"I can't take a meeting today. Can't you see this place is a madhouse?" Jon Masters shouted when his assistant, Suzanne, interrupted him for the third time in the past hour.
"Jon, the Duffields have been waiting since yesterday…"
"I asked to reschedule the meeting."
"They've already rescheduled twice," Suzanne reminded him. "They've flown out all the way from Nevada each time. They're trying to accommodate you all they can."
"Have them try harder." He jabbed a finger at the door, dismissing her, then recited more commands into his voice-command computer terminal.
Suzanne sighed and gave up, but as she departed Jon's wife, Helen, who was the chairman of the board of their high-tech defense contractor aerospace company, Sky Masters Inc., walked in. Helen was several years older than her husband, but these days their age difference seemed to grow less and less noticeable. Helen was now wearing her dark hair a bit shorter, accentuating her long neck, slender face, and dark mysterious eyes; through the magic of laser surgery, she was also able to forgo the thick matronlylooking glasses she had worn since childhood. "Jon, we have that meeting with the Duffields right now. Let's go."
"I just got done telling Suzanne-"
"I know what you're telling Suzanne, but I'm telling you-we can't put this off any longer," Helen insisted. "Just a couple hours, that's all. A quick tour, review the prospectus, meet and greet, perhaps talk about the reorganization…"
"Helen," Jon began, rubbing his temples quickly with his fingers, "give me a break, okay?" He put his head down and concentrated on his self-massage, and Helen waited patiently for him to finish. Jon Masters was only in his mid-thirties, but his short, frizzy, rather unkempt hair looked like it was already turning gray at the temples, and many speculated he rubbed his temples more and more these days to rub the gray off. He had stopped wearing ball caps and drinking from big thirty-two-ounce squeeze bottles like a preschooler; and Helen, his wife of only a few years, noticed that her younger husband was starting to feel his age as well as look it.
It was about time, she thought. Jon Masters's entire life had been one adventure after another: his first of several hundred patents at age ten; his first million-dollar tax return by age eleven; his first Ph.D., from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology at age thirteen; control of the company, the one she had slaved for years to build, before age thirty. He had completely bypassed childhood and gone from infant to adult. Jon had never really known failure or pressure in his young life-he was always the one in control. Even in his clumsy, boyish, but charming courtship of her, he managed to learn how to charm and please a woman quickly enough to avoid losing her completely. He did not make her feel like just another conquest-he had learned well enough to avoid that trap.
"In case you've forgotten, Helen," Jon muttered, "Paul is dead; Wendy is missing; and Patrick, Hal, and Chris are being detained in Egypt." Sky Masters Inc. was the secret major weapons and technology supplier to former president Kevin Martindale's commando force, the Night Stalkers. It was not a closely guarded secret: Wendy, Patrick, Hal Briggs, and Chris Wohl were all employees of Sky Masters Inc., and Paul McLanahan, although employed as an attorney in California, had worked closely with Sky Masters for years on development of the Tin Man battle armor and other weapons. "I'm a little preoccupied right now."
"But the Duffields don't know any of that," Helen said, closing Jon's office door behind her. "We can't tell them several of our people are involved in secret commando attacks in Libya. We have to carry on as if everything is okay. If we don't, it'll look like we're just blowing them off-and we definitely don't want to do that."
"Helen, I thought all this shareholder and ownership and corporate-resolution stuff was your responsibility," Jon whined. "All I want to do is be an inventor, work in the labs, design stuff.. "
"You are also chief operating officer and the majority shareholder, so you have a say in everything that goes on," Helen reminded him. "Of course, you can always transfer all your shares to me, and then I can relieve you of your position as COO and largest shareholder and you can be just a regular salaried employee-just like you did to me six years ago."
"C'mon, now-you're still not mad about that, are you?" Jon asked with a faint smile.
"A guy eight years my junior who had never even owned a car before marches into the company I mortgaged my parents' house to start and takes over in just a couple years-what do I have to be mad about?" Helen responded. But she smiled at him and said, "Actually, I was impressed by what you did, even though I squawked and hollered every step of the way until I was purpl, and I'm proud and pleased with what you've done with my company since then. You're a good guy, Jon. That impish spoiJed-brat personality is almost gone, and you've turned into a regular guy." She paused, her smile warm and genuine. "The guy I love."
Jon looked up and smiled back. "And I love you, Helen." He sighed, then added, "And you can have the stock and the title. I don't want it. It's not worth that much these days anyway."
"Bull, Dr. Masters," Helen said. "If you didn't want it, you would have given it away long ago, or put it into a trust for the child you keep promising to make with me-if you'd ever go home and spend a night in bed with me. And don't worry about the stock value. Sure, it's gone down in recent months with the downturn in the NASDAQ, but with the sweetheart stock option deals you finagled, you're still a rich guy." She stepped over behind him and gently massaged his shoulders. "Besides, giving up the stock and your position in the company wouldn't relieve you of worrying about our friends, or mourning Paul McLanahan."
"No. I guess it wouldn't." Jon sighed. "I can't believe Paul's gone. We were almost the same age. He was teaching me how to sail. We were buddies. I felt closer to him than I did to Patrick."
She massaged his shoulders a bit more until he moaned with pleasure, then patted his shoulder, hard, in the direction of his office door. "Let's go, Doctor. Let's meet the Duffields."
"Remind me who they are again?"
"You know who they are," Helen said, rolling her eyes with mock exasperation. "Conan David Duffield is the retired founder of SumaTek, the largest very-high-speed integrated-circuit design company in the world and the pioneer of nanotechnology. We have used SumaTek chips in our designs for ten years. He's in his late forties, degrees from Rutgers and Cornell, he's into French and Napa Valley wine, humane treatment of animals, and private schools, including providing scholarships to good students who otherwise couldn't afford a private-school education. His new acquisition company is called Sierra Vistas Partners. He's the money guy-he buys, rehabilitates, grows, and sells distressed high-tech companies."
"Hey, this company is not 'distressed.'"
"I'm not saying it is, Jon," Helen said quickly. But they both knew better-the combination of a downturning stock market, a glut of fairly modern Russian and Chinese weapons on the global arms market, and vastly lower defense spending had depressed stock values and affected thousands of defense-related companies all over the world, including Sky Masters Inc.
"His wife is Dr. Kelsey D. Duffield, Ph.D.," Helen went on. "I don't have that much info on her-she keeps more to herself. I hear she's much younger than he is. She's the front person: she investigates and evaluates companies, then reports to him."
"What's her degree in?"
"Which one? She has six or seven of them, including two Ph.D.s-electrical engineering, math, physics, computer-language design, chemistry, and a couple others. Speaks seven languages, plays concert-quality piano, writes music, and is an expert-level downhill skier and chess player. They have one child-I don't know her name."
"Sheesh, is this the definition of a dysfunctional family, or what?" Jon quipped. Helen scowled at him. "I'm only kidding. Sounds like a perfectly wonderful, albeit superoverachieving family unit. Wonder what the little girl's going to grow up like?" Helen looked at him with a knowing smile-she was looking at him. "Don't answer that."
"Can we go now?"
"All right, all right, let's meet the whiz family. But after this, no more meetings until our guys are safe."
"Deal."
"And we are not selling them the company," Jon added. Helen said nothing. The answer to that question, at least for the time being, was not up to them. "Let's go."
They walked out of Jon's office, and Suzanne escorted them to the conference room. The folks waiting for them stood politely when they entered. Kelsey Duffield was a pretty woman in her mid-thirties, her reddish-blond hair tied back behind her neck. She wore a simple silk business suit and carried a thin briefcase, and she had a good, strong handshake and a confident, pleasing smile.
"Very pleased to meet you, Dr. Duffield," Jon said as he stepped quickly into the room, extending a hand and shaking hers enthusiastically. "I've heard a great deal about you."
The woman's eyebrows furrowed. "I'm not a doctor, Dr. Masters. Just a lowly CPA." Jon glanced at Helen, a bit confused and surprised by her misinformation-Helen usually didn't get the details wrong. Duffield turned and nodded to the man standing beside her. "This is my associate and chief financial officer, Neil Hudson. Neil, this is Dr. Jon Masters, COO, and Dr. Helen Kaddiri Masters, chairman of the board."
As they shook hands, they heard a clatter. "Oh, dear, please be careful. Ladies and gentlemen, my daughter. She seems to have a case of the dropsies today." Duffield rushed over to a sideboard, where a cute little brunette girl of nine or ten had just spilled a cup of orange juice on her dress. The little girl studied Jon for a long moment while her mother cleaned her up. Jon smiled at her, and she smiled back. He found it cute that she had spilled juice on a copy of a technical journal that she had in her lap. Her mother put the engineering journal aside and put a well-worn copy of a children's book of airplanes on her daughter's lap.
Jon noticed that the girl was still staring at him, the smile gone, as Duffield returned to the group. Jon winked at her, but she did not respond. Well, Jon never did click well with little kids-probably why he was hesitating having some of his own.
"Would your daughter be more comfortable in the daycare center, with some other children her age?" Helen asked. "It's just across the courtyard."
"Or I'd be happy to take her to the park," Suzanne offered.
Both the elder and younger Duffields looked a bit confused. "No, she's fine here," the elder Duffield said coolly.
The numbers guy, Hudson, looked a little aghast for a moment; then, after Duffield glanced at him, he appeared as if he was suppressing a chuckle. "Shall we get started?"
"Of course," Helen replied. They all took seats around one end of the conference table. "On behalf of everyone here at Sky Masters Inc., welcome to Blytheville and the Arkansas International Jetport. We have a tour of the facilities planned, then lunch, then a briefing on our current projects and plans for future growth. Suzanne?" Suzanne handed her two folders. "Here is our current audited financials and company statements, including the latest Department of Defense and Congressional Budget Office audits and financial condition statements. I'm sure you'll find that Sky Masters Inc. is well positioned to ride out the shortterm economic slowdown and market situation and get ready to take advantage of new opportunities."
"So, if you'll excuse me," Jon said, rising quickly to his feet. "I've got to head back to the labs. But I'll see you for lunch at twelve-thirty, and then I will make myself available for questions afterward. I hope you have a nice-"
"We've already taken the tour, Dr. Masters," Duffield said. "We arrived yesterday, remember? You set that up for us then."
"And we've already downloaded a copy of your financials from your website and from the Defense Department's audit department," Hudson said. "Your staff should be commended, Doctors. Your own marketing information parallels the government data exactly, neither overstating nor understating your situation."
"Situation?" Jon asked defensively. He remained standing. "There's no 'situation.'"
Duffield looked down at the table, paused for a moment as if steeling herself for the confrontation she knew had to occur, then spread her hands and looked sternly at Jon. "With all due respect, Dr. Masters, your company is, shall we say, running a little peaked."
" 'Peaked'? What does that mean?"
"In our analysts' view, your company is spending lots of money, acquiring equipment and real estate, flying aircraft,
and making space launches-all without any obvious possibility of translating the activity into a government contract," Duffield said. "You're a publicly traded company with apparently no responsibility or accountability to your shareholders."
"I guess you just don't know us as well as you think."
"Your outlays for new equipment don't even come close to your contracts," Hudson said. "You have projects on two-, three-, five-, even ten-year timelines with no contract, no requests for proposals, not even draft technology memos."
