Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 10

by Wings of Fire (v1. 1)

  “Not to you, it isn’t,” Baris said. “Not to me. But to twenty million Egyptians, fifteen million Libyans, five million Sudanese—yes. To over half the Egyptian military forces, al-Khan is a hero for killing your husband. To half of the Saudi royal family, to three-quarters of the Lebanese, to most of the Syrians, Zuwayy is a liberator, the sword of Allah.”

  “How is that possible?” Susan asked incredulously. “How can that be true? Don’t all those people realize how dangerous he is? Can’t they see Zuwayy’s crazy? He thinks he’s descended from an ancient Libyan king. He’s nothing but a goofball—a murdering, thieving goofball!”

  “You’re not listening, Sekhmet!” Baris said with a smile, like a patient teacher who is watching realization dawning on a promising student. “You’re not paying attention. It doesn't matter what you think or what you know— it’s what the people believe. Look back through your own country’s history, Susan. Everyone believed John Kennedy was the so-called prince of Camelot, and then were disillusioned because you later found out he was a womanizing adolescent privileged politician who knew little except what his brother Robert and his ‘Kitchen Cabinet’ told him. You know much of Egyptian and Middle East history—do you truly believe the western European kings organized the Crusades to liberate the Holy Land from the infidels? Do you believe Alexander the Great sought to unify the kingdoms of eastern Europe?”

  “So it’s all propaganda? It’s all illusion?”

  “Of course it’s all illusion,” Baris said. “The only thing that is real is the law—but there are many, many things more powerful that the law. Image. Perception. Emotion. Fear. Anger. Hate. Love. Control these things, and you control all.”

  Susan shook her head in confusion. “Why are you telling me this, General?” she asked in a low, strained voice. “Why? Are you telling me that my husband died for nothing more than a dream, an illusion?”

  “Because I’m trying to explain men like Zuwayy and al-Khan to you, Sekhmet,” Baris said. “Your husband died because he was strong in his heart, but perhaps not strong enough in his mind. He believed in something he could never, ever have. Now it’s time for you to choose what you want, Sekhmet. Choose.”

  TRIPOLI, UNITED KINGDOM OF LIBYA

  A SHORT TIME LATER

  “Yes, I said Susan Salaam. She’s alive!” Khalid al-Khan hissed in the cellular phone. “I thought I was seeing a ghost when she walked out on stage! And she’s crazy! She actually attacked and seriously wounded some of my men—nearly killed them with a walking cane!”

  “A walking cane, eh?” Jadallah Zuwayy of Libya chuckled. He was relaxing in his office, flipping through reports and paperwork with several of his advisers. “I think you need to hire better bodyguards, my friend.”

  “She’s accusing me of trying to kill her!”

  “Calm yourself, Ulama. Let her rant and beat up on your bodyguards—it makes her look all the more unstable.”

  “Unstable? She's running for president of Egypt, Highness!”

  Zuwayy froze, then sat bolt upright in his chair. “Running for president? How is that possible, Khalid? She’s not an Egyptian! She’s not even a naturalized Egyptian citizen!”

  “The law allows it,” Khan said. “The law actually says that she assumes the office of her husband if he dies in office—the law was amended in this case to allow her to run for the office.”

  “How in the world can you allow that to happen? What kind of lawmakers do you have out there?”

  “She is immensely popular here, Highness,” Khan said. “Even after being hit by that explosion, she is still beautiful”

  “You Egyptians sound like the Italians sometimes— beauty is enough to become a great politician, eh?”

  “This is not a joke, Highness,” Khan said. “The polls already show Salaam twenty points ahead, and she has not raised one penny or made one speech yet!”

  “All right, all right,” Zuwayy responded. “Listen to me, Khalid. Most of this fight is yours—Libya cannot become involved in Egyptian elections. You command considerable power in Egypt, especially in the outlying areas and with conservatives. Use that power. Rally your supporters. You also hold a high position, both in government and in your citizen’s personal and spiritual lives—use that power as well. Don’t just beat Salaam—destroy her. You can do it, Khalid. If necessary, get some secular advisers and help them design a campaign for you—don’t rely on a bunch of clerics to fight a battle in an arena they know nothing about.” Zuwayy paused for a few moments; then: “I may be able to help stir some things up in other areas, Khalid. But it is your fight. Fight to win.”

