by Dale Brown
Cheryl Duffield looked up at the Masterses, and the steel returned to her eyes and voice. "She knows atf about what you do, what you build, and whom you build them for," she
said. "She wants to help you build the next two generations of weapon systems, far better than you or I or anyone yet born can imagine. Her father and I said we'd help her do that, because in a way, that's what parents do for their kids. It's not ballet or baseball, but parents are supposed to help their kids follow their dreams. Right?"
Jon looked at Kelsey. To his immense shock, while her mother was talking, Kelsey had been writing out a long mathematical formula on a sheet of notepaper. When she noticed Jon was looking at her, she held up the piece of paper for him. For about the third or fourth time in that meeting, Jon's mouth dropped open.
"It's not finished," Kelsey said, smiling.
"I... don't... believe ... it..." Jon breathed, his eyes flitting across the symbols and numbers. He pointed to one section, and his eyes narrowed, then widened, then nearly bugged out. "I... you ... this .. ."
Kelsey handed it over to Jon, and he accepted it as if she had just handed him a thirty-pound bar of solid gold. "We'll finish it together, okay, Dr. Masters?" she said, her eyes twinkling.
"Jon. Call me Jon," he said, smiling, his voice cracking with the sheer enormity x)f what he had just witnessed. Jon looked at the piece of paper, then at Kelsey, then at her mother. "Do you realize what this is?"
"Of course. It's the future," Cheryl said matter-of-factly, almost in a whisper. She looked down at the conference table, then added, "God help us."
ON THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA,
TEN MILES NORTHWEST
MERSA MATRON, EGYPT
THAT SAME TIME
The crew of the Egyptian warship El Arish, an Americanbuilt Oliver Hazard Perry-class guided missile frigate, treated the rescued members of the S.S. Catherine the
Great as any other shipwreck survivors, offering them water, blankets, strong hot tea, and ful-pita sandwiches stuffed with fava and black beans fried together with meat, eggs, and onions. They were kept in the helicopter hangar on the aft end of the ship, out of sight of most of the rest of the crew. Several of the Night Stalkers received medical treatment for burns and shrapnel wounds by the Egyptian ship's corpsman.
David Luger acted as the spokesman for the team when approached by the captain of the frigate, Commander Raouf Farouk, while Patrick, Hal, and Chris stayed away from the Egyptians in the center of the helicopter hangar, surrounded by commandos. "We are grateful to you for helping us, Captain," David said as the captain approached. "You have saved our lives."
"Afivan. You are welcome," Farouk said. He looked at the men carefully. "And your name?"
"I'm Merlin."
"Your full name, rank, and nationality?"
"Just Merlin," Luger replied. "No rank or title. We are all Americans."
"Keeping that information secret is an insult for those of us who have just saved your lives," Farouk admonished him. "Now, I order you to tell me your real name and rank, or I will throw you in my brig."
"I'm sorry, sir, I will not," David replied. "I will tell you that we are crew members of the S.S. Catherine the Great, a salvage vessel based in Klaipeda, Lithuania. I'm sorry, but our ownership papers and letters of transit were lost in the attack."
"I understand," Farouk said. There was no doubt in Farouk's mind that these were soldiers-they looked, acted, and even moved like fighting men. And they were not sailors, either. "The bastardly Libyans think they own the Mediterranean. I am told you do not carry passports, either."
"Sorry, sir. They went down with our ship as well." That was true, but the passports that went down with the ship
were all fakes. "We are all American merchantmen. As I told your first officer, if you allow me to call the American embassy in Cairo, they can help verify our identities."
"This is a military matter now, and we have specific procedures to follow to verify your identities," Farouk said, obviously angry at Luger's lack of cooperation. "You will be placed in custody at our home base of Mersa Matruh and questioned. You will be treated fairly, I assure you, but since you were obviously involved in some military conflict with the Libyans, we can take no chances." He motioned to the three men surrounded by the commandos. All three put their heads down while Egyptian intelligence officers snapped pictures of them and the other commandos. "And then there is the question of those three gentlemen. Unless they are spacemen from Mars and an oxygen atmosphere is poisonous to them, they must remove their equipment immediately."