"We're a research firm as well as a design-anddevelopment center," Helen said. Jon took his seat, gearing himself up to defend his company alongside his wife, trying to present a unified front. "Jon and I have spent most of our careers in advanced research, most of it begun completely in-house with no government inputs. Jon has written over a thousand papers on dozens of emerging technologies, things the government has never dreamed of before."
"We make the RFPs and technology memos happen, folks," Jon said pointedly, "not the other way around. They read our research abstracts and come up with ideas based on our research. That's why they come to us when they want something."
"But they haven't been coming," Hudson said. "Contracts have all but dried up."
"We line up four or five new technology-maturation grants and feasibility study funds every month," Helen said. 'They may not be long-term big-ticket contracts, but they pay the bills and allow us to do what we do best-design and develop cutting-edge technology. The contracts will come. Everything takes time."
"Then we're in the dark, Doctors, because the numbers don't balance," Hudson pressed. "You're running a slight deficit, showing large sums borrowed from investors, shareholders, and company officers. But we look around your facility and we see at least three times the capital outlays just at this facility. And we know you have at least one other design center and three operations facilities. Where does the money come from, Doctors?"
"It's all in the audit. Read it again."
"How much does your company involve itself in classified government projects?" Duffield asked.
"That's classified," Jon replied. "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you." He chuckled at his own joke, but none of them laughed back. The little girl looked up from her reading-the technical journal was back on her lap, opened up to a picture of a particle accelerator in Texas, probably the only pretty full-color photo in the entire magazine-but also did not smile.
"We have a top-secret security clearance," Duffield said. "We've also received permission from DoD and the Justice Department to talk-"
"Not that I know of," Jon shot back. "As soon as I have my security folks brief me on your security status, and we verify it with the FBI and DoD, we can talk."
"Your chief of security seems to be on hiatus," Duffield observed. "So are most of your senior development and operations staff. We wanted to meet the McLanahans especially."
"They're out of the country. On business."
"What business?" Duffield asked. "Company business? Or is it classified?"
"I don't want to discuss it."
"We also wanted to see some of your research aircraft, particularly the FlightHawk unmanned attack aircraft, the Megafortress flying battleship, and the airborne laser penetrator aircraft," Duffield went on. "None of those aircraft are on the field, or at any of your other facilities either. Where are they?"
"They must be flying," Jon replied. "They do that a lot, you know."
"They certainly do-a lot more than we'd expect of a system still in design phase," Hudson said. "A quick glance at your petroleum bills alone and one would think you ran a tactical air wing."
"One would be wrong."
"You certainly have the computer capabilities to do extensive computerized flight testing on all of your aircraft, weapons, and spacecraft," Duffield said. Jon and Helen noticed that the little girl had gotten out of her seat and walked over beside her mother, her little hands clutching the upside-down technical journal, intently watching Jon. "In fact, your systems rival companies twice as large as yours-again, far more capability than your income stream suggests you need. You certainly use the computers you have, but for what we're not quite certain-apparently not for advanced design and development, since you seem to fly the aircraft to test them."
"Something wrong with that?" Jon asked testily. "Or is that a typical bean-counter question?"
"Most companies would lease additional computer systems-you purchased them, and you spend twice as much as most other companies in upscaling them yearly," Hudson said. "Why is that, Doctors?"
"It has to do with our security classification," Helen offered. "Leased systems usually means getting a security evaluation for the leasing company's personnel as well, which we end up paying for and becoming responsible for maintaining."
"Besides, we like to have the best," Jon responded testily. "Is this interrogation going somewhere? Let's get to the bottom line, shall we?"
Duffield sat back in her seat, folding her hands on her lap. "Maybe we got off on the wrong foot here, Doctors."
"Maybe you have."
"Sierra Vistas Partners are not corporate raiders," she said.
"My butt tells me otherwise."
"Jon, please," Helen quietly admonished her husband. She turned to Duffield. "What is it you wish, Mrs. Duffield?"
"My company is looking to invest in a small but solid high-tech research-and-development firm like yours, to help launch the absolute newest innovations in aerospace,
electronics, communications, materials science, and advanced weapon design," Duffield said. "We're not interested in improving current technologies-we want to develop the next-generation technologies. We know Sky Masters Inc. is on the cutting edge. We want to tap into that. We're prepared to offer a sizable capital investment as well as contributions in personnel and abstracts to be a part of it."
"Abstracts? You mean, buy into my company with a bunch of ideas? Jon retorted. "Why would I need that? I've got plenty of ideas of my own, thank you very much."
"Lately, you seem to be stuck on improving existing designs rather than breaking out new ones," Duffield said. "We can help. We have some of the finest new engineers waiting to start."
"In this current economic and budgetary climate," Hudson said, "we find it easier and better to merge with an existing firm that might be… how should we say it…?"
"You already said 'peaked,' " Jon said accusingly.
"'Peaked,'" the little girl parroted. "That's what Mommy said." Jon gave her a sideways smile.
"It's a win-win situation for all of us," Duffield went on. "We contribute to Sky Masters's continued success and sustained future growth, positioning you as the company of the future while all the other contractors are struggling to hold their heads above water."
"We're not struggling," Helen said. "Read our prospectus-we feel we're more than adequately capitalized to hold us for-"
'Two months? Maybe another quarter? Two quarters at the most?" Hudson interjected. "That's all we foresee."
"Is that right?" Jon retorted. "Well, the company is not for sale, and we don't need investors or outside hacks."
"You're a publicly traded corporation, about to be delisted from the NASDAQ exchange because of low trading volume and frequency-of-trading restrictions, including halted trades and non-openings," Duffield said. "We've researched your personal holdings as well. You have tried to buy back your company stock and failed every time.
Your personal net worth is good, but you've leveraged many of your assets to help try to acquire your company stock. The stock has been on a slide for months, and it's hurting your own personal holdings. You're piloting a sinking ship, Doctors."
"Thanks for the financial advice, but we don't need it."
"As you know, we've already been in contact with a good number of your larger shareholders," Hudson said. Jon knew, all right-that was the reason for this meeting in the first place. "No one came right out and said it, but there is a lot of uneasiness about the company and your stewardship of it. The shareholders have not met or voted, but have informally indicated to us that they might be willing to consider a merger, stock swap, or buyout. As Mrs. Duffield said, we're not corporate raiders, but we do know a company ripe for acquisition-hostile or otherwise. Sky Masters Inc. is it."
"Your shareholders told us that there's always a need for fresh blood, new faces, and innovative leadership," Duffield added. "Sierra Vistas Partners has a long track record of successfully reorganizing and reenergizing companies of all sizes, while providing maximum value and benefits for shareholders and employees alike. We want to be part of the future, Doctors. We have an opportunity to use our talent and innovation to design our country's nextgeneration technologies at a minimal cost."
"Talent? What talent?" Jon asked irritably. "You keep on saying you have all this great and wonderful talent. Where did you find it? We have a staff of recruiters that travel ten months out of the year interviewing quality engineers and students all over the world. If they're out there, we've already identified them, and if we can, we get them to come here or to our other design center in Las Vegas. I know all of them by heart-I've met and spoken with all the top names in our related fields."
"Mommy?" It was the little girl, holding up the magazine to her mother.
"Just a moment, sweetheart…"
"Maybe it would be better if your daughter waited out-
side," Jon suggested coolly. He reached for the intercom on the phone on the conference table.
Duffield smiled at Jon; then, still watching him, she bent down to her daughter. "Yes, dear?"
"Look." She indicated one of the articles in the journal.
"Oh, I see that. Isn't that a nice picture." Duffield took the journal out of her daughter's hands. "Journal of the International Association of Applied Energy Engineers. The 'Zap Mag,' I believe you call it?" she asked Jon.
"I guess." To the intercom, he said, "Suzanne, could you come and get little… little…" Jon realized he did not know the little girl's name."… Mrs. Duffield's daughter for us for a few moments?"
"And I see it's an article about… what does it say?" Duffield said to her daughter, still looking at Jon. Jon and Helen both looked at the woman in total puzzlement. What was she doing, including her daughter in this conversation about an article in a technical journal? "It says, 'Conditions for improved propagation of laser energy fields in the lower atmosphere.' How interesting. Have you read this article, Dr. Masters?"
"No, I haven't. Suzanne…?"
"It's a fascinating article," Duffield said, almost in mock excitement. "I believe you were the one who developed the science that allowed the rollout of the first viable plasmayield weapon system, isn't that right, Dr. Masters? But it can generally only be used in the upper atmosphere because of the distortion of the plasma wave by rare gases under higher pressures in the lower atmosphere. This tells about how laser energy fields are more effective in tactical battlefield scenarios."
Jon looked at Duffield in surprise, then accepted the magazine when she offered it to him. Jon read the name of the writer, his brows knotting in confusion. "'By Dr. Kelsey Duffield'? But I thought you said you were an accountant?"
"I am," the woman said. "But my name is Cheryl Duffield." She motioned to the little girl standing beside her with a smile. "Dr. Masters, this is Dr. Kelsey Duffield."
"Jon made a little puffing sound with his mouth, as if he was about to laugh but instantly knew the joke was on him. "You… you 're Kelsey Duffield?" Helen asked incredulously.
"Yes, Dr. Helen," the little girl replied with a tiny giggle.
"Don't be too embarrassed-people make incorrect assumptions all the time," Hudson said. "Cheryl likes stringing along the charade as long as she can." He smiled mischievously and added, "I think this was a record."
"This was no 'incorrect assumption.' You did this deliberately," Jon argued.
"This article has your picture on it, Mrs. Duffield," Helen pointed out perturbedly.
"Would you read an article that had the picture of a nineyear-old girl over it?" Cheryl asked. "Most scientists and engineers wouldn't. Even with as much as one percent of today's masters and doctoral candidates five or more years below the average age-and Kelsey was twenty-three years below the average for her first doctorate-few accept young savants as anything else but freaks. Besides, we thought it was funny."
"I don't appreciate the humor in it, or your subterfuge for this meeting, intended or not," Helen said pointedly. "These meetings rely on a great deal of mutual trust and professionalism, neither of which you've displayed. Jon?" She looked over at her husband, expecting him to say something or even storm out of the room. But he suddenly looked totally confused, at first reading bits of the journal article, then looking quizzically at Kelsey Duffield. "Jon?" Jon opened his mouth, closed it, pointed at the magazine, made a sound as he tried to say something again, then started staring off into space. Helen was confused and a little frustrated-her "good I cop" act was not happening here. "Jon…?"
"It looks like you have a question, Dr. Jon," Kelsey observed, with that impish smile-too similar to Jon's, Helen noted with immense dismay. "About the article?"
"I…" He looked like a fish out of water. Now, Helen thought wryly, she knew what some of the members of his doctorate boards must've looked like as he spoke to them about technologies that wouldn't become realities for a generation to come-Jon Masters, the supergenius, was finally having to deal with his own little supergenius. "A laser energy field? A plasma energy field excited by a laser? That's impossible. They don't exist at the same space-time. They can't exist together."
"You're still working around the notion of noninterchangeable space-time continuums, Dr. Jon?" little Kelsey asked, truly surprised at the notion. She shrugged, then nodded knowingly. "Well, I guess if you still subscribe to the idea that matter and energy exist in only one spacetime as defined by things like frequency, mass, and acceleration, then it's true-they can't exist together. But I think there are an infinite number of continuums that exist in each measurable space-time."
