Wings of Fire

CHAPTER 10

"He is with that new whore every hour of every day now," General Tahir Fazani, the Libyan military chief of staff, commented disgustedly in a low voice. He and the Minister of Arab Unity, Juma Mahmud Hijazi, were in Fazani's office in the Libyan Presidential Palace, where a military briefing had just wrapped up-minus the king, Jadallah Zuwayy, again. They had dismissed the rest of the military advisers and were preparing to brief the king on the military-readiness reports. "We're getting ready to go to war with Egypt, and he's over there getting laid."

"Or worse," Hijazi mused. "Do you think he's on the drugs again?"

"God, I hope not," Fazani said. "We're screwed if he is."

"Tahir, why the hell don't we just blow town?" Hijazi asked.

"You know why, Juma-if we don't control the money or don't bump off Jadallah, we come away with nothing — and worse, he'll be coming after us for the rest of his life. We need to get those bank account numbers and passwords first."

"Maybe if he was back on horse, we could get them easier," Hijazi surmised. He nodded to the reports. "How are we looking?"

"It couldn't be better," Fazani said. "Exactly as the planning staff predicted, the intelligence staff tells us Egypt pulled so many forces back toward Cairo that they're unable to set up any kind of meaningful defense, let alone mount an offensive. We don't have enough troops to take Salimah yet, in my opinion, but if Jadallah wanted to mount an offensive, now would be the time to do it. We set up a forward base inside Egypt, move a large number of troops and aircraft there, and we can hold off the Egyptian army forever."

"And if the Americans intervene?"

"They won't-President Thorn is a spineless weakling," Fazani said. "But if he does, we withdraw-but not before destroying Salimah. We blow all the oil wells, just like Saddam Hussein did as his forces left Kuwait." Just then, the outer door opened, and Fazani's aide stepped quickly in. "What is it, Captain?"

"Sir, an American has been arrested by the security forces outside the gate of the Presidential Palace. He was demanding to see the king."

"Why are you bothering me with this drivel, Captain? Have him arrested and taken to the interrogation center."

"He also demands to see the prisoners."

"What prisoners?"

"He says, the American prisoners," the aide said. "The ones captured after the attacks in the Mediterranean Seaincluding the woman, Wendy McLanahan."

Fazani and Hijazi looked at each other in complete surprise. No one, they wordlessly reminded each other, knew about the prisoners-and they sure as hell didn't know any of the prisoners' names! "Does this man have a name?"

"Yes, sir-he called himself McLanahan too. J3figadier General Patrick McLanahan."

Both Libyan ministers jumped to their feet in surprise. "McLanahan? He's hereT Fazani shouted. "Is he armed?"

"Just a small pistol, sir."

Thank God he didn't visit them as he visited Zuwayy in Jaghbub-with his bombers buzzing overhead destroying the place and wearing his medieval armor with the built-in bug zapper, Fazani thought. "Bring him up here, right now!"

"I'll tell Jadallah-" Hijazi said.

"Not quite yet," Fazani said. "Maybe this McLanahan has information that is valuable to us. We'll tell Jadallah… in good time."

A few minutes later, Patrick was standing before both Hijazi and Fazani, his hands shackled in front of him with handcuffs and a chain around his waist. He was wearing plain civilian clothes, similar to urban Arabs. One of the guards set a bag on the desk. "He was found with this, sir," the guard said. Fazani examined the bag: It contained a fake beard, Libyan citizen documents, Libyan money, a small digital camera, a palm-sized radio, a Russian Tokarev pistol-common in both Libya and Egypt-and a fake Egyptian passport. The guard held out another smaller bag-this one held colored contact lenses. "He was wearing these as well. His hair is dyed black, too." Fazani felt his hair-quick, cheap hair dye. "No other weapons."

"Very clever, General," Fazani said in halting but good English. "Fake documents, fake hair, even fake eye color. What do you hope to accomplish here, General?"

"I'm looking for my wife and my men," Patrick said. "I know you're holding them."

"Oh, I am sure you will be joining them soon enough," Fazani said. "But we have questions first."

"I'm not answering any questions. I want the Americans. If I don't come out with them, I'll destroy this palace."

"You will? With what? This pistol?"

"You know how," Patrick said ominously. "The same way I destroyed Samah, Jaghbub, Al-Jawf, and Zillah."

Both Fazani and Hijazi looked decidedly uncomfortable at that point. Fazani paced around Patrick, thinking hard; then: "Then I have a better idea, General: You will recall your bombers immediately, or I will execute your wife and all your men right before your eyes."

"If I don't report in to my unit by the bottom of the hour, Minister, this palace will be destroyed." Hijazi looked at his watch: ten minutes to go. "There is no abort code, Minister-either I report I'm still inbound, or I report I'm coming out with the prisoners, or this place gets leveled. I'm not afraid to die."

"Then it was a suicide mission," Fazani said. "Because I assure you, we will be safe from any of your weaponsunless you intend on dropping a nuclear bomb on us. After the attack, we will all appear on the world news together and tell the world all about your doomed rescue mission and your homicidal bombing raids on Libya."

"Then you'll be doing that report from the rubble of your government buildings and palaces," Patrick said, "because I guarantee you, you won't be able to stop my bombers from attacking this city."

"Then right after your appearance on CNN, General McLanahan, perhaps you, your wife, and your spies will be dragged out of that rubble yourselves," Fazani said. "Either way, we will be safe, and alive, and you'll be dead and disgraced."

"I have a better idea, Tahir-let us tell Jadallah's financier whom we have now," Hijazi suggested. Fazani's eyes brightened at that idea. "I think he will pay handsomely for this man delivered alive to him."

"Don't count on it," Patrick said. "I don't work for any government, but I command a lot of firepower-whoever you bring me to will suffer the same fate as you will."

"I doubt that very much," Hijazi said. "Pavel Kazakov commands many forces as well, and I'm sure he's far wealthier than you are."

"Kazakov?" Patrick exclaimed. "Zuwayy is working with Pavel Kazakov? I should have known."

"I see you've heard of him? Good. He will pay a very generous bonus to the ones who bring you to hint-alive if possible, but dead if necessary. Perhaps we can negotiate a package deal for all of you Americans together-I think Kazakov would love to use you all as an example to others of what happens when you cross him. But first we need to know all about your bombers and other infantry forces you have in Libya. The king has described some very amazing forces-perhaps you can tell us all about them."

"Go to hell," Patrick said.

"Well, that is a little more defiant than the things your wife has been saying while in captivity, General," Fazani said with a smile. Patrick angrily tested his shackles yet another time-they were securely locked. "Imshi. Enta tiqdar la 'met ahsan min kida. Get him out of here, now."

After the guards had taken McLanahan out, Hijazi said, "I'll get Kazakov on the phone right away. I think he's been looking for this guy-I'll bet he'll pay a lot for him."

"You handle Kazakov-I'll notify Jadallah," Fazani said. "This way we cover our asses in case Kazakov blabs that we told him and not our boss."

"Good idea."

"We've also got to get all those captives out of here as soon as possible," Fazani added. "It can't be a coincidence that McLanahan just waltzes in here-the exact spot where we happen to be keeping his wife and his fighters. He's doing a probe. The faster we get him out of here, the better."

Fazani walked over to Zuwayy's residence and notified the Republican Guards that he wished to speak with the king. Ten frustrating, aggravating minutes later, Fazani was told the king was unavailable. Not daring to push aside one of Zuwayy's Republican Guards-they were absolute fanatics about security; their lives depended on it-Fazani asked again, and after another ten-minute wait, he was admitted into the king's private residence.

He could see it immediately. Tahir Fazani had known Jadallah Zuwayy for more than fifteen years, including two years in Sudan where Zuwayy got hooked on heroin. He and Hijazi had nursed him, covered for him, threatened him, and cajoled him into giving up the stuff. They thought they had been successful. "Damn you, Jadallah," he muttered. "What the hell is wrong with you? We're going to war with Egypt any day now, and you're up here getting high."

"What the hell do you want, Tahir?" Zuwayy asked. He was slumped in a chair, drinking something; his head lolled around every now and then as if he were on some sort of sailboat race on the Gulf of Sidra.

"We had a little visit by someone tonight-one Brigadier General Patrick McLanahan."

"An Anglo? So what? Is he an arms dealer? A mercenary? If not, kick him out of the country and.." Zuwayy stopped and looked at Fazani through bloodshot, bleary eyes and blown pupils. "Did you say… McLanahan?"

"The woman we have in your interrogation center is his wife" Fazani said. "He came here to demand we return her and his men to him."

"And you have him? He actually tried to walk in here and demanded we release the prisoners? Was he deranged?"

"I think it's some kind of setup," Fazani said seriously. "I had him taken to the detention center, but I think he should be moved as soon as possible."

"Moved? Yes, he should be moved-straight to Kazakov," Zuwayy said. "This might be our chance to get back in his good graces. Where is he now?"

"The interrogation center," Fazani said. "It should be useful for us to interrogate him as much as possible before we turn him over. He might be able to give us a lot of information on Egyptian defenses as well as exactly what he used to attack all our bases. And if we can find out who he works for, maybe they'll pay even more to get him back than Kazakov will." Zuwayy got unsteadily to his feet; Fazani practically had to catch him to keep him from falling over. "Why don't you let me handle McLanahan, Jadallah? Give me some time to see what he'll do. If he's as tough as his men we captured, it might be easier just to hand him over to Kazakov; but if we can break him quickly, maybe we can explore alternate opportunities."