'The devices they are wearing are life-support equipment," Luger lied. He turned toward the three, and they all took off their helmets with a gentle hissing sound. Photo strobes flashed despite their efforts to hide their faces. "They are under some distress if they take their helmets off. May they please put them back on, Captain?"
"My ship's doctor will examine the men with their outfits off," the captain said. "If they are in distress, they will be airlifted to the appropriate medical facility in Egypt for treatment-all the way to Cairo if necessary. They will be well treated, I assure you. But since that outfit is unknown to me, it will be removed, examined, and placed in secure storage at Mersa Matruh until we can ascertain that it is safe and no threat to us."
Luger nodded. "Yes, sir. I'll tell them that right now. It will take a few moments to remove their outfits." Luger bowed slightly to the captain, then went over to McLanahan, Briggs, and Wohl. "Bad news, guys," he said. "The captain wants you to ditch the armor. He's going to have his doc examine you; then he's going to place us all into custody at Mersa Matruh."
"We can't wait until we dock before we do something,
sir," Chris Wohl said in a low voice. Although they were all civilians now, retirees, Chris Wohl would never even consider calling McLanahan, Luger, or Briggs anything else but "sir," although he might put a definite sneer in his voice if he disagreed with their orders-as he did now. "Mersa Matruh is a combined-forces base-they have close to fifty thousand troops stationed there from all three services."
"We're not supposed to be fighting the Egyptians," David Luger said. "Once we contact the American embassy, we'll be let go. But if we get into a shit storm with the Egyptians, they're just as likely to kill us."
"Our embassy has no idea why we're here," Patrick said. "No real passports, no visas-and the President already tried once to have us all arrested. We can't go running to the embassy for help."
"I'm forced to agree with the master sergeant, Muck," Hal Briggs said. "They'll treat us like captured terrorists. Our cover will be blown wide open."
Patrick thought for a moment longer; then: "Sarge, how many sailors on this ship?"
"About two hundred total. The U.S. Navy doesn't usually carry Marines on little frigates, but the Egyptians do. Usually two marine platoons max, thirty or forty menthose will be the best-trained counterforces. We've seen one platoon in here already, but only a dozen of them armed."
Luger tensed up as he saw movement nearby-the captain was getting tired of waiting and was getting his men together to start taking them into custody. The commandos surrounding the three leaders were trying to look casual and relaxed, but they could sense their tension. "Looks like the captain's coming over here. Time's up."
"How do you want to play it, sir?" Wohl asked Patrick.
Patrick got to his feet, turned away from the oncoming Egyptian captain, and hefted his helmet. "Let's take this boat," he said, and he quickly slipped his helmet into place.
"Hoo-rah," Wohl said tonelessly as he and Briggs got to their feet. "Good decision, sir."
"An iznukum!" Farouk shouted when he saw Patrick put
on the helmet. "Minfadlukum!" But when he saw Briggs and Wohl also put their helmets on, he knew things were turning ugly. "Wci'if!"' He motioned to his marine guards. "IhataristWa'if!"
The three armored commandos moved out in a triangle formation, opposing the three main bodies of guards. At the same instant,
the commandos also fanned out, moving with surprising speed since it seemed as if they were so relaxed and tired there moments ago. The electronic energy bolts fired, striking the armed guards, and almost before the stunned guards hit the steel helicopter hangar deck, the Night Stalker commandos had their weapons in their hands. In less than fifteen seconds, every armed Egyptian sailor in the hangar was unconscious, and the commandos were closing, dogging, and guarding the steel hangar doors and hatches, weapons in hand.
"What are you doing? What are you doing here?" Farouk shouted as he saw his men drop to the nonskid deck, their bodies quivering from the electric shocks they received. He pointed an angry finger at Luger. "You told me you meant us no danger!" He saw Patrick approach and turned his anger towards him. "Are you the one responsible? I will see to it that you are put to death for this act of aggression! We saved you and your men from the Libyans, and now you dare do this!"
