Wings of Fire

PROLOGUE

"This has got to be the most insane idea in the history of aviation," retired Navy commander John "Bud" Franken muttered. "Let it go and let's get this over with."

Retired Air Force brigadier general Patrick McLanahan smiled, then fastened his oxygen visor in place with a snap. "That's the spirit, AC," he said happily. "It only seems insane because no one's ever done it before."

"Yeah, right. Just unzip your pants over there and let's go home."

"Here it comes," Patrick said. He hit a small stud on his computer trackball and spoke: "Deploy array." The computer acknowledged the command, and the attack was under way:

Far behind them, in a fairing between their aircraft's twin V-tails, a small oblong cylinder detached itself from its mounting and began to trail behind the aircraft on a thin carbon-fiber-reinforced fiber-optic cable. The tiny object, soon trailing several hundred feet behind the AL-52, was an ALE-50-towed electronic countermeasures decpy. Just three feet long and six inches in diameter, it was invisible to the Libyan air defense radars that surrounded them at that moment.

The aircraft was a modified B-52 Stratofortress bomber not a U.S. Air Force warplane, but an experimental aircraft modified by Patrick's company, Sky Masters Inc., called an AL-52 Dragon. The warplane he was sitting in was so advanced that even Patrick, who had been involved in its development both in and out of the Air Force for years, was truly amazed. What he was really sitting in, he realized with a mixture of awe and glee, was… the future. "Star Wars" was no longer a Reagan-era pipe dream or the name of a hugely successful science-fiction motion picture series-it was right here, right now. The AL-52 Dragon combined the absolute state-of-the-art in laser technology, high-speed computers, miniaturization, stealth systems, and systems integration to produce the world's first true twenty-first century weapon system, using technology that had never been deployed on an aircraft before.

The airframe itself was based on the EB-52 Megafortress modification of the B-52H Stratofortress bomber, with stealthy composite fibersteel skin and frame, four powerful turbofan engines replacing the original eight turbofans, a Vtail stabilator replacing the big cruciform tail, and an advanced self-protection suite, including radar and infrared jammers, towed arrays, decoys, and Stinger aerial land mines. The original six-person crew had been replaced by enough state-of-the-art computers and artificial intelligence systems that now only two crew members, an aircraft commander and a mission commander, were required to be on board-and, in an extreme emergency, either could bring the plane home alone.

The Megafortress was designed as a stealthy flying battleship, able to penetrate heavily defended targets deep behind enemy lines and employ every air-launched weapon in the American arsenal-and a few that had been dreamed up just for it-with great precision. The Dragon variant of the Megafortress battleship retained the conventional attack capabilities-it could carry up to twelve thousand pounds of ordnance on wing hardpoints, including cruise missiles, air-to-air missiles, and even antisatellite and antimissile weapons. Patrick knew all about the devastating warfighting capabilities of the EB-52 Megafortress-he had spent more than fifteen years of his life working on it. Sky Masters Inc. still flew several versions of the EB-52 for flight test and research purposes, still hoping that the Air Force would someday take the roughly one hundred B-52H Stratofortress bombers in flyable storage out of mothballs and have the company convert them to either EB-52 Megafortresses or AL-52 Dragons.

"Here we go, Bud," Patrick said. To the computer, he said, "Activate array." In an instant, the towed array, which normally was all but invisible to radar, blossomed to the electromagnetic equivalent of a Boeing 747.

That move had its desired and expected effect: All of the Libyan air defense radars, which had just been searching the skies seconds before, almost immediately locked on to the towed decoy. Now instead of peaceful search and air traffic control radars, Patrick's threat scope was suddenly alive with dozens of antiaircraft threats-surface-toair missile sites, antiaircraft artillery, and fighter-intercept radars. "Warning, SA-10 acquisition mode, ten o'clock, twenty miles," the computer responded. "Warning, SA-9 acquisition mode, two o'clock, ten miles…" The warnings kept coming, until: "Warning, missile launch, SA-10, ten o 'clock, nineteen miles.. warning, missile launch, SA-10, ten o'clock, nineteen miles.."-the SA-10 missiles always launched in pairs. "Countermeasures not activated."

"Commit Dragon," Patrick spoke. He had to consciously bring his breathing and voice under control. In all the times he had been on an attack run, this was the first time he did not react when a threat came up. If this didn't work, they'd be dead in fifteen seconds.

"Caution, Dragon activated… caution, Dragon engaging," the computer responded. Patrick watched in fascination as the newest and most sophisticated computer system ever placed aboard any aircraft automatically began prosecuting the attack and activating the most devastating airborne weapon ever produced: the AL-52 Dragon's LADARs, or laser radar arrays, which electronically scanned hundred of thousands of cubic miles of space in every direction thirty times per second, tracked the Soviet-made SA-10 missile with millimeter precision. At the same time the LADAR also instantly measured the dimensions of the rocket, determining where its motor section was. Tracking computers then began measuring the rocket's speed, altitude, and directioneven predicting its probable impact point and relaying the data to friendly forces downrange.

