Wings of Fire

CHAPTER 5

Patrick McLanahan stared blankly at the computer image, flipping back and forth through stills of several FlightHawk overhead photographs downloaded from the latest surveillance flights. He was sitting in a small, unair-conditioned but secure little semi-underground building in an isolated part of the Egyptian military base set aside for them by General Baris. Their facilities were spartan, but they had access to Egyptian communications and intelligence information via computer, also courtesy of Baris.

Since returning from his infiltration at Jaghbub, Patrick had been reviewing each and every minute of aerial reconnaissance from the stealthy unmanned reconnaissance aircraft flying over Libya. The strain was definitely showing. Patrick didn't know if he was eventually just going to totally collapse or end up throwing the computer against a wall in disgust. But he felt that the conflict was drawing to an end. Zuwayy had to release the prisoners now… he had to.

"Hey, man," Hal Briggs said softly, "let me and the sergeant take a look through those images. You go take a nap." Patrick ignored him. "You hearing me okay, Muck?"

"I heard you," Patrick said, rubbing his eyes wearily. "But I want to go over the last batch of images, the ones of daybreak over that Libyan naval base where Wendy was probably taken…."

"There's at least three bases she could have been taken to in the past twelve hours, Muck," Briggs pointed out. "Or she could still be on one of the ships." Left unsaid was the other obvious possibility-Wendy was not in Libyan custody at all. "We've got trained guys waiting to look at those pictures. Why not let them do their jobs?"

"I gave them a job to do-plan a nighttime infiltration of those three military medical facilities," Patrick said irritably. "But we need to target the most likely one, because once we go in, the Libyans will be alerted." He looked angrily at Hal and added, "And I asked you to check on the aircraft and the weapons, Hal."

"The sergeant is on it," Briggs responded. "But he asked me to talk to you…."

"I'm not stopping this, Hal," Patrick said, his irritation quickly growing into anger. "We've got eight hours until sunset. We need a target in that amount of time so we have enough time to brief the infiltration, extraction, and exfiltration, then launch and-"

"Obviously the entire Libyan armed forces are on full alert."

"I know that, Hal."

"If you did, Muck, you'd be suspending plans to go in until the situation stabilizes," Hal said seriously. "C'mon, man, think about it."

"Hal, just do what I ask you to do, all right? Get the team and the aircraft ready to go."

Briggs finally relented-arguing with him was not doing any good. "All right, Patrick, we'll press on-fot now." He ignored Patrick's warning glare. "But listen to me, man-it won't do anyone any good if you're dead on your feet. Take sixty minutes, Muck. Get some rest. I'll look at the imagery myself, and I'll have one of the guys doublecheck it. If there's any evidence that Wendy was taken to any of those facilities, we'll plan an entry to take a look. You might be overlooking something if you're too tired to check each image carefully."

"I'm not too tired, Hal," Patrick told him. But he again rubbed his eyes wearily, and he found he had to fight to keep them open. He nodded and got to his feet. "Okay, buddy. I'll go take a nap. Wake me if you find anything." "Just get some rest. We'll handle everything." Patrick, David, and Hal shared a room right beside the mission planning room, but this was the first time Patrick had been there since the Egyptian military made room for them. Someone had laid out his gear on a small shelf beside the bed, and Patrick found himself eager to shave, brush his teeth, and scrub his body for the first time in what seemed like weeks. After he was done, he felt a hundred percent better. He told himself to be sure to take at least five minutes out to do this every day-it wouldn't look good for the other team members to see the team leader looking like crap. It was a quick and simple thing to do, but it-

And that's when he noticed Paul's gear, stacked in the corner of the room-a lone green duffel bag with a yellow tag on the canvas handles that read, "P.McL."-Paul McLanahan.

Dammit, Paul, why were you here? Why are any of us here? Just to fight a battle for some oil executives? Was it worth the pain, the suffering, and the death? Who would understand? Anyone? No one?

His head was a jumble of thoughts and emotions, all fighting for attention, analysis. But somehow, through it all, a woman's voice told him to lie still, to put all violent thoughts out of his head. There would be plenty of time for planning the next battle, the voice said-now was the time for sleep. Rest was as much a part of fighting a war as the bomb run, the voice wisely said, and she was right.

Patrick didn't know how long he had been asleep, but he awoke gently and felt completely rested. He felt as if he could take on the entire world. The room was quiet, and even the adjacent planning rooms had only routine noises. There were things to do, he thought, and now he felt as if he could do them. He opened his eyes…

… and found Susan Bailey Salaam sitting on the bed beside him. She smiled at him, her eyes sparkling, her hair shimmering in the dim light. Patrick immediately sat up. Susan placed a hand on his chest as if to tell him to stay put, but he got up anyway. "Mrs. Salaam, what are you doing here?"

"She's been here for the last hour and a half, Muck," David Luger said. He was standing casually in the doorway of their room, but with a look of concern on his face.

"An hour and a half?" Patrick asked incredulously. He could scarcely believe he could sleep that long with everything that was going on. "Everything all right?"

"Mrs. Salaam wants to talk with you," Luger said. "I'll be in the command post." He turned and departed, but not before giving Susan an inquisitive, concerned look.

"Your officers have been standing guard over us the entire time," Susan said to Patrick. "They are very loyal to you."

"You should have waited outside."

"You looked restless. I thought I could help."

"That was your voice I heard?"

Susan nodded. "Feeling better?"

"Yes." He sat up and swung his legs around to the floor, expecting her to stand to let him get up. But she didn't move, and he found himself face-to-face with her. She glanced at his lips invitingly, looked deeply into his eyes, then averted her eyes and let them roam across his broad chest and thick shoulders. The only sport Patrick ever excelled at was weight lifting, a sport that was solitary, much like the man himself. He had been doing it for many years,

and it showed. He lingered there for a moment, trying to decide what she was doing, then got up and pulled a clean T-shirt from his duffel bag and pulled it on. "Let's go outside to the command center where we can talk, Susan."

