Wings of Fire pm-10

by Dale Brown

  She was lucky to be alive, she thought. Somebody up there still likes me. It also meant that if she was still alive, her mission here on Earth was still not yet finished. But what was her mission? Was it to avenge her husband-or was it something else? It was too late, and she was too tired, to think about it any more.

  Susan shook her head at the sad, scarred reflection in the mirror, mercifully shut off the bathroom light, and stepped into…

  … a dark figure standing directly in front of her.

  "Major! Ilha'uni!" she shouted. She swung with her right fist, but her blow was effortlessly turned away.

  Behind the figure, the bedroom door burst open. Amina Shafik, crouching low behind the doorjamb with her side arm pointed inside, shouted, "Wa 'if! Yiden ala tul! Imshi! Stop! Hands up! Move away!" But Susan felt a crackling of electricity, like stiff cellophane being crunched inside her skull, and Shafik collapsed to the floor.

  "Amina!" Susan cried. She tried to rush to her bodyguard's side, thinking she was dead, but the dark figure roughly pushed her away onto the bed. "Who are you?" Susan shouted. She hoped one of the outside guards might hear her, but they were all probably dead too. "What do you want?"

  The figure reached out and flipped on the bedroom light. To Susan's immense surprise, it was one of the American commandos, dressed for full combat in the electronic battle armor and strength-enhancing microhydraulic exoskeleton. "Patrick? Is that you?"

  Patrick McLanahan turned, lifted Shafik in his hydraulically augmented arms, carried her into her bedroom next to Susan's, and gently laid her on the bed. Susan felt the breeze blowing in off Abu Qir Bay through the bedroom patio doors and realized that Patrick had to have climbed up seventeen floors, or jumped at least a hundred feet from the nearest building, to get over to her bedroom balcony. He returned to the bedroom moments later and removed his helmet, rage blazing in his eyes.

  "I thought you were dead," Susan said, pulling on a thin, silky dressing gown.

  "I thought we were going to go after the ones who killed your husband," Patrick said. "I thought you were going to help me find my wife and my men."

  "I am helping you."

  "By making a deal with Zuwayy to take the prisoners to Mersa Matruh and lock us up in the bunker so he could wipe us-and your political rival Khan-out with a nuclear weapon?"

  "You think I had something to do with that awful attack? I'm as horrified as you are," Susan said. "I've been under house arrest here in Alexandria. I never heard from Zuwayy or anyone from Libya. As for Khan-I'm glad he's dead, the murderous bastard, but I had nothing to do with it. He was double-crossed by his buddy Zuwayy-why, I don't know. It's all part of Zuwayy's twisted scheme for power."

  "And you didn't bother telling me about this? We thought you had turned us all in-we got out as soon as we could."

  "You didn't bother telling me you were going after Zuwayy."

  "I told you I was going to try to recover Wendy and my men, or go after Zuwayy to force him to give them upthat was the best way I thought of doing it," Patrick said. "I didn't tell you because I didn't know if I could trust you. Apparently I was right."

  "So what are you doing here now?" Susan asked. "Why risk climbing a seventeen-story building and confronting a dozen armed guards? You won't find your wife here."

  Patrick clenched his fists in anger, the flexible electronic armor in his gauntlets and exoskeleton making little humming noises. "I'm going to go home, Susan. I've already attacked Zillah and Al-Jawf. I'm tired, and my men are tired."

  Susan's mouth dropped open in surprise. "How can you do this? You and your men alone couldn't possibly have the power to do this."

  "It's done." He paused, looking at her with a strange, faraway expression. "What will you do?"

  "I'm going to fight-what else do you think I'd do?" Susan replied hotly. "I don't care if Zuwayy attacks my country and blows up my bases-I'm going to stay and fight! While my name and my dead husband's name still mean something in this country, I'm going to use them to bring peace and justice to Egypt."

  "So you can become president?"

  "I want to see General Ahmad Baris made president of Egypt. He has the experience, and he is completely loyal to Egypt." She saw Patrick imperceptibly nod his approval. She moved off the bed and stepped toward him. "Patrick, I need your help."

  "What am I supposed to do?"

