by Dale Brown
The soldiers in bunkers and even chemical weapon-resistant shelters were not spared-even those in underground storage areas and shielded command centers could not escape. Eventually the deadly neutron and gamma radiation from the sixty-four neutron bombs detonated over Salimah, unrestricted by the uranium outer shell as in regular fission weapons, claimed over twelve thousand lives…
… without harming one piece of oil-drilling equipment, spilling one drop of crude oil, or ruining one piece of precious military hardware.
CHAPTER 9
NAVAL AMPHIBIOUS BASE CORONADO,
CORONADO, CALIFORNIA
DAYS LATER
Patrick detested running, but it was the only aerobic exercise he cared for, and he knew he'd probably blow up like a "bunker-buster" bomb if he didn't do it. When he was in town he usually jogged the short distance from his condo on Coronado Island, across the bay from San Diego, to the base gym at the Naval Amphibious Base Coronado. This time, however, he had Bradley with him, so he drove. It took longer to go down to the garage, strap Bradley in, and pull out onto busy Silver Strand Highway than it did to get to the base.
Going to the gym was one of the few things he liked to do alone, just for himself-but not anymore. It was another of the little changes he had to make in his life, with Wendy gone.
Security was tight on base-even the sticker on his windshield with the white star on blue background of a brigadier general didn't help speed things up. Along with an ID check, Patrick's car was checked underneath with a mirror, and the inside of the car from bumper to bumper was checked visually and also with a military working dog. Bradley liked the dog, and he enjoyed having his car seat sniffed by the dog after Patrick had to lift him up and out of his seat. After clearing security, he headed off to the gym. He checked Bradley into the base gym's day-care center-one of Bradley's favorite places to go, even for an hour or twoand changed into workout clothes in the locker room. Five minutes on the elliptical trainer, then five minutes on the stretching chair to warm up, and he was ready to go.
The news on the televisions surrounding the workout room was full of information on the Libyan attack on the Egyptian military forces defending Salimah. The death toll in just one day was simply staggering. Patrick had a tough time conceiving of the five thousand killed at Mersa Matruh, and now the deaths at Al-Jilf and Al-Kabir were probably going to triple that toll.
The toll that most likely included Wendy. Oh, God… That thought made him tear into his workout with a vengeance.
The tail end of the news reports focused on the American response to the attacks on Egypt-or, more accurately, the lack of response. There were two aircraft carriers with almost a hundred combat aircraft plus ten thousand U.S. Marines within helicopter distance of Egypt, yet the United States made no move to help. There were stern warnings to Libya not to use any more neutron weapons, that using them increased the danger of the conflict spreading and growing to a full-scale nuclear war in a short time-but the response was far short of what most folks expected of the President.
Well, Patrick thought, that was typical of this President-speak softly, but carry a big twig.
Soon, Patrick found he had disregarded his workout log completely and finally ended up just picking a weight from the racks, in some cases fifty percent more than he was able to throw around before, doing repetitions until he lost count, then continuing doing more reps until his muscles gave out completely. After twenty minutes of an absolutely blistering workout, finally something gave way in his left shoulder during an incline bench press, and he was forced to toss a seventy-pound dumbbell aside in pain.
"Are you all right, General McLanahan?" he heard behind him. He turned and saw Captain Fred Jackson, the commanding officer of Naval Amphibious Base Coronado, standing behind him, a look of serious concern on his face. Jackson was a tall, powerful-looking ex-SEAL who still looked as if he could command a team on a mission-he sometimes worked out with Patrick in the gym or at the SEAL Training Facility across the street, and even though Patrick had been working out for many years and Jackson was at least five years older, Patrick found it impossible to keep up with him.
Patrick nodded. "I'm okay, Fred," he said ruefully.
"My guys told me you were on the base, so I thought I'd stop by and say hello," Jackson said. "I'll get a corpsman to look at that shoulder for you."
