Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 10 (41 page)

 
          
Just
as Khan was about to step into the car, his attention was drawn to an
impossibly bright flash of light—he was surprised he noticed it in daytime, but
it was that bright— somewhere very close, followed by a tremendous
BOOM!
like the loudest thunderclap ever
heard. Moments later there was another flash of light, bright enough to erase
shadows on the ground, followed by a second explosion. A thunderstorm in an
almost cloudless sky?

 
          
Could
it be some sort of attack? But there was no sign of anything wrong on the ground
except a great stirring of dust and sand, like the gust front ahead of an
approaching thunderstorm or sandstorm—but again, there were no clouds in the
sky. He could hear screams somewhere off in the distance, but still there
seemed to be nothing amiss.

 
          
“Let’s
get out of here,” Khan said. “This place feels like death all of a sudden.”

 
         
Patrick,
wearing full battle armor and exoskeleton, was watching TV coverage of the
busloads of ex-Libyan prisoners being taken into the warehouses through his
helmet-mounted visor. He stared carefully at the screen, trying to pick out
even one familiar face, but the cameras were too far away and the prisoners
were not in the open long enough for Patrick to recognize anyone.

 
          
The
commentator made several mentions of the refrigerated trucks being driven to an
adjacent warehouse— Patrick didn’t want to think about what was in those
vehicles. He just hoped and prayed that Wendy and his men were all right.

 
          
But
another movement caught his attention: the movement of men and vehicles outside
the compound. Shit, he thought, here they come. “Hey,
Texas
,” he radioed.

 
          
“We
see them, Muck,” David Luger responded. Patrick’s electronic visor in his
battle armor automatically datalinked the view to all the others wearing the
Tin Man armor. “Still think they’re just going to take you into custody?”

 
          
Patrick
ignored the question. “Are you guys secure?” he asked.

 
          
“Almost,”
Luger replied. The Night Stalkers had to move to a third recovery area, a set
of abandoned oil rigs almost thirty miles to the southwest—most of the Egyptian
army was on the move west of the base and along the coast to seal off the
Libyan border. They had stolen two tracked vehicles to help their getaway
across the desert. “The closest units are about three miles behind us. We’re
waiting for the choppers to come after us any minute. If they do, we’ll ask
Headbanger Two to take them out.”

 
          
“Headbanger
Two is standing by,” the aircraft commander aboard a second EB-52 Megafortress
flying battleship reported. The second Megafortress had been able to refuel
from the Sky Masters Inc.’s DC-10 tanker, but had to break off and run into
southern
Libya
shortly thereafter because U.S. Navy fighters from a carrier in the
Mediterranean
had pursued it. The DC-10 landed in
Iraklion
,
Greece
, where American and NATO authorities were
questioning its crew as to why it had to make the unscheduled landing and
exactly what its mission was. It had been a close call. “We can stay on station
for only about an hour before we have to head on home.”

 
          
“Copy,”
Patrick said. “What a lousy time for the feds to be on our ass.”

 
          
“Patrick,
I think it’s time for you to get the hell out of there,” Hal Briggs said.
“Start moving out the emergency escape. We’ll vector in the Megafortress to
cover you.”

  
         
“I’m going to give Ouda one more try,”
Patrick said.

           
“He’s not answering you. Better get
out before they start moving in.”

           
“Stand by,” Patrick responded. It
was his only chance to get out without a firelight—a very slim chance. “Vice Marshal
Ouda, this is Castor. Can you hear me?” Patrick called on the liaison radio
channel. Outside the half-underground bunker, several of the tanks were on the
move. Covering smoke began to belch from exhausts, obscuring them from sight.
Patrick switched to his imaging infrared visor so he could see them. “Several
of your tanks are moving toward the fence outside our compound. It appears as
if you are attacking my position. State your intentions. Can you hear me?”
There was no reply—nor did he really expect one.

 
          
But
that moment an alarm went off in his battle armor— a radiation alarm. Patrick
quickly scanned the datalink images around him—nothing. A few moments later,
another radiation alarm sounded.

 
          
“Marshal
Ouda, this is Castor. Respond immediately. We are detecting radiation in the
area. Levels are rising quickly—they are approaching lethal levels. Do you
copy?” No answer—and now the Egyptian tanks were on the move. “Dave, I’m outta
here,” Patrick said on his command channel, and he raced for the emergency
exit, careful to disarm, then rearm the booby trap at the rear entrance.

 
          
He
was about to jet-jump away when the first Egyptian tank crashed through the
twelve-foot-high fence surrounding the bunker. The tank was followed by several
dozen Egyptian infantrymen, some carrying rocket-propelled grenades and
bazookas. Patrick saw several of the tanks wheel in his direction—they had
spotted him. He raised his electromagnetic rail gun, charged it, and aimed for
the closest tank . ..

 
          
...
and found the rail gun completely inoperative. It had power, but all of the
electronic displays were blank. His suit’s electronic visor—also blank. His
defensive electronic bolts—powerless. He did a quick self-test of all his
suit’s systems and found everything dead. He tried to jet- jump away—but the
jets were deactivated as well. His suit still had power, but everything was in
reset, as if it had shut itself down to prevent an overheat or overload. He
thought it would all come back, but he didn’t know when or if anything had
sustained any damage.

