Wings Of Fire

by Dale Brown

  The missiles started a rapid climb on tongues of fire and headed for their targets-Egypt's network of earlywarning surveillance radars along its western frontier. The Burya missiles used passive radar homing devices to zero in on the early-warning radars, and once they had computed the radar's exact position, they could not miss. With devastating accuracy, the huge Kh-22 missiles struck their targets, obliterating the radar installations and flattening any aboveground buildings or objects for over a mile around the impact point.

  Meanwhile, the Libyan MiG-23 and MiG-25 fighters went to work themselves-on the Egyptian E-2C Hawkeye radar aircraft. The Hawkeye was over one hundred miles away and had its own flight of Mirage fighter escorts, and when the radar plane detected the Libyan MiGs heading eastbound, it shut down its radar, headed northeast toward safety, and sent its fighter escorts after the intruders. But the Libyan attackers hopelessly outnumbered them. The MiG-25 fighters merely blew past the Mirages with their superior speed, and the MiG-23 s pounced when the Egyptian defenders turned to pursue. The MiG-25s took care of the Hawkeye radar plane after losing only one fighter to enemy missiles.

  With both the airborne and ground radar sites destroyed, the way was clear for the second Tupolev-22 bomber to climb to a safer altitude and pick its navigation waypoints with care. With Talhi's Tu-22 leading the way, the bornbardier aboard the second Tu-22 lined up precisely on his preplanned bomb run course. The courseline had to be perfect: Although the weapons did not need to be directly on target to be effective, they would get maximum effect by being no more than one or two degrees off the desired course. One by one, he seeded the area with small twohundred-and-fifty-pound bombs fitted with radar fuzes.

  Far below was the massive Salimah oil complex, Egypt's newest oil project. Comprising over thirty thousand square miles of southern Egypt, it was the largest known oil and natural gas reserves in northern Africa. Seven wells had been drilled every day for the past two

  years, and none of them showed any signs of lessening their output. Five thousand workers, mostly Arabs and Africans from Sudan, Chad, Kenya, and Ethiopia, worked around the clock in Salimah, housed in rows and rows of trailers and huge tent cities stretching as far as anyone could see.

  One of Egypt's two field armies, known as the King Menes Army, was in charge of the defense of Salimah. Although it was seriously under its full strength, the King Menes Army comprised well over a third of all of Egypt's fighting forces, included two full armored divisions, three mechanized infantry divisions, one infantry division, five artillery battalions, two fighter-interceptor squadrons, two fighter-attack squadrons, and one helicopter squadron. The eighty thousand troops were distributed with the bulk of the forces, mostly heavy armor, arrayed along the borders of Libya and Chad, with the other lighter, more rapidresponse forces deployed mostly north of the oil fields as a reserve. The two westernmost military Areas of Responsibility were Al-Jilf and Al-Kabir, and these were the two areas targeted by the weapons dropped by the Tu-22 bombers.

  One might believe the bombardier missed his target, because the gravity weapons detonated a thousand feet in the air, producing nothing more than a loud BANG! and a puff of sand below. The explosion was repeated sixty-three times in the space of six minutes, ten weapons per minute, as the Libyan bomber sowed its deadly seeds. Curious soldiers below looked up when they heard the explosions, and they jumped and felt the sudden gush of air and a little bit of pressure in their ears-nothing more severe than a slammed door or a slug of mud popping out of a new well. But there was very little heat unless the explosion was directly overhead, no trace of vapor or liquid, and no shrapnel or caltrops. Before most folks realized it, the noisemakers were gone. They could have been fireworks, except these fireworks were in the morning, which didn't make sense at all. •

  It still didn't make sense later that day-even when the

  soldiers started dying in massive, horrendous numbers.

  The ones directly under the airbursts were first, complaining of headaches that increased in intensity quickly, eventually causing loss of eyesight and loss of equilibrium. Hours later, they were coughing up blood. By the time they were able to get off work later that day, they were usually unable to take themselves to the infirmary. Many of them died in their beds or in their living rooms, surrounded by their puzzled comrades and worried corpsmen. The ones that were as far as one mile away from the bursts didn't start having symptoms until the next day, but their fate was the same-crushing headaches leading to blindness, loss of balance eventually leading to incapacitation, and sudden loss of blood leading to hemorrhage and death within eight hours.

