by Dale Brown
The MV-22 came in fast, then swung quickly to a low hover over the first smoking hole they had just created. Door gunners suppressed machine-gun fire from more rooftop security guards while the rear cargo ramp of the tilt-rotor motored down, and eight men in dark gray electronic battle armor, composite microhydraulic exoskeletons, and electromagnetic rail guns marched from the belly of the tilt-rotor aircraft.
One of the commandos felt bullets ricochet off his armor and instinctively dropped down and tried to take cover. "Don't try to cover from small-arms fire unless your power drops below twenty percent," Hal Briggs radioed over their secure commlink. "And don't waste projectiles on infantry, or doors and walls your sensors can see through. We do different tactics here, gents: You work alone, you work quickly, and you let the armor defend you and feed you information. Follow the position signals, check every room. Let's move out."
"I'm getting a power-level warning," one of the commandos said. "It's reading twenty percent already."
"You have a bad power pack," Briggs said. "Withdraw, change packs, follow us down once it checks out. Move out." The one commando went back inside the MV-22, where technicians in protective armor quickly helped the commando out of his exoskeleton. Meanwhile, the other Tin Man commandos split up into two groups and dropped through the holes in the roof to the floors below.
Hal Briggs led the first group of four. Holding his rail gun on his left hip, anchored to his exoskeleton, he walked quickly without running through the corridors of the Libyan Presidential Palace; the others split up, taking different corridors. Terrified workers and other persons, presumably relatives or other staffers, ran past him, some running headlong into him. He ignored everyone he didn't recognize. Hal used his ultrawide bandwidth sensor to peer through walls and doors, and anytime he saw someone inside, he kicked the door open to see who it was. But he kept on moving, sometimes simply walking right through a wall or door to get inside an adjacent room.
"It's hard to take stairs with this exoskeleton," one of the commandos radioed.
"Don't bother with stairs," Hal responded. When he reached the end of the hallway, he simply turned, tossed an explosive charge onto the floor, blew a hole in the floor, and jumped through.
Once they finished the top floor, the other floors went more quickly. On the ground floor, Hal had to contend with massed Republican Guard soldiers, now with heavier machine guns and grenade launchers. The battle armor's electric shock system took care of any close-in security he encountered; he had to fire one hypersonic projectile at the security booth just inside the front palace entry, where Republican Guards had set up a twenty-millimeter Gatling gun. One Tin Man had to jet-jump outside and retreat back to the roof after taking nearly two thousand rounds from the cannon before Briggs put it out of commission. Briggs left one Tin Man on the ground floor to watch for any heavy security responses, while the rest started down to the subfloors.
The entire search of the above-ground floors took them less than two minutes.
Now that the assault was on, they moved faster through the subfloors, following the location signal. They came across interrogation rooms, zapped anyone inside carrying weapons, and released all others. Chris Wohl found an infirmary, and next door was a makeshift autopsy room and morgue. "I found two of our guys in the morgue," Chris radioed. "Looks like both of them have been tortured to death." His voice started to tremble with rage. "I'm going to kill someone for this." He zipped both corpses into their black body bags and carried them to the roof.
"I found survivors," another of the commandos reported. "I'm bringing them out." Within minutes, eleven more Night Stalkers were on board the Pave Hammer tilt-rotor, all of them injured from torture and near-starvation but all still alive.
Briggs and two other commandos had just moveH to the bottom subfloor when Briggs heard one of the lookouts
say, "We've got trouble, One. Heavy armor on the way in. We're engaging, but we're running out of time."
"We'll be finished searching the building in three minutes," Briggs responded.
"No good, sir," Chris Wohl interjected. "We're going to be surrounded in one minute. The Pave Hammer is too vulnerable. Make your way upstairs."
"We can't leave without Patrick and Wendy."
"Sir, we'll be walking out of Libya if we're not airborne in sixty seconds."
"Then get airborne."
"Negative, sir. Everyone gets on board. I've stopped picking up life signs from the general."
"That's an order, Master Sergeant." Briggs sent the last two commandos upstairs to get on the MV-22. 'Two more on the way. I'm staying until I find the McLanahans."
