While an Air Force crew secured the Clover and hustled it into a nearby hangar, Colonel Mubarek led the group into the hangar closest to the landing pad on which the microfreighter had set down. In it were three identical, large, luxury-type ground cars. The Colonel explained that all three cars would head to the Ministry, with two as decoys. Each car would carry four men—two would carry four of what Max mentally labeled the “Special Ops men” because that’s what they undoubtedly were—highly trained special forces troops: lean, hard, and deadly. The other would carry Max, the doctor, and two of the Special Ops men. The three cars would travel in line ahead formation, swapping positions from time to time.
The three vehicles took off into the night at what seemed, to Max and the doctor at least, to be an imprudently high speed. There were several checkpoints inside the air base at which the motorcade did not even slow down. Within moments, they had crossed the base perimeter and reached a highway that led the short distance from the base to Harun, the capital of the planet and the entire Unified Kingdom of Rashid, Allied Emirates, and Protected Islamic Worlds. Just as the vehicles left the base, Max noticed an aircraft that seemed to be flying formation with the motorcade.
Max gestured at the vehicle and turned to one of the Special Ops men. “Is that rotorcraft providing cover for us?”
“That is correct,” he answered. “Only we use the older term ‘helicopter.’ It is there to help protect from attack by air and to act as a gunship to strike at any ground targets that should constitute a threat. There are also two atmosphere fighters at higher altitude to provide additional air cover, although they would not be much help with anything on the ground.”
With that, Max sat back and relaxed a bit for the first time since the initial Rashidian space fighter escort had first shown up on the Clover’s sensors. He noticed that, as he leaned back in the seat and rested his elbow on the armrest, a console deployed from the space between the seats. The console’s display showed a menu, containing several entertainment and music programs, local broadcast channels, and a navigation display. Max called up the latter, and examined the layout of the city, paying particular attention to the projected route of the motorcade, the location of the Ministry of Trade, and other landmarks and facilities. Like most naval officers in combat assignments, Max had a good head for maps and spacial relationships, so much so that he was able to get his bearings quickly and before long knew where they were in the city.
Several times so far, the cars had swapped positions. After the last swap, the car carrying the Union men was in the rear. The number two car was about 150 meters ahead and the number one the same distance ahead of the number two.
The motorcade passed an impressively large Muslim seminary and a large regional retail facility which the navigational display identified by the peculiar title of “Shopping Mall,” and Max noted that the Ministry was now only five kills away. Maybe, Max thought, whoever had been behind the attempted fighter attack in space didn’t have any assets on the ground in Harun.
Or, maybe, they did.
A tiny point of brilliant orange light climbed into the sky from behind a nearby building. It accelerated rapidly, trailing smoke and glowing gas as it swerved erratically through the air before locking in onto its target and making a beeline for the rotorcraft flying about four hundred meters directly over the lead vehicle. Before Max could give voice to the words that came immediately to mind, which were, quote, “oh, shit, that’s a portable surface to air missile, we’re really screwed,” the object in question had struck the rotorcraft leaving it a roiling thundercloud of flaming smoke, a hailstorm of metal and plastic shards, and a rain of still-burning fuel that showered the first vehicle as well as half of a city block, setting fire to every combustible object it touched.
Max knew exactly what that meant and what had to be done. “Driver, change course, turn around, go down a side street. Anything but keep going where they expect.” Either at Max’s prompting or having come to the same conclusion independently, the driver expertly spun the vehicle 180 degrees as though it were a stunt car and, in a screech of tortured tires, had it moving in the other direction in less than two seconds trailing a blue cloud of burned Plasti-tyre. Just as the car began to accelerate, the first vehicle exploded, probably ignited by the burning aircraft fuel in which it was now coated. The ground car’s hydrogen fuel made for a remarkably transparent fireball, a chaotic vortex of blue flame threaded with strands of black smoke and swirls of yellow-orange fire produced by combustion of the plastic, faux leather, foam seat padding, and human flesh.
