Wings Of Fire Read online

  "Yes, sir. He claims that the purpose of the President's cabinet is to not only administer the government but to advise the President," Patrick said. "He claims it's the way our government was set up. He thinks bureaucrats like national security advisers distort and politicize the decisionmaking process."

  "What do you think of that?"

  "I think any leader, especially the leader of the free world in the twenty-first century, needs all the advisers he can get," Patrick replied. His eyes narrowed, and he looked at Martindale carefully. "Why?"

  "Because your name was being bandied about as being on the President's list for national security adviser." Patrick stopped and looked at Martindale in complete surprise. "He's putting together his reelection campaign, and the word is that folks would be more comfortable with him in a second term if he had a more identifiable, complete set of advisers-national security adviser being the number-one pick. That, it appears, is you."

  "Me? That's insane!" Patrick retorted.

  "Why insane?" Martindale asked. "After you put together and then commanded that Air National Guard EB-

  1C Vampire unit over United Korea, you're one of the most popular and well-known military guys out there. Some folks equate you with Jimmy Doolittle putting together the Tokyo air raids in World War Two, or with Colin Powell. The guys who have access can look at your record and just be amazed and awestruck at the stuff you've done. Plus, you have one more advantage."

  "What's that?"

  "You're not Brad Elliott," Martindale said with a smile. "They look at what you and your team did over Russia and Romania in the Kazakov incident, over Korea, over China, over Lithuania, and all the other secret missions you've been involved in over the years, and they realize that you were fighting for your people-that shows pride, determination, and tenacity. Brad Elliott didn't fight for his people-Brad Elliott gladly sacrificed his people to do whatever he wanted. They know where you're coming from. Thorn likes that. I know you disagree with Thorn on military policy. . . ."

  "'Disagree'? It goes way beyond 'disagree,' Mr. President! Thorn was the one who had me involuntarily retired from the Air Force! Thorn ordered my wife and son arrested by the FBI, and his Justice Department has got agents watching and listening in on Sky Masters Inc. night and day. Thorn and I have absolutely nothing in common except loathing for each other."

  "In case you haven't noticed, Thorn likes surrounding himself with advisers that disagree with him," Martindale said. "In fact, I can't think of one person in his entire administration that thinks like him or is even remotely simpatico with his throwback Jeffersonian ideology. Even his close friend Robert Goff and he constantly butt heads."

  "I'd work with Goff, Kercheval, or even Busick any day," Patrick said. "But there is no way in hell I'd ever serve under Thorn."

  "Why?"

  "We don't just disagree-I feel his views of the military and America's role in the world suck," Patrick said. "America has the moral wisdom to use its military forces to pro-

  tect peace and freedom around the world. This 'stick-yourhead-in-the-sand' attitude is causing widespread uncertainty in the world, and scumbags like Pavel Kazakov are crawling out of the woodwork and taking advantage of it."

  "Then why wouldn't you go to the White House and tell Thorn what you think?"

  "Because you can't talk to guys like Thorn. He's a fanatic, an extremist

  ideologue. I'd be arguing real-world situations and alternatives to crises that require fast responses, and he'd be quoting Thomas Jefferson and Benjamin Franklin. No, thanks."

  "You would decline to accept the nomination?"

  "Loudly and publicly," Patrick said finally.

  Martindale nodded. "Good. You're the heart of this team, Patrick-I hope you know that," he said sincerely. "We'd exist without you, but we wouldn't be the samenot nearly as dedicated, not nearly as hard-charging. I'd move heaven and earth to keep you here."

  "Thank you, sir," Patrick said. "That means a lot."

  Patrick and Hal followed Martindale into a secure conference room in the main headquarters building of the Sky Masters Inc. campus, a large industrial and research center in what was the old Blytheville Air Force Base in Arkansas, now called the Arkansas International Jetport. They warmly greeted Patrick's brother Paul, one of the first members of the Night Stalkers and the most experienced Tin Man battle armor user, along with Chris Wohl, a retired Marine Corps master sergeant and Hal Briggs's longtime partner. Martindale took his place at the apex of the conference table while Patrick secured the room, then motioned for Chris Wohl to begin:

  "We are closely monitoring developments on the border between Libya and Egypt," Wohl began. "Libya has recently sent several thousand troops to the Sudan, on Egypt's southern border, supposedly to support the president of the Sudan against rebel insurgents that are using Chad as a safe haven. However, the insurgency was crushed last year, and Libyan forces remain deployed in three Sudanese bases-all within a day's armored vehicle

  march of five major Egyptian oil fields. Egypt has reinforced its armed forces in the region and maintains a rough parity with Libyan forces."

