Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 10 Page 27

  “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 firelight—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 in 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 jet- jump 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 horror— dead 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 cor
pses 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 silent— not 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 or 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.

  CHAPTER 6

  WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM,

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  A FEW HOURS LATER

  The detailed briefing had just concluded, and the men and women present sat in stunned silence as the room lights were brought back up. The Air Force intelligence officer that gave the briefing was dismissed, leaving behind the members of President Thomas Nathaniel Thom’s “National Security Council.” Although the Thom administration did not have a formal NSC, Thom met with Vice President Lester Busick, Secretary of Defense Robert Goff, Secretary of State Edward Kercheval, Director of Central Intelligence Douglas Morgan, and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff General Richard Venti to discuss any military developments.

  “Damned brutal attack,” Secretary of Defense Robert Goff remarked. In his mid-fifties, with a round face and compact frame, Goff was normally energetic and animated, even jovial—but the briefing he had just received left his features cold, hard, and angry. “What kind of a sick bastard does this?”

  “Someone who obviously did not want to leave any traces of evidence behind,” Vice President Lester Busick offered. He turned to General Venti. “What did our reconnaissance folks report, General?”

  “Space Command recorded the explosion from geosynchronous satellite infrared sensors,” Venti explained. “Based on radiation and photon levels, the Command is estimating between a-point-five-and two-kiloton device—a so-called ‘backpack’ nuke, probably from a nuclear artillery round or torpedo warhead. It appears to have been an enhanced radiation device, what we call a neutron bomb—designed to kill humans but leave buildings and vehicles intact. Probably fired from a small artillery piece or large mortar mounted in a truck. It did its work very, very effectively.”

  “Radiation? Fallout?”

  “None, sir,” Venti replied. “Enhanced radiation devices leave no fallout, and the radiation is present for only a few seconds at most. But the damage to human cells is massive. Within a mile of ground zero, death occurs within twelve hours; within two miles, death can occur within twenty- four hours. It would take twenty feet of earth or twelve inches of steel to block the radiation enough to survive.” Thom was leaning forward in his seat, elbows on the table, his lips hidden behind his interlaced fingers. His advisers were accustomed to talking among themselves, as if the President of the United States were not even in the room, while he processed what he heard and combined it with his unique insights, intelligence, military experience, and philosophies to come up with a plan of action. After several moments of listening, he looked at his Director of Central Intelligence, Douglas R. Morgan. “What’s been the region’s general response, Robert?”

  “General alert of active-duty Egyptian military and paramilitary forces along the Libyan-Egyptian border— that’s it,” Morgan responded, flipping through his briefing notes. “No counterattacks or mobilizations. Israel has already been on heightened alert status. I believe everyone simply considers this to be a terrorist attack, not a general attack.”

  “Although I’d expect a general attack to take place at any time,” Secretary Goff said, “and we can’t rule out the use of nuclear weapons—full-yield fission weapons—by the Libyans again.”

  “All of our forces in the Med are on heightened alert, sir,” Venti added. “Securing ships at sea was accomplished very quickly, and the ships are positioning themselves to assist other vessels. We’re hoping it won’t be a killer. We’re ready in case the Libyans try to take a shot at our ships or launch a rocket attack against Israel or Europe.” The President nodded, then turned to his secretary of state. “Ed? Reaction from local politicians, neighboring countries, and organizations?”

  “The streets of Alexandria and Cairo are practically deserted, sir—looks like most folks expect more attacks in the cities,” Secretary of State Edward Kercheval replied. Kercheval was not a Jeffersonian Party member, as was the President and the rest of his cabinet officers, but was considered a highly respected and valuable addition to the President’s inner circle of advisers—even though he disagreed more with his boss than agreed with him. “Immediate and heated condemnation of the attack by Dr. Ahmed Kalir, the prime minister of Egypt and the leader of the current majority party. Dr. Kalir has requested help from the United States in fighting off an impending invasion by Libya and possibly Sudan.”

  “Does that appear likely?”

  All heads turned to the Director of Central Intelligence. “Very possible—given the new information we’ve seen over the past several days,” Morgan replied. “Libya has no capability to beat Egypt in a conventional conflict—Egypt has a three-to-one numerical advantage and at least a twenty-to-one technological advantage. But Egypt has no weapons of mass destruction as far as we know, and a patchwork air defense system stitched together from many countries that doesn’t all work well together. If Libya decides to launch a nuclear attack against Cairo or Alexandria, it might very well succeed. Plus, several thousand Libyan troops are stationed in Sudan now—they could open up a second front against Egypt at any time.”

  “As far as the rest of the Arab world, most nations are neither condemning nor endorsing the raid, except for other Muslim Brotherhood nations, which praised the raid
as the beginning of the end of Western imperialism in the Arab world,” Kercheval went on. “It appears that the leading opposition member in Egypt, Khalid al-Khan, was killed in the explosion.

  “No word yet from Susan Bailey Salaam, the widow of the assassinated president, either, who is a candidate for president,” Kercheval added.

  “Information has it that she might be under arrest or in hiding from Khalid al-Khan’s men.”

  “I thought she was killed in that attack at the mosque a couple weeks ago.”

  “So did the rest of the world, Mr. President,” Kercheval said. “She suddenly turned up at a National Assembly meeting to announce her candidacy for president before being refused by the Assembly on technical grounds. She was injured but not seriously.”

  “She’s an American, I believe?” Thom asked.

  “Yes, sir. Ex-Air Force. Dual citizenship.”

  “She’d better hightail it back here where she belongs before her husband’s assassins catch up with her,” Vice President Busick idly commented. Thom glanced at the veteran politician but said nothing.

  “Recommended course of action, sir?” General Venti asked.

  Thom thought for a few moments. The “Kitchen Cabinet” was accustomed to Thom’s seemingly disconnected way of pondering an issue—he would adopt a faraway expression, as if searching through space, for an answer. Former military men called it the “thousand-yard stare,” but even though Thom was ex-Army Special Forces, no one gave him that kind of credit.

  Thomas Nathaniel Thom was the first third-party candidate since Abraham Lincoln to be elected to the White House. To be elected president of the United States without a massive, well-organized political machine behind you was unusual enough—but Thom was odder still. He was a loner, a politician who seemingly shunned crowds and the spotlight. He was rarely seen in public, although now into the third year of his term he was seen more and more on the reelection campaign trail. He worked long hours in his private study or in the Oval Office in a very hands-on but decentralized management structure. The executive branch of government was the smallest in sixty years, all carefully orchestrated by a man who used to kill for a living but was now perceived as one of the gentlest, nonconfrontational, and nonconformist commanders-in-chief ever to occupy the White House.