Wings of Fire

CHAPTER 1

The dark-clad figure turned, slowly, smoothly, menacingly. The blank, staring eyes were expressionless, robotic. The figure lifted a weapon from the floor, an immense Ml68 six-barreled Vulcan cannon, and pointed it right at Patrick McLanahan. From less than thirty meters away, he could not miss. The cannon, normally mounted on a large vehicle like an armored personnel carrier, could fire hot-dog-sized shells at up to three thousand rounds a minute-there would be nothing left of his body, even after only a onesecond burst, to clean up with a sponge.

Patrick heard a clink of metal-the Galling gun ammunition feed mechanism as the figure adjusted his grip. He couldn't see a trigger-the Vulcan cannon was normally electrically operated-so he could not even guess when the gun would start firing. It wouldn't matter anyway-at this range, he'd probably be dead before he heard the sound.

"Feels good," the figure said, his voice electronically distorted. In rapid succession, he elevated the cannon straight up into the air, side to side, and around in all directions. The movements were smooth, mechanical, effortless, as if the one-thousand-pound cannon were little more than a wooden stick. He set the big gun down on the floor, then unfastened some latches, removed his helmet, and handed it to a technician standing nearby to help him. "I feel like a damned clown miming on the street, but it works pretty well."

Patrick looked at Hal Briggs but said nothing. Hal was wearing the new and improved Tin Man battle armor, and he looked as if he was thoroughly enjoying it.

The first version of the electronic armor was designed to protect the wearer from bullets or bombs-fast-moving blunt trauma or shock-but did nothing to enhance strength. The new suit added a fibersteel exoskeleton structure with microhydraulically operated joints at the shoulders, elbows, hips, knees, and ankles, with stress supports on the hands, fingers, and feet. The suit's onboard computers read and analyzed all of the body's normal muscle movements and amplified them through the exoskeleton, giving the wearer unbelievable physical strength, speed, and enhanced agility.

"Now, let's see if it fits in its convenient carrying case." Hal entered a code into a small panel on his left gauntlet, which powered down the exoskeleton and released the bindings. The exoskeleton remained standing like some sort of metal sculpture or futuristic scarecrow. He entered another code into a small control panel inside the frame on the spine, and the exoskeleton started to fold itself. In less than thirty seconds, it had collapsed down to the size and weight of a small suitcase. Hal placed the folded exoskeleton into a padded duffel bag and slung it over his shoulder-because of its composite construction, it was light and easy to carry, although the fibersteel components were many times stronger than steel. "Very cool. Every kid should have one."

Hal stepped over to Patrick, the duffel bag slung on his back, and clasped his longtime friend on the shoulder. "You okay, Muck?" he asked.

Patrick shrugged. "It just feels like one of those days when you know something's not going to go right."

"Well, Wendy did a good job getting this thing tuned up," Hal said, motioning to the bag on his shoulder. "It's very cool. I want to start putting it through its paces right away, before Masters decides to invest production money on something else."

"That may be sooner than you think," they heard a voice say. The voice belonged to Kevin Martindale. He was watching the demonstration from a corner of the test chamber. The young, handsome, energetic former president stepped over and greeted Patrick and Hal. Kevin Martindale, also a former vice president, had stayed only one term in the White House. He was a strong military advocate, but was voted out of office mostly because of actions he failed to take when the United States was threatened. What the public did not know was that Martindale preferred to use secret, unconventional forces to destroy an enemy's ability to make war before the situation grew worse.

Now Martindale was head of a secret organization called the Night Stalkers, composed of former military men and women, who performed similar unconventional-warfare missions around the world. But these operations were neither ordered nor sanctioned by any government-Martindale and his senior staff decided which missions to perform and how to perform them. In addition, squeezing or outright stealing money, weapons, and equipment from their their defeated opponents usually funded these operations.

"Very impressive," Martindale said, a fascinated gleam in his eye. These days, Kevin Martindale wore his hair much longer than he did in his days in the White House or Congress, and he had grown a goatee. He looked and acted quite a bit differently than his more conservative, buttoned-down government persona: Patrick hadn't yet decided if he liked the new Kevin Martindale. "One of Jon Masters's new toys?"

"An old toy with some new tricks," Hal responded, handing the duffel bag over to Martindale.

He was surprised at how lightweight it was. "That's it? Everything but the armor and backpack?"

"That doubles the weight-still very transportable."

"Excellent. We should talk to Jon and see if he-can make a few units available to the Night Stalkers."

"I'm sure that can be arranged," Patrick assured him.

"With the usual three-hundred-percent markup," Hal chimed in with a broad smile as he finished removing the Tin Man battle armor and stowing it in the duffel bag.

"Fine with me-I'm not paying for it," Martindale responded dryly.

The comment bugged Patrick-it summarized all of Patrick's misgivings about being part of the Night Stalkers. Yes, they were doing important work-capturing international drug dealers and criminals like Pavel Kazakov, the Russian oilman and Russian Mafia chieftain, who had the incredible audacity to bribe generals in the Russian army to invade and occupy Balkan states so he could build a pipeline across those countries and make it more profitable for him to ship oil to the West. They had captured Kazakov and dozens of other terrorists, drug dealers, assassins, and international fugitives in less than a year.

But no one in this group was independently wealthy. They had to do an old infantry soldier's trick taken a few steps further: raid the land as they marched across it. Patrick himself had threatened Pavel Kazakov, one of the world's most wealthy but most dangerous individuals, with taking his life in exchange for the tidy sum of half a billion dollars-he still made sure he was tossed into a Turkish prison, but he also threatened to kill him instead if he didn't pay up. They had stolen guns, computer equipment and data, vehicles, aircraft, ships, and hacked into hundreds of bank accounts of known international criminals to raise money for their operations. The logic was simple: Not only did they arrest the bad guys, but they also substantially reduced their ability to carry on their criminal or terrorist enterprises.

Patrick tried to tell himself that it was all for the common good-but those words kept on ringing hollow.

"Good to see you came through your 'test flight' over Libya all right," Martindale said to Patrick as they made their way out of the test lab. "But may I respectfully suggest you just get Dr. Masters to schedule some range time with the Air Force or Army on their ranges in North America to shoot down some missiles."

"Unfortunately, we can't blame that one on him, sir," Patrick admitted. "The test flight idea was mine. Jon wanted to make a big splash to impress the Pentagon, and I picked the closest country I thought would take a shot at us without starting World War Three. It turned out to be one of the most successful test flights we've ever made in a Megafortress, and certainly the most successful one for the Dragon airborne laser."

"Not too shabby for you either."

"Sir?"

"I suppose you haven't heard-I heard it from very back-channel sources," Martindale said. "You know, of course, that President Thorn has never chosen a national security adviser."

"Yes, sir. He claims that the purpose of the President's cabinet is to not only administer the government but to advise the President," Patrick said. "He claims it's the way our government was set up. He thinks bureaucrats like national security advisers distort and politicize the decisionmaking process."

"What do you think of that?"

"I think any leader, especially the leader of the free world in the twenty-first century, needs all the advisers he can get," Patrick replied. His eyes narrowed, and he looked at Martindale carefully. "Why?"

"Because your name was being bandied about as being on the President's list for national security adviser." Patrick stopped and looked at Martindale in complete surprise. "He's putting together his reelection campaign, and the word is that folks would be more comfortable with him in a second term if he had a more identifiable, complete set of advisers-national security adviser being the number-one pick. That, it appears, is you."

"Me? That's insane!" Patrick retorted.

"Why insane?" Martindale asked. "After you put together and then commanded that Air National Guard EB-1C Vampire unit over United Korea, you're one of the most popular and well-known military guys out there. Some folks equate you with Jimmy Doolittle putting together the Tokyo air raids in World War Two, or with Colin Powell. The guys who have access can look at your record and just be amazed and awestruck at the stuff you've done. Plus, you have one more advantage."

"What's that?"

"You're not Brad Elliott," Martindale said with a smile. "They look at what you and your team did over Russia and Romania in the Kazakov incident, over Korea, over China, over Lithuania, and all the other secret missions you've been involved in over the years, and they realize that you were fighting for your people-that shows pride, determination, and tenacity. Brad Elliott didn't fight for his people-Brad Elliott gladly sacrificed his people to do whatever he wanted. They know where you're coming from. Thorn likes that. I know you disagree with Thorn on military policy… "

"'Disagree'? It goes way beyond 'disagree,' Mr. President! Thorn was the one who had me involuntarily retired from the Air Force! Thorn ordered my wife and son arrested by the FBI, and his Justice Department has got agents watching and listening in on Sky Masters Inc. night and day. Thorn and I have absolutely nothing in common except loathing for each other."

"In case you haven't noticed, Thorn likes surrounding himself with advisers that disagree with him," Martindale said. "In fact, I can't think of one person in his entire administration that thinks like him or is even remotely simpatico with his throwback Jeffersonian ideology. Even his close friend Robert Goff and he constantly butt heads."

"I'd work with Goff, Kercheval, or even Busick any day," Patrick said. "But there is no way in hell I'd ever serve under Thorn."

"Why?"

"We don't just disagree-I feel his views of the military and America's role in the world suck," Patrick said. "America has the moral wisdom to use its military forces to protect peace and freedom around the world. This 'stick-yourhead-in-the-sand' attitude is causing widespread uncertainty in the world, and scumbags like Pavel Kazakov are crawling out of the woodwork and taking advantage of it."

"Then why wouldn't you go to the White House and tell Thorn what you think?"

"Because you can't talk to guys like Thorn. He's a fanatic, an extremist ideologue. I'd be arguing real-world situations and alternatives to crises that require fast responses, and he'd be quoting Thomas Jefferson and Benjamin Franklin. No, thanks."

"You would decline to accept the nomination?"

"Loudly and publicly," Patrick said finally.

Martindale nodded. "Good. You're the heart of this team, Patrick-I hope you know that," he said sincerely. "We'd exist without you, but we wouldn't be the samenot nearly as dedicated, not nearly as hard-charging. I'd move heaven and earth to keep you here."

"Thank you, sir," Patrick said. "That means a lot."

