Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 10 Page 23

  A few moments later, Colonel Osama Mekkawi, chief of security of the Republican Guards and Zuwayy’s personal bodyguard, dashed into the room, hurriedly buttoning his uniform tunic. He pushed past the security guards. “Don’t just stand here gawking! Get out of here and secure the hallways and escape tunnel for our departure!” Mekkawi shouted. He went to the door of Zuwayy’s bedchamber. It was locked. With a thrill of panic, he drew his side arm, stepped back, then kicked the door open.

  Jadallah Zuwayy was sitting upright in his bed, startled out of a deep sleep. Curled around him were two young girls, members of Zuwayy’s equestrian staff, the younger no more than thirteen or fourteen years old. Mekkawi learned long ago not to look or act shocked at anything he saw or heard coming from Zuwayy’s bedchamber. “Highness, there’s an emergency,” Mekkawi shouted. The younger girl began to whine for her mother; the older one, still half asleep, began kissing Zuwayy’s face. “You must evacuate.”

  Zuwayy practically stomped the younger girl in his haste to get out of bed, and he hastily put on a pair of trousers, robe, and sandals, the two girls forgotten. Mekkawi escorted Zuwayy outside to the evacuation route; a guard stayed behind, guarding the apartment door to make it appear as if the room was still occupied.

  “What is happening?” Zuwayy asked

  “We are under attack, Your Majesty,” Mekkawi said breathlessly. “Action in the minefield—several hundred square meters of minefields exploded, probably a mineclearing operation, in preparation for attack. Then cluster bomb and missile attacks against antiaircraft emplacements and armored vehicles all across the base. Could be a prelude to a large invasion force. We must evacuate.”

  “Who could it be?”

  “With firepower like that? Israelis or Americans, I’d guess.”

  “How in hell could such a force get that close without being detected?”

  “Perhaps it is a stealth bomber attack, Highness,” Mekkawi said. “It is not important now. We must get you to safety. I will ask you to wait in the Great Mosque until your transports arrive, then we will evacuate you to a safe location immediately.”

  Mekkawi escorted Zuwayy down into the basement of the palace; in a storage room filled with old furniture, he pressed a hidden switch. A secret door swung open on electrically activated pistons. The door led to an escape tunnel. They passed one security checkpoint along the two- hundred-meter tunnel, then climbed a spiral staircase. They emerged in a janitor’s room in the Great Mosque. Zuwayy was escorted to a rectory, and the guards were posted outside. The rectory, inside the mosque, was believed to be immune from attack from almost any nation in the world, even the Americans. This one had been specially modified to protect its occupants from chemical, biological, and even low levels of nuclear weapons, and the walls had enough armor in them to withstand a forty-millimeter rocket-propelled grenade.

  Mekkawi placed a satchel with a shoulder strap on a desk and opened it. He withdrew a nuclear/chemical/biological agent detector from the bag and activated it. “You remember how to don your protective mask and hood, Highness?” Mekkawi asked. Zuwayy nodded, his lips taut with fear. “Good. If the alarm goes off, you will have about thirty seconds to do so. Take your time and do it correctly, and you’ll be all right. There is the mask, a weapon, atropine injectors, a first-aid kit, and other items in this bag—don’t hesitate to use any of it. The helicopter will be here within three minutes to take you into hiding. I recommend the alternate command center at Sawknah; if it’s a general attack, we can coordinate all our forces better from there.”

  “If it’s a general attack, I don’t want to wait until I arrive in Sawknah—I want a full rocket barrage started against all Area A targets,” Zuwayy said angrily. “Then scramble all alert bombers and commence the follow-on attacks against both A and B targets. Understood?”

  “I will need to issue those orders by coded radio from my office, Highness.”

  “Then go. I will wait here.”

  “Very well, Majesty. I have guards posted outside both entrances if you require anything.”

  “All I require are the heads of anyone who dared attack this facility!” Zuwayy shouted. “Go!” Mekkawi dashed off.

  Zuwayy sat at the desk and picked up the chemical warfare mask. He saw his fingers starting to tremble. He had donned one of these many times in the past, of course—all Libyan Special Forces troops were very proficient in their use, because every unit had chemical and biological weapons in their arsenals—but he was so nervous right now that he doubted if...

