facilities. Hawke’s first F-35 mission was to test that understanding. He was to enter Omani airspace unannounced and land at Muscat International. See if anybody tried to shoot him down. Meet briefly with airport authorities and then get the hell out of there and report what he’d seen. Both America and Britain, who still imported Oman’s oil, had a vested interest in the tiny country’s sovereignty. Economically, politically, and morally.
It should come as a surprise to no one that the Lincoln Carrier Strike Group was now headed for the Indian Ocean. From there, it was an easy move north into the Gulf of Oman. The interesting part would come when they encountered the Chinese fleet, now en route to join forces with the French.
“Commander Hawke,” a young naval aviator said, saluting him. Late twenties, he wore a fore-and-aft khaki hat cocked over one eye, a lieutenant’s silver bars glinting in the sun.
“Yes?”
“I’ve been instructed by the JSF chief technical officer to inform you that your aircraft tech check is complete, sir. She’s certified airworthy and she’s all yours. I’ve got to say I’m just a little bit jealous, sir.”
“I’m jealous of myself,” Hawke said.
Hawke saluted and turned back to Brock.
He said, “See you in Oman, Harry. Wine, women, and song.”
“Something like that, I’m sure,” Brock said, laughing. “Hey, Hawke, hold up. I forgot something.”
“Yeah?”
“I have to say this and I mean it. Wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be standing here. Or anywhere else, for that matter.”
“Just doing my job, Brock,” Hawke said, smiling at him.
Hostage rescue, the gift that kept on giving. He turned and made for his plane. As he climbed the boarding ladder up to the cockpit and dropped his helmet bag down in the seat he heard a few “attaboys” and “give ’em hells” lobbed in his direction from the crew-men standing around his plane. He paused, then, frowning, he climbed aboard.
So word was already out. They knew he was headed to the Gulf, and maybe to Oman, Hawke thought, irritated. Who the hell had leaked that info? He leaned down, checking to see that the safety pins were properly installed in the ejection seat. Christ. Less than half an hour after the meeting, word from the top-secret briefing had probably spread through half the ship. Wasn’t even a record, he thought, buckling up. He took a deep breath and settled in, carefully letting his eye rove over the booted-up color cockpit displays, landing-gear handle, wing-position lever, and fuel-dump switches.
In the first Gulf War, Hawke had seen combat action rumors spread stem to stern on the HMS Ark Royal in five minutes. He leaned his helmet back against the headrest and closed his eyes for a moment. Another bloody crisis in the Gulf. Only this time it wasn’t some tinpot Arab dictator and his amazing disappearing army that needed taking out.
No. This time the stakes were bloody enormous. And here, now, was where it would start. Let’s say the French didn’t honor the Americans’ new no-fly zone over Oman, Operation Deny Flight. Let’s say the French scrambled that squadron of Mirages he’d seen in the intel photos. For argument’s sake, let’s say he, Hawke, or some other fighter jock shot down a French Mirage or two. France naturally goes ballistic. The world would then be headed down a very bad road indeed.
Because France was only the tip. China was the iceberg.
That’s the whole point, he realized. Right now, France had them boxed in pretty well. The no-fly zone would up the ante. Ipso facto, as soon as France raises a stink over the loss of a fighter or two over Oman, her new ally China climbs into the ring. Then the really big bear starts flexing its muscles. Demands Britain and America back off. Leave France and her adventures in the Gulf alone. Now the West is staring down the barrel of the first real global nuclear confrontation since JFK stared down Nikita Khrushchev over the Cuban missiles way back in 1962.
Save the horrific regional conflagrations, a half century of relative world peace and stability was about to go up in flames. Oman would be the line in the sand. If China did indeed step into this on the French side, as every last man in that briefing room had believed she would, then you were looking deep into the yawning black abyss.
How to step back from the edge? According to Brick Kelly, the linchpin in the whole damn mess was this new Bonaparte. The way Hawke and Kelly read the man, for all his delusions of grandeur, he was just a pawn. Still, he had to be taken out, and fast. In New York, at this very moment, Ambrose was searching for a way to do it. With eyewitness testimony to a homicide and a warrant in hand, Interpol could storm the Elysee Palace and arrest Bonaparte for the murder of his father.
And then there were the Germans. Stoke was now in Germany. His job was to determine what role they played in this mess. France and Germany, Hawke knew, were trying to create a “United States of Europe” to achieve some economic, political, and military parity with the West. Baron von Draxis had a role in this, but what was it?
If anyone knew, it was the lovely Jet. Right now, according to Stoke, she was cooperative, even helpful. Stoke had convinced himself she could be trusted. Hawke’s gut told him Stoke was right. Still, he wasn’t absloutely sure. After all, her twin sister, Bianca, had tried to kill him. Ambrose had the best men at the Yard combing the country for her. Maybe when it came to Jet and Bianca, blood was still thicker than water.
Another worry, he thought, casting his eye over the instrument panel.
And all of this was a mere preamble to dealing with the bad boys in Beijing. It was simple, really. They had to find a way to stop this godawful mess before it ever got to the nuclear tipping point.
More Chinese troops in the Gulf joining the ones already in Sudan? Her tankers in the Red Sea? Her forces controlling the Strait of Hormuz? Dominating the world’s oil supply? It just wasn’t going to happen. At least not on President Jack McAtee’s watch. As long as McAtee was in the White House the Gulf States would be off-limits to the Chinese. Hawke had heard him say as much at a private dinner in D.C. two months ago.
Well, Alex Hawke thought, trying to stretch his lanky frame within the confines of the F-35’s snug seat, if the world was about to go up in smoke, at least he’d have the damndest front-row seat money could buy.
He reached forward and initiated the sequence that would start the powerful Rolls-Royce engine.
Time for a cat-shot.
Chapter Thirty-one
The Bavarian Alps
“MOUNTAIN CLIMBING’S JUST LIKE SMIRNOFF,” STOKE SAID to Jet, trying to make her smile for the first time all morning.
“What?”
“Leaves you breathless.”
She didn’t get it. She was tired, panting, her feet hurt, and it was all his fault.
“Yeah, breathtaking up here, ain’t it?” Stoke said and filled his lungs with pure alpine air. He and Jet had just climbed up another steep rocky rise through the trees. He decided to stop and let her get her wind back. They were standing on an outcropping of rock overlooking something called the Obersalzburg.
He was having the time of his life. Whole damn countryside was beautiful. Even the dirt. The ground, even up here at this elevation, was soft underfoot. Spongy, Stoke thought you’d call it. Light was filtering down through the tall trees onto a soft bed of pine needles and the air was cool and clean. He looked up. There were noisy black birds, jackdaws, riding the currents above the swaying treetops.
Surprise, surprise. He liked Germany. It was pretty.
What he’d seen of it on the way to Salzburg, anyway, whizzing by his window in the dark on the midnight train down from Berlin. Now, in the last couple of hours of climbing, he’d been seeing little white stone villages and green farmland spread out far below. Salzburg, where they’d spent last night, was some twenty klicks to the north. You could still see it in the clear distance. Beautiful. All around him, towering above the thick green forests, were the jagged slate-grey peaks of snow-capped ranges. He pulled his map out of his knapsack and identified them as the Untersberg and Waltzmann mountains. To the southwest, sparkling blue in the sun, was a pretty lake he’d like to see one day, the Konigsee.
