Wings of Fire pm-10 Read online

  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 halfklick. 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 supportivebut Thorn 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."

  "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, sta-

  tioned 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 twentyminute 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 responsib
le 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 127millimeter cannon and four fixed torpedo tubes were trained on the captured vessel. Ranking 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 battla 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, insha'allah," 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-bu
t 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 combatyou have lost someone much closer than that."