“Computer, combat trail, standard offset,” Zen told the Flighthawk computer.
Sudan
23 October, 2000 local
“So, Major, it is you and I then,” said the Imam, standing at the edge of the camp. The Pchelka, with Gunny and Howland, had vanished in the distance. Overhead, the warplanes rumbled; Mack saw a flash in the distance.
“Have you ever been to Tripoli, Major?” asked the Imam. “It is a beautiful city, looking out on the ocean.”
“That were we’re going?”
“Our journey is long,” said Imam. “That is but one stop.”
“I hope we’re not walking.”
The Imam said nothing. As the jets above cleared, Mack head the low drone of a helicopter approaching.
“What’s going to happen to them?” Knife said.
“They will be put on trial, then shot.”
“Same as me?”
“Not yet,” the Imam said. “My superiors have taken an interest in you.”
“Why?” Knife’s ears started to ring – this didn’t sound good.
“At first it was suggested you be punished for attacking one of our soldiers while a prisoner in captivity, which as you know under the Geneva Conventions, is attempted murder, a serious offense. But then we received some interesting information. For some unknown reason, Major Mack Smith, you seemed to disappear from the Air Force roster for a long time. You were flying F-15’s for a time, then you disappeared, then you reappeared flying F-16’s. Odd.”
The Iranian delighted in seeing Knife swallow nervously.
“Well, Major, are you more than just another swaggering but incompetent fighter pilot?” he went on. “Perhaps you were involved in some secret activities? As you say in your insipid American television commercials, ‘Inquiring minds want to know.’ Inquiring minds in many nations in the Islamic brotherhood, and perhaps beyond. We shall find out what your official records do not tell us.”
“What do the Geneva Conventions say about taking prisoners of war to another country?” Smith asked. “You seem to apply the law only when it suits you.”
“And what of your country? An undeclared war against a peaceful nation? You forfeited your right to protection under the law when you accepted this unlawful mission.”
“Do whatever you want with me. I’m not talking to you or your so-called brotherhood.”
The Iranian smiled but said nothing.
Mack snorted with contempt. It was about all he could do – besides the manacles on his hands, there were four guards flanking him with their AK-47’s.
He felt like making a run for it anyway. In the long run, it probably didn’t matter – if anything, it was at least arguably better to be shot here, before they could use him for whatever propaganda extravaganza they were cooking up.
One thing was certain, this wasn’t exactly helping his military career. So much for being part of the A team.
“Major, you find me amusing?”
“No. I’m laughing at myself.”
“Good. This is the first step on the road to enlightenment. You will be assisted on the second step,” he added, grinning at his joke as a Jet Ranger whipped in for a landing.
Ethiopia
24 October, 0400
For the first time since he’d begun rehabilitation, Jeff wished he had a self-propelled chair. As he rolled from Raven to the waiting truck, his arms began to feel like thin pieces of glass, ready to break; his shoulders became uncoordinated pieces of meat, barely able to propel them. The Ethiopian base drummed with activity. Army engineers had added nearly a thousand feet to the runway, as well a second parking area. Four new C-130’s had arrived, and there were at least five times as many vehicles as when they’d left. Things were popping.
That was a bad sign. They were starting to plan for long-term operations, not quick-hit emergency actions.
He’d been so damn close.
The problem was that he couldn’t use both planes together. It was too difficult to keep track of them. But the computer couldn’t be trusted – it had nearly nailed Raven.
They could fix that. Jennifer was already working on the adjustments.
So he hadn’t screwed up on the accident either. The computer had just gotten confused.
He knew that. He’d always known that.
Damn, his arms were beat.
An M44 six-by-six truck sat at the edge of the tarmac. Major Cheshire trotted ahead and asked the driver if they could have a lift to the terminal building, where she was due to brief Hal Briggs.
“Y’all hop on in,” said the driver, an Army Ranger with a Texas accent that seemed to sprawl all the way back to the State.
“I’ll take the back,” said Zen. He pushed around toward the rear, where he spotted another Ranger.
“Yo, Corporal. Think you can boost me up?”
“Sir?” The kid looked a little like he was talking to a ghost. The driver had hopped from the cab; Jeff wheeled himself around to make it easier for them to hoist him.
“I’m thinking of losing weight,” he said to the corporal, who hopped up after him.
“No problem, sir.” The soldiers threw his boot against the wheel as they started up, bracing his arm against the side.
“Human brake, huh?” Zen said to him.
“Yes, sir.”
Zen started to laugh. A few weeks before – hell, yesterday – the man’s seriousness would have convinced Jeff that he was being condescending, pitying him. Today, it just struck him as funny.
“I’m not going to roll off,” he said.
“Yes, sir.” The soldier kept his foot in place.
“You in the 10th Mountain Division?” Jeff asked, noticing the soldier’s patch.
“Yes, sir.”
“Damn good unit.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The corporal never cracked a smile.
Hal Briggs met them outside the terminal building.
“Good job,” Hal boomed, helping the corporal lower Jeff to the pavement. “We were able to track the plane.”
“Really?”
“The Hawkeye was waiting off the coast. It caught it coming north, thanks to your information,” Briggs said. “We’re ninety percent sure where they’re taking them.”
“Ninety percent?” said Major Cheshire.
“Navy like numbers,” said Briggs. He smiled and held his hands out apologetically. “This is their baby now; we’re back to being, uh, consultants. Come on inside, I’ll fill you in.”
Madcap Magician and its associated Special Ops units were now a tiny part of an operation that included three aircraft carriers and a Marine Expeditionary Unit in the Mediterranean. The strikes on the Silkworm missiles had been successful. Two Iranian MiGs had been shot down; the Megafortress had accounted for one Libyan MiG-25. And as Hal had said outside, planes from the JFK had tracked the Pchelka believed to be carrying the pilots and Marines to a bunker site just outside Tripoli.
The situation room had been tidied up some; there were now neat clusters of men gathered around tables and laptop computers. wires snaked everywhere. A thick pair led to the rear of the building, where portable generators the size of soda trucks were humming. Their vibrations played a mamba back through the building and up through the floor so violently one of the armrests on Zen’s chair rattled.
Hal led them to a corner of the room that had been set off by sandbags. A large table with maps sat behind the bags; half a Satcom and a large laptop computer were tucked against its legs. There were no chairs.
“The President has authorized an operation to retrieve the hostages,” Briggs told them. “But only if it can be launched within the next eight hours.”
“Why eight hours?” Jeff asked.
Briggs nodded, agreeing with the implied criticism of the deadline. “The UN Security Council is due to meet then, apparently, Washington wants to avoid any possibility of a condemnation – or worse, offers of mediation. They want a fait accompli. The Saudis and the Egyptians are up in arms, but the Iranians are hesitating. Retrieving our men will take their last cards away. Moderate elements in the Iranian government –”