Patrick and Hal followed Martindale into a secure conference room in the main headquarters building of the Sky Masters Inc. campus, a large industrial and research center in what was the old Blytheville Air Force Base in Arkansas, now called the Arkansas International Jetport. They warmly greeted Patrick's brother Paul, one of the first members of the Night Stalkers and the most experienced Tin Man battle armor user, along with Chris Wohl, a retired Marine Corps master sergeant and Hal Briggs's longtime partner. Martindale took his place at the apex of the conference table while Patrick secured the room, then motioned for Chris Wohl to begin:

"We are closely monitoring developments on the border between Libya and Egypt," Wohl began. "Libya has recently sent several thousand troops to the Sudan, on Egypt's southern border, supposedly to support the president of the Sudan against rebel insurgents that are using Chad as a safe haven. However, the insurgency was crushed last year, and Libyan forces remain deployed in three Sudanese bases-all within a day's armored vehicle march of five major Egyptian oil fields. Egypt has reinforced its armed forces in the region and maintains a rough parity with Libyan forces."

"So Libya wants to take Egypt's oil fields?"

"That's nothing new," Martindale said, "although they've preferred in the past to try to form a partnership with Egypt in developing its oil reserves. However, Egypt wants to form a consortium with some Western oil companies to tap its oil fields."

"Lots more money that way, I'd guess," Briggs offered.

"Exactly right-and Exxon Mobil and Shell don't bring troops with them to the contract-signing ceremonies," Martindale said. "The consortium wants to build a fourhundred-and-sixty-mile-long pipeline from southern Egypt to the Mediterranean Sea capable of shipping two million barrels of crude per day, along with building refineries. It's a three-billion-dollar project that Libya desperately wants to get involved with."

"Doesn't Libya already export oil?" Paul McLanahan asked.

"Yes, but with U.S. sanctions still in place, they don't ship much to the West," Martindale replied. "The new president of Libya, who calls himself King Idris the Second, is even worse than Muammar Qadhafi. Idris, whose real name is Zuwayy, has reorganized the Muslim Brotherhood, the group of Muslim fanatics that seeks to make every Arabic-speaking nation in the world a theocracy governed and steered by strict fundamentalist doctrine. Libya, Sudan, and Yemen are solidly in his hip pocket; Palestine, Lebanon, Syria, Iraq, Saudi Arabia, and Jordan are leaning toward him; Kuwait, Bahrain, Qatar, the United Arab Emirates, Oman, and Egypt so far oppose him."

"And the Muslim Brotherhood has been linked with the assassination of President Salaam of Egypt and his wife," Hal Briggs added. "Sounds like recruitment by intimidation to me. Join-or else."

"It looks like Zuwayy's going further than just assassination," Martindale said. "Sergeant Wohl?"

"Intelligence experts suspect that Libya has imported surface-to-surface missiles from someone-China, Pakistan, Russia, we don't know for sure yet-and has set up several bases from which to stage attacks into Egypt to destroy their military forces," Wohl went on. "The rumor is, the missiles have chemical, biological, and nuclear warheads, as well as conventional high-explosives. We have been tasked to find those missiles, identify them, and destroy them if possible."

"'Intelligence experts'?" Patrick asked suspiciously. "Who might they be, sir? I know we're not getting any cooperation from U.S. agencies."

Kevin Martindale looked at Patrick with a mixture of irritation and surprise in his features. "A group hired by the Central African Petroleum Partners," Martindale replied uneasily.

"You mean the oil consortium with a stake in the Egyptian oil fields?"

"Do you have a problem working for them, General?" Martindale asked.

"Sir, I want to head off trouble as much as anyone," Patrick said. "And I certainly don't like Zuwayy any more than I liked Qadhafi and the terrorist organizations they sponsor. But I don't like the idea of being a hired gun for an oil cartel, either."

"Would you like them better if I told you we would be getting our first paychecks out of this?" Martindale asked. "That's the difference between this mission and all the others-we are given a target, but we're also well compensated for our services."

Patrick fell silent, but the eagerness was evident in Hal Briggs's and Paul McLanahan's eyes. The reason was clear: They had the most to lose and the most to gain out of this. Martindale, Patrick, and Chris Wohl all had government pensions waiting for them; in addition, Patrick was a vice president of Sky Masters Inc., for which he was very well paid. But Hal Briggs resigned his Air Force commission well before retirement age, and Paul McLanahan had only a small disability check from the Sacramento Police Department, where he was a sworn officer for only a few weeks before being retired with a one-hundred-percent disability. Neither of them had earned any money in many months, and had been relying on gifts from Martindale and Patrick.

"How much are we talkin' about here, Mr. President?" Hal asked.

"I accepted a twenty-million-dollar contract for our services, plus a bonus for complete destruction of all known missile installations," Martindale replied. "I will pay every man in this room twenty-five thousand dollars a day, beginning as soon as you accept this mission."

"Per…day…"

"Our support team members will earn ten thousand dollars… and yes, that's per day, tax free," Martindale went on. "The Night Stalkers will pay Sky Masters Inc. full retail price for the equipment and supplies we use. Sound okay with you, gentlemen?" Hal slapped his hands together excitedly, and Paul looked jubilant-even Chris Wohl nodded in approval, even though he wore his same expressionless warrior's mask. Martindale studied their faces, then settled on Patrick's. "All right with you, General?" he asked.

Patrick looked at Paul and Hal's happy faces. Paul gave his brother an excited slap on the back-it had been a long time since he had seen him smile like that. "Yes, sir," Patrick finally responded. "It's okay with me."

"Outstanding," Martindale said. He punched up instructions into a computer, and the results were projected onto a large flat-panel monitor on the conference-room wall. "The intelligence we've received indicates several new Libyan missile bases scattered around the country. I'll leave it up to you and your support team to figure out the best way to proceed, but after speaking with Master Sergeant Wohl here, he suggests a soft probe of the most likely bases, followed by an unmanned aircraft strike to soften up the base's defenses, followed by a hard-target penetration. It's up to you-bui I hasten to remind you of a substantial performance bonus for each one of you if the danger to the consortium's pipeline is eliminated. Enough said. Good luck, and good hunting."

As was his custom, Martindale never stuck around for the details-the planning, training, organization, logistics, or movement of the Night Stalkers was never something he was concerned about. He gave marching orders, then left it to the teams to carry out the plan. Within minutes, they heard his helicopter depart, on its way to his next meeting. Patrick had little idea what he did, where he went, or whom he spoke to as the former president of the United States.

"Now we're talking serious bucks!" Briggs exclaimed happily. "Man, I was hoping we'd get into jobs like this-I was thinking I'd have to go back to Georgia and help my granddad in his kennels and get a real job."

"I'm not happy about accepting this job," Patrick admitted. "Some big oil cartel is asking us to put our asses on the firing line to help them keep their profits safe. We don't know anything about the cartel; and since the assassination of President Salaam, we don't know which way the Egyptian government is going to go. And I don't trust any intelligence info we get from private sources. They answer to investors and bosses, not to the grunts."

Hal fell silent, looking at the ground. Chris Wohl nodded. "All good points, sir," he said. "Our first priority would be to get our own intel-a few overflights from some NIRTSats should do it." NIRTSats, or Need It Right This Second Satellites, were small, low-Earth orbit photo and radar reconnaissance satellites designed for a specific mission. They were extremely valuable in passing detailed intelligence information to tactical units; but because they were in very low orbits, their duration was usually only a few days or a couple weeks, and they carried only small positioning thrusters and very little fuel, so their orbits could not be changed or even fine-tuned to any great extent. He looked at Patrick evenly, then added, "If you agree to do it with us."

"You don't need my approval, Chris."

"Pardon me, sir, but I do… we do," Wohl said.

" 'Fraid so, Muck," Hal said. "The Night Stalkers may be a private nonmilitary unconventional action team, but the bottom line is: We're a team." "

"We don't do anything unless we all agree to do it," Paul chimed in. "One person has veto power. One 'no,' even one Tm not sure,' and we scrub the mission."

"That's the SOP, sir," Wohl agreed. "We all do it, or no one does it."

Patrick hesitated. Something deep within him still maintained that this was wrong. He was trained to fight, trained to use his brains and his training and experience to fight and win battles-but this was not one of the battles he had in mind. He wasn't defending his home or his country or his family. This mission was to destroy one country's supposed threat to disrupt commerce in order to help a multinational corporation earn more money. This was a job for a private security company-or a mercenary force.

The obvious question: Was Patrick turning into a mercenary? Was he going to start fighting not for home or country or family, but for money?

Maybe he was, at least for the moment. If his own military didn't want him, maybe it was time to fight for what he felt was right-and accept a little money to do it.

"I'm in," Patrick heard himself say. "I'll get a NIRTSat constellation up right away, and get a few FlightHawks ready for air support." The FlightHawks were Sky Masters's unmanned combat aircraft, capable of ground, air, or ship launch, and equipped to carry a wide variety of sensors, cameras, radio gear-or munitions. They were stealthy, accurate, and very effective.

"We're gone}" Paul McLanahan shouted excitedly, his electronically synthesized voice amplifying his happiness. "Let's go kick some Libyan rocket-launching ass!"

"Nike, say status," Patrick McLanahan whispered into the secure satellite link. A warning indicator on his electronic visor had just advised him that one of his men had already engaged the enemy. Just a few minutes into what was sup-

posed to be a quick, silent recon, they were made.

"Bad guy came out of nowhere, and this damned suit blasted him before I could stop it," retired U.S. Marine Corps master sergeant Chris Wohl explained. "I'm secure, and I'm moving in."

"This is supposed to be a soft probe, Nike, not an assault. We can come back."

"If they're alerted, they might move all their assets, and then we'd have to locate them all over again," Wohl protested. "I think only one guy saw me, and I don't think he's a sentry, so we still might have time. Besides, you made this suit, not me. If you wanted a soft probe, you should've showed me how to shut off the auto-bugzapper feature. I'm secure, and I'm moving in."

Once a flamethrowing kick-ass Marine, always a kickass Marine, Patrick thought as he checked the God's-eye view display on his helmet-mounted electronic visor. Patrick McLanahan was kneeling in a shallow gully just a few yards inside the perimeter fence surrounding a newly discovered Libyan military base near Samah, about two hundred miles south of Benghazi. The mission was to sneak in from three different points, doing a soft probe on this remote desert base. Initial intelligence reports said Samah was a terrorist training camp, but a few unconfirmed reports received from the private intelligence sources said Samah was a rocket base set up recently to secretly attack targets in Egypt, Chad, Europe, or in the Mediterranean Sea, possibly with medium-range Russianor Chinese-made rockets with chemical or biological warheads.

The plan was for all three infiltrators to go in simultaneously, take infrared or night-vision digital images with their equipment, uplink it all to reconnaissance satellites back to their headquarters, and get out without anyone knowing they were there. If the Libyans discovered they had been infiltrated, they might pack everything up and turn the base into an unassuming training base.