  "Be my instrument of war," Susan said. "I can't trust anyone: not the military, not even my personal guards-Khan had them all on his payroll, and I think they're just looking for an opportunity to strike again without revealing their treason. The Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt will certainly move to assassinate me and make Egypt a theocracy. They mean to create a strong union between Egypt, Libya, and the other Muslim Brotherhood states-with Zuwayy pulling the strings. If I can uncover the plot or conspiracy to undermine the law in Egypt in favor of Libya, I can pave the way to elevate General Baris to the presidency."

  "What kind of conspiracy?"

  "The conspiracy to kill my husband, for starters," Susan said bitterly. "I know Khan and Zuwayy were both involved. I also suspect there was some kind of conspiracy to force withdrawal of foreign oil companies from Egypt." Susan stepped closer to him and placed her hands on his chest, looking deeply into his eyes. "Will you help me? As the wife of a martyred president, I can offer much assistance to you." He hesitated, his eyes staring at a spot beyond her shoulders. "Is your mission complete? The reason you came here, the reason you attacked Libya-is it over?"

  For a moment, it looked as if Patrick might crumble. His shoulders slumped, his eyes drooped, and his Adam's apple bobbed. "Yes," he finally responded woodenly.

  "Then take on a different mission-help me uncover and remove the traitors from Egypt," Susan said. "Egypt is in danger of becoming another theocratic dictatorship-or, worse, a stooge of Jadallah Zuwayy. Help me stop this. Use your power for real justice, not just for a few dollars."

  He looked down at her, and she could see his eyes roam from her eyes to the wounds on her shoulder and arm, the anger in his eyes turning to empathy. She turned her eyes away from his and backed away from him. "What's the matter?" Patrick asked.

  "Don't look at my wounds, dammit," she said. "Don't take pity on me." She pulled her gown down off her shoulders-purposely a bit farther down her chest than necessary to show the majority of her wounds. "You want to take a look? Take a good look." He did-including the parts of her naked body that were not damaged, she noticed. Maybe this guy didn't have quite the stone heart she once thought. Now was the time to drive the message home….

  "Don't you dare pity me, McLanahan," Susan went on. "I don't wear a suit of armor like you-I'm fighting this battle with all the weapons I have, which is just about what you see here. I don't need your pity." She took his armored hands into hers, squeezed them, then placed her right hand on his chest. "I need these fighting hands, Patrick, and I need this heart. Be my champion, Patrick. Help me. If you've had enough of fighting for money, then try fighting for justice. Fight for me instead."

  He didn't say anything-but his eyes replied for him. The pity had turned to something else-not quite trust, not quite friendship. But he would be back.

  "You're going to leave me, aren't you?" she asked sullenly.

  "I have to."

  'To bury your brother. I know." She lowered her eyes. "And to mourn your wife. I know all about mourning-I've done a lot of that lately." She pulled up her robe over her shoulders, but did it in such a way that covering up was even more seductive than exposing herself. Patrick picked up his helmet, fastened it in place, and then stepped to the bedroom patio. "Patrick." He turned, the helmet's bug-eyes looking sinister and comical at the same time. "You will always have an ally here in Egypt. I will always be here for you."

  He nodded, once, slowly, and then turned. In a blink of an eye and a loud hiss of compressed air, he was gone. Susan thought she heard a clunk of boots on the rooftop across the street, but she couldn't see anything.

  McL
anahan was an emotional wreck right now-his brother dead, his wife blown to atoms, his men decimated, his mission failed and shattered. Did she actually expect him to be able to fight?

  The quicker he was out of the country, she decided, the better.

  CHAPTER 8

  CORONADO, CALIFORNIA DAYS LATER

  The answering machine picked up for the sixth or seventh time that evening; again, Patrick ignored it.

  It was an exceptionally warm evening, so Patrick was out on the big bayview balcony, sipping a Grand Marnier and watching the activity in San Diego Bay. He could see all the way from the Thirty-second Street Naval Base to the south to North Island Naval Air Station and Point Loma Naval Base to the north. North Island, the home of the Navy's Anti-Submarine Warfare Center, was a buzz of activity-it usually was, with aircraft of all sizes buzzing down the Pacific beaches of Coronado, right behind the Del Coronado Hotel, coming in for a landing. To the south on Coronado was the Navy Basic Underwater Demolition Service Training Center, the home of the Navy SEALs; one could usually see inflatable boats going up and down the coast all year long, day and night.

