Wings of Fire

CHAPTER 9

Patrick detested running, but it was the only aerobic exercise he cared for, and he knew he'd probably blow up like a "bunker-buster" bomb if he didn't do it. When he was in town he usually jogged the short distance from his condo on Coronado Island, across the bay from San Diego, to the base gym at the Naval Amphibious Base Coronado. This time, however, he had Bradley with him, so he drove. It took longer to go down to the garage, strap Bradley in, and pull out onto busy Silver Strand Highway than it did to get to the base.

Going to the gym was one of the few things he liked to do alone, just for himself-but not anymore. It was another of the little changes he had to make in his life, with Wendy gone.

Security was tight on base-even the sticker on his windshield with the white star on blue background of a brigadier general didn't help speed things up. Along with an ID check, Patrick's car was checked underneath with a mirror, and the inside of the car from bumper to bumper was checked visually and also with a military working dog. Bradley liked the dog, and he enjoyed having his car seat sniffed by the dog after Patrick had to lift him up and out of his seat. After clearing security, he headed off to the gym. He checked Bradley into the base gym's day-care center-one of Bradley's favorite places to go, even for an hour or twoand changed into workout clothes in the locker room. Five minutes on the elliptical trainer, then five minutes on the stretching chair to warm up, and he was ready to go.

The news on the televisions surrounding the workout room was full of information on the Libyan attack on the Egyptian military forces defending Salimah. The death toll in just one day was simply staggering. Patrick had a tough time conceiving of the five thousand killed at Mersa Matruh, and now the deaths at Al-Jilf and Al-Kabir were probably going to triple that toll.

The toll that most likely included Wendy. Oh, God… That thought made him tear into his workout with a vengeance.

The tail end of the news reports focused on the American response to the attacks on Egypt-or, more accurately, the lack of response. There were two aircraft carriers with almost a hundred combat aircraft plus ten thousand U.S. Marines within helicopter distance of Egypt, yet the United States made no move to help. There were stern warnings to Libya not to use any more neutron weapons, that using them increased the danger of the conflict spreading and growing to a full-scale nuclear war in a short time-but the response was far short of what most folks expected of the President.

Well, Patrick thought, that was typical of this President-speak softly, but carry a big twig.

Soon, Patrick found he had disregarded his workout log completely and finally ended up just picking a weight from the racks, in some cases fifty percent more than he was able to throw around before, doing repetitions until he lost count, then continuing doing more reps until his muscles gave out completely. After twenty minutes of an absolutely blistering workout, finally something gave way in his left shoulder during an incline bench press, and he was forced to toss a seventy-pound dumbbell aside in pain.

"Are you all right, General McLanahan?" he heard behind him. He turned and saw Captain Fred Jackson, the commanding officer of Naval Amphibious Base Coronado, standing behind him, a look of serious concern on his face. Jackson was a tall, powerful-looking ex-SEAL who still looked as if he could command a team on a mission-he sometimes worked out with Patrick in the gym or at the SEAL Training Facility across the street, and even though Patrick had been working out for many years and Jackson was at least five years older, Patrick found it impossible to keep up with him.

Patrick nodded. "I'm okay, Fred," he said ruefully.

"My guys told me you were on the base, so I thought I'd stop by and say hello," Jackson said. "I'll get a corpsman to look at that shoulder for you."

"Not necessary. I'll just get some ice on it." But Jackson was not accustomed to anyone saying "no" to him-he already had someone on the way. A few minutes later they were sitting down together, Patrick with a bag of ice on his shoulder.

"You upset about something, sir?" Jackson asked. "You looked like you were about ready to toss those dumbbells through the mirrors."

"No-just cranky because I'm getting more and more of these little pains," Patrick said.

"The price of getting old… I mean old-er" Jackson said.

Patrick nodded at the TV as well. "I don't understand why we're not doing more over in Egypt, and that's upsetting me as much as my shoulder."

"I expected you to be in Washington advising the President on what to do," Jackson said.

"Why do you say that?"

"According to what I've been reading, you're still the number-one candidate for national security adviser," the Navy SEAL said. "I thought you'd be out there in fhe thick of things, writing your policy papers, getting your classi-

fied briefings, and getting ready to testify in front of the Senate Armed Services Committee after your nomination."

"So that's why you're over here looking me up, eh, Fred?" Patrick asked with a smile. "Thought you'd get a little face time with the rumored number-one guy?"

"Now, would I do that, sir?" he asked with a toothy grin. "Oh, by the way, I'm letting your son play in my office, I got him his own SEAL to watch him, and I brought in a gourmet chef from the Del to fix him lunch. Is that okay?"

"Sorry to disappoint you, Fred, but I haven't been anywhere near Washington or the White House in many moons, and I'm not likely to be," Patrick said. "We don't see eye to eye on much of anything."

"Which is why all the pundits are saying you're 'it'- Thorn likes surrounding himself with ideological opposites," Jackson said. "You just remember your buddies who give you their tee times and let you fly your plane from their airstrips, the next time you talk to the President about the next chief of naval operations, okay?"

"Don't hold your breath, Captain," Patrick said with a laugh-his first laugh in many, many days.

"How's the missus?" Jackson asked.

Patrick tried not to let his smile completely wash away. "Still away. She should be back in town next weekend."

"Good. Can't wait to see her again. You still owe my wife and me a rematch of our last golf match."

"You're on, Fred."

Jackson could tell something was wrong, but he decided not to pursue it further. He nodded toward the televisions. "So what do you think we'll do over in Egypt? Anything?"

Patrick shrugged as he readjusted the ice pack on his shoulder. "Move up the Kennedy battle group to the Red Sea to defend the Suez Canal, keep the two carrier groups on station in the Med, and try to keep the conflict from spreading to the Persian Gulf or Israel," Patrick said. "Purely defensive moves-I don't think the President wants to send in any military forces. If Libya stays on the move, destroys Salimah, takes the Suez Canal, and crosses over the Red Sea into Israel, then I think the President might make a move. But I think he's really hoping Susan Salaam will pull the Arab countries together to fight off Libya." He looked at Jackson. "So what do you think we'll do?"

"What I think we'll do? Same as you-nodal" Jackson replied. "What I think we should do? We should go pay President Zuwayy of Libya a little visit, blow up a few of his palaces just to get his attention, and then deprive him of his bombers, fighters, airstrips, and rockets-and that's all for starters. My guys can do all that in one night. Two at the most." Jackson was definitely not above a little hubris when it came to sending Navy SEALs into action. He looked carefully at Patrick. "Of course, scuttlebutt says someone or some group of someones might have been already mixing it up with the king. Wouldn't know anything about that, would you, sir?"

