as a reserve. The two westernmost military Areas of Responsibility were Al-Jilf and Al-Kabir, and these were the two areas targeted by the weapons dropped by the Tu-22 bombers.
One might believe the bombardier missed his target, because the gravity weapons detonated a thousand feet in the air, producing nothing more than a loud BANG! and a puff of sand below. The explosion was repeated sixty- three times in the space of six minutes, ten weapons per minute, as the Libyan bomber sowed its deadly seeds. Curious soldiers below looked up when they heard the explosions, and they jumped and felt the sudden gush of air and a little bit of pressure in their ears-nothing more severe than a slammed door or a slug of mud popping out of a new well. But there was very little heat unless the explosion was directly overhead, no trace of vapor or liquid, and no shrapnel or caltrops. Before most folks realized it, the noisemakers were gone. They could have been fireworks, except these fireworks were in the morning, which didn't make sense at all.
It still didn't make sense later that day-even when the soldiers started dying in massive, horrendous numbers.
The ones directly under the airbursts were first, complaining of headaches that increased in intensity quickly, eventually causing loss of eyesight and loss of equilibrium. Hours later, they were coughing up blood. By the time they were able to get off work later that day, they were usually unable to take themselves to the infirmary. Many of them died in their beds or in their living rooms, surrounded by their puzzled comrades and worried corpsmen. The ones that were as far as one mile away from the bursts didn't start having symptoms until the next day, but their fate was the same-crushing headaches leading to blindness, loss of balance eventually leading to incapacitation, and sudden loss of blood leading to hemorrhage and death within eight hours.
The soldiers in bunkers and even chemical weapon-resistant shelters were not spared-even those in underground storage areas and shielded command centers could not escape. Eventually the deadly neutron and gamma radiation from the sixty-four neutron bombs detonated over Salimah, unrestricted by the uranium outer shell as in regular fission weapons, claimed over twelve thousand lives…
… without harming one piece of oil-drilling equipment, spilling one drop of crude oil, or ruining one piece of precious military hardware.
CHAPTER 9
Patrick detested running, but it was the only aerobic exercise he cared for, and he knew he'd probably blow up like a 'bunker-buster' bomb if he didn't do it. When he was in town he usually jogged the short distance from his condo on Coronado Island, across the bay from San Diego, to the base gym at the Naval Amphibious Base Coronado. This time, however, he had Bradley with him, so he drove. It took longer to go down to the garage, strap Bradley in, and pull out onto busy Silver Strand Highway than it did to get to the base.
Going to the gym was one of the few things he liked to do alone, just for himself-but not anymore. It was another of the little changes he had to make in his life, with Wendy gone.
Security was tight on base-even the sticker on his windshield with the white star on blue background of a brigadier general didn't help speed things up. Along with an ID check, Patrick's car was checked underneath with a mirror, and the inside of the car from bumper to bumper was checked visually and also with a military working dog. Bradley liked the dog, and he enjoyed having his car seat sniffed by the dog after Patrick had to lift him up and out of his seat. After clearing security, he headed off to the gym. He checked Bradley into the base gym's day-care center-one of Bradley's favorite places to go, even for an hour or twoand changed into workout clothes in the locker room. Five minutes on the elliptical trainer, then five minutes on the stretching chair to warm up, and he was ready to go.
The news on the televisions surrounding the workout room was full of information on the Libyan attack on the Egyptian military forces defending Salimah. The death toll in just one day was simply staggering. Patrick had a tough time conceiving of the five thousand killed at Mersa Matruh, and now the deaths at Al-Jilf and Al-Kabir were probably going to triple that toll.
The toll that most likely included Wendy. Oh, God… That thought made him tear into his workout with a vengeance.
The tail end of the news reports focused on the American response to the attacks on Egypt-or, more accurately, the lack of response. There were two aircraft carriers with almost a hundred combat aircraft plus ten thousand U.S. Marines within helicopter distance of Egypt, yet the United States made no move to help. There were stern warnings to Libya not to use any more neutron weapons, that using them increased the danger of the conflict spreading and growing to a full-scale nuclear war in a short time-but the response was far short of what most folks expected of the President.
Well, Patrick thought, that was typical of this President-speak softly, but carry a big twig.
Soon, Patrick found he had disregarded his workout log completely and finally ended up just picking a weight from the racks, in some cases fifty percent more than he was able to throw around before, doing repetitions until he lost count, then continuing doing more reps until his muscles gave out completely. After twenty minutes of an absolutely blistering workout, finally something gave way in his left shoulder during an incline bench press, and he was forced to toss a seventy-pound dumbbell aside in pain.
'Are you all right, General McLanahan?' he heard behind him. He turned and saw Captain Fred Jackson, the commanding officer of Naval Amphibious Base Coronado, standing behind him, a look of serious concern on his face. Jackson was a tall, powerful-looking ex-SEAL who still looked as if he could command a team on a mission-he sometimes worked out with Patrick in the gym or at the SEAL Training Facility across the street, and even though Patrick had been working out for many years and Jackson was at least five years older, Patrick found it impossible to keep up with him.
Patrick nodded. 'I'm okay, Fred,' he said ruefully.
'My guys told me you were on the base, so I thought I'd stop by and say hello,' Jackson said. 'I'll get a corpsman to look at that shoulder for you.'
'Not necessary. I'll just get some ice on it.' But Jackson was not accustomed to anyone saying 'no' to him-he already had someone on the way. A few minutes later they were sitting down together, Patrick with a bag of ice on his shoulder.
'You upset about something, sir?' Jackson asked. 'You looked like you were about ready to toss those dumbbells through the mirrors.'
'No-just cranky because I'm getting more and more of these little pains,' Patrick said.
'The price of getting old… I mean old-er' Jackson said.
Patrick nodded at the TV as well. 'I don't understand why we're not doing more over in Egypt, and that's upsetting me as much as my shoulder.'
'I expected you to be in Washington advising the President on what to do,' Jackson said.
'Why do you say that?'
'According to what I've been reading, you're still the number-one candidate for national security adviser,' the Navy SEAL said. 'I thought you'd be out there in fhe thick of things, writing your policy papers, getting your classi-
fied briefings, and getting ready to testify in front of the Senate Armed Services Committee after your nomination.'
'So that's why you're over here looking me up, eh, Fred?' Patrick asked with a smile. 'Thought you'd get a little face time with the rumored number-one guy?'
'Now, would I do that, sir?' he asked with a toothy grin. 'Oh, by the way, I'm letting your son play in my office, I got him his own SEAL to watch him, and I brought in a gourmet chef from the Del to fix him lunch. Is that okay?'
'Sorry to disappoint you, Fred, but I haven't been anywhere near Washington or the White House in many moons, and I'm not likely to be,' Patrick said. 'We don't see eye to eye on much of anything.'
'Which is why all the pundits are saying you're 'it'- Thorn likes surrounding himself with ideological opposites,'
