Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 10 (39 page)

 
          
“I
can have a FlightHawk and a couple Wolverines with SFWs overhead in about four
hours,” Luger said. “We’ll have to reprogram the weapons from the Benina
strike, but that’ll only take a few minutes.”

 
          
Patrick
thought quickly; then: “Find a safe orbit area for the Megafortress and the
tanker,” Patrick said, “and have them stand by as long as possible. We’re just
hours away from getting our guys back—I don’t want to do anything to piss off
the Egyptians now. But I want the strike aircraft available in case we have any
trouble getting our folks out.”

           
“We’ve only got one refueling
aircraft available,” Luger reminded him, “and it’s been on the go for two days
straight. If we send the Megafortresses into holding orbits, that means less
fuel for the strike package, less fuel reserves for the tanker, and more flying
hours. Those guys will be wiped.”

 
          
“That
can’t be helped,” Patrick said. “We’ve got to fly those planes hard until our
guys are rescued. The tankers will just have to keep cycling as best they can.
Contact Martindale and see if he can get us some more tanker support.”

           
“Okay,” David said. “Remember, we
have that escape tunnel we found as a backup.” In the first few hours after
occupying the bunker, which was an old security outpost protecting the southern
part of the base, the Night Stalkers found an emergency escape tunnel, which
ran several hundred meters west. “I’ll send some guys out to check to see if
Ouda is covering it.”

 
          
“Roger,”
Patrick said. “Cancel the strike meeting and have everyone get ready to bug
out—we might have to move in a hurry.” He switched to the Egyptian liaison
radio frequency: “Vice Marshal Ouda, this is Castor,” he said in his battle
armor’s radio. His battle armor’s communications computer made the translation
from English to Arabic and back again for him. “We have heard about the
prisoner exchange between
Libya
and
Egypt
. We will not interfere. Once our men are
returned to us, we will depart.”

           
“The prisoner exchange will take
place tomorrow morning,” Ouda said via the computer datalink translation. “You
are to stay here. No one will be allowed to leave this compound.”

 
          
“Where
will the prisoners be taken?”

 
          
“Here,
by bus,” Ouda replied. “They will be in- processed, identified, examined by
doctors, and questioned first. Then the Egyptian government will contact
representatives from the various governments and they will be allowed to take
their citizens with them. The airfield will be available for their use if
needed. The government of
Egypt
is doing everything we can to facilitate
this exchange—we do not want you or your men to interfere.”

 
          
“We
will not interfere,” Patrick said. “I request permission to allow one of my men
to accompany the foreign government representatives to see the prisoners.”

 
          
“Denied,”
Ouda said quickly. “Not one of you is allowed to leave. If you try to leave, I
will order my men to attack.”

           
“Very well. We will comply with
your orders, sir. I wish to speak with Mrs. Salaam or General Baris.”

           
“They are not available.”

 
          
Patrick
could hear Ouda’s real voice underneath the electronic translation, and his
skin instantly tingled—there was something ominous about the way he said that.
“Very well, sir. We will stay. Please ask Mrs. Salaam or General Baris to
contact me immediately when they return to the base.” Ouda made no reply before
the connection was broken.

 
          
Patrick
returned to the briefing room downstairs. “There’s something else going on
here,” he told everyone assembled there. “I think Salaam and Baris are either
dead or under arrest, and Vice Marshal Ouda sounded to me like he thought they
were already dead, or soon would be.”

           
“Maybe part of the deal to release
the captives was to eliminate Salaam and Baris,” Hal Briggs said.

           
“Or maybe Khan found out that she’s
been helping us, and he’s convinced the military that they’re traitors,” David
Luger said.

 
          
“In
any case, I think our days remaining here are down to hours—maybe only minutes,”
Patrick said. Just then, Chris Wohl, in full battle armor and exoskeleton,
entered the room with one of the Night Stalkers. “Did you check the emergency
tunnel and exit, Master Sergeant?”

 
          
“Yes,
sir,” Wohl replied. “No guards on the other side. The closest Egyptian forces
are about two hundred meters away, facing toward the compound—we’ll exit behind
them. More units are inbound—I think they have another armored company almost
in place.”

 
          
“It’s
hard for me to believe they’ve forgotten about that tunnel,” Hal Briggs said.
“Not guarding that exit could be a ruse. If they catch us sneaking out, it
could give them an excuse to attack us.”

 
          
“They
don’t need an excuse,” Patrick said. “If we’ve lost our patrons and if they
want us, they’ll go in and get us. We need to be gone by then.” To Wohl,
Patrick said, “Get your men together and evacuate the compound, Sarge.” He
referred to a map on the wall of the base. “Assemble here, at this oil well
complex south; then we’ll disperse and go to exfiltration points. If the oil
well complex is not secure, we’ll head southwest toward these oil well
complexes and disperse. Avoid contact with the Egyptian military if possible,
but avoid capture at all costs. Questions?”

 
          
“Are
you coming with us, sir?”

 
          
“I’ll
stay here, just in case Ouda wants to talk—I want him to think we’re still
here,” Patrick said.

 
          
“How
many men do you want here with you?”