"I need to talk with you in private first," she said. He nodded, deciding to stand right there, but after a short, awkward silence, he returned and sat beside her on the bed. "I spoke with your officers outside while I was waiting. I still don't know Taurus's real name; it's obvious you and Mr. Luger are very close." Patrick did not respond. "I gave them the very latest information we have on both the Libyan naval vessels that searched the site where your ship was sunk."

"Thank you. I'm sure it'll all be very useful."

"Judging by the information they requested and the information they reviewed after I arrived, I'd guess you were planning a soft probe on either the Tobruk joint operations center or the Darnah naval base," Susan said.

"I must be sure to remind my team members that you used to be an intelligence officer," Patrick said with a wry smile.

"And you have obviously been trained to not offer any information to anyone, even in casual conversation."

"We're eight thousand miles from home, at a strange military base-there's nothing casual about this situation."

"Are you ever going to trust me, Patrick?" Susan asked.

"Would it upset you if I said 'no'?"

"Yes, it would," Susan replied. It was obvious to her that he didn't care if it upset her or not. She paused for a moment, then said, "Going in to either Darnah or Tobruk even in normal day-to-day circumstances would be very, very dangerous. Both bases are massively armed fortresses, especially for Anglos but even for Arabs. But our intelligence information tells us both bases are at the absolute highest readiness stages, just short of all-out wartime conditions. I strongly advise you not to plan to go in there unless you have your target-I'm sorry, I should say, your wife-located first. Or unless you have some massive firepower lining up behind you to support a soft probe that could turn hot in a matter of moments."

Her inquisitive eyes told Patrick she was still fishing for information-he was glad for the rest, because he needed to stay sharp to avoid giving this beautiful, captivating, disarming woman any good intelligence data. "I know that, Susan," Patrick said. "But I'm counting on the combat operations to help screen our movements in a soft probe. You know as well as I do that security measures sometimes get curtailed when moving men and equipment is the most important thing."

"It's risky."

"She's worth the risk."

"I didn't mean to imply she wasn't," Susan said. "But if you're discovered, even if you can fight your way out, your entire operation is finished-they will kill your wife and erect an unpenetrable wall around every military and government base, building, or office. All you will have left… is retribution. Will that be enough for you?"

"I don't intend to let that happen."

"With all due respect, Patrick, that's a pretty bad attitude," Susan said directly. "Think about it for a moment. What if you did nothing? What if you did no probe at all, so your team never risked discovery? Your wife is probably in a Libyan medical facility badly injured, probably unconscious and unable to speak, so they will wait until she regains consciousness, which means you still have time to plan, locate her precisely, and wait for the perfect opportunity.

"If she is conscious, they may try to interrogate her. That could take days, perhaps weeks. If she talks, they will keep her alive to extract every bit of information from her. That still gives you time."

For the first time, Patrick reconsidered his plan. Susan was absolutely correct: There was nothing to be gained by going in now. War could break out any moment between Libya and Egypt, or just about anywhere in northern Africa, and Patrick and his team would be right in the middle of it. But holding back and waiting would put him no closer to rescuing Wendy. It didn't matter what Libya was planning against Egypt, or if war would break out any time for him, the most important thing was finding and rescuing Wendy.

"Thank you for your advice, Susan," Patrick said. "I'll take it into serious consideration."

Susan Bailey stood, stepped toward Patrick, and touched his shoulder. "What has happened to you, your wife, and your men is already a horrible tragedy," she said, "but please don't compound the tragedy by launching off on an impossible mission against overwhelming odds for an objective that you cannot define."

Patrick nodded, then opened up the door. "Dave." Luger appeared within seconds-obviously he was standing very close by. "Please escort Mrs. Salaam outside."

Susan looked into Patrick's eyes once more, but his deep-blue eyes were even more dark and inscrutable than before-he might as well have been wearing the strange high-tech helmet right now. She left without another word.

Patrick put on his flight suit and flying boots and went into the command center, where he met up with Hal Briggs. "Glad you got some shut-eye, Muck," he said. He motioned to a stack of CD-ROM disks inside an open metal briefcase. "Mrs. Salaam brought over tons of intel for us-some of it's only a few hours old. I doubt if even the U.S. government has this data." He looked at Patrick closely. His longtime friend was staring at the doorway where Susan Salaam had just exited. "What'd she have to say, Patrick?"

"Same as you-don't try going into Libya."

"Well, then I'll give her credit for more than being a drop-dead stone fox," Briggs quipped. "What are you going to do?"

Patrick picked up a few of the CD-ROMs and looked at their index labels. He chose a couple of them and headed for the portable computer terminals. "I'm going to do a little target study," he said.

"What does she want with us, Muck?" Hal asked.

"Same thing that the Central African Petroleum Partners want-to fight and die for them," Patrick replied. "I don't know if she wants revenge for her husband's assassination, or something else-but I've got my own agenda first."

It appears that Zuwayy has ignored our warning," Patrick McLanahan said grimly as he began the briefing a few hours later, "so we're going to put the strike plans in motion in about two hours."

His entire group of Night Stalkers were inside the semiunderground bunker reserved for them by Susan Bailey Salaam and General Baris, south of the airfield in an isolated part of the sprawling Egyptian joint forces base. Patrick was wearing his battle armor with the helmet on the table nearby, the power pack and electromagnetic rail gun plugged in and ready to go in just a few moments. He was definitely ready for battle.

"The primary target area will be the command-andcontrol center at Benina, ten miles east of Benghazi," Patrick went on. "It is located at a Libyan air force base, with a large mix of Russian and French fighters and transports based there, plus antiaircraft systems of all sizes. Our target is the air operations center." He displayed a highresolution image of the air base, with one building outlined with a red triangle. "This building is the headquarters of Libyan air combat operations in the eastern half of the country, and it is also an alternate national military command center. It forms the junction of all communications from the eastern half of the country to Tripoli.