  “Es salaem alekum, Captain Zuwayy.”

  Zuwayy nearly jumped out of his skin—he leapt to his feet, nearly stumbling backward over his chair. There, standing before the desk just a few meters away, was a strange figure in some sort of futuristic costume. He could not see a face, or eyes—the figure was wearing a full-face helmet with large bug-eyed visors. He carried no weapons. “Bolis! Bolis! Ilha'uni! Ilha'uni!” he screamed, his voiced as high-pitched and trembling as those of the young girls he had just finished raping.

  To their credit, both guards stationed outside the two doors to the rectory burst in immediately—unfortunately, they didn’t think about calling out an alarm before they did. One had a radio in one hand and a pistol in the other; the other guard had his rifle at the ready. Both were immediately stunned off their feet by a blast of lightning from the stranger’s shoulders. The stranger dragged the guards inside the rectory, secured the doors, then stepped toward Zuwayy.

  Zuwayy reached into the satchel, pulled out a Spanish Star Z84 autopistol, cocked it, and opened fire at full auto from less than five meters away. The figure flinched and made a half-step backward but did not go down. Another bolt of electricity made Zuwayy cry out in pain. The Z84 felt as if it was a live two-hundred-volt wire, and he dropped it with a scream. “Who the hell are you?” Zuwayy shouted, half in pain, half in sheer terror.

  The strange figure said nothing. Zuwayy was about to repeat his demand when the figure responded in an electronically synthesized voice, “I am called Castor, Zuwayy. I am the instrument of your death.” Zuwayy was surprised to hear the electronic voice speaking Arabic.

  “You can’t kill me. I am the king of united Libya. This is my country, and we are standing on holy ground.”

  A bolt of electricity made Zuwayy stagger to his knees. The figure stepped forward. “You are no king, and this is not your country. You are an impostor and a murderer. Judgment has been passed. You are found guilty of murder. Your sentence is death. It shall be carried out immediately.”

  Mekkawi trotted through the escape tunnel, through the storage room, and into his security office. One of his officers, alerted earlier, already had the joint operations command center in Tripoli on the line. While Mekkawi was talking to the senior controller, receiving a force status report and issuing Zuwayy’s orders, the duty officer received a radio message: “Sir, the king’s helicopters have been shot down!”

  “My God...” He gasped. He thought quickly. Zuwayy was in grave danger—it could be a matter of minutes before the area was invaded—or destroyed. “I want the best helicopter available, any kind, fueled and ready to fly as soon as we arrive on the flight line!” Mekkawi shouted. “And I want an armored personnel carrier brought around to take the king to the base. Hurry!” He turned back to the secure telephone: “You heard me, Major. The king has ordered that all Area A targets be attacked immediately if there is any indication that a general attack is under way.... Yes, with all available rocket and air forces designated to strike Area A targets, including special-weapons forces. He has also ordered that sorties be generated immediately for follow-on attacks on Area B targets on his command ... yes, stand by for authentication.” Mekkawi pulled out a decoding document from a chain around his neck, quickly computed the code using the formula plus the current date and time, then read it to the senior controller. “I also want...”

  “Sir!”

  “What the hell is it? I’m on the line to headquarters.”


  “Look!”

  Mekkawi turned to a bank of security monitors.

  “The security camera to the rectory in the mosque—it is off!”

  “What?" Mekkawi grabbed the phone, but it was dead.

  He dropped the phone and drew his side arm. “Have all available palace security forces converge on the mosque and cover all exits, and I mean now!”

  “Muck, it’s me,” Hal Briggs radioed via their secure command channel. “We’re waiting for you at the exfil point. Check your datalink, brother. We’re showing lots of troops on the move, heading your way. Bug out immediately!”

  “Roger,” Patrick replied. It was too late, Patrick realized. The plan was to kidnap Zuwayy and hold him until all the prisoners were set free—unfortunately, it didn’t look as if he’d be able to get him out of Jaghbub. “I want Plan B set in motion, Hal. T minus two minutes.”

  “You haven’t got two minutes, Muck.”

  ‘Two minutes,” Patrick said, and he terminated the connection.

  “You can't kill me!" Zuwayy screamed, half out of terror but hoping someone outside would hear him. “What have I done to you?”