But Chris Wohl was by far the most experienced and well-trained commando among them-and he ran on his own timetable, which was several steps ahead of everyone else, constantly thinking and planning and reacting, leading the way. Patrick should have known that Chris Wohl would want to make first contact.

The God's-eye overhead images that Patrick was studying were being transmitted via satellite from stealth unmanned combat aircraft called FlightHawks. Two FlightHawks had been launched from a Sky Masters Inc. DC-10 launch aircraft over the Mediterranean Sea while on a normal, routine flight from Bahrain to Madrid. The FlightHawks were autonomous UCAVs, or unmanned combat air vehicles; although a ground controller could fly them, they were designed to fly a preprogrammed flight plan and automatically react to threats or new target instructions. One FlightHawk carried a LADAR, or laser radar, that took images as crystal-clear as a high-resolution digital photograph, then beamed those images down to Wendy on the Catherine as well as the men on the ground in Libya.

The FlightHawk's ground monitors and controllers were Patrick's wife and electronics wizard, Wendy Tork McLanahan, as well as Patrick's longtime partner and friend, engineering expert David Luger, based aboard a converted salvage ship a hundred miles off the Libyan coast in the Mediterranean Sea. The team's infiltration and exfiltration aircraft, a CV-22 Pave Hammer tilt-rotor aircraft, could take off, land, refuel, and be serviced on the cargo ship in hiding. The ship, a Lithuanian-flagged and fully registered and functioning rescue and salvage vessel named S.S. Catherine the Great, had a contingent of fifty highly trained commandos and enough firepower on board to start a small war.

The commandos on this mission also had another hightech weapon in their arsenal: their improved "Tin Man" electronic battle armor. Also developed by Sky Masters Inc., the armor used a special electroreactive technology that caused ordinary-looking and — feeling fabric instantly to harden to several times the strength of steel when sharply struck. The suit also contained self-contained breathing apparatus, temperature control, communications, long-range visual and aural detection and tracking sensors, mobility enhancers-compressed-air jump jets in the boots-and self-protection weapons. The self-defense weapon was an electrical discharge device that disabled the enemy with a bolt of high-voltage energy; it operated automatically, tied to the suit's sensors, and was able to fire instantly in any direction out to thirty feet from electrodes on both shoulders if an enemy was detected.

The newest feature of their battle armor: a microhydraulically controlled fibersteel exoskeleton that gave the wearer the strength and power of a multimillion-dollar robot. The exoskeleton ran along the back, shoulders, arms, legs, and neck, and amplified the wearer's muscular strength a hundred times; yet the exoskeleton and its control systems weighed only a few pounds and used very little power.

The armor could save its wearers from most small- and medium-sized infantry attacks and even some light armored attacks, but every attack drained precious power from the suit quickly, and they were several hundred miles from help. The Tin Man technology was designed to save its wearer from attack long enough to escape a defensive, patrol, or security engagement, not to press an assault against a superior fighting force. The longer Wohl stayed in the area after the alarm was sounded, the more danger he was in.

Through his electronic visor, Patrick could see that Wohl had stopped just outside an area that had previously been identified in satellite photos as a garbage dump, known by its map coordinate Bravo Two. The area was unguarded and unsecured, and military and civilian personnel passed by it constantly without being stopped or challenged by anyone-there was no reason to suspect it was anything else but a garbage dump. Patrick had dismissed it in their search. "Nike, what are you doing at Bravo Two?"

"I want to check this place out," Wohl replied. "I'm secure."

"Nike, let's stick with the recon plan, shall we?"

"I'll be back on schedule in no time."

"Stalkers, looks like there's some activity on this side of the base-your guy might have missed a bed check or something," ex-Air Force security officer and commando Hal Briggs reported. The commandos on this mission were spread out around the sprawling, isolated desert base in strategic support locations, and moving from one spot to another without attracting any attention took time. "They're doing a search around the perimeter. Might as well let Nike poke around a bit more-he's safe there for now."

"If the alarm's been sounded, we need to bug out of here," Patrick said. "Your best exit point now is Alpha One, Nike. Get moving." To Briggs, he added, "Taurus, can you cover him?"

"Dammit, Castor, we traveled too far to turn around the moment someone has a bad dream," Wohl radioed. "I'm secure, and I think I found something interesting, so I'm staying put for sixty lousy seconds longer. The FlightHawks will have to RTB in less than fifteen minutes anyway-they might not complete a full reconnoiter, and there won't be time to recover, refuel, and relaunch them before daybreak. I'm staying. If you don't like it, come in here and try to drag me back. Nike out."

McLanahan cursed again-it seemed as if he was doing that a lot lately-:and wished for one of his long-range bombers loaded with smart bombs to be flying overhead right about now. Twice retired from the United States Air Force-the last time involuntarily-Patrick had been a one-star general, the deputy commander of one of the world's most secret weapons development and testing facilities, the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center (HAWC), Elliott Air Force Base, Groom Lake, Nevada. The weapons from that facility had many times been used in real-world conflicts, from Russia to China to America and everywhere in between, and Patrick had been a part of the action originating there for over a decade. Patrick had seen and experienced the best-and worst-of both human suffering and technological amazement.

But they would probably not see action within a decade,

if ever, because few politicians and bureaucrats-including, in Patrick's estimation, the current administration of U.S. President Thomas Nathaniel Thorn-had the guts to use them. Just one of HAWC's Megafortress bombers could destroy several dozen armored vehicles and keep an entire battalion of troops at bay, without being detected on radar and without exposing itself to undue risk; if they were given the order, one Megafortress could destroy the entire base without so much as rustling an innocent civilian's tent flap, if there were any here. They had already proven the value of a small commando team paired up with one stealth bomber in the skies over Russia, right near Moscow itself.

But since then, Thorn had all but shut down HAWC and had sent most of America's fleet of bombers to the Boneyard, along with about a third of the active-duty military and other deep cuts in tactical weapons and units. McLanahan and the other commandos here at Samah were not here under government sanction. It was dirty, difficult, and dangerous work.

No wonder Patrick found little to smile about these days.

"Don't give me that 'Nike out' crap," McLanahan radioed back. "This is supposed to be a soft probe, not a search-and-destroy-that's why we have the FlightHawks overhead. I want you out now."

"Then I guess I'll just ignore this SS-12 battery I just found."

"What?"

"Pretty damned clever, hiding it in a garbage dump," Wohl said. He moved closer to the area. There was a short ramp on the west end of the pit, ostensibly to make it easier for the dump truck drivers to enter the pit. But on closer inspection, he saw that the garbage was piled not on the ground inside the pit but atop a retractable net. "Normal overhead imagery shows a garbage dump. It's unguarded like a garbage dump-and the organic waste gives off enough heat to block infrared and radar imagery." Wohl examined underneath the net with his infrared sensory "And there it is, boys-the aft end of a MAZ-543 transporter-

erector-launcher and an SS-12 Scaleboard rocket, still in its marching sheath. I'll bet there are at least three more TELs in this pit, and if I check the other garbage pits, I'll find more. Not to mention the TELs hidden in some of the service buildings."

"The damned Libyans have SS-12s," Briggs breathed. "Holy shit." The SS-12 tactical ballistic missile, NATO code name "Scaleboard," was the upgraded version of the ubiquitous mobile "Scud" surface-to-surface missile, in service with almost a dozen nations around the world. The SS-12 was larger, had three times the range of a Scud, was more accurate-and it carried a one-point-three-megaton nuclear warhead. As far as anyone knew, this was the first known instance of an SS-12 missile based outside of Russia. "Can you see the warhead, Nike? Is it a nuke?" "Stand by, Taurus. I'll check."

"Nike, clear out of there," McLanahan repeated. "We'll have the FlightHawks take them out." The first FlightHawk UCAV carried only the laser radar array, but the second FlightHawk was armed with four antitank BLU-108 SFW sensor-fuzed weapon bomblets and four antipersonnel Gator cluster bomb munitions. They were devastating weapons: A single SFW could destroy as many as three dozen main battle tanks, and a single Gator could kill, injure, or deny enemy access across an area twice the size of a football field. "Base, you copy? Stand by to arm up the 'Hawks."

"We have a good location on Nike," Wendy McLanahan radioed from the Catherine out in the Med. The Tin Man battle armor contained a transponder to allow Wendy on board the command ship to track and monitor all the commandos. "Ready to come in hot."

"Negative, Base, negative," Wohl interjected. "The junk they got these things buried under will keep the SFW from detecting them, or they might lock onto some other hot object; and the junk might block the bomblets' blast effects. We're going to have to expose them enough so the SFWs and Gators can do their job, or destroy them one by one by hand. I'm moving in."

No use in trying to hold him back, Patrick thought, he's on the warpath. It's not every day that you're sent in just to take a few pictures and end up coming across a bunch of nuclear-tipped missiles. Wohl must be salivating in his battle armor. "Roger, Nike. Stalkers, let's move in together. One coordinated attack. Stand by."

But Chris Wohl wasn't going to "stand by"-he was already on the move.

He hurriedly checked for a sentry. There were sentry shacks on all four sides of the garbage pit, but through his infrared sensors he could see that all were deserted. He descended down the incline toward the rear of the rocket…

… and the second he reached the floor of the pit and touched the net covering the rocket, four huge ballpark lights illuminated the entire garbage pit, and a siren sounded. There were no sentries because the entire garbage pit was alarmed. Time had run out.

From his observation point, Patrick saw the lights come on. "Oh, shit," Patrick murmured. "Taurus, move in, check the garbage pit at Alpha Two," he radioed. "I'll check Golf Six. Pollux, create a diversion around Tango Five. Base, order the FlightHawks in to attack."

"Roger that, Castor," Patrick's younger brother, Paul, responded. One of the original members of the Night Stalkers and the acknowledged expert in the use of the Tin Man battle armor, he was the fourth man on this spy team, taking the east side of the Libyan base.

"Copy, Castor," Wendy replied. "They're coming in hot, two minutes out, SFWs and Gators. Light up the targets as much as you can."

Meanwhile, Wohl dashed to the body of the SS-12 rocket, grabbed a cable running down the side, and pulled. The SS-12 missile was encased in a plastic transport sheath that protected it during transit but popped off easily during launch; it was simple to peel it off now. It was a real SS-12 rocket-no decoys here. He dashed forward, unzipping the sheath as he ran, then climbed up onto the cab until he reached the warhead. It looked real enough too, although he had never seen a live nuclear warhead before. "Castor, I just cracked open the warhead. Take a look and tell me what it is."