"The attack will commence with a flight of three Wolverine cruise missiles, launched from over the Med," Patrick continued. "They will spread out and perform a coordinated multiaxis attack on the air defenses north of the city of Benina. Each Wolverine will attack three air defense sites with cluster munitions, followed by 'suicide' attacks on the air traffic control radar site, the northern security headquarters here, and the southern security headquarters, here. -

"The main attack will follow thirty seconds later-a flight of three more Wolverine cruise missiles. They will use a flight path cleared for them by the preceding Wolverine suppression attacks, but they will be programmed to divert if necessary to avoid any air defense sites missed or pop-up threats not targeted by the first flight." He switched slides to a close-up of a small cluster of buildings on the northeast side of the large two-runway airfield. "This is the Benina Command Center, headquarters of Libya's Eastern Joint Operations Center and Eastern Air Defense Sector. The heart of the facility is two stories underground, protected by twelve-inch reinforced concrete on each floor.

"Each Wolverine will carry two different warheads: a deep-target penetrating warhead using a rocket-propelled one-thousand-pound warhead, followed by a onethousand-pound thermium nitrate high-explosive warhead. Each Wolverine will travel a different flight path but will be programmed to hit the same spot; each missile will perform a pop-up push-over maneuver to drive the first warhead down through the roof to the subfloors, followed by the thermium detonation. The weapons should have no problems going through each level to the command center level, even if they put armor in we don't know about.

"As you know, the thermium warhead has the explosive power of five tons of TNT," Patrick went on, "so if the FlightHawk can determine if the target has been destroyed, we may divert the other Wolverines, probably the third one, to a secondary target, which is the military communications facility at Benina. If we need a tertiary target, we'll switch to the combination petroleum-fired power plant and desalination plant just east of Benghazi-that should turn out the lights and shut off the taps in Benghazi for quite some time."

Patrick displayed another map, this one of northwestern Egypt. Hal Briggs noted that Patrick's briefing was cool, calm, professional, and well under control. He had seen Patrick give countless reports and briefings over the fourteen years he had known him, and despite everything that had happened to him and everything they were, facing now, he seemed like the same emotionless all-business guy he'd always known. Yet in a way, this mission was much different: Although Patrick planned this mission as a strike against a very-high-value military target, Hal reminded himself, it was still a punitive strike-Patrick was simply lashing out at the Libyans. That was not like him at all.

"We'll position ourselves at three principal border crossings in western Egypt-Salum, Arasiyah, and Shiyah," Patrick went on. "We'll have Egyptian Mi-8 and Chinook CH-47 helicopters with us, enough to take at least fifty survivors with us, along with Egyptian security forces and some of our own commandos. In case the prisoners are turned over after the attacks commence, we'll be ready to take them or go in and rescue them if the Libyans have a change of heart. If the prisoners show up anywhere along the border, the other helicopters can respond to help. Questions?"

The telephone in the briefing room rang; all heads turned, because they knew that the Charge of Quarters would not allow any calls through during a briefing unless it was absolutely urgent. David Luger picked it up immediately; he listened, then snapped his fingers at the television set bolted in one corner of the room. "CQ says turn on the TV right now," Luger said.

Patrick couldn't believe his eyes. There, on Egyptian national TV, was Ulama Khalid al-Khan, giving a press conference. The caption at the bottom of the screen, written in both Arabic and English, read "LIBYAN PRISONERS RELEASED TO EGYPT."

"The men were rescued from the Mediterranean Sea by the Libyan Navy," Khan was saying, replying to a reporter's question. "I have no details as to why or how their ships were sunk. The Libyan government detained the survivors until their identities could be verified-apparently there were some survivors whose identities or even their nationalities could not be verified, so it took longer than usual. But once all of the survivors were identified and questioned on the incident, King Idris of the United Kingdom of Libya ordered their release. He requested that I assist-in providing transportation and medical care for the survivors, and I immediately agreed. He asked me to assist in processing the survivors and seeing to their care and repatriation.

"Yes, there are casualties," Khan said, replying to another question. "Several dozen men were fatally injured in the incident. In addition, several men were injured while being detained by the kingdom of Libya, apparently because they refused both to reveal their identities and also to cooperate with Libyan authorities. They were suspected of engineering the attacks on friendly, neutral shipping in the Mediterranean. When they resisted while in detention, they were dealt with harshly, as any detainee who lashes out at his rescuers deserves."

"Yeah? Let's have a look at some of those 'resisters,' " Hal Briggs scoffed. "I'll bet the Libyans tortured the hell out of them." He saw Chris Wohl glaring at him disapprovingly-it wasn't until then that he realized with horrified embarrassment that Wendy and some of the Night Stalkers might be some of the ones killed while in captivity. He looked at Patrick with a silent apology, but Patrick's attention was riveted on the television.

"Despite the unfortunate loss of life, the incident is now at an end, thanks to the king of United Libya," Khan went on. "The prisoners will be taken to a location where they will receive medical care and then released. This spirit of cooperation between Libya and Egypt also paves the way for further talks between our two countries in other matters, such as the cessation of attacks against suspected terrorist training centers in southern Egypt and Chad, and the resumption of talks aimed at bringing more cooperation in planning mutual petroleum production contracts."

The interoffice phone rang again, and Luger answered it right away again. This time, he looked panicked as he slammed the phone down. "The Egyptian base commander, Vice Marshal Ouda, is outside the compound with a force about the size of an armored company. He wants to talk with you upstairs, on the liaison freq."

Patrick donned his helmet, unplugged his fully charged battle armor, and went upstairs to the front of their halfunderground concrete facility. From the topmost security room, Patrick could look outside without being seen. There was a twelve-foot-high fence surrounding their building, topped with razor wire, about fifty feet away. The military district commander's armored vehicle and several dozen light tanks and heavy armored personnel carriers were stationed outside the gate, weapons trained inside. More tanks and armored vehicles were spread out all along the perimeter-the Night Stalkers were suddenly sealed up tight.