At the same moment, the Dragon itself came to life.

Turbopumps in the belly of the AL-52 Dragon immediately began pressurizing hydrogen peroxide and potassium hydroxide inside a reaction chamber. Chlorine gas and helium from storage tanks in the cargo section of the modified B-52 bomber were then sprayed under pressure into the chamber, forming an energized substance called singlet delta-oxygen. In another reaction chamber, iodine and helium were injected into the substance, which released the high-energy photons from the gas, creating laser light.

At the same time, the AL-52's laser radar locked onto the rocket rising through the atmosphere and immediately began to send target airspeed, altitude, direction, acceleration, and flight path data to targeting computers. The computers immediately fed the data to the gimbaled turret in the nose of the AL-52, and the turret unstowed itself from inside the bomber's nose and turned and swiveled until the laser's telescope and four-foot-diameter mirror were aimed at the rocket. The pilots could feel a slight rumbling under their toes as the huge fifteen-foot-high turret slewed toward the target, but otherwise it did not affect the flight characteristics of the heavy bomber.

When all this information was received, processed, analyzed, and instructions sent-eight seconds after target detection-Patrick received a simple "LASER READY" computerized voice in his headphones. "Cockpit's ready for launch."

"Roger. COIL in attack mode… now."

The attack was purely automatic-there was no big red "FIRE" button anywhere on the plane. The laser radar system instantaneously measured the exact size of the SS-12 rocket and aimed the laser at the rocket motor section, the point of maximum pressure on the missile. The laser radar also provided an atmospheric correction to the laser telescope's deformable mirror to adjust for temperature gradients from the Dragon to the target. Finally, the big COIL, or chlorine-oxygen-iodine laser, fired. A four-foot-diameter beam of high-energy laser light shot from the nose of the AL-52 and was focused by the deformable mirror down to a spot the size of a basketball on the motor section of the first rocket. The beam was completely invisible to the cockpit crew-they could see the mirror turret moving slightly, tracking the target, but nothing else.

Patrick switched the large full-color supercockpit display on the right-side instrument panel to the telescope view. He was now looking right down the barrel of the laser, watching an optical presentation of what the laser attack computer was looking at. The SA-10 missile was clearly visible, tracked and illuminated by the laser radar arrays and focused to razor-sharp clarity by the deformable mirror. The crosshairs in the center of the display were dead on the rear one-third of the missile-the center of the SA-10's rocket motor. Patrick increased the magnification and was even able to read markings on the side of the missile.

As the missile flew higher and higher in the sky, its thermodynamic pressures were building as well-pressure from the force of the engines, pressure from the atmosphere, pressure from gravity, pressure from building speed, and pressure created by the guidance system acting through the rocket's fins and gyros. Finally, the heat from the laser burned through the missile's skin enough that the skin surrounding the motor section couldn't contain the immense internal pressures or structurally hold the outside air pressures, and the missile ripped apart like a rotten banana and exploded.

"Missile destroyed!" Patrick shouted. "We got it!"

The attack computer immediately shifted to the Second SA-10 missile, launched seconds after the first, and the result was just as successful and just as spectacular. "Missile two destroyed! Towed array in standby… laser's ready to shoot again, all threats down. Hot damn!"

Sky Masters Inc. needed a realistic real-world test of its airborne laser technology, so Patrick McLanahan, overseeing the program, thought of the easiest and fastest way to test it out-fly over a country that liked to shoot missiles without warning and see if it worked. Libya filled the bill nicely. Libya had the best military hardware its oil money could buy, and they were notorious for firing on stray aircraft without warning. Plus, most of Libya south of Tripoli was open desert, so there was little risk of anyone being hurt by falling debris or misses-or, if the test didn't work, falling pieces of the AL-52 Dragon.

"Have we had enough, boss?" Franken asked. "I sure have."

"I don't want to hang around here any more than I have to, Bud," Patrick said. "But I'd sure like to wring the laser out a little more." At that moment, both crew members received a warning message on their threat receiver, one of the multifunction displays in the center of the Dragon's instrument panel. "Just got swept by fighter radar," Patrick said. "I think it might be time to head home."

"Good deal," Franken said. He started a slow left turn to the north, mindful of the towed array still extended behind them-they could easily turn quickly enough to wrap themselves up in their own array's cable. "Just keep those puppies off us."