"Not a thing. But if they did, they should have their heads examined."

"Maybe they can show our commander-in-chief how it's done," Jackson said.

"President Salaam needs to fight for her country too. She's got a military-she needs to use it to defend her people."

"If anyone can do it, she can. Not bad for an Air Force puke, I guess."

"No Air Force cracks-unless you want to lose those four stars I had planned for you."

"Oops-sorry, sorry, sir, sorry," Jackson said with a smile-he was one of the few Navy SEALs Patrick had ever met that actually seemed to like to smile. He shook Patrick's hand warmly. "If there's anything you need, sir, please don't hesitate to ask. And I hope you don't mind I have my spies out keeping an eye on you. You're the biggest celebrity we've had hanging around the area since Dennis Conner. We'll be sorry to see you and Wendy head back to Washington." Before Patrick could protest again, Jackson added, "I know, I know, you're not in the running. I'll remember you said that when I see you at your confirmation party in Washington. You sure you don't need a doctor to look at your shoulder?"

"I'm fine, Captain. And you can let your spies go home too."

"Yes, sir. Take care of that shoulder-I want to beat you fair and square on the golf course." Patrick noticed Jackson motion to a young sailor who had been standing near the entrance to the workout room with a cell phone, who departed with Jackson. The base commander was a good guy, Patrick decided, but there was no doubt that he played the political battles as well as he undoubtedly played the real-world military battles-and making friends with potentially influential persons was one way to get ahead in the Navy.

Too bad he was sucking up to the wrong guy.

Patrick toweled off, tossed the bag of ice, then experimentally flexed his left shoulder. It felt pretty good, so he decided to forgo the steam room and instead take his son Bradley to the pool. He checked Bradley out of the daycare center and took him back to the locker room.

He didn't notice a janitor set a bucket of smelly water and a mop in front of the door to the locker room after Patrick entered, put up a sign that said, "DO NOT ENTER" on the door, and then lock the door after he entered.

Patrick put Bradley in a pair of swim trunks he kept in his gym bag for just this purpose, changed himself, and led his son to the pool. He found the door to the pool locked. He turned to ask someone why the door was locked when he noticed that the locker room was very quiet-unusually quiet. No one else was in there. The place usually had at least a dozen men in there all hours of the day, but it was empty now..

… except for an Arab-looking man who stepped out from behind a row of lockers-carrying an automatic pistol in one hand.

Patrick immediately grabbed Bradley and dodged behind a row of lockers. The man didn't follow-that meant there were others in the room, waiting for him.

"Dad? Aren't we going swimming?" Bradley asked. He was obviously more concerned about not going to the pool than he was about being carried protectively by his father like a slippery football through onrushing linebackers.

"Shh," Patrick whispered. He crouched as low as he could, almost duckwalking through the locker room.

He saw the second guy's knees before he saw the rest of him, and he prayed it wasn't an innocent sailor-because Patrick lashed out with his right foot, snapping out in a driving thrust against the stranger's left knee. The knee buckled outward at an unnatural angle.

"Dad? Why did you kick that guy?" Bradley asked amid the stranger's animal-like howling. "Is he a bad guy?"

Patrick wasn't sure how to answer-until another automatic pistol clattered to the tiled floor. "Yes, he's a bad guy," Patrick replied as he picked up the gun. "We're getting out of here."

"Good job," Bradley said.

Patrick decided not to go to the front door but try for the equipment manager's office, which had an exit into the gymnasium. He heard footsteps sliding around the tile floor behind him. He kicked a chair over toward the front door to try to make it sound as if he was headed in that direction, then ran as hard as he could to the equipment manager's office. Good-no one around. He tried the door-even better, it was unlocked. Patrick dashed in…

… and immediately a fist rapped him on the side of his head. He went sprawling. Bradley screamed. Patrick raised the gun, but he couldn't make his eyes focus, and he didn't dare try to aim at any shape he saw in front of him, fearful it would be his son. "Get the hell away from me!" he shouted over Bradley's screaming. "Get away or I'll shoot!" But at that instant a large blur raced across his eyes, and the gun was knocked from his hand. "Bradley!" he shouted. He curled himself over his son, pressing him into a corner up against a file cabinet, shielding him as best he could. "Stay down!"

"It's all right, General, it's all right," he heard a familiar voice say. "Tell your son to calm down. You are in no danger."

"Who… who is it?"

"Just relax, my friend. Relax." His vision did clear a few moments later…

… and when it did, he saw the smiling, boyish face of

King Idris the Second of Libya, Muhammad as-Sanusi, hovering over him. "You… Your Majesty, what in hell are you doing here?" Patrick said. He got Bradley up and calmed him down.

"Whatever I'm doing, I don't think I'm doing it very gracefully," Sanusi said. He gave commands in Arabic, and his two men disappeared. "I need to speak with you immediately, General McLanahan. It is most urgent. Where can we meet?"

"For Pete's sake, Your Majesty, a phone call would've been better," Patrick said. He couldn't help but smile at Sanusi's wry grin.

"I apologize, my friend," Sanusi said, "but my men went about their task too enthusiastically, and you reacted most unexpectedly. But I need to speak with you. It is very important."

"How did you get on base?" Patrick asked. "The security on this base has never been tighter. How…?"

"It is about your wife, Wendy McLanahan," Sanusi said.

Patrick's mouth dropped open in surprise. Bradley stopped whimpering and broke out in a wide, teary-eyed smile. "Mommy…?"

"Fifteen minutes. Silver Strand State Park, east side, near the boat rental shop."

"I know where it is."

"Then be there in ten minutes," Patrick said. Sanusi disappeared-Patrick had no idea how he expected to get out of the gym after the commotion they started, but somehow he knew he would. "Let's go, Bradley."

"Are we going to see Mommy?" he asked excitedly. Patrick did not-could not-answer.

It took longer than ten minutes for Patrick to explain to Fred Jackson and his security police units what all the yelling and screaming was about. But Patrick explained everything to Jackson, including where and when he was going to meet with Sanusi. Jackson offered to have a few of his men tag along, but Patrick declined.

He already had someone on the way prepared to do that.