  The soldiers in bunkers and even chemical weapon-resistant shelters were not spared-even those in underground storage areas and shielded command centers could not escape. Eventually the deadly neutron and gamma radiation from the sixty-four neutron bombs detonated over Salimah, unrestricted by the uranium outer shell as in regular fission weapons, claimed over twelve thousand lives ...

  ... without harming one piece of oil-drilling equipment, spilling one drop of crude oil, or ruining one piece of precious military hardware.

  CHAPTER

  NAVAL AMPHIBIOUS BASE CORONADO,

  CORONADO, CALIFORNIA

  DAYS LATER

  Patrick detested running, but it was the only aerobic exercise he cared for, and he knew he'd probably blow up like a "bunker-buster" bomb if he didn't do it. When he was in town he usually jogged the short distance from his condo on Coronado Island, across the bay from San Diego, to the base gym at the Naval Amphibious Base Coronado. This time, however, he had Bradley with him, so he drove. It took longer to go down to the garage, strap Bradley in, and pull out onto busy Silver Strand Highway than it did to get to the base.

  Going to the gym was one of the few things he liked to do alone, just for himself-but not anymore. It was another of the little changes he had to make in his life, with Wendy gone.

  Security was tight on base-even the sticker on his windshield with the white star on blue background of a brigadier general didn't help speed things up. Along with an ID check,

  Patrick's car was checked underneath with a mirror, and the inside of the car from bumper to bumper was checked visually and also with a military working dog. Bradley liked the dog, and he enjoyed having his car seat sniffed by the dog after Patrick had to lift him up and out of his seat. After clearing security, he headed off to the gym. He checked Bradley into the base gym's day-care center-one of Bradley's favorite places to go, even for an hour or twoand changed into workout clothes in the locker room. Five minutes on the elliptical trainer, then five minutes on the stretching chair to warm up, and he was ready to go.

  The news on the televisions surrounding the workout room was full of information on the Libyan attack on the Egyptian military forces defending Salimah. The death toll in just one day was simply staggering. Patrick had a tough time conceiving of the five thousand killed at Mersa Matruh, and now the deaths at Al-Jilf and Al-Kabir were probably going to triple that toll.

  The toll that most likely included Wendy. Oh, God . . . That thought made him tear into his workout with a vengeance.

  The tail end of the news reports focused on the American response to the attacks on Egypt-or, more accurately, the lack of response. There were two aircraft carriers with almost a hundred combat aircraft plus ten thousand U.S. Marines within helicopter distance of Egypt, yet the United States made no move to help. There were stern warnings to Libya not to use any more neutron weapons, that using them increased the danger of the conflict spreading and growing to a full-scale nuclear war in a short time-but the response was far short of what most folks expected of the President.

  Well, Patrick thought, that was typical of this President-speak softly, but carry a big twig.

  Soon, Patrick found he had disregarded his workout log completely and finally ended up just picking a weight from the racks, in some cases fifty percent more than he was able to throw around before, doing repetitions until he lost count
, then continuing doing more reps until his muscles gave out completely. After twenty minutes of an absolutely

  blistering workout, finally something gave way in his left shoulder during an incline bench press, and he was forced to toss a seventy-pound dumbbell aside in pain.

  "Are you all right, General McLanahan?" he heard behind him. He turned and saw Captain Fred Jackson, the commanding officer of Naval Amphibious Base Coronado, standing behind him, a look of serious concern on his face. Jackson was a tall, powerful-looking ex-SEAL who still looked as if he could command a team on a mission-he sometimes worked out with Patrick in the gym or at the SEAL Training Facility across the street, and even though Patrick had been working out for many years and Jackson was at least five years older, Patrick found it impossible to keep up with him.

  Patrick nodded. "I'm okay, Fred," he said ruefully.

  "My guys told me you were on the base, so I thought I'd stop by and say hello," Jackson said. "I'll get a corpsman to look at that shoulder for you."