"Captain, I am Castor," Patrick said. He paused as he listened to instructions Wohl issued to his men. The Night Stalker commandos quickly began to remove the Egyptian sailors' uniforms and put them on. "My men and I won't hurt you, and we have no desire to take your ship, unless you do not cooperate with us."
"Won't hurt us? Won't take my ship? You are terrorists! Saboteurs! Spies!" Farouk screamed. "Putting on the uniform of another country's army is not permitted!"
"This is not war, Captain, and we are not soldiers," Patrick said. "Sir, I'm going to ask one more time for your cooperation."
"I refuse. You may kill me if you wish."
"I don't want to kill you, Captain," Patrick said. "I want
you to contact your headquarters on Mersa Matruh. Tell them I have taken you hostage and warn them not to approach this ship."
"I told you, I will not cooperate," Farouk said. "I order you to put down those weapons and surrender."
"That's not likely to happen, Captain," Patrick said. "But I'm sure you'll reconsider my offer to contact your headquarters once we reach the bridge."
"The bridge?" Farouk gulped. "You ... you think you will take my bridge! You will all be dead in ten minutes."
"Maybe so," Patrick said. "But in five minutes, we'll have control of your bridge." He switched the view on his electronic visor to an electronic briefing Chris Wohl was giving to the Night Stalkers. Patrick saw that Wohl had called up an electronic blueprint of the U.S.-made Perryclass frigate and was briefing his men on their assault. In less than five minutes, they were ready. Wohl took the portside rail, Briggs the starboard rail, followed by fifteen Night Stalkers each; Patrick went atop the hangar and made his way forward along the upper gun deck with twenty commandos.
Because of the tense situation in the Med following the Libyan raids, the deck was full of lookouts, all armed with American-made machine guns. They were all doing exactly what they were supposed to be doing-searching the sea, continually scanning for threats using night-vision goggles and infrared sniperscopes-so it was easy to simply step within a few feet of them unnoticed, quietly knock them unconscious with a quick zap, disable or capture their weapons, and move on. McLanahan's, Briggs's, and Wohl's electronic visors showed each crewman on deck in stark relief several yards away, and their amplified hearing equipment allowed them to take cover before a crew member came through a hatch or unexpectedly appeared around a corner.
On the bridge, the officer of the deck, or OOD, was making a log entry when suddenly the frigate's oropeller simply stopped. "Sir, sudden loss of propulsion!" the helmsman reported.
The OOD immediately picked up the IMC phone direct to Engineering. "Engineering, bridge, what's happening down there?" No reply. "Engineering, bridge, respond!" Still no reply. The OOD turned to the chief petty officer. "Sound general quarters, all hands to battle stations, no drill." He picked up another phone, the one direct to the captain's quarters. "Captain to the bridge. Emergency." The OOD had picked up another phone. "Combat, bridge . .. Combat, can you hear me?" There was no reply. "What in hell is going on here?" He turned to the chief petty officer and shouted, "And why haven't you sounded general quarters, dammit?"
"I activated the alarm, but it did not sound, sir!" The chief petty officer turned to one of the watchstanders and shouted, "Start a running message relay right now, general quarters, battle stations, this is not a drill. Go!"
"Ma'lesh," they heard behind them. "It doesn't matter."
The OOD and chief petty officer turned and saw commander Farouk step onto the bridge. "Sir, we've lost propulsion," the OOD reported, "and I cannot raise Engineering or Combat and I cannot sound general quarters. I..." But then he noticed the surprised expressions of the helmsman and the other watchstanders as the captain stepped onto the bridge. "Sir .. . ?"
Farouk was roughly pushed toward his captain's chair in the center of the bridge, and then the place seemed to explode in chaos. Men in Egyptian naval uniforms pointed automatic weapons at the bridge crew, shouting in English. At the same moment, the access door from the center of the bridge burst open, and more English-speaking men rushed in; behind the OOD and chief, the port-side weather door also whipped open, and more strange men entered. Once the bridge crew was gathered up, they were placed down on the deck, hands behind their necks. Four of the commandos stayed on the bridge, while others took up security positions outside and in the inside passageway.