It was thirty minutes later when Patrick arrived at the rendezvous point, a small glass-and-concrete white building between the base and the Loews Coronado Resort where folks could rent sailboats during the summer. Sanusi and his men didn't arrive for another twenty minutes. Patrick was somewhat dismayed to see them-he had thought security at the naval base was tighter than that.

Patrick's concern was assuaged after he met up with Sanusi and greeted him. "I am sorry to be late, my friendthe naval security forces detained us momentarily," the king said. "I am grateful you explained who we were. They agreed to release us under your supervision-after they took away our ID cards."

"You had false ID cards?"

"Real ID cards with false photos on them," Sanusi said. "It is laughably easy to take IDs from lockers in your recreation facilities. We had no trouble crossing the Mexican border with false Israeli passports, and getting on base was simplicity itself-does no one patrol the shores at your seaside bases?"

"What about my wife, Your Highness?" Patrick asked.

"Ah yes-enough of the security lecture," Sanusi said. "I believe your wife is alive, my friend. She and several Americans are still held by the pretender Zuwayy in Tripoli, in one of his underground bunkers south of the city."

Patrick knelt down and put an arm around his son, hugging him with joy. Bradley was more interested in Sanusi's men, one of whom now had a splint around his left knee. "Have your men seen her? Are you certain?"

"We have not seen her," Sanusi replied. "But the guards have reported to my men that the woman spoke her name, and that name was McLanahan. When this was told to me, I ordered my agents inside Tripoli to try to stay in contact with her, and I made arrangements to travel here to tell you myself. Because of you, my men and I are still patrolling the desert, probing for weaknesses in the Libyan army. We will help you all we can."

"I'm grateful, Your Highness," Patrick said. "I just hope we can reach her in time." He turned away and spoke: "Patrick to Luger, Briggs, and Wohl."

"Luger's up."

"Wohl's up, in sight, your four o'clock." Patrick turned, and Sanusi looked in the same direction-just as Chris Wohl peeked his head above the low concrete rim of an adjacent rest room building about a hundred yards away. Patrick had called and asked that he cover him and Bradley during this meeting-just in case.

"Very wise precaution, General McLanahan," Muhammad as-Sanusi commented, his smile beaming. He waved at Wohl; his wave was not returned. None of them could see what weapon Wohl was carrying, but there were no doubts in anyone's mind that he was more than proficient with it at this close range.

"Just a heads-up, Muck-Naval Intelligence has just initiated a foreign-contact log on you," David Luger reported. "They'll start setting up surveillance on you, probably tap your phones, all that stuff. The contact log said that Muhammad as-Sanusi made contact with you right there in Coronado?"

"He and his men are with me right now," Patrick said. "So I should assume we're under surveillance right now, correct?"

"I think that would be a safe assumption. What's happening?"

"The king says Wendy and the Americans are alive."

"Holy shit! That's great! Can we confirm it? Do we have a location?"

"No, and no," Patrick said. "But I want to get the force loaded up and headed back to Jaghbub right away."

"You got it, Muck," Briggs said. "But just to let you know, the feds have really cracked down on Sky Masters. They've got us in virtual lockdown as we speak, and Jon has received notice of an FBI security inspection team that wants unlimited access to inspect the base tomorrow morning. My guess is that they're not there to do a security audit-they'll shut down the facility. I'm sure we've got Defense Intelligence Agency guys on our butts, and now we'll have to contend with Naval Intelligence."

"Which means we start immediately," Patrick said. "I'll go with the king and Dave to Libya and get the base set up; you and Chris will split up and help Jon get our planes airborne with as many weapons and as much fuel as we can carry."

The Suburban screeched to a halt in front of the security gate, and six men in plain dark business suits hopped out and assembled at the electric gate. The man from the front passenger seat picked up the phone mounted on the fence beside the gate. "Special Agent Willison, FBI, Los Angeles. My office called this morning." The gate was buzzed open by the guards inside, and the agents rushed in.

They were met inside the guardhouse by a young man who extended his hand to welcome them but was greeted instead by upraised ID cards and stern, intimidating expressions. "I'm Special Agent Larry Willison, FBI," the lead agent said. "And you are?"

"John Landow, assistant security director of Sky Masters Inc., the prime contractor in this facility."

"I asked to meet directly with Dr. Masters or General McLanahan. Where are they?"

"They're both in the lab right now," Landow said, "but they can meet you as soon as you clear security."

"I happen to know that General McLanahan is in San Diego," Willison said angrily, "and Dr. Masters was told to meet us here. Now I want you to call him and have him meet us right outside. I've been ordered to consider any more delays as obstructing a federal investigation, and I am authorized to take him, and anyone else who doesn't cooperate fully, into custody."

"Agent Willison, I assure you, no one is trying to hamper any investigation," Landow said. Landow was tall, in his early sixties, with bright blue eyes and a ready smile-

but when the smile vanished, he looked very mean and serious. "I was informed the general was here-if I'm mistaken, then I apologize. And I promise you, Dr. Masters will be right outside by the time you clear security."

"What do you mean, 'clear security'?" one of the other agents asked. "We submitted all of our credentials yesterday. We're demanding immediate access. That means right now."

"Agent, if you knew anything at all about this facility, you know that no one gets immediate access," Landow said. "The security requirements in this facility are established by folks very much higher than our pay grades or even our boss's pay grade, and I'm not allowed to violate them. I faxed your office a copy of the entry procedures-I trust you received them?" The FBI agents nodded. "That is exactly what we'll do. My time estimate is accurate-no more than fifteen minutes to clear security. Shall we get started?"

Willison and the others had no choice but to agree. "But I want no one else to enter or leave this facility," he said. "That outer gate remains locked. All aircraft movement will cease immediately, all aircraft engines will be shut down, and all external power carts will be detached from all aircraft. If we see one aircraft with even so much as a courtesy light on, we'll arrest each and every individual in this facility."

"Your cease-and-desist order and the search warrant spelled out everything, Special Agent," Landow said, "and our attorneys have told us it's in our best interest to cooperate. I've advised all the labs to comply one hundred percent. Your IDs and firearms go in the turntable there."

Landow had moved a weapon-clearing barrel into the guardhouse, and the agents went about unloading and clearing their weapons by pointing them at the sand inside the barrel, then placing them on a turntable surrounded with bulletproof glass. The guard inside the secure room collected the weapons and placed them in lockers, then turned the locker keys back over to the agents. Meanwhile, another guard began checking IDs and taking digital photos.

