Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 10 (74 page)

 
          
“I
think we may be able to help you there,” Sanusi said. Patrick hadn’t had time
to explore it yet, but the underground warehouses here supposedly held a lot of
the latest military hardware. Some of it could be adapted for the Megafortress—if
they had time to load it, mate it, program the weapons for release by the
computers, and perhaps test them.

 
          
Patrick
was amazed at the assortment of weapons they found in the weapon-storage
bunkers a few minutes later. Zuwayy had collected a large and very impressive
arsenal of Russian air-launched weapons: the BetAB- series of antirunway
penetration bombs, the largest of which could create a three-foot-deep crater
the size of a football field in twenty inches of concrete; a large variety of
KAB- series laser-guided bombs, resembling copies of the American Paveway
series, ranging from five-hundred- to well over three-thousand-pounders; almost
the entire range of air-to- air missiles, from the tiny R-60 heat-seeker to the
massive R-33 long-range radar-guided missile with nearly a hundred-mile range;
and a good selection of air-to-surface missiles, including the Kh-27 antiradar
missile, the Kh-29 laser-guided missile, and the Kh-15 long-range attack
missile, a copy of the AGM-69A Short-Range Attack Missile, except these had
only three-hundred-pound high-explosive warheads, not nuclear ones.

 
          
“Can
you use any of them, my friend?” Sanusi asked.

 
          
“I
think so,” Patrick replied with a grin. “All of the weapons have the
Russian-standard two-hundred-and- fifty-millimeter suspension lug spacing, so
we need to get busy resetting all of the squibs on the bomb racks to
accommodate them. Fortunately, our engineers in
Nevada
had thought of the real possibility of
using pirated Russian-bloc weapons in the field, so it should be easy to do the
conversion in the field. And most of the weapons are in surprisingly good
shape—others look brand new, as if they just came right ‘out of the box.’ ”

 
          
The
Libyan weapons were hauled out of storage bunkers near the air base with block
and tackle, makeshift trailers— most of the vehicles on the base had been
destroyed by the fuel-air weapon attacks by the Megafortress days earlier— and
pure old-fashioned muscle work. The weapons were dragged, pulled, or manhandled
across the runway and to the largest and most undamaged hangar on the field, on
which a large canvas tent had to be erected to hide the Megafortresses’
protruding tails, which had to remain outside the hangar. Muhammad as-Sanusi’s
men had devised a bomb-loading “jammer” out of an engine jack for the larger weapons;
the smaller weapons were simply carried into position by however many men it
took to do the job. Once they were loaded, it was simple to get them ready for
release— the Megafortress’s attack computer already had ballistics information
for every possible air-launched weapon in existence, even Russian ones, so it
was just a matter of telling the computer which weapon was on which station.

 
          
The
first EB-52 Megafortress battleship that would lead the attack carried longer-range
standoff weapons, including four Russian Kh-27 antiradar missiles in the
forward bomb bay, eight Kh-15 long-range inertially guided missiles on the
rotary launcher in the aft bomb bay, four R-60 heat-seeking air-to-air missiles
on each external pylon, and two FlightHawk unmanned combat aircraft on wing
pylons—unfortunately, the FlightHawks did not carry any weapons of their own.
The second EB-52 Megafortress battleship carried a rotary launcher in the rear
of the bomb bay that held sixteen one-thousand-pound unguided bombs in eight
two-round clips, with inflatable parachutes attached to each one to allow them
to be released from low altitude if necessary. The slant racks in the forward
bomb bay held thirty-six five-hundred-pound unguided cluster munitions in six
rounds of six bombs; and the external weapon pylons held two Kh-27 antiradar
missiles plus four R-60 heat-seeking missiles on each pylon.

 
          
Even
though the Russian guided weapons were state-of- the-art, they couldn’t
interface well with the Megafortress. The antiradar missiles were programmed on
the ground to detect and attack any height-finder radar, an integral part of a
surface-to-air missile or fighter ground-controlled intercept radar; the
air-to-air missiles’ seeker was caged straight ahead and would only report if a
bright enough heat source crossed its path—they would never know if it locked
on or hit its target. The inertially guided missiles had to be programmed with
a target on the ground before takeoff, and then their guidance systems had to
be aligned on the ground before takeoff—and their accuracy couldn’t be updated
while in flight.

 
          
Patrick
took the king on a quick tour of the AL-52 Dragon. Workers from Sky Masters
Inc., including Jon Masters himself, were still poring over it, adjusting
components and voltages while a laptop computer measured magnetic fields and
predicted power yields and safety margins. “A truly impressive weapon, Dr.
Masters,” Sanusi said after he had been introduced.