Patrick entered commands into the frigate's computerized helm station, and the ship turned away from the Egyptian coast, increasing power to maximum. He then
picked up the captain's telephone and held it out to Farouk. "I need you to tell your crew that we will be delayed in returning to Mersa Matruh and to not interfere with my men."
"I refuse."
Patrick seemingly did not react-but moments later, Farouk's body began to do a strange jerking quiver in his seat, and his eyes began to roll up into his head. The spasm lasted for several moments, then Farouk's body went limp. The Egyptian captain appeared as if he had just been beaten up, his breath coming in deep gasps, although no one had touched him. "It will be harder on you if you do not comply," Patrick said in an electronically synthesized voice.
Farouk held out his hand, and Patrick placed the telephone in it. The Egyptian took several deep breaths, then spoke in Arabic. After he had finished, Patrick turned to one of the Night Stalkers and asked, "What did he say?"
"He said the bridge and probably Engineering and combat have been taken by American commandos. He ordered his crew to resist us to the maximum extent possible."
"The only ones that will be hurt will be your men, Captain," Patrick said. He spoke into his helmet communications system, then handed the phone back to Farouk a few moments later. "We have made contact with your headquarters, Captain. Tell them anyone approaching this ship will be attacked and killed. This is your only warning." Farouk relayed the message, recommending that all forces be dispatched immediately to disable his ship and prevent it from falling into terrorist hands.
"Well, now the Egyptians know we're here," Briggs radioed to Patrick via their battle armor comm system. "Half the crew is ready to rush us from every corner of the ship, and soon half the Egyptian military will be barreling down on us. What's the plan?"
"We need to get in contact with Martindale, have him get every asset we have available searching for Wendy," Patrick said. "I want to turn this ship inside out looking for weapons, I want everyone to get fully recharged and
rearmed, and then I want a plan of action to go in and rescue her."
"Patrick," Briggs said softly, "we still don't know if she's alive."
"She's alive. I know it."
"But we don't-"
"I said, she's alive, dammit!" Patrick cried angrily. "I'm going to find her even if I have to move every grain of sand in the desert to do it."
OVER THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA THAT SAME TIME
"You cannot go back, Sekhmet," said retired Egyptian army general Ahmad Baris, President Kamal Ishmail Salaam's national security adviser and longtime trusted friend of the family.
Fifty-three-year-old General Baris lost most of his right leg in the 1973 Arab-Israeli War, burned off in a tank explosion, but he stayed in government to serve his country as best he could, rising through the ranks from onion-peeler and tailor to intelligence coordinator to tactician to presidential military adviser. "It is too dangerous. Al-Khan's henchmen and the Muslim Brotherhood assassins are everywhere."
"Not even to bury my husband?" Susan Bailey Salaam said in a low voice. Her head and arms were swathed in bandages, and an Egyptian army doctor had inserted an intravenous tube into a vein in her leg because the seconddegree burns on her arms would not allow it.
"Especially not for a funeral," Baris said sadly. "Trust me. You would not be safe. There will be a simple ceremony for your husband, no more. It is too dangerous otherwise."
Susan Salaam and General Baris were on board an Egyptian army helicopter, zooming low over the Mediterranean Sea westward, about five miles off the coast. Ahmad Baris had engineered an alternate escape plan for Susan to get out of the city after the attack so secret that
not even the Presidential Guards knew about it. After the men and women killed or injured in the attack were taken away by ambulance from the mosque, Baris had Susan taken in several different ambulances to a waiting army helicopter and whisked out of the city.
"I feel like a coward. I feel as if I have abandoned my husband," Susan said stonily.
The retired general sighed softly, then repositioned his right leg to ease the pain a bit, which easily got Susan's attention. "Your husband is dead, Sekhmet," he said softly, like a father speaking to his young daughter. "Being killed at his grave site by more Muslim Brotherhood assassins would not help him or Egypt." He paused, then added softly, "You know I would follow your husband into hell, and I pledge the same to you. Tell me what you wish, and I will do everything in my poor powers to help you do it."