"That's… that's ridiculous," Jon said, but even as he said it, he couldn't convince himself it was so ridiculous. "Measurement, predictability, quantification-all those are space-time equivalents. Mathematically anything can be proven or disproven, but you can't build-or sell-something that only exists as an equation on the blackboard. Even Einstein couldn't do that." At that, Kelsey Duffield's smile grew even broader. "Okay. How?"
"How much is it worth to you to find out?" Hudson asked.
"Excuse me?" Jon said, purposely raising his voice. "You're going to start haggling like we're buying souvenirs in a marketplace in the Bahamas or something?"
"I didn't mean to sound impertinent," Hudson said. "But although I don't understand a fraction of what Kelsey does or says most of the time, she has over and over proven to me that what she says is real and can work. I've invested most of my personal fortune in her and her work, as I'm sure you guessed that her parents have.
"But the Duffields know anyone can build a lab-the difficult part is getting the products of the lab to be accepted and turned into something useful and important. As much as Kelsey's theories and experiments are revolutionary, they will never gain acceptance in the real world because of who she is. Sky Masters has a good reputationthe best in the world. That's why we've come to you."
Jon Masters looked at his wife, to Hudson, then finally to the Duffields. Kelsey stood quietly, her tiny little hands folded neatly before her. He then looked back at his wife, his eyes silently asking the question he dared not verbalize. Helen nodded, trying to reassure him with a faint smile. Jon turned back to Kelsey. "You're going to tell us everything? Lay it all out for us? Explain everything?"
"Yes," Hudson said. "For a third."
"What did you say?"
"We're going to share, Jon," Kelsey said. The more she spoke, the faster she seemed to age-in just a few seconds it suddenly seemed as if her voice, her mannerisms, even the look in her eyes had all grown up. "You and Helen and I-"
"That's Dr. Masters to you, little girl," Jon admonished her.
"I feel much closer to you than all these boring titles, Jon and Helen," Kelsey said, her eyes smiling-maybe laughing, Jon thought. "I like you. I like you both very much. You're like my big brother, and Helen is like my big sister."
"You and Dr. Masters now own seventy-three percent of the outstanding stock," Cheryl Duffield said. "You will sell thirty-three percent of it to Sierra Vistas Partners and then divest seven percent back to the company. You will then cancel all other stock option deals you have with the corporation so you can have no more than one-third of the outstanding stock. We will reapportion the board accordingly-one-third controlled by you, one-third by Sierra Vistas Partners, and one-third by the other shareholders."
"What kind of crazy scheme is this?" Jon retorted. "This is my company. I didn't just acquire the stock-I didn't even buy most of it. I earned it. I took my compensation in stock when the stock was worth less than a dollar a share. I'm not going to just give it up, especially to strangers."
"The stock options that you've negotiated in place of salaries and other compensation have ensured you total control of the company for many years, Dr. Masters," Hudson said. "Good or bad, you control the company because you control the stock-"
"I'm also the chief designer and engineer," Jon interjected. "I built this company by taking chances and by developing technologies that work and remain on the cutting edge. I've given my life to this company, and I've taken nothing but the paper value out. My shareholders are my shareholders because they like that arrangement."
"That's not what I hear," Cheryl Duffield said. "Your shareholders are not happy about this, but there was nothing they could do about it-they either stuck with you or got nothing. But now they're riding the company with you into the ground."
"That's your opinion," Jon said heatedly.
"It's a fact," Cheryl said. "Well, the tables are turned. Refuse this tender offer, and you risk losing all your shareholders, bankrupting your company, and opening yourself up to a lawsuit. Sierra Vistas Partners will be there to pick up the pieces. If you accept our offer, you recoup some of your losses, you gain my daughter's knowledge and wealth of ideas, and your company survives. No corporate raiders I know will give you a better deal."
"The stockholders won't go for it," Jon said. "The board will never vote to approve it. None of this will stand up in court. You'd be wasting your time."
"I think we can make an offer attractive enough for most of your shareholders," Cheryl said. "As far as the courtswell, the last thing you need in this market climate is a lawsuit. It'll sink your company fast."
"What's stopping me from just taking the cash you give me and buying more stock?"
"Your promise not to do so, not to upset the one-third balance," Hudson replied. "This arrangement is based on trust…"
"You have a funny way of showing it, Mrs. Duffield."
"We feel a one-third split is best for the company-neither of us gains a majority unless our ideas and proposals sufficiently sway the other shareholders to side with one or the other," Hudson went on. "Once news hits the street that you've given up your stock options, the value of the stock will soar."
"So what's preventing you from selling your shares and cleaning up?"
"We restrict the stock we own for one year," Cheryl Duffield replied. "If either of us wants out, we have to promise to offer it to the other shareholders first, at a prenegotiated price. But that's not what we're doing this for. We certainly don't need the money, and we're not stock speculators. We're building a future for ourselves and Kelsey by building a partnership with you and Helen and the other talented folks you have here."
"We'll work together, Jon," Kelsey said. "It's more fun that way."
"Fun? You think any of this is fun? Do you have any idea what we do around here, little girl?"
"I'm Kelsey," she said, smiling at him. "We'll make things, Jon and Helen. We'll make things other people have never dreamed of. Fantastic, unbelievable, wonderful things. We'll make people happy and make people's lives better."
"Are you for real?" Helen Masters asked. "Do you have any idea what you're getting yourself into?"
Kelsey Duffield walked over between Jon and Helen and took their hands into hers. "We're friends now, right?" she asked. "We're going to be together and build things so incredible, no one will believe it. Right?"
Neil Hudson opened his briefcase and extracted several documents-including a check. "Value of your stock at its thirty-nine-week average price per share-exceedingly generous given the current stock price. You agree to sell the seven percent back to the company at the same price, you give up your stock options, and you agree to make Sierra Vistas Partners your partner. Dr. Duffield comes on board as co-chief operating officer and co-chief engineer, sharing responsibilities and privileges equally with Jon
Masters. Dr. Helen Masters stays on as president for one year, at which time there will be elections for officers."
Jon took the check, looked at all the zeroes typed on it, then looked at the Duffields. "I… I have to think about it."
"Please, Jon?" Kelsey asked. "It'll be fun. I promise." Jon hesitated, looking at Helen, then staring at nothing. Kelsey smiled and said in a low voice, almost a whisper, "I'll tell you about the laser field, Jon. When I tell you, you'll be so mad."
"Mad? Why?"
"Because you already know how it works."
"What did you say?" Jon asked. "Know how what works? How can I know how it works if I've never even heard of it before!"
"You already know how it works, I'll bet," Kelsey said. "You just don't believe it. You keep on saying 'no' because you don't believe it could be so simple. I'll tell you, Jon, and then we'll build it, and then we'll build other things you've already thought about but don't believe either. It'll be fun."
Jon sat back in his chair, visibly deflated. That was the last word he had expected to hear this morning: the word "fun." He wanted so badly to tell this little superbrained girl that he had already lost a friend, may have lost another close friend, and several more friends were in serious danger. He wanted to tell her that what happened to the company didn't matter-it was what his company was trying to do for the people of the United States and the world that was important. But she was here, with her mother and CPA and her father's SumaTek money, ready to create alternate universes inside lasers and other such fantasy gadgets. He wanted to tell her to just go away and let the adults get back to work.
But then Jon's brain registered the feel of the check between his fingers, and he thought of all those zeroes on it. He couldn't do a thing if he went bankrupt or if this cute little savant walked off with his company. Paul would still be gone, Wendy would still be missing, and" the others would still be in trouble-except then they wouldn't have any of Sky Masters's technology to help them.
"I need to tell you something," Jon said slowly. "I need to verify your security clearance, so I can't tell you everything, but I can tell you this: Your security clearance is not going to prepare you for what you'll learn. We do a lot of very interesting things here, but it's not what I would call 'fun.' In fact, I'd say most of it is downright horrifying."
"My daughter doesn't design talking dolls and little robot voice-controlled dogs and dream about a life filled with roses and sunshine," Cheryl said. She reached over and stroked Kelsey's hair and shoulders, smiling warmly at her. "She designs laser weapons and dreams about stopping enemy airplanes with force fields. No one ever told her what to do, what to focus on. She just did it.
"My husband and I brought her up like any other young girl-at least, we tried to. We dressed her in pink dresses and little black shoes and put ribbons in her hair. We read Dr. Seuss and Goodnight Moon and Harry Potter books to her.
"But by the time she was one year old, at the same time other kids were just starting to walk, she was reading the Wall Street Journal and Aviation Week & Space Technology. The first book she read wasn't Nancy Drew or Powerpuff Girls at six years old-it was Drexler's Nanosystems: Molecular Machinery, Manufacturing, and Computation at thirteen months. The year after that, she was one of the contributors to Drexler's updated edition."
Cheryl paused, her eyes adopting a far-off look as if she was replaying all the many moments, pleasant and otherwise, in her memory. "We knew we couldn't treat her like an ordinary child," she went on. "By age six she was discussing weapons, theories, devices, and formulas that were making advisers to presidents sweat and four-star generals lick their lips. She's been asked to teach nanotechnology at comell's Duffield Hall, the engineering research facility my husband built-a nine-year-old professor of nanoengineering, teaching at her father's school. Do you think she'd be scared to learn how many persons a plasma-yield warhead can kill, or that one of your NIRTSats can direct a two-thousand-pound bomb to hit its target within six inches? She's already figured out how to build supercomputers the size of an amoeba and turn the Moon into a photonic energy source that will supply the entire Earth with energy for a millennium. She talks to herself about the energy requirements for teleportation while she plays with Barbie dolls. At first I was worried about her being taken seriously-now I'm worried about her talents going to waste or, worse, falling into the wrong hands."
Cheryl looked up at Jon, then at Helen, and asked in a quiet voice, "Do you have children?" They shook their heads. "All you want for them is the best," she went on. "You would give your own life to save theirs, sacrifice your own happiness to ensure their happiness. But what do you do if what your child is doing, the thing that makes her the happiest, might upset-or even destroy-your world? Do you let her have that experience?"
Her voice lowered almost to a whisper. "Sometimes when she'd fall off her bike or trip on the stairs or come down with a fever, I'd pray that the accident or illness would turn her back into a normal child," she said sadly. "But, of course, it never did-in fact, I think it made her even more intelligent, as if the bacteria or viruses were millions of new brains talking to her, telling her more and more of the secrets of the universe.
"But you were a child genius too, Dr. Masters," she said to Jon. "You understand what Kelsey's going through. You had parents that encouraged you to think beyond your age, beyond the levels where others thought you should be. We chose you because you've gone through what Kelsey is just starting to experience. I think it was hard for you, breaking down all the institutional and bigotry barriers, but you did it. You can be much more than a partner to Kelsey-you can be a mentor, a guide. No one else in the United States can do that for her. Only you."
Cheryl Duffield looked up at the Masterses, and the steel returned to her eyes and voice. "She knows atf about what you do, what you build, and whom you build them for," she said. "She wants to help you build the next two generations of weapon systems, far better than you or I or anyone yet born can imagine. Her father and I said we'd help her do that, because in a way, that's what parents do for their kids. It's not ballet or baseball, but parents are supposed to help their kids follow their dreams. Right?"