"Not necessary. I'll just get some ice on it." But Jackson was not accustomed to anyone saying "no" to him-he already had someone on the way. A few minutes later they were sitting down together, Patrick with a bag of ice on his shoulder.
"You upset about something, sir?" Jackson asked. "You looked like you were about ready to toss those dumbbells through the mirrors."
"No-just cranky because I'm getting more and more of these little pains," Patrick said.
"The price of getting old… I mean old-er" Jackson said.
Patrick nodded at the TV as well. "I don't understand why we're not doing more over in Egypt, and that's upsetting me as much as my shoulder."
"I expected you to be in Washington advising the President on what to do," Jackson said.
"Why do you say that?"
"According to what I've been reading, you're still the number-one candidate for national security adviser," the Navy SEAL said. "I thought you'd be out there in fhe thick of things, writing your policy papers, getting your classi-
fied briefings, and getting ready to testify in front of the Senate Armed Services Committee after your nomination."
"So that's why you're over here looking me up, eh, Fred?" Patrick asked with a smile. "Thought you'd get a little face time with the rumored number-one guy?"
"Now, would I do that, sir?" he asked with a toothy grin. "Oh, by the way, I'm letting your son play in my office, I got him his own SEAL to watch him, and I brought in a gourmet chef from the Del to fix him lunch. Is that okay?"
"Sorry to disappoint you, Fred, but I haven't been anywhere near Washington or the White House in many moons, and I'm not likely to be," Patrick said. "We don't see eye to eye on much of anything."
"Which is why all the pundits are saying you're 'it'- Thorn likes surrounding himself with ideological opposites," Jackson said. "You just remember your buddies who give you their tee times and let you fly your plane from their airstrips, the next time you talk to the President about the next chief of naval operations, okay?"
"Don't hold your breath, Captain," Patrick said with a laugh-his first laugh in many, many days.
"How's the missus?" Jackson asked.
Patrick tried not to let his smile completely wash away. "Still away. She should be back in town next weekend."
"Good. Can't wait to see her again. You still owe my wife and me a rematch of our last golf match."
"You're on, Fred."
Jackson could tell something was wrong, but he decided not to pursue it further. He nodded toward the televisions. "So what do you think we'll do over in Egypt? Anything?"
Patrick shrugged as he readjusted the ice pack on his shoulder. "Move up the Kennedy battle group to the Red Sea to defend the Suez Canal, keep the two carrier groups on station in the Med, and try to keep the conflict from spreading to the Persian Gulf or Israel," Patrick said. "Purely defensive moves-I don't think the President wants to send in any military forces. If Libya stays on the move, destroys Salimah, takes the Suez Canal, and crosses over the Red Sea into Israel, then I think the President might make a move. But I think he's really hoping Susan Salaam will pull the Arab countries together to fight off Libya." He looked at Jackson. "So what do you think we'll do?"
"What I think we'll do? Same as you-nodal" Jackson replied. "What I think we should do? We should go pay President Zuwayy of Libya a little visit, blow up a few of his palaces just to get his attention, and then deprive him of his bombers, fighters, airstrips, and rockets-and that's all for starters. My guys can do all that in one night. Two at the most." Jackson was definitely not above a little hubris when it came to sending Navy SEALs into
action. He looked carefully at Patrick. "Of course, scuttlebutt says someone or some group of someones might have been already mixing it up with the king. Wouldn't know anything about that, would you, sir?"
"Not a thing. But if they did, they should have their heads examined."
"Maybe they can show our commander-in-chief how it's done," Jackson said.
"President Salaam needs to fight for her country too. She's got a military-she needs to use it to defend her people."
"If anyone can do it, she can. Not bad for an Air Force puke, I guess."
"No Air Force cracks-unless you want to lose those four stars I had planned for you."
