bradley would wake up soon for dinner, but his heavy breathing told him he was down for the night, so Patrick took his shoes and clothes off and tucked him under the covers once again. Patrick usually did not allow Bradley to sleep in his bed-"big boys sleep in their own beds," he would often admonish his son-but tonight, having him sleep anywhere else was completely out of the question.

He didn't usually drink when caring for Bradley, but this time he poured himself a stiff shot of the orange liqueur and went out to the patio. These past few days were simply hell, he thought. If Bradley started going to pieces, he would too-it was as simple as that.

"Muck, we're on our way up," he heard Hal Briggs call on the subcutaneous microtransceiver. "Feel like some company?"

"Sure." A few minutes later, Hal Briggs, along with Chris Wohl and David Luger, let themselves into Patrick's condo. They found seats in the living room; Patrick knew they wanted to talk business, which was why he did not go outside again.

"You drinking that sissy stuff again, Muck?" Hal asked. Patrick did not reply. Hal found something he liked in the liquor cabinet; David and Chris did not drink. "How are you doin', man?" Still no answer.

A few quiet minutes later, they heard crying from the bedroom. Patrick shot to his feet to go check on Bradley, but Chris Wohl silently waved him back to his seat, and he went inside to check on him. He saw Wohl carry Bradley to the kitchen, give him a glass of milk, and start fixing him a fried bologna and cheese sandwich on toast, Wohl's favorite meal. Briggs and Luger stayed behind with Patrick in the living room.

"Big bad-ass Marine is really a sucker when it comes to kids," Briggs observed.

"President Martindale's been calling," Dave Luger said to Patrick.

"I know."

"He's worried about you."

"Like hell he is. He just wants to know when we're ready to go back out there."

Luger couldn't argue with that observation. "Fair enough-but I'm worried about you," Luger said, "and I want to know when we're going back out there to look for Wendy."

"As soon as my son stops crying himself to sleep," Patrick replied bitterly. Again, Luger had no reply for that.

"Been watching the news?"

"No."

"Susan Bailey Salaam was elected president of Egypt," Hal Briggs said. "She's got the Libyans, Sudanese, Syrians, Lebanese, Iranians, Iraqis, Jordanis, and Saudis cheering for her like she's some kind of rock star."

'"Good for her."

"There's talk of another United Arab Republic," Luger added. "Egypt and Syria merged for a few years back in the late fifties and early sixties under Nasser-they're saying that Susan Salaam might be able to unify the entire Arab world."

Now Patrick's interest was piqued a bit. "Interesting. So I'll bet Martindale is calling because the Central African Petroleum Partnership called…."

"Exactly-wanting to know if we're going to stay on the case," Briggs said.

"What's going on out there?"

"Salaam has brought Libya in as a partner in the cartel, for starters," Luger said.

"Libya? Partnered up with Egypt?"

"Hey, they're all huggy and kissy lately," Briggs said. "Egypt is giving out work visas to Libyans and Sudanese to work in Salimah like crazy-almost ten thousand persons have migrated to Salimah in just the past few days. There's already talk of Sudan, Syria, and Jordan joining the oil partnership."

"Sounds like Egypt decided to trade jobs for peace," Patrick observed. "Good move."

"And so far it's paying off big-time," Luger said. "Not only are they not fighting, but they're praising and cooperating with each other unlike anything anyone's ever seen."

"So Egypt becomes the new center of the Arab world," Patrick mused.

"Makes sense," Luger said. "Egypt is by far more powerful than any of the other countries, and they're more centrally located and strategically important, with the Suez Canal and the Salimah oil fields. They have strong ties to the Muslim world, the African world, Europe, and the West all at the same time."

"And, last but not least, Egypt has Susan Bailey Salaam-they're calling her the reincarnation of Cleopatra," Hal Briggs added. "She was elected in a landslide and cheered in eight different African and Middle East capitals the night of her election. It's pretty amazing to watch. Less than a month ago she had almost gotten herself blown up and was on the run, being hunted down by assassins-now, she's not only president, but being considered the up-andcoming leader of the whole freakin' Arab world."

"And naturally, the Central African Petroleum Partners are not happy with this arrangement-right?"

"You got it," Luger said. "Egypt is the majority partner, and Salaam has been allowing more Arab and African workers in to work at Salimah, displacing the Asians and Europeans."

"And with the price of oil hitting new highs, all those folks are getting mighty rich," Briggs added.

"Speaking of which." David Luger held out three envelopes. "Wire-transfer receipts: our payment from the Central African Petroleum Partners. Paul made you executor of his estate."

Patrick looked at the receipts in the envelopes, closed his eyes, then dropped them on a table. "It's a lot of money," he said softly. "But was it worth it, guys?" he asked.

"It's never worth it when you take losses, man," Briggs said. "But we all volunteered. We're all doin' what we want to be doin'." He looked carefully at Patrick; then: "Aren't we?"

Patrick did not-could not-answer.

Jon Masters found Kelsey Duffield at a computer workstation in the research library, sound asleep, with a blanket thrown over her shoulders. Her mother, Cheryl, was asleep in a chair in a corner of the room, but awoke immediately when Jon entered-and she did not look happy.

"I've been looking for you guys. Your phones are off," Jon whispered.

"Kelsey has been working all night-she refused to leave," Cheryl said. "She's been on the phone to scientists and laboratories all over the world. I finally had to shut it off-we had no chance of getting any rest otherwise." She awakened her daughter and told her to go to the bathroom. Kelsey walked out, rubbing her eyes and shuffling along like kids who just woke up do.

"Poor kid. She's a trouper, that's for sure."

"'Trouper'? She's being overworked-and I'd say this verges on abuse," Cheryl said angrily. "Keeping her locked up in this place… spending days on end on that computer or in the lab. It's ridiculous. You can't expect her to keep on working like this."

"Cheryl, I'm not expecting her to do any of this," Jon said. "Kelsey is the one who walked into library and hasn't come out."

"Come out? How can she? Security officers besiege us every time we turn around. It wastes almost half a day going in and out of security. Kelsey feels less intruded upon by just staying here."

"Well, that's the conclusion most of us come to," Jon admitted with a sheepish grin. "It's almost as if the Air Force designs the security this way to make us work harder."

"It's not funny, Dr. Masters."

"No one is forcing her to do this, Cheryl. She's doing it all on her own." He looked at her carefully. "You really are worried, aren't you?"

"Of course I am."

"Are you telling me that Kelsey's never worked like this before? This is the first time she's been so.."

"Obsessed? Single-minded? Manic?" Cheryl exploded. "That's what I'm saying, Dr. Masters. Sure, she's worked hard before-she works hard on everything she's ever done. But never like this. I'm really worried about her."

"I don't have kids, Cheryl, so I'm no expert," Jon said, "but if I didn't know better, I'd say Kelsey is…"

"What?"

"Having fun," Jon said. When Cheryl rolled her eyes in disbelief, Jon went on, "No, really. Putting together inertial confinement chambers and laser generators is like.. like putting together a dollhouse or a Lego castle is to most kids."

"Jon, you're wrong. Completely, absolutely wrong." But even as she said the words, Jon could see that she really didn't believe they were true. "I wish this never happened. I wish Kelsey was just a normal, everyday kid."

"Cheryl, she is just an everyday normal kid-but with an incredible gift," Jon said. "I think you see the security and the weapons and the horror and destruction all this could cause, and you wonder and worry about how this will affect your daughter."

"Of course I'm worried!"

"But have you looked at your daughter lately… I mean, stepped back and really looked at her?" Jon asked. "I mean, I've never had kids, but I'm a kid at heart. And I've seen supersmart kids before. Some of them are really full of themselves. They'll talk about the offers they get from universities and big companies and consultants to work for them; they'll talk about their stock portfolios and patents and the money they're making."

He paused, staring out into space as if reliving some scene in his mind's eye. "I know about those kids-because I was one. I am probably still one." He chuckled. "Man, I used to love stuffing one down some four-star general's shirt. He thought he knew everything-I couldn't wait to blow him away. Every tactic, every procedure, every concept he had, I had a response or an alternative that he never thought about. I used to cream the big corporate CEOs daily. They wouldn't give me the time of dayuntil I showed them a design for something they absolutely had to have. I was a third of their age and had bank accounts and portfolios bigger than theirs. I… was… the greatest."

"Kelsey has done all that stuff too," he said softly. "She's built companies, lectured at Cornell, given presentations in front of the National Science Foundation and the Lawrence Livermore Laboratories. She has almost as many patents as I have and she's a fourth my age But you know the difference between Kelsey and those other Generation-X nerds? The other bozos tell you all the stuff about themselves-myself included. I had to go out and find out all the stuff about Kelsey. She doesn't brag about all her accomplishments." He looked at Cheryl and smiled. "Maybe that has as much to do with you as it does with her?" For the first time in a very long time, Cheryl Duffield smiled.

Jon smiled back, then looked around. "Where did she go?"

"Bathroom."

"That was a few minutes ago," Jon said. "Uh-oh. If I know Kelsey, she's not going to come back here right away. I know where she is." Jon was correct: He walked directly to the AL-52 laser lab and found Kelsey with her laser goggles on, punching instructions into a computer beside the large mounting racks where the components of the plasma laser were mounted. Kelsey wore only a pair of socks on her feet, and her Top Secret ID badge was pinned to the tops of her underwear peeking over the top of her pants.

Jon was simply and unabashedly dumbfounded whenever he walked into this lab. In an amazingly short period of time, he and Kelsey had managed to build a full-scale working model of a laser that had been virtually unheard of. The bench that the laser was mounted to was the same size as the interior of the B-52 aircraft; the laser waveguides were mounted in an adjacent room, and the power capacitors and other support equipment were mounted in other rooms as well, networked here for the tests.

The room was dominated by a large aluminum sphere seven feet in diameter, with a number of electrodes and cables running around the outside. This was the main component-the inertial confinement chamber. Set on the inside surface of the sphere were four hundred diode lasers, like powerful laser pointers, aimed into the center of the sphere. Inside the sphere, magnetrons-magnetic gunswere also set up, pointing into the center as well. A tube ran through the center, and there was an opening in the front end of the sphere that connected the confinement chamber to a large cylinder with thousands of rectangles etched into it-the laser generators-and from there to the Faraday oscillator that would collect the light energy from the generators and produce a laser beam.