Jon looked at Kelsey. To his immense shock, while her mother was talking, Kelsey had been writing out a long mathematical formula on a sheet of notepaper. When she noticed Jon was looking at her, she held up the piece of paper for him. For about the third or fourth time in that meeting, Jon's mouth dropped open.
"It's not finished," Kelsey said, smiling.
"I… don't… believe… it…" Jon breathed, his eyes flitting across the symbols and numbers. He pointed to one section, and his eyes narrowed, then widened, then nearly bugged out. "I… you… this.. "
Kelsey handed it over to Jon, and he accepted it as if she had just handed him a thirty-pound bar of solid gold. "We'll finish it together, okay, Dr. Masters?" she said, her eyes twinkling.
"Jon. Call me Jon," he said, smiling, his voice cracking with the sheer enormity x)f what he had just witnessed. Jon looked at the piece of paper, then at Kelsey, then at her mother. "Do you realize what this is?"
"Of course. It's the future," Cheryl said matter-of-factly, almost in a whisper. She looked down at the conference table, then added, "God help us."
The crew of the Egyptian warship El Arish, an Americanbuilt Oliver Hazard Perry-class guided missile frigate, treated the rescued members of the S.S. Catherine the
Great as any other shipwreck survivors, offering them water, blankets, strong hot tea, and ful-pita sandwiches stuffed with fava and black beans fried together with meat, eggs, and onions. They were kept in the helicopter hangar on the aft end of the ship, out of sight of most of the rest of the crew. Several of the Night Stalkers received medical treatment for burns and shrapnel wounds by the Egyptian ship's corpsman.
David Luger acted as the spokesman for the team when approached by the captain of the frigate, Commander Raouf Farouk, while Patrick, Hal, and Chris stayed away from the Egyptians in the center of the helicopter hangar, surrounded by commandos. "We are grateful to you for helping us, Captain," David said as the captain approached. "You have saved our lives."
"Afivan. You are welcome," Farouk said. He looked at the men carefully. "And your name?"
"I'm Merlin."
"Your full name, rank, and nationality?"
"Just Merlin," Luger replied. "No rank or title. We are all Americans."
"Keeping that information secret is an insult for those of us who have just saved your lives," Farouk admonished him. "Now, I order you to tell me your real name and rank, or I will throw you in my brig."
"I'm sorry, sir, I will not," David replied. "I will tell you that we are crew members of the S.S. Catherine the Great, a salvage vessel based in Klaipeda, Lithuania. I'm sorry, but our ownership papers and letters of transit were lost in the attack."
"I understand," Farouk said. There was no doubt in Farouk's mind that these were soldiers-they looked, acted, and even moved like fighting men. And they were not sailors, either. "The bastardly Libyans think they own the Mediterranean. I am told you do not carry passports, either."
"Sorry, sir. They went down with our ship as well." That was true, but the passports that went down with the ship were all fakes. "We are all American merchantmen. As I told your first officer, if you allow me to call the American embassy in Cairo, they can help verify our identities."
"This is a military matter now, and we have specific procedures to follow to verify your identities," Farouk said, obviously angry at Luger's lack of cooperation. "You will be placed in custody at our home base of Mersa Matruh and questioned. You will be treated fairly, I assure you, but since you were obviously involved in some military conflict with the Libyans, we can take no chances." He motioned to the three men surrounded by the commandos. All three put their heads down while Egyptian intelligence officers snapped pictures of them and the other commandos. "And then there is the question of those three gentlemen. Unless they are spacemen from Mars and an oxygen atmosphere is poisonous to them, they must remove their equipment immediately."
'The devices they are wearing are life-support equipment," Luger lied. He turned toward the three, and they all took off their helmets with a gentle hissing sound. Photo strobes flashed despite their efforts to hide their faces. "They are under some distress if they take their helmets off. May they please put them back on, Captain?"
"My ship's doctor will examine the men with their outfits off," the captain said. "If they are in distress, they will be airlifted to the appropriate medical facility in Egypt for treatment-all the way to Cairo if necessary. They will be well treated, I assure you. But since that outfit is unknown to me, it will be removed, examined, and placed in secure storage at Mersa Matruh until we can ascertain that it is safe and no threat to us."
Luger nodded. "Yes, sir. I'll tell them that right now. It will take a few moments to remove their outfits." Luger bowed slightly to the captain, then went over to McLanahan, Briggs, and Wohl. "Bad news, guys," he said. "The captain wants you to ditch the armor. He's going to have his doc examine you; then he's going to place us all into custody at Mersa Matruh."
"We can't wait until we dock before we do something,
sir," Chris Wohl said in a low voice. Although they were all civilians now, retirees, Chris Wohl would never even consider calling McLanahan, Luger, or Briggs anything else but "sir," although he might put a definite sneer in his voice if he disagreed with their orders-as he did now. "Mersa Matruh is a combined-forces base-they have close to fifty thousand troops stationed there from all three services."
"We're not supposed to be fighting the Egyptians," David Luger said. "Once we contact the American embassy, we'll be let go. But if we get into a shit storm with the Egyptians, they're just as likely to kill us."
"Our embassy has no idea why we're here," Patrick said. "No real passports, no visas-and the President already tried once to have us all arrested. We can't go running to the embassy for help."
"I'm forced to agree with the master sergeant, Muck," Hal Briggs said. "They'll treat us like captured terrorists. Our cover will be blown wide open."
Patrick thought for a moment longer; then: "Sarge, how many sailors on this ship?"
"About two hundred total. The U.S. Navy doesn't usually carry Marines on little frigates, but the Egyptians do. Usually two marine platoons max, thirty or forty menthose will be the best-trained counterforces. We've seen one platoon in here already, but only a dozen of them armed."
Luger tensed up as he saw movement nearby-the captain was getting tired of waiting and was getting his men together to start taking them into custody. The commandos surrounding the three leaders were trying to look casual and relaxed, but they could sense their tension. "Looks like the captain's coming over here. Time's up."
"How do you want to play it, sir?" Wohl asked Patrick.
Patrick got to his feet, turned away from the oncoming Egyptian captain, and hefted his helmet. "Let's take this boat," he said, and he quickly slipped his helmet into place.
"Hoo-rah," Wohl said tonelessly as he and Briggs got to their feet. "Good decision, sir."
"An iznukum!" Farouk shouted when he saw Patrick put on the helmet. "Minfadlukum!" But when he saw Briggs and Wohl also put their helmets on, he knew things were turning ugly. "Wci'if!"' He motioned to his marine guards. "IhataristWa'if!"
The three armored commandos moved out in a triangle formation, opposing the three main bodies of guards. At the same instant, the commandos also fanned out, moving with surprising speed since it seemed as if they were so relaxed and tired there moments ago. The electronic energy bolts fired, striking the armed guards, and almost before the stunned guards hit the steel helicopter hangar deck, the Night Stalker commandos had their weapons in their hands. In less than fifteen seconds, every armed Egyptian sailor in the hangar was unconscious, and the commandos were closing, dogging, and guarding the steel hangar doors and hatches, weapons in hand.
"What are you doing? What are you doing here?" Farouk shouted as he saw his men drop to the nonskid deck, their bodies quivering from the electric shocks they received. He pointed an angry finger at Luger. "You told me you meant us no danger!" He saw Patrick approach and turned his anger towards him. "Are you the one responsible? I will see to it that you are put to death for this act of aggression! We saved you and your men from the Libyans, and now you dare do this!"
"Captain, I am Castor," Patrick said. He paused as he listened to instructions Wohl issued to his men. The Night Stalker commandos quickly began to remove the Egyptian sailors' uniforms and put them on. "My men and I won't hurt you, and we have no desire to take your ship, unless you do not cooperate with us."
"Won't hurt us? Won't take my ship? You are terrorists! Saboteurs! Spies!" Farouk screamed. "Putting on the uniform of another country's army is not permitted!"
"This is not war, Captain, and we are not soldiers," Patrick said. "Sir, I'm going to ask one more time for your cooperation."
"I refuse. You may kill me if you wish."
"I don't want to kill you, Captain," Patrick said. "I want you to contact your headquarters on Mersa Matruh. Tell them I have taken you hostage and warn them not to approach this ship."
"I told you, I will not cooperate," Farouk said. "I order you to put down those weapons and surrender."
"That's not likely to happen, Captain," Patrick said. "But I'm sure you'll reconsider my offer to contact your headquarters once we reach the bridge."
"The bridge?" Farouk gulped. "You… you think you will take my bridge! You will all be dead in ten minutes."
"Maybe so," Patrick said. "But in five minutes, we'll have control of your bridge." He switched the view on his electronic visor to an electronic briefing Chris Wohl was giving to the Night Stalkers. Patrick saw that Wohl had called up an electronic blueprint of the U.S.-made Perryclass frigate and was briefing his men on their assault. In less than five minutes, they were ready. Wohl took the portside rail, Briggs the starboard rail, followed by fifteen Night Stalkers each; Patrick went atop the hangar and made his way forward along the upper gun deck with twenty commandos.
Because of the tense situation in the Med following the Libyan raids, the deck was full of lookouts, all armed with American-made machine guns. They were all doing exactly what they were supposed to be doing-searching the sea, continually scanning for threats using night-vision goggles and infrared sniperscopes-so it was easy to simply step within a few feet of them unnoticed, quietly knock them unconscious with a quick zap, disable or capture their weapons, and move on. McLanahan's, Briggs's, and Wohl's electronic visors showed each crewman on deck in stark relief several yards away, and their amplified hearing equipment allowed them to take cover before a crew member came through a hatch or unexpectedly appeared around a corner.
On the bridge, the officer of the deck, or OOD, was making a log entry when suddenly the frigate's oropeller simply stopped. "Sir, sudden loss of propulsion!" the helmsman reported.
The OOD immediately picked up the IMC phone direct to Engineering. "Engineering, bridge, what's happening down there?" No reply. "Engineering, bridge, respond!" Still no reply. The OOD turned to the chief petty officer. "Sound general quarters, all hands to battle stations, no drill." He picked up another phone, the one direct to the captain's quarters. "Captain to the bridge. Emergency." The OOD had picked up another phone. "Combat, bridge.. Combat, can you hear me?" There was no reply. "What in hell is going on here?" He turned to the chief petty officer and shouted, "And why haven't you sounded general quarters, dammit?"
"I activated the alarm, but it did not sound, sir!" The chief petty officer turned to one of the watchstanders and shouted, "Start a running message relay right now, general quarters, battle stations, this is not a drill. Go!"
"Ma'lesh," they heard behind them. "It doesn't matter."
The OOD and chief petty officer turned and saw commander Farouk step onto the bridge. "Sir, we've lost propulsion," the OOD reported, "and I cannot raise Engineering or Combat and I cannot sound general quarters. I…" But then he noticed the surprised expressions of the helmsman and the other watchstanders as the captain stepped onto the bridge. "Sir..?"
Farouk was roughly pushed toward his captain's chair in the center of the bridge, and then the place seemed to explode in chaos. Men in Egyptian naval uniforms pointed automatic weapons at the bridge crew, shouting in English. At the same moment, the access door from the center of the bridge burst open, and more English-speaking men rushed in; behind the OOD and chief, the port-side weather door also whipped open, and more strange men entered. Once the bridge crew was gathered up, they were placed down on the deck, hands behind their necks. Four of the commandos stayed on the bridge, while others took up security positions outside and in the inside passageway.