  "Not necessary. I'll just get some ice on it." But Jackson was not accustomed to anyone saying "no" to him-he already had someone on the way. A few minutes later they were sitting down together, Patrick with a bag of ice on his shoulder.

  "You upset about something, sir?" Jackson asked. "You looked like you were about ready to toss those dumbbells through the mirrors."

  "No-just cranky because I'm getting more and more of these little pains," Patrick said.

  "The price of getting old ... I mean old-er" Jackson said.

  Patrick nodded at the TV as well. "I don't understand why we're not doing more over in Egypt, and that's upsetting me as much as my shoulder."

  "I expected you to be in Washington advising the President on what to do," Jackson said.

  "Why do you say that?"

  "According to what I've been reading, you're still the number-one candidate for national security adviser," the Navy SEAL said. "I thought you'd be out there in fhe thick of things, writing your policy papers, getting your classi-

  fied briefings, and getting ready to testify in front of the Senate Armed Services Committee after your nomination."

  "So that's why you're over here looking me up, eh, Fred?" Patrick asked with a smile. "Thought you'd get a little face time with the rumored number-one guy?"

  "Now, would I do that, sir?" he asked with a toothy grin. "Oh, by the way, I'm letting your son play in my office, I got him his own SEAL to watch him, and I brought in a gourmet chef from the Del to fix him lunch. Is that okay?"

  "Sorry to disappoint you, Fred, but I haven't been anywhere near Washington or the White House in many moons, and I'm not likely to be," Patrick said. "We don't see eye to eye on much of anything."

  "Which is why all the pundits are saying you're 'it'- Thorn likes surrounding himself with ideological opposites," Jackson said. "You just remember your buddies who give you their tee times and let you fly your plane from their airstrips, the next time you talk to the President about the next chief of naval operations, okay?"

  "Don't hold your breath, Captain," Patrick said with a laugh-his first laugh in many, many days.

  "How's the missus?" Jackson asked.

  Patrick tried not to let his smile completely wash away. "Still away. She should be back in town next weekend."

  "Good. Can't wait to see her again. You still owe my wife and me a rematch of our last golf match."

  "You're on, Fred."

  Jackson could tell something was wrong, but he decided not to pursue it further. He nodded toward the televisions. "So what do you think we'll do over in Egypt? Anything?"

  Patrick shrugged as he readjusted the ice pack on his shoulder. "Move up the Kennedy battle group to the Red Sea to defend the Suez Canal, keep the two carrier groups on station in the Med, and try to keep the conflict from spreading to the Persian Gulf or Israel," Patrick said. "Purely defensive moves-I don't think the President wants to send in any military forces. If Libya stays on the move, destroys Salimah, takes the Suez Canal, and crosses over the Red Sea into Israel, then I think the President might

  make a move. But I think he's really hoping Susan Salaam will pull the Arab countries together to fight off Libya." He looked at Jackson. "So what do you think we'll do?"

  "What I think we'll do? Same as you-nodal" Jackson replied. "What I think we should do? We should go pay President Zuwayy of Libya a little visit, blow up a few of his palaces just to get his attention, and then deprive him of his bombers, fighters, airstrips, and rockets-and that's all for starters. My guys can do all that in one night. Two at the most." Jackson was definitely not above a little hubris when it came to sending Navy SEALs into action. He looked carefully at Patrick. "Of course, scuttlebutt says someone or some group of someones might have been already mixing it up with the king. Wouldn't know anything about that, would you, sir?"

  "Not a thing. But if they did, they should have their heads examined."

  "Maybe they can show our commander-in-chief how it's done," Jackson said.

  "President Salaam needs to fight for her country too. She's got a military-she needs to use it to defend her people."

  "If anyone can do it, she can. Not bad for an Air Force puke, I guess."

  "No Air Force cracks-unless you want to lose those four stars I had planned for you."

