by Dale Brown
He suddenly realized he had spent too much time with this Libyan popinjay.
"I don't give a shit what you do," Kazakov said. "Someone just invaded your country-it seems like the perfect time to do just about anything you wish to do. Use your armed forces, track those commandos down-you know they're not going to walk out of the damned desert, so track their aircraft down-and then destroy whatever base they came from with everything you've got. You'll be totally justified in whatever action you take-and you might even earn a bit of respect from your enemies. Now, stop bothering me-and you place those missiles where I tell you to place them, or the next biochem warhead you hear about will be falling on your head." He slammed the phone down so hard, his teacup rattled in its saucer.
Zuwayy was dangerous, even unstable, Kazakov thought. He was a warmonger, ready to lash out at anyone, for any reason or no reason at all. He hoped Zuwayy would keep it together long enough, until the delicate negotiations with the Central African Petroleum Partners were concluded. Libyan forces were just a subtle threat to Egypt, and vice versa-neither country had any semblance of a real fighting force. But if anyone tried to attack Libya, the rockets were in place and ready to completely wipe out any opposition and guarantee that no outside forces were going to interfere.
In any case, Kazakov was going to get enough of a foothold in the African oil market to force out the other companies and eventually take over. He didn't have the power he had just a few short months ago-but it was just a matter of time. Once firmly in place in Africa, with the money pouring in, he could move back into the vast untapped oil resources in the Caspian Sea region again.
He was so engrossed in his own heated thoughts that he did not notice Ivana Vasilyeva standing beside his desk, staring at him. Her full red lips were parted as if she were panting heavily, and her eyes were wide and glassy. He smiled at her.
"You speak to other men, even this king of Libya, as if he were a street sweeper who had just soiled your shoes," Vasilyeva breathed. Her left hand drifted up to her breast, and her fingers teased a nipple underneath her sweater. "You are an extraordinary man. I am pleased that you have chosen me to be by your side."
He stood, walked over to her, reached behind her head with his left hand, and yanked her chin upward by pulling her hair. Her left hand did not move from her breast, so he fondled her right breast until her nipple sprang to life. "I keep you here with me because of your contacts in the Russian government and army," Kazakov said. He looked into her eyes as they grew wider, as if in fear, but her breathing was becoming heavier, more excited. "I also keep you here because you can kill faster and more efficiently and in more ways than I."
He pushed her aside roughly, then took his seat once again. "Stop this foolishness and straighten up, Major," Kazakov ordered her. She stood before him, watching him with half-closed eyes, her expression contrite yet inviting at the same time. "I do not believe for one moment that you get orgasmic just by watching me yell at a strutting simpleton like Zuwayy. He is not one-tenth the soldier or leader you are-if he was, I would send you to Tripoli and have you assassinate him immediately. He is a bug to be squashed as soon as he fulfills his part, which is to force either a settlement or a war between the central African oil cartels and us. Your job is to watch my back and collect information, not to play with yourself in my office. If I need a whore, I'll call one."
"I am here to do whatever you wish, Pavel-"
"I am Comrade Kazakov to you, Major," he corrected her. "And there should be no doubt in your mind that you are here to do whatever I wish, or else your fate would be the same as your last boss, General Zhurbenko-thirty years at hard labor in Siberia. But you are a highly trained soldier and a keen tactician, not a zblidavattsa. If I ever get another indication that you fancy yourself as anything else but my chief of security and my aide-de-camp, you will find yourself digging coal in Siberia beside Zhurbenkoor at the bottom of an Icelandic fjord."
"Yes, Comrade Kazakov," Vasilyeva said. But her eyes blazed as she went on, "But now I wish to tell you something."
"You do so at your own peril, Major."
"Very well," she said. She took a bold step forward; Kazakov's eyes warned her away, but he knew it would take more than a stare to make this woman back off. "You say you chose me, Comrade. But now I tell you this: I chose you as well."
"Zasrat mazgi? Oh, really?"
"Yes, Comrade," Vasilyeva said confidently, with only a hint of a smile on her beautiful but army-hardened face. "I chose General Zhurbenko the same way: He was a man that could get me the things I wanted-power, prestige, money, land, and status. If I had to let the old bastard feel me up or be his min 'etka every now and then, it was all part of my plan to get what I wanted.
"I feel the same way about you, Comrade-you are a man that can get me what I want. You have the poweryou still have the power, even here, in exile in Iceland. I can dedicate myself to a man such as you."
"Frankly, Major, I was not too impressed with how well you protected your other mentor."