"Dave, we got trouble," Patrick radioed to Luger. "We got a company of armor outside the fence. They're not coming through the fence, but they've got us surrounded pretty well."

"I can have a FlightHawk and a couple Wolverines with SFWs overhead in about four hours," Luger said. "We'll have to reprogram the weapons from the Benina strike, but that'll only take a few minutes."

Patrick thought quickly; then: "Find a safe orbit area for the Megafortress and the tanker," Patrick said, "and have them stand by as long as possible. We're just hours away from getting our guys back-I don't want to do anything to piss off the Egyptians now. But I want the strike aircraft available in case we have any trouble getting our folks out."

"We've only got one refueling aircraft available," Luger reminded him, "and it's been on the go for two days straight. If we send the Megafortresses into holding orbits, that means less fuel for the strike package, less fuel reserves for the tanker, and more flying hours. Those guys will be wiped."

"That can't be helped," Patrick said. "We've got to fly those planes hard until our guys are rescued. The tankers will just have to keep cycling as best they can. Contact Martindale and see if he can get us some more tanker support."

"Okay," David said. "Remember, we have that escape tunnel we found as a backup." In the first few hours after occupying the bunker, which was an old security outpost protecting the southern part of the base, the Night Stalkers found an emergency escape tunnel, which ran several hundred meters west. "I'll send some guys out to cheek to see if Ouda is covering it."

"Roger," Patrick said. "Cancel the strike meeting and have everyone get ready to bug out-we might have to move in a hurry." He switched to the Egyptian liaison radio frequency: "Vice Marshal Ouda, this is Castor," he said in his battle armor's radio. His battle armor's communications computer made the translation from English to Arabic and back again for him. "We have heard about the prisoner exchange between Libya and Egypt. We will not interfere. Once our men are returned to us, we will depart."

"The prisoner exchange will take place tomorrow morning," Ouda said via the computer datalink translation. "You are to stay here. No one will be allowed to leave this compound."

"Where will the prisoners be taken?"

"Here, by bus," Ouda replied. "They will be inprocessed, identified, examined by doctors, and questioned first. Then the Egyptian government will contact representatives from the various governments and they will be allowed to take their citizens with them. The airfield will be available for their use if needed. The government of Egypt is doing everything we can to facilitate this exchange-we do not want you or your men to interfere."

"We will not interfere," Patrick said. "I request permission to allow one of my men to accompany the foreign government representatives to see the prisoners."

"Denied," Ouda said quickly. "Not one of you is allowed to leave. If you try to leave, I will order my men to attack."

"Very well. We will comply with your orders, sir. I wish to speak with Mrs. Salaam or General Baris."

"They are not available."

Patrick could hear Ouda's real voice underneath the electronic translation, and his skin instantly tingled-there was something ominous about the way he said that. "Very well, sir. We will stay. Please ask Mrs. Salaam or General Baris to contact me immediately when they return to the base." Ouda made no reply before the connection was broken.

Patrick returned to the briefing room downstairs. "There's something else going on here," he told everyone assembled there. "I think Salaam and Baris are either dead or under arrest, and Vice Marshal Ouda sounded to me like he thought they were already dead, or soon would be."

"Maybe part of the deal to release the captives was to eliminate Salaam and Baris," Hal Briggs said.

"Or maybe Khan found out that she's been helping us, and he's convinced the military that they're traitors," David Luger said.

"In any case, I think our days remaining here are down to hours-maybe only minutes," Patrick said. Just then, Chris Wohl, in full battle armor and exoskeleton, entered the room with one of the Night Stalkers. "Did you check the emergency tunnel and exit, Master Sergeant?"

"Yes, sir," Wohl replied. "No guards on the other side. The closest Egyptian forces are about two hundred meters away, facing toward the compound-we'll exit behind them. More units are inbound-I think they have another armored company almost in place."

"It's hard for me to believe they've forgotten about that tunnel," Hal Briggs said. "Not guarding that exit could be a ruse. If they catch us sneaking out, it could give them an excuse to attack us."

"They don't need an excuse," Patrick said. "If we've lost our patrons and if they want us, they'll go in and get us. We need to be gone by then." To Wohl, Patrick said, "Get your men together and evacuate the compound, Sarge." He referred to a map on the wall of the base. "Assemble here, at this oil well complex south; then we'll disperse and go to exfiltration points. If the oil well complex is not secure, we'll head southwest toward these oil well complexes and disperse. Avoid contact with the Egyptian military if possible, but avoid capture at all costs. Questions?"

"Are you coming with us, sir?"

"I'll stay here, just in case Ouda wants to talk-I want him to think we're still here," Patrick said.

"How many men do you want here with you?"

"Zero," Patrick said. "Everyone else will depart and go to the exfiltration points."

"I don't think that's wise, sir."

"Chris, I think the Egyptians are no longer our friends," Patrick said. "I think they'll come for us first thing in the morning, when they've built up their forces to maximum. But I still don't want to get into a firefight with the Egyptians. I can stall them until you are safe." Wohl nodded. "Get moving." Wohl barked an order, and the Night Stalkers got on their feet and headed out to get their gear and evacuate.

Hal Briggs and David Luger stayed behind. "What are you thinking about, Muck?" Luger asked. "Why stay?"

"I'm afraid that if Khan or Ouda have Wendy and the others, they'll use them to get to us," Patrick said. "If we bug out completely, they'll hold them hostage to get us back."

"So you intend on staying here and getting captured?"

"It's the only thing I can think of to keep all our bases covered," Patrick said. "But I need you guys out so we can organize a rescue. When they realize you guys have disappeared, they'll be less likely to hurt us-they know what you can do."