Patrick commanded his electronic helmet visor to lock in on Chris Wohl's visor image, transmitted from his suit's electronics suite via satellite. He recognized it instantly: "It's the real thing, folks-a Russian NMT-17 Mod One warhead, one-megaton-plus yield."

Wohl turned at a sudden sound behind him and saw soldiers rushing to the edge of the garbage pit, gesturing inside. The best proof he had a live warhead here wasn't McLanahan's assessment-it was the fact that none of the Libyans surrounding him dared raise a rifle muzzle in his direction or even come any closer to him. They were afraid of creating a nuclear yield if they hit the missile with a bullet. Wohl knew it took a lot more than one bullet to set one of these things off-but then again, maybe they knew something he didn't. "How do I disable it, Castor?"

"You can't, unless you brought a whole truckload of Snap-On Tools," Patrick replied. "Your best option is to create a heat source and let the FlightHawks finish the job."

"I can do that," Wohl said. He jumped down from the front of the TEL and searched until he found the diesel fuel refilling port, between the third and fourth set of wheels on the right side. The fuel tank itself was underneath the chassis and protected very well by slabs of steel, but he didn't need it. He opened the filler port, stepped back a few paces, and activated his self-protection weapon, sending a bolt of electrical energy from electrodes on his shoulders directly into the fuel port. A few moments later, Patrick saw a flash, and a second later heard an explosion, then another just a few moments later. So much for their little sneak-and-peek operation.

"All right, Nike, you dropped your drawers-we might as well have some fun too," Hal Briggs chimed in. "I'm in."

"Go for the fuel filler port on the right side between the rear wheels," Wohl said as he moved to the third SS-12. "The TELs aren't grounded, and there aren't any flame suppressors in the filler tube."

"Hey, Castor," Briggs asked, "what's the chance of one of those babies popping off with a yield in a fire?"

"Very slim," Patrick replied. "If they have no safeties in them or if the ones the Russians installed haven't been maintained by the Libyans, the worst that will happen is that the high-explosive jacket surrounding the core will cook off and scatter radioactive debris around."

"What if the trigger gets activated by a concussion or even by our shock beams?"

"I don't know," Patrick said. "Try not to hit the warhead with your beams. But there would have to be no pressure or acceleration safeties and pretty unstable triggers that then happen to work perfectly to produce a yield. Don't worry about it. Expose your missiles with a heat source as best you can so the FlightHawk can drop on them, and let's get out of here."

Several seconds later, Patrick saw another explosion, this time farther north. "Hot damn, that works good!" Briggs crowed. "I'm liking this!"

Patrick started running for the perimeter fence, then hit his boots'jump-jets. A shot of compressed air propelled him twenty feet into the sky and almost a hundred feet forward. When he landed, he jogged forward while scanning the area with his helmet-mounted sensors. Libyan soldiers were pointing in his direction. He had to run several yards until the accumulators built up enough pressure, then propelled himself with ease over the perimeter fence. His sensors and self-protection weapons worked automatically-any soldiers within thirty feet were knocked unconscious by a bolt of energy strong enough to start a jet aircraft.

Two more jumps and six blocks later, Patrick was at the southernmost garbage pit. It was exactly as Chris Wohl described it: a strong net, steel or even Kevlar, with enough real trash piled atop it to hide a huge wide truck carrying a large rocket. One step inside the pit revealed a second transporter about fifty yards away. He immediately found the fuel filler port and set the first SS-12 afire just as Wohl and Briggs did, and the TEL's right rear wheels blew apart, sending the SS-12 rocket rolling right off its launch rail. In-t few seconds it was going to be covered in burning diesel fuel — he hoped the nuclear warhead would just melt away and not cook off. He had no idea how sophisticated the Russians' nuclear warhead safety mechanisms were, or how well the Libyans had maintained them, so he had to assume that the explosive material surrounding the nuclear core would explode and scatter radioactive debris everywhere. He wanted to be off the base before any of them did just that.

Patrick quickly attacked the other two SS-12 launcher vehicles. Now there were explosions everywhere, mostly in the north where Hal Briggs was creating havoc. He turned just as his battle armor's defensive weapon downed another Libyan soldier that had run out from an underground shelter, an AK-47 raised and ready to fire. "Base, status of the FlightHawk?"

"Inbound sixty seconds, coming in hot," Wendy McLanahan responded. "FlightHawk One has good imagery of all three garbage pits and good downlink to FlightHawk Two. You guys can bug out anytime. I took the liberty of calling for the Hammer too." The "Hammer" was the CV-22 Pave Hammer tilt-rotor aircraft. Accompanied by another tilt-rotor aircraft acting as an aerial refueling tanker, the Pave Hammer had flown them in across Egypt from the S.S. Catherine the Great in the Mediterranean Sea and had been waiting for them about a hundred miles to the south in the Sahara Desert.

"Good thinking, Base. Stalkers, rendezvous at Sierra One." The team had buried caches of battery packs, spare parts, water, and medical supplies in various places in the desert for their withdrawal; if they were not used within three days, explosive charges would destroy the evidence.

"Taurus copies."

"Nike copies."

"Pollux copies." Patrick had just turned to start jumping out of the base when he heard Paul cut in, "Wait, Stalkers. I found something."

"What do you got, Pollux?"

Paul McLanahan was too stunned to take cover-he was standing out in the open in front of three shabby-looking tin service buildings. Just before he was going to jet away, the big overhead doors to each building opened-and two MAZ-543 transporter-erector-launchers carrying an SS-12 Scaleboard nuclear rocket started to roll out. "Stalkers, I'm staring at six huge rockets coming out of those service buildings. I think they're the same SS-12s you guys have been setting on fire. Should I-?

And then he stopped-because all six of the huge vehicles stopped, and the SS-12 missiles started to rise up off the truck bed, and large steel legs began to extend to the ground to steady the vehicle. Warning lights began to blink, and soldiers and ground crew members that had been running around before now started to take cover.

"Hey, guys, I think the Libyans are going to launch these puppies," Paul said.

"Oh, crap," Patrick murmured. "Base, ETA on the FlightHawks?"

"Less than ninety seconds, Castor."

Patrick had no idea how long it took to launch an SS-12, but he assumed that once it was elevated into launch position, it would take just a few moments. "Stalkers, converge on Pollux. Let's take those SS-12s out before they can launch!"

"I can take them!" Paul shouted. "You can't make it here in time! Continue the evacuation!"

"Stalkers, converge on Pollux now!" Patrick repeated. At the same time, he jet-jumped to the east in Paul's direction. "Base, have the Hammer meet us at Tango Ten exfil point."

"Roger," Wendy replied. "FlightHawks are sixty seconds out. Hammer's ETA to Tango Ten is two-zero minutes."

Paul's electrical defensive weapon went off as several Libyan soldiers approached. He felt heavy-caliber bullets pounding into him from many directions, all on full automatic and some with very heavy rates of fire-a Minigun or antiaircraft gun aimed at him. Seconds later, he got a lowpower warning. The Tin Man battle armor was not designed to sustain a heavy attack, and heavy-caliber aulpmatic-weapons fire drained power quickly. Paul had only seconds to get away.

A loud siren sounded. Paul turned toward the SS-12 rocket just to the right of him just as restraining clamps that held the rocket to the launch rail released and the rocket started to eject some gases from its nozzles. It looked like it was going to launch at any moment.

Instead of jet-jumping away, Paul commanded a fullthrust jet-right into the rocket, just a few feet below the warhead section. Unrestrained by its road-march holddown bar, the rocket easily toppled off the launch rail. Just as it hit the ground, the single-stage liquid rocket propellant ignited. The rocket streaked across the ground, slammed into the SS-12 unit beside it, and exploded. In rapid-fire succession, all six SS-12 Scaleboard rockets exploded in a wall of flame several hundred feet high and nearly a half-mile long. Every building within a mile was torn apart in the concussion.

Patrick did not just see and feel the six nearly simultaneous explosions-he was knocked off his feet from the concussion and earthquake-like tremors, even though he was more than a mile away. The eastern sky lit up like a millennium fireworks display. He didn't bother getting up from the ground, but low-crawled behind a doorway that led to yet another passageway underground. "Stalkers, status check," he ordered. He knew where the big explosion was, knew who had been assigned to attack that area, and he dreaded what he was going to learn…. "Castor is secure."

"Nike secure."

"Taurus secure. I got my bell rung, but I'm secure."

"Pollux?" No reply. "Pollux? Paul?" Patrick checked his electronic display for any sign of Paul's transponder. Nothing. "Castor is en route to Pollux's last location," he said. He hit his jump-jets and quickly propelled himself toward the massive explosions to the east. Patrick didn't have to check his heads-up display to know that Briggs and Wohl were on their way to join him.

But there was no way to reach Paul's last location. An area the size of at least four square city blocks was totally engulfed in flames-the very streets seemed to be rivers of fire, and the sky was thick with roiling waves of heat and smoke. Patrick was able to move forward another halfblock with great difficulty before system failure warnings and low-power warnings started to ring. There were several Libyan soldiers in the area, but they seemed stunned both by the devastation and by the strangely armored figure before them.

"Patrick." It was Hal Briggs, suddenly appearing beside him as if from nowhere.

"I'm going in."

"You can't. No one can survive that, not even in a BERP suit."

"I'm not leaving my brother behind," Patrick said. "I left David Luger behind in Siberia, and he survived only to be tortured for five years by the KGB. I won't let that happen to my own brother."

"You can't do it. It's suicide." He paused, studying his electronic visor and downlinking the status of Patrick's battle armor system. "You only have ten minutes of power remaining, and that'll get sucked away fast inside that inferno. My power is down to three minutes. Let's go back to the exfil point and recharge the suits. By then, maybe the fire will have been knocked back, and we can all go in and find Paul."

"No. I'm going in."

"How are you going to find him in thatT

"I don't know, but I'll find him." Patrick didn't know what was guiding him-it wasn't any sensor scan or transponder beacon. He had always believed there was some sort of bond, like a telepathic link, between him and Paul, but it was something he always dismissed as simply two guys being raised together in a house full of women. Whatever it was, Patrick was relying on it now. As Hal Briggs and the amazed and terrified Libyan soldiers looked on, Patrick jet-jumped into the hellish flames.

System warnings flashed in his electronic visor, and his skin felt as if it was going to vaporize right off his body, but he kept going. Moving inside the fire was actually easier than he had thought. His battle armor's sensors detected any large debris around him, so he was able to sidestep the pieces of vehicles and buildings without walking into a burning trap. The multiple blasts had leveled most everything, so all he had to do was avoid the larger pools of burning rocket fuel and continue on. Three or four jumps, and he was in the center of the inferno.