 
          
“I
wish I could take all the credit for it,” Jon said. He motioned inside the
belly of the AL-52 just as a little girl emerged, covered in grease and dirt
but wearing a big smile. “Your Majesty, may I present Dr. Kelsey Duffield of
Nevada
, my partner and chief engineer of this
particular weapon system. Dr. Duffield, may I present the king of the United
Kingdom of Libya, His Majesty, Muhammad as-Sanusi.”

 
          
“Jon,
for Christ’s sake!” Patrick gasped. “Pardon me, Your Highness, but. . . Jeez,
Jon, you
brought
Kelsey Duffield ...
to
Libya?”

 
          
“I
couldn’t keep her away, Patrick,” Jon said. “If you’re going to yell at me,
stand in line—Kelsey’s mom isn’t done chewing on me yet. Patrick, this is Dr.
Kelsey Duffield, our new partner; Kelsey, Brigadier-General Patrick McLanahan,
retired, our v.p. in charge of operations.”

 
          
“Pleased
to meet you, General,” Kelsey said, giving Patrick a big hug and a kiss. “Don’t
worry about Dr. Wendy, sir—we’ll get her back for you and Bradley.” She gave
Sanusi a little-girl curtsy, then went back inside the Dragon’s fuselage and
back to work.

 
          
“Not
exactly what you expected, huh?” Jon asked.

 
          
“I
expected anything but a nine-year-old in a war zone, Jon,” Patrick said.

           
“We will get her out as soon as we
can.”

           
“She’s advancing the state of the
art in high-power lasers by five years every hour she works on the Dragon,” Jon
said. But when Patrick glared at him, he held up his hands. “Okay, okay, as
soon as we launch, Kelsey goes home.”

           
While Sanusi’s men and the Sky
Masters tech crews loaded up the planes, Patrick and Sanusi met up with Dave
Luger, Hal Briggs, and Chris Wohl in a meeting room, where charts and diagrams
had been spread out on a table. “I have never before seen the defenses in
Tripoli
so strong and tight,” the king said. He
took out a notepad from his tunic, then started drawing circles and crosses on
the charts. “Zuwayy has definitely pulled in and reinforced his forces around
Tripoli
to prepare for air attacks. These are new
mobile antiaircraft missile and gun emplacements—at least ten new units brought
in within the past several days. We haven’t been able to actually count the
number of fighters stationed at Al-Khums and Miznah, but we believe all of
their alert aircraft shelters are occupied—that’s twelve fighter-interceptors on
alert twenty-four-seven at each base.” He looked seriously at Patrick. “With
all due respect to your men and machines, my friend, it would be suicide to
attack
Tripoli
now.”

 
          
“We
don’t have any choice, Your Highness,” Patrick said.

 
          
“Perhaps,”
Sanusi said. “But even if you do penetrate those air defenses, there is no way
you can locate your wife and your men in the Garden labyrinth. We’ve narrowed
the area down to the southeast complex, which is the presidential palace area,
but that only narrows it down to two or three dozen rooms, defended by perhaps
five hundred troops.”

 
          
“I
know a way to find her quickly,” Patrick said.

 
          
Sanusi
looked into Patrick’s eyes, and his round eyes grew sad and his lips pulled
taut. “I think I know how you intend to do this,” Sanusi said. “It’s madness.
Your son will lose both his parents.”

 
          
“It’s
the only chance we’ll ever get, Your Highness,” Patrick said. He looked down,
tracing his finger over the air defense circles surrounding their objective. “I
don’t think I can go back without her again, Muhammad. The pain on my son’s
face was almost too much to bear.”

PRESIDENTIAL PALACE,
TRIPOLI
,
 
UNITED
KINGDOM
OF
LIBYA
 
THAT NIGHT

 
          
“He
is with that new whore every hour of every day now,” General Tahir Fazani, the
Libyan military chief of staff, commented disgustedly in a low voice. He and
the Minister of Arab Unity, Juma Mahmud Hijazi, were in Fazani’s office in the
Libyan Presidential Palace, where a military briefing had just wrapped up—minus
the king, Jadallah Zuwayy, again. They had dismissed the rest of the military
advisers and were preparing to brief the king on the military-readiness
reports. “We’re getting ready to go to war with
Egypt
, and he’s over there getting laid.”

 
          
“Or
worse,” Hijazi mused. “Do you think he’s on the drugs again?”

           
“God, I hope not,” Fazani said.
“We’re screwed if he is.”

           
“Tahir, why the hell don’t we just
blow town?” Hijazi asked.

           
“You know why, Juma—if we don’t
control the money or don’t bump off Jadallah, we come away with nothing—and
worse, he’ll be coming after us for the rest of his life. We need to get those
bank account numbers and passwords first.”

 
          
“Maybe
if he was back on horse, we could get them easier,” Hijazi surmised. He nodded
to the reports. “How are we looking?”

