by Dale Brown
"Lost... lost contact with the towed array," Patrick said, gasping for breath-he thought he had bought the farm that time. "The missile hit it dead-on."
"Well, that's one way to cut the array loose," Franken said.
Patrick switched his supercockpit display to the tactical view. "These suckers aren't going to get a chance to get another shot off at us," he said.
"Are you going to try to hit the missiles as they come off the rails?"
"I'm not going to let them get off the rails," Patrick said. To the attack computer, he said, "Commit Dragon."
"No TBM targets," the computer responded.
Patrick touched the MiG-29 icon on the supercockpit display and spoke, "Attack target."
"Stinger airmines out of range," the computer responded. The AL-52 Dragon kept the built-in defensive weapons of the EB-52 Megafortress, including the Stinger airmines-small guided missiles fired from a cannon in the tail that created clouds of shrapnel in the path of enemy fighters tail-chasing the bomber. But the airmines could only attack targets within two miles of the bomber in the rear quadrant.
"Designate airborne target as TBM target," Patrick commanded. "Commit Dragon."
"Stand by," the computer responded. It was something never attempted-shooting down an aircraft with the air-
borne laser. Patrick didn't even know if the programming existed for the attack computer to take a non-TBM, or tactical ballistic missile, target and process a laser attack against it. But he received his answer moments later: The supercockpit display was suddenly filled with the image of the southernmost MiG-29. The laser radar had locked onto the rear one-third of the aircraft, the same spot that it would normally lock onto a missile. "Caution,
target velocity data not within limits."
Patrick remembered that the laser attack computer was programmed to lock onto only fast-moving targets, like ballistic missiles-the MiG was flying much more slowly than a rocket. "Override velocity data."
There was another long, nervous pause; then: "Caution, target velocity parameters overridden. Laser ready."
Patrick zoomed the image in until he was looking directly into the cockpit of the Libyan MiG; then he used his trackball and moved the crosshairs to the left side of the fighter, right on the nose of the largest missile he came across-he remembered that MiG-29s usually fired missiles off the right side first. He could see it clearly: a huge R-27 radar-guided on the number-three hardpoint. "Lock onto target and attack laser," he commanded.
"Warning, laser attack, stop attack," the computer said. The Megafortress's antiaircraft attack logic had taken over for the Dragon's anti-ballistic missile attack logic and successfully started treating the chlorine-oxygen-iodine laser as another air-launched weapon. Seconds later, the computer reported, "Laserfiring."
The results were spectacular. Less than three seconds after the "laser firing" warning, the R-27 missile on the MiG-
29's hardpoint exploded in a blinding flash of light. The entire left wing of the lead MiG sheared off in the explosion. Patrick expanded the optronic view on the supercockpit display just in time to watch the Libyan pilot eject from his stricken fighter. The laser radar display showed the second MiG peel off sharply to the north.
"We got it!" Patrick crowed. He quickly locked up the second MiG-29. The supercockpit display now showed the
diode laser locked onto the center top fuselage section of the second MiG. "Attack target laser," he commanded.
"Attack target laser, stop attack," the computer warned. The second shot took several seconds longer, but soon Patrick could see a stream of smoke trailing from the MiG's fuselage-and then suddenly the fuselage seemed to disintegrate from the inside, with ribbons of flames trailing from several cracks and tears in the upper-fuselage fuel tanks right above the number-one engine. The MiG-29 was into its second flat spin, its left engine burning hotly, before the pilot ejected.
"Wow, that was very cool," Franken exclaimed. "A laser powerful enough to shoot down a MiG-29 fighter. Very cool."
"Let's try the last part of the test," Patrick said. He quickly entered commands into the attack computer. It had stored information on the launch point of the SA-10 missile they had shot down, computed from tracking information by the laser radar arrays. Patrick slaved the laser telescope to the launch point coordinates, starting with a wide image. There, on the multifunction supercockpit display, he saw the entire SA-10 "Grumble" surface-to-air missile battery-the mobile engagement radar, the command post and low-altitude radar vehicle, a reload vehicle, and the four-round transportererector-launcher vehicle. Two rounds had obviously been fired from that vehicle. Patrick focused the telescope until the crosshairs were centered on one of the still-loaded launch tubes. The image was not as clear as the others were-the image was out of focus and wavered. Obviously it was harder for the adaptive optics to focus the image while shooting down through the atmosphere than it was to shoot across or up.