  Zuwayy cut off the call by angrily throwing the receiver back on its hook. He shook his head, deep in thought. “Khan is such a weakling, it’s amazing he’s even strong enough to venture outside his own bedroom by himself, let alone run for public office,” he said to no one in particular. “Whining and bleating like a lost sheep because the wife of his political adversary is still breathing—deplorable.” But he ordered his aide to dismiss his other advisers and staffers with a wave of his hand.

  When his office was cleared, he looked at his military chief of staff, General Tahir Fazani, and his Secretary of Arab Unity, Juma Mahmud Hijazi. “What if the lovely Mrs. Salaam does win the election?” he asked.

  “Khan will retain his post as chief justice of the Supreme Judiciary,” Hijazi said. “He’s almost as powerful as the president. Little will change.”

  “Salaam will certainly want to form even closer relations with the West than her husband,” Fazani said. “That means more foreign military presence, more military ties, more foreign investment. Libya will be squeezed out of any development deals.” He glanced at Hijazi, then added, “So will our secret benefactor.”

  “I am still opposed to making any more deals with Kazakov, Jadallah,” Hijazi said. The two men in Zuwayy’s office were fellow officers in the Libyan military who helped Zuwayy overthrow Qadhafi to take over the government—they were two of the few in all of Libya who could call Zuwayy by his real name, and still only in private. “The man’s in protective custody by the World Court, for God’s sake. This could all be an elaborate ruse to implicate us. Remember, he’s ratted out half the organized-crime leaders in Europe in just the past year. Maybe we’re next.”

  “I still say, let’s take all the weapons Kazakov can put into our hands,” Fazani said, “and blast the Egyptian military to hell right now. They may have American weapons, but they don’t have any more power or support than they ever had. We have historic claims to the Salimah oil fields—let’s just move in, wipe out the Western and ignorant Turkish roustabouts, and take over the entire Libyan Desert region of Egypt. We can lay claim to everything west of thirty east longitude and everything south of twenty-five degrees latitude, and I think we can hold it easily. Our forces in Sudan already have the region surrounded—it would be easy. We can pump oil and send it to Libya for six months, maybe a year, before the West starts to threaten retaliation. Then we keep the proceeds, destroy the wells, and get out.”

  “It won’t work, Tahir,” Zuwayy said. “What if we do occupy those fields? No one will buy one drop of oil we pump after we invade Egypt.”

  “There is always a market for crude, Jadallah,” Fazani said. “If nothing else, we threaten to dump it on the world market if no one buys it at market price. Dozens of nations, including the West, will buy it at cut-rate prices just for the chance to store it and resell it at higher prices later, and the OPEC countries will buy it just to prop up oil prices. Once we make peace with Egypt, pay some measly reparations, and maybe even take our cut of the profits and move to South America or Southeast Asia, the West will be happy to deal with us again—they’ll make a deal with Satan himself to get at all the oil we’ll pump from Salimah.”

  “You tired of running the Libyan military, Tahir?” Zuwayy asked with a smile.

  “Jadallah, I give you all the credit in the world for engineering this scam,” Fazani said. “It was a
stroke of pure genius, coming up with the whole Sanusi thing. Most of the folks in Libya and a good portion of the world bought it. But we’re not in it to rule the damned country—we’re in it for the money, remember? Libya pumps five billion dollars’ worth of oil out of the desert a year. If we can siphon off even ten percent for ourselves, we’ll be set up for the rest of our lives. Why do we want to stick around after that?”

  “Because if we can take the Salimah oil fields, we can take twice as much,” Zuwayy said.

  “I’m all for that, Jadallah,” Fazani said, “but I’d be just as happy splitting a five-hundred-million-dollar take. I can’t water-ski behind more than one megayacht anyway. Besides, how much of those billion dollars do we need to split with Kazakov? He’s got a reputation for killing off all his partners. I’d rather get out while we’re still alive to enjoy the money.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Zuwayy said. “We’ve got our escape plan ready to go—that’s the mistake Qadhafi made, believing he really was some big-shot Arab desert chieftain. If we need to implement the escape plan, we won’t hesitate. Until then, we press on with our plans.”