 
          
“It
couldn’t be better,” Fazani said. “Exactly as the planning staff predicted, the
intelligence staff tells us
Egypt
pulled so many forces back toward
Cairo
that they’re unable to set up any kind of
meaningful defense, let alone mount an offensive. We don’t have enough troops
to take Salimah yet, in my opinion, but if Jadallah wanted to mount an
offensive, now would be the time to do it. We set up a forward base inside
Egypt
, move a large number of troops and aircraft
there, and we can hold off the Egyptian army forever.”

 
          
“And
if the Americans intervene?”

 
          
“They
won’t—President Thom is a spineless weakling,” Fazani said. “But if he does, we
withdraw—but not before destroying Salimah. We blow all the oil wells, just
like Saddam Hussein did as his forces left
Kuwait
.” Just then, the outer door opened, and
Fazani’s aide stepped quickly in. “What is it, Captain?”

 
          
“Sir,
an American has been arrested by the security forces outside the gate of the
Presidential Palace. He was demanding to see the king.”

 
          
“Why
are you bothering me with this drivel, Captain? Have him arrested and taken to
the interrogation center.”

 
          
“He
also demands to see the prisoners.”

 
          
“What
prisoners?”

 
          
“He
says, the American prisoners,” the aide said. “The ones captured after the
attacks in the
Mediterranean
Sea
— including the
woman, Wendy McLanahan.”

 
          
Fazani
and Hijazi looked at each other in complete surprise. No one, they wordlessly
reminded each other, knew about the prisoners—and they sure as hell didn’t know
any of the prisoners’ names! “Does this man have a name?”

 
          
“Yes,
sir—he called himself McLanahan too. Brigadier General Patrick McLanahan.”

           
Both Libyan ministers jumped to
their feet in surprise. “McLanahan? He’s
here?”
Fazani shouted. “Is he armed?”

      
     
“Just a small pistol, sir.”

           
Thank God he didn’t visit them as he
visited Zuwayy in Jaghbub—with his bombers buzzing overhead destroying the
place and wearing his medieval armor with the built-in bug zapper, Fazani
thought. “Bring him up here, right now!”

 
          
“I’ll
tell Jadallah—” Hijazi said.

           
“Not quite yet,” Fazani said. “Maybe
this McLanahan has information that is valuable to us. We’ll tell Jadallah.. .
in good time.”

 
          
A
few minutes later, Patrick was standing before both Hijazi and Fazani, his hands
shackled in front of him with handcuffs and a chain around his waist. He was
wearing plain civilian clothes, similar to urban Arabs. One of the guards set a
bag on the desk. “He was found with this, sir,” the guard said. Fazani examined
the bag: It contained a fake beard, Libyan citizen documents, Libyan money, a
small digital camera, a palm-sized radio, a Russian Tokarev pistol—common in
both Libya and Egypt—and a fake Egyptian passport. The guard held out another
smaller bag—this one held colored contact lenses. “He was wearing these as
well. His hair is dyed black, too.” Fazani felt his hair—quick, cheap hair dye.
“No other weapons.”

          
“Very clever, General,” Fazani said
in halting but good English. “Fake documents, fake hair, even fake eye color.
What do you hope to accomplish here, General?”

 
          
“I’m
looking for my wife and my men,” Patrick said. “I know you’re holding them.”

           
“Oh, I am sure you will be joining
them soon enough,” Fazani said. “But we have questions first.”

           
“I’m not answering any questions. I
want the Americans. If I don’t come out with them, I’ll destroy this palace.”

           
“You will? With what? This pistol?”
'

           
“You know how,” Patrick said
ominously. “The same way I destroyed Samah, Jaghbub, Al-Jawf, and Zillah.” Both
Fazani and Hijazi looked decidedly uncomfortable at that point. Fazani paced
around Patrick, thinking hard; then: “Then I have a better idea, General: You
will recall your bombers immediately, or I will execute your wife and all your
men right before your eyes.”

 
          
“If
I don’t report in to my unit by the bottom of the hour, Minister, this palace
will be destroyed.” Hijazi looked at his watch: ten minutes to go. “There is no
abort code, Minister—either I report I’m still inbound, or I report I’m coming
out with the prisoners, or this place gets leveled. I’m not afraid to die.”

 
          
“Then
it was a suicide mission,” Fazani said. “Because I assure you, we will be safe
from any of your weapons— unless you intend on dropping a nuclear bomb on us.
After the attack, we will all appear on the world news together and tell the
world all about your doomed rescue mission and your homicidal bombing raids on
Libya
.”

 
          
“Then
you’ll be doing that report from the rubble of your government buildings and
palaces,” Patrick said, “because I guarantee you, you won’t be able to stop my
bombers from attacking this city.”