"Ma'lesh, ma'lesh," Zuwayy said. He returned to his chair and collapsed into it. "You and Juma take c «re of it. I'll be okay in a few hours." Fazani was thankful Zuwayy didn't put up a fight about that, and he headed for the door. But just before he left, Zuwayy shouted behind him, "Wait, Tahir! Did you say you were going to take him to the interrogation center?"

"Na'atn."

"Did you search him first?"

"Of course. We found disguises, fake travel documents, a gun…"

"What about a radio?"

"We found a radio too."

"A small one? A very small one?"

Now Fazani was getting anxious. He turned back toward Zuwayy. "Well… yes, it was small," he asked. "Palmsized, smaller than anything I've ever-"

"No, you idiot, I mean small, like a tack or brad!"

"What are you talking about, Jadallah?"

"The woman, the other McLanahan-she had some kind of transceiver implanted in her arm!" Zuwayy shouted. "If this one has one too…"

"Then they know exactly where he is," Fazani muttered. "God… he was doing a probe, and he's led his forces right to us!"

"Get that transceiver off of him-I don't care if you have to cut all his limbs off!" Zuwayy shouted. "And then evacuate this entire facility right-!"

And at that moment, the first explosion shook the Presidential Palace like an earthquake.

Sirens and alarms sounded everywhere. Zuwayy was immediately escorted-dragged might be more accuratethrough one of the myriad of escape tunnels that led from the Presidential Palace to the Ginayna, the maze of rooms, prisons, and military barracks under the city of Tripoli. He ran virtually headlong into Tahir Fazani and Juma Mahmud Hijazi, also running for their lives.

"Unidentified aircraft detected all around the city," Fazani said to Zuwayy. "It looks like a massive attackperhaps the entire Egyptian air force!"

"Get to a phone and commence the rocket attack on Sal-

imah," Zuwayy shouted. "I want Salimah destroyed! Now!"

"Forget about Salimah," Hijazi said. "Let's just get out of here and regroup at one of the alternate command centers."

"I will tell the world that the Americans are conducting a preemptive, unprovoked attack on the kingdom," Zuwayy shouted. "I must make a television broadcast to the entire nation immediately! And I want the attack on Salimah started right now. I'm going to evacuate and flee the country before everything is destroyed!"

Hijazi looked at Fazani-and they made a silent agreement. "Good idea, Jadallah," Hijazi said carefully. "Tahir will call in the rocket attack. But… before the Americans freeze all our assets and destroy our communications, I should transfer cash from the treasury to our personal accounts. I can do that from the command center. I just need your account numbers and passwords."

"I can do that myself after I get out-"

'There's no time, Jadallah! You can't use a cell phone to call the banks, and if the Americans take down all the communications facilities, we'll be stuck. If I get your account numbers and pass codes, I can transfer funds right now." Zuwayy hesitated. Another explosion shook the walls and sent dust sprinkling down on their heads. "For God's sake, Jadallah, we're running out of time! Their next action will be to cut off all communications!" Hijazi handed him a pen and a pad of paper. "Hurry, Jadallah! It could be our only chance."

To the two henchmen's immense relief, Zuwayy scribbled something down on the pad, then handed it back to Hijazi. Hijazi tried to read his writing-it was all numbers. "What is this, Jadallah?" he asked.

"The combination to my safe upstairs in my bedroom," Zuwayy replied. "Do you think I've memorized all those bank account numbers and passwords? The numbers are locked in the safe."

"And you didn't think of taking it with you before you ran off, Jadallah?" Hijazi asked incredulously. +

"Go get it," Fazani told him. "I'll call in the rocket attack. Jadallah, get going-we'll be right behind you." Zuwayy needed no more prompting to get out. Hijazi gulped fearfully but returned the way they had come.

There were only two words that could describe the performance of the Russian missiles that were loaded onto the lead EB-52 Megafortress-and those words were "dead weight."

"Another alignment failure message, dammit!" Kenneth "KK" Kowalski, the mission commander aboard the lead EB-52 Megafortress, cursed. "That's the fifth failure!" He was trying to fire one of the Kh-15 inertially guided missiles from the aft bomb bay; but like one of the Kh-27 antiradar missiles and three of the other Kh-15 missiles he tried to launch, this latest one failed as well. "I'll power it down and bring it back up and see if it'll realign."

"Good thing the Libyans can't seem to shoot straight," the aircraft commander, Randall "Fangs" Harper, commented. "Otherwise we'd be Swiss cheese by now." They had successfully fired two Kh-27 missiles at Libyan surface-to-air missile sites; one site was apparently destroyed, and the other shut down before the missile hit and never came back on the air again. Out of six attempts to launch Kh-15 attack missiles from the aft bomb bay, only two were successful, and of the four unsuccessful launches, they had to emergency-jettison two of them because their internal chemical batteries had overheated and threatened to blow the missiles-and the Megafortressup with them. They had to stay at high altitude, above thirty thousand feet, to stay out of range of antiaircraft artillery and short-range antiaircraft missiles-the Libyans even still used searchlights to try and find the bombers.

Their mission was pretty much a bust, thanks to the unreliable Russian standoff weapons-except for the FlightHawk unmanned combat aircraft. Although they were not armed, they still had enough gadgetry and magic in them to affect the outcome of this mission.

"Coming up on the release point, sixty seconds… now," Kowalski announced. "Both birds are in the green and ready."

"It's about time something we're carrying works," Harper mused.

At the planned launch point, Kowalski launched both FlightHawks within two minutes of each other. Their thirty-minute flights would take them on a zigzag track within ten miles either side of an ingress corridor they had planned for the second EB-52 Megafortress. The cruise missiles descended to fifteen thousand feet aboveground, powering up their turbofan engines and unfolding their wings as they fell from altitude.

The FlightHawks were small and stealthy enough that they were almost invisible to Libyan search radars. At irregular intervals along their flight, however, they would suddenly begin sending out bursts of radar and radio energy and deploying small radar reflectors that would instantly make them appear on radar as if they were the size of Boeing 747s. When the Libyan air defense radars popped on, the FlightHawks would instantly plot their position and type of system, transmit the enemy threat locations to the Megafortresses, then deactivate the reflectors and emissions to virtually disappear from radar. In just a few minutes, the FlightHawks had flushed out almost a dozen new antiaircraft threats. The tactic worked great…

… until both FlightHawks were shot down within seconds of each other, one by random, sweeping bursts of antiaircraft artillery fire, the other by a MiG-23 fighter with a radar-guided missile that had just showed up over the capital on air defense patrol.

"Zero, this is Fangs," Harper radioed. "Be advised, we've got bandits in the area." He stole a glance at Kowalski's supercockpit display, which showed the entire battlefield area, along with their wingman and the inbound infantrymen, in a "God's-eye" view. "Closest one is at your twelve o'clock, twenty miles, high. He got one of our 'Hawks." <

"Copy, Fangs," George "Zero" Tanaka, the aircraft commander of the second Megafortress battleship, replied. "We've got him. What's your status?"

"We've got a bellyful of duds now," Kowalski replied. "I'm going to try inflight-aligning them to see if we can't lob a few more in, but I have a feeling we're done for the day. We'll stand by at waypoint Lima in case you need any assistance."

"Roger," Tanaka said. To his mission commander, Greg "Gonzo" Wickland, he said, "Better check those Russian antiradar missiles-they're likely to dud on us too."

"They're looking pretty good right now," Wickland responded. He had reluctantly agreed to go with Tanaka on this mission-the possibility that his friend and mentor, Wendy Tork McLanahan, might still be alive down there in the heart of Libya changed his mind about being afraid of dying during a secret mission in the EB-52. "Our first launch point is a pop-up target at two o'clock, twenty-eight miles, an SA-10 SAM site. I'll start the-"

But as Wickland watched the supercockpit display, he saw the icon representing the Libyan MiG-23 fighter turn toward them, and the green cone that represented his radar beam sweep in their direction. "Shit, that MiG is heading our way," Wickland interrupted himself. "Step it down to five hundred feet and accelerate."

"Set clearance plane five hundred, hard ride, and set four-eight-zero knots true," Tanaka ordered the flight control computer. He carefully monitored the aircraft as the throttles advanced themselves and the terrain-following computer reset the height above ground the autopilot would continue to fly the bomber.

"He's still coming around," Wickland said. The radar cone had changed from green to yellow-now the fighter had an azimuth-only lock-on. "He's got us. Deploy towed array." Behind them, one of the tiny towed array antennas unreeled itself in the bomber's slipstream. "He's still up pretty high. Give me thirty left-let's see if he follows us." Sure enough, the fighter turned left with the Megafortress, but his range did not increase. Every now and then the radar cone depiction on the supercockpit display flashed red-that meant the fighter's radar switched into range mode, the last measurement needed before missile launch-but it never stayed on very long. "He's hanging out there at eleven miles, matching our airspeed, and just hitting us with his ranging radar long enough to keep up," Wickland said. "He's not letting our trackbreakers get a chance to wipe out his picture."