"C'mon, baby, let's see what you can do," Patrick said. He hit his voice command button: "Attack target," he ordered.
"Attack command received, stop attack," the computer responded.
"Commit Dragon."
"Laser commit. .. laser engaging."
But the results were not quite as pleasing this time. The crosshairs were dead on the target, and the diode laser was firing at full power, but the target remained. Patrick left it on for a full ten seconds before terminating. "Didn't blow the launch tube. Not enough power to shoot down through the atmosphere at this range."
"Please don't suggest we get any closer."
"Don't worry-I think we're close enough. But we've got to figure out a way to pump more power into the system."
"You're disappointed because your big laser couldn't slice, dice, and julienne every target? Too bad, sir," Franken joked. "Can we terminate the test and go home now before they empty those last two missiles on us?"
"You got it, AC. Test terminated," Patrick said after a sigh of relief. He quickly punched up the initial point of the air refueling anchor into the navigation computer, then replotted the flight path to take them well clear of Libyan airspace. "Center up and let's go home."
AL-AZHAR MOSQUE, CAIRO, EGYPT THAT SAME TIME
Al-Azhar Mosque and University was the oldest university in the world, a solemn and beautiful place in the Islamic section of Cairo. Muslim students from all over the world came here to study the Quran and listen to the world's most noted authorities on Islam. All Egyptian clerics had to study here, some as long as fifteen years, in the traditional Socratic method-a tutor and his pupils, asking and answering questions until both were satisfied that it was time to progress to the next lesson.
The three-acre compound was a mixture of early Islamic, Mamluk, and Turkish architecture, representing the dynamic history of the place. Al-Azhar was also the focal point of international celebrations of the birth of the Prophet Muhammad in late June. Islamic scholars and leaders from all over the world assembled here to an all-
night mulid, or prayer festival, to tell stories, make speeches, teach, and pray.
The guests were assembled in the Madrasa and Tomb of Amir Atbugha, a grand hall inside the Gates of the Barbers that housed the university's collection of ancient manuscripts. Guest were served shai and ahwa-no alcohol at all, not even for foreigners-and a luscious assortment of mezze appetizers while they talked of politics, religion, and Muslim life, viewed the rare manuscripts, and waited for the festivities to begin.
The chief of the general staff of the United Kingdom of Libya, General Tahir Fazani, had waited a discreet distance apart from the heads of state. This was a time of worship and reflection, not state business, so he would not be permitted to address his president first. Fazani simply choked down his impatience, stayed in the shadows, appeared as if he was praying or simply observing a moment of silence, and waited for his president to come to him. Fazani came from a long line of career military officers, but he had spent most of the last twenty years in Russia, Syria,
and China studying military technology and modern warfighting-and staying out of the grasp of the previous Libyan dictator, Colonel Muammar Qadhafi. He was an expert political survivor-he knew when to make his voice heard and when to blend into the shadows, like now.
The new president of the United Kingdom of Libya, Jadallah Salem Zuwayy, sauntered over to Fazani, barely acknowledging his presence, only casting enough of a glance in his direction to order him to follow. Zuwayy was a tall, light-skinned man in his late thirties, with dark eyes, a thin mustache, and a dark beard that grew to a satanic point to the base of his long, thin throat. He was a former army officer who reportedly engineered the military coup that overthrew Qadhafi. Like Qadhafi before him, Zuwayy liked to wear different outfits depending on the occasion and his audience: Today he wore traditional Bedouin garb, rich-looking silks and muslins, bordering on opulent. Most times, Zuwayy was in desert-style battle dress uniform, often wearing tanker's boots and carrying a variety of
weapons, from antique, ornate curved cavalry swords to live grenades.
"What is it, Fazani?" Zuwayy asked sternly.
"He wants an update on the deployment," the chief of staff replied. He then held out a secure cellular telephone.