Patrick entered commands into the frigate's computerized helm station, and the ship turned away from the Egyptian coast, increasing power to maximum. He then picked up the captain's telephone and held it out to Farouk. "I need you to tell your crew that we will be delayed in returning to Mersa Matruh and to not interfere with my men."
"I refuse."
Patrick seemingly did not react-but moments later, Farouk's body began to do a strange jerking quiver in his seat, and his eyes began to roll up into his head. The spasm lasted for several moments, then Farouk's body went limp. The Egyptian captain appeared as if he had just been beaten up, his breath coming in deep gasps, although no one had touched him. "It will be harder on you if you do not comply," Patrick said in an electronically synthesized voice.
Farouk held out his hand, and Patrick placed the telephone in it. The Egyptian took several deep breaths, then spoke in Arabic. After he had finished, Patrick turned to one of the Night Stalkers and asked, "What did he say?"
"He said the bridge and probably Engineering and combat have been taken by American commandos. He ordered his crew to resist us to the maximum extent possible."
"The only ones that will be hurt will be your men, Captain," Patrick said. He spoke into his helmet communications system, then handed the phone back to Farouk a few moments later. "We have made contact with your headquarters, Captain. Tell them anyone approaching this ship will be attacked and killed. This is your only warning." Farouk relayed the message, recommending that all forces be dispatched immediately to disable his ship and prevent it from falling into terrorist hands.
"Well, now the Egyptians know we're here," Briggs radioed to Patrick via their battle armor comm system. "Half the crew is ready to rush us from every corner of the ship, and soon half the Egyptian military will be barreling down on us. What's the plan?"
"We need to get in contact with Martindale, have him get every asset we have available searching for Wendy," Patrick said. "I want to turn this ship inside out looking for weapons, I want everyone to get fully recharged and rearmed, and then I want a plan of action to go in and rescue her."
"Patrick," Briggs said softly, "we still don't know if she's alive."
"She's alive. I know it."
"But we don't-"
"I said, she's alive, dammit!" Patrick cried angrily. "I'm going to find her even if I have to move every grain of sand in the desert to do it."
"You cannot go back, Sekhmet," said retired Egyptian army general Ahmad Baris, President Kamal Ishmail Salaam's national security adviser and longtime trusted friend of the family. Fifty-three-year-old General Baris lost most of his right leg in the 1973 Arab-Israeli War, burned off in a tank explosion, but he stayed in government to serve his country as best he could, rising through the ranks from onion-peeler and tailor to intelligence coordinator to tactician to presidential military adviser. "It is too dangerous. Al-Khan's henchmen and the Muslim Brotherhood assassins are everywhere."
"Not even to bury my husband?" Susan Bailey Salaam said in a low voice. Her head and arms were swathed in bandages, and an Egyptian army doctor had inserted an intravenous tube into a vein in her leg because the seconddegree burns on her arms would not allow it.
"Especially not for a funeral," Baris said sadly. "Trust me. You would not be safe. There will be a simple ceremony for your husband, no more. It is too dangerous otherwise."
Susan Salaam and General Baris were on board an Egyptian army helicopter, zooming low over the Mediterranean Sea westward, about five miles off the coast. Ahmad Baris had engineered an alternate escape plan for Susan to get out of the city after the attack so secret that not even the Presidential Guards knew about it. After the men and women killed or injured in the attack were taken away by ambulance from the mosque, Baris had Susan taken in several different ambulances to a waiting army helicopter and whisked out of the city.
"I feel like a coward. I feel as if I have abandoned my husband," Susan said stonily.
The retired general sighed softly, then repositioned his right leg to ease the pain a bit, which easily got Susan's attention. "Your husband is dead, Sekhmet," he said softly, like a father speaking to his young daughter. "Being killed at his grave site by more Muslim Brotherhood assassins would not help him or Egypt." He paused, then added softly, "You know I would follow your husband into hell, and I pledge the same to you. Tell me what you wish, and I will do everything in my poor powers to help you do it."
"What do you suggest, General?"
"We are heading toward Mersa Matruh, our largest military base outside Cairo, about three hundred kilometers west," Baris replied. "I can have a foreign ministry transport waiting for us there. The plane can take us anywhere in western Europe-Portugal, England, Belgium, Ireland. From there, we can request protection from the American embassy-you are a dual national as well as a credentialed Egyptian ambassador, so that will not be a problem."
"I will not leave Egypt," Susan said sternly. "It is my home now, not America." She glared at him with her one unbandaged eye. "I'm surprised you would even suggest it, General."
"I am sorry, Madame. I was only thinking of your safety. I apologize if I have offended you or dishonored the memory of the president by suggesting you flee the country."
"You are still one of the most respected men in all of Egypt, perhaps in the entire Arab world," Susan said, reaching up and taking Baris's hand. "Your loyalty is unquestioned, as is your heart." She looked at Baris, paused as if considering her words, then said, "You could be president, or prime minister, if you so chose. But you stay in the shadows. Your people need you, General. When will you stand up and lead them?"
"I have led men only once, at the head of a formation of tanks in the Sinai against the Israelis almost thirty years ago, and nine of every ten men that followed my orders died in less than a day," Baris said. "I was the lucky oneI lost only part of my right leg. I learned that day that I am far more adept at observing and advising than making actual decisions."
"Nonsense, Ahmad."
"As a famous American psychopathic renegade police officer once said, 'A man's gotta know his limitations,'" Baris said with a smile. His love for American cop movies and westerns-the more violent the better-was well known throughout Cairo. "I am content and secure in the knowledge that I have given good, sound advice to many government officials over the years, and I believe I have served God and made Egypt a better place for it. That is enough for me." He paused, studying Susan carefully, then asked, "What is it you seek, Sekhmet?"
Susan Salaam did not respond for several moments, and Baris was surprised to see a faint smile on her lips when she finally replied, "Am I wrong for saying 'I would like to see Zuwayy and al-Khan dead'?" Baris did not return the smile, so hers dimmed and her exotic eyes narrowed. "The truth, my old friend?" Baris nodded, and she looked away and nodded as well. "I'm happy to be alive. I'm glad I wasn't killed. And so I think that perhaps God had a reason for not wishing me dead. I feel there is something more I must do." Susan shook her head, staring off into space as if reading a newspaper headline from a great distance. She paused, then looked at the retired general. He swallowed as he saw something ominous in her dark almond-shaped eye and full yet innocent lips. "Yes. There is work to be done. You and my husband had plans to restore Egypt to its rightful place as leader of the Mediterranean nations and of the Arab world. I want to continue your goals."
"My dear, the concept of a united Arab world is a dream, nothing more," Baris said, chuckling despite the strange prickly sensation he felt on the back of his neck. "Don't let the apparent successes of pretentious nutcases like Zuwayy or opportunistic zealots like al-Khan cloud your thinking. The people of Libya don't believe Zuwayy is a descendant of a desert king, and no modern Egyptian will ever believe a man is invested with the power of the gods to rule their land. The Pharaohs are dead, and long may it stay that way." He touched Susan's hand, breaking her reverie, and smiled with relief when she smiled at him. "Even though you are a thousand times lovelier than all of Hollywood's Cleopatras put together, Sekhmet, don't ever be deluded into thinking the world will tolerate an Arab empire."
Susan's smile dimmed as she reached up and touched her eyepatch, then ran her fingers down the left side of her face and left arm, gently tracing the scars and the pain that outlined them under all the bandages. "No one will ever think I am as beautiful as Cleopatra. Zuwayy's and alKhan's treachery has seen to that."
"Don't let revenge and hatred fester inside you," Baris warned her. "Keep a clear head. Understand?"
"Yes, General."
"Good." The military helicopter had a computer terminal at the communications officer's station, so Baris swiveled his chair over to his computer terminal and logged on. His usual list of daily intelligence, status, and situation reports started popping up on the screen. "Our first task is to get you to safety. I…"
"I must go back to the presidential palace," Susan repeated. "I must bury my husband first."
"Your life is in great danger if you go back," Baris warned her.
"I have no choice. If the conspirators want to kill me before or during the funeral, so be it-I will become Egypt's second martyr. My last duty to my husband is to help lead his nation forward beyond their grief." She smiled at her friend. "But I don't want you exposing yourself in a vain attempt to stop any attack if it should come. I want you out of sight, watching, as you do best. Leave me your best and most trusted aides. I think I'll be all right until after the funeral. After that… we will do what we must do. Let's go to Alexandria. Can you find a secure place for us there?"
"The Naval Academy on Abu Qir Bay east of Alexandria-the commandant is an old friend, and he can ensure your safety and security. It's isolated enough to keep us out of sight, but they have helicopter and fast armed patrol vessel facilities in case we must make a quick escape from Khan's goons. Your apartment is less than a kilometer away." But as he scanned the daily reports, he came across a shocking one and read it quickly. Susan noticed his eyebrows lifting higher and higher with each sentence. "What in hell…?"
"What is it, General?"
"Some sort of base-wide emergency happening at Mersa Matruh as we speak," Baris replied, reading the report with growing surprise. "Listen to this, Susan: On the night before the attack at the mosque, there was an attack against an isolated rocket base in Libya, including possible chemical and nuclear material discharge."
"I remember. Kamal was briefed shortly after it happened. We mobilized our border forces, but otherwise did not want to make it appear we were in any way involved."
"That's correct," Baris said. "A few hours later, there were a series of attacks by unidentified warplanes, presumed to be Libyan, against several civilian commercial vessels in the Mediterranean. We were told they were some kind of retaliatory attacks, the Libyans trying to find where the commandos that attacked their base came from. A total of seven lifeboats filled with sixty-three men and women evacuated from one of the ships, a Lithuanian-flagged salvage vessel, and were picked up by our guided missile frigate ElArish out of Mersa Matruh."
"That seems like a very large crew for a salvage vessel. What else? Has the crew been interrogated? Who are they?" Susan looked at the retired general and saw that his mouth had dropped open in surprise. "General? What is it?"
"Our frigate was captured."
"Captured? By the rescued crewT
"This is extraordinary," Baris exclaimed as he read. "The rescued crew members are apparently commandos, led by three men in unusual and unidentifiable battle dress uniforms, carrying powerful but unusual weapons."
"What is the crew complement of the frigate?"
"About two hundred sailors."
"Sixty men captured two hundred sailors on board one of our own warships?" Susan asked incredulously. Surprise, however, quickly turned to wonderment. "How do we know all this, General? Is someone on the crew sending secret messages? Did someone escape?"
"No, Susan-the leader of the commando unit is allowing the captain, Commander Farouk, to send these messages," Baris replied with astonishment in his eyes and tone. "The leader, who calls himself Castor, says that no one on the ship will be harmed and the ship will be allowed to return to Mersa Matruh as long as we promise not to attack the ship as they approach and do not attempt to capture them."
"Who are they? Israelis? Americans?"
"Commander Farouk believes they are Americans, but they are wearing masks and are hiding their identities well. It is apparently impossible to tell the nationality of the leaders-their voices are electronically altered."
"Electronically altered?" Susan thought hard for a moment. Who were these soldiers? They were powerful enough to commandeer an Egyptian warship, one of the most powerful in northern Africa, but yet they couldn't hold their base of operations, a small salvage vessel. If they were terrorists or mercenaries sent to attack an Egyptian target, they were sloppy indeed. They surely would not have let the ship's captain make a call back to base.