His power was nearly gone. The last estimate he had was five minutes remaining, but the estimate just a minute before that said ten minutes, so in reality he had only a few minutes to get out before the battle armor completely shut down. Patrick knew if that happened, he would be instantly baked alive inside the armor like a potato in a microwave oven-crispy on the outside, well-done on the inside.

One more jump, and he found him-or, rather, what was left of him. Patrick could only stare at his brother, not in horror but in sorrow. He had to have been right atop the SS-12 when it detonated, because the blast had torn right through the Tin Man battle armor. It had been all but peeled off his body, stuck on here and there like clumps of dirt. The intense fires had taken care of the rest. Patrick lifted the body of his younger brother as gently and as completely as he could, then jetted away to the east vlarthe shortest way out of the flames.

The Libyans were getting meaner and bolder now. As Patrick jump-jetted again just a few dozen yards from the perimeter fence, he felt heavy-caliber bullets hitting him from his sides and back. He had commanded the selfdefense electrical beams not to fire to save energy, but his power was all but exhausted. One more jet propelled him over the fence, and the last of his energy reserves drained away.

The fence kept him and the Libyans separated for now, but that didn't last long. Already troops were streaming out, angry voices piercing the night sky, drowning out even the roar of the huge fires behind them. Their blood lust was evident-they were out for revenge and retribution, not capturing prisoners. Patrick had nothing left with which to fight. He could not avoid capture now….

Suddenly, there was a string of explosions between him and the advancing Libyans, stirring up the desert floor like an instant sandstorm. Without the protection of his fully charged armor, Patrick was knocked off his feet as he was pelted with supersonic-blasted sand and rock. Stunned, he lay on the desert floor, knots of pain dotting all around his body. Writhing in pain, he saw the dark profile of his dead brother lying beside him. Both McLanahans, killed in one day, on the same mission. Shit.

He heard a loud roar and felt, rather than saw, more sand being kicked up. The Libyans were closing in, this time with helicopters or armored vehicles, hunting down Wohl and Briggs. The mission was a success, but they might all be wiped out, Patrick thought wearily. Once captured, their bodies put on display along with the remnants of their armor, the Night Stalkers would be dead, the United States would be embarrassed again, and…

"Patrick?" He willed his eyes to open and was surprised when they worked. He was looking directly at the alienlooking helmet worn by Hal Briggs. "You okay, man?"

"Am I shot?"

"You sure as shit got fragged pretty good by the Gators, but I don't see any holes," Briggs said. Patrick moved his arms and legs and found they all functioned, so he struggled to his feet. "Wendy sent in FlightHawk Two right in the nick of time, and she laid down a carpet of cluster bombs and mines right in front of about a hundred Libyan regulars. The armor protected you from the fragments. We're safe right now, but we gotta move." Briggs quickly got to work, snapping a fresh battery pack onto Patrick's backpack. He looked down, examining the body lying in the sand. "You got Paul out. Good work. I'm so sorry, my friend. I'm gonna miss working with him. He's a hero."

Patrick reached for the secure latches to his helmet, but Briggs stopped him. "Better not, man," he said seriously. "FlightHawk One has detected radioactive and chemical agents in the area." He motioned toward the Libyan soldiers lying dead in the aftermath of FlightHawk Two's raid. "If the mines hadn't got them, the radioactivity or nerve agents would have. That replacement battery pack should give you enough juice to hop out of here and be far enough away for the Pave Hammer to safely pick us up. We'd better go."

Patrick nodded, thankful to be alive. The noise Patrick heard was not a Libyan helicopter or tank, but the CV-22 Pave Hammer, making a high-speed pass over the area to check for pursuit. He reached down to pick up his brother again, but Chris Wohl carefully, gently pushed him away, and picked up Paul's body. Together the three commandos and their dead partner jetted eastbound into the desert.

They unearthed one of their prepositioned resupply caches a few minutes later. Fifteen minutes later they were far enough away so that radioactive and chemical weapon residue levels disappeared. Only then could the CV-22 land and extract them, first eastward into Egypt and then northwest out over the Mediterranean Sea.

It was a long, sad, quiet flight back to the Catherine.

"What in hell are you whining about now, Zuwayy?" the Russian shouted on the secure satellite channel. "This had better be important."

"My missile base at Samah was attacked and nearly destroyed by commandos! American commandos!" President Jadallah Salem Zuwayy of Libya shouted in passable Russian. He was wearing a polyester blue and red warmup suit, with no shoes-the clothes that had been thrown to him as his security officers burst into his bedroom and snatched him literally out of bed into a waiting helicopter. At first, he thought it was an assassination squad-rampant fear was finally being replaced with white-hot anger as he realized he was safe. "They have set eighteen of the missiles on fire! There are nerve agents and radioactive materials spreading all across my desert!"

"Zakroy yibala! Shut your fucking mouth and stop blabbering on this line!" the voice shouted back. "This may be a secure channel, but if the Americans are indeed running an operation on you, they may have figured out how to crack the encryption codes. After all, they built the system we are using."

"Did you hear what I said, tovarisch!" Zuwayy retorted. "I am under attack! Thousands of square kilometers of my desert have been contaminated! Hundreds of my soldiers are dead! And the Americans certainly know all about those missiles and where I got them!"

"They know nothing of the sort," Pavel Gregorevich Kazakov responded. Kazakov was sitting at a desk in a small, private apartment in Akranes, Iceland, a few kilometers north of the capital Reykjavik, sipping a cup of tea that an assistant had just fixed for him. His aide, a beautiful young Russian former army officer named Ivana Vasilyeva, deputy chief of staff to the former chief of staff of the army of the Russian Federation-who was just as talented on the pistol range and in a judo dojo as she was in bed-set a tray of sweet rolls and honey on the desk, gave Pavel an enticing smile, then departed. "If they knew anything at all, they would have destroyed the entire base. Just a few commandos-they could have come from anywhere-Israel, Algeria, even your so-called allies Sudan and Syria. Now, shut up and calm yourself."

Kazakov took a sip of tea as Zuwayy started blathering something in half Russian, half Arabic. A phone call an hour before dawn? Kazakov thought bitterly as he sampled one of the pastries. Outrageous. Being in the witness protection program was hell indeed.

One of the world's richest and certainly one of the world's most dangerous men, thirty-nine-year-old Pavel Kazakov, the son of one of the Russian Federation's most highly decorated and most respected army generals, was under house arrest in Iceland, charged with hundreds of counts of murder, conspiracy, fraud, extortion, grand larceny, drug trafficking, and a laundry list of other crimes against several nations from Kazakhstan to the United States. He had been captured by some as yet unidentified commandos, probably Americans, and sent to a Turkish prison. But since so many other countries had lodged charges against him, the World Court ordered that he stand trial in the International Crimes Against Humanity Tribunal in The Hague. With some good lawyers-backed up by generous bribes-Kazakov got some valuable concessions. Turkey usually does not allow extradition of its capital prisoners, but Kazakov agreed to waive his extradition rights in exchange for no death penalty, and he was transferred to a maximum-security facility in the Netherlands.

Then Kazakov started to talk. Within days, Interpol had made dozens of major arrests around the world of suspected narco-traffickers, money launderers, con artists, and gem and art thieves. The authorities had confiscated millions of dollars of stolen weapons, valuables, property, stocks and bonds-even nuclear weapons-in a very short period of time. Pavel Kazakov, still considered the world's most dangerous criminal mastermind, was quickly turning into the biggest and most important informant ever in the history of law enforcement. Some of the world's most feared terrorists, notorious drug smugglers, and slipperiest criminals-men that had been on the run for years, some for decades-had been captured. As much as Pavel Kazakov had cost the world in loss of life and destruction of property, the value of the property alone that his information caused to be recovered or captured topped it by a factor of one hundred.

But, of course, Pavel saw it differently. To him, it was a way to save his own skin, get out of prison-and eliminate the competition. Besides, what did the World Court care about ethnic fighting in Albania or Macedonia, or military men in Turkey, or polluted waters in Kazakhstan? They gladly traded information on drug dealers in Europe and North America for reducing, and then eventually eliminating, Kazakov's prison sentence.

Details of his plea bargain with the World Court were kept top secret. As far as anyone knew, Kazakov was in complete isolation in a prison in Rijssen, the Netherlands, awaiting trial. No one ever suspected that any court would even consider releasing him, and the World Court did not have a witness protection program. But in short order, one was created for him-and Pavel Kazakov was free.

Yes, he was nearly broke-but "nearly broke" for him still meant more wealth than some Third World countries. It still offered him an opportunity to do what he did bestbuild his wealth back up again any way he could, whether it meant dealing drugs, weapons, humans, or oil. Plus, he could do it all from an untraceable apartment and telephone, with a new fully documented identity-all bought and paid for by the World Court in exchange for having the World Court eliminate his enemies for him.

"It is you who is responsible for this!" Zuwayy shouted, finally switching back to full Russian. "My troops could have executed this entire operation without your damned missiles! Now the Americans are breathing down my neck! You must pay for the loss of my base and compensate me for the loss of my soldiers! You must-!"

"Shut your 'scum-sucking mouth, Zuwayy," Kazakov interrupted hotly. "I spent ten million dollars of my own money to put those missiles in place-but not in Samah! I ordered that the missiles be placed in Al-Jawf, not Samah! "

"I put missiles in Al-Jawf-and there they sit, useless, while my men roast in the damned Sahara Desert!" Zuwayy retorted. "You make me pay fifty million dollars for missiles pointed at nothing but wasteland! I say no! Egypt is our true enemy! We need to threaten much more than just the Salimah oil fields."

"You moved some of those missiles to Samah, against my orders," Kazakov said.

"The missiles at Al-Jawf are useless, worthless!" Zuwayy repeated. "From Samah, those missiles can reach Cairo, Alexandria, Israel, even Italy. Moving some of the missiles that I purchased does not affect your plan against the Salimah oil fields."

"I'm not interested in attacking Israel, and I'm sure as hell not interested in attacking Italy with shitty first-generation rockets with chemical warheads!" Kazakov shouted. "Are you out of your mind? If we attack Israel, it will bring the Americans into the region with a vengeance. My oil terminals on the Adriatic Sea are directly downwind of any bases we would attack in Italy-besides, some of my best customers are in Italy! I did not pay you to put those missiles in Libya so you can threaten your neighbors or satisfy your thirst for global conquest.

"I'm glad those missiles in Samah were destroyed, Zuwayy-perhaps now you'll stop going off on your own and listen to what I tell you to do. I will pay you to replace those missiles and warheads-but only if you dismantle any other bases that you put missiles other than Al-Jawf, and only if you stop being a jackass and do as I tell you to do from now on."

