Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 10 (20 page)

 
          
“A
brother and two sisters, Madame, both emigrated to the
United States
,” Shafik replied. “My parents are dead,
killed by the Israelis in the Six-Day War. My husband was an officer in the
Mubahath el-Dawa, killed in a terrorist bombing of the State Security
Investigations headquarters by Gama’a al-Islamiyya.”

 
          
“I
am sorry for your loss, Captain,” Susan said. She looked at her carefully. “You
lost a child as well, did you not, Captain?”

 
          
Shafik’s
eyes widened, first in surprise, then in sadness as the memories flooded back,
unbidden. She nodded. “I lost it the day I learned of the death of my husband.”

 
          
“It
is an enormous tragedy,” Susan said. “But you will learn to love again, and you
will find a man worthy of your love. I hope you won’t let your hatred prevent
you from having the child you well deserve.”

 
          
“My
tragedy—and my hatred—is insignificant compared to what you must feel, Madame,”
Shafik said, her voice flowing with relief and gratitude.

 
          
“No
tragedy—or hatred—is insignificant,” Susan said quietly. “I assure you of
that.”

 
          
“If
you permit me, Madame,” Shafik said, “I would like to personally apologize to
you for the breach in discipline and procedures by the Republican Guards on the
day of your husband’s assassination. I have served in the Guards for almost ten
years, and I have never witnessed such a flagrant dereliction of duties and
responsibilities.” She removed her red beret, crushing it in her strong hands.
“I am ashamed to wear the beret.”

 
          
“Don’t
be, Captain—you earned the right to wear it,” Susan said. “It was the ones who
took bribes and allowed themselves to be lured away from their posts that
should strip themselves of the honor of wearing it, not you.”

           
“Yes, Madame,” Shafik said. “I
assure you, I will do everything I can to avenge my president’s, your
husband’s, assassination. Those who committed that deed do not deserve
justice—they deserve retribution.”

 
          
Susan
Salaam touched Shafik on her left cheek and nodded reassuringly. “And they
shall have it, Captain,” she said quietly but sternly. “The killers of both our
husbands shall feel our vengeance.” Shafik smiled, nodded, then snapped proudly
to attention.

 
          
“We
have your quarters ready, Sekhmet,” Baris said, pointing to a waiting armored
staff car.

 
          
“I
want to meet the commandos first.”

 
          
“Out
of the question,” Baris said. “Captain?”

 
          
“The
commandos have not allowed anyone except supply vessels near the ship, Madame,”
Shafik said. “The ship is guarded continuously by at least twenty men on deck
plus one of the commandos dressed in the strange combat equipment. We have made
three attempts in the past two days to sneak aboard the ship and were caught
every time. Our next option being considered is a massive assault.”

 
          
“I
don’t believe that’ll be necessary,” Susan said. “They are keeping themselves
imprisoned on the ship—I see no reason to risk any lives just so we can take
them off to another prison. Let’s go have a talk with them.”

 
         
“The
Egyptians are being extraordinarily cooperative all of a sudden, Muck,” David
Luger observed. He had just entered the
Combat
Information
Center
aboard the Egyptian frigate
El Arish
and joined Patrick and several
other members of the Night Stalkers, looking over charts and satellite
photographs of
Libya
. “The cordon around us has relaxed—they moved their patrol boats out
another half- klick. Still within visual range and easily within helicopter and
deck gun range, but it takes the pressure off. All their fire-control radars
and jammers have shut down. They’ve also agreed to send more medical supplies
and extra food and water for our prisoners.” He set a folder on the chart
table. “More NIRTSat photos, hot off the press.”

 
          
“Good,”
Patrick acknowledged. David looked at his friend and former commanding officer
with great concern. Patrick looked bone-weary, with large dark circles under
his eyes, his face drawn and haggard. He still wore the Tin Man battle armor—he
had taken it off for only a few moments for an inspection several hours earlier
before donning it again—and he kept it and the exoskeleton, standing near the
bulkhead in quick reach, plugged in and fully charged. “Any word yet from
anyone on Wendy?”

 
          
“No,”
Luger replied. “I’ve put in several back-channel requests for support to the
Intelligence Support Agency, Muck, but our status is only a little bit better
than the Libyans themselves. They don’t go for freelancers, even if it’s
experienced operators like us. They wouldn’t like us even if the White House
and Pentagon were supportive— but Thom and Goff are out gunning for us too,
which makes matters even worse. Too many heads will roll if they get caught
helping us.”

 
          
Patrick
looked discouraged, rubbing his eyes and lowering his head wearily. “Screw
’em,” he growled. “Between Dr. Masters’s photo recon birds and UCAVs and a few
soft probes by us, we’ll find her.”

 
          
“If
she’s still alive.”

 
          
“She’s
alive, dammit.”

 
          
“I
hear you loud and clear, Muck,” David Luger said pointedly. “But I want to make
it clear to you, at the same time, that we have no hard information that she
survived the attack. The Egyptians say they found bodies, including women—”

 
          
“They
never made a complete search.”