The tube fed tiny pellets of deuterium and tritium into the sphere, and the laser beams bombarded the pellets. The deuterium and tritium elements in the gaseous cloud that formed in the center of the sphere released energy particles but were then trapped, focused, and squeezed by the laser beams until the heat built up to a point where the elements no longer repelled one another but were fused together. When they fused, they created a massive release of heat and energy. Further squeezed by the magnetrons, the fused particles suddenly snapped apart, creating a cloud of free electrons and positively charged particles called ions-a plasma field. The magnetrons then focused the field and sent it to the laser generator, where the plasma energy stripped high-energy particles from neodymium, creating laser light.

Despite its size and complexity, it was a perfect example of simplicity and functionality. It weighed less than thirty thousand pounds, less than half the weight of the chemical laser it was replacing. The inertial confinement chamber was a simple reengineering of the plasma-yield warhead Jon Masters had invented years earlier-instead of simply releasing the plasma energy created inside, the chamber was designed to channel it to the laser generator. It used virtually no power-just enough to light up the diode lasers inside the confinement chamber and to keep the magnetrons firing.

Unfortunately, that was the problem-and Kelsey's current headache. "How's it looking, Kelsey?" Jon asked, ignoring Cheryl's concerned expression-better get a status update fast before Cheryl decided to escort her daughter out of here.

"Horrible," Kelsey said. "I still haven't been able to control the heat buildup and keep it away from the magnetrons."

"That's a problem I never had to contend with," Jon admitted. "With the plasma-yield warhead, I wanted to let the heat build up-we got a bigger plasma field and we could do more damage. Here, we want to control it."

It took an incredible amount of heat to create a plasma field-a hundred million degrees Fahrenheit, ten times hotter-than the sun. The heat only lasted for a tiny fraction of a second, but it was still devastating to ordinary manmade materials. Further, cooling the sphere or magnetrons was not an option-the only way to do away with the heat was to build the heat up enough to create a plasma field, at which instant it would cool to safe limits and the plasma field would disappear. Even if the creation of the plasma fields were pulsed, excess heat eventually built up to the point where even the strongest materials would begin to corrode and weaken.

"What's the pulse interval looking like?"

"The optimum safe range is between ten and twenty-five milliseconds," Kelsey replied, "but I only get a yield of point four one megawatts-almost half the level of the chemical laser we're replacing. Not good." Kelsey had been experimenting with trying to vary the spacing between plasma pulses. Spacing the pulses out farther resulted in manageable levels of heat but decreased the power available to the laser generators. "If I can go to five to ten milliseconds I can get to one megawatt of power. I'm shooting for one millisecond-then I can beat TRW's chemical laser output by twenty-five percent. But at that power level, I can get maybe ten ten-second shots off before the magnetrons let go."

"Letting go" was a nice way of saying "exploding." The magnetrons in the confinement chamber served two purposes: they squeezed the plasma energy down to a smaller size to increase the power of the plasma field, and it then channeled the plasma stream into the laser generator. The magnetrons signaled imminent failure by vibrating rapidly as the magnetic material began to disintegrate molecularly and the magnetic fields began alternately attracting, then repelling one another at incredible speed. If the magnetrons failed and the plasma reaction wasn't stopped in time, the plasma field would grow uncontrollably, unleashing one hundred million degrees of destruction on anything within one or two miles.

Building two smaller confinement chambers instead of one large one was an option, but there wasn't enough room for two of the right size in the B-52's fuselage; besides, Jon's and Kelsey's initial computations suggested that one large confinement chamber would do the trick, so they went for it, and now it would take weeks, maybe months, to redesign everything for two chambers.

"I don't think we have any choice-we drop back ten, punt, and go for two confinement chambers," Jon said. "We need to build a little more safety into the system too, or else we can't market to the Pentagon. We need to get more than thirty shots and we need at least one point five megawatts, preferably two megawatts."

"I know I can do it," Kelsey said. "By varying the time between plasma pulses, making bigger magnetrons, increasing the power to the magnetrons, adding more laser generators, and perhaps redesigning the oscillator, I think we can get one point five megawatts out of this system with a good margin of safety. Those changes would be simpler than tearing everything apart and redoing it with two smaller confinement chambers."

"Frankly, Kels, we make more of a splash with a twomegawatt system even if we only get ten to twelve safe shots out of it," Jon said. "It's not important now-tuning up an unworkable system is a mental exercise, not a business one. We'll redesign the system for two confinement chambers." He squeezed her shoulders appreciatively. "You've done an extraordinary job, young lady. You've designed and built a powerful, sophisticated laser pumping system that's never been tried before, and in record time. It's got some bugs, but we've actually fielded a working system. You should be proud of that. Let's let the concept engineers work on the new drawings and take a break from this one for now."

"Okay, Jon," Kelsey said.

Jon Masters nodded, winked at Cheryl, then headed for the door, fully expecting Kelsey to follow him, even holding his hand as she sometimes did. But Jon was out the door before he realized that Kelsey had not followed him-had, in fact, not even gotten up out of her chair.

He was about to go back inside and ask her-no, order her-to get up and go home. But then Cheryl reached over and, instead of taking her daughter out of there or trying to convince her that she needed her sleep, started to massage her daughter's little shoulders.

Who was abusing whom here? Jon asked himself. Did Cheryl want the best for her daughter, or was she mostly interested in making sure she was happy-and what in heck was the difference? Jon wasn't a parent-he could never know the answer to that question. The closest he came to family had been Paul and Patrick McLanahanone was dead, the other an emotional wreck.

Best to just get out of there and let them have their time together, Jon thought. Cheryl obviously treasured even these little moments, as long as they could be togethereven if it was at the control terminal of a fifty-milliondollar laser.

"My brothers and sisters, may God bless and protect you, and may He grant all of us everlasting peace and happiness," Egyptian president Susan Bailey Salaam began. The military memorial service for the slain, injured, and missing of Mersa Matruh had concluded, and then came the political rally and the speeches. Last to step up to the dais was the president herself, making her first political speech since taking office. The cheering was deafening: It rattled seats, made the flags high atop the rim of the stadium flut-

ter, and even caused car alarms in the parking lot outside to gooff.

"We are here to pray for the victims of the terrible tragedy that claimed so many lives," Susan went on. "I pledge to you, on the memory of my beloved husband, to work tirelessly to bring to justice those that perpetrated that horrible deed. They will be brought before the people of Egypt, and they will feel our wrath-this I guarantee you.

"But we are here not just for vengeance or retribution, but to profess our strength and unity in the eyes of God and to everyone in the world," Salaam went on. "None may challenge us. None may stay our hands or our voices, because God is on the side of the believers, and he will defend and protect those who stand for justice and peace."

Seated beside her, General Ahmad Baris, Egypt's new foreign minister, looked on, applauding enthusiastically and rising from his seat each time she was given a standing ovation. Outwardly, he was proud and overwhelmed by the effusive show of support for his friend…

… but inwardly, he was confused and, yes, a little frightened.

"My friends, we are here in the presence of God for one reason: to show Him that the faith, the solidarity, and the unity of His people is stronger than ever. We have an opportunity to do exactly that.

"We have seen the birth of an exciting and promising new venture: the opening of the Salimah oil project to all Arab workers. My goal is simple but powerful: share the wealth of our land with all of our Arab brothers and sisters. We have opened our borders to friends. We pledge Egypt's protection and support to all who enter peacefully. Salimah promises full employment, wealth, and happiness to anyone who is willing to take a chance and brave the Sahara. Egypt recognizes the bravery and sacrifice of everyone who ventures to Salimah, and we will defend and protect you in your travels and your labors-this I promise."

After waiting nearly a full minute for the applause to die down, Susan continued: "My friends, the spirit and promise of Salimah shows us one important ideal: that if we work together, we truly can be happy, wealthy, and fulfilled children of God. That important ideal is unity. We must become as one. Salimah is only the beginning. You can look out across that wasteland and see nothing but sand and rock, but I see much more: I see one people, one message, one common goal: peace, prosperity, and happiness. I see the future, secure and full of hope and promise for our children. I see all Arabs and all Africans working together to secure our borders, sharing in the wealth of our land and our seas, and contributing to a brave new society where we show the world what it's like to be free. I see our future, my brothers and sisters: I see the new United Arab Republic. God wills it, my brothers and sisters, and so let it be done."

The cheers and joyful screaming reached an almost feverish pitch. This is what the crowd had been waiting for, and now they had heard it from the "queen's" own lips: She was calling for the formation of the United Arab Republic.

It was not a new idea. In 1958, Egypt formed a United Arab Republic, mostly to fight against lingering European domination in Middle East affairs. With Egyptian president Gamal Abdel Nasser as its leader, the United Arab Republic flourished for three years and grew strong; the Republic was largely responsible for reuniting the Arab world following its defeat in the first Arab-Israeli War, and for strengthening the individual power of its member nations by removing foreign domination of Arab interests and instituting self-rule and determination.

The United Arab Republic foundered for a variety of reasons: The nations involved were too diverse, too wrapped up in their own domestic difficulties, and too dependent on non-Arab nations, mostly the Soviet Union, for their military strength. But assembling a new United Arab Republic was a dream of almost every Arab leader since the fall of the first-if Europe could establish a European Union, as different as they all were in language, geography, wealth, and history, why couldn't the Arab world do so as well?

Susan Bailey Salaam's speech did not last longer than a few minutes-but the crowd cheered and applauded her for almost fifteen. It was truly an awe-inspiring demonstration of trust, loyalty, love, and respect for the American-born non-Muslim wife of a slain politician…

… for everyone except Jadallah Zuwayy. "There she goes again-calling for a United Arab Republic!" he shouted at the television set in his office at the Royal Palace in Tripoli, United Kingdom of Libya. "How dare she? Who does she think she is-Nasser? Kennedy? Cleopatra?" Zuwayy got up out of his seat and started stalking the room. "I thought we had a deal to get a piece of Salimah, Juma," he said to his Minister of Arab Unity, Juma Mahmud Hijazi. "What happened?"

"The deal was that we got twenty percent from Salaam once we paid for ten percent to the cartel," Hijazi replied. "About nine hundred million American dollars."

"Nine hundred million dollars? That's insane! I'm not going to pay any bunch of European bastards or anyone else almost a billion dollars!"

"They insisted on their money up front-we couldn't get them to agree to take the fee out of our royalties," Hijazi went on.