  "So Libya wants to take Egypt's oil fields?"

  "That's nothing new," Martindale said, "although they've preferred in the past to try to form a partnership with Egypt in developing its oil reserves. However, Egypt wants to form a consortium with some Western oil companies to tap its oil fields."

  "Lots more money that way, I'd guess," Briggs offered.

  "Exactly right-and ExxonMobil and Shell don't bring troops with them to the contract-signing ceremonies," Martindale said. "The consortium wants to build a fourhundred-and-sixty-mile-long pipeline from southern Egypt to the Mediterranean Sea capable of shipping two million barrels of crude per day, along with building refineries. It's a three-billion-dollar project that Libya desperately wants to get involved with."

  "Doesn't Libya already export oil?" Paul McLanahan asked.

  "Yes, but with U.S. sanctions still in place, they don't ship much to the West," Martindale replied. "The new president of Libya, who calls himself King Idris the Second, is even worse than Muammar Qadhafi. Idris, whose real name is Zuwayy, has reorganized the Muslim Brotherhood, the group of Muslim fanatics that seeks to make every Arabic-speaking nation in the world a theocracygoverned and steered by strict fundamentalist doctrine. Libya, Sudan, and Yemen are solidly in his hip pocket; Palestine, Lebanon, Syria, Iraq, Saudi Arabia, and Jordan are leaning toward him; Kuwait, Bahrain, Qatar, the United Arab Emirates, Oman, and Egypt so far oppose him."

  "And the Muslim Brotherhood has been linked with the assassination of President Salaam of Egypt and his wife," Hal Briggs added. "Sounds like recruitment by intimidation to me. Join-or else."

  "It looks like Zuwayy's going further than just assassination," Martindale said. "Sergeant Wohl?"

  "Intelligence experts suspect that Libya has imported

  surface-to-surface missiles from someone-China, Pakistan, Russia, we don't know for sure yet-and has set up several bases from which to stage attacks into Egypt to destroy their military forces," Wohl went on. "The rumor is, the missiles have chemical, biological, and nuclear warheads, as well as conventional high-explosives. We have been tasked to find those missiles,

  identify them, and destroy them if possible."

  "'Intelligence experts'?" Patrick asked suspiciously. "Who might they be, sir? I know we're not getting any cooperation from U.S. agencies."

  Kevin Martindale looked at Patrick with a mixture of irritation and surprise in his features. "A group hired by the Central African Petroleum Partners," Martindale replied uneasily.

  "You mean the oil consortium with a stake in the Egyptian oil fields?"

  "Do you have a problem working for them, General?" Martindale asked.

  "Sir, I want to head off trouble as much as anyone," Patrick said. "And I certainly don't like Zuwayy any more than I liked Qadhafi and the terrorist organizations they sponsor. But I don't like the idea of being a hir
ed gun for an oil cartel, either."

  "Would you like them better if I told you we would be getting our first paychecks out of this?" Martindale asked. "That's the difference between this mission and all the others-we are given a target, but we're also well compensated for our services."

  Patrick fell silent, but the eagerness was evident in Hal Briggs's and Paul McLanahan's eyes. The reason was clear: They had the most to lose and the most to gain out of this. Martindale, Patrick, and Chris Wohl all had government pensions waiting for them; in addition, Patrick was a vice president of Sky Masters Inc., for which he was very well paid. But Hal Briggs resigned his Air Force commission well before retirement age, and Paul McLanahan had only a small disability check from the Sacramento Police Department, where he was a sworn officer for only a few weeks

  before being retired with a one-hundred-percent disability. Neither of them had earned any money in many months, and had been relying on gifts from Martindale and Patrick.

