wanted to protect the Khomeini carrier group as best as possible, so I am setting up the system using the Khomeini’s long-range radar as the master, with Chah Babar’s long-range radar and with an A-10 Mainstay radar plane’s radar as the slaves. We must precisely match their frequencies and timing so that when the master transmits, the slaves receive, and vice versa. The slaves then report their findings back to the master by datalink, which assembles the data and puts it together into an image. The best part, sir,” Sattari went on, smiling a satisfied, evil smile, “is that the stealth aircraft may not even know it is being tracked!”
“How is that possible, Mansour?”
“Because we will be vectoring fighters in on the aircraft using long-range search radars only,” Sattari explained. “The stealth aircraft believes it is invulnerable to these radars. The radar of the fighters that will have the honor of shooting down the stealth bomber will not be locked on to the aircraft until very close in, and they may be able to lock a heat-seeking missile on long before the stealth bomber’s crew suspects that we see them!”
“Excellent, Mansour, excellent,” Buzhazi said excitedly. “You will receive a promotion to deputy chief of staff if this works.
Implement the system immediately. Then see to it that we have massive fighter formations in the air. If the Americans launch four fighters, I want eight to counter them.”
“Sir, it may be unwise to begin such a mobilization so suddenly.
It will inflame the entire world against us!” Sattari protested.
“The world, and especially the Americans and the Gulf Cooperative Council, will soon learn how dangerous it is to provoke us!”
Buzhazi said. “I want the Strait of Hormuz sealed tight, and I want the Khomeini battle group to spearhead it, supported by fighters and bombers from Chah Bahar. The Persian Gulf will be ours now!”
ANDERSEN AIR FORCE BASE, YIGO, GUAM 24 APRIL, 1997, 1838 HOURS LOCAL
The dream was so real, he could feel it, hear it as clearly as if he were there with the doomed plane—the screams of the KC-10 cockpit crew as their tanker began spiraling in its death dive into the Gulf of Oman; the horrible crushing impact as the plane hit the water at terminal velocity; the feel of the cold sea, as hard and unyielding as rock, as it crushed their bodies, then dissolved them into the brine. They were shouting, screaming his name, cursing it, cursing him, cursing his parents, cursing his stupidity Dammit, he had killed them, Patrick McLanahan thought. He never should have requested that tanker to come anywhere near Iran after the attacks on Bandar Abbas, the Khomeini carrier group, and Chah Bahar. He knew the Iranian air force would be on high alert, knew they’d be patrolling the skies looking for revenge He could feel the ocean swallow them up, feel the salt water carry them out, away from help, away from home It was salt water, yes, but not from the Gulf of Oman—they were tears. Patrick found himself crying in his sleep, mourning the loss of the KC-10 Extender crew. But as he awoke, he found they were not only his own tears, but from …
“Wendyl” Patrick exclaimed. “My God, it’s you.” He embraced his wife warmly, and they held each other tightly for several long moments. The bandages were off her neck now, and a bit of hypoallergenic makeup covered the wounds. Her hair was longer, tied in a complex-looking weave on the back of her head.
“I came in and I saw you crying in your sleep,” Wendy said to her husband. “It hurt me so much to see you like that. I didn’t want to wake you, but I didn’t want you to be in such pain.”
“Wendy, what are you doing here?”
“When you radioed NSA to tell them you got a tanker and that you were going to land on Guam, Jon Masters loaded up his DC-10 launch aircraft, chartered about a half dozen other cargo planes himself, and we hurried out here,” Wendy said. “He’s got every NIRT-Sat and PACER SKY satellite, every ALARM booster, every Disruptor-class weapon in his inventory out here, and he’s after blood for what the Iranians did to the Valley Mistress and its crew.”
“You’re with Sky Masters now?”
“I signed up shortly after you left with General Freeman,” Wendy said. “I’m his new vice president in charge of development. Jon got us a condo in San Diego, a car, a plane to take us to his plant in Tonopah, the works.”
“The tavern …?”
