Yeah, Davis thought, Schmitt’s just fine.
“But we’re not out of the woods yet,” Schmitt added. “I think I bent this old airplane. She’s flying crooked and the ailerons are binding.”
Davis looked past Antonelli. He didn’t see Blackstar. “Dammit!” he muttered. He banked the airplane hard and pushed the throttles all the way up. Davis put the microphone to his lips, “Do what you have to, just get that bucket on the ground. And ask the engineer if there’s any way to stop Blackstar.”
Davis watched the airspeed inch upward. He needed knots, so he pushed the nose down to help the old bird accelerate.
After a minute, Schmitt came back. “Jibril says no, he can’t control it. Blackstar is on its own now. But you’ve got the target right. It’s heading for the conference in Giza.”
“All right,” Davis replied, “I’m going after it.”
“Going after it?” Schmitt spat. “What will you do if you catch up?”
“Hell if I know.”
The Great Pyramid of Giza has been casting a shadow for over four thousand years, but never before had it fallen over such a luminous array of dignitaries. Twenty-two leaders of the new, emerging Arab world were mingling in the staging area, a sheltered enclosure behind the main stage. This alone might have given any right-minded security chief pause, but up to this point everyone was behaving, save for the occasional incoherent rant by the madman of Libya.
The usual throngs of tourists had been turned away today, leaving countless vacations bruised and tour guides wagging excuses. It was the only way. Presently, a single person stood on the stage, the conference’s beleaguered director of security. He was an Egyptian, a senior man in the new president’s Office of State Security. Nearing the end of his career, the director was known for his steady demeanor under pressure — something he relied upon now.
He stood on the stage and looked out at the crowd, which was actually not that large, and then at the media corral where a veritable army of reporters stood in wait. The journalists were geared for battle — cameras, microphones, smartphones. If all went as planned today, a positive tilt toward peace in the region was anticipated, even if the ceremony itself would quickly be forgotten. And any problems? the director mused. Any problems would be splattered across the world in a matter of seconds, and from a hundred different angles. That was the problem in his line of work. The better you performed your job, the less it was noticed. But if you screwed up—
The director put a hand in his pocket and keyed the microphone that was wired to his collar. “Report.”
The reply came to his earpiece immediately, “Still Condition One. No threats, sir.”
The director did not respond. Thirty more minutes of that, he reasoned, and I’ll soon be in a soft chair by the sea.
His earpiece crackled to life. “One moment, sir. Our Air Force command center has received a warning from their U.S. liaison officer. One of their aircraft carriers is tracking an unauthorized aircraft thirty miles to the south. It’s heading this way.”
“What are they doing about it?” the director asked, not bothering to inquire why it took the Americans to bring the matter to everyone’s attention.
An interminable pause. “Our own Air Force is sending a pair of fighters to investigate. The colonel insists on leaving the bulk of his force in sector three to watch the northern border. He says the reported target is moving very slowly and not a possible threat.”
There was nothing the director of security could say to that. The Air Force was the Air Force, and if something slipped through it would be their heads rolling in the gutters of Abdeen Palace. All the same, he turned to his right and scanned the southern sky.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Davis was captain of a seventy-year-old airplane, one in which he had logged no more than four hours of flight time. He was nearly out of fuel, violating Egyptian airspace, and heading for a high-profile political event without clearance. His copilot was a general practice physician with zero hours of flight time. But at least I’m not high on khat, he mused.
He scanned the northern sky, looking high and low, not sure what kind of profile Blackstar had been programmed to fly. Stay high and rely on stealth? Or go low and mask behind the terrain? The landscape was relatively flat, no mountains or canyons in which to hide, so Davis’ gut told him to look high. That would also give Blackstar more kinetic energy in its terminal dive — more bang for the buck. He figured he was twenty-five miles from Giza. Blackstar had to be close, no more than five miles ahead. Unless it had been programmed to fly a circuitous route. Swing wide and come in from the east? Davis had no way to tell.
“There!” Antonelli shouted.
Davis saw her pointing to the four o’clock position, back over her shoulder.
“Christ, we passed it up.”
The doctor had good eyes — Davis banked right and saw it, the arrow-like Blackstar daggering ahead like some kind of remote controlled demon. Which was exactly what it was. He picked up an intercept track. They’d be right beside the drone in a matter of minutes. Whatever good that would do.
“Where the hell are the fighters?” he asked.
“The what?” Antonelli replied.
“The Egyptians must have air cover, fighters watching out for trouble. They can’t see Blackstar — that’s why Khoury used it, because it’s stealthy. But now we’re here. This old trashwagon must have a radar cross section the size of a building. Somebody has to be tracking us. I figured that if we followed along and tied ourselves to Blackstar, we’d draw some support. Somebody who can take it out.”
They both swept their eyes over the sky but saw nothing. Then an F-16 flying at supersonic speed flashed a hundred yards in front of them.
Antonelli jumped back in her seat, and a second later they hit the jet’s wake vortices, two sharp bounces that made the old airplane groan.
“What was that?” she exclaimed.
“Egyptian Air Force,” Davis answered. “Just like I was hoping.”
“What are they going to do?”
“Good question.”
Davis had a lot of air combat training, much of it flying against F-16s like the one that had just screamed past. He was, however, used to having a little more performance at his disposal.
“I’m hoping these guys will be on our side.”
“So am I,” Antonelli agreed.
Davis watched the fighter that had just dusted them go high, a big whifferdill to reposition. That’s what I’d do. He looked left and right, searching for the other jet. Fighters always came in pairs. You might not see the second, but it was there somewhere. If Davis were to guess, he’d have it camped out at their six o’clock right now, flying S-turns, because F-16s weren’t meant to be driven at a hundred and twenty knots. The pilot probably had an AIM-9 heat-seeker locked and loaded, giving a nice solid “ready” tone on one of their big radial engines. That idea didn’t sit well with Davis, but there wasn’t much he could do. He had asked for fighters, now he had them. But they clearly hadn’t seen the drone. Their radars had guided them to a big, ponderous DC-3, so that’s what their eyes had locked onto.
Davis searched for Blackstar but didn’t see it. In all the commotion he’d lost his visual.
“Dammit!” he said. “Do you see the drone?”
Antonelli craned her neck left and right, searching the sky. “No, not anymore.”
“Great. Just when we get help.”
“What can we do?” she asked.
Davis saw the high F-16 dropping to his altitude, probably getting ready to introduce himself with a few visual signals.