Wings Of Fire

by Dale Brown

  "Thank you, Your Highness," Susan said, again letting those beautiful eyes flash up toward his. "May the blessings of the Prophet, praise his holy name, be upon you and all of us today."

  "Insha'allah." He had to tear himself away from looking at her, so instead concentrated on her husband, looking Kamal Ismail Salaam up and down disapprovingly. Salaam was wearing a simple white and blue traditional headdress, but was otherwise dressed in a conservative gray doublebreasted Western-style business suit, with a single gold chain around his neck. "You do not appear to be prepared for prayer, brother."

  "I have been asked to give a few remarks to our guests before the prayers of celebration begin, Highness alaam

  replied. "My duties require that I be elsewhere during the prayers of celebration." He motioned to his left. "The chancellor of Al-Azhar University and chief justice of the Arab Republic of Egypt's Supreme Judicial Council, Ulama Khalid al-Khan, will lead the prayer celebration in my place."

  Khalid al-Khan bowed deeply to Zuwayy, then took the Libyan's extended hand and touched it tenderly to both cheeks. Al-Khan was in his late forties, a fundamentalist Sunni Muslim cleric who led the fight in 1980 as a firebrand-some said fanatic-to make the Shari'a, the Islamic legal code, the basis of Egyptian law; before that, the law had been a mishmash of English common law and even Napoleonic code, with a healthy dose of Turkish law thrown in to confuse everyone. The highest-ranking cleric in Egypt, al-Khan was an advocate of an even greater role of fundamentalist Islamic rule in Egypt and was very vocal in his opposition to both the Mubarak and Salaam governments. Al-Khan was dressed similarly to Zuwayy, with traditional Arab robes and turban.

  "Majesty, it is an honor to meet you," al-Khan breathed. "May the blessings of the Prophet be upon you forever and always."

  "And to you, my son," Zuwayy replied. He looked aghast at Salaam as if to say, "That is how you pay proper respect to your superior." "The Prophet of course allows the faithful to pray anywhere," Zuwayy said to Salaam, "but He always looks with extreme favor on those who join together with their brothers in prayer."

  "My apologies, Highness," Salaam said.

  "I see you prefer to wear the clothing of a mushrikun as well," Zuwayy added. "You have also shaved your beard, of which Allah almighty also disapproves. At least you still observe the adab al-imama" he added, motioning to Salaam's turban, "although it does not appear to be the proper length, as prescribed by His Holiness the Prophet. You shall be instructed as to-"

  "Mr. President... er, Highness," Salaam interjected, purposely getting his title wrong just to irk the Libyan,

  "Allah, praise his name, knows the hearts and minds of all men. I am his servant, and I serve him in my own way."

  "The Prophet has told us how we must serve God," Zuwayy responded sternly. "If it is in our power, we must obey. Please do not mock the Prophet or the faithful by telling us that not joining in prayer is a proper way to praise Allah. You must-"

  "I'll take that under advisement, Highness," Salaam interrupted again. He bowed to Zuwayy, as did his wife; neither the Libyan nor al-Khan acknowledged his gesture. "If you'll excuse me, I must prepare for my welcoming address. Until this evening." He turned and stepped away before Zuwayy could say anything else.

  The two greeted other guests and visitors, but were soon escorted by staff members to the front of the great hall and were quickly instructed on the day's events. "It is not a good idea to anger Zuwayy, Kamal," Susan said to her husband in a low voice. "He commands much respect in North Africa and elsewhere. The fundamentalists love him, and most of his enemies fear him."

  "He is a popinjay and a pretender," Salaam said disgustedly. "We all thought Colonel Qadhafi was a ruthless dictator, but Zuwayy is a hundred times worse. I had hoped a real al-Sanusi had taken over the Libyan governmentthen perhaps we'd see peace in our lifetime. Unfortunately, Egypt and most of Europe has to prepare to defend itself against whatever power-mad move he and his Mujahadeen crackpots will come up with." He glanced over his shoulder and noticed al-Khan still speaking with Zuwayy. "Or maybe we should be defending ourselves against the enemy right in our own house."