Briggs hurried toward the source of the location signal-and he was horrified at what he found. There, a desktop was covered with blood-and moments later he found Patrick's microtransceiver, tossed into a corner.
"I found the transceiver-minus the general," Briggs reported solemnly. He did another sweep of the area-no sign of him. "I'm coming up."
Ivana Vasilyeva waited until the loud, rhythmic beat of the heavy rotors far above her subsided, then crawled out of her hiding place in the steel-lined weapons locker in an isolated corner of the room. She checked that her submachine gun was cocked and ready, then carefully searched the hallway outside the small armory. All clear. She then returned to the locker and grabbed a woman by the back of her neck, pinning her left arm behind her to steer her out of the room.
"Well, that wasn't much of an assault," Vasilyeva said to the woman in English. "It appears your friends have left already, before their work was done."
"They'll be back," Wendy McLanahan said. "Count on it."
"But we will be long gone by then, Dr. McLanahan,"
Vasilyeva said. "I am sorry we did not meet up with your husband. But I do not think he would like how you have been keeping yourself." Wendy's face was badly beaten; one eye was swollen shut and bleeding; her nose was broken in several places-and she had trouble breathing because of cracked ribs, a partially deflated lung, and a torn abdominal diaphragm. Blood had been oozing out of several orifices and wounds for many days, making her look pale and ethereal.
"I think he'll understand. Besides, I'll get better-you and your friends will just get dead."
"You'll be alive long enough for us to lure your husband to us, and then you'll both be dead, at Comrade Kazakov's hands."
"Pavel Kazakov." Wendy chuckled. 'The only thing worse than being his whore or his drug pusher is his assassin."
Vasilyeva twisted Wendy's arm higher up her back, causing her to cry out in pain. "Pain must be something you enjoy, Dr. McLanahan."
"Am I turning you on, bitch?"
"Shut up and move," Vasilyeva said. "We have a boat waiting for us in the harbor. A short ride to Zuwarah, a plane ride across the Sahara to Algeria, and then another private jet to meet Comrade Kazakov. Then we set a trap for your-"
They heard a loud scream behind them. Vasilyeva turned just as a body came flying at her, pinning himself against her submachine gun and pulling it out of her hands. The gun went spinning across the hallway. Wendy twisted away. Vasilyeva struggled to her feet, madly searching for her weapon-and then saw him. "There . . . you . . . are, General McLanahan," she cooed softly.
Patrick stood between her and the weapon. He still wore the handcuffs, waist chain, and manacles; his left shoulder was an ugly mass of blood from where Zuwayy's men had roughly cut the microtransceiver out of his body. He backed up, looking for the weapon with his feet in the semidarkness of the hallway.
"Wendy?"
"Patrick!" she cried.
"Get out of here," he said. "Go back. Get away from here."
Vasilyeva reached back, grabbed Wendy by the hair, and pulled her up to her feet. "Is this who you came for, General? I would not have wasted my time." Patrick quickly searched for the gun around his feet. Vasilyeva pulled Wendy to her, wrapped her left arm around Wendy's neck, and applied pressure with her right hand. "Do not move, or I will snap her neck," Vasilyeva warned
.
"Let her go."
"Kharasho," Vasilyeva said. "It is you I want anyway." And in the blink of an eye, the former Russian officer withdrew a knife from her belt and drew it quickly across Wendy's throat. Wendy's eyes rolled up inside her head, and Vasilyev let her drop to the floor.
"No!" Patrick shouted. "You bitch! You murderer]"
"It was you Comrade Kazakov wanted all the time," Vasilyeva said, advancing on Patrick with the bloodied knife at the ready. "But where is this Tin Man armor he spoke of? No matter. Comrade Kazakov only desires you dead. I think I shall bring him a finger-that should be proof enough."
Patrick's bulging eyes shifted rapidly from his wife's inert form to his attacker. He backed away a few stepsthat only made the Russian smile. Patrick raised his hands. "Cut these handcuffs off and let's make it a fair fight."