Hal Briggs shook his head. "I sure hope you know what you're doin', Muck," he said. He held out a hand, and Patrick shook it. "We'll stay in touch. Keep your head down."

"That's what I do best."

"Since when?" Luger asked with a smile. He shook hands with his long-time partner. "I don't want to lose another McLanahan, my friend. When it's time to get out, give us a call, and we'll come in and help get you out."

"I'll be right behind you. Now get moving." He and Briggs headed for the tunnel. "Hal?"

"Yeah?"

"Set some mines on that emergency exit after you get clear," Patrick ordered. "If the Egyptians try to come in that way, I want it sealed."

"You got it. Be careful."

Director of Central Intelligence Douglas Morgan entered Secretary of Defense Goff's office, holding a thin imagery file marked "CONFIDENTIAL." He held it up, a questioning look in his eyes. "Here's the data you asked for," he said. "What's up?"

"Our friends might be at it again," Goff said, waving him to a seat. Already seated at the meeting area in front of Goff's desk was Joint Chiefs of Staff chairman General Richard Venti. "The general has some data to show us, but he needed your latest overheads to nail it down. What did you find?"

"Satellite imagery from over north Africa," Morgan explained. "Infrared detectors picked up four large blasts in eastern Libya last night. They were first classified as oil derrick fires. But their location was right over a small Libyan military base called Jaghbub, mostly used as a border security outpost and a security base for one of the Libyan president's retreats-sort of Libya's answer to Camp David."

"I'm familiar with Jaghbub, General," Goff said. "What happened there?"

"We got some overhead shots of the area, and analysts say there was an air strike against that base," Morgan responded. "Precision guided attacks against air defense sites, communications, security, and even pinpoint attacks against armor."

"Interesting."

"This is even more interesting-the Libyan president, Zuwayy, was there at the time."

"Really? Did they get him?"

"Doesn't appear so," Morgan said. "We have been tracking aircraft coming and going from there ever since the attack, and we think we tracked a helicopter convoy leave there for Tripoli shortly after the attack. Shortly thereafter, Libyan state television announces a terrorist attack on Jaghbub, accusing the Egyptians and Israelis of attacking a Muslim holy place. The reports claim Zuwayy is safe, but we haven't seen him yet. Our guess is he got out but may be injured."

Goff shook his head, then nodded to Venti. '"Bell him what your boys found, Richard."

"About an hour after those fires broke out," Venti said, "a Navy Hawkeye over the Med is tracking a flight that took off from Athens bound for Shannon, Ireland. Pretty routine stuff, except the plane's not exactly on course for Shannon-he's flying basically westbound, over the Med, instead of getting a clearance direct. But he's following his filed international flight plan, he's on time and on courseno problem. The Navy is watching him. Soon, he's slowing down-way down. He's lost about a hundred knots. We call up the guy and ask if there's a problem, and he says no, they're just doing some engine performance data checks where they have to retard throttles. It's weird, doing stuff like that over water far from home-the aircraft is based in North Las Vegas, Nevada-but it's no big deal.

"We happened to have a couple Tomcats on patrol nearby, so we vector them over and do a silent join-up on the guy to make sure he's okay. They got a picture of the plane with the F-14's telescopic FLIR." Venti opened another briefing folder and showed it to Morgan.

It was a very fine, detailed picture of an EB-52 Megafortress bomber being refueled behind a DC-10 aircraft.

"Oh, shit," Morgan muttered. "Is that one of Sky Masters Inc.'s modified B-52s?"

"That's it," Venti said. "And we checked the N-number of the DC-10-it's a Sky Masters launch aircraft also, modified for aerial refueling." He handed Morgan another photo, this one an even more extreme close-up. "Look under the wings."

"Weapon pylons?"

Venti handed him a magnifying glass. "What else do you see?"

Morgan studied the photo, then whistled. "Missiles on rails on the sides of the pylons." He studied another photograph, shaking his head. "One missing on the right pylon."

"Presumably expended," Secretary Goff said perturbedly. "Libya claims in its broadcast that some of their aircraft were shot down during the attack too."

"Were your Navy guys able to track that bomber?"

"They lost it," Venti said. "When the bomber was done refueling, they must have fired up their radar again, spotted the fighters, and evaded them. We have no idea where they went. With the stealth capabilities of that aircraft, they could fly right over Washington, D.C., and we'd never know it."

"Pretty circumstantial evidence," Morgan pointed out. "We don't have any actual evidence that the Megafortress bombed Libya, or that the Night Stalkers had anything to do with it."

"This isn't a court of law-yet," Goff said angrily. "But I don't need a warrant to search a Sky Masters installationthey're federal contractors working on classified government programs, which means we can walk in on them anytime."

"Let me play devil's advocate," Morgan said with a smile, "and ask-why not let these guys do their thing? They obviously uncovered something in Libya with that attack on Samah — Libya was definitely storing weapons of mass destruction there, and was probably getting ready to use them-and they probably uncovered something in Jaghbub, too. The U.S. government is not in any way involved in this, and that's for real: We're not avowing any knowledge of the Night Stalkers or their activities-we're not directing them in any way, shape, or fashion. They're terrorists as far as we know, but we have no legal reason to pursue them."

"I am not going to let a bunch of Lone Rangers fly an intercontinental bomber from American shores and bomb another country with explosives big enough to show up on a satellite as a nuclear explosion and let them get away with it," Secretary Goff said angrily. 'They're going to start a war in north Africa before this is over, and I don't care how deniable they are, we're responsible if we don't try to stop them."

"You going to run this by the boss first?"

"Sky Masters is a Department of Defense contractorthat means I'm responsible for their activities," Otoff said.

"I'm going to start my investigation, and I'm going to use all my enforcement authority to find out what they're up to. In addition, the Night Stalkers are under federal indictment as well-if we uncover evidence that Sky Masters is aiding them, I can and I will shut them down." He looked at General Venti. "Any way we can find that bomber again?"