"Oops-sorry, sorry, sir, sorry," Jackson said with a smile-he was one of the few Navy SEALs Patrick had ever met that actually seemed to like to smile. He shook Patrick's hand warmly. "If there's anything you need, sir, please don't hesitate to ask. And I hope you don't mind I have my spies out keeping an eye on you. You're the biggest celebrity we've had hanging around the area since Dennis Conner. We'll be sorry to see you and Wendy head back to Washington." Before Patrick could protest again, Jackson added, "I know, I know, you're not in the running. I'll remember you said that when I see you at your confirmation party in Washington. You sure you don't need a doctor to look at your shoulder?"
"I'm fine, Captain. And you can let your spies go home too."
"Yes, sir. Take care of that shoulder-I want to beat you fair and square on the golf course." Patrick noticed Jackson motion to a young sailor who had been standing near the entrance to the workout room with a cell phone, who departed with Jackson. The base commander was a good guy, Patrick decided, but there was no doubt that he played the political battles as well as he undoubtedly played the real-world military battles-and making friends with potentially influential persons was one way to get ahead in the Navy.
Too bad he was sucking up to the wrong guy.
Patrick toweled off, tossed the bag of ice, then experimentally flexed his left shoulder. It felt pretty good, so he decided to forgo the steam room and instead take his son Bradley to the pool. He checked Bradley out of the daycare center and took him back to the locker room.
He didn't notice a janitor set a bucket of smelly water and a mop in front of the door to the locker room after Patrick entered, put up a sign that said, "DO NOT ENTER" on the door, and then lock the door after he entered.
Patrick put Bradley in a pair of swim trunks he kept in his gym bag for just this purpose, changed himself, and led his son to the pool. He found the door to the pool locked. He turned to ask someone why the door was locked when he noticed that the locker room was very quiet-unusually quiet. No one else was in there. The place usually had at least a dozen men in there all hours of the day, but it was empty now..
… except for an Arab-looking man who stepped out from behind a row of lockers-carrying an automatic pistol in one hand.
Patrick immediately grabbed Bradley and dodged behind a row of lockers. The man didn't follow-that meant there were others in the room, waiting for him.
"Dad? Aren't we going swimming?" Bradley asked. He was obviously more concerned about not going to the pool than he was about being carried protectively by his father like a slippery football through onrushing linebackers.
"Shh," Patrick whispered. He crouched as low as he could, almost duckwalking through the locker room.
He saw the second guy's knees before he saw the rest of him, and he prayed it wasn't an innocent sailor-because Patrick lashed out with his right foot, snapping out in a driving thrust against the stranger's left knee. The knee buckled outward at an unnatural angle.
"Dad? Why did you kick that guy?" Bradley asked amid the stranger's animal-like howling. "Is he a bad guy?"
Patrick wasn't sure how to answer-until another automatic pistol clattered to the tiled floor. "Yes, he's a bad guy," Patrick replied as he picked up the gun. "We're getting out of here."
"Good job," Bradley said.
Patrick decided not to go to the front door but try for the equipment manager's office, which had an exit into the gymnasium. He heard footsteps sliding around the tile floor behind him. He kicked a chair over toward the front door to try to make it sound as if he was headed in that direction, then ran as hard as he could to the equipment manager's office. Good-no one around. He tried the door-even better, it was unlocked. Patrick dashed in…
… and immediately a fist rapped him on the side of his head. He went sprawling. Bradley screamed. Patrick raised the gun, but he couldn't make his eyes focus, and he didn't dare try to aim at any shape he saw in front of him, fearful it would be his son. "Get the hell away from me!" he shouted over Bradley's screaming. "Get away or I'll shoot!" But at that instant a large blur raced across his eyes, and the gun was knocked from his hand. "Bradley!" he shouted. He curled himself over his son, pressing him into a corner up against a file cabinet, shielding him as best he could. "Stay down!"
"It's all right, General, it's all right," he heard a familiar voice say. "Tell your son to calm down. You are in no danger."
"Who… who is it?"
"Just relax, my friend. Relax." His vision did clear a few moments later…
… and when it did, he saw the smiling, boyish face of
King Idris the Second of Libya, Muhammad as-Sanusi, hovering over him. "You… Your Majesty, what in hell are you doing here?" Patrick said. He got Bradley up and calmed him down.