"Waiting for instructions?" Tanaka asked.

"Give me forty right, nice shallow bank," Wickland said. "Let's see how aggressive he is."

But I have a target! I have another unknown aircraft at my twelve o'clock, seventeen kilometers, very low!" the pilot of the Libyan MiG-23 shouted.

"Hibr flight, you are ordered to return to patrol altitude and proceed north to intercept inbound aircraft!" the ground radar controller shouted again. "And you do not have permission to open fire!"

The Libyan pilot whipped off his oxygen mask in frustration. "I tell you, Control, there are numerous enemy aircraft out here!" he shouted again. "I am tracking one now, and there were one, maybe two others up here as well. I think Tripoli is under attack from the south!"

"You are ordered to proceed immediately to point Amm and intercept and identify unknown aircraft inbound toward the capital!" the ground controller said. "Backup aircraft are being prepared now. Proceed immediately!"

The MiG-23 pilot had no choice. No ground radars had picked up these low-flying bandits. Aircraft north of the city could mean anything-inbound passenger airliners, cargo planes, anything but an attacker. Low-flying unidentified aircraft weaving and jinking around south of the city could mean only one thing: enemy aircraft. But the controller was telling him to chase the target he could see. He was an idiot-but he had complete authority, too.

He angrily jammed his throttles forward and yanked the stick hard right, zooming northward. He didn't e?en think of his wingman, trailing to his right and slightly higher-

he hoped he was paying attention and didn't get fined as his leader cut right in front of him.

It took only four minutes for the pair of MiG-23s to reach the intercept anchor point. "Hibr flight, proceed on heading three-zero-zero. Your bogey will be at your twelve o'clock, range fifty K, descending through four thousand meters."

"Acknowledged, Control," the pilot said. "How about sending some fighters up to track down the bogeys I found near Kadra?" No response from the controller-he couldn't see any targets down south of the city, so he wasn't going to send any planes there.

"Hibr flight, bogey at your twelve o'clock, forty-five K, still descending, now through three point five K meters. Report when tied on."

The MiG-23 flight leader activated his intercept radar and found the aircraft almost instantly-it was a solid radar lock-on, not weak and intermittent like the other one. "Hibr flight has a bogey at my twelve o'clock, forty-two K meters range, three point zero K meters altitude." He keyed two switches on the instrument panel near the throttle that sent out coded interrogation signals. "Negative mode two, mode C, and mode four IFF."

"That's your bandit, Hibr flight."

The target was in a shallow descent, heading right for Tripoli at close to six hundred kilometers per hour. Every now and then it would make a sudden move-a sharper descent, a fast turn one direction or the other, and at one time it even appeared to be doing a one-eighty. Large bombers needed to transfer alignment maneuvers for inertially guided air-launched weapons-maybe that's what this aircraft was doing. But one thing was for sure: It was definitely heading for Tripoli, and it was unidentified.

The rules said shoot it down.

"Hibr two, take tactical spacing," the leader called to his wingman.

"Acknowledged."

The lead MiG-23 pilot flew above and past the target, then started a rapid left descending turn that quickly brought him right on the bandit's right rear quarter. The aircraft had no exterior lights whatsoever, and no lights were visible on the side of the fuselage either-definitely not an airliner. He moved in close enough so he could clearly see the outline of the plane against the growing brightness of the horizon as Tripoli came closer and closer; then he turned on his identification spotlight.

"Control, Hibr flight has visual identification," the leader radioed. "Bandit is a DC-10 aircraft. It has a U.S. registration number, N-three-oh-three Sierra Mike. I see no weapons or any unusual protrusions or devices. The aircraft is completely dark, and… Stand by, Control." The pilot slid forward, letting the searchlight shine in the copilot's side of the cockpit. "Control, it appears the bandit's right cockpit sliding window is open, and there appears to be smoke trailing out from the window, repeat, the bandit seems to be venting smoke from his cockpit. Smoke is also trailing from what appears to be an open cockpit escape hatch. There are only flashlight beams in the cockpit-no lights whatsoever. This aircraft may be having an inflight emergency. If he has shut off all aircraft power, that could be the reason why he has not responded to us and why he has no lights on."

"Hibr flight, be advised, Suf flight of four and Kheyma flight of two are joining on you, ETE three minutes."

"Control, I don't need any more fighters up here," the leader said perturbedly. "This is a commercial aircraft with what appears to be an inflight emergency. He's not a combat aircraft. I think I can get him turned away from the coast myself-I don't need six more fighters in the area. Have those extra planes go look for the bogeys I found south of Tripoli." But his suggestion went unheeded.

Within minutes there were three different kinds of jets buzzing around the stricken American-registered cargo plane: Hibr flight of two MiG-23s, Suf flight of four MiG-29s, and Kheyma flight of two MiG-25s. The problem was, no one could decide exactly what to do about this intruder. He was obviously a noncombatant, and he was obviously in trouble. They tried light signals, but it wasn't clear if their searchlights were penetrating the smoke in the cockpit. They couldn't see inside, and it was obvious no one in the cockpit could see out.

Finally the MiG-23 flight leader switched his number two radio to the international UHF emergency frequency: "Unidentified American cargo plane, this is Hibr flight of two of the United Kingdom of Libya Royal Air Force. You are in restricted airspace and in violation of Libyan law. You are ordered to reverse course immediately. I say again, reverse course immediately or you will be attacked."

There was no answer. The flight leader repeated the message on the VHF GUARD emergency frequency; still no response. He was about to switch back to his controller's frequency to request permission to open fire when he heard a scratchy, frightened voice say, "I hear you, Libyan fighters! I hear you! This is November three-ohthree Sierra Mike on VHF GUARD channel. I am on a handheld emergency radio. Mayday, mayday, mayday, can you hear me, Libyan air force?"

"I can hear you, Three Sierra Mike," the flight leader replied. "You must reverse course immediately! In ten kilometers you will enter restricted Libyan airspace, and we will attack. Reverse course immediately! Acknowledge!"

"This is Three Sierra Mike, we have a catastrophic fire in the cockpit and we were forced to evacuate the cockpit. The aircraft is on autopilot, and we are trying to put the fire out. As soon as we put the fire out we can retake control of the plane. Don't shoot! We are a cargo plane. We're carrying relief supplies bound for Khartoum, Sudan, on an international flight plan. We have twenty-two relief workers on board plus a crew of five. Give us time to get the fire out. Over."

"Three Sierra Mike, you are flying into restricted Libyan airspace during a time of severe emergency flight restrictions," the flight leader said. "This is a wartime situation. If you do not reverse course in two minutes, I will have no choice but to open fire. You must do everything you can to reverse course or at least stay out over the Gulf of Sidra. I will be forced to open fire if you do not comply."

"Please, for God's sake, don't shoot!" the pilot cried. "We'll have control of our plane in less than two minutes! Please, stand by!"

"Think he's for real, lead?" the wingman radioed.

"I know I'd have a tough time if my cockpit was filled with smoke like that," the flight leader said. "We'll wait until he crosses the twenty-kilometer mark, then open fire if he doesn't turn away."

It seemed to take forever-the big American plane was definitely slowing down. The other Libyan fighters circled, jockeyed around, and generally tried their best to fly nightstaggered formation with the crippled American plane. No one departed-all the pilots wanted to watch when Hibr lead fired his missile and brought the big plane down.

Tripoli Air Defense Control confirmed the orders moments later: shoot to kill if the plane crosses the twenty-kilometer ring.

"Three Sierra Mike, this is Hibr flight, you are ordered to turn away now," the flight leader radioed. "I am ordered to shoot you down if you do not comply. This is your last warning." He then angled upward, clearing the DC-10's powerful wake, and started to maneuver behind the big plane. The lights of Tripoli were brilliant, filling the horizon below-he was afraid that maybe he was too late, that twenty kilometers was still too close. Even if the plane was hit, could it still glide on fire and hit the city?

At that moment, the smoke stopped streaming out of the DC-10's cockpit, and the big plane started a slow ten-degree bank turn to the left. It took almost ninety seconds, but finally the big plane was heading away from Tripoli. It was just thirty seconds-about three kilometers-away from the flight leader pressing the button on his control stick that would send the DC-10 crashing to earth.

"Too bad, Hibr flight," one of the other pilots radioed. "We thought you'd finally get a chance to hit something this time."

It wasn't funny, the lead pilot thought-he was sure that this was nothing but a feint for an attack from the south. This plane had managed to draw off nearly all of Libya's alert fighter patrols away from the capital. Something was not right here….

"I Kheyma flights, this is Hibr lead. I'm getting close to bingo fuel," the flight leader radioed. "Hibr flight is going to depart the formation and head to base. Escort this bastard out of our airspace."

"You got it," one of the other pilots said. "Suf flight has the lead. We'll stay in formation with the American until he's well away." The leader of the flight of two MiG-23s descended to five hundred meters below the American cargo plane, then turned south; a few moments later, his wingman was in loose fingertip formation.

"Hibr flight, this is Control. Understand you are declaring bingo fuel at this time."

"Negative, Control," the flight leader said. "We're twenty minutes from bingo. I want vectors to the last position of those unidentified radar contacts south of Tripoli."