The leader decided to trust the Egyptians not to harm them-but just to be sure, they commandeered a guided missile frigate. An interesting blend of strength and restraint, power and caution. Who was this leader? Obviously a man concerned for the safety of his men, but not afraid to use the power at his command. Obviously highly trained and skillful, but not berserkers either.
The leader's nom de guerre was "Castor"-one of a set of twins from Roman mythology. The twin gods, the Dioscuri, were the "cosmic stabilizers," representing darkness and light. One was a man of peace, a horse tamer; the other was a boxer, a warrior. They also protected mortals. When Pollux, the warrior, was killed during the Odyssey, Castor the man of peace made a deal with the gods-when his fellow voyagers needed a fighter, he would die so his brother could live. Susan wondered the obvious-who and where was the Pollux?
Or perhaps was there no Pollux now, and Castor the man of peace was the leader. Perhaps that's why these men didn't slash their way on board the frigate, kill the crew, and simply steal the ship. Could this Castor be convinced to transform himself into Pollux the warrior to protect mortals… or perhaps one mortal in particular?
"I will return to Cairo for the funeral, General," Susan said. "But first we will go to Mersa Matruh to meet these commandos. Make no attempt to retake the ship, but do not allow it to leave, either."
"You want to keep one of our own captured warships sitting off our own shore with a terrorist commando team aboard, and not do anything about it?"
"They captured it, they deserve to stay on it," Susan said. "Give them food, medical attention, women-anything they want or need. Just don't let them leave." She thought for a moment, then said, "Rather, ask them to stay, until I arrive."
"Why do you want to meet with them, Sekhmet?" Baris asked. "They could be dangerous men."
Susan shook her head. "I don't think so," she said. "In fact, they could be just what we need to take back what Khan and Zuwayy have taken from us."
It was one of the hardest things she ever had to do in her young life: leave her husband's side to protect her own life. Now, several minutes from landing at the huge sprawling joint forces military base at Mersa Matruh in northwestern Egypt, Susan Bailey Salaam finally had time to sort out all the horrifying events that had happened over the past several hours:
Susan had been taken away from the mosque by an army ambulance, one of several in the area. They tried to make their way back to Abdin Palace, but the streets were now blocked by protesters and rioters who had heard that Susan had been killed in the blast on the Nile, and they sped off. She was transferred to several different vehicles, and at one point dressed in a flak vest and wore a helmet as a disguise when it appeared protesters were getting too close to their vehicle. She was finally taken to Zahir Air Base in northeastern Cairo and flown out of the city in an army helicopter. The pilot broadcast that his destination was the Egyptian Naval Academy in Alexandria, but once over the Mediterranean, the helicopter dipped low to the water, out of sight of anyone on shore, then proceeded west.
No doubt about it, she thought ruefully as they began their approach for landing-it was an evacuation, out of Cairo, out of the government, out of the people's lives, fleeing for her own life. She hated the idea of being forced to run from her own home, her own people. She preferred facing her attackers, confronting them head-on, battling for her honor and legacy and that of her husband. But now she was gone. She had to disguise herself to get out of the area-they could not even trust the citizens of Cairo to protect her long enough, even in her grief, to get her safely away from such a disastrous, monstrous, unconscionable event. Even the Presidential Palace was unsafe.
What was she doing out here, hundreds of kilometers from civilization, running from her people like a thief in the night? If there were strange commandos here in Egypt, why didn't she have them brought to her in Alexandria? Something was drawing her out here. She didn't know who these men were, but something told her she had to go look for herself out here. Not for safety. Perhaps it was the desert, the idea of hegira, and the cleansing fotces of the desert. Perhaps, like Moses and Jesus and Muhammad and thousands of others throughout history, she needed to draw spiritual strength from the wastelands.
It was about an hour before dusk when the helicopter made its approach to the huge military base. Mersa Matruh looked more like a large industrial complex and commercial shipyard than a military base. Sprawling almost two hundred square kilometers, it was home to nearly a fifth of all of Egypt's active-duty forces. Its main assignment-not well publicized, for fear of angering its Arab neighborswas to repel a possible invasion from Libya, as well as to secure Egypt's northern and western flanks and protect its right to freely navigate the Mediterranean Sea. Most of the base had been built by Nazi Germany and Italy during World War II, then occupied by the British until the 1952 revolution. Susan noticed the large earth stations, part of Egypt's telecommunications network, as well as the earlywarning radar installation that scanned the Mediterranean and the skies to the north and west, watching and waiting for danger.
"God must have something else in store for me rather than to die in the streets of Cairo," Susan said to General Baris as they exited the helicopter. She looked at the men arrayed before her. 'These guards..?"
"Handpicked by me for your protection," Baris said. "On my payroll, and as loyal to me as my own brothers and sisters. Unfortunately, you have some enemies, even out here on the frontier." He motioned to the man, obviously a high-ranking officer, who stepped over to them. "Madame, this is Vice Marshal Sayed Ouda, commander of the western military district headquartered here."
Ouda made a slight bow, then returned his hands casually to behind his back. He was tall, good-looking in a rough-hewn way, with a stylish mustache, carrying-of all things-a riding crop, his cap rakishly tilted to one side. "My condolences to you," he said simply.
"Thank you, Vice Marshal," Susan Salaam said. She regarded him coolly for a moment, then said, "You do not approve of me being here, do you, Vice Marshal?"
"My duty is to protect my nation and obey orders," he said in a low monotone. He eyed General Baris suspiciously. "I do what I must to obey the legitimate authorities." Obviously he was beginning to doubt whether Baris represented any legitimate authority at all anymore in Egypt.
"I do not mean to cause you any trouble, Vice Marshal," Susan said.
"The president is dead, Madame," Ouda said icily, "and his aide de camp and widow are hiding themselves on my base, far from the capital. That is not the mark of any legitimate authority I know."
"Nonetheless, you will obey his orders as you would have obeyed President Salaam," Susan said, "or you may discover your value as a commander in the Egyptian armed forces to be greatly diminished."
Ouda looked Susan up and down with a faint smile. His unspoken words were crystal clear: My value is considerably greater than yours right now. He gave her another appraising look. Susan was very familiar with that look as well: The man was momentarily forgetting she was the wife of an Egyptian president and was looking at her as just another potential sexual conquest. Ouda was obviously accustomed to doing that, no matter who else was looking on. He gave her another half-bow, half-nod and departed.
A woman in uniform quickly stepped over to them, snapped to attention, and saluted. She wore the red beret of the Republican Guards, the elite infantry soldiers assigned to protect the president and other high government officials, and she wore a small MP5 submachine gun on a combat harness on her body. She was shorter and thinner than Susan, and rather small for a soldier, but her dark eyes and firm jaw told an entirely different story.
"Madame, this is Captain Amina Shafik, formerly an infantry officer and a company commander in the Republican Guards," General Baris said. "She was first assigned to protect my wife seven years ago until cancer took her. She has been my personal aide since. I trust her implicitly. Captain Shafik, Madame Susan Salaam." Shafik saluted, then snapped to parade rest. "I have assigned her to you as your personal bodyguard. She will stay with you night and day. You must trust her judgment when it comes to your safety."
Susan extended her hand, and the handshake confirmed Susan's observation-she was deceptively strong. "I am pleased to meet you, Captain," Susan said. "Do you have a family? A husband?"
"A brother and two sisters, Madame, both emigrated to the United States," Shafik replied. "My parents are dead, killed by the Israelis in the Six-Day War. My husband was an officer in the Mubahath el-Dawa, killed in a terrorist bombing of the State Security Investigations headquarters by Gama'a al-Islamiyya."
"I am sorry for your loss, Captain," Susan said. She looked at her carefully. "You lost a child as well, did you not, Captain?"
Shafik's eyes widened, first in surprise, then in sadness as the memories flooded back, unbidden. She nodded. "I lost it the day I learned of the death of my husband."
"It is an enormous tragedy," Susan said. "But you will learn to love again, and you will find a man worthy of your love. I hope you won't let your hatred prevent you from having the child you well deserve."
"My tragedy-and my hatred-is insignificant compared to what you must feel, Madame," Shafik said, her voice flowing with relief and gratitude.
"No tragedy-or hatred-is insignificant," Susan said quietly. "I assure you of that."
"If you permit me, Madame," Shafik said, "I would like to personally apologize to you for the breach in discipline and procedures by the Republican Guards on the day of your husband's assassination. I have served in the Guards for almost ten years, and I have never witnessed such a flagrant dereliction of duties and responsibilities." She removed her red beret, crushing it in her strong hands. "I am ashamed to wear the beret."
"Don't be, Captain-you earned the right to wear it," Susan said. "It was the ones who took bribes and allowed themselves to be lured away from their posts that should strip themselves of the honor of wearing it, not you."
"Yes, Madame," Shafik said. "I assure you, I will do everything I can to avenge my president's, your husband's, assassination. Those who committed that deed do not deserve justice-they deserve retribution."
Susan Salaam touched Shafik on her left cheek and nodded reassuringly. "And they shall have it, Captain," she said quietly but sternly. "The killers of both our husbands shall feel our vengeance." Shafik smiled, nodded, then snapped proudly to attention.
"We have your quarters ready, Sekhmet," Baris said, pointing to a waiting armored staff car.
"I want to meet the commandos first."
"Out of the question," Baris said. "Captain?"
"The commandos have not allowed anyone except supply vessels near the ship, Madame," Shafik said. "The ship is guarded continuously by at least twenty men on deck plus one of the commandos dressed in the strange combat equipment. We have made three attempts in the past two days to sneak aboard the ship and were caught every time. Our next option being considered is a massive assault."
"I don't believe that'll be necessary," Susan said. "They are keeping themselves imprisoned on the ship-I see no reason to risk any lives just so we can take them off to another prison. Let's go have a talk with them."
The Egyptians are being extraordinarily cooperative all of a sudden, Muck," David Luger observed. He had just entered the Combat Information Center aboard the Egyptian frigate El Arish and joined Patrick and several other members of the Night Stalkers, looking over charts and satellite photographs of Libya. "The cordon around us has relaxed-they moved their patrol boats out another halfklick. Still within visual range and easily within helicopter and deck gun range, but it takes the pressure off. All their fire-control radars and jammers have shut down. They've also agreed to send more medical supplies and extra food and water for our prisoners." He set a folder on-the chart table. "More NIRTSat photos, hot off the press."
' "Good," Patrick acknowledged. David looked at his friend and former commanding officer with great concern. Patrick looked bone-weary, with large dark circles under his eyes, his face drawn and haggard. He still wore the Tin Man battle armor-he had taken it off for only a few moments for an inspection several hours earlier before donning it again-and he kept it and the exoskeleton, standing near the bulkhead in quick reach, plugged in and fully charged. "Any word yet from anyone on Wendy?"
"No," Luger replied. "I've put in several back-channel requests for support to the Intelligence Support Agency, Muck, but our status is only a little bit better than the Libyans themselves. They don't go for freelancers, even if it's experienced operators like us. They wouldn't like us even if the White House and Pentagon were supportivebut Thorn and Goff are out gunning for us too, which makes matters even worse. Too many heads will roll if they get caught helping us."
Patrick looked discouraged, rubbing his eyes and lowering his head wearily. "Screw 'em," he growled. "Between Dr. Masters's photo recon birds and UCAVs and a few soft probes by us, we'll find her."