“I leased it out to that development group,” Wendy replied. “I’m sorry I didn’t ask you first, Patrick, but we both know you weren’t happy there. This way you still keep ownership of the place, we have a little positive cash flow coming in, and you’re free to save the world instead of busing tables. You can have it back next year, or you can sell it to the group at any time. I hope you don’t mind, but …”
Patrick took her hand, squeezed it reassuringly, then kissed her fingers. “You did the right thing, Wendy,” Patrick said.
You’re right: I wasn’t happy there. But I didn’t have the courage to say so.” His eyes drifted away for a moment, staring at some scene replaying in his mind’s eye.
But Wendy took his face in her hands and said sternly, “Stop that right now, Mr. McLanahan. I know what you’re doing: you’re imagining those KC-10 crew members dying after being shot down.”
“You heard about that?”
“Not officially … but yes, Jon Masters monitors everything,” Wendy said. “We heard what you did with his Disruptors over Bandar Abbas, over the Khomeini carrier group. But we found out that you weren’t tasked to go in and launch ‘screamers’ against Chah Bahar. Hal Briggs put that rescue mission together himself, then called you, in the blind, asking for your help. Patrick, that strike was a complete success! I heard Briggs found many of the survivors, got them out. Why are you so unhappy?”
“Wendy, that KC-10 crew, they’d still be alive if I hadn’t told them to come get us all the way into the Gulf of Oman,” Patrick said. “I wanted to get a refueling so I could continue back to Whiteman instead of having to abort to Diego, so I practically ordered those guys to come in and get me. They died because of my stupidity.”
“Those guys died doing something they loved to do,” Wendy said.
“If you hadn’t asked them to come get you, they would’ve come in anyway. They accepted the risks because they wanted to fight, wanted to make a difference, wanted to be part of this operation as much as you did. It’s a shitty job and a shitty way to die—you said so yourself. You know about it as much or better than anyone. But I know you, Patrick: the second you step onto that ramp, you’ll want to be back up there. Wait until you see the stuff Masters brought with him—you won’t be able to wait to shoot a few of those things off.”
Sure enough, his eyes began to glisten with anticipation as she mentioned Jon Masters and his new missiles. He started to sit up in bed, but Wendy placed a hand against his chest and pushed him back down.
“If you get up, if you go out there, you do it with no regrets,” Wendy said. “You can’t have it both ways. The things you will say and do once you go out there will set other lives, other futures in motion, do you understand, Patrick? It will cut some of those futures off, and it will affect them all—some good, some bad. If you say yes to the next mission, you put other lives in jeopardy again. Can you live with that?”
“I want revenge, Wendy,” Patrick said, sitting up in bed, his eyes blazing into hers. “I want to make the Iranians pay for what they did to the Valley Mistress, what they did to that KC-10 crew. Is that okay with you?”
“What you’ll get is more killing, Patrick,” Wendy said. “It won’t stop until someone calls for peace instead of war. You’re a war maker, not a peacemaker, Patrick. Is that okay with you?”
“You’re damned right it’s okay with me!”
“Then stop giving me that thousand-yard stare,” Wendy said angrily. “Stop crying in your sleep mourning other warriors who only want what you yourself want! If you’re going to go out there and kill, do it well and get it over with and come home and be a husband and father. Don’t feel guilty because you’re doing something you believe in. Do it and let’s go home—together.”
In reply he drew her to him and hugged her as if he would never let go.
DUBAI, UNITED ARAB EMERATES THAT SAME DAY
The pallbearers were all in uniform, and they carried the wooden coffin with military precision down the street about a mile to the military cemetery.
The coffin was open, the body of the UAE commando in full dress uniform, draped with the flag of both the UAE and of the emirate of Dubai, and piled high with flowers atop the flags. Along the way, mourners stopped and bowed their heads. Some touched their fingers to their lips and held them up to the passing coffin;
a few even touched the coffin itself, or the shoulder of one of the bearers.
The procession was led by Riza Behrouzi, acting as representative of the Emir himself, but custom dictated that she walk behind the air forces commander, the highest-ranking military man in the procession, and be with the