Cut it kind of close, didn't you?" the DC-10's flight engineer asked as he removed his emergency firefighting mask. He collected the empty casings of the smoke signal flares he had been shooting out the window and put them in an empty canvas survival bag. "That fighter departed to get behind us to shoot our asses down, didn't he?"

The pilot of the DC-10 rechecked that the pressurization system was indeed pumping the cabin back up and that his side storm window was securely closed. "It wasn't enough time," he said. "Our guys needed another five minutes."

"Maybe we can turn back in-keep the fighters around for a little while longer?"

"I think we used up all our lucky charms on that last stunt," the pilot said. "Those Libyan bastards could've pulled the trigger just to see what color the fire would've been as we plummeted to earth-we're not going to risk twisting the tiger's tail again. It's the bomber's turn nowwe did our job." He switched to the command channel and spoke: "Headbangers, this is Three Sierra Mike, we've made our turn northbound. We kept eight bandits with us as long as we could. Good luck."

We copy, Sierra Mike," George "Zero" Tanaka responded. 'Thanks for the assist."

The second EB-52 Megafortress, with Tanaka and Wickland back at the controls, swept in at low altitude over the rolling sand- and rock-covered hills of southern Tripoli inbound toward the Presidential Palace. Wickland's supercockpit display was a nightmarish presentation of destruction: Every Libyan air defense site discovered by the FlightHawks was highlighted, and the route of flight adjusted accordingly. Because they had no standoff weapons-both of their Kh-27 antiradar missiles worked, but they had to expend both of them early on the inbound run because so few sites had been taken down by the first Megafortress-they were forced to zigzag in between the threat computer's guesstimate of each site's lethal radius.

"Coming up on a right turn, thirty degrees of bank, ready, ready… now," Wickland said, and the modified B-

52 Stratofortress bomber banked hard in response. "We've got a ZSU-57-2 site at our nine o'clock, seven miles." Wickland glanced out the cockpit just as the radar-guided twin-barreled fifty-seven-millimeter antiaircraft artillery guns opened fire-their jammers and trackbreakers did not even need to jam the Libyan radar because they were well out of range. Tracers fluttered through the air in eerie snakelike patterns across the sky-a few rounds twisted in their direction, but most of the rounds were behind them as the site's radar locked onto the countermeasures array towed behind the Megafortress. "Coming up on a hard left turn, forty degrees of bank… now." It was like being on an indoor roller coaster.

Wickland activated the laser radar arrays for two seconds to take a snapshot of the sky and earth surrounding them. "Those fighters are headed this way," he said. "First flight of MiGs is north of us at forty-three miles oming in hard. The other two flights of MiGs are still heading north with the DC-10.. and now we got another flight of three MiGs lifting off from Mitiga Airfield, one o'clock, eighteen miles. They'll be on top of us in no time."

"How are we doing on the bomb run?" Tanaka asked.

"Thirty seconds to the first target," Wickland responded. "This will be a pull-up push-over release on an SA-3 site. I need full military power for this release."

"You already got it."

"All trackbreakers and jammers active. Acquisition radar at eleven o'clock, eight miles." Wickland magnified the last LADAR image of the target area. This SA-3 site consisted of four quadruple-missile fixed launchers with a trailer-mounted long-range radar and another trailermounted fire-control radar, all in a five-acre hand-shaped site. The Megafortress's attack computers programmed the coordinates of the center of the 'hand' and the 'thumb,' where the radars and control systems were located. At the exact point as directed by the attack computer, the rear bomb doors opened and retracted inward, and the Megafortress began a steep climb.

"Warning, SA-3 target tracking mode," the threat warning computer blared.

"Trackbreakers active.. "

"Warning, missile launch, SA-3 uplink!" The threat computers automatically ejected decoy chaff and flares, and the jamming signals coming from the towed array came on continuously.

"C'mon, baby, toss those suckers!"

The Megafortress nosed over, then began a hard left bank. At the very apex of the roller coaster-like arc, the attack computer released two one-thousand-pound highexplosive bombs from the rotary launcher. Like the last kid in a "crack-the-whip" line, the bombs sailed out of the bomb bay with such force that they flew nearly three miles through the air. Just as two SA-3 missiles streaked from their launcher, the bombs hit, destroying the fire-control radar with an almost direct hit.

The first missile self-destructed seconds after launch when it lost its uplink signal; the second missile was able to switch to command line-of-sight guidance signals from the SA-3 long-range radar. Fortunately, the long-range radar was locked onto the towed countermeasures array, not the Megafortress itself, and the blast from the second missile's one-hundred-and-thirty-pound warhead destroyed the towed array-well over two hundred feet behind the bomber. The Megafortress's jammers completely shut down the long-range search radars and defeated a second two-round missile volley launched moments later.

The Megafortress made another hard left turn, correcting on course, dropping six air-retarded cluster bomb canisters on a power substation at the periphery of the palace grounds before making a hard right turn back toward the Presidential Palace. Wickland ordered a climb to one thousand feet, then sixty seconds later released another stick of six cluster bomb dispensers on the security guard barracks and headquarters outside the palace gates. The last releases were virtually simultaneous: two gravity bombs on the front gates themselves, the last stick of cluster bombs on the entryway to the palace, and two more gravity bombs on the palace itself.

The Megafortress then continued eastbound, passing right over Matiga Airfield, the old American Wheelus Air Force Base on the eastern side of the city. Antiaircraft artillery units fired into the sky all around them, but the Megafortress's jammers and trackbreakers kept any of the radar-guided heavier-caliber units from locking in on them. The final bomb run was right across the center of the airfield, dropping the remaining gravity bombs on the runway, radar facility, and control tower, then seeding cluster bombs throughout the aircraft parking areas. Almost a dozen aircraft of all kinds, from fighters to cargo planes to helicopters, were destroyed.

"Set clearance plane COLA," Tanaka ordered. The Megafortress turned sharply northward away from the coast, but Tanaka had to override the autopilot because it appeared they turned right toward a large Libyan warship intheGulfofSidra. "

"We've got company," Wickland said. "MiG-23s, com-

ing in fast, seven o'clock, eleven miles." At that same instant, they received another warning: "Missile launch, SAN-8 from that Libyan warship!" The threat defense computers ejected chaff and flares, and the Megafortress did a hard right break back toward the coast near Ed Dachla. The naval surface-to-air missile exploded less than a hundred feet off their left side, violently shaking the big bomber.

"I think we got some fuel leaks from the left wing, and we're losing pressurization," Tanaka reported. "I've also got a fault on the left ruddervator trim system."

"We got a 'MISSILE HOT' light on the left weapon pylon," Wickland said. He acknowledged the fault, but by then the weapons computer had ejected first the left pylon and its remaining air-to-air missiles, and then the right pylon to balance out the aircraft. "There goes the last of our heaters." He checked the supercockpit display. "I think we're clear of that ship, but the fighters are coming in hot," he said. "Let's continue southeast. We'll try to make it to the Cussabat Mountains-the MiGs may not be able to find us there."

But they were too late. The first MiG-23 moved in almost at the speed of sound and fired a heat-seeking missile from point-blank range. The Megafortress detected the missile launch and immediately initiated a right break, ejecting chaff and flares from the left ejectors. The combination of the decoys and the active laser countermeasures system steered the missile away from a direct hit, but the Russian-made R-60 missile exploded just ahead of the left wingtip.

"Shit, we lost the entire left wingtip!" Tanaka shouted. The vibration coming from the left wing was tremendous-it felt as if the entire wing was going to snap right off. "I've got to slow down or we'll lose the whole wing!"

"The second MiG coming in fast!"

"Stinger airmines!" Tanaka shouted. "Blast that sucker!"

But the second MiG-23 was already firing its twentythree-millimeter cannon as the airmines were launched, and the bullets hit first: Warning messages flashed on all of the multifunction displays in the Megafortress's cockpit. Wickland looked out his window and saw the number-four engine throwing off tongues of flames and flashes of fire. "Oh, Jesus!" he shouted. "We're hit!"

"Just make sure you smoke that MiG!" Tanaka shouted. He kept his eyes flying over the system readouts, hands on the controls and throttles and his feet on the rudder pedals, ready in an instant to take over if the Megafortress's flight computer didn't immediately respond. But the computer was in charge for now: By the time the warning messages had flashed on the screens, the computers had already shut down the number-four engine, discharged the fire extinguishers, isolated the hydraulic, pneumatic, electrical, and fuel systems to that engine, and had reconfigured all of the aircraft systems to take up the load from the destroyed engine.

"The second MiG is breaking away," Wickland said, checking the supercockpit display. "I think we got-" He stopped when the computer issued a fresh warning: "The first MiG is heading for us again. Nine o'clock, eight miles and closing fast." A moment later: "Another MiG inbound, six o'clock, twenty-five miles. Both are locked on." With a shut-down and shattered number-four engine, the radar cross-section of the normally very stealthy Megafortress was multiplied a hundred times, making it an easy target.

Tanaka started a hard right turn. "We're going to have to take them over the desert," he said. "No other way to do it." He looked over at his partner. "Make sure your straps are tight, Gonzo. Put your clear visor down and zip your jacket all the way up." Wickland looked as if he was going to shrivel up and die as he hurriedly pulled his shoulder and lap belts as tight as he could stand, his hands shaking uncontrollably.