"LADAR coming on," Patrick said. He activated the laser radar for only a few seconds, but the laser radar's power and tight resolution drew an amazingly detailed picture of all air targets within a hundred miles. "We've got a flight of two MiG-29 interceptors, coming from Tripoli," Patrick said. "When you roll out, they'll be at your nine-thirty position, sixty-one miles, high. Heading zero-onezero will put them at your nine o'clock." The pulse-Doppler radar on the MiG-29, another Libyan purchase from the Russians, could not detect a target with a closure rate equal to the aircraft airspeed.

This was not looking good, Patrick noted immediately. "Warning," the female-voiced threat computer reported, "MiG-29 nine o 'clock five-zero miles, flight level threethree-zero, acquisition mode. Warning, trackbreakers are in standby."

"Either this guy is very lucky, or very good," Patrick said. "The leader is coming right in on us. Something's not right." He hit the voice command stud: "System status."

"All monitored systems are functioning normally," the computer said after a slight pause. Then: "Warning, MiG-29 at nine o'clock, forty miles, tracking."

"Oh, shit," Patrick said. 'Trackbreakers coming on." But it was then that he found the problem: "The ECM system faulted-it shut itself down completely." Patrick powered it back up.

"Warning, towed array not in coordinated flight," the computer reported.

"That's what happened," Patrick said. "When we made the turn, it must've knocked the array out of whack and faulted the system. It's been back there spinning away like a great big pinwheel. I'm cutting it loose." But that didn't work. "The array won't jettison. It's totally faulted. I'm going to try an ECM system reset. LADAR coming on. It'll be the only threat warning we have now."

"Warning, MiG-29 at seven o'clock, thirty miles…" But moments later, they heard, "Warning, missile launch detected on radar, nine o 'clock, twenty-six miles. Time to intercept, fifty seconds."

"Break left!" Patrick shouted. Franken shoved the throttles to full military power and yanked the control stick full left, rolling the AL-52 up on its left wing in a tight ninetydegree bank turn-they had to risk flying into their own cable to try to defeat the incoming radar-guided missile. At full bank, he started to apply back pressure to tighten the turn even more, presenting the smallest possible radar cross-section on the MiG-29's radar. He let up on the back pressure when the computer issued a stall warning and started to pull the control stick forward. Meanwhile, Patrick was frantically trying every countermeasures switch he could. "ECM is completely dead-chaff, flares, jammers, everything."

Out the cockpit window, the sight was horrifying. They could clearly see a trail of fire arcing across the sky-the Libyan radar-guided missile, heading right for them. There was no time to turn, no time to try anything, no time to even speak…

The missile dove right at them-then passed just behind them, making a direct hit on the spinning array, missing them by less than three hundred feet. To the two men in the cockpit of the AL-52, it looked as if the missile had been aiming right at the middle of their foreheads.

"Lost… lost contact with the towed array," Patrick said, gasping for breath-he thought he had bought the farm that time. "The missile hit it dead-on."

"Well, that's one way to cut the array loose," Franken said.

Patrick switched his supercockpit display to the tactical view. "These suckers aren't going to get a chance to get another shot off at us," he said.

"Are you going to try to hit the missiles as they come off the rails?"

"I'm not going to let them get off the rails," Patrick said. To the attack computer, he said, "Commit Dragon."

"No TBM targets," the computer responded.

Patrick touched the MiG-29 icon on the supercockpit display and spoke, "Attack target."

"Stinger airmines out of range," the computer responded. The AL-52 Dragon kept the built-in defensive weapons of the EB-52 Megafortress, including the Stinger airmines-small guided missiles fired from a cannon in the tail that created clouds of shrapnel in the path of enemy fighters tail-chasing the bomber. But the airmines could only attack targets within two miles of the bomber in the rear quadrant.

"Designate airborne target as TBM target," Patrick commanded. "Commit Dragon."

"Stand by," the computer responded. It was something never attempted-shooting down an aircraft with the airborne laser. Patrick didn't even know if the programming existed for the attack computer to take a non-TBM, or tactical ballistic missile, target and process a laser attack against it. But he received his answer moments later: The supercockpit display was suddenly filled with the image of the southernmost MiG-29. The laser radar had locked onto the rear one-third of the aircraft, the same spot that it would normally lock onto a missile. "Caution, target velocity data not within limits."

Patrick remembered that the laser attack computer was programmed to lock onto only fast-moving targets, like ballistic missiles-the MiG was flying much more slowly than a rocket. "Override velocity data."

There was another long, nervous pause; then: "Caution, target velocity parameters overridden. Laser ready."

Patrick zoomed the image in until he was looking directly into the cockpit of the Libyan MiG; then he used his trackball and moved the crosshairs to the left side of the fighter, right on the nose of the largest missile he came across-he remembered that MiG-29s usually fired missiles off the right side first. He could see it clearly: a huge R-27 radar-guided on the number-three hardpoint. "Lock onto target and attack laser," he commanded.