"You may not talk to me this way," Zuwayy said haughtily. "I am the king of Libya. I am the leader of the Muslim Brotherhood, the lord of the Muslims. I am-"

"You are nothing but a back-stabbing opportunistic traitor who would sell his wife, mistresses, children, and even your own mother on the streets of Benghazi for money," Kazakov interjected. "You can use that cockamamie I-amroyalty story to impress your people and baffle the rest of the world, but to me you're nothing but a two-bit thug.

"Now shut up and listen. Your primary objective is the Salimah oil fields in Egypt, not to obliterate Cairo or Tel Aviv. Your job is to keep on moving your troops to Sudan, keep their readiness high, and keep on putting pressure on the Egyptian forces opposing yours without starting a shooting conflict yourself. If they are stupid enough to attack, you can simply walk in and wipe them up. Until then, I will continue to push the Central African Petroleum Partners to accept Libya and Metyorgaz as a partner, help develop some of your oil resources, and break the embargo on oil exports from Libya to Europe."

"I do not understand," Zuwayy said, hopelessly confused. "Why don't we just go in, invade Egypt, and take the oil fields ourselves? No one will oppose us."

"You idiot, everyone will oppose us," Kazakov said. "No one will intervene, but we will be drowning in oil because no one will buy what we are pumping, not even on the black market. Besides, if you invade, Central African Petroleum Partners will pull out, and neither you nor I have the money right now to build a thousand-kilometer-long pipeline across the Sahara Desert. We want the pipeline in place and operating before we take over."

"In the meantime, you sit safe and sound in hiding while American commandos destroy my military base," Zuwayy cried. "What am I supposed to do-hold my breath until the poison gas dissipates?"

Kazakov thought for a moment while he watched the former Russian army major Vasilyeva move as she straightened up his desk. She was like a tiger stepping soundlessly through the jungle hunting its prey, every movement graceful and with complete economy. She sensed him looking at her, turned her head to him, smiled, then turned her body so he could see her breasts, squeezing them together with her arms the way he liked to do.

He suddenly realized he had spent too much time with this Libyan popinjay.

"I don't give a shit what you do," Kazakov said. "Someone just invaded your country-it seems like the perfect time to do just about anything you wish to do. Use your armed forces, track those commandos down-you know they're not going to walk out of the damned desert, so track their aircraft down-and then destroy whatever base they came from with everything you've got. You'll be totally justified in whatever action you take-and you might even earn a bit of respect from your enemies. Now, stop bothering me-and you place those missiles where I tell you to place them, or the next biochem warhead you hear about will be falling on your head." He slammed the phone down so hard, his teacup rattled in its saucer.

Zuwayy was dangerous, even unstable, Kazakov thought. He was a warmonger, ready to lash out at anyone, for any reason or no reason at all. He hoped Zuwayy would keep it together long enough, until the delicate negotiations with the Central African Petroleum Partners were concluded. Libyan forces were just a subtle threat to Egypt, and vice versa-neither country had any semblance of a real fighting force. But if anyone tried to attack Libya, the rockets were in place and ready to completely wipe out any opposition and guarantee that no outside forces were going to interfere.

In any case, Kazakov was going to get enough of a foothold in the African oil market to force out the other companies and eventually take over. He didn't have the power he had just a few short months ago-but it was just a matter of time. Once firmly in place in Africa, with the money pouring in, he could move back into the vast untapped oil resources in the Caspian Sea region again.

He was so engrossed in his own heated thoughts that he did not notice Ivana Vasilyeva standing beside his desk, staring at him. Her full red lips were parted as if she were panting heavily, and her eyes were wide and glassy. He smiled at her.

"You speak to other men, even this king of Libya, as if he were a street sweeper who had just soiled your shoes," Vasilyeva breathed. Her left hand drifted up to her breast, and her fingers teased a nipple underneath her sweater. "You are an extraordinary man. I am pleased that you have chosen me to be by your side."

He stood, walked over to her, reached behind her head with his left hand, and yanked her chin upward by pulling her hair. Her left hand did not move from her breast, so he fondled her right breast until her nipple sprang to life. "I keep you here with me because of your contacts in the Russian government and army," Kazakov said. He looked into her eyes as they grew wider, as if in fear, but her breathing was becoming heavier, more excited. "I also keep you here because you can kill faster and more efficiently and in more ways than I."

He pushed her aside roughly, then took his seat once again. "Stop this foolishness and straighten up, Major," Kazakov ordered her. She stood before him, watching him with half-closed eyes, her expression contrite yet inviting at the same time. "I do not believe for one moment that you get orgasmic just by watching me yell at a strutting simpleton like Zuwayy. He is not one-tenth the soldier or leader you are-if he was, I would send you to Tripoli and have you assassinate him immediately. He is a bug to be squashed as soon as he fulfills his part, which is to force either a settlement or a war between the central African oil cartels and us. Your job is to watch my back and collect information, not to play with yourself in my office. If I need a whore, I'll call one."

"I am here to do whatever you wish, Pavel-"

"I am Comrade Kazakov to you, Major," he corrected her. "And there should be no doubt in your mind that you are here to do whatever I wish, or else your fate would be the same as your last boss, General Zhurbenko-thirty years at hard labor in Siberia. But you are a highly trained soldier and a keen tactician, not a zblidavattsa. If I ever get another indication that you fancy yourself as anything else but my chief of security and my aide-de-camp, you will find yourself digging coal in Siberia beside Zhurbenkoor at the bottom of an Icelandic fjord."

"Yes, Comrade Kazakov," Vasilyeva said. But her eyes blazed as she went on, "But now I wish to tell you something."

"You do so at your own peril, Major."

"Very well," she said. She took a bold step forward; Kazakov's eyes warned her away, but he knew it would take more than a stare to make this woman back off. "You say you chose me, Comrade. But now I tell you this: I chose you as well."

"Zasrat mazgi? Oh, really?"

"Yes, Comrade," Vasilyeva said confidently, with only a hint of a smile on her beautiful but army-hardened face. "I chose General Zhurbenko the same way: He was a man that could get me the things I wanted-power, prestige, money, land, and status. If I had to let the old bastard feel me up or be his min 'etka every now and then, it was all part of my plan to get what I wanted.

"I feel the same way about you, Comrade-you are a man that can get me what I want. You have the poweryou still have the power, even here, in exile in Iceland. I can dedicate myself to a man such as you."

"Frankly, Major, I was not too impressed with how well you protected your other mentor."

"I noticed your power the moment I first met you in the general's car. I knew you were the one for me, the man with even more power than Zhurbenko, the one who could get me the things I want," Vasilyeva said. "Besides, he gave me to you-it was clear he no longer needed me. It was easy to switch loyalties. If the general showed the same loyalty to me when your plan started to become exposed, I would have used my powers to protect him as well-but he decided to be a good soldier and take his punishment, protecting his wife instead of me. That will cost him his life." She stepped closer to him again, and this time he saw something more sinister in her expression-not just confidence, but a warning as well. "I have given myself to you, Comrade. I am yours. Betray me, and I will bring you down like I brought down Zhurbenko. Remain loyal to me, and you can do with me as you want-anything you want-and I will do anything for you."

Pavel Kazakov had to suppress a thrill of dread that came over him again. The old feeling had come back-the feeling of impending danger. Every time he had listened, the feeling had saved him. Every time he ignored it, failed to break off his plans, run, and protect himself, he went down in disaster and defeat.

But before he could respond, she reached out to him, took his hands, and placed them on her breasts. Her eyes were demanding, commanding, riveting-and irresistible. She had always been irresistible. This wasn't loyalty, and certainly not love-this was plain old-fashioned ambition, desire, and a willingness to do anything, and allow anything to be done to her, to get what she wanted.

Of course, he failed to listen to the danger signal. He was helpless to heed it now.

"Well," he said with a smile as she reached behind her neck to unzip her sweater, "if you put it that way, Major…"

Zuwayy slammed the phone down hard. "Saghf tarak khord!" he cursed. "That bastard! How dare he order me around like a child!" But Kazakov was right about one thing: This was a good opportunity to lash out at someone and prove he wasn't going to be pushed around. And he would be fully, completely justified in doing so.

He dialed a special secure pager number, then sat and waited. Several minutes later, a call was put through to him: "Speak."

"This is Ulama al-Khan, Majesty," Khalid al-Khan, the chief justice of the Egyptian Supreme Court and the leader of the main opposition party, responded. "God be with you."

"And to you, Ulama," Zuwayy said. This guy had to be the biggest idiot in all of Egypt and probably all of northern Africa, Zuwayy scoffed to himself. Khan saw himself as an Islamic holy man, a true believer who fancied himself a spiritual master and leader. He was so zealous in his beliefs-and so enamored of himself-that he couldn't see danger when it was right in front of his face. His ambition would quite possibly drive him into the Presidential Palace-but he had no concept of how to lead a government, except to send out his henchmen in the Egyptian Republican Guards and assassinate a political enemy. He truly believed that God would absolve him of all his sins, no matter how heinous his crimes.

But most times stupidity and ambition made for a pliant coconspirator, and that's what Zuwayy had in Khan. The Egyptian cleric thought it was in the best interest of all concerned for Egypt to join the Muslim Brotherhood-a loose confederation of Libya, Sudan, and Yemen, with major support in Syria, Jordan, Iraq, and Lebanon, and with some wealthy supporters in such pro-Western states such as Saudi Arabia, Oman, the United Arab Emirates, and even Kuwait. Jadallah Zuwayy, as ruler of the most powerful military in the alliance, was the leader of the Muslim Brotherhood. Their sworn mission: to replace all of the secular governments in the Middle East with religiousbased governments firmly grounded in traditional Muslim beliefs. Egypt joining the Muslim Brotherhood would be the crown jewel in strengthening the organization and convincing other undecided nations to join-Egypt had the most powerful military force in the entire region, almost on a par with Israel quantitatively.

Zuwayy found a ready and willing ideological slave in Khalid al-Khan. Obviously the cleric never read anything but propaganda sheets-for he truly believed that Zuwayy was descended from the Prophet Muhammad and was the savior and sword of Islam. Zuwayy nurtured that fiction every chance he could, and Khan was obviously enjoying and benefiting from the attention. It did not take long to lodge al-Khan firmly under Zuwayy's thumb.

"I have a request of you, Ulama," Zuwayy said.

"Ask anything of me, Majesty," Khan replied devoutly.