"I noticed your power the moment I first met you in the general's car. I knew you were the one for me, the man with even more power than Zhurbenko, the one who could get me the things I want," Vasilyeva said. "Besides, he gave me to you-it was clear he no longer needed me. It was easy to switch loyalties. If the general showed the same loyalty to me when your plan started to become exposed, I would have used my powers to protect him as well-but he decided to be a good soldier and take his punishment, protecting his wife instead of me. That will cost him his life." She stepped closer to him again, and this time he saw something more sinister in her expression-not just confidence, but a warning as well. "I have given myself to you, Comrade. I am yours. Betray me, and I will bring you down like I brought down Zhurbenko. Remain loyal to me, and you can do with me as you want-anything you want-and I will do anything for you."
Pavel Kazakov had to suppress a thrill of dread that came over him again. The old feeling had come back-the feeling of impending danger. Every time he had listened, the feeling had saved him. Every time he ignored it, failed to break off his plans, run, and protect himself, he went down in disaster and defeat.
But before he could respond, she reached out to him, took his hands, and placed them on her breasts. Her eyes were demanding, commanding, riveting-and irresistible. She had always been irresistible. This wasn't loyalty, and certainly not love-this was plain old-fashioned ambition, desire, and a willingness to do anything, and allow anything to be done to her, to get what she wanted.
Of course, he failed to listen to the danger signal. He was helpless to heed it now.
"Well," he said with a smile as she reached behind her neck to unzip her sweater, "if you put it that way, Major…"
Zuwayy slammed the phone down hard. "Saghf tarak khord!" he cursed. "That bastard! How dare he order me around like a child!" But Kazakov was right about one thing: This was a good opportunity to lash out at someone and prove he wasn't going to be pushed around. And he would be fully, completely justified in doing so.
He dialed a special secure pager number, then sat and waited. Several minutes later, a call was put through to him: "Speak."
"This is Ulama al-Khan, Majesty," Khalid al-Khan, the chief justice of the Egyptian Supreme Court and the leader of the main opposition party, responded. "God be with you."
"And to you, Ulama," Zuwayy said. This guy had to be the biggest idiot in all of Egypt and probably all of northern Africa, Zuwayy scoffed to himself. Khan saw himself as an Islamic holy man, a true believer who fancied himself a spiritual master and leader. He was so zealous in his beliefs-and so enamored of himself-that he couldn't see danger when it was right in front of his face. His ambition would quite possibly drive him into the Presidential Palace-but he had no concept of how to lead a government, except to send out his henchmen in the Egyptian Republican Guards and assassinate a political enemy. He truly believed that God would absolve him of all his sins, no matter how heinous his crimes.
But most times stupidity and ambition made for a pliant coconspirator, and that's what Zuwayy had in Khan. The Egyptian cleric thought it was in the best interest of all concerned for Egypt to join the Muslim Brotherhood-a loose confederation of Libya, Sudan, and Yemen, with major support in Syria, Jordan, Iraq, and Lebanon, and with some wealthy supporters in such pro-Western states such as Saudi Arabia, Oman, the United Arab Emirates, and even Kuwait. Jadallah Zuwayy, as ruler of the most powerful military in the alliance, was the leader of the Muslim Brotherhood. Their sworn mission: to replace all of the secular governments in the Middle East with religiousbased governments firmly grounded in traditional Muslim beliefs. Egypt joining the Muslim Brotherhood would be the crown jewel in strengthening the organization and convincing other undecided nations to join-Egypt had the most powerful military force in the entire region, almost on a par with Israel quantitatively.
Zuwayy found a ready and willing ideological slave in Khalid al-Khan. Obviously the cleric never read anything but propaganda sheets-for he truly believed that Zuwayy was descended from the Prophet Muhammad and was the savior and sword of Islam. Zuwayy nurtured that fiction every chance he could, and Khan was obviously enjoying and benefiting from the attention. It did not take long to lodge al-Khan firmly under Zuwayy's thumb.
"I have a request of you, Ulama," Zuwayy said.
"Ask anything of me, Majesty," Khan replied devoutly.
"A sneak attack by unidentified commandos was perpetrated against Libya tonight."
"I have heard of this, Majesty. Are you safe?"
"Perfectly safe, Ulama."
"I swear this to you, Majesty, that the terrorists that did this deed will be hunted down like the dogs they are and punished!"
"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 tiltrotor 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 mediumdensity 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 cap-
tain of the Catherine, responded. "We're receiving distress signals from two vessels within thirty miles of our position, saying they're under att
ack 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 sixbarreled Vulcan cannon. Normally mounted on a big Humvee or M-113 armored personnel carrier, the eighthundred-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.