 
          
“I
know—the ship went down in Libyan waters, not Egyptian waters,” Luger corrected
himself. “But it went down close enough to
Egypt
to examine wreckage that has drifted east.
They have not found any survivors. If she somehow survived and the Libyans got
her, they will keep her tightly under wraps until they’re done interrogating
her, and then they’ll dispose of her.”

 
          
Patrick’s
head snapped up, and he glared at his longtime partner with pure seething
anger. But he also knew what David had been through in his life—he definitely
knew what he was talking about.

           
Fourteen years earlier, while flying
their first secret mission in the modified B-52 Megafortress bomber nicknamed
“Old Dog” out of the
High
Technology
Aerospace
Weapons
Center
in
Nevada
, then-Air Force first lieutenant and B-52
bomber navigator David Luger was left for dead at a Russian air base in eastern
Siberia
after they made an emergency landing. He
survived and was systematically brainwashed and interrogated for years. The KGB
eventually convinced Luger he was a Russian aerospace engineer, and he worked
to advance the state of the art of Russian stealth warplane technology by
several years. After he was rescued, it took three years of intense
psychotherapy to return him to normal.

 
          
“She’s
alive, Dave,” Patrick said earnestly.

 
          
“You
don’t know that, Muck.”

 
          
“I
said she’s
alive!”

 
          
“Patrick,
I’m not going to argue with you,” David said. “I will help you tear that
country apart to find her. But I will not let you risk your life or any of the
team’s lives to go in to attempt a rescue unless we get some hard intelligence
information.”

 
          
“You
telling me she’s not worth it, Dave?”

 
          
“Fuck
you, General,” Luger snapped. “I’m thinking like a soldier—it’s about time you
start doing the same. You tell me, Muck—how many lives is worth Wendy’s? Yours?
Three? Five? Ten? Fifty?”

 
          
“We
risked a couple dozen to get you out of Fisikous in
Lithuania
,” Patrick said. “I would’ve brought a
thousand more with me if I could.”

 
          
“But
you had hard intelligence on where I was,” Luger reminded him. “Without that
information, wearing that battle armor and marching into an armed fortress like
Libya
would be suicide even for a hundred
commandos. And you know it.” Patrick’s head slumped wearily again. Luger sighed
heavily. “Muck, your son needs you,” he said. “Why don’t you go home? The CV-22
can lift you off the deck tonight, the Sky Masters jet is waiting in Tel Aviv,
and you can be home by tomorrow morning. We’ll stay out here and keep
searching.” He paused, then added, “And you have a brother that needs to be
mourned and buried too, sir.”

 
          
“I’m
not leaving without her,” Patrick said resolutely. “Dead or alive, I’m taking
her home.”

 
          
“It
won’t happen that way, at least not right away,” Luger said softly. “The odds
are a thousand to one we’ll even get any information that she was recovered,
and about five thousand to one she’s alive. But if she beat the odds and
survived, the Libyans will keep her in complete isolation until she recovers,
which could take weeks, even months. Then they’ll start interrogating her.
She’ll be able to resist for a short time, but they’ll finally break her. They
won’t be as scientific as the Russians. They’ll break her, and then they’ll
discard her.”

 
          
“Dave,
that’s
enough
,” Patrick shouted. “This
search is going forward, and I don’t give a shit how hopeless you think it is.
I don’t
think
she’s alive—I
know
she’s alive. And as long as I know
she’s alive, I’m going to plan to locate her and rescue her.

 
          
“To
answer your question: I’ll risk the lives of any man or woman who agrees to
stand beside me on this mission, because I know Wendy would agree to stand
beside me to rescue anyone on this team. Now, if you have any other problems
with this mission or my leadership, I suggest
you
get off this ship and evacuate to
Israel
with the others. If you stay, you
will
obey my orders. End of discussion.”
David Luger stood and looked at Patrick carefully. Patrick returned his glare
until finally Luger nodded, satisfied that Patrick had his emotional act
together enough to lead the team.

 
          
At
that same moment, Patrick received a beep in his subcutaneous microtransceiver;
then Hal Briggs spoke: “Patrick, supply barge coming in, one kilometer south.”

           
“Roger,” Patrick acknowledged. “Use
the sensors in your armor to scan the supplies for weapons and explosives as
they come aboard. I’ll be up to relieve anyone that needs a break.”

           
“I could use thirty mike for
relief,” Chris Wohl, stationed on the port rail scanning the north for any
signs of danger, radioed. That was no exaggeration, either—Patrick had seen
Wohl go for hours after taking only a twenty-minute combat catnap. He seemed
able to go indefinitely with virtually no sleep.

 
          
“I’ll
be right up, Chris,” Patrick responded. He turned to David and said, “Ask
Commander Farouk to get a party together to unload the barge.”

 
          
“Okay,”
David replied. He paused for a moment, then added, “Sorry, Patrick. But I feel
I had to tell you how I feel—I’m responsible to you and the entire team. I love
Wendy. But I know what I’m talking about.”

 
          
“I
know,
Texas
,” Patrick said. He unplugged himself from
the wall outlet, reattached his exoskeleton, and put on his helmet. “We’ll find
her, and then we’ll all go home—together.”