"Warning, laser attack, stop attack," the computer said. The Megafortress's antiaircraft attack logic had taken over for the Dragon's anti-ballistic missile attack logic and successfully started treating the chlorine-oxygen-iodine laser as another air-launched weapon. Seconds later, the computer reported, "Laserfiring."

The results were spectacular. Less than three seconds after the "laser firing" warning, the R-27 missile on the MiG-29's hardpoint exploded in a blinding flash of light. The entire left wing of the lead MiG sheared off in the explosion. Patrick expanded the optronic view on the supercockpit display just in time to watch the Libyan pilot eject from his stricken fighter. The laser radar display showed the second MiG peel off sharply to the north.

"We got it!" Patrick crowed. He quickly locked up the second MiG-29. The supercockpit display now showed the diode laser locked onto the center top fuselage section of the second MiG. "Attack target laser," he commanded.

"Attack target laser, stop attack," the computer warned. The second shot took several seconds longer, but soon Patrick could see a stream of smoke trailing from the MiG's fuselage-and then suddenly the fuselage seemed to disintegrate from the inside, with ribbons of flames trailing from several cracks and tears in the upper-fuselage fuel tanks right above the number-one engine. The MiG-29 was into its second flat spin, its left engine burning hotly, before the pilot ejected.

"Wow, that was very cool," Franken exclaimed. "A laser powerful enough to shoot down a MiG-29 fighter. Very cool."

"Let's try the last part of the test," Patrick said. He quickly entered commands into the attack computer. It had stored information on the launch point of the SA-10 missile they had shot down, computed from tracking information by the laser radar arrays. Patrick slaved the laser telescope to the launch point coordinates, starting with a wide image. There, on the multifunction supercockpit display, he saw the entire SA-10 "Grumble" surface-to-air missile battery-the mobile engagement radar, the command post and low-altitude radar vehicle, a reload vehicle, and the four-round transportererector-launcher vehicle. Two rounds had obviously been fired from that vehicle. Patrick focused the telescope until the crosshairs were centered on one of the still-loaded launch tubes. The image was not as clear as the others were-the image was out of focus and wavered. Obviously it was harder for the adaptive optics to focus the image while shooting down through the atmosphere than it was to shoot across or up.

"C'mon, baby, let's see what you can do," Patrick said. He hit his voice command button: "Attack target," he ordered.

"Attack command received, stop attack," the computer responded.

"Commit Dragon."

"Laser commit.. laser engaging."

But the results were not quite as pleasing this time. The crosshairs were dead on the target, and the diode laser was firing at full power, but the target remained. Patrick left it on for a full ten seconds before terminating. "Didn't blow the launch tube. Not enough power to shoot down through the atmosphere at this range."

"Please don't suggest we get any closer."

"Don't worry-I think we're close enough. But we've got to figure out a way to pump more power into the system."

"You're disappointed because your big laser couldn't slice, dice, and julienne every target? Too bad, sir," Franken joked. "Can we terminate the test and go home now before they empty those last two missiles on us?"

"You got it, AC. Test terminated," Patrick said after a sigh of relief. He quickly punched up the initial point of the air refueling anchor into the navigation computer, then replotted the flight path to take them well clear of Libyan airspace. "Center up and let's go home."

Al-Azhar Mosque and University was the oldest university in the world, a solemn and beautiful place in the Islamic section of Cairo. Muslim students from all over the world came here to study the Quran and listen to the world's most noted authorities on Islam. All Egyptian clerics had to study here, some as long as fifteen years, in the traditional Socratic method-a tutor and his pupils, asking and answering questions until both were satisfied that it was time to progress to the next lesson.

The three-acre compound was a mixture of early Islamic, Mamluk, and Turkish architecture, representing the dynamic history of the place. Al-Azhar was also the focal point of international celebrations of the birth of the Prophet Muhammad in late June. Islamic scholars and leaders from all over the world assembled here to an all-night mulid, or prayer festival, to tell stories, make speeches, teach, and pray.

The guests were assembled in the Madrasa and Tomb of Amir Atbugha, a grand hall inside the Gates of the Barbers that housed the university's collection of ancient manuscripts. Guest were served shai and ahwa-no alcohol at all, not even for foreigners-and a luscious assortment of mezze appetizers while they talked of politics, religion, and Muslim life, viewed the rare manuscripts, and waited for the festivities to begin.

