Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 10 Page 13

  “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 forces 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 neighbors— was 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 H, 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 early- warning 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 look
ed 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 half- klick. 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 supportive— but Thom 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.”