"I do not wish a fair fight," Vasilyeva said. "Comrade Kazakov only wanted you dead, not for me to give you a fair fight." In the blink of an eye she was on him, and before he knew it her blade had sliced once across his right arm and once across his chest. She smiled evilly. "But he did not say it could not be slow and agonizing for you." Patrick tried to back away, but he tripped and fell straight back. He tried to get back on his feet, but with his hands cuffed in front of him and his feet manacled, he was helpless. "I
think," Vasilyeva said, her teeth shining as she smiled at him, "that you should have matching cuts across your throats. Do you not think it would be fitting, General?"
A shot rang out and a bullet ricocheted off the wall. Vasilyeva turned and saw Wendy McLanahan, her torso a hideous blouse of dark red, not fifteen feet from her, leveling the submachine gun at her. "Very impressive, Comrade Doctor-to the very last," Vasilyeva said. She spun the knife around until she was holding the blade, then threw it. The blade sunk into Wendy's chest, and she toppled over backward. "How very touching. You must be proud, Gen-"
She never got to finish her sentence. Patrick had gotten to his feet, kicked the back of her knees to send her down, then jumped up, wrapped the chain connecting his ankle manacles around Vasilyeva's neck, and rolled around to twist it tight. He rolled several more times until the chain was tight, then locked his feet together.
Vasilyeva was a fierce, powerful woman. She was able to struggle to her feet, actually pulling Patrick's body up as she fought to free herself. The Russian clubbed his legs, swung at his groin, and snarled like a wild animal. She started to swing his body around, jumping up and down wildly in an effort to loosen his legs. He hit the walls several times and saw stars. With Patrick stunned, this time she was able to pin his legs back and land on top of him, the chain still wrapped around her neck, her face a contorted mask of pain and rage, with blood vessels breaking all over her face, making it appear as if she were wearing some sort of primitive war mask. She punched his groin, his legs, his chest, and his face, trying desperately to get him to release his grip.
Patrick was bent over in two so far by her weight that he found he was able to grab her head with his hands, tangling his fingers in her hair to help his grip. Using all his strength, he pushed with his legs. Now both of their faces were hideous contortions of pain. They both screamed in unison, loud, furious screams-until suddenly tflere was a
loud snap! Ivana Vasilyeva's eyes rolled sideways, her bloated dark red tongue unreeled itself from her mouth, and her body went totally limp.
Patrick lay on the floor for what seemed like a long time before untangling himself from the dead Russian, then crawled over to his wife. He carefully removed the knife from her chest, then held her lifeless body and wept.
He didn't even notice when strong armored mechanical arms lifted him and Wendy up, carried them carefully outside, and placed them in a waiting tilt-rotor aircraft to evacuate them out of Tripoli.
ALTERNATE NATIONAL MILITARY COMMAND AND COMMUNICATIONS CENTER,
SIDI SALIH, LIBYA A SHORT TIME LATER
"My brothers and sisters, my fellow Libyans, we have been shamelessly and cowardly attacked by the great Satan, the United States of America," Jadallah Zuwayy intoned. He was sitting in a small, cramped communications center in an underground alternate command post thirty miles south of Tripoli. "Tonight, while you slept peacefully in your beds, the forces of the United States, with help from their stooges the Zionists, launched a brazen sneak attack against the capital of the Kingdom of Libya, attacking the royal palace itself and killing many scores of innocent men, women, and children."
Zuwayy raised his hands as if praying, then slowly curled them into fists. "As Allah, may His name be praised, is my witness, today the people of the Islamic world declare war upon the infidels, the destroyers, the crusaders from across the oceans who attacked our capital," he went on. "May He deliver upon the faithful the strength to crush the enemies of Islam.
"Thanks to the brave efforts of the Republican Guards and the soldiers of the kingdom, I am safe. I will return to
the capital and immediately plan the destruction of our enemies. Death to all who oppose us. Death to-"
There was the sound of shattering glass, then the BANG! of a door thrown open. Zuwayy half rose to his feet, looking scared and confused. Men in military dress forced him to his seat again, and two unidentified soldiers stood behind him. Gunshots were heard off-camera-Zuwayy jumped and closed his eyes at each report, expecting it to hit him next. The television viewers then saw Zuwayy's eyes widen in astonishment as a chair was slid beside Zuwayy's and a young man sat down beside the king. He took off his red-lensed goggles, unwrapped his scarf, and took off his helmet...