They had not quite finished their turn when the computer reported, "Warning, radar lock MiG-23, two o'clock, fifteen miles… warning, missile launch, MiG?23 R-24… missile launch, MiG-23, R-24."

"Jammers and countermeasures active," Wickland said tonelessly. "Active laser countermeasures firing… decoys out…" Everything had to work perfectly now-they were well outside their absconded Libyan air-to-air missile's range. Tanaka started up and down jinks, trying to get the radar-guided missiles to overcorrect and overshoot their target. For a moment Wickland thought he could see the missiles heading toward him, but he knew that was impossible-traveling at night over three times the speed of sound, the naked eye could never see them. His hands closed over the handles of his ejection seat.

"Don't wait for my order," he heard Tanaka say. "If the missiles hit, just go. Don't wait for me. Don't wait…" And just then, Wickland saw a tremendous burst of light and a huge fireball blossom directly in front of him. His fingers tightened on the lever and he began to rotate them upward, exposing the ejection initiation trigger….

Within a few minutes after receiving the call from Tripoli, the crews aboard two dozen mobile SS-12 missiles, armed with a variety of warheads-ranging from one-thousandpound high-explosive to chemical to subatomic neutronprepared their missiles for launch. Within five minutes of receiving the final launch order, one by one, the rockets lifted off into the dawn sky on columns of fire.

Giant zero! Giant zero! Rockets detected!" the mission commander aboard the second AL-52 Dragon reported. After refueling, the Dragon had gone on patrol over west-central Egypt, covering both the Salimah oil fields and Cairo from any rockets launched from Libya.

Long before the mission commander even keyed the microphone, the most sophisticated computer system ever placed aboard any aircraft was already prosecuting the at-

tack. The mission commander merely watched in fascination as the chemicals they carried in the tail section of the plane mixed and created their magic, and the Dragon came to life once again. The crew watched through the telescopic optics as the SS-12 rocket was blown apart by the COIL laser.

"Yeah, baby, yeah" the mission commander crowed. "We got it!" The LADAR warning system bleeped again as more SS-12 rockets were detected. But one by one, the AL-52 Dragon aircraft detected and attacked every SS-12 that rose out of the desert.

As it attacked each one, coordinates of the launch points were transmitted to U.S. Air Force B-2 Spirit stealth bombers orbiting over southern Libya and northern Chad. The coordinates of the launchers were instantly programmed into satellite-guided AGM-158A standoff missiles, which were launched from well over one hundred miles away within moments after the rockets were launched. The missiles, called the Joint Air-to-Surface Standoff Missile, carried a one-thousand-pound highexplosive warhead and an infrared terminal seeker. The missile flew toward the rocket's launch point, detected the red-hot launcher and support trucks with its heat-seeking terminal sensor, and destroyed them with pinpoint accuracy.

"Wait!" Tanaka shouted, pulling Wickland's hand carefully away from the ejection handle. "That wasn't the missile!" The fireball became a fat comet, arcing across the night sky. Seconds later, a second fireball appeared, this one spinning crazily across the horizon like a burning tumbleweed blown across a prairie. "What the hell…?"

"Yo, Zero," a voice came over the long-forgotten command radio channel. "Is that you out there?" -

"Bud? Is that you?"

"Roger that," John "Bud" Franken, at the command of the second, improved AL-52 Dragon aircraft, replied. "Looks like we got here right on time. What's your status?"

"We're short one engine and we have a few more holes now than we did at takeoff," Tanaka said, "but we're still flying. Can you clear our six for us so we can get the hell out of here?"

Roger that," Bud Franken replied. He turned to Lindsey Reeves in the mission commander's seat. "You got them, Linds?"

Lindsey Reeves, Franken's mission commander, checked her supercockpit display. The LADAR attack computer already highlighted the fighters for her-both of them were converging on the crippled Megafortress bomber. "Got 'em!" she crowed. "Nine o'clock, sixty miles, heading northeast at six hundred knots, one thousand feet a.g.l."

"Let's see what this baby can do," Franken said. "Light 'em up, Linds."

Reeves touched the MiGs' icon on her display, then said, "Attack Dragon" into the voice-command computer.

"Attack commit Dragon, stop attack," the attack computer responded. A few moments later, capacitors in the rear fuselage started receiving and storing power from the aircraft's generators. At the same time, the deformable mirror turret in the nose unstowed and pointed itself at the Libyan fighters. When all of the capacitors reported full, the attack computer reported, "Laser ready."

"Laser commit," Lindsey said.

Franken flipped his consent switch. "Go get 'em, kiddo." Lindsey did the same on her side.

"Laser commit, stop attack," the computer reported.

The laser radar system tracked and measured the target, then also sampled the atmosphere at the target and sent corrective and focusing instructions to the deformable mirror. At the same instant, the capacitors in the rear of the aircraft started pumping massive waves of energy into the plasma generators. Four hundred diode lasers focused laser light onto the center of a small aluminum chamber, burning a pellet of deuterium-tritium fuel the size of a grain of sand, creating a ball of deuterium-tritium-enhanced gas. Confined and heated by the lasers and now weighing thousands of pounds, the superheated ball of gas quickly reached a temperature of one hundred million degrees Celsius-ten times hotter than the surface of the sun. At that temperature, the atoms of deuterium and tritium were blasted apart, creating a mixture of free electrons and ions-also known as plasma. The plasma field lasted for only a millionth of a second; three other plasma generators acted in series to generate an almost continuous wave of plasma energy.

Corralled and steered by a magnetic waveguide chamber, the plasma field, more powerful than all the nuclear explosions ever created but existing for only a few trillionths of a second, pounded into the laser generator chamber, where the massive pulse of energy excited thousands of glass disks containing neodymium, a rare earth element. The plasma energy stripped the neodymium atoms off the glass, creating an immensely powerful pulse of light. The light was reflected into the Faraday oscillator, which bounced the light back and forth between cooled mirrors until the light was in perfect synchronization, then fired it out into the laser waveguide. An amplifier intensified the beam even more, and spatial filters focused the beam down to a tiny spot, then expanded the beam to three feet in diameter, where it was projected onto the deformable mirror, then reflected into space.

In the cockpit, it was anticlimactic-there was no loud hum, no recoil, and no sound at all except for the faint vibration of the turret moving as it tracked the target. Lindsey did receive some warning indications dealing with the plasma generators. The plasma generators were in effect plasma-yield weapon warheads, capable of destroying all matter around it for hundreds of feet in all directions-the explosion was simply controlled and shortened into pulses contained by magnetic fields. They were setting ofr thousands of plasma-yield explosions every second in the back of the AL-52 aircraft-not exactly a safe or secure situation. The technology was very new, virtually untested, and in rough design stage only-they had few safety devices installed simply because they did not have enough information on what the really dangerous subsystems were. The whole system was a hazard.

But despite the warning messages, Lindsey let the laser sequence go-and in the next few seconds, history was made.

The laser beam that hit the first Libyan MiG-23 fighter was akin to a blowtorch against a stick of butter-the fighter's fuselage was not merely melted, but vaporized at the same instant. The beam focused on the fattest section of the aircraft-the fuselage between the wings, containing the midbody fuel tank, the fighter's largest fuel tank. The superheated metal ignited the three thousand gallons of vaporized jet fuel in the blink of an eye, creating a fireball over a mile in diameter that swallowed the fighter and sent burning clouds of fire spreading across the night sky like a man-made aurora borealis. The explosion was plainly visible from over one hundred and fifty miles away.

"Lost contact," Lindsey said matter-of-factly, still monitoring the laser engagement on her supercockpit display.

"My God," Bud Franken gasped, dropping his mask in surprise. "We did it. We nailed it." He had to pull himself back into the present-he was astonished, thinking of the power of this incredible weapon. They were over sixty miles away from the target. In one instant, the image of the MiG-23 fighter, magnified by the laser's telescope and deformable mirror, was sharp and clear-the next instant it was gone, lost in a ball of superheated gas. There was almost no debris-nothing except a wave of fire quickly dissipating in the sky. "Let's tag that last fighter."

"Attack target Dragon," Lindsey repeated, touching the screen again. Seconds later the second MiG disappeared from their screens as well.

"Zero, this is Bud, splash two fighters," Franken said. "Your tail is clear. Clear to head to the rendezvous point. We can cover you almost until you reach Israeli airspace."

As they watched the EB-52 retreat to the northeast, to rendezvous with the DC-10 tanker for its refueling anchor, Reeves also monitored another aircraft-this one a small, slow one, flying at barely treetop level, across the sands toward southeast Tripoli. This aircraft was datalinking its threat receiver information to the AL-52 Dragon, and now a pop-up threat displayed itself on Lindsey's supercockpit display. "The MV-22 has got an SA-10 at his twelve o'clock, thirty miles," Franken said. "His signal is pretty strong-he'll get within detection threshold in less than five miles." On the command channel, he radioed, "Motorboat, this is Dragon, you've got a threat ahead that's locking on you. Reverse course."

"Can you tag him, Dragon?" the pilot of the MV-22 Pave Hammer tilt-rotor aircraft asked.