  In response, Patrick picked Zuwayy up, carried him outside, then jet-jumped up to the roof of the rectory, beside the green dome of the Great Mosque. Patrick held Zuwayy up by his bedclothes in one hand, turning him so he faced west, toward the military base.

  It was a spectacular sight. Over and over again, strings of explosions rippled across the ground as the Wolverine cluster bomb attacks continued. Antiaircraft artillery fire continued, with tracers streaking across the sky like incandescent snakes. Occasionally there was a large secondary explosion as the last of the Wolverine missiles suicide- dived into their last targets. Burning tanks, trucks, and buildings lit the night sky everywhere, like dozens of camp fires. Men were shouting, calling out, screaming and firing in confusion.

  “Sixty seconds, Muck,” Briggs radioed.

  Patrick glanced to the northwest, following the datalink- generated cues displayed in his electronic visor. The Sky Masters EB-52 was right on time, coming in at medium altitude—now that the Wolverines had destroyed all of the area defenses, it could climb higher to stay away from the surviving optically guided antiaircraft artillery units still operating.

  “I am going to destroy your military base, Zuwayy,” Patrick said in his computer-synthesized voice. A microphone was picking up Zuwayy’s voice, broadcasting it via satellite back to Mersa Matruh, where it was instantly translated by computer; Patrick’s voice was similarly translated from English to Arabic the same way. “You will watch it all burn. And then I am going to destroy you.”

  “Whoever you are, I have powerful friends, and I have money,” Zuwayy said. “Spare my life, and I’ll pay you. Ten million dollars. A hundred million dollars. You don’t have to kill me. We can make a deal.”

  This last statement intrigued Patrick. “Who are your friends?”

  “Powerful international arms merchant and black marketers,” Zuwayy said. “Let me go and I’ll tell you everything.”

  ‘Talk or you die.”

  “Thirty seconds, Patrick. You’ve got heavy armored vehicles on their way to you. Best way out is to the east. Move it.”

  “Talk!” Patrick shouted. “This is your last chance.”

  “He is a Russian,” Zuwayy shouted. “He has access to nuclear weapons, missiles, aircraft, oil, anything you want. Just let me live and it’s all yours.”

  It couldn’t be, Patrick thought. It was impossible. The Turks convicted him of murder and crimes against the state. He got the death penalty—and in Turkey, there was no appeal process. He was supposed to have been executed months ago....

  “Ten TG, Muck,” Briggs warned him. “Find a place in the shade and hold on.”

  Eight miles to the north, the EB-52 Megafortress opened the aft portion of its bomb bay doors, and one by one four bombs dropped from a rotary launcher exactly twelve seconds apart. These were GBU-28F JDAMs, or joint direct attack munitions—two-thousand-pound gravity bombs guided by satellite navigation signals that could glide as far as ten miles and still hit their targets with great accuracy. But instead of simple high-explosive warheads, these bombs were fuel-air explosives—the most devastating non-nuclear weapon devised. At a precise altitude above the ground, the bombs split open, releasing a large cloud of vapor. The vapor mixed with oxygen in the air to form a highly explosive gas. At the right moment, three small incendiary bomblets ejected into the gas cloud were ignited.

  The resulting explosion of each JDAM was equivalent to a hundred tons of TNT, creating a fireball a half-mile in diameter and a shock wave that crushed everything aboveground for a mile in every direction. Spaced exactly two miles apart, the four fuel-air explosive bombs created a blinding wall of fire over the Jaghbub airfield. Detonated on the mostly uninhabited West side of the airfield, the fireballs themselves did relatively little damage—but the tremendous overpressure caused by the explosion overturned vehicles, blew out windows, burned wooden buildings, and scorched the sand black all across the reservation, right to the walls of the Green Palace and the Great Mosque where Patrick stood with his captive.

  Zuwayy screamed as the huge wall of fire blossomed out toward him, but his screams were drowned out by the roar of rushing fire and burning air. The overpressure that roiled over them was like a one-second superhurricane, tossing Zuwayy around like a puppet. Patrick kept him facing into the rushing wall of sand and red-hot wind until the air, now needing to fill in the vacuum created by the burnt air near the fireballs, reversed direction and rushed back outward.

