muscles tightened.
“A Green Light Package, Kyle. We have to go now.”
Pat put her elbows on her knees and bent forward until her eyes were shaded by her hands. Her back shook in sobs and Delara slid a comforting arm around her.
“I can’t leave,” Swanson said.
Pat snapped her head back up. “Yes, you can…You must go, Kyle! I do not want Jeff waking up to discover that you are disobeying a direct order. That would upset him even more, particularly because of why he is here in the first place.”
“But, Pat…”
She shook her head sharply. “No. Don’t say anything else.”
He twisted the paper into smaller folds, creasing it with his fingernails. “Things have changed. The Excalibur business, this situation with Jeff now…”
Pat shook away Delara’s arm and stood, defiant. “All of that can be resolved when you return. Forget whatever is on the paper. Here is an order to you straight from me, Lady Patricia Cornwell to Kyle Swanson: Go out there and find the terrible people who did this to my husband. The suicide squad is dead, but whoever ordered the attack is still on the loose. You find them and then you kill them. Understand me, Kyle? Am I making this clear enough? I want their damned heads on pikes and their guts served to me on silver plates!”
Swanson slowly rose, and wrapped Pat in a big embrace that picked her off her feet for a moment. Then he put her gently down and said, “Yes, ma’am. I can do that.”
“When do we leave?” he asked Sybelle.
“As soon as I change clothes,” she replied. “Say your good-byes and we’re out of here.”
21
SAUDI ARABIA
FLYING IN THE OPEN skies over the desert countryside had been life’s greatest pleasure for Captain Nawaf bin Awadh of the Saudi Royal Air Force. In the cockpit of his F-15C Eagle, he never ceased being awed by the amazing power at his fingertips. All of the flight data was on a heads-up display and each of the two Pratt & Whitney turbofan engines produced more than 23,000 pounds of thrust. Thousands of gallons of fuel in the internal and external tanks, an M-61A1 six-barrel 20 mm cannon in the nose and wing rack slung with Sidewinder and Sparrow missiles.
He keyed his microphone as he blazed over the trackless brown countryside, with the pure sky above. “Palm Leader to Palm 2. How are you on fuel?”
“Palm 1. It is odd sir, but since we just took off, the gauges are in the green. The ground crew did not forget to fill it up.” First Lieutenant Fayez al-Khilewi smiled beneath his oxygen mask. His flight leader was a man of few words but was in a good mood today, as determined as always to put in a flawless mission. His words had been almost pleasant.
They were flying combat air patrol over a long stretch of air space that was off limits to all other aircraft and was centered on a remote royal palace in which the king was spending a few days. Fayez could easily see the place, a bright spot of green trees and water in the middle of an otherwise empty landscape.
A new voice came up on the circuit, the flight controller in an E-3A AWACS, fifty miles away, the radar-studded bird that directed all traffic in and around the area. The controller quickly guided them into the protective circle and allowed the two fighters that had been on station for several hours to return to base. They were all part of the most sophisticated air force in the region, but the C4I-the command, control, computer, and intelligence-system had never been foolproof. It was a vital weak spot, because without capable communication in a combat crisis, things could get dangerous very quickly. They had the tools, but not the experience born of years of practice.
Ten minutes later, the captain went to the private, internal radio circuit and spoke a single word to his wingman, “Execute.”
Fayez wheeled his F-15 in a sharp turn, kicked in his afterburners to increase speed and was dashing toward the AWACS almost before the controller recognized the course change. The lieutenant turned off his radio and activated his weapons display to paint the lumbering, defenseless control plane with a radar beam. In a matter of seconds, he was within range and fired a pair of AIM-9H Sparrow air-to-air missiles. The weapons slid off the rails with a jolt and Fayez felt as if the fighter jet had hit a speed bump as a thousand pounds of dead weight flew from the wings. The twelve-foot-long missiles spewed white vapor trails from their solid-propellant motors as they burned straight for the AWACS and smashed the 88-pound high-explosive warheads into the target. Fayez nosed straight through the fireball and heard bits of flying debris from the destroyed plane click against his fuselage. He curved up and around to join the captain, who was already attacking the palace.
When their ordnance was expended, both of the fuel-loaded planes crashed into the smoking wreckage of the building.
22
BEIJING, CHINA
“LOOK OUT THERE. TELL me what you see,” said Jiang Julong with a sweep of his arm toward a broad window.
General Zhu Chi obeyed. “Not much, Mister Chairman. The pollution is very bad today. I had to wear a mask coming over here.”
The chairman of the Central Military Commission of the Chinese Communist Party smiled blandly and resumed his theme. “I will tell you what we both see, comrade general. Progress. We see large avenues filled with automobiles. Where once there were only bicycles, the Beijing area alone now has a thousand new cars on its roads every day. China leads the world in buying new Rolls Royces. We see women who used to wear peasant clothing now adorned with boutique makeup and buying designer label dresses. We see factories turning out products that are snapped up in foreign lands: Eighty percent of all toys and seventy-two percent of all shoes bought in America are made in China. Millions of Chinese workers are making money to spend at our own stores, which are stocked with consumer goods. We see a nine percent growth rate per year. Despite economic bounces, we see a new and strong and proud China.”
He paused. Enough statistics. He reached to a nearby shelf and carefully picked up a round-bellied 1000 milliliter Pyrex laboratory flask that was about half-full of a viscous liquid. Oil. A printed label identified it: Saudi Sweet. He handed it to the general. “Here is what will sustain our future growth.”
General Zhu had expected the private meeting to be a discussion about the deteriorating situation in Saudi Arabia, but wanted the chairman to broach the subject. It was unwise for a soldier to say too much to a politician. So he carefully returned the flask to its metal stand, put his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels, remaining silent.
Both were well aware that China’s main oil fields in Manchuria, the South China Sea, and the Bohai Gulf had not been keeping up with increased domestic demand since 1993. Those once-deep domestic fields were being rapidly emptied of the precious resource. Drilling in the Tarim Basin was difficult if not impossible. China was now the second largest oil importing country in the world and in a few years it probably would surpass the gluttonous United States.
“Half of our imported oil comes from the Middle East, comrade general.” The voice was silky, confident. “I have been asked to assess how the events in Saudi Arabia might impact our economy. At first, I believed it not to be our concern, because we do not need to meddle in the internal politics of other countries from which we purchase oil, as long as the oil flows.”
The chairman began to pace in measured steps as he read from a piece of paper. He stopped and dropped it on