The chief of the general staff of the United Kingdom of Libya, General Tahir Fazani, had waited a discreet distance apart from the heads of state. This was a time of worship and reflection, not state business, so he would not be permitted to address his president first. Fazani simply choked down his impatience, stayed in the shadows, appeared as if he was praying or simply observing a moment of silence, and waited for his president to come to him. Fazani came from a long line of career military officers, but he had spent most of the last twenty years in Russia, Syria, and China studying military technology and modern warfighting-and staying out of the grasp of the previous Libyan dictator, Colonel Muammar Qadhafi. He was an expert political survivor-he knew when to make his voice heard and when to blend into the shadows, like now.

The new president of the United Kingdom of Libya, Jadallah Salem Zuwayy, sauntered over to Fazani, barely acknowledging his presence, only casting enough of a glance in his direction to order him to follow. Zuwayy was a tall, light-skinned man in his late thirties, with dark eyes, a thin mustache, and a dark beard that grew to a satanic point to the base of his long, thin throat. He was a former army officer who reportedly engineered the military coup that overthrew Qadhafi. Like Qadhafi before him, Zuwayy liked to wear different outfits depending on the occasion and his audience: Today he wore traditional Bedouin garb, rich-looking silks and muslins, bordering on opulent. Most times, Zuwayy was in desert-style battle dress uniform, often wearing tanker's boots and carrying a variety of weapons, from antique, ornate curved cavalry swords to live grenades.

"What is it, Fazani?" Zuwayy asked sternly.

"He wants an update on the deployment," the chief of staff replied. He then held out a secure cellular telephone.

Zuwayy felt like telling Fazani to throw the phone into the garbage-but he dared not. The man on the other end of that secure connection had very long fingers-more like very long claws. "Everything is ready?" the tall, thin, ethereal cleric asked in a low, monotone, disembodied voice.

"Yes, Highness," Fazani reported. "Just yesterday. All units are in full readiness." He handed the cellular phone to Zuwayy and bowed.

Zuwayy smiled, then touched a preselected code on the phone's keypad. "You'd better have some good news for me, Zuwayy," a voice said angrily. "You've been dodging me long enough."

"All is in readiness," Zuwayy said. "My troops are in place, and the units are ready."

"It took you long enough, Zuwayy," the voice on the other end of the phone warned. "They should have been in place days ago."

"Come here and try dragging those things across the desert yourself, my friend," Zuwayy said. "You will see how easy it is."

"I gave you plenty of time and money to set those units up, Zuwayy," the voice said. His foreign accent was thick, but his meaning was all too clear. "You had better not screw this up, or the first casualty in this war will be you." And the call was abruptly terminated.

Zuwayy did not disguise a look of utter contempt on his face as he handed the phone back to Fazani. "I look forward to meeting him in person," Zuwayy muttered. "I should like to see how black his heart really is." He erased the scowl on his face, replacing it with a serene smile, as he noticed an entourage heading toward him. "Now I must suffer this lackey."

"Peace be upon you, Mr. President," the host of this celebration said warmly. President Kamal Ismail Salaam was the fourth elected Egyptian president since the Nasserite revolution in 1952. Tall, slender, and energetic, appearing more Italian than African, Salaam was the minister of finance under former president Muhammad Hosni Mubarak and leader of the National Democratic Party upon Mubarak's retirement from politics. Like Mubarak, Salaam was a military veteran, serving as the commander in chief of the Egyptian Air Defense Force Command.

"Es salaem alekum! Peace upon you, brother!" Zuwayy said loudly so the whole room could hear, spreading his hands far apart as if to embrace his host even from across the room. He stepped quickly across the richly carpeted floor toward his host. Walking the requisite three paces behind him was the Libyan Secretary of Arab Unity-the closest Libya came to a foreign minister-Juma Mahmud Hijazi.

Two of President Zuwayy's bodyguards quickly stepped up to President Salaam and stared at his hands and those of the others around him, looking for drawn weapons. It was a little irritating, but Salaam let the feeling go. The hall here at the Al-Azhar Mosque in Cairo, Egypt, was filled with dignitaries, diplomats, and celebrities from all over the world, here to celebrate the Prophet Muhammad's birthday. There was a lot of security in the place alreadytwo Egyptian soldiers inside and outside every doorway, along with a dozen Presidential Guard snipers watching from catwalks overhead-but Zuwayy was the only one to bring his own bodyguards into the great hall.

Salaam clasped Zuwayy's shoulders and embraced him in a traditional Arab greeting. "Ahlan wa sahlan. Tasharrafha! Hello and welcome. We are pleased and grateful by your presence, Mr. President." This was the first time meeting the new leader of neighboring Libya, and it was about what he expected, given Zuwayy's reputation. Zuwayy's lips turned tense and hard, and his hands disappeared perturbedly inside the billowing cuffs of his ornate silk robes.

Zuwayy's Minister of Arab Unity — looked positively horrified. "Pardon me, Mr. President," Secretary Hijazi said in a low but stern voice, "but my lord prefers to be addressed as 'His Royal Highness' or as 'King Idris the Second.' I am sure my office made the proper notifications to your office in a timely manner. And touching his highness without his permission is absolutely forbidden."