  "Oops-sorry, sorry, sir, sorry," Jackson said with a smile-he was one of the few Navy SEALs Patrick had ever met that actually seemed to like to smile. He shook Patrick's hand warmly. "If there's anything you need, sir, please don't hesitate to ask. And I hope you don't mind I have my spies out keeping an eye on you. You're the biggest celebrity we've had hanging around the area since Dennis Conner. We'll be sorry to see you and Wendy head back to Washington." Before Patrick could protest again, Jackson added, "I know, I know, you're not in the running. I'll remember you said that when I see you at your confirmation party in Washington. You sure you don't need a doctor to look at your shoulder?"

  "I'm fine, Captain. And you can let your spies go home too."

  "Yes, sir. Take care of that shoulder-I want to beat you fair and square on the golf course." Patrick noticed Jackson motion to a young sailor who had been standing near the entrance to the workout room with a cell phone, who departed with Jackson. The base commander was a good guy, Patrick decided, but there was no doubt that he played the political battles as well as he undoubtedly played the real-world military battles-and making friends with potentially influential persons was one way to get ahead in the Navy.

  Too bad he was sucking up to the wrong guy.

  Patrick toweled off, tossed the bag of ice, then experimentally flexed his left shoulder. It felt pretty good, so he decided to forgo the steam room and instead take his son Bradley to the pool. He checked Bradley out of the daycare center and took him back to the locker room.

  He didn't notice a janitor set a bucket of smelly water and a mop in front of the door to the locker room after Patrick entered, put up a sign that said, "DO NOT ENTER" on the door, and then lock the door after he entered.

  Patrick put Bradley in a pair of swim trunks he kept in his gym bag for just this purpose, changed himself, and led his son to the pool. He found the door to the pool locked. He turned to ask someone why the door was locked when he noticed that the locker room was very quiet-unusually quiet. No one else was in there. The place usually had at least a dozen men in there all hours of the day, but it was empty now . ..

  . . . except for an Arab-looking man who stepped out from behind a row of lockers-carrying an automatic pistol in one hand.

  Patrick immediately grabbed Bradley and dodged behind a row of lockers. The man didn't follow-that meant there were others in the room, waiting for him.

  "Dad? Aren't we going swimming?" Bradley asked. He was obviously more concerned about not going to the pool than he was about being carried protectively by his father like a slippery football through onrushing linebackers.

  "Shh," Patrick whispered. He crouched as low as he could, almost duck
walking through the locker room.

  He saw the second guy's knees before he saw the rest of him, and he prayed it wasn't an innocent sailor-because Patrick lashed out with his right foot, snapping out in a driving thrust against the stranger's left knee. The knee buckled outward at an unnatural angle.

  "Dad? Why did you kick that guy?" Bradley asked amid the stranger's animal-like howling. "Is he a bad guy?"

  Patrick wasn't sure how to answer-until another automatic pistol clattered to the tiled floor. "Yes, he's a bad guy," Patrick replied as he picked up the gun. "We're getting out of here."

  "Good job," Bradley said.

  Patrick decided not to go to the front door but try for the equipment manager's office, which had an exit into the gymnasium. He heard footsteps sliding around the tile floor behind him. He kicked a chair over toward the front door to try to make it sound as if he was headed in that direction, then ran as hard as he could to the equipment manager's office. Good-no one around. He tried the door-even better, it was unlocked. Patrick dashed in ...

  ... and immediately a fist rapped him on the side of his head. He went sprawling. Bradley screamed. Patrick raised the gun, but he couldn't make his eyes focus, and he didn't dare try to aim at any shape he saw in front of him, fearful it would be his son. "Get the hell away from me!" he shouted over Bradley's screaming. "Get away or I'll shoot!" But at that instant a large blur raced across his eyes, and the gun was knocked from his hand. "Bradley!" he shouted. He curled himself over his son, pressing him into a corner up against a file cabinet, shielding him as best he could. "Stay down!"

  "It's all right, General, it's all right," he heard a familiar voice say. "Tell your son to calm down. You are in no danger."

  "Who . . . who is it?"

  "Just relax, my friend. Relax." His vision did clear a few moments later...

  ... and when it did, he saw the smiling, boyish face of

  King Idris the Second of Libya, Muhammad as-Sanusi, hovering over him. "You ... Your Majesty, what in hell are you doing here?" Patrick said. He got Bradley up and calmed him down.