"We know the tanker's profile," Venti said. "Basically, the Night Stalkers are doing an en route air refueling rendezvous, with the tanker flying a long, slow anchor route-they're obviously very well coordinated and in constant secure contact. They'll probably stay over the Med, although they can certainly do the refueling over Europe-they'd be worried about being spotted visually. We just intercept any aircraft matching that refueling profile. It'll keep our Navy guys hopping, but I think we can do it."

"Can you find the bomber before it links up with the tanker?"

"That'll be tougher," Venti said. "The Megafortress is pretty stealthy-we'd have to get in pretty close before the fighters' radar will be able to lock on, well inside the bomber's laser radar detection range. If they see us hanging around, they'll just bug out."

"That's what I want, then," Goff said resolutely after a few moments' thought. "If the tanker guys are in such good contact with the bomber, they'll tell the bomber to get out as soon as we intercept the tanker. I assume McLanahan has some kind of contingency plan in place, an alternate landing location somewhere in the region-they'll have to abort then- attack run and head right for it. They'll be out of the fight."

Venti looked at Morgan quizzically, then nodded. "I'll give the order, sir," he said.

"I'll ask you one more time, Bob-you sure you want to chase McLanahan and his boys out of there?" Intelligence Director Morgan asked. "They may be cowboys, but at least they're fighting on our side."

"They're not cowboys-they're wild dogs," Goff said. "They need to be put away in cages."

Traffic at the As-Sallum border crossing between Egypt and Libya was always busy, both because of the number of persons crossing the border-thousands of Libyans flocked to Egypt every week on three-day visas to go shopping, buy food, enjoy Egypt's superior beach resorts, or to get better medical treatment-and because of the tight security. Even before the current conflict with Libya, Egypt maintained strict security at the border crossing-today, it was even tighter. Every vehicle was searched, every person was photographed and questioned, every truck was unloaded and thoroughly searched.

That's why it was so unusual to see an unmarked limousine, three buses, and a refrigerated truck being waved through the crossing without so much as one customs officer peeking inside.

The convoy was met by an Egyptian army escort and driven off at very high speed another two hundred kilometers east to Mersa Matruh Joint Military Base. The vehicles were driven inside a government warehouse facility, where over a hundred soldiers, clerks, doctors, translators, and medical examiners were waiting. A military officer went on board the buses and explained to those inside what was about to happen.

One by one, the individuals on board the buses were taken off. Most were suffering from a variety of injuries, mostly burns to the upper half of the body and head injuries of all kinds-the result of trying to swim through or surfacing through spilled-oil fires on the Mediterranean Sea. Many had to be helped off; about two dozen were taken off the third bus by stretcher, some unconscious. Clerks, nurses, and doctors with interpreters were on hand, steering the men and women to interview examination cubicles.

The refrigerated truck was driven to a separate area of the warehouse, closed off from the main section. Six autopsy tables had been set up, with forensic pathologists and medical examiners waiting to begin their work. One by one, light gray body bags were carried out of the truck. Each body bag had a plastic bag with various records inside. A clerk took the paperwork, then escorted the body to an examination table, where video cameras were rolling, recording everything. While dictating into an overhead microphone, the medical examiner unzipped the bag and began his work.

It was not the examiners' job to ascertain cause of death-their main task was gathering enough information to assist in identification. But most times the cause of death was plainly-and painfully-obvious. Most of the fortynine corpses had died of blast trauma or fire from exploding ordnance or systems on board their vessel when the Libyan air force attacked. Severed body parts were sometimes simply thrown into a body bag, often without any real attempt to try to match the parts by gender or race. Many suffered no injuries from blast trauma or fire-they obviously died from wounds inflicted by gunshots at very close range, blunt-force trauma, knife wounds, crushed throats, slashed arteries, mutilated genitalia, or burn marks all over the bodies.

It was obvious they had been tortured to death by their captors after being rescued from the sea.

In all, eight female corpses were examined. They were not exempt from the torture the others endured.

A few hours after the examinations began, a helicopter landed at a helipad outside the warehouse facility, and a group of government officials, surrounded by bodyguards, were quickly taken directly from the helicopter to a waiting limousine and then directly to the warehouse. On his orders, a special corridor had been erected from cubicle dividers with one-way mirrors installed that allowed anyone walking inside the corridor to look out but no one to look in.

Ulama Khalid al-Khan, wearing a military garrison cap and sunglasses to hide his identity even though he was safe from any outside scrutiny, could not believe what he was looking at. The stench was horrific-he wanted to put a cloth up to his nose to block the smell of these tortured, bloody, unwashed bodies, but he dared not show any weakness in front of the soldiers escorting him. The corridor took him and his aide, Major Amr Abu Gheit, into the makeshift morgue, where he was able to view several of the corpses, and he had to struggle to keep his stomach from turning inside out. Finally, he was escorted out of the warehouse complex and into a separate office.

"What… what in hell was that?" Khan gasped.

"One hundred and twenty-nine persons recovered by the Libyans from the Mediterranean Sea after their ships were attacked, sir," Major Gheit responded. It was obvious that even the veteran warrior could barely stomach the sight himself. He handed Khan a list of the survivors. "Fortynine fatalities, including nine women. Fifty-six others severely injured, some critically. They are almost done with the identification process."

"Were… were some of those men tortured?"

"Obviously the Libyan military wanted information out of them," Gheit said. "The king of Libya explained that the attacks were in retaliation for the commando attack on their missile base."

"Damned brutal animals," Khan muttered, taking a sip of water to try to settle his stomach. "I've never seen men mutilated like that."

"There are only nine Egyptians in the group, and they were working as crew members on someone else's ship, not an Egyptian flagged vessel," Gheit said. "Why would Zuwayy want to turn them over to you?"

"He dumped those men and women on our doorstep, leaving us to clean up his mess," Khan said disgustedly. "He's either trying to implicate me in this unholy mess, or he's trying to embarrass me. Either one won't work."