As they were waiting for then- IDs to be checked and their clearances issued, they were surprised to see a young girl step into the guardhouse, escorted by a security officer. The girl was wearing what looked like the proper identification badges-but it certainly looked strange to see a youngster inside one of the most secure compounds in the United States of America. It was even more surprising when the officer dropped the girl off in the guardhouse without anyone else appearing to be supervising her. The biggest, leanest, most menacing Doberman pinscher that any of them had ever seen accompanied the girl.

The girl walked over to Willison; the Doberman sat right beside her and stared at the FBI agent. "Hi. I'm Kelsey." She motioned to the dog. 'This is my friend Sasha. Who are you?"

"My name is Mr. Willison."

"Pleased to meet you," she said politely. Willison turned when the officer checking their IDs offered them back. "Oooo," the girl said when she noticed the badge holders. "Are you a police officer?"

"Yes, we are."

"How exciting," she said. She reached for his ID as he was putting it back in his jacket. "Can I see?"

"Not now," Willison said curtly. The girl looked perturbed. Willison went over to the guard window. "Hey, what's the story with the kid?"

"That's Kelsey."

"So I heard. What's she doing here?"

"Her mom is one of the owners. She comes here every now and then. The dog is her bodyguard."

"A bodyguard? Inside the compound?"

"Everywhere she goes, I guess. She has class-C access."

"How in hell did a little kid-?"

"Hey, mister?" the girl asked. She was back again, a look of determination in her eyes. "Can I please see your badge?"

"No, you cannot," Willison replied.

"But I said 'please.' My mommy said I have to be more polite, and when I'm more polite, I get more things."

"She's right, but you still can't see my badge,"-AVillison said sternly.

"But I said 'please.' "

"I said no."

"Pul-leese?" She stopped asking and was whining now.

"No!" Willison barked. His kids were grown, but when they were even younger than this girl, they learned respect. "Now go sit down over there."

"You can't make me. You can't tell me what to do. You're not the boss of me!"

Willison turned again to the guard. "Where's her mother?"

"Somewhere in the facility. She goes with her kid when they're getting ready to leave, but then she usually gets waylaid and sends the kid on ahead. We usually end up picking her up in the break room and escorting her here."

"My mom won't like you telling me what to do," the girl said.

"I don't care. Now go sit down."

"Just let me please see your badge? I promise I won't hurt it or get it dirty."

"For the fourth time, I said no."

Suddenly the girl reached over and actually tried to pull the badge case from his inside jacket pocket. Willison practically leapt backward in surprise. The other agents were suppressing amused snickers at the girl's persistence and Willison's mounting aggravation. The girl actually managed to get two little fingers on the badge holder and was pulling it out of his breast pocket. Willison heard a faint ripping and realized she was taking most of his breast pocket with her. "Hey! Watch it!" he shouted, louder than he intended.

He may have pushed her a tiny bit, just because he was surprised at her quick move and to keep his pocket from ripping right off. If he did, he didn't put any force behind it. But whatever he did, suddenly the little girl yelped in pain and flew backward as if she had been body-slammed by a WWF wrestler. She hit the linoleum floor hard. She lay on the floor, staring straight up; at first, Willison thought-no, prayed-that she wasn't hurt. But he knew kids better than that. Seconds later, the little girl let out an earsplitting scream so loud that he thought for sure she had cracked open her skull or fallen on an ax or something.

The only reason they stopped being concerned for the child's welfare was that they were more concerned about their own-because now Sasha the Doberman was all teeth, hair, and eyeballs. None of them had ever seen a more vicious-looking animal in their lives. They instinctively backed away and reached for side arms before realizing they no longer carried them.

"Get that animal away from us!" Willison shouted. The girl screamed even louder. Finally one of the guards behind the counter, a younger one with kids, was able to pick her up, and he carried her to a chair and let her cry on his shoulder for a while until the security guard waved the FBI agents through. The dog watched them, snarling, facing them the entire time. By then, the girl was over her crying, and she watched silently, tearlessly. With one word from the little girl, the Doberman stopped snarling and sat down, impassively watching the door close behind them.

"For Christ sake, Larry," one of the other agents admonished him, going over to the little girl. "What'd you do?"

"I didn't do anything!" Willison protested. "She came at me, and I-"

"She 'came at you'? Who'd you think she was-Freddie Krueger? Hannibal Lecter?"

"Her mom probably makes more dough than all of us combined," another agent said over the now ear-piercing screams.

"I hear the new office in Greenland needs a janitor," another joked.

"Har har." Willison looked mad enough to chew the chain-link fence as he walked through an X-ray machine, then submitted to a pat-down search. "What in hell is a little kid like that hanging around this facility, anyway?" he grumbled. "I'm going to look into that next. This place is not a day-care center. And what the hell is it with that dog? I thought we were goners!"

"Let it go, Larry," one of the other agents said as they emerged through yet another chain-link entrapment area into the street behind the hangar complexes. The? saw the assistant security director, Landow, just emerging from a hangar, coming to meet them. "You just forgot how to handle little kids, that's all."

"Hey, we're here on business, not to entertain some rich bitch's kid." He looked around. "Masters is still nowhere to be found. I want some butts here today, gentlemen. Nothing goes by us. I don't put up with this shit from anyone, especially not from some snot-nosed egghead. I want-" Just then, he heard a high-pitched whine-the unmistakable sound of heavy jet engines spooling up. "What the hell?" He shouted at Landow, pointing in the direction of the noise. "I thought I ordered no engine starts! What in hell is that? "

At that moment, over the growing roar of jet engines not far away, they heard, "Freeze! Hands in the air! No one move!" In the blink of an eye, heavily armed security officers with M-16 rifles leveled at them surrounded the FBI agents.

Willison casually reached for his ID inside his jacket. "Put your guns down, boys. We're FB-"

"I said hands in the fucking air!" Before they knew it, the officers pounced, using their rifles as pugil sticks to knock the agents to the asphalt. They spread-eagled the stunned FBI agents and began patting them down. To thenimmense shock, Sasha the Doberman was back, her jaws just inches away, snarling and growling louder and meaner than ever.

"What in hell are you doing?" Willison shouted. "We're FBI, dammit! We just got clearance inside!" The dog snapped its jaws, and Willison felt the gush of its breath on the back of his hand-he thought his bladder was going to let go.

"Don't move!" The guards secured their hands with nylon handcuffs, then continued pat-searching them.