"Jadallah, let's just pitch in and buy the damned shares so Salaam will release her shares and we can start taking in some cash," Tahir Fazani, the Minister of Defense, said. "In exchange for this investment to the cartel, we'll be receiving one point eight billion dollars U.S. worth of value in the organization."

"What good is that to me?" Zuwayy thundered. "I don't have a billion dollars to spend!"

"We'll earn that investment back in less than three years if the cartel increases production as planned," Fazani added. "With an additional investment, we can enlarge the size of the new pipeline and-"

"Now you want me to pay moreV Zuwayy tlfundered. "Did you hear what I said? I don't have a billion dollars to invest now-how do you expect me to invest more? And just breaking even in three years doesn't exactly appeal to me either-while I'm waiting for my money, Salaam and the fat cats in Europe and America are raking in money hand over fist. It's not right, and I won't stand for it!"

"Jadallah, if the project is expanded, we can all stand to make an enormous profit in coming years," Hijazi said. "And in the meantime, the cartel is providing employment for thousands of Libyans."

"That's another question we're going to tackle-taxing Libyans working in Egypt!" Zuwayy said. "Why should our people pay Egyptian taxes?" He slapped his desktop. "I want Salimah destroyed, Fazani. I want it nuked, then I want to send in a ground force and take the entire complex. We've got the troops in place, lined up in Libya and Sudan-let's do it."

"Don't be crazy, Jadallah. We'll think of something else."

"I want all Libyan workers to return to this country or they'll be considered traitors and enemies of the state," Zuwayy said hotly.

"We've got over twenty thousand workers in Egypt right now," Hijazi said. "It'll take weeks to get them back."

"And I want Salimah shut down," Zuwayy went on. "Use those neutron weapons again-that'll work. We kill all the foreigners and Egyptians, and then we can just march right in and take over."

"But what if Salaam calls up those American bombers again?" Fazani asked. "We'll get clobbered. We haven't found a way to stop them-we don't even know where they came from or what they are!"

Zuwayy turned angrily on Tahir Fazani. "You will do as I tell you, Fazani, or you can turn in your uniform and get out."

"Don't be an idiot, Jadallah-we're all working together on this, remember?" Fazani said. The two men stared at each other for several long moments-Zuwayy looked almost psychotic, Fazani's expression turning from angry to scared and back to angry again.

"Do it, Fazani," Zuwayy told him. "I want the bombers airborne or the missiles on their way by tomorrow night. I'll give Salaam one more chance to conclude our dealand if she doesn't agree, I'll turn her precious oil fields into a graveyard."

"President Salaam, this is Thomas Thorn. It is a pleasure to speak with you," President Thomas Thorn said. He was on a secure videophone link from his study next to the Oval Office. "I'm here in my study with Secretary of State Kercheval and Secretary of Defense Goff."

"It's a pleasure to speak with you, Mr. President," Susan Bailey Salaam replied. "With me is my senior adviser and defense minister, General Ahmad Baris. Thank you for speaking with me."

"First, Madame Salaam, I'd like to extend my sympathy and condolences for the terrible tragedy that has occurred in Egypt," Thorn went on. "All of the relief, rescue and recovery, and scientific resources of the United States are yours for the asking."

"Thank you, Mr. President. The United States has long been a strong ally of Egypt, and I hope this will continue."

"You're welcome, Madame President. Let's get down to business, shall we? Secretary Kercheval?"

"Thank you, Mr. President. Madame President, I understand you have received a message direct from the king of Libya," Secretary Kercheval said without further preamble, "stating that a situation has developed involving the safety of Libyan workers in Egypt, and that the Libyan government sees this as a direct threat to its national security and peace in Africa. King Idris has said that it is unsafe for Libyan workers in Salimah and he has ordered all Libyan workers to leave Egypt immediately. He also warns Egypt to use every resource to protecf Libyan lives."

"You are very well informed, Mr. Kercheval," Susan said.

"Our intelligence agencies have examined the situation, and we've analyzed all of the press reports coming in from Egypt from news agencies all over the world covering the explosive growth of the Salimah complex, and we don't see any evidence of mistreatment," Kercheval went on. "If anything, we see a very high incidence of anti-Egyptian government sentiment rising in the settlements and housing areas, but mostly from non-Arab countries that resent the sudden and very large influx of Arab workers. That represents a slight danger for Arabs, but not targeted specifically against Libyans, in our view."

"That's correct, Mr. Kercheval."

"But despite this, you believe this threat to be credible? You actually believe that Idris will attack Salimah, even if there are Libyans still working there?"

"I do, sir."

"Are you considering military action of your own?" Secretary Goff asked. "Some kind of preemptive strike?"

"Fully one-fifth of our military forces were decimated at Mersa Matruh, including almost a third of our naval forces," Salaam said. "We redeployed troops to protect the capital; we have only a token ground force in Salimah. General Baris informs me that it would take several weeks at a minimum to recall the reserves and generate enough forces to stage an effective attack. Besides, we don't want to make war on Libya."

"So why don't you tell us what the real problem is, Madame President?" President Thorn asked. "Why is the president of Libya, this King Idris, threatening you?"

"The real issue is, Mr. President, that Zuwayy of Libya wants Salimah-and he's willing to kill everyone there with more neutron weapons if he doesn't get what he wants."

"What makes Zuwayy think he can have Salimah?" Robert Goff asked.

"You would have to ask Zuwayy that, Mr. Secretary."

"We're asking you, Mrs. Salaam."

"I'm sure I don't know, sir, except for the obvious reasons-money, power, influence."

"Is it possible that perhaps Zuwayy was promised a piece of Salimah?" the President asked.

"Salimah belongs to Egypt, Mr. President," Susan responded.

Thomas Thorn lowered his head briefly and tightened his interlaced fingers together. "Mrs. Salaam, I feel as if we're dancing around the issue here," he said with more than a hint of exasperation in his voice. "You requested this videoconference with us, Madame-why don't you just tell us what's happening here?"

"Sir?"

"What the President is saying, Mrs. Salaam," Kercheval interjected angrily, "is we think you promised Zuwayy something, and for some reason you can't or won't fulfill that promise, so he's threatening to attack Salimah. Why don't you just fill in the blanks for us, ma'am?"

Susan Bailey Salaam hesitated, lowered her head, then nodded. "You're right, Mr. Kercheval. I promised Zuwayy that I would grant him twenty percent of the ownership of the partnership that's developing Salimah."

"Very generous of you," Thorn said.

"However, Zuwayy was supposed to purchase ten percent of the outstanding shares from the Central African Petroleum Partners for nine hundred million dollars. Naturally, he reneged," Salaam went on. "He wanted the payments taken out of his royalties. I refused, and he got angry."

"Will you agree to do so now?"

"I don't know. It depends on what you say, Mr. President."

"Why should it matter what I say?" Thorn asked. "The United States is not part of this."

"Because Egypt is powerless to stop Zuwayy," Salaam said. "I believe he will use neutron weapons against Egypt, certainly against Salimah and most likely against a major Egyptian city or another military base, as he did against Mersa Matruh."

"Do you have evidence that Libya was behind that at-

tack, and that he used neutron weapons?" Goff asked. "I know he's the main suspect, and he would have the most to gain by slaughtering all those people at Mersa Matruh, but as far as I know, there's no direct evidence that Libya did it."

"I know he did it. He's crazy."

"Certifiable, I'd say," Goff said. "But that still doesn't mean he did it."

"If I got you your evidence, Mr. Secretary, then would you help me?" Salaam asked. "Would you send your stealth bombers and armored commandos in against him and shatter his military, destroy his weapons of mass destruction, and kill Zuwayy if possible so he won't threaten to do this again? What's your price to assure peace in Africa? Whatever it is, I'll pay it."

"President Salaam, first of all: If you were briefed anything about this administration by General Baris or your intelligence staff, you'd know that the President will not order U.S. forces to get involved in squabbles between sovereign nations," Edward Kercheval said. "The United States's position has been that we will not interfere militarily with such matters unless it directly threatens the national security or vital national interests of the United States. That has been our policy since the beginning of this administration, and it has not changed. We will be happy to act as a disinterested third party in negotiations, but we will not commit American troops to help."

"Second, we have no idea what bombers or armored commandos you're talking about," Robert Goff added. "The United States has bombers, of course, but they have not been deployed or sent on any missions anywhere. And we have no armored commandos. None."

"What about Patrick McLanahan?"

There was a slight uncomfortable rustle of hands and shoulders; but, as if he were reading the words from a cue card, Robert Goff responded, "We have heard of Mr. McLanahan, and we know he has been linked with various organizations, none of which have any connection whatsoever with the U.S. government. Mr. McLanahan is under indictment in the United States for a variety of charges, the specifications of which are sealed by the Justice and Defense Departments. He is currently free on bond and awaiting a court hearing."

"You're lying," Susan said. "He helped me. He has saved Egypt from Zuwayy's attacks."

"If that's what he told you, I wouldn't believe it," Goff said.

"You're all lying," Susan repeated. "He's a hero. He's been here. He saved Egypt from a terrible assault from Libyan military forces."

"We may ask you to testify to that, Mrs. President," Kercheval said, "at McLanahan's trial."

"This is some kind of trick," Salaam said, the anguish apparent in her voice. "He saved us. He has powers… weapons.. "

"Any of which are either fabrications or stolen, ma'am," Goff said. "I'm sorry if he's bamboozled you. You may of course file charges against him in federal court, and the U.S. Attorney General will see to the matter personally. But I wouldn't place my trust, or the safety of my nation, in his hands."

"Why are you doing this to him?" Susan asked, almost pleading. "He's a wonderful man. He cares about his wife and his men. He loves the United States and he fights for justice. Why won't you support him?"

"We neither support nor try to hinder him, Mrs. Salaam," Kercheval said. "He hasn't violated any laws in the United States that we know of. He is under investigation, but I can't discuss that. He's a private citizen. If we have any knowledge or evidence of wrongdoing, we'll prosecute him to the fullest extent of the law. Otherwise, he's free to do whatever he wishes as a free man. But he is not part of the U.S. government, and his actions are not under the direction of or sanctioned by the United States government in any way."

"Mr. President, gentlemen, I'm asking for your help in defending Egypt against probable attack from Libya," Susan said. "I know you have two aircraft carrier battle groups sailing in the Mediterranean Sea right now; I would like to offer you unlimited use of Egyptian ports and air bases for your crews."