"A sneak attack by unidentified commandos was perpetrated against Libya tonight."

"I have heard of this, Majesty. Are you safe?"

"Perfectly safe, Ulama."

"I swear this to you, Majesty, that the terrorists that did this deed will be hunted down like the dogs they are and punished!"

"You would tell me if these terrorists came from Egypt, Khalid?"

"Of course, Majesty!" Khan cried. "I would notify you the instant I found out, even if I risked violating state secrets. You are descended from the loving Prophet-none may seek to harm you! All true believers know this to be true!"

"Thank you for your words of comfort, Khalid," Zuwayy said. "But I need your help to find the terrorists."

"Anything, Majesty."

"I believe that the terrorists crossed into Egypt to make their escape. I need your military forces to provide me with radar and patrol data so that I may track them down."

"It shall be delivered to you by daybreak, Majesty."

"And whatever my military forces may do, Ulama, I do not want your military forces to intervene," Zuwayy said. "I will not attack Egyptian soil without first notifying you-but I do not want any Egyptian forces to respond to attacks elsewhere."

"I will give the orders myself, Majesty," Khan said. "It is easily done. The commanders of our largest military bases are friends to me and our cause."

"Very good, Khalid. My war ministers will be in touch with your office within the hour. On behalf of all the faithful, I thank you."

"It is my honor, Majesty," Khan said. "I am pleased to tell you, Highness, that I shall place my name in nomination before the People's Assembly for president of Egypt, insh'allah."

"Excellent, Ulama," Zuwayy said. His defense ministers and generals were entering the room-he had to shut this zealot off, quick. "You have my full support and blessings. Anything my government or I can do to support you, it is yours."

"Of course, joining the Muslim Brotherhood is my main goal, Majesty," Khan said. "I wish to strengthen ties with all of our Muslim brothers and force all of the foreigners out."

"The foreigners are draining the strength out of all the faithful. We need to formalize our union, Ulama. When you are named president, we shall work together to eliminate the Westerners from our land. The oil they pump from our land is ours, not theirs. Libya took control of our oil fields, Khalid-Egypt should do the same. I will accept any information you can give me, and God will tell me His wishes."

"As you wish, Majesty," Khan said. "It shall be sent to you without delay."

Good little tool, Zuwayy thought, good little tool.

"I apologize for having to do this," Patrick McLanahan said as he entered the briefing room. The other members of his team were already there, waiting. "I know none of us feel much like debriefing right now. But we have a report to file. Let's get to it." He looked over to his wife, Wendy. "What have you got for us?"

Wendy looked on her husband sadly, her eyes wet with tears. Concentrating on recovering the commando team, with the body of her dead brother-in-law aboard, was one of the most difficult things she ever had to do. But Patrick was all business-never shed a tear, never sulked, never really looked at his brother once they were brought aboard. He helped carry the litter off the CV-22 Pave Hammer tiltrotor aircraft until two other men took the body away, and then he got right back to work. She could feel the pain inside him, even though his face and features didn't show it.

Patrick issued a voice command, and his fibersteel exoskeleton automatically detached itself from his body. He stepped out of it and pressed a code into a hidden keypad, and the exoskeleton folded itself up into a package about the size of a small suitcase. He plugged the pack into a wall outlet to recharge it, set the exoskeleton aside, sat down at the head of the conference table, then plugged his battle armor into another available outlet. Patrick, Wendy noticed, still had Paul's blood on his hands, his wrists, his arms, and his face-he hadn't even slowed down long enough to wash it off.

"We launched a FlightHawk recon aircraft while you were on your way back, Patrick," Wendy began in a low monotone voice. "We did detect radioactive elements in the atmosphere over Samah consistent with a number of nuclear warheads, so some of the rockets you destroyed were nuclear. The bad news is, we also detected VX nerve agents, also consistent with a number of warheads, maybe as many as a half-dozen."

"Holy shit," Hal Briggs breathed. "With an SS-12 they could hit Rome, Athens, Istanbul, Tel Aviv…"

"Or Cairo, Alexandria, or the Suez Canal," Patrick added. "And Libya has a number of ex-Russian long-range bombers, tactical fighters, coastal antiship, and ship-borne weapon systems capable of delivering those warheads too. They could hold all of southern Europe at risk." Patrick looked at his intelligence briefing notes. "Our private intelligence sources told us there might be as many as six other bases, including two more secret bases like Samah, hiding ballistic missiles armed with nuclear or chemical warheads. I'd like to set up a complete reconnaissance schedule with as many FlightHawks as we can, scanning every square foot to try to locate the other missiles."

"Agreed," Chris Wohl said. "We can have a strike team standing by either offshore or in Egypt to move as soon as targets are located."

"We should also push to upgrade the sensors on the recon FlightHawks," Wendy added. "We can put an ultrawideband radar on a FlightHawk to let us scan for underground bunkers and communications lines under the sand." The ultra-wideband radar, or UWBR, was one of the most significant advances in surveillance and reconnaissance: a radar capable of seeing through some mediumdensity objects. The system normally fit only on a full-size aircraft, but Jon Masters had redesigned it to fit on board a small, unmanned aircraft. "The FlightHawks will have only a few hours' loiter time because of the size of the UWBR system, but we'll be able to scan the country quicker and more efficiently."

"Then let's get it all moving this way immediately," Patrick said. "I don't want to give the Libyans a chance-"

Just then, an electronic warning tone sounded-the collision warning. Everyone in the briefing room immediately shot to their feet and headed out to their emergency stations. At the same moment the phone from the bridge sounded; Patrick picked it up before the second ring. "Go ahead, Brian." -

"We got a situation, General," Brian Lovelock, the cap-

tain of the Catherine, responded. "We're receiving distress signals from two vessels within thirty miles of our position, saying they're under attack from unidentified aircraft. No warning given. The attackers appear to be moving from east to west-in our direction."

"Got it," Patrick replied. He pressed another button, this one hooked directly to the Combat Information Center and his longtime friend and partner, David Luger. "Dave, what do you have?"

"We're just now picking up four high-speed aircraft bearing one-zero-five, altitude less than one thousand feet, heading west at four hundred eighty knots," Luger responded. The Catherine had an entire combat radar system hidden aboard the salvage ship, disguised as standard navigation radars-it was as combat-capable as many world navies' warships. "Sorry we didn't pick them up earlier, Muck, but they are right down on the friggin' deck. Their ETE is four minutes."

"Sound general quarters, everyone to air defense positions," Patrick ordered. "Better start a complete data dump to the satellite and then destroy the classified. Someone's on the warpath out here, and I think we're next." On his subcutaneous microtransceiver, he said, "Patrick to Wendy… Wendy, I want you aboard the Pave Hammer, along with the civilians."

"I'm staying, Wendy said. "I can have a FlightHawk armed with air-to-air missiles airborne in three minutes."

"Wendy, no argument. You're evacuating with the other civilians." He paused, then said, "Bradley is waiting for you."

There was a slight pause, but Patrick knew invoking the name of their son would do it. "All right."

"We'll hold them off as best we can," Patrick said. He hit the hidden switch on his exoskeleton, stepped into it after it stood itself up, attached it to his body, locked his helmet in place, then ran up on deck. He immediately dashed over to the bow of the Catherine, which was facing east, in the direction from which the attackers were coming. "Combat, this is Castor," Patrick radioed. "Range to bandits?"

"Twenty-two miles and closing. ETE less than three minutes."

As he searched the morning sky with his helmet-mounted sensors, three crewmen trotted over to him, wheeling a large crate on a cart. Patrick unlocked the crate and with one hand extracted the weapon inside. It was an immense M-168 sixbarreled Vulcan cannon. Normally mounted on a big Humvee or M-113 armored personnel carrier, the eighthundred-pound Vulcan cannon was designed for use against ground targets and fast-flying helicopters at ranges out to a mile and a half. It had a maximum rate of fire of one hundred rounds per second-anything it hit would be chopped to hamburger in the blink of an eye.

"Combat, Castor," Patrick radioed as he hefted the big cannon. The hydraulically powered exoskeleton made it ridiculously easy to level the big gun and move it smoothly and precisely in any direction. "Where are they?"

"Bearing one-zero-two, range eighteen miles, low."

Patrick activated all of his battle armor's sensors and began scanning at maximum range. "Roger. Nike, Taurus, Pollux, you guys up?"

"Nike up in ten seconds," Wohl replied.

"Taurus will be up in twenty."

No reply from Pollux-and Patrick realized that there never would be one either, ever again. "Roger, Stalkers," he said sadly. "Report when you're ready to engage." At that moment, several of their commandos, wearing lightweight non-electronic battle armor, began to set their Stinger MANPADS (Man-Portable Air Defense System) up beside Patrick. The Stinger MANPADS was a portable shoulder-fired heat-seeking antiaircraft missile. Other commandos brought caskets of reloads. "My MANPADS is up on the bow. Hammer, what's your status?"

At that moment, Patrick heard the low, steadily quickening roar of the CV-22 Pave Hammer's engines starting up behind him. It had been raised up on deck from its hold faster than Patrick could ever imagine. "Hammer is starting engines. We'll be airborne in two minutes.'

"Make it one minute, Hammer," Patrick ordered. "combat?"

"Bearing zero-niner-seven, range fifteen miles… stand by, aircraft turning slightly, range decreasing rapidly We're being highlighted by X-band airborne radar. They got a lock on us."

"Get the Hammer off the deck now" Patrick shouted.

"Sixty seconds. All civilians are aboard."

Patrick felt a rush of relief-and then a thrill of fear as his sensors picked up the aircraft. He saw two at first, then three. "Contact, range nine miles and closing fast." The roar of the Hammer's engines increased-it was close to liftoff speed. "Eight miles.. seven miles… bandits climbing slightly… six miles…"

"Sparkle! Sparkle!" Luger shouted. Everyone knew what that meant-they were being highlighted by a targeting laser.

Just then, Patrick saw another target appear-much smaller and much faster. "Stalkers, missiles inbound Missiles inbound! I've got two in sight!" Patrick raised the big Vulcan cannon and snapped off the safety with a quick thought-command. The two missiles were coming in fast, wavering slightly up and down in altitude but coming in straight and true. "Dave, countermeasures starboard nowl"

Behind him, two rockets streaked from hidden launchers. Each rocket was an electronic decoy, designed to broadcast radio and infrared signatures several thousand times larger and brighter than the ship. They drifted up slowly, making inviting targets. Would they be inviting enough…?