... and Sayyid Muhammad ibn al-Hasan as-Sanusi, the true king of Libya, smiled at the camera.
"Es salaem alekum, Captain Zuwayy," Sanusi said. He clasped Zuwayy on the shoulder. "Don't you think you should consult the real king of Libya before declaring war?"
"Muhammad? Prince ... I mean ... King Muhammad ... You ... you are aliveT He forced himself to smile, then reached out to Sanusi to embrace him. "My brother... you are alive!" He hugged Sanusi, then said to him under his breath, "Play along with me, Sanusi, or we're both dead. I'll see to it that the Republican Guards spare your life."
Sanusi pushed him away. "I am not a ghost, despite all your attempts to turn me into one," Sanusi said. "And you are not my brother. There is a nice prison cell awaiting you, Jadallah. You shall stand trial for the murder of my family, the desecration of my family tombs, for stealing millions from the treasury, and for perpetuating a fraud upon the people of Libya." He motioned toward the door, and Zuwayy was dragged out of sight.
Sanusi turned to the camera and folded his hands before him. "My brothers and sisters, I am sorry for the pain and lies Jadallah Zuwayy has burdened you with for all these years. But even more, I am sorry for the pain and isolation
the world has burdened you with since the revolution. Libya has endured much-not only because of the actions of its leaders, but because of the people's search for the truth: the truth of our past, and of our future.
"I am not here to steal your future, like Colonel Qadhafi and Captain Zuwayy have done," Sanusi went on. "I am here because I wanted to expose the fraud, present my evidence of Zuwayy's embezzlement, try to stop the fighting, and so I could return home once more.
"But I only return as a fellow Libyan, not as your monarch, unless that is what you wish," Sanusi said. "I have only a handful of fighters and not much money. Zuwayy commands the Republican Guard, and their loyalty lies with him. I may not live long after I sign off with you tonight. But before I leave, I want to give you some promises. Under the eyes of God and guided by the spirits of my beloved family, I tell you this is the truth:
"The Americans did attack Tripoli tonight, but to liberate it, not to destroy it. Jadallah Zuwayy had planned to destroy the Salimah oil fields, where many thousands of Libyans and fellow Arabs live and work-this after he attacked and killed many thousands of Egyptians with neutron weapons sold to him by Russian black-market arms dealers. Jadallah Zuwayy conspired with Ulama K
halid alKhan of Egypt to assassinate Kamal Ismail Salaam so that the Muslim Brotherhood could set up a theocracy in Egypt; but then Zuwayy killed Khan and many other innocent Egyptians at Mersa Matruh so that he could disrupt the Egyptian government enough to take control of Salimah. I swear by the blood of my father and the memory of my mother that this is true.
"I will never again raise a hand against a fellow Libyan," Sanusi went on. "My men and I have attacked and harassed Zuwayy's troops in the desert long enough. I only want peace. I shall head toward the Great Mosque in Tripoli and pray at the former final resting place of my mother, before Qadhafi removed her body from there and discarded it in the desert. I will order my men not to fight. If you want me to return to Tripoli, if you want me to live, you must take
back the streets of the capital from the Republican Guard. Help me to return to our capital, and I promise you, I will help restore our country to its former greatness. If you wish me to do so, I will help bring peace to Libya. Otherwise, I wish to live in Libya as a teacher and engineer and help Libya rebuild. The choice, and the decision, is up to you, my brothers and sisters. Misae el kher. Ma'as salaema."
When Sanusi rose from his seat, every man and woman in the room bowed-not only his men, but the Republican Guards captured there as well. He exited the communications facility and stepped outside into the growing dawn.
Sidi Salih, on the foothills of the Tarhuna Mountains of northwest Libya, was on a slight rise, so Muhammad asSanusi could see north past the wide expanse of desert all the way into Tripoli. The Tripoli International Airport, closed during the conflict, was slightly to the west; but the city itself, and even the Mediterranean Sea, could clearly be seen. It was a beautiful, awe-inspiring sight. He was about to put on his helmet, but he changed his mind, unwrapped the turban from the helmet, then wrapped it around his head. He had had enough of fighting.