"If she's still alive."
"She's alive, dammit."
"I hear you loud and clear, Muck," David Luger said pointedly. "But I want to make it clear to you, at the same time, that we have no hard information that she survived the attack. The Egyptians say they found bodies, including women-"
"They never made a complete search."
"I know-the ship went down in Libyan waters, not Egyptian waters," Luger corrected himself. "But it went down close enough to Egypt to examine wreckage that has drifted east. They have not found any survivors. If she somehow survived and the Libyans got her, they will keep her tightly under wraps until they're done interrogating her, and then they'll dispose of her."
Patrick's head snapped up, and he glared at his longtime partner with pure seething anger. But he also knew what
David had been through in his life-he definitely knew what he was talking about.
Fourteen years earlier, while flying their first secret mission in the modified B-52 Megafortress bomber nicknamed "Old Dog" out of the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center in Nevada, then-Air Force first lieutenant and B-52 bomber navigator David Luger was left for dead at a Russian air base in eastern Siberia after they made an emergency landing. He survived and was systematically brainwashed and interrogated for years. The KGB eventually convinced Luger he was a Russian aerospace engineer, and he worked to advance the state of the art of Russian stealth warplane technology by several years. After he was rescued, it took three years of intense psychotherapy to return him to normal.
"She's alive, Dave," Patrick said earnestly.
"You don't know that, Muck."
"I said she's alive!"
"Patrick, I'm not going to argue with you," David said. "I will help you tear that country apart to find her. But I will not let you risk your life or any of the team's lives to go in to attempt a rescue unless we get some hard intelligence information."
"You telling me she's not worth it, Dave?"
"Fuck you, General," Luger snapped. "I'm thinking like a soldier-it's about time you start doing the same. You tell me, Muck-how many lives is worth Wendy's? Yours? Three? Five? Ten? Fifty?"
"We risked a couple dozen to get you out of Fisikous in Lithuania," Patrick said. "I would've brought a thousand more with me if I could."
"But you had hard intelligence on where I was," Luger reminded him. "Without that information, wearing that battle armor and marching into an armed fortress like Libya would be suicide even for a hundred commandos. And you know it." Patrick's head slumped wearily again. Luger sighed heavily. "Muck, your son needs you," he said. "Why don't you go home? The CV-22 can lift you off the deck tonight, the Sky Masters jet is waiting in Tel Aviv, and you can be home by tomorrow morning. We'll stay out here and keep searching." He paused, then added, "And you have a brother that needs to be mourned and buried too, sir."
"I'm not leaving without her," Patrick said resolutely. "Dead or alive, I'm taking her home."
"It won't happen that way, at least not right away," Luger said softly. "The odds are a thousand to one we'll even get any information that she was recovered, and about five thousand to one she's alive. But if she beat the odds and survived, the Libyans will keep her in complete isolation until she recovers, which could take weeks, even months. Then they'll start interrogating her. She'll be able to resist for a short time, but they'll finally break her. They won't be as scientific as the Russians. They'll break her, and then they'll discard her."
"Dave, that's enough" Patrick shouted. "This search is going forward, and I don't give a shit how hopeless you think it is. I don't think she's alive-I know she's alive. And as long as I know she's alive, I'm going to plan to locate her and rescue her.
"To answer your question: I'll risk the lives of any man or woman who agrees to stand beside me on this mission, because I know Wendy would agree to stand beside me to rescue anyone on this team. Now, if you have any other problems with this mission or my leadership, I suggest you get off this ship and evacuate to Israel with the others. If you stay, you will obey my orders. End of discussion."
David Luger stood and looked at Patrick carefully. Patrick returned his glare until finally Luger nodded, satisfied that Patrick had his emotional act together enough to lead the team.
At that same moment, Patrick received a beep in his subcutaneous microtransceiver; then Hal Briggs spoke: "Patrick, supply barge coming in, one kilometer south."
"Roger," Patrick acknowledged. "Use the sensors in your armor to scan the supplies for weapons and explosives as they come aboard. I'll be up to relieve anyone that needs a break."
"I could use thirty mike for relief," Chris Wohl, sta-
tioned on the port rail scanning the north for any signs of danger, radioed. That was no exaggeration, either-Patrick had seen Wohl go for hours after taking only a twentyminute combat catnap. He seemed able to go indefinitely with virtually no sleep.
"I'll be right up, Chris," Patrick responded. He turned to David and said, "Ask Commander Farouk to get a party together to unload the barge."
"Okay," David replied. He paused for a moment, then added, "Sorry, Patrick. But I feel I had to tell you how I feel-I'm responsible to you and the entire team. I love Wendy. But I know what I'm talking about."
"I know, Texas," Patrick said. He unplugged himself from the wall outlet, reattached his exoskeleton, and put on his helmet. "We'll find her, and then we'll all go home-together."
"Absolutely." Patrick nodded, then went up on deck to relieve Wohl.
Chris gave him a quick rundown on the Egyptian Navy's deployment around them. Directly in front of the El Arish about five kilometers away was the Damyat, a Knox-class frigate, turned head-on to the El Arish so both its 127millimeter cannon and four fixed torpedo tubes were trained on the captured vessel. Ranking the Damyat were two British-built fast missile attack craft, the Ramadan and the Badr, each with one 76-millimeter gun, a twin 40-millimeter gun, and two Otomat antiship missiles trained on them. Patrick called up the tactical picture transmitted from the El Arish's Combat Information Center on his electronic visor to study the rest of the deployment. A mixture of exRussian and ex-Chinese patrol and fast attack boats surrounded them on all sides, with the heaviest concentration of ships between them and the base. Chris also briefed him on some of the crew's activities-routine maintenance, systems checks, and cleanup details.
Patrick held out his hands. Chris Wohl deactivated the power on the hypervelocity rail gun he was holding, unplugged the datalink from the gun to his battla armor, opened the chamber to make sure none of the depleted uranium projectiles were loaded, then placed the weapon in Patrick's hands. The electromagnetic rail gun fired nonexplosive projectiles at almost fifty thousand feet per second, powerful enough to drive the projectile through several feet of steel after flying more than three miles. Coupled with the sensors built into the Tin Man battle armor, the gun was deadly and effective to machines of all sizes, from ships to main battle tanks to aircraft.
Patrick plugged the datalink into his suit, chambered a round into the rail gun, made sure the safety was on, then reactivated it. It immediately reported "READY" on his electronic visor. "I relieve you, Sergeant," he said, knowing the ex-Marine would like a formal guard post changeover.
"I stand relieved, sir," Wohl replied. Even with the exoskeleton, he managed a salute.
"Looks pretty shitty, huh, Sarge?" he said to Chris Wohl, motioning to the Egyptian ships around them.
"Nah. We got them right where we want them, sir," Wohl replied, and he headed toward the wheelhouse berth, the spot he liked to go when he took a break.
It looked very hopeless, Patrick thought as Wohl disappeared from view. Why in hell did I lead these men here?
Several minutes later, Luger radioed: "Castor, we have a visitor who wants to talk with you."
"I'm on guard duty, Texas. If you can't handle it, it'll have to wait until I'm relieved."
"This can't wait," Luger responded. "It's the Egyptian national security adviser, General Baris. He wants to talk with you directly."
"Send him up here, then." A few minutes later, Luger escorted an older man in a business suit, along with an Egyptian naval officer and a female security guard, up on deck. Luger was carrying a metal briefcase, one that obviously belonged to the Egyptians. Patrick watched them approach with his all-aspect sensors but did not stop scanning the sea for any sign of intruders. "General Baris? Tasharrafna."
"Es salaem alekum. You are the one they call Castor, I presume?" Baris asked in halting but very good English.
Patrick did not answer. "I am General Ahmad Baris, retired, adviser to the president of Egypt on national security affairs. This is my aide and my bodyguard."
"It is very dangerous for all of you to be here," Patrick said, his voice disguised by the electronic voice amplifier in the battle armor. "I assure you, the men on board this ship will not be harmed if they do exactly as I say. I intend on returning this vessel shortly, as soon as we collect enough intelligence information to proceed against the Libyans. Anything else?"
"Aywa, insha'allah," Baris responded. "My friend, president, and leader of our country, Dr. Kamal Ismail Salaam, along with his wife Susan, were assassinated yesterday in Cairo during celebration of the Prophet Muhammad's birthday," Baris said. "A suicide bomber, believed to be part of the Muslim Brotherhood."
"Yes. I had been told about that. I'm sorry," Patrick said woodenly. After all the death he had seen in the last twenty-four hours, the news of Salaam's death had absolutely no effect on him. "I know President Salaam was very well respected in the United States; his wife was a veteran of the United States Air Force, I believe."
"Yes." Interesting comment-Baris filed that away for future use. Could this "Castor" be a former American Air Force officer himself? "Our intelligence sources believe the Muslim Brotherhood, led by Jadallah Zuwayy of Libya, was responsible for the assassination. He of course would have also ordered the attacks on vessels in international waters as well, in retaliation for the attack on his base at Samah. May I assume that it was you and your men that conducted that raid on Samah?"
"General Baris, I allowed you and your aide on board only to reassure you that your men and your vessel are being well taken care of, and I promise it'll stay that way until we depart, unless your men fail to follow my orders," Patrick said sternly. "I did not allow you to come up here and interrogate me. Ma 'as salaema, General."
"I am told you were conducting a search of the waters near where the El Arish picked up you and your men,"
Baris went on. "I assume, then, that you lost some men in the attack. I am sorry for your loss, sir."
Patrick had to take a deep breath to talk past the lump that unexpectedly formed in his throat. "You may speak with Commander Farouk for ten minutes, General Baris. Now go."
"I can feel your pain, Castor," a woman's voice said-an American woman's voice.
Despite himself, Patrick turned toward the voice, his movements accentuated and quickened by the electronically controlled exoskeleton. Baris's aide removed his service cap and sunglasses-revealing a woman, a very beautiful woman despite the fact that she wore an eye patch over her left eye. "Texas…"
"I didn't know, Castor," David Luger said, as surprised as Patrick. "He… I mean, she was searched for weapons, not to verify gender."
Baris turned to the woman. "I shall be below, Madame, interviewing Commander Farouk." He bowed slightly to the woman and departed. The security officer stayed, but moved a discreet distance away. David was unsure for a moment what to do, but decided that neither woman was any threat to Patrick. He set the metal briefcase down beside the first woman and escorted Baris below.
"Most generals don't bow to their aides and call them 'madame,'" Patrick observed. "I assume I'm speaking to Madame Susan Salaam, first lady of Egypt?"
"Yes," Susan Bailey Salaam replied. She motioned to Amina. "She is Captain Amina Shafik of the Republican Guards, assigned by General Baris as my bodyguard. Shall I assume that I'm speaking to the commander of the American commando team that attacked Samah and destroyed several surface-to-surface rockets, including some with nuclear and biochem warheads?"
"What are you doing here, Mrs. Salaam?"
Susan sighed, then replied, "Surviving. What are you doing here, Castor? On some sort of crusade to rid the world of weapons of mass destruction? Or do you have some sort of special affinity with Egypt that you would risk your life and those of your team to destroy weapons that were probably not pointed at any American targets?"
"If the destruction of those missiles at Samah helped Egypt, I'm glad," Patrick replied. "But I'm not going to play twenty questions with you. Go below and talk with the sailors if you want, or return to your launch."