"Of course," Salaam replied. "Yes, I was so notified." He bowed to Zuwayy. "My apologies, Highness."

It was a joke, of course-everyone knew it. Jadallah Zuwayy claimed to be a descendant of the sheikhs of the al-Sanusi dynasty, the tribe of powerful desert nomads that united the three kingdoms of Tripolitania, Cyrenaica, and Fezzan under Islam during the Turkish occupation and formed the kingdom of Libya. It was Muammar Qadhafi, after oil was discovered in Libya, who led a military coup that overthrew King Idris al-Sanusi in 1969 and formed a military dictatorship; the al-Sanusi sheikhs were driven underground by Qadhafi's death squads and formed the Sanusi Brotherhood, a monarchist insurgency group. Now Zuwayy claimed to avenge his family's honor by taking the country back from Qadhafi in the name of the Sanusi Brotherhood.

His claims were utterly baseless. Born and raised in Tripoli, the son of an oil executive and housewife, Zuwayy was an ex-army officer who had been serving in relative obscurity as an infantry-training officer, specializing in demolition, breeching, and minelaying. It was widely suspected, though never confirmed, that Zuwayy joined the Libyan Islamic Fighting Group, an extension of the Mujahadeen-ultranationalist rebel groups spread out across the Middle East and Asia dedicated to the overthrow of existing governments and replacing them with fundamentalist Muslim religious governments. Much of his financial backing came from Mujahadeen organizations in Iran and Sudan collectively known as the Muslim Brotherhood, with whom Zuwayy had formed a close alliance.

He had no royal blood in him, and his family never was part of the al-Sanusi clan, a great nomadic tribe that fought Turks, Italians, and Germans to win freedom for their people. The remnants of the al-Sanusi dynasty were scattered across Africa and the Middle East, fearing the Libyan assassination squads that pursued them under orders from Colonel Qadhafi. Although Zuwayy claimed to restore the monarchy to the al-Sanusi dynasty, his reputation as a ruthless, fanatical sociopath only drove them deeper into hiding. No one in Africa or the Middle East dared challenge his reign. The Western press scoffed at his claims and repeatedly offered much evidence that he was not a Sanusi, but the evidence was largely ignored, especially within Libya itself.

President Salaam stifled a smirk at the aide's remarks about Zuwayy's grandiose title and motioned beside him. "Highness, may I present my wife, Susan Bailey Salaam. Madame, it is my pleasure to introduce His Highness, King Idris the Second, President of the United Islamic Kingdom of Libya."

Susan Salaam stepped forward, curtsied deeply, averted her eyes, and extended her right hand upward. "Welcome to Egypt, my lord. We are honored by your presence."

It was obvious that her husband thought this too much of a show, even for Zuwayy. He was surprised when Zuwayy offered her a very pleased smile, the first he had ever seen or depicted of him. Could this man, could any man, be so vain…? "Please rise, woman," Zuwayy said. "We are privileged to be here on this glorious occasion."

Susan rose-and Zuwayy looked into the most beautiful, most breathtaking, most alluring face he had ever seen. Her head was veiled, as it should be, but the sheen and luster of her deep black hair underneath could not be concealed. She wore no makeup that Zuwayy could detect, but her lips were deep red, her eyes dark and mesmerizing, her cheekbones high, her mouth perfectly formed. Her skin was perfect, light brown with slightly darker cheeks from exposure to sun, almost African. She took one look at the Libyan pretender, and even his rock-hard heart began to melt.

She was not African-Zuwayy knew she was an American, born to southern European emigrants-but this creature was the most beautiful he had ever seen on the planet. She could not be human-she had to be a goddess, or a gift from the loins of Allah himself. He also knew she was much more than just a thing of great beauty. She was once an American air force military officer, rising in the ranks from a lowly security police officer to deputy chief in charge of intelligence for the U.S. Central Command. During the War for the Liberation of Kuwait, what the rest of the world called the Persian Gulf War of 1991, she acted as an intelligence liaison to the Egyptian military, which is how she and Kamal met. Zuwayy had been told that she was a woman of many talents: She could pilot a jet airliner, drive a main battle tank, fire a rifle, and argue both common and Shari'a law in any courtroom in the world in four languages.

Susan Salaam quickly averted her eyes again, not daring-properly-to gaze into the eyes of another man, as was proper Islamic custom. Zuwayy had to force his own eyes from her, realizing-then not caring-that he had let them linger on her too long. She must be a gift from God, Zuwayy told himself again..