John Landow strolled over to them a few moments later. "Landow! You tell them who we are, right now" Willison shouted.

"I suggest you stay quiet and cooperate, whoever you are," Landow said. "You're in serious trouble."

"What are you talking about?"

"Got one," one of the guards said.

"I got one too," another said, who had been searching the younger agent who had picked Kelsey off the floor.

Both guards brought small devices, resembling small ballpoint pens with wires attached to them, over to Landow. Landow examined them, then stooped down beside Willison so he could see what he had in his hands. "Where did you get these, Special Agent?" he asked.

"Get what?" He looked at the objects Landow had in his hand. "I never saw those things before in my life."

"We'd better read you your rights," Landow said. "I advise you right now not to say another word."

"What are you talking about? What are they?"

"Then you agree to waive your right to remain silent?"

"Don't fuck with me, Landow! I'll close down this facility so fast it'll make your head spin! Now, cut these cuffs off and tell those pilots to shut down those engines, and that's an order!"

"I don't think you're in a position to be issuing orders right now, guys," Landow said. "You've just entered a secure government research facility operating under Threatcon Delta with Kryton nuclear trigger devices in your possession."

"What?"

"Our electronics sensors detected them in your clothing. You're under arrest for attempting to bring a weapon-ofmass-destruction component inside a secure government facility."

"That's bullshit!" Willison stared bug-eyed at the objects. "I've never seen those things before! I have no idea what they are! This is a frame-up! You planted those things on us… no, that girl! That girl planted them on us!" He continued his loud protests as the security officers were hauling him and his men away at gunpoint.

Landow met up with Jon Masters a few minutes later. "Good job, John," he said. "Those old triggers from the museum sure did come in handy."

"It's a ridiculous stunt that won't hold up for a moment," Landow said.

"But it sets off the security procedures, and onae they go into action, it'll take someone in Washington to stop it," Masters said happily. "This is the first time I'm actually thankful we have such tight security. How long are they going to be out of the picture?"

"We can hold them incommunicado for about six hours," Landow replied, "unless you intend on just locking them away somewhere."

"The thought had crossed my mind."

"Even a terrorist with a gun would get a phone call," Landow pointed out. "I think you should count on locking them away until just after five P.M., so they'll have to contact a duty officer instead of their own office for helpthat'll slow things down a little more. But once the call goes in, your time runs out fast. The FBI will probably fly a supervisor or a U.S. attorney out from L.A. shortly after they hear about this, but they won't have clearance to enter, so that'll delay things another few hours. But they might fly a Hostage Rescue Team out here to guard the place until the men can be released-that'll take them no more than one or two hours. After that, the game will be up. I'm sure they'll shut this place down tight and have all of us in federal prison in a heartbeat."

"Plenty of time," Jon said. "We'll all be long gone by then. We'll have to hope that Patrick's benefactor can keep the heat off us so there's a company to come back to after this is all over." He held out his arms when Kelsey Duffield approached, then picked her up and gave her a kiss on her cheek. Sasha sat down beside Jon, proudly puffing out her chest. "Good job, Kelsey," he said. "You too, Sasha. Kelsey, I didn't know you were a pickpocket too."

"Thanks, Jon. My dad always told me everyone likes a good pickpocket-but just as a joke. It's easy. I never picked a pocket to put anything in before, though."

"The support aircraft will be ready to launch in about four hours, fully loaded with every weapon we can carry," Jon said. "The bombers should be airborne a few hours after that. They'll be loaded to the gills too with external weapons, so they won't be stealthy, but we'll have to risk it. I hope Patrick and Megafortress Two will be up there clearing a path for us."

"Is this going to work, Doc?" Landow asked. "We've broken just about every federal law in the books already-we're going to make it a million times worse by flying those planes to Libya. Libya is a prohibited country-technology export and import sanctions, terrorist support sanctions, money sanctions, travel and immigration restrictions, the works. If we don't get our asses shot down by the Libyans, we could all be in prison for the rest of our lives."

"Nah. Every thing'11 be okay," Jon Masters said confidently, giving Kelsey a reassuring hug. "You haven't been with the company too long, John. We do this sort of thing all the time."

"And you've never been caught?"

Jon shrugged, then gave Landow a sheepish grin. "Well… we've always gotten away with it before," Jon admitted. "That's just as good." He turned to Kelsey. "Unfortunately, the only plane we won't have with us is the second Dragon airborne laser aircraft. We can't fly it in its current state unless we remove all the plasma-pumping equipment you've put on it and reassemble the diode pumping system on the laser. You gave it a good try, Kels."

"Jon, I promise, it will work," Kelsey said. "Don't keep on thinking in two-dimensional ways. The plasma generator doesn't need to be a multimegawatt monster-all we need is a large pulse for a hundredth of a second to excite the neodymium lasing amplifier chips. Let's reassemble the plasma generators we have, install them, and try it."

"We're going to lose our lab in less than eight hours, Kels-"

"Then we better hurry, shouldn't we?" Kelsey asked. "We have a plasma generator we know will work on Dragon Two right now. Let's load it up, put the screws back in, and leave before that angry Mr. Willison comes back." She smiled and touched Jon's hand. "Jon, we'll have time to write up the documentation and the engineering later-right now, we have to get Dragon flying, before they come and take her away. You're worried that you won't know how it works if it does, and so you won't be able to start preparing marketing plans and prospectuses for the project. Don't worry about all that stuff, Jon-let's see if it flies first, then worry about selling it later."

Jon Masters looked at Kelsey with a grin. Her enthusiasm was indeed infectious. "Kelsey, you know there's no way this should work," Jon said. "It's too dangerous. We still haven't gotten the right yield out of the singlegenerator system to be an effective weapon with the proper safety tolerances. We won't know if it's ready to let go until just before it blows up. And all these unknowns will be going on with two human beings riding on top of it."

Kelsey took Jon's face in her hands, pulled his head down, and kissed his forehead. "You're silly, you know that?" she said. "I know we don't know all these things, Jon-doesn't that want to make you go and try it out?" When he hesitated in replying, Kelsey added, "Jon, wasn't there once a time when you would have given anythingeven your own life-for one chance to try?"

In fact, there was such a time: Jon Masters put himself in the fuselage of an airliner loaded with several hundred pounds of TNT to prove his electronic armor called BERP, or Ballistic Electro-Reactive Process, would protect the aircraft in case of a terrorist bomb going off in the cargo hold. The demonstration had horrified the airline and government representatives to the point that they refused to fund the program, but that didn't matter-it worked, and Jon risked his own life to prove it. That BERP material eventually became the Tin Man battle armor system, which would one day revolutionize American infantry fighting.

