an An-12 Cub.
El Hakim was standing at the rear of the Ilyushin. Two bodyguards with Uzis stood behind him. “How did it go, Colonel?” he asked as he returned Qazi’s salute.
“We managed to get the six weapons to the flight deck, Your Excellency, and put two weapons in each helicopter. But the Americans destroyed two of the helicopters before they could take off.”
“So we have only these two weapons?”
“Only these two.”
“Where is Ali?”
“He was on one of the machines that was destroyed.”
El Hakim stood in silence and watched the first weapon go up the ramp and disappear into the interior of the plane.
“And the ship?”
“The weapon we left on deck failed to explode.” No doubt El Hakim already knew that. The electromagnetic pulse from a nuclear explosion would announce itself on every radio receiver for hundreds of miles. The pilots of these transports would have reported such an event instantly to El Hakim.
“Why?”
El Hakim was entirely too calm, Qazi thought. He began to feel uneasy. “I suspect the Americans disarmed the weapon before we were far enough away to trigger it. They have weapons experts aboard. That was always a possibility.”
The second weapon was going up the ramp. El Hakim said, “We have staked our national survival on your mission, Qazi, and you have succeeded. We didn’t gain as much as we hoped for, but we have succeeded. The nation owes you a debt. The Arab people owe you a debt, and it will be paid.”
Qazi started to reply, but El Hakim gestured impatiently. “No one else could have done it, Colonel. No one.” He sighed audibly. “For twenty years we have struggled to obtain a hammer to strike the chains from our people. Twenty years! Twenty years of frustration and humiliation.” His voice cracked. “And now we have it,” he whispered, “praise Allah, now we have it.”
The second weapon was inside the plane. The engines on the other plane were already turning and the rear door was coming down into place. The three gunmen who had survived the ship had boarded that plane along with the helicopter pilots. Qazi glanced back at the helicopter sitting near the hangar. It would be abandoned here. Not a customs or immigration official was in sight; he had paid Pagliacci a hundred thousand American dollars for the privacy.
“Come,” El Hakim said. “We have much to do. History is waiting to be written.”
In the transport’s interior along the bulkheads was a contraption of ropes and pulleys. Five triggers sat along the walls, and Jarvis was fitting a trigger to one of the weapons. Noora was crouched beside him. Qazi stopped and stared. Two khaki bundles sat behind the rearmost dolly and there were straps flaked out on the floor. These were parachutes, the type used to drop military equipment to troops in the field. The men who had loaded the dollies were busy rigging the straps to the rear dolly. The first dolly, parked as far forward as possible, had been chained to the deck. A hard object dug into Qazi’s back.
“Don’t move, Colonel.” An arm reached around him and removed the Browning Hi-Power from his waistband. El Hakim paused halfway through the compartment and turned to face him.
“What did you plan to do, Colonel? Kill me?” A smile slowly spread across the face of El Hakim. “Don’t look so surprised. Come, Colonel. Come up here so we can close the door and depart.” He turned and marched forward. The guard prodded Qazi in the back and he followed.
A seating module occupied the forward third of the cabin. The guard motioned Qazi into a seat against the outer fuselage. He was directed to buckle his seat belt, and he complied. With his Uzi against Qazi’s neck, the guard snapped handcuffs on his wrists, then used a second pair to fasten the first pair to the armrest of the seat. The guard seated himself across from Qazi, beside El Hakim, and leveled the Uzi at Qazi. Those two had their backs to the radio compartment, beside which was the short stair that led up onto the flight deck.
As the engines started El Hakim chuckled. “You have served us well, Qazi, but your task is complete. You have our gratitude. I express it now.” His smile faded. “But that is all the thanks a traitor like you will ever receive.” He leaned forward and raised his voice, to be heard above the engine noise. “We are going to Israel now, Colonel, to strike with our hammer. Zionism will not survive the blow. And the debt we owe you for your treason will be paid in full.” El Hakim showed his teeth.
Qazi leaned his head back into the seat and closed his eyes. He listened to the creaks and thumps of the taxiing plane, just audible over the whine of the turbojet engines. He heard Jarvis and Noora slipping into seats behind him. He heard Noora speaking to Jarvis, fastening his buckle for him, fussing over him. After a few minutes the transport creaked to a stop, then the engines spooled up. The plane rolled and in a few moments left the earth.
When at last Qazi opened his eyes, El Hakim had reclined his seat and was watching him with a satisfied, contented expression.
Jake Grafton strode across the flight deck toward the F-14 Tomcat sitting behind Cat Three. The boarding ladder was still down and he mounted it. “Get out, Harvey. I’m going in your place.”
“What about the ship?” Schultz asked when he found his tongue, his voice bitter.
“The navigator can handle it. Unstrap and get out and give me your gear. You can brief me.” Jake lowered himself back down the ladder.
“CAG,” came a voice from the backseat. “Do you want me in here?” Jake looked into the rear cockpit. Toad Tarkington was looking back. Jake nodded yes and motioned for him to stay put.
When Harvey Schultz reached the flight deck, he began taking off his flight gear. “None of this stuff will fit you,” he muttered.
“No time to wait for my stuff.” Jake paused, then continued, “It isn’t that I don’t trust you, Harve, but I’m the senior man and I’m the one who should take the shit when the fan starts turning.”
“I could handle it, CAG.”
“I know that, Harve. But I’m not taking you up on the gallows with me. I want you to get with my staff and get as many of these planes ready to fly as possible. Cannibalize if you have to. If Qazi gets away, those weapons are going to crop up somewhere, and whoever ends up with them will have bought a lot of trouble. You get this air wing ready to give them all the trouble it can dish out. Get this ship ready to fight.” Jake zipped Schultz’s G-suit around his legs. The fit was terrible. Schultz’s calves and thighs were much thicker than his; it was as if he wasn’t wearing a G-suit at all. He unzipped it. He would just go without one.
Farnsworth came hurrying across the deck carrying a load of flight gear. “I heard you were going flying, CAG.”
“Thanks, Farnsworth.” Jake pulled his own G-suit from the pile Farnsworth laid on the deck and zipped it around his stomach and legs. Then he wriggled into his torso harness. All this was going on over his khakis, since Farnsworth hadn’t brought his flight suit.
“Ask the waist catapult officer,” Jake said to Farnsworth as he pulled on his survival vest, “to come over here and talk to me.”
Schultz briefed Jake as he completed donning his flight gear. They discussed rendezvous altitudes and frequencies. “Toad knows all this stuff,” Schultz said. “You have two Phoenix missiles and two Sidewinders. We had to download the Sparrows — they had shrapnel damage.”
Jake nodded. The Phoenix missiles were the big guns and were mounted on a missile pallet on the Tomcat’s belly. Weighing almost a thousand pounds each, they could knock down a plane over sixty nautical miles away with a 132-pound warhead when fired from any angle. They were expensive, too, costing over a million dollars each. Although the F-14 could carry six of them, because of their size, weight, and cost, Sparrows and Sidewinders were the usual load. Phoenix was loaded only when you were going hunting for bear — like now. The Sidewinders were heat-seekers and had a limited head-on capability with a much shorter range. They were also a lot smaller and cheaper than Phoenix, weighing only 190 pounds each. Sidewinder was a simple, reliable weapon.
Farnsworth came back with Kowalski and a chief. “Morning, CAG,” the chief said. He was in khaki trousers and a yellow shirt, but Kowalski was still wearing grimy civilian trousers. His once-white T-shirt had spots of vomit on it.