 
          
“Zero,”
Patrick said. “Everyone else will depart and go to the exfiltration points.”

 
          
“I
don’t think that’s wise, sir.”

 
          
“Chris,
I think the Egyptians are no longer our friends,” Patrick said. “I think
they’ll come for us first thing in the morning, when they’ve built up their
forces to maximum. But I still don’t want to get into a firefight with the
Egyptians. I can stall them until you are safe.”

           
Wohl nodded. “Get moving.” Wohl
barked an order, and the Night Stalkers got on their feet and headed out to get
their gear and evacuate.

 
          
Hal
Briggs and David Luger stayed behind. “What are you thinking about, Muck?” Luger
asked. “Why stay?”

           
“I’m afraid that if Khan or Ouda
have Wendy and the others, they’ll use them to get to us,” Patrick said. “If we
bug out completely, they’ll hold them hostage to get us back.”

           
“So you intend on staying here and
getting captured?”

           
“It’s the only thing I can think of
to keep all our bases covered,” Patrick said. “But I need you guys out so we
can organize a rescue. When they realize you guys have disappeared, they’ll be
less likely to hurt us—they know what you can do.”

           
Hal Briggs shook his head. “I sure
hope you know what you’re doin’, Muck,” he said. He held out a hand, and
Patrick shook it. “We’ll stay in touch. Keep your head down.”

           
“That’s what I do best.”

           
“Since when?” Luger asked with a
smile. He shook hands with his long-time partner. “I don’t want to lose another
McLanahan, my friend. When it’s time to get out, give us a call, and we’ll come
in and help get you out.”

           
“I’ll be right behind you. Now get
moving.” He and Briggs headed for the tunnel.

           
“Hal?”

           
“Yeah?”

           
“Set some mines on that emergency
exit after you get clear,” Patrick ordered. “If the Egyptians try to come in
that way, I want it sealed.”

 
          
“You
got it. Be careful.”

THE PENTAGON,
WASHINGTON
,
D.C.
 
THAT SAME TIME

           
Director of Central Intelligence
Douglas Morgan entered Secretary of Defense Goff’s office, holding a thin
imagery file marked “CONFIDENTIAL.” He held it up, a questioning look in his
eyes. “Here’s the data you asked for,” he said. “What’s up?”

 
          
“Our
friends might be at it again,” Goff said, waving him to a seat. Already seated
at the meeting area in front of Goff’s desk was Joint Chiefs of Staff chairman
General Richard Venti. “The general has some data to show us, but he needed
your latest overheads to nail it down. What did you find?”

 
          
“Satellite
imagery from over north Africa,” Morgan explained. “Infrared detectors picked
up four large blasts in eastern
Libya
last night. They were first classified as
oil derrick fires. But their location was right over a small Libyan military
base called Jaghbub, mostly used as a border security outpost and a security
base for one of the Libyan president’s retreats—sort of Libya’s answer to Camp
David.”

 
          
“I’m
familiar with Jaghbub, General,” Goff said. “What happened there?”

 
          
“We
got some overhead shots of the area, and analysts say there was an air strike
against that base,” Morgan responded. “Precision guided attacks against air
defense sites, communications, security, and even pinpoint attacks against
armor.”

 
          
“Interesting.”

 
          
“This
is even more interesting—the Libyan president, Zuwayy, was there at the time.”

 
          
“Really?
Did they get him?”

 
          
“Doesn’t
appear so,” Morgan said. “We have been tracking aircraft coming and going from
there ever since the attack, and we think we tracked a helicopter convoy leave
there for
Tripoli
shortly after the attack. Shortly
thereafter, Libyan state television announces a terrorist attack on Jaghbub,
accusing the Egyptians and Israelis of attacking a Muslim holy place. The reports
claim Zuwayy is safe, but we haven’t seen him yet. Our guess is he got out but
may be injured.”

 
          
Goff
shook his head, then nodded to Venti. “Tell him what your boys found, Richard.”

 
          
“About
an hour after those fires broke out,” Venti said, “a Navy Hawkeye over the Med
is tracking a flight that took off from
Athens
bound for
Shannon
,
Ireland
. Pretty routine stuff, except the plane’s
not exactly on course for
Shannon
—he’s
flying basically westbound, over the Med, instead of getting a clearance
direct. But he’s following his filed international flight plan, he’s on time
and on course— no problem. The Navy is watching him. Soon, he’s slowing
down—way down. He’s lost about a hundred knots. We call up the guy and ask if
there’s a problem, and he says no, they’re just doing some engine performance
data checks where they have to retard throttles. It’s weird, doing stuff like
that over water far from home—the aircraft is based in North Las Vegas,
Nevada—but it’s no big deal.

 
          
“We
happened to have a couple Tomcats on patrol nearby, so we vector them over and
do a silent join-up on the guy to make sure he’s okay. They got a picture of
the plane with the F-14’s telescopic FLDR.” Venti opened another briefing
folder and showed it to Morgan.

 
          
It
was a very fine, detailed picture of an EB-52 Megafortress bomber being
refueled behind a DC-10 aircraft.