Kelsey paused, still holding Jon's hand, like a brother and sister taking a stroll. They found themselves standing in front of Dragon One's open hangar door. There was a flurry of action around it, with dozens of technicians and crew members rushing to get it ready to fly. Right next door was Dragon Two-virtually ignored except for the four security guards stationed around it.

"Doesn't it look lonely?" Kelsey asked her new big brother. "It needs some love and attention. We can do it,

Jon. We put Dragon's new plasma generators in, give it some gas, and take it on a trip to help the general find his wife." She saw Jon's smile vanish and his shoulders slump. "I know Wendy is still okay, Jon. I know she is. But we need to help Patrick so he can go back and find her."

Jon smiled at his little partner, then nodded. When he looked at Dragon Two, he had to agree-it was a goodlooking bird, and right now it did look pretty lonely.

He pulled out his secure cell phone: "Doug? How's it going…? Excellent. Listen, pull Ken and Duncan's crews off Dragon One and have them start installing the plasma generators on Dragon Two… yep, right now. As soon as Joel's crew signs off their preflight on One, have them jump over to help, and get the rest of the crews on Two as soon as One launches. We're going to bring Dragon Two with us… yes, and I want it operational… yes, operational, not just flyable…. We've done all the lab testing we're going to do. Dr. Duffield and I are standing out front right now to help. We have about six hours to do it… yes, I said six, and I'll be surprised if we don't get a visit from the feds before then. Let's hustle!"

The twin-engine Aerostar aircraft taxied quickly off the two-mile-long runway right up to the doors of Sky Masters Inc.'s main hangar. The pilot wheeled the light twin around so it was pointing back down the taxiway toward the runway, then shut down engines.

In less than two minutes, two dark sedans pulled over to the plane, blocking it fore and aft. By the time the pilot opened the split clamshell doors and stepped out, the plane was surrounded by agents in black fatigues emblazoned with "FBI" and "FEDERAL AGENT" front and back, all carrying M-16 assault rifles at the ready.

"General McLanahan?" one of the agents in a simple dark suit and tie announced.

"That's me," Patrick replied.

"Special Agent Norwalk, FBI, Memphis office. I'd like you to come with me. Anyone in the plane with you?" Instead of waiting for a response, another agent pushed past Patrick and shined a flashlight inside, then shook his head, indicating it was empty. Another agent checked the baggage compartment in the back-it, too, was empty. He even checked the wheel wells, but they were too small to hide anything bigger than a small dog.

"Something wrong?" Patrick asked.

"We'll explain everything inside," the FBI agent replied. "Your plane will be secured inside the hangar."

"You guys ever move a plane like this before? The nose gear is sensitive."

"We'll be careful," Norwalk responded, definitely sounding like he wasn't planning on being careful at all. He spoke into a radio, and before long one of Sky Masters Inc.'s technicians came out riding an aircraft tug, accompanied by another agent. The tech scooped up the Aerostar's nose wheel with the lifter. Meanwhile, the main hangar door opened. The plane was pushed back into the hangar beside one of the company's DC-10 mission I/ I aircraft.

Patrick was taken to his office in the headquarters facility. Special Agent Norwalk and another officer stayed inside with him. "Now, mind telling me what's going on?" Patrick asked once they were seated inside.

"First, General, I advise you that you are hereby under arrest," Norwalk began. "You have the right to remain silent; should you choose to give up the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney and to have the attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you at no charge. Do YOU understand these rights as I've explained them?"

'What am L oemg arrested for?"

"General, do you understand your Constitutional rights as I've explained them to you?"

"Yes. Now can you tell me-?"

"Do you waive your right to remain silent?"

"I've done nothing wrong."

"Are you willing to answer questions for me?"

"Yes. Now tell me what's going on here."

"Do you know where Dr. Jon Masters, Dr. Kelsey Duffield, and the Sky Masters Inc. crew members that were stationed at the Tonopah Test Range are right now, General?"

"I thought they were at Tonopah. Are they missing?"

"You're telling me you have no idea where they are?"

"What's going on, Norwalk? Has something happened? And why am I under arrest? Do you think I had something to do with it?"

"Did you have anything to do with Dr. Masters and Dr. Kelsey recently, say, in the past two days? Have you been in contact with them?"

"Hold it, hold it," Patrick said, raising his hands and shaking his head in confusion. "You're not answering any of my questions, and I'm getting confused. I feel like I'm being tricked into admitting something, and I think I should stop this questioning until I get my lawyer."

The last thing Norwalk wanted was for McLanahan to "lawyer up" now, so he nodded and put on a faint smile. As long as McLanahan only said "I think I should stop" and not "I want a lawyer" or "I want to stop," he could still question the suspect, even if the suspect believed his responses wouldn't incriminate himself. "I'm sorry, sir. We just got here, and it's been a long day. Let's all relax and just talk." He looked around the office. "You got any coffee around here? It's been a really long day."

"Sure," Patrick said cheerfully. "It's been a busy day for me too. Call in the rest of your guys-there's plenty for everyone."

"Nice plane you got out there," Norwalk said as Patrick went out to the outer office to start the coffeemakf r. "What is it?"

"An Aerostar-the fastest piston-powered twin you can buy," Patrick said proudly. "It's got six seats in it, but it's really only good for two persons with full fuel and luggage."

"You fly out from San Diego?"

"I keep the plane out at North Island Naval Air Stationthe base commander is a friend of mine. It's about a sevenhour flight, plus a couple potty breaks-eleven hours total, including the time zone changes."

"It sounds pretty fast."

"It's a rocket ship," Patrick said. "I just wish it could hold more people and baggage. Me, the wife, and my son pretty much max it out."

The armrest of the rear bench seat inside the Aerostar flopped down, and one eye peeked out from behind the seat. Seeing it was all clear, both seat backs in the split bench seat flopped down, and Chris Wohl and Hal Briggs unfolded themselves from the small baggage space behind the seat. "Oh, God," Briggs said, groaning as he stretched and flexed his sore legs and back. "My leg cramps have cramps." As he usually did, Chris Wohl ignored his friend and former commanding officer, but it was obvious he was experiencing much of the same difficulty unfolding his legs.