"Frankly, Madame President, after the warning you just gave us, I don't think it would be prudent to send any of our warships near an Egyptian port right now," Robert Goff said.

"My warning is real enough so you won't send your ships anywhere near Egypt, but not real enough to assist us?"

"Mrs. Salaam, I will discuss your situation with my advisers," President Thorn said. "But at this point, I don't think we'll be in a position to help. If the Libyan president's threat is that great, perhaps you might be better served by letting him have what he wants."

"You're suggesting I give in to him?"

"I don't see that you have much choice, Madame President," Thorn said earnestly. "If the attack is as credible as you say, and if Idris is as unstable as Secretary Goff seems to think he is, then the presence of American warships in Egypt won't deter him-in fact, it might attract a heavier attack with an even larger loss of life. You can appeal to the United Nations or go in front of the world press, perhaps initiate an investigation on where Idris got those weapons and hope that exposing him and publicizing his threat will keep him from attacking-if you predict he'll use neutron weapons on Egypt, he might be less likely to do so."

"Perhaps an appeal before the Muslim Brotherhood might be the strongest deterrent," Kercheval suggested. "You seem to have been very successful in bringing the diverse factions of the Muslim Brotherhood together in Tripoli-they were even looking to you for leadership in a united Arab republic. You may be able to head him off."

"But I cannot count on help from the United States?"

"Not military help, Mrs. Salaam."

"No matter how many Americans are killed if Zuwayy attacks?"

"We're concerned about any loss of life, American or not," Thorn said. "We have condemned any use of nuclear weapons anywhere in the world, and if there was a threat against the United States, we would take swift and deadly action."

"Pretty brave words, Mr. President-how about putting them into action?"

Thorn paused, letting the caustic remark wash over and past him; then: "But… the United States will not interfere militarily in the affairs of sovereign nations, Mrs. Salaam. We are not a police force-you can't dial 911 and get an American aircraft carrier battle group to protect you because a deal you made goes south.

"We will discuss and analyze the situation there, Mrs. Salaam, and we'll decide on a course of action," Thorn said. "But I suggest you give the man what he wants until you have the backing of your fellow Arab nations and can rally enough support to counteract his threats."

"I don't believe you would actually turn your back on Egypt, Mr. President," Susan said. "You would actually stand back and watch as Libya destroys Africa's largest oil field and kills tens of thousands of innocent workers, when all it would take is to sail a few ships through the Gulf of Sidra and show him that you disapprove of his threat? What kind of superpower leader are you?"

"A superpower that shouldn't need to throw its military weight around to promote peace, Madame Salaam," Thorn said. "Peace comes in many different packages and for many different prices, Madame. You appear to be too proud to give in to Idris's threats, but not proud enough to ask the United States to invade Libya and kill its leader. This is a situation I'd rather not have the United States involved in. Once we learn more about the situation and have had time to confer, we'll contact you if we feel we can be of help.

"But again, I suggest you think about saving lives and give Idris or Zuwayy or whatever his real name is whatever he wants. From what you said, he's still willing to pay for the shares of the partnership-you just need to take the money out of his earnings over a period of time. Why not agree to that for now? You all continue to pump oil and make money: Most importantly, everyone lives."

"Thank you for your suggestion, Mr. President," Salaam said sarcastically. "It must be a great comfort to you, giving sage advice from six thousand miles away, from the safety of your continent and your bombers and missile shield."

"I wish you luck, Madame President," Thorn said. But the call had already been terminated by then.

Kercheval shook his head. "Ouch," he said. "That had to hurt." But Thomas Thorn looked fairly unperturbed-he went back to his computer and started to make notes about the conversation. "You're really not going to do anything, Mr. President?" he asked incredulously. "You're not going to reposition the fleet?"

"I'm going to do what I said I'd do, Edward-I'm going to ask for an independent assessment of the situation, get some satellites repositioned over there to keep an eye on things, and when we have our own take on what's really going on, I'll make a decision," Thorn said as he typed. "But no, I'm not going to send any ships anywhere near there. Robert's right-it's too dangerous. They're likely to be caught in the crossfire."

"That 'crossfire' could be a nuclear war" Kercheval said. "If Salaam is correct, tens of thousands of lives could be lost."

"I'm aware of that, Edward," Thorn said. "But my problem is not to go rushing in and risk American lives in a fight we didn't start and one in which we don't know what's going on. I'll direct CIA to brief me on the current political situation in Egypt and Libya; I'll get Justice to brief me on the situation with that oil partnership; and I'll get Robert to brief me on the military situation and the threat to our forces in the Med. Until then, I'll direct all U.S. forces to stay away from the area, and I'm directing you to issue a warning to all American citizens not to travel to Egypt-in case there are any Americans still in Egypt, after what happened in Mersa Matruh."

Edward Kercheval shook his head in undisguised disbelief. "I'll get right on it, Mr. President," he said, and he departed. There was no secret of their almost continual policy disagreements-their debates, sometimes emerging as outright contradictions, were legendary. But their disagreements served two purposes: One, that Thomas Thorn didn't hire yes-men to serve him in his Cabinet; and second, it showed that Thorn was firmly in charge. Edward Kercheval was considered one of the world's most respected political and foreign affairs experts-and for him to continue to serve under Thomas Thorn, a relative foreign affairs rookie, was a sideways tribute to both Kercheval's and the President's personal integrity. No one understood how it worked, but it did.

After he departed, Goff looked at his longtime friend and waited for him to say something; when he didn't, and the aggravation factor built up to the point he couldn't contain it any longer, he asked, "So, what are you really going to do, Thomas?"

"I already said what I want done."

"You're really going to do nothing? What if Libya really does attack Egypt? Could we stand the political heat and world condemnation if we received a credible warning directly from the Egyptian president but did nothing?"

"I'm not doing 'nothing.' I'm going to independently assess the situation…"

"I heard what you said. But you're not going to call Zuwayy? You don't want to position a few more bombers over in the region, say, in England or Diego Garcia?"

"No."

Goff nodded knowingly and smiled. "I get it. You want me to find out where McLanahan and his forces aremaybe give them a heads-up?"

"I especially don't want you to do that," Thorn said firmly. "In fact, I'm going to direct the Justice Department to shut Sky Masters down. I want all their planes grounded. And if McLanahan and the Night Stalkers are in the country, which I believe they are right now, I want them detained."

"You're serious?" Goff asked incredulously. "You really don't want to get involved in this thing at all, no matter how covertly we try or no matter how much it might cost you politically?" '"

'That's right," Thorn said. "You know, Bob, I'm really impressed with McLanahan and his bunch. They got their teeth knocked in pretty good from what we can tell, and they still fought like badgers. Their aircraft acquitted themselves pretty well, if all the reports about attacked Libyan bases and destroyed airfields are all attributed to them.

"But that's precisely the reason we need to put a muzzle on them: They're too good. They did so well that Zuwayy of Libya might attack Egypt with nuclear weapons. That's why we need to shut him down. Unless I can somehow bring him and his people under control again, he's got to be shut down."

"That's easy," Goff said with a wry smile. "Ask him to join your Cabinet. Make him your national security adviser. Make him defect from Martindale's team and join yours."

"You're my national security adviser, Robert-I don't need another one."

"I'm not your national security adviser, Thomas-I'm your national security nudjen," Goff said. "I haven't told you a thing in twenty years. You need a guy like McLanahan to tell you when you're wrong."

"I want McLanahan in jail, Robert, not in the White House," Thomas Thorn said stonily. "He's a loose cannon. I want him shut down and shut off."

"O-kay," Goff said. "So… that means you're not going to ring him up on your little subcutaneous walkie-talkie, then?" Thorn scowled at him, then turned back to his computer. Goff smiled and got up to leave.

"I'll be very interested," the President said as Goff was leaving, "to find out whom Susan Salaam calls next."

Goff paused, then nodded. "Yeah… me too," he said. "Me too."

"Well, well," Pavel Kazakov said. His initial anger at being awakened in the middle of the night vanished in an instant.

"Madame Susan Bailey Salaam, the esteemed president of Egypt, calling me personally? I'm flattered."

"Let's cut to the chase, Kazakov," Susan said angrily. "We all know you are the puppet master behind Jadallah Zuwayy. He got the neutron weapons from you; you've been arming him with hundreds of millions of dollars' worth of weapons over the past several months; you talked him into blowing up Mersa Matruh… "

"I don't know what you're talking about, Madame," Kazakov said. "I'm a prisoner, a witness for the United Nations, not an arms dealer."

"I said, let's cut to the chase," Susan said. "Zuwayy wants his filthy claws in Salimah-but so do you. You want back into the world oil game, and Salimah is your latest target. Fine. Help me stop Zuwayy, and you can have Salimah."

Pavel Kazakov was fully awake now. He buzzed for Ivana Vasilyeva, his aide. "I'm listening, Mrs. Salaam."

"Shut down Zuwayy-I don't care how," Susan said. "Order him, bribe him, kill him-it doesn't matter to me, just stop him from blowing up my oil fields and killing the workers. You take Zuwayy's shares."

"What will that give me? Thirty percent of a graveyard in the Sahara?"

"Not thirty-sixty percent of Salimah," Susan said. "Because if you do this, I'll buy out the Central African Petroleum Partners cartel and turn over their share of the partnership to you. I remind you, Mr. Kazakov, that Salimah represents the largest known oil reserves in all of Africa. Zuwayy only wants to rape it or destroy it, not develop it. You're smarter than he is. Shut him down, and you can have a majority stake in the biggest known oil reserves in the world west of the Caspian."

Pavel Kazakov was virtually shaking with anticipation. This was exactly what he was hoping for when he first struck this deal with Jadallah Zuwayy: a way to take control of Salimah without appearing to take control of anything. John D. Rockefeller once said that the key to wealth was "own nothing, control everything"-that's exactly what Kazakov wanted.

'"I'll try to stop Zuwayy, my dear Susan Bailey Salaam," Kazakov said. "But even if that ridiculous pig gets off a few shots, you will agree to this deal with me. You will ensure that a majority of shares in the partnership is transferred to me, and I'll see to it that Zuwayy moves to that ranch in Vietnam he's always wanted."

"You keep Zuwayy from attacking Salimah, or the deal's off."