"You lost someone close to you, didn't you, Castor?" Susan asked. Patrick did not reply. "Someone very close to you. I could tell it in your voice, even all electronically fuzzed." Still no reply. "You must be hot in that metal suit, Castor. Take it off. I won't hurt you, and I certainly won't report a fellow American soldier to the Egyptian authorities." Silence. "At least take off the helmet and let me look at you. You look like a cross between Robocop and Darth Vader-but your voice doesn't sound like either one of those characters."
Patrick simply had no idea why he did it-he had already ordered her away, and he was on watch, and the navies of at least two countries were within a moment's notice of blowing him to hell. But Patrick hefted the big electromagnetic rail gun in his left hand, unfastened his helmet, and slipped it off.
Unaltered by the electronic visor, he could see that she was even more beautiful. She had let her hair fall to her shoulders in dark, shining cascades; her lips were full and red; her cheekbones high and striking; her neck graceful; her skin smooth and dark, adding to the allure. Her one good right eye widened in pleasant surprise as she studied his face.
"That's much better," she said in a low but sweet voice. She couldn't believe how young and how innocent he looked-she had expected some grizzled old warhorse. He looked more like a high school teacher than a commando. He didn't look dangerous in the least, although his dark blue eyes were hard to read-this was clearly not his first mission in that getup, she decided, but he looked very much out of place in it. "Thank you for trusting me."
"Now you can go." -
"Won't you tell me your name? And I'll bet it's not Castor. That's your call sign, at least the one you're using on this mission. I've worked with lots of special-ops teams before. I was an intelligence officer in the Air Force-I've briefed dozens of teams from all branches of service before and after they do their thing. I know how you guys operate."
"Mrs. Salaam, you will-"
"Call me Susan. Please. With my husband gone, there will be hardly anyone I know in this hemisphere that will call me by my first name now. I'll be the Widow Salaam forever, especially around the Mediterranean."
Patrick hesitated, his words forgotten. He nodded, averting his eyes. "I'm sorry for your loss, Susan."
"And I am sorry for yours," Susan said. "I am an American, a former Air Force officer, an Egyptian, and a widow-but I am first and foremost a woman. I can tell when someone is suffering. It is more than just a team leader who has lost men under his command in combatyou have lost someone much closer than that."
It appeared for a moment that he was going to open up to her, but then she saw the hood go over his blue eyes again, and she knew he was not yet ready. She quickly decided to give it up. "I am so very sorry," she said. "You will be permitted to stay on board this ship for as long as you like. If there is any assistance we can provide, don't hesitate to ask. The intelligence services of Egypt are at your command."
"Are you in charge of the Egyptian government now?"
"No," Susan replied. "Prime Minister Kalir automatically takes control of the government upon the incapacitation or… or dea… death… of…" Suddenly, Susan broke down in tears. She half turned away from Patrick, sobbing uncontrollably. She realized it was the first time she had wept for her husband.
Susan felt strong hands on her shoulders, and she looked up and saw the armored commando holding her-he had set the big, strange-looking gun down on the deck and was holding her as tenderly as his armored hands would allow. She turned toward him and was surprised to see tears unabashedly flowing down his cheeks as well. She clutched his body, wanting more than anything to touch human flesh, and finally reached up to touch his face and his tears.
"My husband was murdered, butchered in a mosque on one of the holiest days in all of Islam," Susan said through her sobs. "I was beside him until I was pulled away by Zuwayy of Libya and Khalid al-Khan, the chief justice of our supreme court. I know they were in on it together. I know they conspired to kill my husband. Only al-Khan had the authority to switch the guards and get the assassins so close to Kamal. I want to see them both pay for what they've done."
"My… my brother was killed in the attack on Samah," she heard him say through his tears. "He sacrificed himself to destroy those missiles. Then… then when the Libyan warships attacked, we abandoned ship-but my wife stayed behind to launch an attack on the Libyan guided missile frigate."
"Your wifeT Susan asked incredulously. "You… you lost your brother and your wife on this mission? My God…"
"I believe my wife is still alive-I don't know how or why I know, but she is still alive," Patrick said. "I will search every square inch of Libya until I find her." He raised his right hand and clenched his armored right hand into a fist. "And I will kill anyone who gets in my way."
"How… how horrible. How utterly horrible," Susan breathed. She placed her fingers on his cheek to turn him toward her. "I wish I could help you, but I can't. I don't know if I have any authority left in this country-I may be as much of a target here as you are in Libya. General Baris may be appointed as the national security adviser to the new president. If the mullahs take control of the government as we fear, he will not only be dismissed, but probably imprisoned or murdered. But as long as we have any authority left in Egypt, you and your men may stay aboard this vessel. But for your own safety, you should leave as soon as possible. If you need help, just ask."
Patrick thought about Wendy, and he thought about how lonely and isolated he felt standing on this Egyptian war-
ship" in Egyptian waters, surrounded by the Egyptian navy. He had no plan, and his options were rapidly decreasing. There was nothing they could do. "I understand," he said. "All we'll need is a shuttle to shore and access to a landing strip for our transport aircraft. By tonight, we'll be gone."
"You shall have anything you need." Susan motioned to the briefcase beside her. "That briefcase contains data CDs of all the latest intelligence info we have on all of the Mediterranean states. Some of it is only hours old. Photos, field reports, overhead imagery, radio intercepts, everything we could gather. It should help you find your wife and your missing men." He realized he was still grasping her shoulders, and he started to move them away, but she took his armored gauntlets and held them to her, keeping his hands on her shoulders. "Thank you for what you've done for Egypt," she said. "I'm sorry for the sacrifices you've made for our country."
"Where will you go now, Susan?"
Susan sighed. "Go to Cairo to bury my husband."
"I think that would be very dangerous."
"I must," she said. "It's my last duty as first lady of Egypt. After that, I can start planning my own future."
"What will you do?"
"I don't know. The United States might be the only place my husband's enemies can't touch me." She paused, then looked at Patrick. "And you? Will you go home as well?"
"I don't believe in leaving before the fighting's over," Patrick replied. "If my wife is alive, I'll find her. If she's dead, I'll make the Libyans sorry they ever decided to launch those attack planes."
"What do you intend to do?"
"I can't hope to use overhead imagery to find her, and there are too many bases she could have been taken to," Patrick said. "So I'm going to go right to the source. I'm going to make Zuwayy an offer he can't refuse." He looked at her, then added, "Seems to me you have some fighting of your own left to do."
"Fighting?"
"Someone killed your husband and tried to kill you, Susan," Patrick said. He looked into her eyes deeply, carefully, as if deciding if what he was about to say was accurate; then: "You're a soldier. No one would blame you if you got away-but something tells me it's not entirely in your nature to run."
"What do you suggest-soldier to soldier?"
He did not contradict her guess, but looked at her carefully, with a steady stare, and replied, "Find out who your allies and fellow soldiers are. Assemble and organize your forces, then evaluate: If your forces are superior, fight; if inferior, run, preserve your forces; if equal, stay on the move and harass the enemy."
"Sun-Tzu. Basic combat doctrine," Susan said with a nod and a thin smile. "I've been a politician's wife for so long I've almost forgotten how to be a soldier. But I don't have an army, and soon I probably won't have a country. Survival seems to be the best option." She paused. "Perhaps I can talk with the National Democratic Party officials, lend any support I can to our party's candidate for president. Dr. Kalir, the prime minister, will certainly run. The chief justice of the Egyptian Supreme Court, Ulama al-Khan, will run as well-he is the danger, the one who wants to turn Egypt into a theocracy and align it with the Muslim Brotherhood states. He has the power to do it, too."
"Sounds like a plan of action to me."
"Thanks for the advice," Susan said. She looked deeply into his eyes. "Before you go-can you tell me your real name?"
He hesitated once again, the old security regime automatically kicking in again, but it dissolved just as quickly. It was time to start trusting someone again, he told himself.
"Patrick. Patrick McLanahan."
"Chief petty officer? Colonel? Special agent..?"
Still trying to gather intelligence, Patrick noted. She needed careful watching. "Just Patrick."
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Just Patrick McLanahan," Susan said with a mind-blowing smile. She reached up to kiss him on the cheek, holding her lips there long enough for him to feel a jolt of electricity course down his spine. "Welcome to Egypt."
About an hour later, Salaam, Baris, and Shafik disembarked from the supply vessel. They were met on the pier by Vice Marshal Ouda, the military district commander, who looked mad enough to chew nails. "How dare you overrule my orders and approach my ship without my permission?" he shouted. "Who do you think you are?"
"No one is undermining your authority, Vice Marshal Ouda," Susan said. "I thought it would help to resolve the issue if I met with the terrorists themselves."
"And were you successful?"
"Yes."
"Then they are surrendering?"
"On the contrary-I offered them the use of the facilities here on the base for as long as they need them."
"Ana mish faehem! Are you insane?" Ouda exclaimed. 'Those men are terrorists! They have taken an Egyptian warship and are threatening to kill everyone on board!"
"But they have not killed anyone, and I believe they are telling the truth when they say they will not harm our men," Susan said. "I do not want them harmed."
"Who are they?"
"They are commandos, mercenaries, on a mission against the Libyan government," Susan replied. "They destroyed several Libyan rockets that carried chemical, biological, and nuclear weapons aimed for Egypt."
Ouda looked surprised. "Or so they say."
"I believe them," Susan said. "I repeat, Vice Marshal, I do not want them harmed when they come ashore."
"I must report this incident and your contact with the terrorists."
Susan turned to General Baris and said, "There is your superior officer. You may give your report to him." But Susan saw the skepticism, perhaps even the outright hatred, in Ouda's eyes, and quickly concluded that Ouda would in-
deed report the incident-perhaps directly to Ulama Khalid al-Khan himself. "Have quarters near the airfield prepared for them-I'm sure they will wait until nightfall to make the move. Give them anything they require."
"This is ridiculous," Ouda growled. "Giving aid and comfort to terrorists!"
"They may have saved your base from complete annihilation, Vice Marshal," Susan said. "You should not only be welcoming them-you should be on your knees thanking them. Now get to it." She turned away, leaving a still very angry general officer fuming behind her.
"That was most unwise, Sekhmet," Baris said. "You should have played that calmly, perhaps even deferentially-included him in on what the terrorists did and who they are."
"Men like Ouda need to be talked to, Ahmad, not with."
"Ouda is a vice marshal and one of the highest-ranking and most highly decorated officers in the armed forces, Sekhmet," Baris reminded her. "I'm sure he does not approve of civilians telling him what to do on his base, especially a woman. Learn to be more diplomatic, especially when on his installation, in front of his men. He can make very, very serious trouble for us, if he chooses to do so."
"He will be a bigger fool than even I assume he is if he tries to use this incident against us," Susan said resolutely.
"Do not underestimate him," Baris warned. "And I suggest you meet with him later today and explain to him exactly what you hope to accomplish by helping those men. He may be a strutting peacock, but he is a military man-if you explain the tactical situation to him, he will be more likely to play along." He paused, looked at his friend, and said with a wry smile, "Perhaps you can explain it to me as well."
"Those men have weapons, and power, and abilities that I think we do not fully comprehend," Susan Bailey Salaam said. "As you said, soon we will have no power at all. Perhaps there is a way we can use their power to help restore a legitimate government to Egypt-or, at the very least, help us to survive."