Zuwayy felt like telling Fazani to throw the phone into the garbage-but he dared not. The man on the other end of that secure connection had very long fingers-more like very long claws. "Everything is ready?" the tall, thin, ethereal cleric asked in a low, monotone, disembodied voice.
"Yes, Highness," Fazani reported. "Just yesterday. All units are in full readiness." He handed the cellular phone to Zuwayy and bowed.
Zuwayy smiled, then touched a preselected code on the phone's keypad. "You'd better have some good news for me, Zuwayy," a voice said angrily. "You've been dodging me long enough."
"All is in readiness," Zuwayy said. "My troops are in place, and the units are ready."
"It took you long enough, Zuwayy," the voice on the other end of the phone warned. "They should have been in place days ago."
"Come here and try dragging those things across the desert yourself, my friend," Zuwayy said. "You will see how easy it is."
"I gave you plenty of time and money to set those units up, Zuwayy," the voice said. His foreign accent was thick, but his meaning was all too clear. "You had better not screw this up, or the first casualty in this war will be you." And the call was abruptly terminated.
Zuwayy did not disguise a look of utter contempt on his face as he handed the phone back to Fazani. "I look forward to meeting him in person," Zuwayy muttered. "I should like to see how black his heart really is." He erased the scowl on his face, replacing it with a serene smile, as he noticed an entourage heading toward him. "Now I must suffer this lackey."
"Peace be upon you, Mr. President," the host of this celebration said warmly. President Kamal Ismail Salaam was the
fourth elected Egyptian president since the Nasserite revolution in 1952. Tall, slender, and energetic, appearing more Italian than African, Salaam was the minister of finance under former president Muhammad Hosni Mubarak and leader of the National Democratic Party upon Mubarak's retirement from politics. Like Mubarak, Salaam was a military veteran, serving as the commander in chief of the Egyptian Air Defense Force Command.
"Es salaem alekum! Peace upon you, brother!" Zuwayy said loudly so the whole room could hear, spreading his hands far apart as if to embrace his host even from across the room. He stepped quickly across the richly carpeted floor toward his host. Walking the requisite three paces behind him was the Libyan Secretary of Arab Unity-the closest Libya came to a foreign minister-Juma Mahmud Hijazi.
Two of President Zuwayy's bodyguards quickly stepped up to President Salaam and stared at his hands and those of the others around him, looking for drawn weapons. It was a little irritating, but Salaam let the feeling go. The hall here at the Al-Azhar Mosque in Cairo, Egypt, was filled with dignitaries, diplomats, and celebrities from all over the world, here to celebrate the Prophet Muhammad's birthday. There was a lot of security in the place alreadytwo Egyptian soldiers inside and outside every doorway, along with a dozen Presidential Guard snipers watching from catwalks overhead-but Zuwayy was the only one to bring his own bodyguards into the great hall.
Salaam clasped Zuwayy's shoulders and embraced him in a traditional Arab greeting. "Ahlan wa sahlan. Tasharrafha! Hello and welcome. We are pleased and grateful by your presence, Mr. President." This was the first time meeting the new leader of neighboring Libya, and it was about what he expected, given Zuwayy's reputation. Zuwayy's lips turned tense and hard, and his hands disappeared perturbedly inside the billowing cuffs of his ornate silk robes.
Zuwayy's Minister of Arab Unity -looked positively horrified. "Pardon me, Mr. President," Secretary Hijazi said in a low but stern voice, "but my lord prefers to be addressed
as 'His Royal Highness' or as 'King Idris the Second.' I am sure my office made the proper notifications to your office in a timely manner. And touching his highness without his permission is absolutely forbidden."
"Of course," Salaam replied. "Yes, I was so notified." He bowed to Zuwayy. "My apologies, Highness."
It was a joke, of course-everyone knew it. Jadallah Zuwayy claimed to be a descendant of the sheikhs of the al-Sanusi dynasty, the tribe of powerful desert nomads that united the three kingdoms of Tripolitania, Cyrenaica, and Fezzan under Islam during the Turkish occupation and formed the kingdom of Libya. It was Muammar Qadhafi, after oil was discovered in Libya, who led a military coup that overthrew King Idris al-Sanusi in 1969 and formed a military dictatorship; the al-Sanusi sheikhs were driven underground by Qadhafi's death squads and formed the Sanusi Brotherhood, a monarchist insurgency group. Now Zuwayy claimed to avenge his family's honor by taking the country back from Qadhafi in the name of the Sanusi Brotherhood.