 
          
“Then
right after your appearance on CNN, General McLanahan, perhaps you, your wife,
and your spies will be dragged out of that rubble yourselves,” Fazani said.
“Either way, we will be safe, and alive, and you’ll be dead and disgraced.”

 
          
“I
have a better idea, Tahir—let us tell Jadallah’s financier whom we have now,”
Hijazi suggested. Fazani’s eyes brightened at that idea. “I think he will pay
handsomely for this man delivered alive to him.”

 
          
“Don’t
count on it,” Patrick said. “I don’t work for any government, but I command a
lot of firepower—whoever you bring me to will suffer the same fate as you
will.”

 
          
“I
doubt that very much,” Hijazi said. “Pavel Kazakov commands many forces as
well, and I’m sure he’s far wealthier than you are.”

 
          
“Kazakov?”
Patrick exclaimed. “Zuwayy is
working with Pavel Kazakov? I should have known.”

 
          
“I
see you’ve heard of him? Good. He will pay a very generous bonus to the ones
who bring you to him—alive if possible, but dead if necessary. Perhaps we can
negotiate a package deal for all of you Americans together—I think Kazakov
would love to use you all as an example to others of what happens when you
cross him. But first we need to know all about your bombers and other infantry
forces you have in
Libya
. The king has described some very amazing
forces—perhaps you can tell us all about them.”

 
          
“Go
to hell,” Patrick said.

           
“Well, that is a little more defiant
than the things your wife has been saying while in captivity, General,” Fazani
said with a smile. Patrick angrily tested his shackles yet another time—they
were securely locked. “
Imshi
.
Enta tiq-dar ta’mel ahsan min kida.
Get
him out of here, now.” After the guards had taken McLanahan out, Hijazi said,
“I’ll get Kazakov on the phone right away. I think he’s been looking for this
guy—I’ll bet he’ll pay a lot for him.”

           
“You handle Kazakov—I’ll notify
Jadallah,” Fazani said. “This way we cover our asses in case Kazakov blabs that
we told him and not our boss.”

           
“Good idea.”

           
“We’ve also got to get all those
captives out of here as soon as possible,” Fazani added. “It can’t be a
coincidence that McLanahan just waltzes in here—the exact spot where we happen
to be keeping his wife and his fighters. He’s doing a probe. The faster we get
him out of here, the better.” Fazani walked over to Zuwayy’s residence and
notified the Republican Guards that he wished to speak with the king. Ten
frustrating, aggravating minutes later, Fazani was told the king was
unavailable. Not daring to push aside one of Zuwayy’s Republican Guards—they
were absolute fanatics about security; their lives depended on it—Fazani asked
again, and after another ten-minute wait, he was admitted into the king’s
private residence.

 
          
He
could see it immediately. Tahir Fazani had known Jadallah Zuwayy for more than
fifteen years, including two years in
Sudan
where Zuwayy got hooked on heroin. He and
Hijazi had nursed him, covered for him, threatened him, and cajoled him into
giving up the stuff. They
thought
they
had been successful. “Damn you, Jadallah,” he muttered. “What the hell is wrong
with you? We’re going to war with
Egypt
any day now, and you’re up here getting
high.”

           
“What the hell do you want, Tahir?”
Zuwayy asked. He was slumped in a chair, drinking something; his head lolled
around every now and then as if he were on some sort of sailboat race on the
Gulf of Sidra
.

 
          
“We
had a little visit by someone tonight—one Brigadier General Patrick McLanahan.”

 
          
“An
Anglo? So what? Is he an arms dealer? A mercenary? If not, kick him out of the
country and .. .” Zuwayy stopped and looked at Fazani through bloodshot, bleary
eyes and blown pupils. “Did you say . .. McLanahan?”

           
“The woman we have in your
interrogation center is his
wife”
Fazani said. “He came here to demand we return her and his men to him.”

           
“And you have him? He actually tried
to walk in here and demanded we release the prisoners? Was he deranged?”

 
          
“I
think it’s some kind of setup,” Fazani said seriously. “I had him taken to the
detention center, but I think he should be moved as soon as possible.”

 
          
“Moved?
Yes, he should be moved—straight to Kazakov,” Zuwayy said. “This might be our
chance to get back in his good graces. Where is he now?”

 
          
“The
interrogation center,” Fazani said. “It should be useful for us to interrogate
him as much as possible before we turn him over. He might be able to give us a
lot of information on Egyptian defenses as well as exactly what he used to
attack all our bases. And if we can find out who he works for, maybe they’ll
pay even more to get him back than Kazakov will.” Zuwayy got unsteadily to his
feet; Fazani practically had to catch him to keep him from falling over. “Why
don’t you let me handle McLanahan, Jadallah? Give me some time to see what
he’ll do. If he’s as tough as his men we captured, it might be easier just to
hand him over to Kazakov; but if we can break him quickly, maybe we can explore
alternate opportunities.”