  "How much are we talkin' about here, Mr. President?" Hal asked.

  "I accepted a twenty-million-dollar contract for our services, plus a bonus for complete destruction of all known missile installations," Martindale replied. "I will pay every man in this room twenty-five thousand dollars a day, beginning as soon as you accept this mission."

  "Per . . .day . . .T

  "Our support team members will earn ten thousand dollars ... and yes, that's per day, tax free," Martindale went on. "The Night Stalkers will pay Sky Masters Inc. full retail price for the equipment and supplies we use. Sound okay with you, gentlemen?" Hal slapped his hands together excitedly, and Paul looked jubilant-even Chris Wohl nodded in approval, even though he wore his same expressionless warrior's mask. Martindale studied their faces, then settled on Patrick's. "All right with you, General?" he asked.

  Patrick looked at Paul and Hal's happy faces. Paul gave his brother an excited slap on the back-it had been a long time since he had seen him smile like that. "Yes, sir," Patrick finally responded. "It's okay with me."

  "Outstanding," Martindale said. He punched up instructions into a computer, and the results were projected onto a large flat-panel monitor on the conference-room wall. "The intelligence we've received indicates several new Libyan missile bases scattered around the country. I'll leave it up to you and your support team to figure out the best way to proceed, but after speaking with Master Sergeant Wohl here, he suggests a soft probe of the most likely bases, followed by an unmanned aircraft strike to soften up the base's defenses, followed by a hard-target penetration. It's up to you-bui I hasten to remind you of a substantial performance bonus for each one of you if the danger to the consortium's pipeline is eliminated. Enough said. Good luck, and good hunting."

  As was his custom, Martindale never stuck around for the details-the planning, training, organization, logistics, or movement of the Night Stalkers was never something he was concerned about. He gave marching orders, then left it to the teams to carry out the plan. Within minutes, they heard his helicopter depart, on its way to his next meeting. Patrick had little idea what he did, where he went, or whom he spoke to as the former president of the United

  States.

  "Now we're talking serious bucks!" Briggs exclaimed happily. "Man, I was hoping we'd get into jobs like this-I was thinking I'd have to go back to Georgia and help my granddad in his kennels and get a real job."

  "I'm not happy about accepting this job," Patrick admitted. "Some big oil cartel is asking us to put our asses on the firing line to help them keep their profits safe. We don't know anything about the cartel; and since the assassination of President Salaam, we don't know which way the Egyptian government is going to go. And I don't trust any intelligence info we get from private sources. They answer to investors and bosses, not to the grunts."

  Hal fell silent, looking at the ground. Chris Wohl nodded. "All good points, sir," he said. "Our first priority would be to get our own intel-a few overflights from some NIRTSats should do it." NIRTSats, or Need It Right This Second Satellites, were small, low-Earth orbit photo and radar reconnaissance satellites designed for a specific mission. They were extremely valuable in passing detailed intelligence information to tactical units; but because they were in very low orbits, their duration was usually only a few days or a couple weeks, and they carried only small positioning thrusters and very little fuel, so their orbits could not be changed or even fine-tuned to any great extent. He looked at Patrick evenly, then added, "If you agree to do it with us."

  "You don't need my approval, Chris."

  "Pardon me, sir, but I do ... we do," Wohl said.

  " 'Fraid so, Muck," Hal said. "The Night Stalkers may be a private nonmilitary unconventional action team, but the bottom line is: We're a team." "

  "We don't do anything unless we all agree to do it," Paul chimed in. "One person has veto power. One 'no,' even one Tm not sure,' and we scrub the mission."

  "That's the SOP, sir," Wohl agreed. "We all do it, or no one does it."

  Patrick hesitated. Something deep within him still maintained that this was wrong. He was trained to fight, trained to use his brains and his training and experience to fight and win battles-but this was not one of the battles he had in mind. He wasn't defending his home or his country or his family. This mission was to destroy one country's supposed threat to disrupt commerce in order to help a multinational corporation earn more money. This was a job for a private security company-or a mercenary force.

  The obvious question: Was Patrick turning into a mercenary? Was he going to start fighting not for home or country or family, but for money?