  It was hard to tell from the level of activity in the harbor what was happening in the world. North Island had two carriers in port right now-that was unusual. Thirtysecond Street Naval Base was busier than Patrick had ever seen it before-every pier looked occupied. Would it be busier if war was imminent as ships prepared for deployment, or would it be quieter because all available warships were heading into battle? Patrick didn't know. A trained spy might be able to deduce the answer to that, but Patrick wasn't a spy.

  He wasn't anything right now-not a military man, not a Night Stalker. Just a man with a young son, a missing wife, a dead brother, and not much else-not even a future.

  After the last strikes against Libya by the Night Stalkers and the Sky Masters Inc.'s EB-52 Megafortress, Patrick finally got his men out of Egypt. They first flew by CV-22 Pave Hammer tilt-rotor aircraft to an isolated base in southern Israel, where they sanitized their gear and received civilian travel documents. They drove to Tel Aviv, flew via commercial airlines to London, then to Los Angeles, and finally to San Diego.

  Coming home was without question the happiest-and the saddest-day in Patrick's life. Little Bradley was brought to San Diego-Lindbergh International Airport by Patrick's mother and sisters; they hugged Patrick warmly, but they wore stony, stern expressions on their faces-they were silently accusing him of killing both Paul and Wendy and nearly orphaning his son. Patrick ignored their anger. He hugged his son long and hard right at the Jetway door, ignoring the aggravated comments of the others who had to maneuver around them. One look at Hal Briggs, Chris Wohl, and David Luger, however, and the complainers fell silent and went about their business.

  But no sooner did they turn away from the Jetway than five-year-old Bradley asked, "Dad, where's Mom?"

  Patrick was dreading this moment. He took his son aside to an isolated set of seats near a big picture window, motioned the others to go on ahead, and sat his son beside him. Despite his request, his mother and sisters stayed, respectfully apart from them but close enough to atch and listen.

  "Brad," Patrick said, "Mommy's not coming home with us."

  Bradley's blue eyes instantly filled with tears. "Why?"

  "Mommy was hurt," Patrick replied. "She was helping me, and Uncle Paul, and Uncle Hal, and Uncle Dave, and Uncle Chris, and a bunch of our other friends, and she got hurt real bad."

  "Is she dead?"

  Patrick took immense comfort and drew a lot of strength from little Bradley's maturity. He wasn't sure if Bradley completely understood what death was, but the very fact that he asked if she was dead made Patrick think that he understood a little of what death meant. Bradley watched a lot of movies that should probably not be watched by young children, and then he liked to act out the fight scenes with his father and baby-sitters. But in the movies, the dead guys all came back to life when he replayed the movie; in their playacting, Daddy always got up moments after Bradley delivered the coup de grace with his plastic laser-sword. Was that his only concept of death?

  "She's missing," Patrick told him. When Bradley furrowed his eyebrows, Patrick went on, "The bad guys got her, and they took her to a place where a lot of people were killed. We haven't found her yet."

  "Mommy was killed?"

  "I don't know, buddy…."

  "Mommy's deadT Bradley asked, louder this time. Patrick's mother rushed over and grabbed Bradley in her arms. The suddenness of her movements startled him, and he started to cry. Patrick's sisters looked at their brother with a strange, painful mixture of pity and contempt as they followed their mother out to the parking garage.

  That was a few days ago. They had gone back up to Sacramento for Paul McLanahan's memorial service and interment beside their father in City Cemetery in downtown Sacramento. His sisters offered to take Bradley, but Patrick insisted on bringing his son home with him to their high-rise condominium on Coronado Island. That did not please them at all.

  Patrick also did not offer any explanations to his family on what happened to Paul or to Wendy. That made them even angrier. His mother and sisters hugged Bradley tightly as they got on the plane to San Diego, but Patrick could have hugged pieces of plywood that had more warmth or tenderness than he felt from them.