 
          
Patrick
took off his helmet before he suffocated to death—the suit’s environmental
system had shut down too—just as the Egyptians rolled over to him. The soldiers
stripped his battle armor off, handcuffed him, and took him to a security
building on the other side of the base, where he was thrown into a windowless,
hot room a little larger than a closet. He tried to contact someone through his
subcutaneous transceiver, but there was no response. Everything looked as if it
was scrambled. What in hell was going on?

 
          
Vice
Marshal Sayed Ouda met with Patrick a couple hours later. He was sweating
profusely, almost as much as Patrick was. “Where are your comrades?” Ouda asked
through an interpreter.

 
          
“They’ve
escaped and are probably being airlifted out of the country,” Patrick replied.

 
          
“Why
did you remain behind?”

 
          
“Because
I am still here to meet up with my comrades that were captured by the Libyans,
the ones that were brought here,” Patrick said. “But we suspected we were being
held here to prevent us from meeting with them. Apparently I’m right. What’s
going on, sir?”

 
          
“No
questions from you,” Ouda said. “You will be turned over to the Supreme
Judiciary for further interrogation.”

 
          
“Turned
over to Khalid al-Khan?” No response—the soldier doing the interpreting didn’t
look very good either. “Where are Madame Salaam and General Baris?”

 
          
“I
said ... I said no . . . questions,” the interpreter said—and then he vomited
violently on the floor right in front of Patrick, with more blood than bile
gushing out. The jailer had to drag the suddenly unconscious man out. Marshal
Ouda dashed out of the room as well, in such a hurry that he didn’t even bother
to close or lock the door behind him.

 
          
The
security office was in complete bedlam. Men were rushing around shouting and
yelling, some in complete, very unsoldierlike panic. Some of them were
hurriedly putting on gas masks. But it didn’t seem as if they were under
attack. “What’s happening?” Patrick asked. “What’s wrong? Does anyone speak English?”
Everyone was ignoring him. Patrick was able to find his way through a maze of
corridors and up one flight of stairs and finally emerge outside ...

 
          
.
.. where he found several dozen dead Egyptian soldiers, simply lying in the
road. All of them had lost a significant amount of blood through their mouths
and nostrils and in some cases through their ears and eye sockets.

 
          
Patrick
went back inside the security building. There, at a reception desk, a pregnant
female security officer was frantically dialing a telephone. Her hands were
trembling so bad, she couldn’t punch the buttons. “Can you help me?” Patrick
asked her. “Do you speak English?” She looked at him, and she seemed to
understand what he was saying, but she kept trying to dial the telephone. Once
she did correctly dial, she cried out in frustration as she reached a busy
number or one that didn’t answer. “You speak English, don’t you?” he asked.

 
          
“Yes,”
the officer replied. “Please stand away from the door and do not panic. Do not.
..” And then she wiped a rivulet of blood from her eyes, and she started to
bawl.

 
          
“It’s
all right,” Patrick said. He didn’t know what else to say. He was standing in
the lobby in long underwear, barefoot, with his hands cuffed behind his back,
unable to do anything. “Just relax.”

 
          
“I
cannot find my husband,” she sobbed. “I do not know what is happening.”

 
          
“It
looks like the building is being evacuated,” Patrick said. “Why don’t you
report to the base hospital? Your husband will find you there.” The woman
nodded, got out of her chair, then noticed Patrick was handcuffed. She went
back to her desk with a handcuff key and released him.
“Shukran gazilan,”
Patrick said. “Do you need me to drive you to
the hospital?” She seemed to have trouble understanding him. He made a steering
motion with his hands.
“Mustashfa?”
Patrick asked, dredging up as many Arabic words as he could.
“El is'aef? Doktor? Haelan.
”

 
          
The
woman nodded, then retrieved a desert camouflage jacket someone had left on a
coat hook and a set of keys from a wall keyholder. Patrick went over to open
the door for her ...

 
          
...
and that’s when he noticed the trail of blood coming from between her legs. The
woman took Patrick’s hand, nodded her thanks . . . and then her eyes rolled up
into the back of her head, and she slumped to the floor, dead.

           
What was happening? Patrick cried to
himself. Jesus, was it a chemical or biological weapon attack? He didn’t have
long himself if it was. He took the keys from the woman’s dead fingers, slipped
on the jacket, then went back inside the security building. After twenty
minutes of searching, he found his battle armor, exoskeleton, backpack unit,
and helmet, and headed outside. After a five-minute search of the parking lot,
he found the right vehicle and drove off.

 
          
What
he saw on that drive was unimaginable horror— dead bodies everywhere. He saw
vehicles overturned, corpses still in the driver’s seats. He saw armored
vehicles and tanks crashed into buildings and gates with corpses hanging out of
them as if they tried to climb out just as they died. There were burning,
crashed helicopters dotting the flight-line access road, fires everywhere—even
dead vultures and other desert animals lying everywhere. It was like a scene in
some kind of horror movie. As far as he could see, across the runway and toward
the main base area, he could see signs of slow, painful death. He . . .

 
          
Patrick
gasped. The base ... the base where Wendy, the other Night Stalkers, and the
other prisoners had been taken. My God!

 
          
He
tried the car radio: It was working, but it was silent— not static, just a
silence, as if the announcer’s microphone was left open. But if the car and the
radio worked, maybe his battle armor did too! He stopped the car and dragged
all his gear out of the trunk. Sure enough, the outside status lights were
green—the power pack and computer were working. As quickly as he could, Patrick
climbed into the suit and powered it up. It was working again! He put on the
helmet and secured the entire system ...