His claims were utterly baseless. Born and raised in Tripoli, the son of an oil executive and housewife, Zuwayy was an ex-army officer who had been serving in relative obscurity as an infantry-training officer, specializing in demolition, breeching, and minelaying. It was widely suspected, though never confirmed, that Zuwayy joined the Libyan Islamic Fighting Group, an extension of the Mujahadeen-ultranationalist rebel groups spread out across the Middle East and Asia dedicated to the overthrow of existing governments and replacing them with fundamentalist Muslim religious governments. Much of his financial backing came from Mujahadeen organizations in Iran and Sudan collectively known as the Muslim Brotherhood, with whom Zuwayy had formed a close alliance.
He had no royal blood in him, and his family never was part of the al-Sanusi clan, a great nomadic tribe that fought Turks, Italians, and Germans to win freedom for their people. The remnants of the al-Sanusi dynasty were scattered across Africa and the Middle East, fearing the Libyan as-
sassination squads that pursued them under orders from Colonel Qadhafi. Although Zuwayy claimed to restore the monarchy to the al-Sanusi dynasty, his reputation as a ruthless, fanatical sociopath only drove them deeper into hiding. No one in Africa or the Middle East dared challenge his reign. The Western press scoffed at his claims and repeatedly offered much evidence that he was not a Sanusi, but the evidence was largely ignored, especially within Libya itself.
President Salaam stifled a smirk at the aide's remarks about Zuwayy's grandiose title and motioned beside him. "Highness, may I present my wife, Susan Bailey Salaam. Madame, it is my pleasure to introduce His Highness, King Idris the Second, President of the United Islamic Kingdom of Libya."
Susan Salaam stepped forward, curtsied deeply, averted her eyes, and extended her right hand upward. "Welcome to Egypt, my lord. We are honored by your presence."
It was obvious that her husband thought this too much of a show, even for Zuwayy. He was surprised when Zuwayy offered her a very pleased smile, the first he had ever seen or depicted of him. Could this man, could any man, be so vain ... ? "Please rise, woman," Zuwayy said. "We are privileged to be here on this glorious occasion."
Susan rose-and Zuwayy looked into the most beautiful, most breathtaking, most alluring face he had ever seen. Her head was veiled, as it should be, but the sheen and luster of her deep black hair underneath could not be concealed. She wore no makeup that Zuwayy could detect, but her lips were deep red, her eyes dark and mesmerizing, her cheekbones high, her mouth perfectly formed. Her skin was perfect, light brown with slightly darker cheeks from exposure to sun, almost African. She took one look at the Libyan pretender, and even his rock-hard heart began to melt.
She was not African-Zuwayy knew she was an American, born to southern European emigrants-but this creature was the most beautiful he had ever seen on the planet. She could not be human-she had to be a goddess, or a gift
from the loins of Allah himself. He also knew she was much more than just a thing of great beauty. She was once an American air force military officer, rising in the ranks from a lowly security police officer to deputy chief in charge of intelligence for the U.S. Central Command. During the War for the Liberation of Kuwait, what the rest of the world called the Persian Gulf War of 1991, she acted as an intelligence liaison to the Egyptian military,
which is how she and Kamal met. Zuwayy had been told that she was a woman of many talents: She could pilot a jet airliner, drive a main battle tank, fire a rifle, and argue both common and Shari'a law in any courtroom in the world in four languages.
Susan Salaam quickly averted her eyes again, not daring-properly-to gaze into the eyes of another man, as was proper Islamic custom. Zuwayy had to force his own eyes from her, realizing-then not caring-that he had let them linger on her too long. She must be a gift from God, Zuwayy told himself again . ..
... a gift for a man blessed enough to have such high favor of Allah. And Salaam was not, could not, be that man. "It is a pleasure to meet you, my child," Zuwayy said finally, fighting to control his breathing. He did not use the more formal address for a married woman, ya sayyida, but instead the more intimate expression dahab.