  "Khalid al-Khan may not be one of your staunches! supporters, Kamal," Susan said, "but he represents the loyal opposition."

  Salaam smiled, then squeezed his wife's hand tenderly. "My wife, you are one of the most intelligent and thoughtful women I have ever known, on a par with the greatest minds in our great country, but you know so little f power politics," Salaam said. "Ten years in the U.S. Air Force as

  an intelligence officer is indeed impressive but insignificant experience compared to one year sitting across a People's Assembly chamber arguing with men like Zuwayy and al-Khan. They and other members of the 'loyal opposition' would just as soon throw a punch or an insult as they would squish a fig."

  "You think I am really that innocent, Kamal?" Susan asked playfully.

  Salaam basked in the unearthly glow of her sly smile. "I would never accuse you of being 'innocent,' my love," he said. "But even scholars and ulamas like Khan have no compunction about going outside the law to get what they want. There is too much at stake for them, both in this world and in the next. They are fanatical-they believe they are on a mission, their actions fully justified and sanctioned by God. The nation, the land, even their homes, means nothing to them compared to what they perceive as the will of Allah. That vision obscures everything." His eyes narrowed, and his grip on his wife's hand tightened. "Always be watchful for the enemy. Trust no one. Question everything."

  "All I have to do to learn about the real world is watch you, Kamal," Susan said. "The one thing I trust is your love for your country and your people."

  "And my love for you, Sekhmet," Salaam said, using the ancient Egyptian nickname he had given her, which meant "huntress." "My love comes before the people, the country, even before God. Never forget that."

  "And my love for you is greater than all of our enemies and evil anywhere in the world," Susan said. "When you think all are against you, I will always be by your side."

  "Unfortunately, your place now needs to be behind me," Salaam said, giving his wife a smile when he noticed her exasperated expression. "You may be loved by everyone in Egypt, but you are still expected to walk behind your husband, not beside him, at least on this holy day."

  "Of course, my husband," she replied. Susan gave her husband another soft kiss on the side of his lips, then

  stepped back the required two paces behind and to her husband's left, her hands folded before her, her eyes averted. She knew her place well: Dwelling in a nation torn between the past, the present, and the future, it was best to not give traditionalists like Zuwayy, al-Khan, and their followers any reason to question the loyalty or morals of their country's leaders. A few moments later, the Republican Guard security forces opened the doors of the

  great hall, indicating that the procession was about to begin.

  Past the Gates of Sultan Qayt Bay, a large courtyard with several ornate minarets and qibla prayer walls separated the Madrasa from the main sanctuary, where the speeches and prayer services for President Salaam's guests would take place. The path through the courtyard from the tomb to the sanctuary was lined with soldiers, with clergy and other invited guests pressing against the soldiers to watch the procession.

  It was Susan, not Kamal, who noticed two unusual things as they proceeded across the courtyard: First, the soldiers lining the procession route were not Presidential Guards, assigned to the protection of the president, but paramilitary soldiers from a unit she did not recognize; and second, they were facing the procession, their backs to the crowd instead of facing them. She turned to look for the Presidential Guard captain who had been stationed at the door to the Madrasa, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  As she looked, her eyes caught those of Jadallah Zuwayy, walking several steps behind her. He nodded reassuringly to her, then glanced at Khalid al-Khan and nodded. Susan turned and looked at al-Khan, noticing the silent signal betw
een the two. What was going on here? Why were they-?

  Bedlam suddenly erupted. A soldier shouted something from the Madrasa-someone had been killed? Is that what he shouted? It was hard to tell-his voice was strained with pain or fear. There was purposeful movement in the crowd of onlookers, not a random milling about but a determined surge forward. The soldiers guardingjhe proces-

  sion line, their backs to the crowd, noticed nothing-even when two men in traditional thawb, sirwal, rida, and turbans burst past them.

  "Kamal!" Susan shouted. "Look out!" But suddenly she was grabbed from behind. It was al-Khan. He held her tightly by the arms, pressed her toward him, leered hungrily at her, then shoved her forcefully back toward Zuwayy. The Libyan pretender-king grasped her, then said something in a low, soft voice. "What are you doing, Majesty? What is going on?"