"Madame, I'm not in Libya-I'm not Zuwayy's wet nurse," Kazakov said. "You're the one with the American white knights coming to your rescue-why not call on them to save you again?"

"If bombs fall on Salimah, Kazakov, the deal's off."

"If you try to cancel this deal, Salaam, I'll send a transcript of this conversation to every media outlet in the world-see how long your popularity in the Arab world lasts then," Kazakov said. "On the other hand, you give me what I want, and I'll make Zuwayy and his goons heel. Count on it."

There was silence on the line for several long moments; then: "I guess I have no choice. But I want Zuwayy out of the picture. No more threats from him."

"I'll make you a side deal, Mrs. Salaam-you give me the white knights, and I'll serve you up Jadallah Zuwayy."

"What?"

"You give me the Americans, the ones in the electronic battle armor, the ones with the fancy electromagnetic guns and the jump boots, and you can take control of the entire Muslim Brotherhood. Zuwayy will be a traitor to all loyal Arabs, and you slide right in as the leader of the Muslim world."

"I can't do that if Salimah gets wiped out."

"I can't help that," Kazakov said. "But if he does attack Salimah, he'll be slamming the lid shut on his own coffin. You, on the other hand, will have every bit of the power you want. You just have to give me the Tin Man."

"How am I supposed to do thai:?"

"You're a very beautiful, beguiling woman-you figure it out," Kazakov said. "I wouldn't be surprised if they're on their way to save you right this minute. If they come back to rescue you, all you have to do is tell me."

There was more silence on the phone-but it was shorter this time: "All right," Susan said. "Do everything you can to stop Zuwayy, and I'll do everything I can to bring you McLanahan."

"McLanahan, you say?" Kazakov asked incredulously. "That's his name? McLanahan?"

"General Patrick McLanahan."

Kazakov searched his memory. He had heard of that name before… where was it?

My God… he remembered where he had heard that name. The prisoners… the prisoners that he had ordered Zuwayy to segregate from the others before they were taken to their deaths in Mersa Matruh. One of the American prisoners still being held by Jadallah Zuwayy in Libya was a woman by the name of McLanahan. That was too much of a coincidence. It had to be the same… a relative? Certainly not a sister or wife? This seemed too good to be true!

"Why is that name important to you, Kazakov?" Susan asked. "Why.do you sound so…?" And then she stopped-she knew exactly why. "You have her," Salaam said breathlessly. "No, not you.. Zuwayy. Zuwayy has the woman named McLanahan."

"Who is she?"

"She is your death sentence if Patrick McLanahan finds out she's alive," Salaam said. "She's the reason he's fighting this battle-just to get her back. You're a captive in a fancy Icelandic jail-you're easy to get to. I guarantee, Patrick will move heaven and earth to get to her-and he'll destroy an entire nation if she's harmed."

"Call this General McLanahan off," Kazakov said, his voice fairly shaking with anger. "I don't care how you do it, but call him off. Threaten him, entice him, screw himI don't care."

"So he's worth something to you, then?"

"Don't try to dicker with me, woman. I can get McLanahan on my own time."

"You don't sound so sure to me-if you could get him, I imik you would have done it by now," Susan said. "Perhaps I should tell him that you ordered her execution, and you'll find yourself ripped into pieces by him. I assume you've seen his powered exoskeleton and electronic shock weapons in action? Don't think your lawyers will stop him."

The "powered exoskeleton" was a new one for Pavel Kazakov-it made his already fearsome battle armor sound even more fearsome. "All right, all right" Kazakov shouted. He thought quickly. There was an opportunity here-but Salaam had to play along. What did she want? What was her overriding desire? Certainly not this general.. "Here's the deal, Madame," Kazakov said. "You convince McLanahan not to attack us anymore. You keep the sixty percent majority ownership of Salimah, the Central African Petroleum Partners keep their thirty percent, and I'll take the remaining ten percent for myself."

"You cannot give me something that I already own, Kazakov," Salaam said. "Zuwayy extorted Egypt for twenty percent of Salimah, yet he has done nothing but threaten his neighbors and waste your money-and now he's put your very life in danger. He is a psychopathic killer with delusions of grandeur. He thinks he's a Libyan king, yet his henchmen are stealing money from their treasury as if it's free for the taking. Why do you support him?"

"Because he controls an organization that potentially controls forty-five percent of the world's oil reserves," Kazakov replied. "What is it you control? What do you-?"

And then he stopped. He remembered the recent items in the news, the rallies, the editorials on this beautiful, opportunistic, charismatic woman-they were calling her the "next Cleopatra." Could this work…?

"Are you still there, Kazakov? We'd better come to an agreement soon."

"Of course," Kazakov went on. "I know just what might change your mind."

"Oh, really? It had better be good-for your sake."

"Everyone calls you the reincarnation of Cleopatra, an empress of the new United Arab Republic…" He paused, and he noticed that she did not rebuff him-interesting reaction! "Why don't we make you… an emperor?"

"What are you blathering about, Kazakov?"

"The next Muslim Brotherhood Unity Congress, to be held in Tripoli," Kazakov said. "You will attend-and you will be elected president of the Muslim Brotherhood."

Again, Kazakov noticed, no rebuke, no derision-she was not only listening, but considering the thought as well! Finally-much too late-she asked, "What are you talking about, Kazakov? How can you do this?"

"Madame, do you really think the Muslim Brotherhood would even exist without my support?" Kazakov asked. "Zuwayy is president of the Brotherhood because I give him the money to bribe the other members into voting for him. With him, it is a meaningless title-he doesn't care at all about Muslims or brotherhood, only money. But you…"

"I am not Muslim, Kazakov."

"But you were on the verge of becoming Muslim, Madame-the world knows this," Kazakov said. "I know you have worshiped with your husband; I know you have taken the baths, read and studied the Quran, fasted during Ramadan, and given the zakah, the poor-due-I believe you even registered yourself as a Muslim so you could accompany your husband on the Hadj, the pilgrimage to Mecca and Medina. All you need to do, from what I know about converting to Islam, is publicly give the Shahada, the testament of faith. Besides, this whole Muslim Brotherhood thing is one of Zuwayy's concoctions to make himself look good and increase his perceived power. You have a thousand times more charm, charisma, and leadership qualities than he does. You would captivate the world, Susan."

"This… this would never work, Kazakov. You know nothing about it."

"I know I can turn the Muslim Brotherhood away from Zuwayy-I can expose him as an impostor, a pretender," Kazakov said. "With a little cash and the right information dropped here and there, I can destroy him without hardly lifting a finger. This paves the way for you to take over the Muslim Brotherhood. But with you controlling Salimah, you would be more than just a figurehead-you would be a true leader, a true savior. An empress."

Another long pause-she was actually considering it. Man, Kazakov thought, the one thing more powerful than money just had to be vanity.

"And all I have to do…?"

"Tell McLanahan to stay out of Africa," Kazakov said. "Tell your boyfriend and his bombers not to interfere with our operations again. You give me a taste of Salimah-just ten percent. Then you and I will talk about your future… as the leader of the United Arab Republic."

There was another pause, but much shorter this time. "Not one bomb falls on Egypt, Kazakov," Susan Bailey Salaam said, "or the deal's off. Destroy Zuwayy. Destroy him."

"Yes… Empress," Kazakov said. He hung up, stood up, and had to bite a knuckle to keep his excitement in check. Ivana Vasilyeva looked at him strangely as she entered the room. "For a moment there, Madame Salaam," he said half aloud, "I thought you cared for this McLanahan. I guess everything-and everyone-has a price and a value."

"What is it, Comrade?" Vasilyeva asked.

"You've got your orders now-you're going to Libya," he told her. "Get close to Zuwayy, report on his every move, find out where he's keeping any American prisoners, and get ready to kill that pig."

"Yes, sir," Vasilyeva said. "He won't be difficult to manipulate."

"I have no doubt. Take control of the situation in that palace. But most importantly: Save those prisoners. I believe they're in Tripoli-they may even be right in the palace."

"I'll find them, Comrade."

"And if you find a woman named McLanahan being kept prisoner by Zuwayy, capture her and get her out of there. She could be the key to getting our hands on the bastards that put me in this dreary place. If you find her, I want her taken alive and brought back to me."

"What is she to you, sir?"

"If I can use those captives to lure the Tin Man into a trap, then Salaam can go to hell," Kazakov said acidly. "I'll get around to eventually burying that little bitch too." He looked at Vasilyeva. "But my real target is the husband, General Patrick McLanahan. If you encounter him, you are to kill him without fail. Do you hear me? Without fail."

"Why don't I just kill them all, Comrade?" Vasilyeva asked with an evil smile, "and we will let God sort them out?"

No one in the entire Arab world had seen anything like it in more than forty years-and, some surmised, nothing like this had been seen in northern Africa in more than two thousand years.

King Jadallah as-Sanusi Stadium was packed: more than two thousand spectators in the stands, another fifty thousand on the field, plus another five thousand dignitaries from all over the world in a specially set-up seating section, celebrating the opening of the First Muslim Brotherhood World Unity Conference. News agencies from around the world were carrying the celebrations and speeches live. It had the atmosphere of the opening day of the Olympics. Security was tight, almost oppressively so, but it did not deter from the festival atmosphere of this unprecedented gathering.

One by one, the presidents or representatives of the member nations of the Muslim Brotherhood-Sudan, Palestine, Algeria, Syria, Jordan, Yemen, Somalia, Albania, Iraq, and Afghanistan-filed into the top VIP section of the stadium, to the delighted cheers of the crowd. Once these ministers were welcomed and seated, the provisional member nations of the Muslim Brotherhood, representing most of the rest of the Muslim world, entered. It was an incredible sight to see longtime enemies and adversaries greeting and embracing each other, and each time it happened it delighted the crowd even more.

The last representatives to enter were the most important: the host nation and the leader of the Muslim Brotherhood, King Jadallah as-Sanusi of the United Kingdom of Libya; and two of its most important provisional members-Crown Prince Abdallah bin Abd al-Aziz al-Sa'ad, the deputy foreign minister, commander of the Saudi National Guard, and heir to the throne of Saudi Arabia; and President Susan Bailey Salaam, the newly elected president of Egypt. The presence of the Crown Prince was significant in two ways: It signaled a more favorable change in attitude of the Saudi royal family toward the Muslim Brotherhood and, secondarily, to Jadallah Zuwayy; yet, because King Fa'ad himself did not attend, it was apparent that the Saudi royal family wasn't ready to commit to joining the Brotherhood quite yet.

