Once Joe Bones was dead, she and Hu Xu would go after the Englishman. The Scotland Yard detective named Ambrose Congreve. He was somewhere here in New York City. With Congreve and the two American witnesses dead, maybe her father’s confidence would finally be restored. Since childhood, Bianca’s sister, Jet, had been the darling, his perfect angel. How could Father love Jet more?
She saw a door opening and she was going to use it. Jet had betrayed their father. Major Tang said she was sleeping with the enemy. Bianca saw her chance. She’d kick the fucking drugs. Kick all the stupid, stupid men who abused her out of her bed. And, one day, one day soon, she’d kick her treacherous sister right out of her father’s heart.
Bianca threw her head all the way back and let the pelting rain strike her full in the face, relishing the sting of the slanting raindrops.
Bianca Moon thought she might finally find the one thing she’d been searching for these last twenty-seven years.
Redemption in her father’s eyes.
And, of course, love.
Chapter Thirty-six
Gulf of Oman
“JOHNNIE BLACK, YOU GOT A BOGEY APPROACHING, TWENTY- five miles out.” Alex Hawke couldn’t believe his ears. He thought he’d had enough airborne excitement in the last few days to last a lifetime. The “incident,” as it was now referred to, aboard the USS Lincoln, was one of those memories that was not going to fade rapidly. For two days, the mere act of waking up in the Lincoln sickbay had come as something of a surprise.
What’s this? Still here, old fellow?
Yes. Bruised (his neck and right shoulder were a lovely shade of violet from slamming into the canopy when his seat broke loose) and battered, but still here. With a brand-new airplane from Aviano in Italy. And now, Archangel, the American AWACS plane directing Operation Deny Flight, the still-dewy no-fly zone over northern Oman, was warning him that a bogey, a French Mirage F1, was fast approaching him.
He craned his head around inside the bubble-shaped canopy of the F-16 Fighting Falcon and radioed his wingman. “Jim Beam, Jim Beam, this is Johnnie Black.” The American pilot, whose name was Lieutenant Jim Hedges, was floating just off his starboard wingtip. “You got this guy?”
“Uh, roger that, Johnnie Black. I have him at heading two-sevenoh, maintaining twenty-five thousand feet at four hundred knots. We’re doing low to high, is that right, sir?”
“Affirm. We are doing low to high, Jim Beam,” Hawke said.
Low to high meant he wanted his wingman to go low and look for more bad guys while he alone climbed upstairs to confront the single known enemy. He had his reasons for this but he had been ordered not to share them with his American wingman. He was sure Hedges thought this whole mission was a crock, but there was nothing he could do about that right now.
He had taken off that morning at 0600 hours from Aviano Air Base in Italy, en route to Saudi Arabia for a fuel stop and a briefing. Ultimately, he was headed to Oman. He’d been ordered to test the new no-fly zone firsthand and report what he found to Kelly. And, meet up with Harry Brock at a small coastal village called Ras al Hadd and discuss the number-two reason he was going to Oman. First job, get the sultan and his family out of French hands.
There was a complete mission briefing in his flight bag. Aerial acrobatics and hostage rescue, his two favorite things in all the world.
The rescue sounded simple enough on paper; Hawke and Brock were supposed to determine if it was feasible to snatch the sultan and his family. If it was, do it posthaste. They were believed to be held captive in a seaside fortress on a small island called Masara, just a mile off the coast of Oman. The CIA had boots on the ground in Oman now. Their last humint assessment had indicated the beleaguered sultan had also been moved to the island.
Hawke’s F-16 was the number-two jet in a four-plane formation destined for an American air base high in the western mountains of Saudi Arabia called Taif. Taif Air Base, situated at forty-eight hundred feet, was conveniently located about a two-hour drive from Jeddah. It was the home of the United States Military Training Mission to the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. You don’t hear much about them. This is a group that liked to stay out of the news.
USMTM in Saudi was a highly classified joint training mission under the command of Headquarters, United States Central Command (USCENTCOM) at MacDill AFB, Florida. Hawke, who frequently worked very closely with the Departments of Defense and State, and was privy to not a few secrets himself, knew that the tiny Taif Air Base was where the CIA and the American Department of Defense were coordinating and preparing for any eventuality arising from a possible French invasion of Oman. American personnel at Taif Air Base also flew support missions with the F-15s the Saudi RSAF had bought from the United States. The Royal Saudi Air Force squadrons flew out of the air base at Riyadh.
At Taif, in a sweltering Quonset hut, Hawke was briefed on Operation Deny Flight, the no-fly zone now being established over Oman. Two of the fighters who’d accompanied him from Aviano were staying on the ground in Saudi Arabia. They had other plans. He’d be flying a two-plane with Hedges for the balance of the short flight from Saudi Arabia to its neighboring state, Oman. During the briefing, his aircraft was refueled.
Hawke was flying a loaner, an F-16 Fighting Falcon, reluctantly relinquished to his care by the grouchy four-star commanding the Sixteenth Air Force, and the Thirty-first Fighter Wing headquartered at Aviano, Italy. Hawke was quick to forgive the general his grudging generosity. The general had a lot on his mind lately.
The Sixteenth Air Force’s area of interest includes NATO’s southern lines of communications, waterway chokepoints to half the world’s shipping, the crossroads of Islam and Christianity, and some of the world’s major oil-producing countries. This vast piece of real estate was home to dramatically increased levels of political, ethnic, religious, and economic tension and the Sixteenth Air Force had been very busy lately. One particular chokepoint had everyone in the command center at Aviano’s attention right now: the Strait of Hormuz at the northern tip of Oman.
Talk about a strategic stranglehold. Most of the world’s petroleum was shipped through the narrow stretch of water separating Oman and its glowering neighbor Iran. Hence, the no-fly zone to keep out anybody who had no official business there.
Hawke could understand why the four-star had been a little grouchy when he learned one of his airplanes was being loaned out. Especially when he’d been told the name of the recipient of his largesse. Commander Alexander Hawke, the British aviator involved in the “incident” with the brand-new F-35 aboard the Lincoln. Knowing the military as he did, Hawke understood precisely what was going on. He knew that, although it had been determined conclusively that the mishap was due strictly to catapult malfunction and not plane or pilot error, a certain stigma had attached itself to his name and it would follow him around until all the navy flyboys ceased to be interested in him any longer.
He also knew that, unfortunately, there would be questions about the F-35 for a while. Ill-founded questions, Hawke knew, and he had assured the American aeronautical engineers who had grilled him mercilessly on the ground at Aviano that the plane had performed flawlessly. According to his instruments, everything had been perfect when he had throttled up for launch. As he told them, he couldn’t reasonably expect the aircraft’s computers to pick up the problems with the bloody catapult.
Would he fly an F-35 again if he got a chance, they asked, as Hawke headed for the door. In a heartbeat, he’d said.
“Okay, Johnnie Black, bogey is at twenty miles and lining up beak-to-beak,” the AWACS officer flying high above him said.