  "I said, do not worry, my child," Zuwayy said. "Allah the almighty shall protect all true believers and servants of God."

  Susan spun around until she was facing Kamal, still in Zuwayy's grasp but being pulled backward, away from her husband. Up ahead of her, one of the strangers who had crashed unchecked through the security line grabbed President Salaam from behind, while another grasped him from in front. Once the man in front had a firm grip on Salaam, the man behind turned, raised his hands, and shouted, "Death to all kuffarl Death to all enemies of God! The Muslim Brotherhood is Allah's sword of justice this day!"

  The man in front of Kamal opened his cloak-and revealed several sticks of explosives and a detonator strapped to his abdomen.

  "La!" Susan screamed in Arabic. "Imshi! Get away! Kamal!" She twisted easily away from Zuwayy. One of the paramilitary soldiers beside Zuwayy tried to grab her. She clawed her way free and took a running step toward her shocked husband .. . just as a brilliant flash of light, an impossibly loud explosion of sound, and an incredible blast of heat erupted right in front of her. She had a momentary image of Kamal Ismail Salaam's body and that of his attacker being blown apart like firecrackers, before a giant invisible force threw her backward and darkness closed over her....

  CHAPTER 1.

  BLYTHEVILLE, ARKANSAS.

  The dark-clad figure turned, slowly, smoothly, menacingly. The blank, staring eyes were expressionless, robotic. The figure lifted a weapon from the floor, an immense Ml68 six-barreled Vulcan cannon, and pointed it right at Patrick McLanahan. From less than thirty meters away, he could not miss. The cannon, normally mounted on a large vehicle like an armored personnel carrier, could fire hot-dog-sized shells at up to three thousand rounds a minute-there would be nothing left of his body, even after only a onesecond burst, to clean

  up with a sponge.

  Patrick heard a clink of metal-the Galling gun ammunition feed mechanism as the figure adjusted his grip. He couldn't see a trigger-the Vulcan cannon was normally electrically operated-so he could not even guess when the gun would start firing. It wouldn't matter anyway-at this range, he'd probably be dead before he heard the sound.

  "Feels good," the figure said, his voice electronically distorted. In rapid succession, he elevated the cannon straight up into the air, side to side, and around in all direc-

  tions. The movements were smooth, mechanical, effortless, as if the one-thousand-pound cannon were little more than a wooden stick. He set the big gun down on the floor, then unfastened some latches, removed his helmet, and handed it to a technician standing nearby to help him. "I feel like a damned clown miming on the street, but it works pretty well."

  Patrick looked at Hal Briggs but said nothing. Hal was wearing the new and improved Tin Man battle armor, and he looked as if he was thoroughly enjoying it.

  The first version of the electronic armor was designed to protect the wearer from bullets or bombs-fast-moving blunt trauma or shock-but did nothing to enhance strength. The new suit added a fibersteel exoskeleton structure with microhydraulically operated joints at the shoulders, elbows, hips, knees, and ankles, with stress supports on the hands, fingers, and feet. The suit's onboard computers read and analyzed all of the body's normal muscle movements and amplified them through the exoskeleton, giving the wearer unbelievable physical strength, speed, and enhanced agility.

  "Now, let's see if it fits in its convenient carrying case." Hal entered a code into a small panel on his left gauntlet, which powered down the exoskeleton and released the bindings. The exoskeleton remained standing like some sort of metal sculpture or futuristic scarecrow. He entered another code into a small control panel inside the frame on the spine, and the exoskeleton started to fold itself. In less than thirty seconds, it had collapsed down to the size and weight of a small suitcase. Hal placed the folded exoskeleton into a padded duffel bag and slung it over his shoulder-because of its composite construction, it was light and easy to carry, although the fibersteel components were many times stronger than steel. "Very cool. Every kid should have one."

  Hal stepped over to Patrick, the duffel bag slung on his back, and clasped his longtime friend on the shoulder. "You okay, Muck?" he asked.

  Patrick shrugged. "It just feels like one of those days when you know something's not going to go right."