Just as the gut rattling CROOOMP of the shock wave from that explosion struck Max and Bram’s car, the light from another reached their retinas. A yellow-white streak had lanced out from the window of a building near the street, striking the second car and obliterating it just as thoroughly as the first. In contrast to the first car’s explosion, this one’s consisted of a sharp BLAM from the warhead of the weapon followed nearly two thirds of a second later by a CROOOMP, marking the secondary explosion caused by the detonation of the vehicle’s cryogenic hydrogen.
The shock wave from that explosion struck the side of the still accelerating car carrying Max and Bram as it turned sharply, fleeing down a side street to escape the shooting gallery, rocking it hard to port but not slowing its rapid acceleration. One six second reload later, another yellow-white streak reached out from the same building, but the longer range, awkwardness of the shooting angle, and the shooter’s haste to fire his weapon before his shot was blocked by the building on the corner, caused the shoulder-launched anti-tank weapon to miss the car by a good fifteen meters, slamming into the side of a building across the street from the firing site.
Meanwhile, the ground car carrying Max and the doctor rocketed down the side street, and then took a squealing right down what Max recognized as one of the city’s main boulevards. The second Special Ops man was talking busily on the vehicle’s Rashidian version of a secure comm unit informing someone, somewhere, of what was going on, whatever the hell that was.
At that point, as the buildings and parked ground cars flew past his window at about 180 kph, Max decided that it was time he found out what was happening. So, he made a polite, discrete inquiry. “Hey, driver, do mind telling us what in the fucking hell is happening here?”
Much to Max’s surprise, the driver felt a straightforward question deserved a straightforward answer. “It’s the Emir. The Emir of the House of Habib. The bastard son of an infidel whore opposes any agreements with the Union. He rules two worlds in the New Damascus system, commands a small system defense force, and has managed to slip a few hundred of his best troops into the city under the ruse that they were soldiers on leave coming to the capital as tourists. There were caches of hidden weapons waiting for them. He also has supporters in the royal palace, the Ministry of Defense, and several other government departments, who have been providing him with information. Just a few moments ago his men seemingly came out of nowhere, converged on the Ministry of Trade, and ringed it with hastily constructed barriers and field fortifications.”
“What about the Second Motorized Infantry Brigade? I thought they were stationed just outside the city.”
“You are very well informed, Captain. Yes, the Second is stationed nearby precisely for the purpose of protecting the capital against this sort of attack. Unfortunately, our commanders were taken in by a diversion and ordered them to another city, Aswan, about two hundred kilometers away. The Emir staged a ‘revolt’ which, when the troops arrived, turned out to be only a dozen or so of the Emir’s men and several hundred paid recruits from anti-Royalist student organizations at the University. The students knew nothing of the purpose for which they were hired to throw rocks and light trash fires, but were cleverly coached in how to lure the troops into dispersing and pursuing them on many wild goose chases all over the city. It will be hours before the brigade is reassembled, can remount their vehicles, and return to the capital.”
&nbs
p; The driver turned down a different street at the same breakneck speed. There was no traffic. Apparently, the word had gone out that there was some sort of unrest and that people were to stay off the streets. The man who had been talking on the comm spoke quickly to the driver in what sounded like Arabic. The driver nodded quickly and made another turn.
“We are instructed to return you to the air base, where you will be protected by the base garrison until the Emir’s troops are captured or killed, at which point ‘Mr. Wortham-Biggs,’” Max and the doctor could almost hear the amused quotation marks around the name, “will be transported to the base where he can meet with you under secure conditions. Is that acceptable?”
“Of cour . . . .” Max started to say.
“No. It is not.” The doctor interrupted, in a peremptory tone that Max had never heard Doctor Sahin use outside of the Casualty Station. “I’m sorry, Captain, but this information changes things. The written instructions given to me by Admiral Hornmeyer contain information that puts what the Emir is doing in a different light. The Emir’s action means that it is urgent the meeting take place immediately. Within the hour is preferable. Two or three hours from now may be too late with consequences that make words like ‘disaster’ and ‘catastrophe’ seem like bland understatements. I believe that the Emir may be the least of our problems.”