… a gift for a man blessed enough to have such high favor of Allah. And Salaam was not, could not, be that man. "It is a pleasure to meet you, my child," Zuwayy said finally, fighting to control his breathing. He did not use the more formal address for a married woman, ya sayyida, but instead the more intimate expression dahab.

"Thank you, Your Highness," Susan said, again letting those beautiful eyes flash up toward his. "May the blessings of the Prophet, praise his holy name, be upon you and all of us today."

"Insha'allah." He had to tear himself away from looking at her, so instead concentrated on her husband, looking Kamal Ismail Salaam up and down disapprovingly. Salaam was wearing a simple white and blue traditional headdress, but was otherwise dressed in a conservative gray doublebreasted Western-style business suit, with a single gold chain around his neck. "You do not appear to be prepared for prayer, brother."

"I have been asked to give a few remarks to our guests before the prayers of celebration begin, Highness alaam replied. "My duties require that I be elsewhere during the prayers of celebration." He motioned to his left. "The chancellor of Al-Azhar University and chief justice of the Arab Republic of Egypt's Supreme Judicial Council, Ulama Khalid al-Khan, will lead the prayer celebration in my place."

Khalid al-Khan bowed deeply to Zuwayy, then took the Libyan's extended hand and touched it tenderly to both cheeks. Al-Khan was in his late forties, a fundamentalist Sunni Muslim cleric who led the fight in 1980 as a firebrand-some said fanatic-to make the Shari'a, the Islamic legal code, the basis of Egyptian law; before that, the law had been a mishmash of English common law and even Napoleonic code, with a healthy dose of Turkish law thrown in to confuse everyone. The highest-ranking cleric in Egypt, al-Khan was an advocate of an even greater role of fundamentalist Islamic rule in Egypt and was very vocal in his opposition to both the Mubarak and Salaam governments. Al-Khan was dressed similarly to Zuwayy, with traditional Arab robes and turban.

"Majesty, it is an honor to meet you," al-Khan breathed. "May the blessings of the Prophet be upon you forever and always."

"And to you, my son," Zuwayy replied. He looked aghast at Salaam as if to say, "That is how you pay proper respect to your superior." "The Prophet of course allows the faithful to pray anywhere," Zuwayy said to Salaam, "but He always looks with extreme favor on those who join together with their brothers in prayer."

"My apologies, Highness," Salaam said.

"I see you prefer to wear the clothing of a mushrikun as well," Zuwayy added. "You have also shaved your beard, of which Allah almighty also disapproves. At least you still observe the adab al-imama" he added, motioning to Salaam's turban, "although it does not appear to be the proper length, as prescribed by His Holiness the Prophet. You shall be instructed as to-"

"Mr. President… er, Highness," Salaam interjected, purposely getting his title wrong just to irk the Libyan, "Allah, praise his name, knows the hearts and minds of all men. I am his servant, and I serve him in my own way."

"The Prophet has told us how we must serve God," Zuwayy responded sternly. "If it is in our power, we must obey. Please do not mock the Prophet or the faithful by telling us that not joining in prayer is a proper way to praise Allah. You must-"

"I'll take that under advisement, Highness," Salaam interrupted again. He bowed to Zuwayy, as did his wife; neither the Libyan nor al-Khan acknowledged his gesture. "If you'll excuse me, I must prepare for my welcoming address. Until this evening." He turned and stepped away before Zuwayy could say anything else.

The two greeted other guests and visitors, but were soon escorted by staff members to the front of the great hall and were quickly instructed on the day's events. "It is not a good idea to anger Zuwayy, Kamal," Susan said to her husband in a low voice. "He commands much respect in North Africa and elsewhere. The fundamentalists love him, and most of his enemies fear him."

"He is a popinjay and a pretender," Salaam said disgustedly. "We all thought Colonel Qadhafi was a ruthless dictator, but Zuwayy is a hundred times worse. I had hoped a real al-Sanusi had taken over the Libyan governmentthen perhaps we'd see peace in our lifetime. Unfortunately, Egypt and most of Europe has to prepare to defend itself against whatever power-mad move he and his Mujahadeen crackpots will come up with." He glanced over his shoulder and noticed al-Khan still speaking with Zuwayy. "Or maybe we should be defending ourselves against the enemy right in our own house."

"Khalid al-Khan may not be one of your staunches! supporters, Kamal," Susan said, "but he represents the loyal opposition."

Salaam smiled, then squeezed his wife's hand tenderly. "My wife, you are one of the most intelligent and thoughtful women I have ever known, on a par with the greatest minds in our great country, but you know so little f power politics," Salaam said. "Ten years in the U.S. Air Force as an intelligence officer is indeed impressive but insignificant experience compared to one year sitting across a People's Assembly chamber arguing with men like Zuwayy and al-Khan. They and other members of the 'loyal opposition' would just as soon throw a punch or an insult as they would squish a fig."