"This doesn't make sense," Gheit said. "He must know those prisoners are going to talk about the treatment they received in Libya. Zuwayy will be vilified all over the world."

"Well, I'm not going to play whatever game fee's playing," Khan said resolutely. "This is insanity." Khan waved at the door. "Let's get out of here," he said. "The stench is too much for me to bear." Gheit ordered Khan's car pulled up beside the door. When it was in place, Khan stepped outside.

Just as Khan was about to step into the car, his attention was drawn to an impossibly bright flash of light-he was surprised he noticed it in daytime, but it was that bright somewhere very close, followed by a tremendous BOOM! like the loudest thunderclap ever heard. Moments later there was another flash of light, bright enough to erase shadows on the ground, followed by a second explosion. A thunderstorm in an almost cloudless sky?

Could it be some sort of attack? But there was no sign of anything wrong on the ground except a great stirring of dust and sand, like the gust front ahead of an approaching thunderstorm or sandstorm-but again, there were no clouds in the sky. He could hear screams somewhere off in the distance, but still there seemed to be nothing amiss.

"Let's get out of here," Khan said. "This place feels like death all of a sudden."

Patrick, wearing full battle armor and exoskeleton, was watching TV coverage of the busloads of ex-Libyan prisoners being taken into the warehouses through his helmet-mounted visor. He stared carefully at the screen, trying to pick out even one familiar face, but the cameras were too far away and the prisoners were not in the open long enough for Patrick to recognize anyone.

The commentator made several mentions of the refrigerated trucks being driven to an adjacent warehouse Patrick didn't want to think about what was in those vehicles. He just hoped and prayed that Wendy and his men were all right.

But another movement caught his attention: the movement of men and vehicles outside the compound. Shit, he thought, here they come. "Hey, Texas," he radioed.

"We see them, Muck," David Luger responded. Patrick's electronic visor in his battle armor automatically datalinked the view to all the others wearing the Tin Man armor. "Still think they're just going to take you into custody?"

Patrick ignored the question. "Are you guys secure?" he asked.

"Almost," Luger replied. The Night Stalkers had to move to a third recovery area, a set of abandoned oil rigs almost thirty miles to the southwest-most of the Egyptian army was on the move west of the base and along the coast to seal off the Libyan border. They had stolen two tracked vehicles to help their getaway across the desert. "The closest units are about three miles behind us. We're waiting for the choppers to come after us any minute. If they do, we'll ask Headbanger Two to take them out."

"Headbanger Two is standing by," the aircraft commander aboard a second EB-52 Megafortress flying battleship reported. The second Megafortress had been able to refuel from the Sky Masters Inc.'s DC-10 tanker, but had to break off and run into southern Libya shortly thereafter because U.S. Navy fighters from a carrier in the Mediterranean had pursued it. The DC-10 landed in Iraklion, Greece, where American and NATO authorities were questioning its crew as to why it had to make the unscheduled landing and exactly what its mission was. It had been a close call. "We can stay on station for only about an hour before we have to head on home."

"Copy," Patrick said. "What a lousy time for the feds to be on our ass."

"Patrick, I think it's time for you to get the hell out of there," Hal Briggs said. "Start moving out the emergency escape. We'll vector in the Megafortress to cover you."

"I'm going to give Ouda one more try," Patrick said.

"He's not answering you. Better get out before they start moving in."

"Stand by," Patrick responded. It was his only chance to get out without a firefight-a very slim chance. "Vice Marshal Ouda, this is Castor. Can you hear me?" Patrick called on the liaison radio channel. Outside the half-underground bunker, several of the tanks were on the move. Covering smoke began to belch from exhausts, obscuring them from sight. Patrick switched to his imaging infrared visor so he could see them. "Several of your tanks are moving toward the fence outside our compound. It appears as if you are attacking my position. State your intentions. Can you hear me?" There was no reply-nor did he really expect one.

But that moment an alarm went off in his battle armor a radiation alarm. Patrick quickly scanned the datalink images around him-nothing. A few moments later, another radiation alarm sounded.

"Marshal Ouda, this is Castor. Respond immediately. We are detecting radiation in the area. Levels are rising quickly-they are approaching lethal levels. Do you copy?" No answer-and now the Egyptian tanks were on the move. "Dave, I'm outta here," Patrick said on his command channel, and he raced for the emergency exit, careful to disarm, then rearm the booby trap at the rear entrance.

He was about to jet-jump away when the first Egyptian tank crashed through the twelve-foot-high fence surrounding the bunker. The tank was followed by several dozen Egyptian infantrymen, some carrying rocket-propelled grenades and bazookas. Patrick saw several of the tanks wheel hi his direction-they had spotted him. He raised his electromagnetic rail gun, charged it, and aimed for the closest tank…

… and found the rail gun completely inoperative. It had power, but all of the electronic displays were blank. His suit's electronic visor-also blank. His defensive electronic bolts-powerless. He did a quick self-test of all his suit's systems and found everything dead. He tried to jetjump away-but the jets were deactivated as well. His suit still had power, but everything was in reset, as if it had shut itself down to prevent an overheat or overload. He thought it would all come back, but he didn't know when or if anything had sustained any damage.

Patrick took off his helmet before he suffocated to death-the suit's environmental system had shut down too-just as the Egyptians rolled over to him. The soldiers stripped his battle armor off, handcuffed him, and took him to a security building on the other side of the base, where he was thrown into a windowless, hot room a little larger than a closet. He tried to contact someone through his subcutaneous transceiver, but there was no response. Everything looked as if it was scrambled. What in hell was going on?

Vice Marshal Sayed Ouda met with Patrick a couple hours later. He was sweating profusely, almost as much as Patrick was. "Where are your comrades?" Ouda asked through an interpreter.

"They've escaped and are probably being airlifted out of the country," Patrick replied.

"Why did you remain behind?"

