Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 10 (40 page)

 
          
“Oh,
shit,” Morgan muttered. “Is that one of Sky Masters Inc.’s modified B-52s?”

 
          
“That’s
it,” Venti said. “And we checked the N-number of the DC-10—it’s a Sky Masters
launch aircraft also, modified for aerial refueling.” He handed Morgan another
photo, this one an even more extreme close-up. “Look under the wings.”

 
          
“Weapon
pylons?”

 
          
Venti
handed him a magnifying glass. “What else do you see?”

 
          
Morgan
studied the photo, then whistled. “Missiles on rails on the sides of the
pylons.” He studied another photograph, shaking his head. “One missing on the
right pylon.”

 
          
“Presumably
expended,” Secretary Goff said perturbedly. “
Libya
claims in its broadcast that some of their
aircraft were shot down during the attack too.”

           
“Were your Navy guys able to track
that bomber?”

 
          
“They
lost it,” Venti said. “When the bomber was done refueling, they must have fired
up their radar again, spotted the fighters, and evaded them. We have no idea
where they went. With the stealth capabilities of that aircraft, they could fly
right over
Washington
,
D.C.
, and we’d never know it.”

 
          
“Pretty
circumstantial evidence,” Morgan pointed out. “We don’t have any actual
evidence that the Megafortress bombed
Libya
, or that the Night Stalkers had anything to
do with it.”

 
          
“This
isn’t a court of law—yet,” Goff said angrily. “But I don’t need a warrant to
search a Sky Masters installation— they’re federal contractors working on
classified government programs, which means we can walk in on them anytime.”

 
          
“Let
me play devil’s advocate,” Morgan said with a smile, “and ask—why not let these
guys do their thing? They obviously uncovered something in Libya with that
attack on Samah —Libya was definitely storing weapons of mass destruction
there, and was probably getting ready to use them—and they probably uncovered
something in Jaghbub, too. The
U.S.
government is not in any way involved in
this, and that’s for real: We’re not avowing any knowledge of the Night
Stalkers or their activities—we’re not directing them in any way, shape, or
fashion. They’re terrorists as far as we know, but we have no legal reason to
pursue them.”

 
          
“I
am not going to let a bunch of Lone Rangers fly an intercontinental bomber from
American shores and bomb another country with explosives big enough to show up
on a satellite as a
nuclear explosion
and let them get away with it,” Secretary Goff said angrily. “They’re going to
start a war in north Africa before this is over, and I don’t care how deniable
they are, we’re responsible if we don’t try to stop them.”

 
          
“You
going to run this by the boss first?”

 
          
“Sky
Masters is a Department of Defense contractor— that means I’m responsible for
their activities,” Goff said. “I’m going to start my investigation, and I’m
going to use all my enforcement authority to find out what they’re up to. In
addition, the Night Stalkers are under federal indictment as well—if we uncover
evidence that Sky Masters is aiding them, I can and I
will
shut them down.” He looked at General Venti. “Any way we can
find that bomber again?”

 
          
“We
know the tanker’s profile,” Venti said. “Basically, the Night Stalkers are
doing an en route air refueling rendezvous, with the tanker flying a long, slow
anchor route—they’re obviously very well coordinated and in constant secure
contact. They’ll probably stay over the Med, although they can certainly do the
refueling over
Europe
—they’d be worried about being spotted
visually. We just intercept any aircraft matching that refueling profile. It’ll
keep our Navy guys hopping, but I think we can do it.”

 
          
“Can
you find the bomber before it links up with the tanker?”

 
          
“That’ll
be tougher,” Venti said. “The Megafortress is pretty stealthy—we’d have to get
in pretty close before the fighters’ radar will be able to lock on, well inside
the bomber’s laser radar detection range. If they see us hanging around,
they’ll just bug out.”

 
          
“That’s
what I want, then,” Goff said resolutely after a few moments’ thought. “If the
tanker guys are in such good contact with the bomber, they’ll tell the bomber
to get out as soon as we intercept the tanker. I assume McLanahan has some kind
of contingency plan in place, an alternate landing location somewhere in the
region—they’ll have to abort their attack run and head right for it. They’ll be
out of the fight.”

 
          
Venti
looked at Morgan quizzically, then nodded. “I’ll give the order, sir,” he said.

 
          
“I’ll
ask you one more time, Bob—you sure you want to chase McLanahan and his boys
out of there?” Intelligence Director Morgan asked. “They may be cowboys, but at
least they’re fighting on our side.”

 
          
“They’re
not cowboys—they’re wild dogs,” Goff said. “They need to be put away in cages.”

 
          
ON THE LI BYA-
EGYPT
BORDER
 
THAT SAME TIME

           
Traffic at the As-Sallum border
crossing between Egypt and Libya was always busy, both because of the number of
persons crossing the border—thousands of Libyans flocked to Egypt every week on
three-day visas to go shopping, buy food, enjoy Egypt’s superior beach resorts,
or to get better medical treatment—and because of the tight security. Even
before the current conflict with
Libya
,
Egypt
maintained strict security at the border
crossing—today, it was even tighter. Every vehicle was searched, every person
was photographed and questioned, every truck was unloaded and thoroughly
searched.