The stir caused by the appearance of the Saudi Crown Prince was muted in comparison to the appearance of the president-some said the "queen"-of Egypt. Susan Bailey Salaam was greeted with thunderous applause, singing, cheering, and chanting-and when she lifted her arms, palms upward, to acknowledge the crowd, their roaring redoubled. The eventual appearance of the host and leader of the Muslim Brotherhood, Jadallah Zuwayy, was hardly noticed-Zuwayy tried to delay his appearance on the dais for as long as he could to allow time for the cheering for Bailey to subside, but he finally had to step up anyway because it was obvious he would be waiting an awful long time.

There was a brief prayer service, followed by performances by dancers and singers from each of the member nations, and then each representative was allowed to give some brief remarks. Some of the representatives were better speakers than others; some others ran longer than their allotted five minutes. The crowd became restless. Everyone knew why: They were waiting for her to speak. Jadallah Zuwayy had no choice but to speak last: As the host, he was obligated to let all of his guests precede him. There was nothing he could do.

Zuwayy knew it was going to be a long and wasted day the moment Salaam stepped up to the microphone and the crowd saw it was her-they cheered for five minutes straight even before she uttered a single word.

The erstwhile king of Libya waited patiently for the cheering for Salaam to die down; when it was obvious it was not going to do so right away, Zuwayy signaled his Director of Arab Unity, Juma Mahmud Hijazi, to call for order-and it made it doubly embarrassing for Zuwayy when the crowd virtually ignored Hijazi's request. A sound technician finally had to inject some feedback into the sound system, and the loud squeal reverberating through the stadium finally helped to silence the crowd. Zuwayy read his welcoming remarks quickly, without any passion, and got off the dais as quickly as he could.

The members of the audience and those watching around the world who expected Susan Bailey Salaam to give one of her impassioned, fervent speeches on peace, freedom, prosperity, and unity among the Muslim nations might have been disappointed. Susan's speech lasted only a few short seconds-but she could not have uttered any more important or rousing words than the ones she chose that afternoon.

Susan stepped up to the microphone, waited a few moments for the cheers and shouting to subside, then touched her forehead with the fingertips of both hands, took a deep breath, and sang, "Ash-Hadu anla elaha illa-allah wa ashhadu anna Muhammadan rasul-Allah! I bear witness that there is none truly to be worshiped but Allah, and I bear witness that Muhammad is the messenger of Allah."

The crowd burst into insane cheering and applause. Susan raised her hands and repeated the words of the Shahada, the testimony of faith, but her words, even atnplified, were easily drowned out by the cheering crowd.

Zuwayy was thunderstruck. She had done it: She had stolen this conference, this demonstration of his power, cleanly away from him. He might as well have closed the ceremonies and given her the mantle of presidency.

It was not until after the closing ceremonies that Zuwayy could finally see her alone in his palace office. He meant to have her wait for him in his office to at least try to reassert some control in their discussions, but since the media had followed Salaam to this meeting, Zuwayy had to make a show of welcoming her to his palace and showing her some of its antiques, treasures, and artifacts of Libyan history.

He quickly dropped all pretext of friendship with her once they were alone in his office. "So, Mrs. Salaam, you've had quite a week here. You have the entire world eating out of your hand." Minister of Arab Unity Hijazi and Chief of the General Staff Tahir Fazani were also on hand with Zuwayy; General Ahmad Baris, Salaam's defense minister, and Captain Amina Shafik, Susan's new chief of staff, accompanied her.

"I think it was a most successful conference, Your Highness," Salaam said, "thanks to you and your staff"

"No, no, no-I think the credit all goes to you, Madame President," Zuwayy retorted irritably. "Everywhere I went I heard cries of 'Republic! Republic!' and 'Queen Susan!' You must be very pleased with your newfound popularity, Madame."

"I am proud and happy that our people are starting to think and speak as one, Your Highness," Salaam said, wearing her most diplomatic smile and tone of voice.

"I'm happy that you're happy, 'Queen' Salaam," Zuwayy said.

Susan's smile never dimmed-but Ahmad Baris's eyes narrowed in concern. "Have we done something to offend you, Highness?" he asked.

"Of course not," Zuwayy replied curtly. He looked as if he was going to sit at his desk, but swung the chair out of his way and continued to pace around his desk. "But it seems I'm being forced to remind a lot of folks here this week that the Muslim Brotherhood doesn't seek a republic. Our purpose is not to form one nation or even a federation of nations. Our purpose, Madame, is to assist Arab governments in forming and maintaining a Shura, a government based on Islamic law. We don't want to go through the trouble of erasing centuries of history for our member nations-we only want to encourage and assist governments in embracing Muslim holy law in its activities. Do you understand, Madame?"

"Yes, Highness," Susan replied. "I understand perfectly." She did not take her eyes off him, and the smile remained as well, which only served to make Zuwayy angrier. "Is there something specific you wished of me, Highness?"

"Wish? What do I wishl I'll tell you what I wish, Queen Salaam!"

"What His Highness is trying to say, Madame President," Juma Hijazi interjected, glancing at Zuwayy, hoping that he could keep his anger in check for just a few more minutes, "is that His Highness is still waiting for a conclusion to the contract between yourself and the Central African Petroleum Partners for the kingdom's share of the partnership. As you remember, Madame, you said that in exchange for His Highness's support during your elections, the kingdom would receive a one-third share of the partnership-"

"It wasn't one-third, Minister, it was thirty percent," General Baris interjected.

"One-third, thirty percent-it's all the same damn thing," Zuwayy retorted.

"You're right, General-it was thirty percent," Hijazi said. "But the fact is, the agreement has not been concluded. Egypt has graciously and effectively opened its borders to many Arab nations and instituted the work visa program in record time, which has helped ten of thousands of workers from all over the Arab world. It is a shining example of the spirit of cooperation that we hope to continue."

"Thank you, Minister."

"But what about the rest of it?" Zuwayy interjected hotly. "Part of the deal was a third of the partnership, a third of the revenues. We haven't seen a dinar yet. If you try to back out of the deal now, Salaam, you'll find yourself at the bottom-"

"Do you have some explanation for the delay, Madame Salaam?" General Fazani interjected before Zuwayy could threaten Salaam's life right in front of witnesses.

"I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation, Majesty," Baris offered.

"Yeah? What is it, Baris?"

"Perhaps it is that you haven't paid for it yet, Majesty," Susan said. Her smile never wavered, but her eyes suddenly lit up in slow-burning anger.

"Paid for it?"

"Majesty, the CAPP cartel invested a total of three point six billion U.S. dollars toward the project," Baris said. "Egypt has promised in writing to grant the kingdom of Libya one-third of its shares in the partnership, but only if Libya agreed to purchase one-fourth of the shares owned by the cartel. That requires an investment by the kingdom of Libya of nine hundred million U.S. dollars."

"What? You expect me to pay a bunch of fat-cat Western oil companies almost a billion dollars for oil that belongs to me?"

Hijazi couldn't stop Zuwayy from stating his claim to the Salimah oil fields, but both Salaam and Baris pretended not to notice what he said. "I think what His Highness is saying, Madame," Hijazi interjected, "is that perhaps we can come to some sort of accommodation."

"What's that?"

"Allow us to pay our fee to the cartel out of our share of the oil revenues," Hijazi said. "It can be paid over, say, five years-they can take it right off the top of our share. We will even agree to pay a reasonable interest rate-it can be a loan of sorts, secured with the oil revenues from Salimah."

Susan paused for a moment, then nodded. "I don't think the Central African Petroleum Partners cartel would object, Minister," Susan said.

Hijazi and Fazani breathed long sighs of relief, smiled, and nodded at each other. "That's good news, Madame President. I think that we-"

"But I object," Susan added.

The Libyan ministers' mouths dropped open. Zuwayy was stunned-he couldn't believe what he had just heard. To the Libyan ministers' surprise, they noticed that even Ahmad Baris had a shocked look on his face. "Madame President, you… you are saying you will not accept a payment option based on our revenues? I don't understand."

"It is quite obvious, Minister," Susan said, looking directly at Zuwayy, her smile gone. "Libya made this deal by threatening Egypt with war if we did not agree to your demands. You have no right to any part of the Salimah project-it is not your land, nor did you invest in any part of the production infrastructure. Yet I accepted your demand, even though I felt my country was under duress, because I wanted peace and prosperity for all of Egypt's neighbors. I made only one request-that you reimburse the European cartel for their shares in payment for their substantial investment in the project. That was more than fair-it was the right thing to do.

"Now, as Libya has done before, you are reneging on your promise. Not only do you demand the shares that Egypt was going to give you for free, but you then demand that you take the next six years to reimburse the European cartel for their shares. This tells me one thing: that Libya cannot be trusted, that Libya-no, that you threewant nothing more than to rape and steal from your own country."

"What did you say?" Zuwayy thundered, his eyes bulging in sheer fury. "How dare you? How dare you accuse me of such a thing? I will have you executed!" Zuwayy lunged for his desk drawer. Fazani, knowing exactly what he was reaching for, used his body to keep the drawer closed. "Get out of the way, Fazani! I'm going to kill this Anglo bitch for what she's just said!"

"No, Jadallah!"

"I said, get out of the way-"

"Madame Salaam," Hijazi said quickly, "I strongly urge you to immediately and sincerely retract that statement and beg His Majesty's forgiveness."

"I will not," Salaam said, rising to her feet. She kept her hooked-crook cane in her hands, as if keeping it at the ready-Hijazi knew what she could do with that cane-but stood calmly right in front of Zuwayy's desk while he still grappled with Fazani.

"You're deadV Zuwayy shouted. "You are deadl Yours will be the shortest presidency in Egyptian history. Your husband will look like Adonis compared to what your body will look like after I get done with it!"

"Good day, 'King,'" Susan said, making an exaggerated bow. "Don't worry about your people-they will be perfectly happy in Egypt. Where do you think you'll be headed next? I think Brazil is nice this time of year."

"Get out!" Zuwayy cried out. "And I'd make sure you know where your bomb shelters are in Cairo-you'll need them!" Salaam and Baris departed, with Shafik backing toward the door right behind them, her right hand invisible under her jacket. "I want her dead, Fazani!" Zuwayy shouted after they departed.