"Whatever I'm doing, I don't think I'm doing it very gracefully," Sanusi said. He gave commands in Arabic, and his two men disappeared. "I need to speak with you immediately, General McLanahan. It is most urgent. Where can we meet?"
"For Pete's sake, Your Majesty, a phone call would've been better," Patrick said. He couldn't help but smile at Sanusi's wry grin.
"I apologize, my friend," Sanusi said, "but my men went about their task too enthusiastically, and you reacted most unexpectedly. But I need to speak with you. It is very important."
"How did you get on base?" Patrick asked. "The security on this base has never been tighter. How…?"
"It is about your wife, Wendy McLanahan," Sanusi said.
Patrick's mouth dropped open in surprise. Bradley stopped whimpering and broke out in a wide, teary-eyed smile. "Mommy…?"
"Fifteen minutes. Silver Strand State Park, east side, near the boat rental shop."
"I know where it is."
"Then be there in ten minutes," Patrick said. Sanusi disappeared-Patrick had no idea how he expected to get out of the gym after the commotion they started, but somehow he knew he would. "Let's go, Bradley."
"Are we going to see Mommy?" he asked excitedly. Patrick did not-could not-answer.
It took longer than ten minutes for Patrick to explain to Fred Jackson and his security police units what all the yelling and screaming was about. But Patrick explained everything to Jackson, including where and when he was going to meet with Sanusi. Jackson offered to have a few of his men tag along, but Patrick declined.
He already had someone on the way prepared to do that.
It was thirty minutes later when Patrick arrived at the rendezvous point, a small glass-and-concrete white building between the base and the Loews Coronado Resort where folks could rent sailboats during the summer. Sanusi and his men didn't arrive for another twenty minutes. Patrick was somewhat dismayed to see them-he had thought security at the naval base was tighter than that.
Patrick's concern was assuaged after he met up with Sanusi and greeted him. "I am sorry to be late, my friendthe naval security forces detained us momentarily," the king said. "I am grateful you explained who we were. They agreed to release us under your supervision-after they took away our ID cards."
"You had false ID cards?"
"Real ID cards with false photos on them," Sanusi said. "It is laughably easy to take IDs from lockers in your recreation facilities. We had no trouble crossing the Mexican border with false Israeli passports, and getting on base was simplicity itself-does no one patrol the shores at your seaside b
ases?"
"What about my wife, Your Highness?" Patrick asked.
"Ah yes-enough of the security lecture," Sanusi said. "I believe your wife is alive, my friend. She and several Americans are still held by the pretender Zuwayy in Tripoli, in one of his underground bunkers south of the city."
Patrick knelt down and put an arm around his son, hugging him with joy. Bradley was more interested in Sanusi's men, one of whom now had a splint around his left knee. "Have your men seen her? Are you certain?"
"We have not seen her," Sanusi replied. "But the guards have reported to my men that the woman spoke her name, and that name was McLanahan. When this was told to me, I ordered my agents inside Tripoli to try to stay in contact with her, and I made arrangements to travel here to tell you myself. Because of you, my men and I are still patrolling the desert, probing for weaknesses in the Libyan army. We will help you all we can."
"I'm grateful, Your Highness," Patrick said. "I just hope we can reach her in time." He turned away and spoke: "Patrick to Luger, Briggs, and Wohl."
"Luger's up."
"Wohl's up, in sight, your four o'clock." Patrick turned, and Sanusi looked in the same direction-just as Chris Wohl peeked his head above the low concrete rim of an adjacent rest room building about a hundred yards away. Patrick had called and asked that he cover him and Bradley during this meeting-just in case.
"Very wise precaution, General McLanahan," Muhammad as-Sanusi commented, his smile beaming. He waved at Wohl; his wave was not returned. None of them could see what weapon Wohl was carrying, but there were no doubts in anyone's mind that he was more than proficient with it at this close range.
