Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 10 Read online

  “You would tell me if these terrorists came from Egypt, Khalid?”

  “Of course, Majesty!” Khan cried. “I would notify you the instant I found out, even if I risked violating state secrets. You are descended from the loving Prophet—none may seek to harm you! All true believers know this to be true!”

  “Thank you for your words of comfort, Khalid,” Zuwayy said. “But I need your help to find the terrorists.”

  “Anything, Majesty.”

  “I believe that the terrorists crossed into Egypt to make their escape. I need your military forces to provide me with radar and patrol data so that I may track them down.”

  “It shall be delivered to you by daybreak, Majesty.”

  “And whatever my military forces may do, Ulama, I do not want your military forces to intervene,” Zuwayy said. “I will not attack Egyptian soil without first notifying you—but I do not want any Egyptian forces to respond to attacks elsewhere.”

  “I will give the orders myself, Majesty,” Khan said. “It is easily done. The commanders of our largest military bases are friends to me and our cause.”

  “Very good, Khalid. My war ministers will be in touch with your office within the hour. On behalf of all the faithful, I thank you.”

  “It is my honor, Majesty,” Khan said. “I am pleased to tell you, Highness, that I shall place my name in nomination before the People’s Assembly for president of Egypt, insh ’allah”

  “Excellent, Ulama,” Zuwayy said. His defense ministers and generals were entering the room—he had to shut this zealot off, quick. “You have my full support and blessings. Anything my government or I can do to support you, it is yours.”

  “Of course, joining the Muslim Brotherhood is my main goal, Majesty,” Khan said. “I wish to strengthen ties with all of our Muslim brothers and force all of the foreigners out.”

  “The foreigners are draining the strength out of all the faithful. We need to formalize our union, Ulama. When you are named president, we shall work together to eliminate the Westerners from our land. The oil they pump from our land is ours, not theirs. Libya took control of our oil fields, Khalid—Egypt should do the same. I will accept any information you can give me, and God will tell me His wishes.”

  “As you wish, Majesty,” Khan said. “It shall be sent to you without delay.”

  Good little tool, Zuwayy thought, good little tool.

  ABOARD THE S.S. CATHERINE THE GREAT,

  IN THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA

  THAT EVENING

  “I apologize for having to do this,” Patrick McLanahan said as he entered the briefing room. The other members of his team were already there, waiting. “I know none of us feel much like debriefing right now. But we have a report to file. Let’s get to it.” He looked over to his wife, Wendy. “What have you got for us?”

  Wendy looked on her husband sadly, her eyes wet with tears. Concentrating on recovering the commando team, with the body of her dead brother-in-law aboard, was one of the most difficult things she ever had to do. But Patrick was all business—never shed a tear, never sulked, never really looked at his brother once they were brought aboard. He helped carry the litter off the CV-22 Pave Hammer tilt- rotor aircraft until two other men took the body away, and then he got right back to work. She could feel the pain inside him, even though his face and features didn’t show it.

  Patrick issued a voice command, and his fibersteel exoskeleton automatically detached itself from his body. He stepped out of it and pressed a code into a hidden keypad, and the exoskeleton folded itself up into a package about the size of a small suitcase. He plugged the pack into a wall outlet to recharge it, set the exoskeleton aside, sat down at the head of the conference table, then plugged his battle armor into another available outlet. Patrick, Wendy noticed, still had Paul’s blood on his hands, his wrists, his arms, and his face—he hadn’t even slowed down long enough to wash it off.

  “We launched a FlightHawk recon aircraft while you were on your way back, Patrick,” Wendy began in a low monotone voice. “We did detect radioactive elements in the atmosphere over Samah consistent with a number of nuclear warheads, so some of the rockets you destroyed were nuclear. The bad news is, we also detected VX nerve agents, also consistent with a number of warheads, maybe as many as a half-dozen.”

  “Holy shit,” Hal Briggs breathed. “With an SS-12 they could hit Rome, Athens, Istanbul, Tel Aviv .. .”