"Stand by," Franken replied. He turned to his young mission commander. "Can you get him, Linds?"

"I'm slaving on him now," Reeves said. She slaved the laser's telescope to the threat location datalinked from the MV-22. "I got the command vehicle," she said happily. She moved the target cursor from the radar dish itself to the command cab, located on the back of the same vehicle. "Let's see what happens-"

But before she could commit, their threat receiver changed from a "SEARCH" warning to a "LOCK" warning and instantly to a "MISSILE LAUNCH" warning. "SA-10 in the air!" Reeves shouted.

"Reverse course, Motorboat," Franken said. "Full countermeasures." To Reeves he said, "Nab that sucker, Linds!"

Lindsey Reeves had already switched from slaving mode to the laser radar, and the system instantly picked up the two incoming SA-10 missiles. "Got the SAMs," she said. "Attack SA-10 missiles Dragon."

"Warning, plasma generator number three not ready," the computer spoke.

"What does that mean, 'not ready'?" Franken asked.

"We've gotten several warning messages from about a dozen different components of the laser," Reeves Said, "but I've bypassed them all. I think the plasma generator vessels are becoming too hot, both from the heat of the fusion reaction and the stray radiation leakage impregnating the aluminum. The magnetic fields can't contain all the particles, and it weakens the reactor vessel."

Franken checked the supercockpit display. "We've got no choice now, Linds," he said. "If a reactor fails, we jettison it and we're done for the day."

"I agree," Reeves said. To the computer she said, "Deactivate generator number three, reset warning, and attack Dragon."

"Laser commit, stop attack," the computer replied. "Caution, plasma generator number one overtemp, stop attack." Computer cautions did not require an override: Lindsey simply remained silent, and the computer processed the attack. Seconds later both SA-10 missiles were destroyed, and Reeves turned her attention back to the saved set of coordinates for the SA-10 command vehicle. "C'mon, baby," she said. "Show me what you got."

The laser radar system couldn't fully compensate for the massive atmospheric distortion caused by shooting down through the atmosphere-but this time, it didn't need to. The plasma laser beam could only focus down to two feet in diameter-but with over two megawatts' worth of power, it was enough. The laser instantly burned through the dielectric fiberglass panel covering the face of the phased array radar, melted several hundred emitter arrays underneath, then burned clear through the thin metal radar structure. The beam stayed on target long enough to weaken the steel supporting the radar, and the radar collapsed backward against the command cab, knocking the entire unit out of commission.

"Oh, man," Lindsey gasped. "The radar's down… I mean, it's down, on top of the command cab. We just destroyed a ground vehicle with a laser fired from an airplane."

As the MV-22 continued toward its objective-the presidential palace in Tripoli-the AL-52 Dragon moved farther west until it was in a patrol orbit north of Tripoli. There were fighters everywhere, but Lindsey dared not use the laser to shoot at any of them-she had no idea what it would do. She could do nothing but stay in orbit, watch the last aircraft in their attack formation make its way in to the target, and wait.

But minutes later, just as the MV-22 had lined up for its final few miles to its objective, Lindsey expanded her supercockpit display and took another laser radar snapshot. "I've got a formation of two enemy aircraft, MiG-25s, twelve o'clock, thirty miles from Motorboat and closing, descending, speed eight hundred forty knots," Lindsey reported. "I've got a second formation of aircraft right behind them-my God, they're MiG-29s, four MiG-29s. I'm not sure if the laser will get them all."

"Bud, can you keep these guys off us until we make it to the infil point?"

"I'd bug out if I were you," Franken responded. "We're getting continuous faults on the laser, and we've already lost one generator."

"Give us thirty seconds and we'll be outta here," the pilot of the MV-22 aircraft said. "Keep 'em off us for as long as you can."

"No promises, boys," Franken said. To Lindsey Reeves: "What's it look like, Linds?"

"Pretty bad-we should be bugging out of here ourselves," Reeves replied. "I'm getting overtemp warnings on the plasma generators even though the system isn't powered on, and I think the heat is affecting the magnetron that channels the plasma field into the laser generators. If the magnetic field's not strong enough, and the plasma field touches the inertial confinement chamber before the reaction stops-we'll be turned into Stardust in a millisecond."

"Roger that," Franken replied. On the command channel: "Sorry, boys, but I suggest you bug out now-we'll use the last bit of juice we have left in the laser to cover your retreat."

'Twenty seconds, Dragon. Fifteen."

"Lindsey…"

"We're pushing it, Bud-but okay." She touched the icons for the MiG-25 fighters, then spoke: "Attack commit Dragon."

"Warning, overtemp on plasma generator number one… caution, magnetron voltage approaching tolerance limit… caution, overtemp on plasma generator number two."

"Override overtemp warning and attack."

"Warning, magnetron voltage at tolerance…"

Franken looked over at his young mission commander. No sign of airsickness this time-she was all business, steady and focused. "Override all magnetron warnings and attack," Lindsey said.

"Warning, plasma containment-"

"Override all warnings and attack!" Lindsey shouted.

"Attack commit Dragon, MiG-25, stop attack."

Suddenly there was a deep, high-pitched vibration coming from the back of the AL-52 Dragon, so great that Franken had to take a firmer grip on the control stick. He was about to order her to stop the laser from firing, but at that moment she announced, "MiG one destroyed." But the vibration didn't stop-in fact, it was getting worse.

"Lindsey-"

"Attack commit Dragon," she announced.

"Warning-"

"Override all warnings and attack," she ordered.

"Lindsey-"

"Attack commit Dragon, stop attack," the computer warned.

The vibration was getting worse-finally, Lindsey was starting to notice it. "What is that?" she asked.

"Eject," Franken said flatly.

"What?"

"I said eject!" Franken shouted.

"I'm getting this second MiG," Lindsey said.

"No!" Franken shouted. But at that moment the laser fired, and the second MiG-25 bearing down on the MV-22 disappeared in a cloud of fire.

The vibration was louder and harder now, so hard that Franken had trouble taking a normal breath. He had to force the air out of his lungs to scream, "Eject! Eject! Eject!"

All aircrew personnel at Sky Masters Inc. had extensive training in aircrew survival, including twice-a-year ejection seat qualification. Lindsey Reeves was not prior military, like John Franken, but she had been so thoroughly indoctrinated by Patrick McLanahan and his staff that every flying scientist was as thoroughly familiar with aircrew survival procedures as their military counterparts.

She did hesitate when he said it once-every crew member has a moment of disbelief when they hear that word. But the real command to eject was the word "Eject" three times. So when Franken gave the proper command to eject, Lindsey Reeves didn't hesitate again. She sat back in her seat, pressed her head, back, and butt as deeply into the seat as she could, jammed her heels back, kept her elbows in tight, tucked her chin down, rotated the ejection handles upward, and squeezed the exposed triggers. Her overhead hatch ripped away, and the seat disappeared in a cloud of gray-blue smoke that disappeared in the sudden vacuum as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a cold fog and an impossibly loud roar of wind.

"Hope you make it okay, kiddo," Franken said into his oxygen mask. He entered some commands into the attack computer-a complete system data dump, sending the entire mission's worth of stored system information to a satellite, where the engineers at Sky Masters Inc. could retrieve and analyze it. That was something Lindsey would do, if he had given her a chance to do it. She turned out to be a pretty good crewdog, Franken decided-she overcame her fear and nearly debilitating airsickness enough to take an untested warplane into combat halfway around the world. Amazing. The least he could do for her is to make sure that everything she worked and sacrificed so long and hard to build survived.

There were dozens of warning and caution indications on the instrument panel, but Franken no longer cared. He turned the AL-52 Megafortress north, toward the-pncoming MiG-29 fighters. At this closure rate-the MiGs were flying at almost twice the speed of sound to catch the MV-22-he would catch them in no time.

Sure enough, Franken could actually see two bright flashes of light, then two more, as the lead MiGs fired airto-air missiles. He saw the four streaks of fire arc across the sky-but suddenly the sky seemed to brighten, as if dawn was approaching, but at ten times the normal speed. The dawn then seemed to turn silvery and warm.

The Dragon, the four missiles, and then all four MiG-29 interceptors disappeared in an uncontrolled plasma field that had formed, expanded to nearly ten miles in diameter, engulfed its prey in a cloud of free electrons and ions, and then disappeared without a trace-all in the space of a few millionths of a second.

Bud, this is Zero. Is our tail clear? We're losing our electronic countermeasures system. What's your status?" No reply. "Where are they, Gonzo?"

"No sign of 'em," Wickland replied.

"What?" Tanaka switched one of his multifunction displays to the LADAR tactical view. There were no aircraft at all within fifty miles. "Oh shit, they're gone. All of them-the fighters and the Dragon. They must've taken each other out."

'They're deadT Both men fell silent. Then Wickland checked his display again. "Holy shit-a target in the air, but almost hovering. I'm getting another LADAR shot." Wickland activated the laser radar again, then magnified the new target. Neither of them could believe their eyes-it was the first time they had ever seen something like this on a laser radar display. "My God, it's a parachute! Someone in a parachute! I can't believe it! What do we do? What can we do?"