They were. Both missiles veered to the right, chasing the decoys. Patrick tracked them with ease. The first missile hit the first decoy-but the second decoy must've crashed or malfunctioned, because the second missile only jinked slightly right and then veered left, back on the Catherine. Patrick issued an electronic command, and the big Vulcan cannon opened fire. A shaft of fire fifteen feet long belched from the muzzle, and a hundred empty cartridges showered onto the deck in front of the Stinger crew. Off in the distance, the second enemy missile exploded in a cloud of fire.

"Forward MANPADS up!" Patrick shouted. As he placed the Vulcan cannon on the deck as gently as if he were setting a golf bag down on the fringe of the green, the team of commandos stepped forward and placed the Stinger launcher on his shoulder. Patrick immediately locked onto the incoming fighter, waited until it got within range, then fired.

The lead fighter must've seen the launch immediately, because it immediately banked hard right and started ejecting decoy flares. But the second fighter was not as quick. He made a gentler turn, obviously hesitant to get too close to his leader at night and low to the ocean, and did not pop any decoy flares until it was far too late. The Stinger missile flew a smooth, unerring arc right up the fighter's hot tailpipe and exploded. The Stinger crew could not see anything so far away at night, but through his millimeter-wave imaging radar and infrared sensors, Patrick could see the second fighter dip precariously close to the ocean, regain altitude, dip again, climb, then plunge almost straight down into the dark Mediterranean. He saw no ejection seat blast free, or any parachute.

"Splash one," Patrick announced. After all the death, destruction, and pain he had seen that day, the crash of this unidentified attacker meant absolutely nothing to him. "First bandit is bearing zero-eight-zero, twelve miles, turning east."

At that moment, he heard the CV-22 Pave Hammer tiltrotor aircraft lift off the deck. Thank God, he breathed, Wendy was going to be safe, as long as they were able to keep those fighters off its tail until they were safely wavehopping away.

"Taurus has three bandits, bearing two-five-zero, range nine miles," Hal Briggs shouted on the command network. "Comin' in low and smoking.'"

"Nike has contact on the bandits at two-five-zero," Chris Wohl chimed in. "Switching to Stinger. Taurus, you hang on to the Vulcan."

"How about we both take a Stinger?" Briggs suggested. "I can grab the Vulcan and knock down any stragglers after I launch."

"Rog."

"Stalkers, I have a surface contact, bearing two-twothree, range twenty-nine miles," Dave Luger announced. "He's hitting us with an India-band Plank Shave surface search radar and an India-band Hawk Screech fire-control radar. I make this a Koni-class frigate, probably Libyan. He's coming in fast, almost thirty knots. He could be within missile range at any time."

"Should've known it was the Libyans," Wohl muttered on the command net.

"Think they might be pissed at us for blowing up their nukes?" Briggs chimed in.

"Pissed enough to attack every ship close enough to have based the chopper," Patrick said. "Let's deal with the fighters first, then the frigate." He didn't have to say the obvious-they were going to have a fight on their hands, one they had very little chance of surviving.

Stinger missiles soon began rippling from the starboard deck and fantail as the Libyan fighters closed in. Only the combination of the Vulcan cannons and decoys were able to keep the Catherine from being hit. Even so, one missile came close enough to rattle the deck with bits of shrapnel, caught at the last possible moment by a last-instant blast from Hal Briggs's cannon. But their efforts finally paid off. "Stalkers, air search radar is clear," Luger announced. "Good shooting. No radar contacts. The rest RTBed."

"I got a problem over here, boys," Briggs said. "I'm real low on ammo. Maybe two or three more bursts and I'm out."

"Same here," Wohl said.

Patrick checked his magazine and found he had just a handful of rounds remaining-not enough for even a halfsecond burst. "How about your Stingers?"

"One on the fantail."

"Two starboard."

"One on the bow," Patrick said. "And there's no way we can outrun that frigate."

"I just got a call-the Egyptian Navy is dispatching two Perry-class frigates," Luger reported. "ETE sixty minutes.

They've launched patrol aircraft and helicopters, too."

That was good news, Patrick thought, but they wouldn't be on time before the Libyan warship struck.

He hesitated, but only for a moment. For the second time, he was going to lose another base ship to enemy attack. The Iranians had sunk another commando carrier, the S.S. Valley Mistress, in the Persian Gulf, killing several dozen men. That incident had brought Patrick out of his first retirement to start a campaign of revenge against the Iranian Revolutionary Guards that had captured the survivors. He was determined not to allow that loss of life again. "Abandon ship," Patrick ordered. "All crewmen to lifeboats. Right now."

"Patrick-" Dave Luger began.

"This means you, Dave," Patrick interrupted. "We'll stay up here with whatever weapons we have left and hold off that frigate as long as possible. Then we'll-"

Suddenly, Hal Briggs shouted, "Hey, Dave, is that a FlightHawk on the launcher over on the starboard side raising up to launch position?"

"A FlightHawk?" Patrick asked. "Dave, how did you get a FlightHawk ready so fast?"

"I didn't do it, Muck," Luger replied. "I just noticed it elevating too. It's already spun up its guidance system. I didn't do it from here. I don't know…" He paused, then shouted, "Missile inbound! A missile just lifted off from that frigate.. a second missile just launched. Two missiles inbound! Sea-skimmers, accelerating to point nine Mach, range twenty-five miles!"

"Get your asses on those lifeboats now!" Patrick shouted to the two MANPADS crew members with him, pushing them toward the lifeboat stations on the port side. He grabbed his last Stinger missile and dashed down the starboard side of the salvage ship. He saw the FlightHawk on the amidships launch rail, but he couldn't see what weapons, if any, it was carrying, or any other markings that would tell him which UCAV it was. Just as he reached the fantail alongside Briggs and Wohl, the FlightHawk unmanned combat air vehicle blasted off from its launcher on deck.

"Good job, Dave," Patrick said. "Now get to the lifeboats."

"I'm telling you, Muck, I didn't-"

"Contact! Here they come!" Briggs shouted. "Man, they're damned low. I don't know if the Stingers will be able to lock on them." But he raised his Stinger, aimed, and fired. Seconds later, the first antiship missile, a Russianmade SS-N-2C Styx missile, exploded in a brilliant ball of fire. Patrick's Stinger missile missed the second antiship missile, but Chris Wohl was ready with his Vulcan cannon and destroyed it seconds before it hit. This time, the starboard side of the Catherine was showered with unspent rocket fuel and fiery bits of the obliterated warhead. It was a very close call.

"Lifeboats away," they heard Dave Luger report. "One lifeboat starboard, another on the port side, ready and waiting for you guys."

"How many of those big missiles does that frigate carry?" Briggs asked.

"Koni-class frigates carry four SS-N-2s," Luger responded.

"Then I'll stay to see if they fire any more missiles," Patrick said.

"I'm staying too," Hal Briggs said.

"I'm not leaving," Chris Wohl said with pure titanium in his voice. "We've got two Stingers and some ammo leftthat should be enough for the last two SS-N-2s."

Patrick nodded. He was happy to have such good fighters and close friends on that fantail with him. He had no way to fight off two big antiship missiles by himself, but he had been ready to order both of them to the lifeboats anyway.

"Here they come, guys," Hal shouted. It seemed as if he barely had time to raise his Stinger missile before he fired. The antiaircraft missile missed, plunging into the sea without ever locking onto the target. Wohl's cannon fire hit the missile, but it still continued on, skipping across the ocean like a stick of dynamite thrown across a pond before slamming into the Catherine near the bow. Patrick's last Stinger missile shot missed as well, and the second SS-N-2 Styx missile hit just aft of the first missile's impact point. The ship shuddered, which soon progressed with terrifying speed to an earthquake-like trembling. The deck heeled upward, slammed down hard, then heeled up again. The bow was already going under.

It took every bit of strength for the three commandos to struggle to the port-side lifeboats. Luger had already lowered a boat to the water and had its engines started, and it took only seconds for the three to climb down, unfasten their lines, and motor away from the Catherine.

Through his electronic visor, Patrick could see the big Libyan frigate on the horizon. It was already turning toward them-the rapidly sinking salvage ship could no longer screen them. The lifeboat could only putter along, barely making five or six knots-the frigate would catch up to them in no time. Moments later he saw a muzzle flash, and seconds later a huge geyser of water erupted just a few dozen yards away-the Libyan frigate was already firing on them!

Wohl was twisting and pulling the lifeboat's tiller, trying to spoil their targeting. "Come and get us, sucker," he muttered. "Just hope there's nothing left of me when you catch up to me." Another geyser of water and an earsplitting BOOM! erupted, closer this time-they were getting the range. Another couple shots and..

Suddenly a fountain of fire appeared on the horizon. "Something hit the Libyan frigate!" Patrick shouted. "The FlightHawk! It must've kamikazied on the frigate! Not a moment too soon!" On the command net, he radioed, "Wendy, this is Castor. Are you in contact with the Egyptian patrol ships? They should be able to screen you against any other Libyan fighters. Are you heading toward Egypt?" No response. "Wendy, you copy?"

"This is the Hammer," the pilot of the CV-22 Pave Hammer tilt-rotor aircraft replied. "Are you trying to call us?"

"I was wondering if Wendy got in contact with the Egyptian navy."

"Wendy's not on board, Castor," came the response.

Patrick's mouth turned instantly dry, and his knees wobbled, even though his legs were supported by the high-tech exoskeleton. "Say again, Hammer?"

"Sir, Wendy is not on board," the pilot acknowledged. "She told some of our passengers to lift off without her, that she was going in a lifeboat after she got a FlightHawk ready to attack."

"Wendy?" Patrick shouted. "Can you hear me? Where are you? Answer me!" He was breathing so hard into his helmet that he was in danger of hyperventilating. "I want a search of every lifeboat and every square inch of the Hammer! Turn this boat around! We're going back!"

But by the time they turned around, the S.S. Catherine the Great had slipped beneath the dark burning waters of the Mediterranean Sea. They searched for several minutes until they heard patrol helicopters from the Libyan frigate heading in their direction and they were forced to withdraw. The Libyans pursued them until Egyptian navy patrol planes forced the Libyan helicopters to return to their stricken ship, but by the time Patrick, Briggs, and Wohl were picked up by an Egyptian frigate, the area where the Catherine had gone down was surrounded by Libyan coastal patrol ships. There was no way they could return, and they easily outnumbered the Egyptian patrols. Patrick interrogated Wendy's subcutaneous microtransceiver, checking for life signs or even a position, but there was no reply.

Patrick could not bear to turn away from the spot where the Catherine had gone down. He didn't care if the whole world heard the strange high-tech-looking commando sobbing inside his battle armor.