"Because I am still here to meet up with my comrades that were captured by the Libyans, the ones that were brought here," Patrick said. "But we suspected we were being held here to prevent us from meeting with them. Apparently I'm right. What's going on, sir?"

"No questions from you," Ouda said. "You will be turned over to the Supreme Judiciary for further interrogation."

"Turned over to Khalid al-Khan?" No response-the soldier doing the interpreting didn't look very good either. "Where are Madame Salaam and General Baris?"

"I said… I said no… questions," the interpreter said-and then he vomited violently on the floor right in front of Patrick, with more blood than bile gushing out. The jailer had to drag the suddenly unconscious man out. Marshal Ouda dashed out of the room as well, in such a hurry that he didn't even bother to close or lock the door behind him.

The security office was in complete bedlam. Men were rushing around shouting and yelling, some in complete, very unsoldierlike panic. Some of them were hurriedly putting on gas masks. But it didn't seem as if they were under attack. "What's happening?" Patrick asked. "What's wrong? Does anyone speak English?" Everyone was ignoring him. Patrick was able to find his way through a maze of corridors and up one flight of stairs and finally emerge outside…

… where he found several dozen dead Egyptian soldiers, simply lying in the road. All of them had lost a significant amount of blood through their mouths and nostrils and in some cases through their ears and eye sockets.

Patrick went back inside the security building. There, at a reception desk, a pregnant female security officer was frantically dialing a telephone. Her hands were trembling so bad, she couldn't punch the buttons. "Can you help me?" Patrick asked her. "Do you speak English?" She looked at him, and she seemed to understand what he was saying, but she kept trying to dial the telephone. Once she did correctly dial, she cried out in frustration as she reached a busy number or one that didn't answer. "You speak English, don't you?" he asked.

"Yes," the officer replied. "Please stand away from the door and do not panic. Do not…" And then she wiped a rivulet of blood from her eyes, and she started to bawl.

"It's all right," Patrick said. He didn't know what else to say. He was standing in the lobby in long underwear, barefoot, with his hands cuffed behind his back, unable to do anything. "Just relax."

"I cannot find my husband," she sobbed. "I do not know what is happening."

"It looks like the building is being evacuated," Patrick said. "Why don't you report to the base hospital? Your husband will find you there." The woman nodded, got out of her chair, then noticed Patrick was handcuffed. She went back to her desk with a handcuff key and released him. "Shukran gazilan," Patrick said. "Do you need me to drive you to the hospital?" She seemed to have trouble understanding him. He made a steering motion with his hands. "Mustashfa?" Patrick asked, dredging up as many Arabic words as he could. "El is'aef? Doktor? Haelan."

The woman nodded, then retrieved a desert camouflage jacket someone had left on a coat hook and a set of keys from a wall keyholder. Patrick went over to open the door for her…

… and that's when he noticed the trail of blood coming from between her legs. The woman took Patrick's hand, nodded her thanks… and then her eyes rolled up into the back of her head, and she slumped to the floor, dead.

What was happening? Patrick cried to himself. Jesus, was it a chemical or biological weapon attack? He didn't have long himself if it was. He took the keys from the woman's dead fingers, slipped on the jacket, then went back inside the security building. After twenty minutes of searching, he found his battle armor, exoskeleton, backpack unit, and helmet, and headed outside. After a five-minute search of the parking lot, he found the right vehicle and drove off.

What he saw on that drive was unimaginable horrordead bodies everywhere. He saw vehicles overturned, corpses still in the driver's seats. He saw armored vehicles and tanks crashed into buildings and gates with corpses hanging out of them as if they tried to climb out just as they died. There were burning, crashed helicopters dotting the flight-line access road, fires everywhere-even dead vultures and other desert animals lying everywhere. It was like a scene in some kind of horror movie. As far as he could see, across the runway and toward the main base area, he could see signs of slow, painful death. He…

Patrick gasped. The base… the base where Wendy, the other Night Stalkers, and the other prisoners had been taken. My God!

He tried the car radio: It was working, but it was silentnot static, just a silence, as if the announcer's microphone was left open. But if the car and the radio worked, maybe his battle armor did too! He stopped the car and dragged all his gear out of the trunk. Sure enough, the outside status lights were green-the power pack and computer were working. As quickly as he could, Patrick climbed into the suit and powered it up. It was working again! He put on the helmet and secured the entire system…

… and then learned what had happened: Radiation alarms were going off. There had been an intense release of gamma and neutron radiation in the past several hours. Although the radiation levels now were high-he would have to get out of the area within thirty minutes of risk getting seriously sick-they had been a thousand times higher not long ago.

A neutron bomb. It had to be. Someone had set off a neutron bomb on the base. Everyone within a mile of the explosion would be dead within hours, and everyone within two miles would get sick from radiation poisoning. The neutron bomb-a conventional hydrogen bomb without its uranium-238 jacket-was designed to kill humans but leave vehicles and buildings intact.

Wendy..

So the Libyans couldn't release the prisoners, Patrick thought grimly. It was impossible. The news report said some of the prisoners were tortured. The Libyans couldn't allow the world to see that. So they planted a nuclear device into one of the buses and set it to go off just as the prisoners were being off-loaded. All of the evidence of what they had done would be wiped clean. They would of course deny they had anything to do with the nuclear detonation.

Wendy… my God, Wendy…

Zuwayy was going to pay for this, Patrick vowed. He was going to die, brutally and messily. He was going to rip his beating heart out of his chest and rub it in his face.

The air felt electrified, as if every movement of his body caused thousands of static electric shocks that were growing in intensity. Patrick knew that if he stuck around much longer, the shocks would eventually kill him.

Patrick reluctantly turned his back on what was once Egypt's largest military base outside Cairo and headed southwest, toward a rendezvous with his men. As he drove, he felt nothing-no anger, no weariness, no hatred, and no sadness. The battle had been fought, and he had lost.