  “Or Cairo, Alexandria, or the Suez Canal,” Patrick added. “And Libya has a number of ex-Russian long-range bombers, tactical fighters, coastal antiship, and ship-borne weapon systems capable of delivering those warheads too. They could hold all of southern Europe at risk.” Patrick looked at his intelligence briefing notes. “Our private intelligence sources told us there might be as many as six other bases, including two more secret bases like Samah, hiding ballistic missiles armed with nuclear or chemical warheads. I’d like to set up a complete reconnaissance schedule with as many FlightHawks as we can, scanning every square foot to try to locate the other missiles.”

  “Agreed,” Chris Wohl said. “We can have a strike team standing by either offshore or in Egypt to move as soon as targets are located.”

  “We should also push to upgrade the sensors on the recon FlightHawks,” Wendy added. “We can put an ultrawideband radar on a FlightHawk to let us scan for underground bunkers and communications lines under the sand.” The ultra-wideband radar, or UWBR, was one of the most significant advances in surveillance and reconnaissance: a radar capable of seeing through some medium- density objects. The system normally fit only on a full-size aircraft, but Jon Masters had redesigned it to fit on board a small, unmanned aircraft. “The FlightHawks will have only a few hours’ loiter time because of the size of the UWBR system, but we’ll be able to scan the country quicker and more efficiently.”

  “Then let’s get it all moving this way immediately,” Patrick said. “I don’t want to give the Libyans a chance—” Just then, an electronic warning tone sounded—the collision warning. Everyone in the briefing room immediately shot to their feet and headed out to their emergency stations. At the same moment the phone from the bridge sounded; Patrick picked it up before the second ring. “Go ahead, Brian.”

  “We got a situation, General,” Brian Lovelock, the captain of the Catherine, responded. “We’re receiving distress signals from two vessels within thirty miles of our position, saying they’re under attack from unidentified aircraft. No warning given. The attackers appear to be moving from east to west—in our direction.”

  “Got it,” Patrick replied. He pressed another button, this one hooked directly to the Combat Information Center and his longtime friend and partner, David Luger. “Dave, what do you have?”

  “We’re just now picking up four high-speed aircraft bearing one-zero-five, altitude less than one thousand feet, heading west at four hundred eighty knots,” Luger responded. The Catherine had an entire combat radar system hidden aboard the salvage ship, disguised as standard navigation radars—it was as combat-capable as many world navies’ warships. “Sorry we didn’t pick them up earlier, Muck, but they are right down on the friggin’ deck. Their ETE is four minutes.”

  “Sound general quarters, everyone to air defense positions,” Patrick ordered. “Better start a complete data dump to the satellite and then destroy the classified. Someone’s on the warpath out here, and I think we’re next.” On his subcutaneous microtransceiver, he said, “Patrick to Wendy .. . Wendy, I want you aboard the Pave Hammer, along with the civilians.”

  “I’m staying,” Wendy said. “I can have a FlightHawk armed with air-to-air missiles airborne in three minutes.”

  “Wendy, no argument. You’re evacuating with the other civilians.” He paused, then said, “Bradley is waiting for you.”

  There was a slight pause, but Patrick knew invoking the name of their son would do it. “All right.”

  “We’ll hold them off as best we can,” Patrick said. He hit the hidden switch on his
exoskeleton, stepped into it after it stood itself up, attached it to his body, locked his helmet in place, then ran up on deck. He immediately dashed over to the bow of the Catherine, which was facing east, in the direction from which the attackers were coming. “Combat, this is Castor,” Patrick radioed. “Range to bandits?”

  ‘Twenty-two miles and closing. ETE less than three minutes.”

  As he searched the morning sky with his helmet-mounted sensors, three crewmen trotted over to him, wheeling a large crate on a cart. Patrick unlocked the crate and with one hand extracted the weapon inside. It was an immense M-168 six- barreled Vulcan cannon. Normally mounted on a big Humvee or M-113 armored personnel carrier, the eight- hundred-pound Vulcan cannon was designed for use against ground targets and fast-flying helicopters at ranges out to a mile and a half. It had a maximum rate of fire of one hundred rounds per second—anything it hit would be chopped to hamburger in the blink of an eye.

  “Combat, Castor,” Patrick radioed as he hefted the big cannon. The hydraulically powered exoskeleton made it ridiculously easy to level the big gun and move it smoothly and precisely in any direction. “Where are they?”

  “Bearing one-zero-two, range eighteen miles, low.” Patrick activated all of his battle armor’s sensors and began scanning at maximum range. “Roger. Nike, Taurus, Pollux, you guys up?”