  SUPREME JUDICIARY, CAIRO, EGYPT

  THAT SAME TIME

  “‘Defeat her’—easy for you to say,” Ulama Khalid al- Khan murmured. He hung up the phone and held his head in his hands. “How do you defeat a ghost? Scare her away?”

  “Sir?” Major Amr Abu Gheit, Khan’s bodyguard and chief of the Supreme Judiciary security forces, asked. He waited for a few moments, then asked, “Can I get something for you, sir?”

  “Nothing,” Khan responded. “Nothing—except perhaps Salaam’s head.”

  “I can get that for you, sir,” Gheit said with an evil smile. “Just give me immunity from prosecution, and I’ll do it tonight.”

  “Tempting, but not quite yet,” Khan said. “What are the pretty Mrs. Salaam’s whereabouts, anyway?”

  “Last report had Mrs. Salaam and General Baris in National Democratic Party headquarters, meeting with district political chairmen and major supporters to organize her election campaign,” Gheit reported, reading from a notebook. “We have a list of those supporters. Wiretaps, surveillance, and financial investigations can begin on all of them as soon as you wish.”

  “Very well. Get them moving,” Khan said. “And if you can’t find the information you need, invent it.”

  “Yes, sir,” Gheit said. He continued glancing at the report. “This is interesting, sir: It is reported from interviews with the flight crew that Mrs. Salaam had flown in to the People’s Assembly meeting from Mersa Matruh military base in the west.”

  “Mersa Matruh? What was she doing there?”

  “It is apparently where she evacuated to after the assassination, sir,” Gheit said. He read on, shaking his head as he did so. “There is no mention of it in here.”

  “Mention of what? What are you muttering about, Major?”

  “There was some sort of emergency at Mersa Matruh days ago—the base commander, Vice Marshal Ouda, reported that there was some sort of incident, a mutiny or some other violent action, aboard one of his ships,” Gheit replied.

  “Major, that does not concern me,” Khan said.

  “If I may, sir, I will contact Vice Marshal Ouda and see if he has anything to report on Salaam or Baris’s presence there,” Gheit said. Khan dismissed him with a wave of his hand, and he departed, leaving Khan wringing his hands and shaking his head at his desk. But Gheit excitedly returned several minutes later. “Holiness ... !”

  “What is it now, Major?”

  “I have Vice Marshal Ouda on the line,” Gheit said. “He has something incredible to report. Salaam and Baris were indeed there—and so were some unidentified foreign commandos. Salaam and Baris spoke to them, after which they offered the use of base facilities and other assistance.”

  “What?” Khan exclaimed. “What commandos? Who were they?”

  “It is not known, sir—but Ouda thinks they are Americans.”

  “American commandos are on one of our bases?” Khan exploded. “Who authorized this? Why wasn’t I notified? Why wasn’t anyone in Cairo notified?”

  “General Baris ordered Ouda not to report it,” Gheit replied. “Baris is still national security adviser and Ouda’s superior officer.”

  “Not for long,” Khan said angrily. “Issue an order to the Ministry of Defense, stating that the Supreme Judiciary dismisses Baris from his post immediately in the interest of national security. He is suspected of masterminding the assassination of President Salaam and inciting a military coup. Have him arrested and Mrs. Salaam arrested as well.. . .” Then he thought better of the political ramifications of that and said, “Better yet, have her taken into protective custody. Do it right now.” Khan picked up the telephone. “This is Ulama al-Khan, chief justice of the Supreme Judiciary. Is this Vice Marshal Ouda?”

  “Yes, Holiness.”

  “You will tell me everything you know about what has gone on out there, Vice Marshal, and you will do it quickly,” Khan ordered.