After he got feeling and circulation going in his limbs, Briggs crawled over the bench seats, staying low, then peeked out the smoked side windows into the hangar. No guards visible on the hangar door side; none visible out the forward windscreen. He looked out the right windows and saw one armed guard seated up on the concrete stairway landing leading into the flight department offices. Briggs made hand signals to Wohl where the guard was, then made his way to the forward entry hatch.

Meanwhile, Wohl knocked twice on the rear bulkhead. Behind the pressurized cabin was the unpressurized baggage compartment, which in Patrick's plane was normally mostly filled with an auxiliary fuel tank. But gloved fingers popped the false steel cover off, and two Night Stalkers emerged from the space normally occupied by the fuel tank. They were clothed in heavy winter-weight flight suits, jackets, boots, hats, and gloves, and each had a green oxygen bottle and mask. They, too, took a few moments to stretch and get their limbs going again, then donned FM commlinks and readied automatic pistols. "Cargo One is up," one of them reported.

"Stand by," Wohl said. "One guard in sight. Pop your hatch and get ready." The Night Stalkers unlatched the baggage compartment door as quietly as they could but did not open it.

Meanwhile, Briggs made his way to the split clamshell entry hatch, unlatched it with a twist of its handle, opened the top half just an inch or two, then unlatched and lowered the lower half. He hoped the guard couldn't see the open lower half from where he was sitting. Briggs stepped out and then lowered the upper half of the door all the way. "Let's go, Sarge-"

"Freeze!" he heard. "Hands where I can see them! Now!" The lone guard had seen the hatch open and had quickly sneaked around the Aerostar, his rifle lowered.

Briggs shot his hands up in the air. The guard braced his rifle against his right hip, then pulled his walkie-talkie from his web belt and keyed the mike button: "Unit Three to Control.. "

"Cargo! Out now! Hard!" Wohl whispered into his commlink.

The lead Night Stalker in the baggage compartment threw himself out the baggage compartment, landing about five feet in front of the startled FBI agent. The agent pulled the trigger on his rifle. The single round missed the Night Stalker by a few inches, then ricocheted off the side of the Aerostar, missing Briggs's head by scant inches as well.

The second Night Stalker inside the baggage compartment aimed and fired his weapon. Tiny crystalline darts about the size of a short golfer's pencil hit the FBI agent. The darts instantly exploded into a fine dust that penetrated the agent's black fatigues. The agent had just enoflgh time to realize that he was hit before the nerve agent in the dust completely immobilized his entire voluntary nervous system and he collapsed to the concrete hangar floor.

Briggs, Wohl, and the two Night Stalkers quickly split up, taking separate exits into the building. They were gone before any other FBI agents had responded.

Special Agent Norwalk was in the middle of a sip of coffee when he heard the shot, and he nearly dumped the coffee on himself. "What the hell…?"

"Don't worry-that's just the cavalry showing up," Patrick said matter-of-factly. Norwalk was reaching for his service pistol when Patrick touched a hidden switch on his desk, then covered his eyes with his arm and tightly closed his eyes just as the room lights went out and an immense flash of light completely blinded the two FBI agents. The room lights then came back to normal. Patrick was able to simply walk over and disarm both men by plucking their weapons from their hands-the sudden flash of light disoriented them so badly that they could hardly tell up from down. Norwalk was shouting for help as he bumped and caromed off the furniture; the other agent couldn't stay on his feet any longer and finally slumped to the floor.

Briggs and Wohl rushed into the office moments later. Briggs looked at the two writhing on the floor. "There's the last two. All present or accounted for," he said, then shot both with the crystal nerve darts. "I think the guy out in the hangar shot your plane."

"Bastard. He'll pay for that," Patrick deadpanned. "Let's go."

Within minutes, Patrick started up the DC-10's auxiliary power unit and powered it up while one of the Night Stalkers drove one of the company jet fuel trucks over to the DC-10. After Patrick directed him on how to use the DC-10's single-point refueling system, he went up to the cockpit and started getting ready for their flight out of the country. Meanwhile, Briggs and Wohl loaded up as many sets of the Tin Man battle armor, the powered exoskeletons, the electromagnetic rail guns, and as much ammunition, spare battery packs, tools, and as many other devices as they could carry in the DC-10. In less than twenty minutes, they had completely refueled the DC-10, loaded it up, and were all on board.

"All that cargo space, and no weapons aboard," Briggs said as he looked down the cavernous cargo area. They had enough cargo space and payload to carry two Megafortresses' worth of air-launched weapons-but they had no time to get any out from the storage bunkers. "Too bad."

"We got the fuel, the battle armor, and the rail gunsthat'll do for now," Patrick said. "The nerve agent will wear off in another thirty minutes-we need to be long gone before they wake up."

"Unfortunately, we weren't able to bring many weapons with us," Patrick said to Sayyid Muhammad ibn al-Hasan as-Sanusi. They were back in the big aircraft hangars at Jaghbub's military airfield, supervising the refueling of all the planes. One of the Megafortresses had to abort while over the Atlantic; in addition, all of the EB-1C Megafortress Two aircraft had been returned to their Air National Guard unit. Their remaining force: two EB-52 Megafortress flying battleships and two AL-52 Dragon airborne laser aircraft, Dragon One and Two, with Dragon Two carrying its untested plasma laser on board. "But I would sure like to take another look at your weapon storage areas, Your Highness."

"I think we may be able to help you there," Sanusi said. Patrick hadn't had time to explore it yet, but the underground warehouses here supposedly held a lot of the latest military hardware. Some of it could be adapted for the Megafortress-if they had time to load it, mate it, program the weapons for release by the computers, and perhaps test them.

Patrick was amazed at the assortment of weapons they found in the weapon-storage bunkers a few minutes later. Zuwayy had collected a large and very impressive arsenal of Russian air-launched weapons: the BetAB- series of antirunway penetration bombs, the largest of which could create a three-foot-deep crater the size of a football field in twenty inches of concrete; a large variety of KAB- series laser-guided bombs, resembling copies of the American Paveway series, ranging from five-hundred- to well over three-thousand-pounders; almost the entire range of air-toair missiles, from the tiny R-60 heat-seeker to the massive R-33 long-range radar-guided missile with nearly a hundred-mile range; and a good selection of air-to-surface missiles, including the Kh-27 antiradar missile, the Kh-29 laser-guided missile, and the Kh-15 long-range attack missile, a copy of the AGM-69A Short-Range Attack Missile, except these had only three-hundred-pound high-explosive warheads, not nuclear ones.

