Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 10 (35 page)

 
          
A
few moments later, Colonel Osama Mekkawi, chief of security of the Republican
Guards and Zuwayy’s personal bodyguard, dashed into the room, hurriedly buttoning
his uniform tunic. He pushed past the security guards. “Don’t just stand here
gawking! Get out of here and secure the hallways and escape tunnel for our
departure!” Mekkawi shouted. He went to the door of Zuwayy’s bedchamber. It was
locked. With a thrill of panic, he drew his side arm, stepped back, then kicked
the door open.

           
Jadallah Zuwayy was sitting upright
in his bed, startled out of a deep sleep. Curled around him were two young
girls, members of Zuwayy’s equestrian staff, the younger no more than thirteen
or fourteen years old. Mekkawi learned long ago not to look or act shocked at
anything he saw or heard coming from Zuwayy’s bedchamber. “Highness, there’s an
emergency,” Mekkawi shouted. The younger girl began to whine for her mother;
the older one, still half asleep, began kissing Zuwayy’s face. “You must
evacuate.”

 
          
Zuwayy
practically stomped the younger girl in his haste to get out of bed, and he
hastily put on a pair of trousers, robe, and sandals, the two girls forgotten.
Mekkawi escorted Zuwayy outside to the evacuation route; a guard stayed behind,
guarding the apartment door to make it appear as if the room was still
occupied.

 
          
“What
is happening?” Zuwayy asked

 
          
“We
are under attack, Your Majesty,” Mekkawi said breathlessly. “Action in the
minefield—several hundred square meters of minefields exploded, probably a
mineclearing operation, in preparation for attack. Then cluster bomb and
missile attacks against antiaircraft emplacements and armored vehicles all
across the base. Could be a prelude to a large invasion force. We must
evacuate.”

 
          
“Who
could it be?”

 
          
“With
firepower like that? Israelis or Americans, I’d guess.”

 
          
“How
in hell could such a force get that close without being detected?”

 
          
“Perhaps
it is a stealth bomber attack, Highness,” Mekkawi said. “It is not important
now. We must get you to safety. I will ask you to wait in the Great Mosque
until your transports arrive, then we will evacuate you to a safe location
immediately.”

 
          
Mekkawi
escorted Zuwayy down into the basement of the palace; in a storage room filled
with old furniture, he pressed a hidden switch. A secret door swung open on
electrically activated pistons. The door led to an escape tunnel. They passed
one security checkpoint along the two- hundred-meter tunnel, then climbed a
spiral staircase. They emerged in a janitor’s room in the Great Mosque. Zuwayy
was escorted to a rectory, and the guards were posted outside. The rectory,
inside the mosque, was believed to be immune from attack from almost any nation
in the world, even the Americans. This one had been specially modified to
protect its occupants from chemical, biological, and even low levels of nuclear
weapons, and the walls had enough armor in them to withstand a forty-millimeter
rocket-propelled grenade.

 
          
Mekkawi
placed a satchel with a shoulder strap on a desk and opened it. He withdrew a
nuclear/chemical/biological agent detector from the bag and activated it. “You
remember how to don your protective mask and hood, Highness?” Mekkawi asked.
Zuwayy nodded, his lips taut with fear. “Good. If the alarm goes off, you will
have about thirty seconds to do so. Take your time and do it correctly, and
you’ll be all right. There is the mask, a weapon, atropine injectors, a
first-aid kit, and other items in this bag—don’t hesitate to use any of it. The
helicopter will be here within three minutes to take you into hiding. I
recommend the alternate command center at Sawknah; if it’s a general attack, we
can coordinate all our forces better from there.”

 
          
“If
it’s a general attack, I don’t want to wait until I arrive in Sawknah—I want a
full rocket barrage started against all Area A targets,” Zuwayy said angrily.
“Then scramble all alert bombers and commence the follow-on attacks against
both A and B targets. Understood?”

 
          
“I
will need to issue those orders by coded radio from my office, Highness.”

 
          
“Then
go. I will wait here.”

 
          
“Very
well, Majesty. I have guards posted outside both entrances if you require
anything.”

 
          
“All
I require are the heads of anyone who dared attack this facility!” Zuwayy
shouted. “Go!” Mekkawi dashed off.

 
          
Zuwayy
sat at the desk and picked up the chemical warfare mask. He saw his fingers
starting to tremble. He had donned one of these many times in the past, of
course—all Libyan Special Forces troops were very proficient in their use,
because every unit had chemical and biological weapons in their arsenals—but he
was so nervous right now that he doubted if...

 
          
“Es salaem alekum
, Captain Zuwayy.”

 
          
Zuwayy
nearly jumped out of his skin—he leapt to his feet, nearly stumbling backward
over his chair. There, standing before the desk just a few meters away, was a
strange figure in some sort of futuristic costume. He could not see a face, or
eyes—the figure was wearing a full-face helmet with large bug-eyed visors. He
carried no weapons.
“Bolis! Bolis!
Ilha'uni! Ilha'uni!”
he screamed, his voiced as high-pitched and trembling
as those of the young girls he had just finished raping.

 
          
To
their credit, both guards stationed outside the two doors to the rectory burst
in immediately—unfortunately, they didn’t think about calling out an alarm
before they did. One had a radio in one hand and a pistol in the other; the
other guard had his rifle at the ready. Both were immediately stunned off their
feet by a blast of lightning from the stranger’s shoulders. The stranger
dragged the guards inside the rectory, secured the doors, then stepped toward
Zuwayy.