  He did—and Khan couldn’t believe what he heard. “They are still here, Holiness,” Ouda concluded. “They have virtual free run of my base, thanks to General Baris. He has ordered my intelligence directorate to turn over the latest intelligence information on hundreds of military sites in Libya. They fly aircraft in and out of here almost hourly, everything from light jets to medium transports. These are the same men who commandeered one of my warships! How dare Salaam and Baris give them all that material and then harbor them on my base without even consulting me?”

  “Baris and Salaam gave them classified information?” Khan couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “Yes, Holiness. The latest information we have. Mountains of it! Most of the data dealt with Libyan defenses and installations—”

  “Anything on Egyptian installations?”

  “Some, Holiness. Overhead photos of some of our bases, easily obtainable commercially.”

  “But are they classified photos?”

  “We classify all photos we obtain for three months, sir.”

  “Then Salaam and Baris gave the Americans classified information?”

  “Well, technically, the photos are not—”

  “Yes or no, Ouda?”

  “Yes, Holiness. We classified the photos ‘Confidential,’ but only because—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Khan said. “General Baris violated the law by turning over classified information to foreign nationals. You will do everything you can to stop those men, Vice Marshal. They are a threat to Egypt and to our peace and security. Use every man and woman on your base, or get more men—I don’t care if you take every soldier in your district, but you will not allow those men to leave. And if Salaam or Baris returns to your base, you will place them both into custody. Do you understand?”

  Khan didn’t wait for Ouda to respond, but hung up the phone. “Major! Get in here!” he shouted. When Gheit returned, he said, “Get the king of Libya on the phone immediately—and have Salaam and Baris found and arrested immediately!”

  TONOPAH TEST RANGE, NEVADA

  THAT SAME TIME

  The security checks and identification procedures took unusually longer than normal for one simple reason: None of the security officers or their U.S. Air Force supervisors had ever processed a security clearance on a nine-year-old before. But Kelsey Duffield kept her amused, sincere smile and bubbly personality despite all the probes, pat-downs, questions, and the double and triple takes as they proceeded past the several layers of security.

  Helping occupy Kelsey’s attention was one of the female security guards, who identified herself only as Sandy, a small but very beautiful woman appropriately dressed in sand-colored battle dress uniform, web harness, desert- weight boots, desert hat and aviator sunglasses, and carrying an Uzi submachine gun. Accompanying Sandy was her partner, one of the largest Doberman pinschers Kelsey had ever seen. It was lean, muscular, angular, and lithe in every movement it
made. Its face never changed expression, but it was soon evident that the dog’s demeanor could be judged by the position of its long, regal, pointed, cropped ears: When the ears were pointed straight up and motionless it was locked onto its prey; when they swiveled around like radar dishes it was hunting, searching; and when the ears were down, it was sorry for not paying attention.

  Kelsey saw the big dog and instantly fell in love. When she tried to go over to it, the big dog’s ears drooped, and its little stubby docked tail actually seemed to wag, but Sandy motioned her away. “Stay away, little girl,” she said sternly.

  “But why?” Kelsey asked.

  “We call her the Alpha Bitch,” Jon offered. Sandy made a scolding expression toward him, and he smiled back. “Not Sandy; the dog, Sasha. She was trained by the best military working dog schools in the world—right here at Tonopah. She is the most protective dog I’ve ever seen—I think she’d kill anyone who tried to lay on hand on Sandy. I’ve seen her in training: She can climb a two-story-tall vertical ladder, drag a two-hundred-pound man, and open doors with her jaws. I’ve also seen that dog eat—she devours two cans of dog food in two bites.” He smiled at Sandy again and quipped, “Still can’t find a date yet, eh, Sandy?” The guard said nothing, only smiled evilly. Kelsey waved good-bye to Sasha as they proceeded on, and Sasha seemed to be disappointed she was leaving.

  With Kelsey was her mother, Cheryl, being escorted by Jon and Helen Masters. Although Cheryl was patient throughout the several-hours-long process, at the end of it all her patience was definitely wearing thin. “Is all this security absolutely necessary?” she asked as they finally cleared the last checkpoint and walked inside the facility toward one of the large steel hangars.

  “You should know better than to ask, Cheryl,” Helen responded.

  “But we have Top Secret clearances.. ..”