"Can you use any of them, my friend?" Sanusi asked.

"I think so," Patrick replied with a grin. "All of the weapons have the Russian-standard two-hundred-andfifty-millimeter suspension lug spacing, so we need to get busy resetting all of the squibs on the bomb racks to accommodate them. Fortunately, our engineers in Nevada had thought of the real possibility of using pirated Russian-bloc weapons in the field, so it should be easy to do the conversion in the field. And most of the weapons are in surprisingly good shape-others look brand new, as if they just came right 'out of the box.' "

The Libyan weapons were hauled out of storage bunkers near the air base with block and tackle, makeshift trailersmost of the vehicles on the base had been destroyed by the fuel-air weapon attacks by the Megafortress days earlierand pure old-fashioned muscle work. The weapons were dragged, pulled, or manhandled across the runway and to the largest and most undamaged hangar on the field, on which a large canvas tent had to be erected to hide the Megafortresses' protruding tails, which had to remain outside the hangar. Muhammad as-Sanusi's men had devised a bomb-loading "jammer" out of an engine jack for the larger weapons; the smaller weapons were simply carried into position by however many men it took to do the job. Once they were loaded, it was simple to get them ready for releasethe Megafortress's attack computer already had ballistics information for every possible air-launched weapon in existence, even Russian ones, so it was just a matter of telling the computer which weapon was on which station.

The first EB-52 Megafortress battleship that would lead the attack carried longer-range standoff weapons, including four Russian Kh-27 antiradar missiles in the forward bomb bay, eight Kh-15 long-range inertially guided missiles on the rotary launcher in the aft bomb bay, four R-60 heat-seeking air-to-air missiles on each external pylon, and two FlightHawk unmanned combat aircraft on wing pylons-unfortunately, the FlightHawks did not carry any weapons of their own. The second EB-52 Megafortress battleship carried a rotary launcher in the rear of the bomb bay that held sixteen one-thousand-pound unguided bombs in eight two-round clips, with inflatable parachutes attached to each one to allow them to be released from low altitude if necessary. The slant racks in the forward bomb bay held thirty-six five-hundred-pound unguided cluster munitions in six rounds of six bombs; and the external weapon pylons held two Kh-27 antiradar missiles plus four R-60 heat-seeking missiles on each pylon.

Even though the Russian guided weapons were state-ofthe-art, they couldn't interface well with the Megafortress. The antiradar missiles were programmed on the ground to detect and attack any height-finder radar, an integral part of a surface-to-air missile or fighter ground-controlled intercept radar; the air-to-air missiles' seeker was caged straight ahead and would only report if a bright enough heat source crossed its path-they would never know if it locked on or hit its target. The inertially guided missiles had to be programmed with a target on the ground before takeoff, and then their guidance systems had to be aligned on the ground before takeoff-and their accuracy couldn't be updated while in flight. -

Patrick took the king on a quick tour of the AL-52 Dragon. Workers from Sky Masters Inc., including Jon Masters himself, were still poring over it, adjusting components and voltages while a laptop computer measured magnetic fields and predicted power yields and safety margins. "A truly impressive weapon, Dr. Masters," Sanusi said after he had been introduced.

"I wish I could take all the credit for it," Jon said. He motioned inside the belly of the AL-52 just as a little girl emerged, covered in grease and dirt but wearing a big smile. "Your Majesty, may I present Dr. Kelsey Duffield of Nevada, my partner and chief engineer of this particular weapon system. Dr. Duffield, may I present the king of the United Kingdom of Libya, His Majesty, Muhammad as-Sanusi."

"Jon, for Christ's sake!" Patrick gasped. "Pardon me, Your Highness, but… Jeez, Jon, you brought Kelsey Duffield… to Libya!"

"I couldn't keep her away, Patrick," Jon said. "If you're going to yell at me, stand in line-Kelsey's mom isn't done chewing on me yet. Patrick, this is Dr. Kelsey Duffield, our new partner; Kelsey, Brigadier-General Patrick McLanahan, retired, our v.p. in charge of operations."

"Pleased to meet you, General," Kelsey said, giving Patrick a big hug and a kiss. "Don't worry about Dr. Wendy, sir-we'll get her back for you and Bradley." She gave Sanusi a little-girl curtsy, then went back inside the Dragon's fuselage and back to work.

"Not exactly what you expected, huh?" Jon asked.

"I expected anything but a nine-year-old in a war zone, Jon," Patrick said. "We will get her out as soon as we can."

"She's advancing the state of the art in high-power lasers by five years every hour she works on the Dragon," Jon said. But when Patrick glared at him, he held up his hands. "Okay, okay, as soon as we launch, Kelsey goes home."

While Sanusi's men and the Sky Masters tech crews loaded up the planes, Patrick and Sanusi met up with Dave Luger, Hal Briggs, and Chris Wohl in a meeting room, where charts and diagrams had been spread out on a table. "I have never before seen the defenses in Tripoli so strong and tight," the king said. He took out a notepad from his tunic, then started drawing circles and crosses on the charts. "Zuwayy has definitely pulled in and reinforced his forces around Tripoli to prepare for air attacks. These are new mobile antiaircraft missile and gun emplacements-at least ten new units brought in within the past several days. We haven't been able to actually count the number of fighters stationed at Al-Khums and Miznah, but we believe all of their alert aircraft shelters are occupied-that's twelve fighter-interceptors on alert twenty-four-seven at each base." He looked seriously at Patrick. "With all due respect to your men and machines, my friend, it would be suicide to attack Tripoli now."

"We don't have any choice, Your Highness," Patrick said.

"Perhaps," Sanusi said. "But even if you do penetrate those air defenses, there is no way you can locate your wife and your men in the Garden labyrinth. We've narrowed the area down to the southeast complex, which is the presidential palace area, but that only narrows it down to two or three dozen rooms, defended by perhaps five hundred troops."

"I know a way to find her quickly," Patrick said.

Sanusi looked into Patrick's eyes, and his round eyes grew sad and his lips pulled taut. "I think I know how you intend to do this," Sanusi said. "It's madness. Your son will lose both his parents."

"It's the only chance we'll ever get, Your Highness," Patrick said. He looked down, tracing his finger over the air defense circles surrounding their objective. "I don't think I can go back without her again, Muhammad. The pain on my son's face was almost too much to bear."