The driver shook his head. “I do not see how that would be possible. We are now several minutes away from the ministry. Even if we turned around and went back in that direction, the Emir’s troops—who are quite proficient—have the building surrounded and the streets blocked. Yes, there are troops at the base which could be used to break the cordon, but it could not be done in the time frame you describe. By design, there are no armored or artillery units, or armored fighting vehicles, in or near the capital. We could not mount any kind of air strike against such small targets in a crowded city without causing unacceptable civilian casualties. That leaves cracking the perimeter by conventional infantry assault without prior bombardment.” He shook his head at the prospect, obviously an experienced combat soldier evaluating how the engagement would proceed. “We would have a numerical advantage, but the airbase troops are mere garrison soldiers. Their boots are very shiny and their bayonets exceptionally bright, but I doubt any of them have ever made a ground attack without air or artillery support against a prepared defensive position. The Emir’s troops, on the other hand, are an elite, space mobile, Special Operations unit, veterans of many battles. I’m afraid we cannot get the Ambassador through the Emir’s lines in time.”
The doctor looked at his feet dejectedly. Max, however, smiled broadly and slapped the driver on the back. “Just get us to the airbase, my man, and I will deliver the Acting Ambassador to the meeting.”
The doctor looked at him sourly. “And, just how do you expect to do that? Didn’t you hear this gentleman, apparently possessing considerable expertise in this area, state that getting me through the lines is impossible?”
“Of course, I heard him. Not only that, I believe him and agree with him one hundred percent. We can’t get you through the lines in time.”
“Max,” Sahin said with exasperation, “you’re not making any sense. How can you say you’re going to get me to the meeting but that you know you can’t get through the lines?”
“Easy. We’re not going through. We’re going over.”
Chapter 4
18:23Z Hours, 19 March 2315
“I thought your convoluted and exceptionally hazardous plan back at Mengis VI was the epitome of foolhardiness,” said Sahin, his voice inching across the boundary that separated the merely high-pitched and tense from the truly shrill and panicked. “Little did I know that you had vast--truly, truly vast--untapped resources of foolhardiness, the magnitude of which could scarcely be imagined, much less articulated.”
“What we’re doing isn’t as dangerous as what we both think is going to happen if I don’t get you to that meeting.”
“What do you think is going to happen?”
“Let’s say that, although I never saw your written instructions from the Admiral, I spent enough time in the Intel Back Room of enough warships to have a good idea what’s going on with the Emir and . . . .”
“MAX!” the doctor interrupted, this time his voice definitely reaching the level that can only be described as a terrified scream. “You almost hit that building!”
“No, I didn’t. I must have cleared it by 75 centimeters, maybe even a whole meter. Relax. I know what I’m doing.”
What Max was doing was flying a single engine, pusher propeller driven, high wing monoplane trainer aircraft he had “borrowed” from the airbase. It was a Beechcraft T-96 Skylark, an 85 year old trainer design manufactured by license on Rashid V A. The Skylark was not particularly fast, but it was stable, highly maneuverable, known to be extremely forgiving, and possessed perfectly enormous flaps enabling it to make very short takeoffs and landings. Max had done his first atmosphere pilot training in an almost identical plane and always loved flying it.
Doctor Sahin was able to talk the reluctant base commander into allowing Max to use the plane based on the doctor’s representations of the diplomatic urgency of the situation. The doctor had no problem with riding in a small aircraft, but he did have a problem riding in a small aircraft flying barely fifteen meters off the ground, dodging utility poles and trees, missing many obstacles by millimeters, all the while keeping lower than the tops of the surrounding buildings so that the plane could not be picked off in the same manner as the ill-fated helicopter unless it happened to fly right over the missile launcher. At one point the left wheel of the fixed tricycle landing gear had actually struck the top of a palm tree, causing one of the fronds to tear off and become entangled in the gear strut. It was now flapping madly in the 110 KPH slip stream, making a sound somewhere between tearing cloth and machine gun fire and looking absurdly like some sort of poorly applied vegetative camouflage.