  “Nike up in ten seconds,” Wohl replied.

  “Taurus will be up in twenty.”

  No reply from Pollux—and Patrick realized that there never would be one either, ever again. “Roger, Stalkers,” he said sadly. “Report when you’re ready to engage.” At that moment, several of their commandos, wearing lightweight non-electronic battle armor, began to set their Stinger MANPADS (Man-Portable Air Defense System) up beside Patrick. The Stinger MANPADS was a portable shoulder-fired heat-seeking antiaircraft missile. Other commandos brought caskets of reloads. “My MANPADS is up on the bow. Hammer, what’s your status?”

  At that moment, Patrick heard the low, steadily quickening roar of the CV-22 Pave Hammer’s engines starting up behind him. It had been raised up on deck from its hold faster than Patrick could ever imagine. “Hammer is starting engines. We’ll be airborne in two minutes.”

  “Make it one minute, Hammer,” Patrick ordered. “Combat?”

  “Bearing zero-niner-seven, range fifteen miles .. . stand by, aircraft turning slightly, range decreasing rapidly.. . - We’re being highlighted by X-band airborne radar. They got a lock on us.”

  “Get the Hammer off the deck now,” Patrick shouted.

  “Sixty seconds. All civilians are aboard.”

  Patrick felt a rush of relief—and then a thrill of fear as his sensors picked up the aircraft. He saw two at first, then three. “Contact, range nine miles and closing fast” The roar of the Hammer’s engines increased—it was close to liftoff speed. “Eight miles .. . seven miles . .. bandits climbing slightly ... six miles .. .”

  “Sparkle! Sparkle!” Luger shouted. Everyone knew what that meant—they were being highlighted by a targeting laser.

  Just then, Patrick saw another target appear—much smaller and much faster. “Stalkers, missiles inbound! Missiles inbound! I’ve got two in sight!” Patrick raised the big Vulcan cannon and snapped off the safety with a quick thought-command. The two missiles were coming in fast, wavering slightly up and down in altitude but coming in straight and true. “Dave, countermeasures starboard now!”

  Behind him, two rockets streaked from hidden launchers. Each rocket was an electronic decoy, designed to broadcast radio and infrared signatures several thousand times larger and brighter than the ship. They drifted up slowly, making inviting targets. Would they be inviting enough ... ?

  They were. Both missiles veered to the right, chasing the decoys. Patrick tracked them with ease. The first missile hit the first decoy—but the second decoy must’ve crashed or malfunctioned, because the second missile only jinked slightly right and then veered left, back on the Catherine. Patrick issued an electronic command, and the big Vulcan cannon opened fire. A shaft of fire fifteen feet long belched from the muzzle, and a hundred empty cartridges showered onto the deck in front of the Stinger crew. Off in the distance, the second enemy missile exploded in a cloud of fire.

  “Forward MANPADS up!” Patrick shouted. As he placed the Vulcan cannon on the deck as gently as if he were setting a golf bag down on the fringe of the green, the team of commandos stepped forward and placed the Stinger launcher on his shoulder. Patrick immediately locked onto the incoming fighter, waited until it got within range, then fired.

  The lead fighter must’ve seen the launch immediately, because it immediately banked hard right and started ejecting decoy flares. But the second fighter was not as quick. He made a gentler turn, obviously hesitant to get too close to his leader at night and low to the ocean, and did not pop any decoy flares until it was far too late. The Stinger missile flew a smooth, unerring arc right up tjie fighter’s hot tailpipe and exploded. The Stinger crew could not see anything so far away at night, but through his millimeter-wave imaging radar and infrared sensors, Patrick could see the second fighter dip precariously close to the ocean, regain altitude, dip again, climb, then plunge almost straight down into the dark Mediterranean. He saw no ejection seat blast free, or any parachute.

  “Splash one,” Patrick announced. After all the death, destruction, and pain he had seen that day, the crash of this unidentified attacker meant absolutely nothing to him. “First bandit is bearing zero-eight-zero, twelve miles, turning east.”

  At that moment, he heard the CV-22 Pave Hammer tilt- rotor aircraft lift off the deck. Thank God, he breathed, Wendy was going to be safe, as long as they were able to keep those fighters off its tail until they were safely wavehopping away.