  He had an entire day by himself with Bradley. They made their usual stops: out to North Island Naval Air Station to watch the Navy planes come and go and to see if they could spot any submarines over at Point Loma; a visit to the Star of India, the old sailing barque on the San Diego waterfront, standing on deck pretending to be pirates; out to the Windsock Grill at San Diego-Lindbergh Airport to have lunch and watch the airliners as they seemingly threaded between the high-rises of the downtown district and skimmed the top of the parking garage on their way to the runway; then out to the lawns on Shelter Island where they tossed a Frisbee around and watched the Navy warships, yachts, and tour boats head out to sea. By then Bradley was ready for a nap; Patrick carried him to his room, as he usually had to do after all-day outings like this.

  While Bradley napped, Patrick checked his e-mail-no messages. That meant they had been dumped or erased by Sky Masters Inc., or intercepted by the feds. He checked his cell phone-no service, which meant either that service had been cut off or the secure system was detecting eavesdropping and deactivated itself. He tossed the phone onto his desk-frankly, he was glad to be rid of it.

  The phone calls started shortly thereafter. The first one, which Patrick let the answering machine pick up, was from former President of the United States Kevin Martindale. "I heard you were back in town, Patrick. Call me right away." The second call was also from Martindale just ten minutes later; Patrick again did not answer. By the third call, Patrick had shut off the ringer.

  After a one-hour nap, Bradley came into th e living room, biting his red blanket. He had given up his blankets almost a year earlier, calling them silly and childish. Patrick had cut up all but one of them, making little kid handkerchiefs out of them, but Wendy had insisted on keeping one intact, the red one, his favorite. Patrick hadn't seen it in many months; he didn't know how Bradley found it, but he did, and he held it tightly against his face and chest as he walked into the room. "Hi, big guy," Patrick greeted his son.

  "Where's Mommy?" he asked, his voice muffled by the blanket.

  "Mommy's not here, Bradley," Patrick said, choking down yet another lump in his throat. He wondered where his glass of Grand Marnier was right now. "We're going to look for her soon, remember?"

  "I want my mommy," Bradley said tearfully.

  "I know, big guy. Don't worry. Everything will be okay." Patrick rose to go hug his son, but Bradley ran back to his room and closed the door. When Patrick went inside, he found him curled up in the middle of the floor. Oh, shit…

  He picked him up and held him tightly. Bradley wasn't crying; he bit his blanket and stared straight ahead, hardly blinking. Scared, Patrick went back to the living ro
om and held him until, thankfully, he fell asleep again, and then carried him into his bedroom and put him under the covers, on Wendy's side of the bed.

  Patrick stayed with him and waited to see if Bradley would wake up soon for dinner, but his heavy breathing told him he was down for the night, so Patrick took his shoes and clothes off and tucked him under the covers once again. Patrick usually did not allow Bradley to sleep in his bed-"big boys sleep in their own beds," he would often admonish his son-but tonight, having him sleep anywhere else was completely out of the question.

  He didn't usually drink when caring for Bradley, but this time he poured himself a stiff shot of the orange liqueur and went out to the patio. These past few days were simply hell, he thought. If Bradley started going to pieces, he would too-it was as simple as that.

  "Muck, we're on our way up," he heard Hal Briggs call on the subcutaneous microtransceiver. "Feel like some company?"

  "Sure." A few minutes later, Hal Briggs, along with Chris Wohl and David Luger, let themselves into Patrick's condo. They found seats in the living room; Patrick knew they wanted to talk business, which was why he did not go outside again.

  "You drinking that sissy stuff again, Muck?" Hal asked. Patrick did not reply. Hal found something he liked in the liquor cabinet; David and Chris did not drink. "How are you doin', man?" Still no answer.

  A few quiet minutes later, they heard crying from the bedroom. Patrick shot to his feet to go check on Bradley, but Chris Wohl silently waved him back to his seat, and he went inside to check on him. He saw Wohl carry Bradley to the kitchen, give him a glass of milk, and start fixing him a fried bologna and cheese sandwich on toast, Wohl's favorite meal. Briggs and Luger stayed behind with Patrick in the living room.

  "Big bad-ass Marine is really a sucker when it comes to kids," Briggs observed.

  "President Martindale's been calling," Dave Luger said to Patrick.