The invaders relied on overwhelming surprise, like they had in New York, and with the letters containing anthrax. If the well-placed ground forces performed as expected, their job would be easier. Hopefully the attack would come as such a stunning blow, they could capture many American jets not flight-ready. Preset snipers were to kill any American pilots trying to enter the battle.
Sharafan smiled to himself. The attack was like a boxing match, letting the opponent swing and show his weakness. Then, when he is weary and unsuspecting, launch a quick deadly attack and dispatch your opponent. America was about to be knocked out.
With his belts secure, Sharafan made a radio check and lowered the canopy. Then like he had done countless times before, he stuck the old faded and yellowed picture of his mother on the instruments before him. He could still remember the cameras from twenty years before.
Only a child then, Rasht Sharafan had never forgotten the horror of that moment. Cameras zoomed in on the mourners’ chorus of torment. Only a momentary pause was given to the Syrian father and son, their heads bowed over the smoldering debris. Although hardly noticed against the cries of the other mourners, the anonymous father and son sifted through the rubble, the smoke, and the bodies. With his father, Sadi, beside him, Rasht Sharafan could find nothing of his mother, his brothers, sisters, and aunts.
Sari Sharafan had been a beautiful woman, even by the world’s standards. The clothes she was required to wear could not hide her figure, and when she covered her face her eyes were enough to make men die for. In a world of chaos she brought love, unity, and peace to the Sharafans. Sadi could look upon the beauty of his wife all night — but no more. For Rasht his mother would become only a cherished memory, as would the rest of his family.
The young boy had watched as his father knelt in the hot smoking debris, picked up a handful, and squeezed with such an abnormal strength that stones broke in his grip. Luck, fate, destiny, or whatever terrible thing it might be called — that a father and son should endure such a horrific final memory of their loved ones — was dealt to Sadi and Rasht that day. Before the bombing started they had raced through the streets content their family had reached the safety of the underground bomb shelters before the terror started. They had found shelter in buildings that were in harm’s way, but it had not been the first time and they had survived before. Thank Allah their family was safe underground.
The boy had seen the jets come in and the rockets fired. In a hypnotic trance they had watched helplessly as the technologically-advanced rocket streaked for the shelter like a slow motion movie. In an instant, all they loved and cherished was gone.
Tormented at the sight before them, Sadi and his son Rasht screamed to Allah. The agony and despair were more than they could bear. Sadi swore a fatwa—an oath of death to the American pilots who had committed this act and an oath of death for their families — so that none of their seed would continue. Also, he swore a jihad on the United States of America, and to that end he promised to do everything in his power to bring down that great country. And fifteen-year-old Rasht grew into manhood quicker than the rocket that had taken his beautiful mother. He took a picture of her from his pocket and held it to his heart. Through his tears the boy became a man and swore the same oath as had his father: death to families of those who had killed his own.
In the cockpit of his jet, Rasht wiped the tearful memories from his eyes and looked lovingly at the picture of his mother. He would not be finished until Beau Gex was dead. “Today Mother I will take many American lives for you,” he said. He kissed his fingers and touched the photo.
Prepared and ready for the attack, he shoved the throttle forward and the jet responded, lifting effortlessly from the ground. Soon hundreds more followed, ready to strike.
The first aircraft Sharafan encountered was the passenger jet Zahir had described that would be coming from Corpus Christi, bound for El Paso. He made a quick check. The jet was to have been grounded and a Coalition clone was to have taken its place, but the passenger jet had managed to get flight ready and take off. This would create problems for the Coalition should it continue on unless Sharafan reacted immediately. Swiftly, he went up to meet the jet. A moment later it was in a deadly smoking plunge. Soon he was back with his group and in the lead for the attack on Del Rio.
Then Sharafan’s thoughts returned to Beau Gex. He couldn’t wait to see the horror on the man’s face when he confronted him again.
The arms expert, Chen, talked incessantly to Schmitt and Garrett. The trip was going well until about noon, when they were only a few miles out of San Antonio. Then something strange occurred.
Robby had the radio tuned to a familiar Corpus Christi station listening to the Orange Bowl game when a Boeing 727 passenger airliner roared overhead less than a thousand feet above the ground. Stranger still was what came minutes behind the airliner. A string of thirty or more fighter jets of older vintage and varying types followed at the same altitude. The close proximity to the ground made it impossible to determine their numbers as they flew over.
The strange happenings were also noticed in the trailing vehicles as all eyes strained skyward. In Deberg’s van, Marix snapped. “Is this the way they do maneuvers in Texas?” But when he observed the shaken and concerned appearance upon the other men’s faces, he knew they were as alarmed as he. Pickett and Blackman watched as more planes flew overhead.
“What happened?” Tang asked Robby.
Robby could only watch and wonder, as did Admiral Garrett. Robby said, “Must be that crazy Texas Confederate Air Force. I didn’t know they had so many planes.” Everyone agreed only because not to would mean some frightening ramifications none of them wanted to consider or admit.
Unexpectedly, the football game Robby listened to was interrupted. The disc jockey became frantic with his broadcast:
“This is KEYS in beautiful Corpus Christi. Coming up is another of your—” For a moment the radio was quiet. “You may not believe this, but it appears that the Naval Air Station is putting on an air show of its own this New Year’s Day. Hey, any of you listeners know what it is, give us a call.”
The disc jockey seemed confused at what he saw. The questions he asked those within his studio confirmed his puzzlement. The obvious impromptu questions carried across the airwaves.
“My God!” he blurted over the radio. “Two of those planes crashed. No… they, they were shot down. What the hell is happening? Have they lost their minds?” All of a sudden fear was clear in his voice. “No! No—”
Those were his last words.
Admiral Garrett and Schmitt looked at each other.
“Check the other stations,” Garrett ordered with a frantic wave of his hand.
Schmitt scanned the radio. Only two stations remained active. Something was happening, but the broadcasters seemed confused and unable to get any information. One station thought it was a colossal aerial accident, while the other laughed, saying it was more like a movie where war had been declared. Soon both broadcasts were interrupted. Two other stations previously off the air now played uninterrupted music.
Garrett ordered Schmitt and the other four to remain silent. At the top of the hill, Admiral Garrett spotted a rest area with a breathtaking view of a small valley where the narrow, rock-strewn Hondo River flowed. He ordered Schmitt to pull off the road and into the rest area.
Outside, the cold clear waters of the spring-fed river rushed along. Thorny mesquite trees dotted the rolling terrain. An occasional jackrabbit could be caught scurrying in and around the brush. High above, two buzzards circled in curious anticipation.