 
          
Zuwayy
reached into the satchel, pulled out a Spanish Star Z84 autopistol, cocked it,
and opened fire at full auto from less than five meters away. The figure
flinched and made a half-step backward but did not go down. Another bolt of
electricity made Zuwayy cry out in pain. The Z84 felt as if it was a live
two-hundred-volt wire, and he dropped it with a scream.
“Who the hell are you?”
Zuwayy shouted, half in pain, half in sheer
terror.

 
          
The
strange figure said nothing. Zuwayy was about to repeat his demand when the
figure responded in an electronically synthesized voice, “I am called Castor,
Zuwayy. I am the instrument of your death.” Zuwayy was surprised to hear the
electronic voice speaking Arabic.

 
          
“You
can’t kill me. I am the king of united
Libya
. This is my country, and we are standing on
holy ground.”

 
          
A
bolt of electricity made Zuwayy stagger to his knees. The figure stepped
forward. “You are no king, and this is not your country. You are an impostor
and a murderer. Judgment has been passed. You are found guilty of murder. Your
sentence is death. It shall be carried out immediately.”

 
         
Mekkawi
trotted through the escape tunnel, through the storage room, and into his
security office. One of his officers, alerted earlier, already had the joint
operations command center in
Tripoli
on the line. While Mekkawi was talking to
the senior controller, receiving a force status report and issuing Zuwayy’s
orders, the duty officer received a radio message: “Sir, the king’s helicopters
have been shot down!”

 
          
“My
God...” He gasped. He thought quickly. Zuwayy was in grave danger—it could be a
matter of minutes before the area was invaded—or destroyed. “I want the best
helicopter available, any kind, fueled and ready to fly as soon as we arrive on
the flight line!” Mekkawi shouted. “And I want an armored personnel carrier
brought around to take the king to the base. Hurry!” He turned back to the
secure telephone: “You heard me, Major. The king has ordered that all Area A
targets be attacked immediately if there is any indication that a general
attack is under way.... Yes, with all available rocket and air forces designated
to strike Area A targets, including special-weapons forces. He has also ordered
that sorties be generated immediately for follow-on attacks on Area B targets
on his command ... yes, stand by for authentication.” Mekkawi pulled out a
decoding document from a chain around his neck, quickly computed the code using
the formula plus the current date and time, then read it to the senior
controller. “I also want...”

 
          
“Sir!”

 
          
“What
the hell is it? I’m on the line to headquarters.”

           
“Look!”

           
Mekkawi turned to a bank of security
monitors.

 
          
“The
security camera to the rectory in the mosque—it is off!”

 
          
“What?"
Mekkawi grabbed the phone,
but it was dead.

 
          
He
dropped the phone and drew his side arm. “Have all available palace security
forces converge on the mosque and cover all exits, and I mean
now
!”

 
         
“Muck,
it’s me,” Hal Briggs radioed via their secure command channel. “We’re waiting
for you at the exfil point. Check your datalink, brother. We’re showing lots of
troops on the move, heading your way. Bug out immediately!”

 
          
“Roger,”
Patrick replied. It was too late, Patrick realized. The plan was to kidnap
Zuwayy and hold him until all the prisoners were set free—unfortunately, it
didn’t look as if he’d be able to get him out of Jaghbub. “I want Plan B set in
motion, Hal. T minus two minutes.”

 
          
“You
haven’t got two minutes, Muck.”

 
          
‘Two
minutes,” Patrick said, and he terminated the connection.

 
          
“You can't kill me!"
Zuwayy
screamed, half out of terror but hoping someone outside would hear him. “What
have I done to you?”

 
          
In
response, Patrick picked Zuwayy up, carried him outside, then jet-jumped up to
the roof of the rectory, beside the green dome of the Great Mosque. Patrick
held Zuwayy up by his bedclothes in one hand, turning him so he faced west,
toward the military base.

 
          
It
was a spectacular sight. Over and over again, strings of explosions rippled
across the ground as the Wolverine cluster bomb attacks continued. Antiaircraft
artillery fire continued, with tracers streaking across the sky like
incandescent snakes. Occasionally there was a large secondary explosion as the
last of the Wolverine missiles suicide- dived into their last targets. Burning
tanks, trucks, and buildings lit the night sky everywhere, like dozens of camp
fires. Men were shouting, calling out, screaming and firing in confusion.

 
          
“Sixty
seconds, Muck,” Briggs radioed.

 
          
Patrick
glanced to the northwest, following the datalink- generated cues displayed in
his electronic visor. The Sky Masters EB-52 was right on time, coming in at
medium altitude—now that the Wolverines had destroyed all of the area defenses,
it could climb higher to stay away from the surviving optically guided
antiaircraft artillery units still operating.

 
          
“I
am going to destroy your military base, Zuwayy,” Patrick said in his
computer-synthesized voice. A microphone was picking up Zuwayy’s voice,
broadcasting it via satellite back to Mersa Matruh, where it was instantly
translated by computer; Patrick’s voice was similarly translated from English
to Arabic the same way. “You will watch it all burn. And then I am going to
destroy you.”

 
          
“Whoever
you are, I have powerful friends, and I have money,” Zuwayy said. “Spare my
life, and I’ll pay you. Ten million dollars. A hundred million dollars. You
don’t have to kill me. We can make a deal.”