"We turn around and follow it down, then hope there are some friendlies we can send into the area in case it's one of ours," Tanaka said. "I have a feeling it's one of our guysjudging by how slow it's going down, I'll bet it's Lindsey Reeves. At this rate, she'll be falling all night. My God, I wonder what went wrong…."

"Twenty right," Hal Briggs said. The pilot of the MV-22 Pave Hammer tilt-rotor assault aircraft banked in response. Briggs was studying the data display on the electronic visor of his Tin Man battle armor's helmet, watching the range and bearing of his objective countdown as they flew closer. They had followed the clear path of destruction created by the second Megafortress and had zoomed in at treetop level right to the Presidential Palace, virtually unmolested. "Five more right… hold it. Range point four hundred meters… three hundred… steady at three hundred… steady at three hundred."

"Matches range to the rooftop," the copilot reported, checking the range straight ahead displayed on his targeting visor. After checking the range, he switched his targeting visor to slave the chin turret and infrared sensor and used the twenty-millimeter Galling gun in the turret to force down any small-arms fire from security units on the roof he could see.

"Make a couple holes," Briggs said. "Night Stalkers, stand by."

The pilot activated his weapons panel and selected "HELLFIRE." Two weapons pods unstowed themselves from the left and right landing gear sponsons. He activated the missiles and squeezed a trigger. One Hellfire laserguided missile from each weapon pod shot out from its canister, and together the missiles and their twenty-pound penetrating warheads blew a large hole in the roof of the Presidential Palace. The pilot swung the MV-22's nose to the right, and he made a second hole about fifty feet from the first with two more missiles. -

The MV-22 came in fast, then swung quickly to a low hover over the first smoking hole they had just created. Door gunners suppressed machine-gun fire from more rooftop security guards while the rear cargo ramp of the tilt-rotor motored down, and eight men in dark gray electronic battle armor, composite microhydraulic exoskeletons, and electromagnetic rail guns marched from the belly of the tilt-rotor aircraft.

One of the commandos felt bullets ricochet off his armor and instinctively dropped down and tried to take cover. "Don't try to cover from small-arms fire unless your power drops below twenty percent," Hal Briggs radioed over their secure commlink. "And don't waste projectiles on infantry, or doors and walls your sensors can see through. We do different tactics here, gents: You work alone, you work quickly, and you let the armor defend you and feed you information. Follow the position signals, check every room. Let's move out."

"I'm getting a power-level warning," one of the commandos said. "It's reading twenty percent already."

"You have a bad power pack," Briggs said. "Withdraw, change packs, follow us down once it checks out. Move out." The one commando went back inside the MV-22, where technicians in protective armor quickly helped the commando out of his exoskeleton. Meanwhile, the other Tin Man commandos split up into two groups and dropped through the holes in the roof to the floors below.

Hal Briggs led the first group of four. Holding his rail gun on his left hip, anchored to his exoskeleton, he walked quickly without running through the corridors of the Libyan Presidential Palace; the others split up, taking different corridors. Terrified workers and other persons, presumably relatives or other staffers, ran past him, some running headlong into him. He ignored everyone he didn't recognize. Hal used his ultrawide bandwidth sensor to peer through walls and doors, and anytime he saw someone inside, he kicked the door open to see who it was. But he kept on moving, sometimes simply walking right through a wall or door to get inside an adjacent room.

"It's hard to take stairs with this exoskeleton," one of the commandos radioed.

"Don't bother with stairs," Hal responded. When he reached the end of the hallway, he simply turned, tossed an explosive charge onto the floor, blew a hole in the floor, and jumped through.

Once they finished the top floor, the other floors went more quickly. On the ground floor, Hal had to contend with massed Republican Guard soldiers, now with heavier machine guns and grenade launchers. The battle armor's electric shock system took care of any close-in security he encountered; he had to fire one hypersonic projectile at the security booth just inside the front palace entry, where Republican Guards had set up a twenty-millimeter Gatling gun. One Tin Man had to jet-jump outside and retreat back to the roof after taking nearly two thousand rounds from the cannon before Briggs put it out of commission. Briggs left one Tin Man on the ground floor to watch for any heavy security responses, while the rest started down to the subfloors.

The entire search of the above-ground floors took them less than two minutes.

Now that the assault was on, they moved faster through the subfloors, following the location signal. They came across interrogation rooms, zapped anyone inside carrying weapons, and released all others. Chris Wohl found an infirmary, and next door was a makeshift autopsy room and morgue. "I found two of our guys in the morgue," Chris radioed. "Looks like both of them have been tortured to death." His voice started to tremble with rage. "I'm going to kill someone for this." He zipped both corpses into their black body bags and carried them to the roof.

"I found survivors," another of the commandos reported. "I'm bringing them out." Within minutes, eleven more Night Stalkers were on board the Pave Hammer tilt-rotor, all of them injured from torture and near-starvation but all still alive.

Briggs and two other commandos had just moveH to the bottom subfloor when Briggs heard one of the lookouts say, "We've got trouble, One. Heavy armor on the way in. We're engaging, but we're running out of time."

"We'll be finished searching the building in three minutes," Briggs responded.

"No good, sir," Chris Wohl interjected. "We're going to be surrounded in one minute. The Pave Hammer is too vulnerable. Make your way upstairs."

"We can't leave without Patrick and Wendy."

"Sir, we'll be walking out of Libya if we're not airborne in sixty seconds."

"Then get airborne."

"Negative, sir. Everyone gets on board. I've stopped picking up life signs from the general."

"That's an order, Master Sergeant." Briggs sent the last two commandos upstairs to get on the MV-22. 'Two more on the way. I'm staying until I find the McLanahans."

Briggs hurried toward the source of the location signal-and he was horrified at what he found. There, a desktop was covered with blood-and moments later he found Patrick's microtransceiver, tossed into a corner.

"I found the transceiver-minus the general," Briggs reported solemnly. He did another sweep of the area-no sign of him. "I'm coming up."

Ivana Vasilyeva waited until the loud, rhythmic beat of the heavy rotors far above her subsided, then crawled out of her hiding place in the steel-lined weapons locker in an isolated corner of the room. She checked that her submachine gun was cocked and ready, then carefully searched the hallway outside the small armory. All clear. She then returned to the locker and grabbed a woman by the back of her neck, pinning her left arm behind her to steer her out of the room.

"Well, that wasn't much of an assault," Vasilyeva said to the woman in English. "It appears your friends have left already, before their work was done."

"They'll be back," Wendy McLanahan said. "Count on it."

"But we will be long gone by then, Dr. McLanahan,"

Vasilyeva said. "I am sorry we did not meet up with your husband. But I do not think he would like how you have been keeping yourself." Wendy's face was badly beaten; one eye was swollen shut and bleeding; her nose was broken in several places-and she had trouble breathing because of cracked ribs, a partially deflated lung, and a torn abdominal diaphragm. Blood had been oozing out of several orifices and wounds for many days, making her look pale and ethereal.

"I think he'll understand. Besides, I'll get better-you and your friends will just get dead."

"You'll be alive long enough for us to lure your husband to us, and then you'll both be dead, at Comrade Kazakov's hands."

"Pavel Kazakov." Wendy chuckled. 'The only thing worse than being his whore or his drug pusher is his assassin."

Vasilyeva twisted Wendy's arm higher up her back, causing her to cry out in pain. "Pain must be something you enjoy, Dr. McLanahan."

"Am I turning you on, bitch?"

"Shut up and move," Vasilyeva said. "We have a boat waiting for us in the harbor. A short ride to Zuwarah, a plane ride across the Sahara to Algeria, and then another private jet to meet Comrade Kazakov. Then we set a trap for your-"

They heard a loud scream behind them. Vasilyeva turned just as a body came flying at her, pinning himself against her submachine gun and pulling it out of her hands. The gun went spinning across the hallway. Wendy twisted away. Vasilyeva struggled to her feet, madly searching for her weapon-and then saw him. "There… you… are, General McLanahan," she cooed softly.

Patrick stood between her and the weapon. He still wore the handcuffs, waist chain, and manacles; his left shoulder was an ugly mass of blood from where Zuwayy's men had roughly cut the microtransceiver out of his body. He backed up, looking for the weapon with his feet in the semidarkness of the hallway.

"Wendy?"

"Patrick!" she cried.

"Get out of here," he said. "Go back. Get away from here."

Vasilyeva reached back, grabbed Wendy by the hair, and pulled her up to her feet. "Is this who you came for, General? I would not have wasted my time." Patrick quickly searched for the gun around his feet. Vasilyeva pulled Wendy to her, wrapped her left arm around Wendy's neck, and applied pressure with her right hand. "Do not move, or I will snap her neck," Vasilyeva warned.

"Let her go."

"Kharasho," Vasilyeva said. "It is you I want anyway." And in the blink of an eye, the former Russian officer withdrew a knife from her belt and drew it quickly across Wendy's throat. Wendy's eyes rolled up inside her head, and Vasilyev let her drop to the floor.

"No!" Patrick shouted. "You bitch! You murderer]"

"It was you Comrade Kazakov wanted all the time," Vasilyeva said, advancing on Patrick with the bloodied knife at the ready. "But where is this Tin Man armor he spoke of? No matter. Comrade Kazakov only desires you dead. I think I shall bring him a finger-that should be proof enough."