  “Taurus has three bandits, bearing two-five-zero, range nine miles,” Hal Briggs shouted on the command network. “Comin’ in low and smoking.’”

  “Nike has contact on the bandits at two-five-zero,” Chris Wohl chimed in. “Switching to Stinger. Taurus, you hang on to the Vulcan.”

  “How about we both take a Stinger?” Briggs suggested. “I can grab the Vulcan and knock down any stragglers after I launch.”

  “Rog.”

  “Stalkers, I have a surface contact, bearing two-two-three, range twenty-nine miles,” Dave Luger announced. “He’s hitting us with an India-band Plank Shave surface search radar and an India-band Hawk Screech fire-control radar. I make this a Koni-class frigate, probably Libyan. He’s coming in fast, almost thirty knots. He could be within missile range at any time.”

  “Should’ve known it was the Libyans,” Wohl muttered on the command net.

  “Think they might be pissed at us for blowing up their nukes?” Briggs chimed in.

  “Pissed enough to attack every ship close enough to have based the chopper,” Patrick said. “Let’s deal with the fighters first, then the frigate.” He didn’t have to say the obvious—they were going to have a fight on their hands, one they had very little chance of surviving.

  Stinger missiles soon began rippling from the starboard deck and fantail as the Libyan fighters closed in. Only the combination of the Vulcan cannons and decoys were able to keep the Catherine from being hit. Even so, one missile came close enough to rattle the deck with bits of shrapnel, caught at the last possible moment by a last-instant blast from Hal Briggs’s cannon. But their efforts finally paid off. “Stalkers, air search radar is clear,” Luger announced. “Good shooting. No radar contacts. The rest RTBed.”

  “I got a problem over here, boys,” Briggs said. “I’m real low on ammo. Maybe two or three more bursts and I’m out.”

  “Same here,” Wohl said.

  Patrick checked his magazine and found he had just a handful of rounds remaining—not enough for even a halfsecond burst. “How about your Stingers?”

  “One on the fantail.”

  “Two starboard.”

  “One on the bow,” Patrick said. “And there’s no way we can outru
n that frigate.”

  “I just got a call—the Egyptian Navy is dispatching two Perry-class frigates,” Luger reported. “ETE sixty minutes. They’ve launched patrol aircraft and helicopters, too.”

  That was good news, Patrick thought, but they wouldn’t be on time before the Libyan warship struck.

  He hesitated, but only for a moment. For the second time, he was going to lose another base ship to enemy attack. The Iranians had sunk another commando carrier, the S.S. Valley Mistress, in the Persian Gulf, killing several dozen men. That incident had brought Patrick out of his first retirement to start a campaign of revenge against the Iranian Revolutionary Guards that had captured the survivors. He was determined not to allow that loss of life again. “Abandon ship,” Patrick ordered. “All crewmen to lifeboats. Right now.”

  “Patrick—” Dave Luger began.

  “This means you, Dave,” Patrick interrupted. “We’ll stay up here with whatever weapons we have left and hold off that frigate as long as possible. Then we’ll—”

  Suddenly, Hal Briggs shouted, “Hey, Dave, is that a FlightHawk on the launcher over on the starboard side raising up to launch position?”

  “A FlightHawk?” Patrick asked. “Dave, how did you get a FlightHawk ready so fast?”

  “I didn’t do it, Muck,” Luger replied. “I just noticed it elevating too. It’s already spun up its guidance system. I didn’t do it from here. I don’t know . ..” He paused, then shouted, “Missile inbound! A missile just lifted off from that frigate ... a second missile just launched! Two missiles inbound! Sea-skimmers, accelerating to point nine Mach, range twenty-five miles!”

  “Get your asses on those lifeboats now!” Patrick shouted to the two MANPADS crew members with him, pushing them toward the lifeboat stations on the port side. He grabbed his last Stinger missile and dashed down the starboard side of the salvage ship. He saw the FlightHawk on the amidships launch rail, but he couldn’t see what weapons, if any, it was carrying, or any other markings that would tell him which UCAV it was. Just as he reached the fantail alongside Briggs and Wohl, the FlightHawk unmanned combat air vehicle blasted off from its launcher on deck.