"You Americans?" one of the men who stepped out of the lead Humvee said. He had an Egyptian accent, but it was very slight-he could've been an Arab conveniencestore clerk from Boston. "Who are you guys?"
"We're escapees," David Luger said. "We were detainees at Mersa Matruh."
"You're very well armed for escapees," the stranger said. He looked over at Patrick and the others in their Tin Man battle armor. "Very well equipped-more like attackers than escapees." He motioned to Patrick. "If I didn't know better, I'd say those were electromagnetic weapons that fire hypervelocity projectiles."
"What?" Luger was completely surprised, and he showed it. "How do you know about hypervelocity weapons?"
"You think because I live in the desert I don't know about such things?" the man asked. "I read Popular Science and Aviation Week & Space Technology. I read about the exoskeleton your friends over there are wearing in the London Times. I didn't know they actually came out with something, though. Very interesting."
"Who are you?"
"It appears we're not doing names today," the stranger said, "so I don't have an answer for you now. What I do require of you is to put your weapons down on the ground and raise your hands."
"That will not happen," Chris Wohl said.
"By the sound of it, I think you must be the noncommissioned officer in charge of this team," the stranger said. Patrick noticed then how young the man was under his black Kevlar helmet wrapped with a white turban, chocolate-chip battle dress uniform, green Nomex flying gloves, and thick-soled heavy-tread knee-high tanker boots. When he moved, Patrick actually noticed a black shirt underneath his BDUs, with a white shirt underneath that made it appear as if he were wearing a cleric's collar. "But you will be silent now. I am in command of this area, and you are the trespassers." He turned to Luger, shook his head. "And you, sir, are not the commander of this force." He looked over to the others. "I will speak to him now."
Patrick stepped forward. "What do you mean, you are in command of this area? We're in Egypt."
The man turned, and Patrick noticed a smile on his youthful face. "I assume I am addressing the infamous Castor. Finally."
"You are very astute, sir," Patrick said. "Who are you?"
"Since we are now talking in code words, I am called Dabbur-the wasp," the stranger said. "We are called the Hubub-the sandstorm. And this is my desert. It has been so for nearly two hundred years. We have protected it for that long. It is not about lines on a map or governments."
"Your intelligence system is effective-Your Highness." The man smiled, which made him look even younger than he looked at first. He issued a command in Arabic, and his men lowered their weapons.
"Who is he, Muck?" Hal Briggs asked.
"His Royal Highness, Sayyid Muhammad ibn al-Hasan as-Sanusi, the true king of Libya," Patrick said. The man smiled, shouldered his weapon, and bowed in thanks for the recognition and proper address. "The sword of vengeance of the Sahara and leader of the 'Sandstorm,' the Sanusi Brotherhood."
"You got it," Muhammad as-Sanusi said. "And who are you-other than trouble of the first magnitude around here?"
"Friends-as long as you don't align yourself with Jadallah Zuwayy."
"You mean my 'sixth brother,' Jadallah the Brave, the protector of Islam and the savior of the people of Libya? Give me a break," Sanusi said disgustedly. He took off his helmet and poured water from a canteen on his face. He had a thin, triangular face, wide eyes, and a ready smile, even while deriding someone. "But what pisses me off even more is that the people of Libya really bought his bucket of bullshit." He looked carefully at Patrick, then nodded. "You know my good 'brother,' then? So I assume you're the devil robot that nearly destroyed Jaghbub and scared the living shit out of him?"
"Maybe. How do you know about that?"
"Zuwayy's men blabbed it all over open channels all last night-you couldn't shut it off," Sanusi said. "I think your impromptu nose job improved his looks. And of course, we saw your fireworks show from twenty miles away. Very impressive. Some of my radar outposts picked up traces of an aircraft still orbiting west of here-your air support, I gather?"
"We came close to taking out your men here with our air support."
"Unless you have EMP-proof radios, I doubt it," Sanusi said dryly. "We lost contact with all our patrols the instant that device went off. God in heaven, I always suspected Zuwayy had nukes, but I never thought he'd be stupid enough to actually use them."
"You don't talk like an Arab, Your Highness."
"Oh, I can talk Arab just fine when I need to," Sanusi said. "But I've lived in the States for the past five years, and I picked up the lingo pretty well." He held out his canteen to Patrick. "Can you drink water through that thing?"
"Yes," Patrick said-but then he disconnected his helmet, pulled it off, and accepted the canteen. "But I prefer not to." He grimaced at the canteen.
"Don't worry-it's purified," Sanusi said. "I've lived in the States too long to drink the local water, especially from the oases. I may be the sword of vengeance of the Sahara, but the worst my stomach can handle is L. A. tap water. My men can drink month-old camel piss dug out of a hole in the desert if they had to, but not me. I've got plenty of purification tablets in there." Patrick took a deep swig, then handed it back. "What's your name?"
"McLanahan. Patrick McLanahan."
"Good Irish name," Sanusi said. "Who are you guys?
Where do you get all that firepower? U.S. Army Special Forces? Delta Force? Navy SEALs?"
"None of the above."
"Ah. Some supersecret commando job, contracted by the CIA or something," Sanusi said, taking a drink. When Patrick did not reply, Sanusi merely shrugged. "My men will find out eventually. We have spies everywhere, and neither the Egyptians nor the Libyans can keep a secretthey all think once you get out into the desert, no one can hear you. I heard a report that the lovely Mrs. Salaam and General Baris had been meeting with some special infantry teams at Mersa Matruh-I assume that's you. Good thing you got out when you did."
"Some of our guys were not so lucky."
"The prisoner exchange," Sanusi said, nodding. "I heard. I'm sorry, Patrick. So it was you guys in on that raid at Samah that started this whole mess."
"We didn't start it-but we mean to finish it," Patrick said ominously.
"I'm sure you guys are tough-and you're going to have to be, to go up against Zuwayy and his troops," Sanusi said. "They've got some mean-looking shit all of a sudden-new Russian weapons, armor, rockets, aircraft, the works, hundreds of millions of dollars' worth. Zuwayy's either been investing some of the money he and his cronies have been ripping off from the Libyan treasury and buying weapons on the international arms market with it, or he's got a wealthy new Russian sponsor."
That last comment set off nightmarish explosions in Patrick's head, but he ignored the warning bells for the moment. "We could use your help to get back to Cairo."
"Cairo? What in hell do you want to go back there for?" Sanusi asked in surprise. "I thought you said you were escapees from Mersa Matruh."
"We were being held there during the prisoner exchange so we wouldn't interfere."
"Oh really? You sure it wasn't so they'd be sure to fry you just like your friends?" Sanusi noticed Patrick's face blanch and harden to stone, and he put a hand on Patrick's shoulder. "I'm sorry, McLanahan. You lost some of your men in that explosion, I know."
Even though Patrick was beginning to trust this man, he still did not feel like elaborating. "Egypt is wide open for attack. We can help stop Zuwayy until the rest of the world organizes a defense against him."