  "Well, Wendy did a good job getting this thing tuned

  up," Hal said, motioning to the bag on his shoulder. "It's very cool. I want to start putting it through its paces right away, before Masters decides to invest production money on something else."

  "That may be sooner than you think," they heard a voice say. The voice belonged

  to Kevin Martindale. He was watching the demonstration from a corner of the test chamber. The young, handsome, energetic former president stepped over and greeted Patrick and Hal. Kevin Martindale, also a former vice president, had stayed only one term in the White House. He was a strong military advocate, but was voted out of office mostly because of actions he failed to take when the United States was threatened. What the public did not know was that Martindale preferred to use secret, unconventional forces to destroy an enemy's ability to make war before the situation grew worse.

  Now Martindale was head of a secret organization called the Night Stalkers, composed of former military men and women, who performed similar unconventional-warfare missions around the world. But these operations were neither ordered nor sanctioned by any government-Martindale and his senior staff decided which missions to perform and how to perform them. In addition, squeezing or outright stealing money, weapons, and equipment from their their defeated opponents usually funded these operations.

  "Very impressive," Martindale said, a fascinated gleam in his eye. These days, Kevin Martindale wore his hair much longer than he did in his days in the White House or Congress, and he had grown a goatee. He looked and acted quite a bit differently than his more conservative, buttoned-down government persona: Patrick hadn't yet decided if he liked the new Kevin Martindale. "One of Jon Masters's new toys?"

  "An old toy with some new tricks," Hal responded, handing the duffel bag over to Martindale.

  He was surprised at how lightweight it was. "That's it? Everything but the armor and backpack?"

  "That doubles the weight-still very transportable."

  "Excellent. We should talk to Jon and see if he-can make a few units available to the Night Stalkers."

  "I'm sure that can be arranged," Patrick assured him.

  "With the usual three-hundred-percent markup," Hal chimed in with a broad smile as he finished removing the Tin Man battle armor and stowing it in the duffel bag.

  "Fine with me-I'm not paying for it," Martindale responded dryly.

  The comment bugged Patrick-it summarized all of Patrick's misgivings about being part of the Night Stalkers. Yes, they were doing important work-capturing international drug dealers and criminals like Pavel Kazakov, the Russian oilman and Russian Mafia chieftain, who had the incredible audacity to bribe generals in the Russian army to invade and occupy Balkan states so he could build a pipeline across those countries and make it more profitable for him to ship oil to the West. They had captured Ka
zakov and dozens of other terrorists, drug dealers, assassins, and international fugitives in less than a year.

  But no one in this group was independently wealthy. They had to do an old infantry soldier's trick taken a few steps further: raid the land as they marched across it. Patrick himself had threatened Pavel Kazakov, one of the world's most wealthy but most dangerous individuals, with taking his life in exchange for the tidy sum of half a billion dollars-he still made sure he was tossed into a Turkish prison, but he also threatened to kill him instead if he didn't pay up. They had stolen guns, computer equipment and data, vehicles, aircraft, ships, and hacked into hundreds of bank accounts of known international criminals to raise money for their operations. The logic was simple: Not only did they arrest the bad guys, but they also substantially reduced their ability to carry on their criminal or terrorist enterprises.

  Patrick tried to tell himself that it was all for the common good-but those words kept on ringing hollow.

  "Good to see you came through your 'test flight' over Libya all right," Martindale said to Patrick as they made their way out of the test lab. "But may I respectfully suggest you just get Dr. Masters to schedule some range time

  with the Air Force or Army on their ranges in North America to shoot down some missiles."

  "Unfortunately, we can't blame that one on him, sir," Patrick admitted. "The test flight idea was mine. Jon wanted to make a big splash to impress the Pentagon, and I picked the closest country I thought would take a shot at us without starting World War Three. It turned out to be one of the most

  successful test flights we've ever made in a Megafortress, and certainly the most successful one for the Dragon airborne laser."

  "Not too shabby for you either."

  "Sir?"

  "I suppose you haven't heard-I heard it from very back-channel sources," Martindale said. "You know, of course, that President Thorn has never chosen a national security adviser."