"You think I am really that innocent, Kamal?" Susan asked playfully.

Salaam basked in the unearthly glow of her sly smile. "I would never accuse you of being 'innocent,' my love," he said. "But even scholars and ulamas like Khan have no compunction about going outside the law to get what they want. There is too much at stake for them, both in this world and in the next. They are fanatical-they believe they are on a mission, their actions fully justified and sanctioned by God. The nation, the land, even their homes, means nothing to them compared to what they perceive as the will of Allah. That vision obscures everything." His eyes narrowed, and his grip on his wife's hand tightened. "Always be watchful for the enemy. Trust no one. Question everything."

"All I have to do to learn about the real world is watch you, Kamal," Susan said. "The one thing I trust is your love for your country and your people."

"And my love for you, Sekhmet," Salaam said, using the ancient Egyptian nickname he had given her, which meant "huntress." "My love comes before the people, the country, even before God. Never forget that."

"And my love for you is greater than all of our enemies and evil anywhere in the world," Susan said. "When you think all are against you, I will always be by your side."

"Unfortunately, your place now needs to be behind me," Salaam said, giving his wife a smile when he noticed her exasperated expression. "You may be loved by everyone in Egypt, but you are still expected to walk behind your husband, not beside him, at least on this holy day."

"Of course, my husband," she replied. Susan gave her husband another soft kiss on the side of his lips, then stepped back the required two paces behind and to her husband's left, her hands folded before her, her eyes averted. She knew her place well: Dwelling in a nation torn between the past, the present, and the future, it was best to not give traditionalists like Zuwayy, al-Khan, and their followers any reason to question the loyalty or morals of their country's leaders. A few moments later, the Republican Guard security forces opened the doors of the great hall, indicating that the procession was about to begin.

Past the Gates of Sultan Qayt Bay, a large courtyard with several ornate minarets and qibla prayer walls separated the Madrasa from the main sanctuary, where the speeches and prayer services for President Salaam's guests would take place. The path through the courtyard from the tomb to the sanctuary was lined with soldiers, with clergy and other invited guests pressing against the soldiers to watch the procession.

It was Susan, not Kamal, who noticed two unusual things as they proceeded across the courtyard: First, the soldiers lining the procession route were not Presidential Guards, assigned to the protection of the president, but paramilitary soldiers from a unit she did not recognize; and second, they were facing the procession, their backs to the crowd instead of facing them. She turned to look for the Presidential Guard captain who had been stationed at the door to the Madrasa, but he was nowhere to be seen.

As she looked, her eyes caught those of Jadallah Zuwayy, walking several steps behind her. He nodded reassuringly to her, then glanced at Khalid al-Khan and nodded. Susan turned and looked at al-Khan, noticing the silent signal between the two. What was going on here? Why were they-?

Bedlam suddenly erupted. A soldier shouted something from the Madrasa-someone had been killed? Is that what he shouted? It was hard to tell-his voice was strained with pain or fear. There was purposeful movement in the crowd of onlookers, not a random milling about but a determined surge forward. The soldiers guardingjhe procession line, their backs to the crowd, noticed nothing-even when two men in traditional thawb, sirwal, rida, and turbans burst past them.

"Kamal!" Susan shouted. "Look out!" But suddenly she was grabbed from behind. It was al-Khan. He held her tightly by the arms, pressed her toward him, leered hungrily at her, then shoved her forcefully back toward Zuwayy. The Libyan pretender-king grasped her, then said something in a low, soft voice. "What are you doing, Majesty? What is going on?"

"I said, do not worry, my child," Zuwayy said. "Allah the almighty shall protect all true believers and servants of God."

Susan spun around until she was facing Kamal, still in Zuwayy's grasp but being pulled backward, away from her husband. Up ahead of her, one of the strangers who had crashed unchecked through the security line grabbed President Salaam from behind, while another grasped him from in front. Once the man in front had a firm grip on Salaam, the man behind turned, raised his hands, and shouted, "Death to all kuffarl Death to all enemies of God! The Muslim Brotherhood is Allah's sword of justice this day!"

The man in front of Kamal opened his cloak-and revealed several sticks of explosives and a detonator strapped to his abdomen.

"La!" Susan screamed in Arabic. "Imshi! Get away! Kamal!" She twisted easily away from Zuwayy. One of the paramilitary soldiers beside Zuwayy tried to grab her. She clawed her way free and took a running step toward her shocked husband.. just as a brilliant flash of light, an impossibly loud explosion of sound, and an incredible blast of heat erupted right in front of her. She had a momentary image of Kamal Ismail Salaam's body and that of his attacker being blown apart like firecrackers, before a giant invisible force threw her backward and darkness closed over her….