Patrick's bulging eyes shifted rapidly from his wife's inert form to his attacker. He backed away a few stepsthat only made the Russian smile. Patrick raised his hands. "Cut these handcuffs off and let's make it a fair fight."

"I do not wish a fair fight," Vasilyeva said. "Comrade Kazakov only wanted you dead, not for me to give you a fair fight." In the blink of an eye she was on him, and before he knew it her blade had sliced once across his right arm and once across his chest. She smiled evilly. "But he did not say it could not be slow and agonizing for you." Patrick tried to back away, but he tripped and fell straight back. He tried to get back on his feet, but with his hands cuffed in front of him and his feet manacled, he was helpless. "I think," Vasilyeva said, her teeth shining as she smiled at him, "that you should have matching cuts across your throats. Do you not think it would be fitting, General?"

A shot rang out and a bullet ricocheted off the wall. Vasilyeva turned and saw Wendy McLanahan, her torso a hideous blouse of dark red, not fifteen feet from her, leveling the submachine gun at her. "Very impressive, Comrade Doctor-to the very last," Vasilyeva said. She spun the knife around until she was holding the blade, then threw it. The blade sunk into Wendy's chest, and she toppled over backward. "How very touching. You must be proud, Gen-"

She never got to finish her sentence. Patrick had gotten to his feet, kicked the back of her knees to send her down, then jumped up, wrapped the chain connecting his ankle manacles around Vasilyeva's neck, and rolled around to twist it tight. He rolled several more times until the chain was tight, then locked his feet together.

Vasilyeva was a fierce, powerful woman. She was able to struggle to her feet, actually pulling Patrick's body up as she fought to free herself. The Russian clubbed his legs, swung at his groin, and snarled like a wild animal. She started to swing his body around, jumping up and down wildly in an effort to loosen his legs. He hit the walls several times and saw stars. With Patrick stunned, this time she was able to pin his legs back and land on top of him, the chain still wrapped around her neck, her face a contorted mask of pain and rage, with blood vessels breaking all over her face, making it appear as if she were wearing some sort of primitive war mask. She punched his groin, his legs, his chest, and his face, trying desperately to get him to release his grip.

Patrick was bent over in two so far by her weight that he found he was able to grab her head with his hands, tangling his fingers in her hair to help his grip. Using all his strength, he pushed with his legs. Now both of their faces were hideous contortions of pain. They both screamed in unison, loud, furious screams-until suddenly tflere was a loud snap! Ivana Vasilyeva's eyes rolled sideways, her bloated dark red tongue unreeled itself from her mouth, and her body went totally limp.

Patrick lay on the floor for what seemed like a long time before untangling himself from the dead Russian, then crawled over to his wife. He carefully removed the knife from her chest, then held her lifeless body and wept.

He didn't even notice when strong armored mechanical arms lifted him and Wendy up, carried them carefully outside, and placed them in a waiting tilt-rotor aircraft to evacuate them out of Tripoli.

"My brothers and sisters, my fellow Libyans, we have been shamelessly and cowardly attacked by the great Satan, the United States of America," Jadallah Zuwayy intoned. He was sitting in a small, cramped communications center in an underground alternate command post thirty miles south of Tripoli. "Tonight, while you slept peacefully in your beds, the forces of the United States, with help from their stooges the Zionists, launched a brazen sneak attack against the capital of the Kingdom of Libya, attacking the royal palace itself and killing many scores of innocent men, women, and children."

Zuwayy raised his hands as if praying, then slowly curled them into fists. "As Allah, may His name be praised, is my witness, today the people of the Islamic world declare war upon the infidels, the destroyers, the crusaders from across the oceans who attacked our capital," he went on. "May He deliver upon the faithful the strength to crush the enemies of Islam.

"Thanks to the brave efforts of the Republican Guards and the soldiers of the kingdom, I am safe. I will return to the capital and immediately plan the destruction of our enemies. Death to all who oppose us. Death to-"

There was the sound of shattering glass, then the BANG! of a door thrown open. Zuwayy half rose to his feet, looking scared and confused. Men in military dress forced him to his seat again, and two unidentified soldiers stood behind him. Gunshots were heard off-camera-Zuwayy jumped and closed his eyes at each report, expecting it to hit him next. The television viewers then saw Zuwayy's eyes widen in astonishment as a chair was slid beside Zuwayy's and a young man sat down beside the king. He took off his red-lensed goggles, unwrapped his scarf, and took off his helmet…

… and Sayyid Muhammad ibn al-Hasan as-Sanusi, the true king of Libya, smiled at the camera.

"Es salaem alekum, Captain Zuwayy," Sanusi said. He clasped Zuwayy on the shoulder. "Don't you think you should consult the real king of Libya before declaring war?"

"Muhammad? Prince… I mean… King Muhammad… You… you are aliveT He forced himself to smile, then reached out to Sanusi to embrace him. "My brother… you are alive!" He hugged Sanusi, then said to him under his breath, "Play along with me, Sanusi, or we're both dead. I'll see to it that the Republican Guards spare your life."

Sanusi pushed him away. "I am not a ghost, despite all your attempts to turn me into one," Sanusi said. "And you are not my brother. There is a nice prison cell awaiting you, Jadallah. You shall stand trial for the murder of my family, the desecration of my family tombs, for stealing millions from the treasury, and for perpetuating a fraud upon the people of Libya." He motioned toward the door, and Zuwayy was dragged out of sight.

Sanusi turned to the camera and folded his hands before him. "My brothers and sisters, I am sorry for the pain and lies Jadallah Zuwayy has burdened you with for all these years. But even more, I am sorry for the pain and isolation the world has burdened you with since the revolution. Libya has endured much-not only because of the actions of its leaders, but because of the people's search for the truth: the truth of our past, and of our future.

"I am not here to steal your future, like Colonel Qadhafi and Captain Zuwayy have done," Sanusi went on. "I am here because I wanted to expose the fraud, present my evidence of Zuwayy's embezzlement, try to stop the fighting, and so I could return home once more.

"But I only return as a fellow Libyan, not as your monarch, unless that is what you wish," Sanusi said. "I have only a handful of fighters and not much money. Zuwayy commands the Republican Guard, and their loyalty lies with him. I may not live long after I sign off with you tonight. But before I leave, I want to give you some promises. Under the eyes of God and guided by the spirits of my beloved family, I tell you this is the truth:

"The Americans did attack Tripoli tonight, but to liberate it, not to destroy it. Jadallah Zuwayy had planned to destroy the Salimah oil fields, where many thousands of Libyans and fellow Arabs live and work-this after he attacked and killed many thousands of Egyptians with neutron weapons sold to him by Russian black-market arms dealers. Jadallah Zuwayy conspired with Ulama Khalid alKhan of Egypt to assassinate Kamal Ismail Salaam so that the Muslim Brotherhood could set up a theocracy in Egypt; but then Zuwayy killed Khan and many other innocent Egyptians at Mersa Matruh so that he could disrupt the Egyptian government enough to take control of Salimah. I swear by the blood of my father and the memory of my mother that this is true.

"I will never again raise a hand against a fellow Libyan," Sanusi went on. "My men and I have attacked and harassed Zuwayy's troops in the desert long enough. I only want peace. I shall head toward the Great Mosque in Tripoli and pray at the former final resting place of my mother, before Qadhafi removed her body from there and discarded it in the desert. I will order my men not to fight. If you want me to return to Tripoli, if you want me to live, you must take back the streets of the capital from the Republican Guard. Help me to return to our capital, and I promise you, I will help restore our country to its former greatness. If you wish me to do so, I will help bring peace to Libya. Otherwise, I wish to live in Libya as a teacher and engineer and help Libya rebuild. The choice, and the decision, is up to you, my brothers and sisters. Misae el kher. Ma'as salaema."

When Sanusi rose from his seat, every man and woman in the room bowed-not only his men, but the Republican Guards captured there as well. He exited the communications facility and stepped outside into the growing dawn.

Sidi Salih, on the foothills of the Tarhuna Mountains of northwest Libya, was on a slight rise, so Muhammad asSanusi could see north past the wide expanse of desert all the way into Tripoli. The Tripoli International Airport, closed during the conflict, was slightly to the west; but the city itself, and even the Mediterranean Sea, could clearly be seen. It was a beautiful, awe-inspiring sight. He was about to put on his helmet, but he changed his mind, unwrapped the turban from the helmet, then wrapped it around his head. He had had enough of fighting.

But there was a sight even more beautiful than the sunrise over Al-Khums to the east or the view of the ancient city of Tripoli on the Mediterranean-the sight of thousands of cars, trucks, bicycles, and buses roaring south down the highway toward Sidi Salih. At first he thought it might be the Republican Guards; but before long he noticed that none of the flags he saw were the Socialist Arab Republic flags or Zuwayy's bastardized imperial flag, but the old imperial flags with his family crest on them. Those flags had been outlawed since the revolution.

Muhammad Sanusi climbed into his desert vehicle and took his place in the gunner's seat in the back-but then he unbolted the big twenty-three-millimeter machine gun from its pedestal and threw it to the ground. His driver then took him to meet his people so they could welcome him back to his capital, his country-and his true home."