“OK, Bram, we’re about a kill away from the Ministry. The troops on the ground are likely to take some shots, so be sure to sit on the spare vest those fly boys gave us and keep your head down.” The Air Force base commander had provided them both with body armor vests, two apiece, one to wear, and one to sit on to stop rounds fired from below as the plane, being a trainer and not a combat aircraft, was unarmored. Both men wore the vests over their naval working uniforms which they had donned at the base.
Rather than putting his head down, Sahin sat absurdly and improvidently upright, craning his neck for a look at the ministry compound as bullets started to fly past the small plane, some of them making distinctly audible whirring and buzzing sounds. “I don’t see the landing strip,” he said.
“There isn’t one,” Max said blandly.
“No landing strip! Did you notice before getting into this machine that it is an airplane and not a rotorcraft? I distinctly remember observing that the noisy spinning thing is on the rear pushing us rather than on the top holding us up. I am a keen observer and rarely miss such things. Where, pray tell, do you intend to land if there is no landing strip?”
“The courtyard.”
“But that’s only . . . .”
“I know its dimensions. Now, be quiet and get your head down before I knock you upside the head and shove you down myself.”
The doctor complied just as a burst of three assault rifle rounds stitched their way through the door of the aircraft and exited through the roof of the plane, transecting the intervening airspace occupied less than a second before by the doctor’s head. Another rifle round shattered Max’s window, showering the left side of his face with shards of Visi-Plex and slicing open his cheek, which immediately began to bleed profusely. He didn’t even notice the blood until a bit got in his eye. He wiped it away absently and kept flying.
About two hundred meters before reaching the hasty fortifications erected by the Emir’s men, Max pulled up hard on the yoke and advanced the throttle, pushing the small plane into
a steep climb reaching its apex right over the Emir’s lines. At that point, Max chopped the throttle, extended the tiny plane’s huge flaps and held it just on the far side of a stall. With the wing tilted to so high an angle, the formerly smooth laminar flow of air over its surface broke down into a chaotic collection of vortices causing it to lose lift. The plane fell from the air, still carried forward slowly by inertia and with its descent slowed by the aerodynamic drag of its broad wings which, divested of their former role as airfoils generating lift, were now charged with a function not unlike that of a parachute. Max skillfully managed the throttle, the flaps, and the yoke to steer the plane in a wobbling, sliding path, sometimes almost balancing atop the thrust generated by its propeller, directly toward what looked like a forty meter by forty meter decorative garden surrounded by the two story ministry building: the Ministry’s courtyard, enclosed from all sides and shielded by the building from gunfire.
Like a perfectly tossed horseshoe dropping in a ringer directly onto the spike, the airplane, maintained by Max in a precisely controlled and deftly steered stall, dropped in a nearly vertical descent right into the center of the courtyard. It came to earth, noisily smashing through the lovely and delicate white trellis donated by the Benevolent Order of Rashidian Diamond and Precious Gemstone Traders, knocking over and irreparably shattering two fountains personally selected for the courtyard by the King’s much revered and exceptionally pious late grandmother, snapping off two of the plane’s three landing gear struts, and turning its propeller into something that looked like it belonged in a Salvador Dali painting. Just as the plane’s engine sputtered to a stop as the result of a snapped fuel line, a second-floor awning loosened by a wingtip tore loose from its supports and tumbled into the Ministry Rose Garden planted with roses selected and meticulously tended by the Minister himself, ruining them utterly. The plane’s left wing, severely jarred by the impact with the ground, chose that moment to break in half, the outboard section falling with a metallic clatter, smashing a third fountain which, until that moment, had been undamaged.
For Honor We Stand Page 9