  Patrick jumped down off the roof of the rectory, went back inside, and tossed Zuwayy on the floor. All of Zuwayy’s hair on his face, head, and the back of his hands had burnt off, replaced by a beard and hair made of gray ash. He found a pitcher of water on the desk and dumped it on Zuwayy’s face to keep him from passing out. “Can you hear me, Zuwayy?” Patrick asked. Zuwayy was trembling so hard that Patrick thought he might be having a seizure. “Answer me, you coward! Can you hear me?”

  “Yes ... yes, I can hear you,” Zuwayy cried. “Don’t kill me, please, don’t kill me!”

  “You have one chance to live, Zuwayy,” Patrick said in Arabic. “You captured some prisoners off some vessels your military forces sank....”

  “I know nothing of this! What are you accusing me of? This is not—”

  Patrick silenced him with another shot of electricity. “Be quiet, Zuwayy. There is no doubt that your forces attacked those vessels—the only question now is whether or not you will die for doing so.”

  “Do not kill me! Do not kill me!” Zuwayy bleated. “What do you want? Tell me!”

  “You will turn them over to the Egyptians immediately,” Patrick said. “If they are not delivered within twelve hours, I will hunt you down and execute you before the entire world. And if any of them are harmed in any way, I will find you and crush you like an insect.” The stranger hammered the desk in the rectory with a gloved fist, and the heavy cedar-and-burl desktop smashed into pieces as if a wrecking ball was dropped on it. “I will burn your houses, destroy your bunkers, tap into your computer systems, and wipe out everything you own. Twelve hours. I’ll be waiting. If they are not returned, you die.” To punctuate his order, Patrick reached down, took Zuwayy’s nose between two fingers, and crushed it. Blood spurted everywhere, and Zuwayy howled in pain. The figure departed through the door to the mosque itself.

  Moments later, Mekkawi returned through the secret tunnel entrance, his side arm in his hands, followed by three heavily armed soldiers. “Highness, there have been more attacks. I have relayed your orders—” He stopped in sheer horror when he saw Zuwayy lying on the floor, his hair burnt off, blood covering his face and chest. “My what happened?” He was going to call for the outside guards, but then he saw them, lying on the ground, still twitching from the voltage discharging through their bodies.

  “Find out... find out..

  �
�Find out what, Highness?”

  “Find out where the prisoners that were captured off the vessels sunk in the Mediterranean are,” Zuwayy gasped, blood flowing from his mouth and shattered nose. “Find them all, alive or dead; round them up, and get them ready to move out of the country. Truck them... no, bus them ... no, fly them ... oh hell, just get them out of my country immediately! I don’t want one hair on their heads touched. Contact that peacock Khan in Egypt and tell him to get ready to pick up those prisoners.”

  “Prisoners? Khan? Who did this to you, sir .. . ?”

  “Just do it,” Zuwayy cried, spitting blood. Mekkawi helped him up. “Do it now!” Zuwayy found a liquor bottle, poured, and downed a glass, his hands shaking uncontrollably.

  AKRANES, ICELAND

  A SHORT TIME LATER

  “What in hell is going on out there, Zuwayy?” Pavel Kazakov asked angrily on the secure phone. This time, Kazakov put the call on the speakerphone, so his aide Ivana Vasilyeva could hear how the great “king” of Libya bleated and whined like a sheep being led to slaughter. Kazakov knew how Vasilyeva, a former commando and trained intelligence officer in the Russian army, hated weak men— Jadallah Zuwayy, the man who claimed to be a descendant of Arab kings, would infuriate her. “Why are you calling me now?”

  “Hey, Kazakov, this was your idea to begin with!” Jadallah Zuwayy retorted. “This is your fault!”

  “My fault?”

  “It was your suggestion to retaliate against the commandos that attacked Samah,” Zuwayy said. “That’s what I did. They somehow found out where I was, broke into my sanctuary, and threatened to kill me! He smashed my nose! He threatened to kill me, my entire family, break into my computers, and destroy my military bases.”

  “They sound like extremely powerful, efficient, and well-informed commandos,” Kazakov commented dryly. I could use an entire battalion of them, he said to himself. Something that Zuwayy said nagged at his brain.. . . “Or your soldiers need more security training.”