"You can't kill Salaam now, Jadallah-she's more popular than God right now," Fazani said. "If anyone finds out you put out a contract on her, we won't even be able to hide in Brazil. We'll have to live in Antarctica."

"I don't want a piece of Salimah anymore-I want the whole damned thing destroyed!" Zuwayy shouted. "That American bitch has insulted me for the last time!" His eyes spun wildly as he thought. "Launch the attack immediately."

"Jadallah, only a few hundred of the twenty thousandplus Libyans working there now have returned," Hijazi said. "You can't attack now! We'd be slaughtering our own people!"

"No! Launch the attack immediately!" he shouted. "Do it. Let Queen Salaam be the ruler of the largest graveyard in Africa."

Jadallah Zuwayy stomped off to his private residence, kicking furniture and individuals out of his way with equal fury. "How dare she?" he shouted as he slammed the door to his apartment closed. "How dare that bitch spit in my face like that? Who does she think she is?"

"Who, my lord?" a woman's thickly accented voice asked behind him.

"An Egyptian whore that has the unmitigated balls to tell me what to do!"

The woman approached him, naked, holding a crystal glass of thick, potent arkasus, or licorice brandy, in one hand, and a silver tray with a linen napkin covering it. He tossed down the brandy in one gulp. She set the tray down on a nightstand beside a lounge sofa, then kissed the back of his neck and started to massage his shoulders. "Why don't you just eliminate this Egyptian whore, my lord?" the woman asked.

"Because she was just elected president of the Muslim Brotherhood, and she is a guest in my country," Zuwayy said. "Do you know nothing of Arab culture, Russian?"

Ivana Vasilyeva felt for the knot of bone at the base of Zuwayy's long, scrawny neck, then counted the right number of vertebrae up-right there. Snap that bone and Zuwayy would become a helpless lump of flesh on the floor, unable to do anything-except feel pain. But she simply continued her massage. "Forgive me, my lord," Vasilyeva said. "You must instruct me about your country and all its customs."

Zuwayy turned, ran a hand roughly over a nipple, then pinched it, hard. Vasilyeva opened her mouth in a half-yelp of pain and half-moan of pleasure. "The first lesson is: Women must learn to be subservient," Zuwayy said. "You are nothing but bleeding, whining creatures who respond better to the lash than to reason or reality. The quicker you understand this, the happier your life will be."

"Yes, master," Vasilyeva said.

Zuwayy kissed her lips roughly, released her nipple, then lay down on the lounger. He rolled up the sleeve of his right arm. "You were recommended to me because you had a unique talent. Show me. And if you disappoint me, you shall pay dearly for it."

"I understand, master." Vasilyeva removed the linen napkin from the tray, revealing a hypodermic syringe and a rubber hose. She wrapped the hose around Zuwayy's biceps, kissed his right hand, then curled his fingers for him, silently telling him to make a fist. Zuwayy never felt the needle slip into his vein; never felt a thing as Vasilyeva injected the drug.

What an idiot, Vasilyeva thought. She had bribed a Tripoli drug pusher to spread her name around as a trained nurse and anesthesiologist; she had been admitted to the residence almost immediately. Zuwayy liked whores and he liked heroin-he was a slave to both. But apparently he disliked having his nurses and his whores around for too long, so he usually had them killed after about a week in the residence.

That was not going to happen to Vasilyeva.

The drug she had administered was not heroin but thiopental sodium, an ultra-fast-acting, short-duration sedative. Zuwayy was not unconscious, just very relaxed. Vasilyeva removed the rubber tube from his arm and swabbed the injection site. "Do you feel all right, Highness?"

"You can leave me now."

"Not quite yet, Highness. Where is the female American prisoner, the one called McLanahan, and the other American prisoners?"

"The American spies? In my interrogation facility."

"Which ones? Where?"

"Who are you, woman? Why do you care about the Americans?"

"I'm here to take care of your problem with the Americans, if you just tell me where they are."

"I don't care to tell you."

Vasilyeva had to remember to be patient. Thiopental sodium, also known by its brand name Sodium Pentothal, was just a mild sedative, not the much-vaunted "truth serum" fiction writers made it out to be. If the subject didn't want to talk, thiopental sodium couldn't make them do it. Eventually, however, she could get the information from him. She needed to learn a little more about his peccadilloes, fantasies, fears, and weaknesses. One or two more days and she would have him eating out of her hand.

She prepared a small dose of heroin and, as expertly as the first time, injected it into a vein, "jacking it off' by drawing blood into the syringe in and out several times before injecting it all into his arm.

He looked at Vasilyeva with half-closed, dreamy eyes. "Are you going to kill me now?" he asked.

"I have no such orders, unless you resisted," she said.

"Good. I was hoping to get rid of those damned Americans anyway-I should've shipped them off to Mersa Matruh and had them zapped with the neutron bombs along with the others."

"How very interesting. So you deliberately killed those prisoners at Mersa Matruh with a neutron weapon? It wasn't an Egyptian insurgency group or Hamas or Hizb'allah or any of the other right-wing Islamic terrorist groups? It was you?"

"Sure. I wasn't going to let the Egyptians get the glory for saving them. I wish I did the Americans too."

"Of course. So, is it true that you are not really a Libyan king, but just an ordinary army soldier who is pretending to be a king?"

"Pretty good scam, wasn't it? I've got half the world believing I'm a fucking god. It's priceless. Some fools will believe anything you tell them as long as they think they'll get something good out of it."

"How clever of you. What will you do now, Highness?"

"Attack Egypt, again," Zuwayy said. "That bitch Salaam won't back me with the oil cartel, so I'm going to have to destroy Salimah. Actually, not destroy it-just Jhe workers. I'll keep the oil fields for myself. I've got enough troops to take the whole southern part of Egypt." "Did you already give the order to attack?" "Yes. And that cowardly bastard Fazani better follow my orders too."

She picked up the phone beside the lounger. "Call off the attack, Zuwayy. Killing all those workers won't get you any closer to the oil." But he had already drifted off into his drug-induced world, oblivious to the real one.

As soon as the three fighters lit their afterburners, the copilot started counting: "Talaeta, itnen, waehid… daeyikh!" The pilot released brakes and slowly moved the throttles up to full military power, let them stabilize a few seconds, then pushed the throttles into afterburner zone. He waited for the inevitable kohha-the "cough"-as the old fuel valves struggled to keep raw fuel flowing into the afterburner cans. Half the time, especially if the pilot advanced the throttles too fast, a valve stuck or failed and the afterburner would blow out completely. But it didn't happen this time-the nozzles opened, the fuel-flow needles jumped, and the Libyan Tupolev-22 bomber leapt down the runway. Six seconds behind him, the second Tu-22 bomber began its takeoff roll.

A third bomber wasn't so lucky-both of its Dobrynin RD-7M-2 turbojet engines' afterburners blew out seconds after engagement. The pilot quickly yanked the throttles back to military power and tried once more to light the afterburners, inching the throttles up over the detent in slow, careful increments. But it was no use, and the third Tu-22 bomber aborted the takeoff, its screeching, smoking brakes barely managing to stop the two-hundred-thousand-pound bomber before it rolled off the end of the runway.

Libyan air force major Jama Talhi, the pilot and flight leader, said a silent prayer as he retracted the landing gear and flaps, watching the hydraulic needles jumping wildly in their cases. Hydraulic fluid was even more expensive than fuel or weapons, and because it was not changed as often as it should be, contamination was a problem. Amazingly, everything was working. Talhi, a ten-year veteran of the Al Quwwat al Jawwiya al Jamahiriyah al Arabiya al Libya, was the Libyan air force's most experienced Tu-22 bomber pilot, with a grand total of just over three hundred hours in this ex-Soviet medium supersonic bomber. In any other air force, three hundred hours would mean you were hardly out of flight school-in Libya, surviving that many hours usually meant a promotion. Tupolev-22 bombers were notorious maintenance hogs-they routinely cannibalized as many as ten planes to keep three in the air. This time, even that ratio wasn't enough. Talhi had experienced every possible malfunction and inflight emergency in a Tu-22, but had never crashed one. That made him top dog in the Libyan air force.

"Sahra flight, check."

"Two," his wingman replied. The third plane had already reported aborting its takeoff, and the timing on this mission was so critical that they could not wait for him. They would have to do the mission with one-third less firepower.

"Dufda flight, Sahra flight checking in."

"Sahra flight, acknowledged," the leader of the flight of three Libyan Mikoyan-23 fighters replied. They had launched from Suit Air Base in northern Libya just ahead of the bombers and were already at patrol altitude at twenty thousand feet. It took just a few minutes for the two formations to join up, and they proceeded east, flying in loose formation as the crews completed checklists and got ready for the attack. "No contact yet, but we expect company any minute."

Just ten minutes later, Major Talhi began a slow descent, keeping cruise power in all the way down until his airspeed approached six hundred knots. They received a few bleeps of their Sirena radar-warning receiver from the Egyptian air defense base at Siwah, but they were below radar coverage in moments, cruising at nearly the speed Of sound across the northern Libyan Desert.

But they were not low enough for Egypt's main air defense system-a former American Navy E-2C Hawkeye radar plane, orbiting over the desert just north of Al-Jilf Air Base in southwest Egypt. The powerful I radar of the E-2 Hawkeye spotted the Libyan planes two hundred miles away, and the radar controllers immediately vectored in Egyptian alert fighters-a mixture of former Chinese, French, and even Russian jets from three different bases in central and southern Egypt.

"Sahra, Sahra, be advised, Egyptian fighters inbound, range fifty miles and closing," the lead pilot of the MiG-23 fighter escorts reported.

"Sahra flight copies," Talhi responded. "Sahra flight, go to point nine." The pilot pushed his throttles until the airspeed indicator hit six hundred and sixty knots-eleven miles a minute, or nine-tenths the speed of sound.

Talhi's copilot, Captain Muftah Birish, sat in the rear upper cockpit compartment of the Tupolev-22 bomber. The copilot's seat swiveled around the rear compartment so that he could fly the plane (not very well, but better than nothing) by facing forward, or operate the electronic warfare equipment and the remote-controlled 23-millimeter tail gun by sitting facing backward. Right now he was studying the SRO-2 threat warning display with alarm. "At least two fighters, maybe more, closing in from the northeast," Birish reported. Thankfully Talhi had his unit's most experienced copilot with him, although that wasn't saying much-systems officers, even copilots, got even less flying time in the bombers themselves than pilots. "India-band search radar-Mirage 2000s."