  Maybe he was, at least for the moment. If his own military didn't want him, maybe it was time to fight for what he felt was right-and accept a little money to do it.

  "I'm in," Patrick heard himself say. "I'll get a NIRTSat constellation up right away, and get a few FlightHawks ready for air support." The FlightHawks were Sky Masters's unmanned combat aircraft, capable of ground, air, or ship launch, and equipped to carry a wide variety of sensors, cameras, radio gear-or munitions. They were stealthy, accurate, and very effective.

  "We're gone}" Paul McLanahan shouted excitedly, his electronically synthesized voice amplifying his happiness. "Let's go kick some Libyan rocket-launching ass!"

  SAMAH, LIBYA SEVERAL DAYS LATER

  "Nike, say status," Patrick McLanahan whispered into the secure satellite link. A warning indicator on his electronic visor had just advised him that one of his men had already engaged the enemy. Just a few minutes into what was sup-

  posed to be a quick, silent recon, they were made.

  "Bad guy came out of nowhere, and this damned suit blasted him before I could stop it," retired U.S. Marine Corps master sergeant Chris Wohl explained. "I'm secure, and I'm moving in."

  "This is supposed to be a soft probe, Nike, not an assault. We can come back."

  "If they're alerted, they might move all their assets, and then we'd have

  to locate them all over again," Wohl protested. "I think only one guy saw me, and I don't think he's a sentry, so we still might have time. Besides, you made this suit, not me. If you wanted a soft probe, you should've showed me how to shut off the auto-bugzapper feature. I'm secure, and I'm moving in."

  Once a flamethrowing kick-ass Marine, always a kickass Marine, Patrick thought as he checked the God's-eye view display on his helmet-mounted electronic visor. Patrick McLanahan was kneeling in a shallow gully just a few yards inside the perimeter fence surrounding a newly discovered Libyan military base near Samah, about two hundred miles south of Benghazi. The mission was to sneak in from three different points, doing a soft probe on this remote desert base. Initial intelligence reports said Samah was a terrorist training camp, but a few unconfirmed reports received from the private intelligence sources said Samah was a rocket base set up recently to secretly attack targets in Egypt, Chad, Europe, or in the Mediterranean Sea, possibly with medium-range Russianor Chinese-made rockets with chemical or biological warhe
ads.

  The plan was for all three infiltrators to go in simultaneously, take infrared or night-vision digital images with their equipment, uplink it all to reconnaissance satellites back to their headquarters, and get out without anyone knowing they were there. If the Libyans discovered they had been infiltrated, they might pack everything up and turn the base into an unassuming training base.

  But Chris Wohl was by far the most experienced and well-trained commando among them-and he ran on his

  own timetable, which was several steps ahead of everyone else, constantly thinking and planning and reacting, leading the way. Patrick should have known that Chris Wohl would want to make first contact.

  The God's-eye overhead images that Patrick was studying were being transmitted via satellite from stealth unmanned combat aircraft called FlightHawks. Two FlightHawks had been launched from a Sky Masters Inc. DC-10 launch aircraft over the Mediterranean Sea while on a normal, routine flight from Bahrain to Madrid. The FlightHawks were autonomous UCAVs, or unmanned combat air vehicles; although a ground controller could fly them, they were designed to fly a preprogrammed flight plan and automatically react to threats or new target instructions. One FlightHawk carried a LADAR, or laser radar, that took images as crystal-clear as a high-resolution digital photograph, then beamed those images down to Wendy on the Catherine as well as the men on the ground in Libya.

  The FlightHawk's ground monitors and controllers were Patrick's wife and electronics wizard, Wendy Tork McLanahan, as well as Patrick's longtime partner and friend, engineering expert David Luger, based aboard a converted salvage ship a hundred miles off the Libyan coast in the Mediterranean Sea. The team's infiltration and exfiltration aircraft, a CV-22 Pave Hammer tilt-rotor aircraft, could take off, land, refuel, and be serviced on the cargo ship in hiding. The ship, a Lithuanian-flagged and fully registered and functioning rescue and salvage vessel named S.S. Catherine the Great, had a contingent of fifty highly trained commandos and enough firepower on board to start a small war.