 
          
That’s
why it was so unusual to see an unmarked limousine, three buses, and a
refrigerated truck being waved through the crossing without so much as one
customs officer peeking inside.

 
          
The
convoy was met by an Egyptian army escort and driven off at very high speed
another two hundred kilometers east to Mersa Matruh Joint Military Base. The
vehicles were driven inside a government warehouse facility, where over a
hundred soldiers, clerks, doctors, translators, and medical examiners were
waiting. A military officer went on board the buses and explained to those
inside what was about to happen.

 
          
One
by one, the individuals on board the buses were taken off. Most were suffering
from a variety of injuries, mostly bums to the upper half of the body and head
injuries of all kinds—the result of trying to swim through or surfacing through
spilled-oil fires on the Mediterranean Sea. Many had to be helped off; about
two dozen were taken off the third bus by stretcher, some unconscious. Clerks,
nurses, and doctors with interpreters were on hand, steering the men and women
to interview examination cubicles.

 
          
The
refrigerated truck was driven to a separate area of the warehouse, closed off
from the main section. Six autopsy tables had been set up, with forensic
pathologists and medical examiners waiting to begin their work. One by one,
light gray body bags were carried out of the truck. Each body bag had a plastic
bag with various records inside. A clerk took the paperwork, then escorted the
body to an examination table, where video cameras were rolling, recording
everything. While dictating into an overhead microphone, the medical examiner
unzipped the bag and began his work.

 
          
It
was not the examiners’ job to ascertain cause of death—their main task was
gathering enough information to assist in identification. But most times the
cause of death was plainly—and painfully—obvious. Most of the forty- nine
corpses had died of blast trauma or fire from exploding ordnance or systems on
board their vessel when the Libyan air force attacked. Severed body parts were
sometimes simply thrown into a body bag, often without any real attempt to try
to match the parts by gender or race. Many suffered no injuries from blast trauma
or fire—they obviously died from wounds inflicted by gunshots at very close
range, blunt-force trauma, knife wounds, crushed throats, slashed arteries,
mutilated genitalia, or bum marks all over the bodies.

 
          
It
was obvious they had been tortured to death by their captors after being
rescued from the sea.

 
          
In
all, eight female corpses were examined. They were not exempt from the torture
the others endured.

 
          
A
few hours after the examinations began, a helicopter landed at a helipad
outside the warehouse facility, and a group of government officials, surrounded
by bodyguards, were quickly taken directly from the helicopter to a waiting
limousine and then directly to the warehouse. On his orders, a special corridor
had been erected from cubicle dividers with one-way mirrors installed that
allowed anyone walking inside the corridor to look out but no one to look in.

 
          
Ulama
Khalid al-Khan, wearing a military garrison cap and sunglasses to hide his
identity even though he was safe from any outside scrutiny, could not believe
what he was looking at. The stench was horrific—he wanted to put a cloth up to
his nose to block the smell of these tortured, bloody, unwashed bodies, but he
dared not show any weakness in front of the soldiers escorting him. The
corridor took him and his aide, Major Amr Abu Gheit, into the makeshift morgue,
where he was able to view several of the corpses, and he had to struggle to
keep his stomach from turning inside out. Finally, he was escorted out of the
warehouse complex and into a separate office.

 
          
“What...
what in
hell
was that?” Khan gasped.

 
          
“One
hundred and twenty-nine persons recovered by the Libyans from the
Mediterranean Sea
after their ships were attacked, sir,”
Major Gheit responded. It was obvious that even the veteran warrior could
barely stomach the sight himself. He handed Khan a list of the survivors. “Forty-nine
fatalities, including nine women. Fifty-six others severely injured, some
critically. They are almost done with the identification process.”

 
          
“Were
... were some of those men
tortured?”

           
“Obviously the
Libyan military wanted information out of them,” Gheit said. “The king of
Libya
explained that the attacks were in
retaliation for the commando attack on their missile base.”

           
“Damned brutal animals,” Khan
muttered, taking a sip of water to try to settle his stomach. “I’ve never seen
men mutilated like that.”

 
          
“There
are only nine Egyptians in the group, and they were working as crew members on
someone else’s ship, not an Egyptian flagged vessel,” Gheit said. “Why would
Zuwayy want to turn them over to you?”

 
          
“He
dumped those men and women on our doorstep, leaving us to clean up
his
mess,” Khan said disgustedly. “He’s
either trying to implicate me in this unholy mess, or he’s trying to embarrass
me. Either one won’t work.”

 
          
“This
doesn’t make sense,” Gheit said. “He must know those prisoners are going to
talk about the treatment they received in
Libya
. Zuwayy will be vilified all over the
world.”

 
          
“Well,
I’m not going to play whatever game he’s playing,” Khan said resolutely. “This
is insanity.” Khan waved at the door. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “The
stench is too much for me to bear.” Gheit ordered Khan’s car pulled up beside
the door. When it was in place, Khan stepped outside.