"Don't tell me-tell our fighters!" Talhi shouted. Birish got on the command radio and frantically passed along the information. He pushed the bomber's nose down even farther. The terrain was flat and rolling, so terrain wasn't a problem-but the waves and waves of heat swirling up from the desert floor created turbulence so bad that it felt as if they were riding a dune buggy across a mountain of rocks. The twenty-year-old ex-Soviet bomber's aged fuselage shrieked in protest with every bump.

"They're closing in fast," Birish shouted. "They're right on us-the E-2 Hawkeye radar plane must be vectoring them in."

"Five minutes thirty seconds to go," Talhi's bombardier, Captain Masad Montessi, shouted on intercom. "Hold steady for fifteen seconds."

"Fifteen seconds? Better make it quicker than that, navigator!"

"I said fifteen seconds, or at this speed we'll be lost and flying over downtown Cairo before we know it!" Montessi shouted back. He was in a tiny compartment of the Tupolev-22 bomber below the pilot, with only a ten-inch RBP-4 Rubin navigation radar, an optical bomb sight between his legs, some mechanical flight computers, a compass, a Doppler radar system, and two small windows. He had just finished laying his crosshairs on a small mountain peak ten miles ahead, then changed to the second aimpoint-another peak on the other side of courseline.

The crosshairs were off just a small amount. He doublechecked his aiming on the first aimpoint, switched back to the second, verified the aimpoint, then moved the crosshairs on the second peak using a large tracking handle he called the "goat turd." As soon as he moved the crosshairs, he could hear the clack-clack-clacking of the mechanical navigation computer as it updated itself. He switched back to the first aimpoint, and the crosshairs rested right on it-all of the heading and velocity errors in the system had been corrected. "You're clear to maneuver! Go! Go!"

"Sahra flight! Take tactical spacing! Lead is maneuvering south!" Talhi executed a quick turn to the south, rolled out momentarily, then executed a tighter turn around a very short valley. He wasn't going any lower, so left and right maneuvering was all he had to escape the Egyptian pursuers.

No use. "Mirages still on us, estimate twenty milescoming within lethal range," Birish shouted. "I've got fighters going after our wingman."»

"Sahra flight, you've got company, coming in fast!"

Talhi reported on the command frequency. "Do you have him?"

"Negative! Negative! Our threat receiver is down!" the pilot aboard the second Tu-22 responded. "Our navigation radar is down too!"

"Then get the hell out of here," Talhi said. "If you're blind and deaf, you're no use to us out here! Return to base!"

"Negative, lead," the other pilot reported. "I've got dead reckoning and I think I can find enough landmarks to proceed. I'm inbound to the target."

Talhi didn't blame him too much at all-he wouldn't want to face the wrath of President Zuwayy and his henchmen either, if he returned to base without completing his mission. "I understand, Sahra. Do you have a good DME on us?" Each of the Tu-22 bombers was equipped with radio direction finders that gave range and bearing to the other.

"Affirmative."

"Then keep us in front of you-we're inbound to the target too," Talhi said. He banked southeast and lined up on the navigation steering bug, then pushed the throttles all the way to full military power. "We're target direct now, crew. Our wingman has got no other way to find the target, so he's going to follow us in to the target."

"Mirage moving in to lethal range," Birish said on intercom. "All jammers active, countermeasures ready." On the command frequency, he said, "Sahra flight, we've got Mirages moving in to radar missile range. Use side-to-side jinks and make sure your jammers are active."

"We're jinking, lead, we're jinking," the second bomber pilot acknowledged. "Just find the damned target. We'll be right behind you."

But they were losing this race. The Egyptian fighters were moving in faster-they must be "headed down the ramp," zooming in from high altitude to use the extra speed to rapidly close in for the kill. "Rapid PRF-fighter locked on!" Birish shouted. "Vertical jinks! Find any terrain you can! Let's lose this guy!" The Egyptian fighter's radar changed from rapid-pulse-rate frequency to a constant tone. "Uplink active! Missile launch! Break left!"

But just as Talhi began to yank the control wheel to the left, Birish reported, "Uplink down! Radar down! The fighter disappeared!"

"Did he shut down his radar?"

"Could be, but he wouldn't do that right after firing a missile."

They heard the reason a few moments later: "Sahra flight, Dufda flight, this is Fadda flight of six. Your tail is clear. Now shove a few down their throats!"

Talhi whooped for joy. Fadda flight was a flight of six MiG-25s, some of the fastest fighter planes in the world. Originally designed to chase down and destroy high-flying supersonic American bombers over the Soviet Union, the titanium-armored MiG-25 could attack targets at over three times the speed of sound. Based in Tobruk, the Libyan fighters covered a lot of ground very quickly and caught the Egyptian pilots from behind.

Talhi climbed his Tu-22 back up to fifteen thousand feet above ground level, and his bombardier programmed his weapons for their attack. Talhi's bomber was in what was called the "overload" condition-it carried three Kh-22 air-to-surface missiles, called "Burya" in Russia, one under the fuselage and one under each wing. The Kh-22, powered by its own liquid-fueled rocket engine, was the size of a small fighter jet and could fly at over six hundred miles per hour. It carried an inertial navigation system, a thousand pounds of fuel-and a three-thousand-pound high-explosive warhead.

One by one, Montessi dumped navigation and heading information into the Bury as' computers, aligned their inertial navigation gyros, and let them fly. Although he had done many simulated Kh-22 attacks, Talhi had never actually seen one of those behemoths fly before. The rocket engine firing up sounded like an explosion right under their belly, and when it blasted free, it seemed as if a fiery spear from Allah himself had just missed them.

The missiles started a rapid climb on tongues of fire and headed for their targets-Egypt's network of earlywarning surveillance radars along its western frontier. The Burya missiles used passive radar homing devices to zero in on the early-warning radars, and once they had computed the radar's exact position, they could not miss. With devastating accuracy, the huge Kh-22 missiles struck their targets, obliterating the radar installations and flattening any aboveground buildings or objects for over a mile around the impact point.

Meanwhile, the Libyan MiG-23 and MiG-25 fighters went to work themselves-on the Egyptian E-2C Hawkeye radar aircraft. The Hawkeye was over one hundred miles away and had its own flight of Mirage fighter escorts, and when the radar plane detected the Libyan MiGs heading eastbound, it shut down its radar, headed northeast toward safety, and sent its fighter escorts after the intruders. But the Libyan attackers hopelessly outnumbered them. The MiG-25 fighters merely blew past the Mirages with their superior speed, and the MiG-23 s pounced when the Egyptian defenders turned to pursue. The MiG-25s took care of the Hawkeye radar plane after losing only one fighter to enemy missiles.

With both the airborne and ground radar sites destroyed, the way was clear for the second Tupolev-22 bomber to climb to a safer altitude and pick its navigation waypoints with care. With Talhi's Tu-22 leading the way, the bornbardier aboard the second Tu-22 lined up precisely on his preplanned bomb run course. The courseline had to be perfect: Although the weapons did not need to be directly on target to be effective, they would get maximum effect by being no more than one or two degrees off the desired course. One by one, he seeded the area with small twohundred-and-fifty-pound bombs fitted with radar fuzes.

Far below was the massive Salimah oil complex, Egypt's newest oil project. Comprising over thirty thousand square miles of southern Egypt, it was the largest known oil and natural gas reserves in northern Africa. Seven wells had been drilled every day for the past two years, and none of them showed any signs of lessening their output. Five thousand workers, mostly Arabs and Africans from Sudan, Chad, Kenya, and Ethiopia, worked around the clock in Salimah, housed in rows and rows of trailers and huge tent cities stretching as far as anyone could see.

One of Egypt's two field armies, known as the King Menes Army, was in charge of the defense of Salimah. Although it was seriously under its full strength, the King Menes Army comprised well over a third of all of Egypt's fighting forces, included two full armored divisions, three mechanized infantry divisions, one infantry division, five artillery battalions, two fighter-interceptor squadrons, two fighter-attack squadrons, and one helicopter squadron. The eighty thousand troops were distributed with the bulk of the forces, mostly heavy armor, arrayed along the borders of Libya and Chad, with the other lighter, more rapidresponse forces deployed mostly north of the oil fields as a reserve. The two westernmost military Areas of Responsibility were Al-Jilf and Al-Kabir, and these were the two areas targeted by the weapons dropped by the Tu-22 bombers.

One might believe the bombardier missed his target, because the gravity weapons detonated a thousand feet in the air, producing nothing more than a loud BANG! and a puff of sand below. The explosion was repeated sixty-three times in the space of six minutes, ten weapons per minute, as the Libyan bomber sowed its deadly seeds. Curious soldiers below looked up when they heard the explosions, and they jumped and felt the sudden gush of air and a little bit of pressure in their ears-nothing more severe than a slammed door or a slug of mud popping out of a new well. But there was very little heat unless the explosion was directly overhead, no trace of vapor or liquid, and no shrapnel or caltrops. Before most folks realized it, the noisemakers were gone. They could have been fireworks, except these fireworks were in the morning, which didn't make sense at all.

It still didn't make sense later that day-even when the soldiers started dying in massive, horrendous numbers.

The ones directly under the airbursts were first, complaining of headaches that increased in intensity quickly, eventually causing loss of eyesight and loss of equilibrium. Hours later, they were coughing up blood. By the time they were able to get off work later that day, they were usually unable to take themselves to the infirmary. Many of them died in their beds or in their living rooms, surrounded by their puzzled comrades and worried corpsmen. The ones that were as far as one mile away from the bursts didn't start having symptoms until the next day, but their fate was the same-crushing headaches leading to blindness, loss of balance eventually leading to incapacitation, and sudden loss of blood leading to hemorrhage and death within eight hours.

The soldiers in bunkers and even chemical weapon-resistant shelters were not spared-even those in underground storage areas and shielded command centers could not escape. Eventually the deadly neutron and gamma radiation from the sixty-four neutron bombs detonated over Salimah, unrestricted by the uranium outer shell as in regular fission weapons, claimed over twelve thousand lives…

… without harming one piece of oil-drilling equipment, spilling one drop of crude oil, or ruining one piece of precious military hardware.