Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 10 Page 14

  “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, stationed 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 twenty-minute 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 127- millimeter cannon and four fixed torpedo tubes were trained on the captured vessel. Flanking 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 battle 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, inshaallah” 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 combat— you 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 wife?” 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 warship 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.”