MiGs on the deck.
“Damn it,” he swore and punched the side of his Tomcat. Rat couldn’t die — she just couldn’t.
He turned his gaze toward Iran. The gray-blue waters of the Persian Gulf were rough tonight, the big warship rising and falling in the swells. Somewhere out there, he thought, an Iranian pilot is telling his squadron mates about the “great shot” he had gotten on an American Tomcat. A good shot, they’d say, but “not a kill.” How ironic.
Wadi glanced at his fuel gauge, and saw how critically low he was. The last stretch of afterburner had done him in. He had forgotten how easy it was to lose track of time and expend fuel.
No matter, the second wave was launching now. As he had planned, the initial strike would return to base, refuel, and then relieve the second wave. They could keep this up almost indefinitely, until the American aircraft carrier and cruiser were worn down.
Reluctantly, he turned away from the fur ball of aircraft radar contacts. He clicked on his mike. “First flight, bingo.” One by one, the aircraft broke off from their engagements and turned back for the base.
As he came in, he saw the fuel trucks lined up, waiting to begin the refueling. He taxied into position next to the first one, eager to be off the ground and back in the air.
While the refueling truck positioned itself, a technician scurried up the boarding ladder and offered him a high sugar, high protein snack and a drink of water. He gulped both down. Then he glanced over at his wing. Two of the refueling technicians were poking uncertainly at the fueling port, a look of concern on their faces. Fury boiled over in him. After all he had done, to be stymied by incompetence on the ground was too much to bear. He stood up, leaned out of the cockpit, and said, “You’ll fuel this aircraft or you will die. You understand that?” He was so angry he almost leaped out onto the wing to complete the refueling himself.
The technicians drew back. Fear flooded their faces.
“What is wrong with you?” he screamed, now almost oblivious to everything around him. “Refuel my aircraft!”
Finally, one of them spoke, his voice trembling. “We… we cannot, sir. The fuel pump ports… they’re welded shut.”
Wadi took his pistol out of his survival and shot the man. Then he turned the second. “Refuel my aircraft.”
The technician shuddered, aware that he would die within the next five minutes. “It is… it is impossible, sir.” He shut his eyes and composed himself for death.
Wadi put pressure on the trigger again, then a sick feeling of horror swept over him. Those bastard Russians — had they dared? He scrambled out of the aircraft onto the wing, shoving the dead technician out of the way. He put his hand into the fueling port himself, and his fingers scrabbled against a mass of immovable metal.
Up and down the flight line, the other pilots were encountering the same problem. And he knew with a cold, dreadful certainty that every aircraft now in the air, all of his second precious flight, would also have fuel ports welded shut. They could sustain the battle for another fifteen minutes, but after that, it would be impossible.
TWENTY-SEVEN
After only two days of being accompanied by bodyguards everywhere she went, Ambassador Wexler was already seriously tired of it. At Brad’s insistence, the men followed her everywhere, and it seemed she could do nothing to countermand his orders. For the millionth time since she had called Brad from the restaurant, she wondered what it was in his background that gave him so much power. More and more every day, it was becoming clear that Brad was not exactly who she had thought he was.
Oh, he was still the perfect aide. There was still fresh tea brewed, insightful comments on current affairs. But lately she had begun to notice a hardness in his eyes when he thought she wasn’t looking. And the man who accompanied her everywhere belonged to him.
Brad had also nixed dinner at any of her favorite restaurants, and so she and T’ing had taken to dining at each other’s homes. He proved to be an excellent cook with a fondness for French cuisine and the tact to express appreciation for the deli sandwiches she usually produced.
This evening, dinner was at his townhouse located in a fashionable section of Manhattan. While she tried to mask her irritation at the security measures, she knew he could tell that something was on her mind. Finally, she told him what was bothering her.
He listened to her rant, saying nothing and showing no indication of understanding. When she’d finished, he said “You who are so perceptive in so many matters are so naive in others. Can you imagine that your government would acquiesce to your preferences about your personal safety? You gave up that freedom when you accepted this post, Sarah. You are now part of a greater purpose, with greater responsibilities. And these are not your choices alone to make.”
Sarah’s jaw dropped. “Maybe in your country, but not in mine,” she said firmly. She said it with more force than she intended, and when she thought about it, the reason for that was anger. Anger, because at some level she suspected T’ing was right. She took another bite of her salad, and made a show of selecting just the right morsels as she considered her next move. “And who does he report to, do you think?”
“Secret Service, on temporary loan to the CIA,” T’ing supplied immediately.
Wexler kept her face impassive. “How do you know this?”
T’ing shrugged. “You depend on your government’s investigation, as it is reported to you. Not so with us. We know who Brad Carter is — we have known for some time.” Seeing the anger start in her face, he raised one hand. “Our friendship aside, Sarah, surely you must understand that if your own government is lying to you, it is not my place to correct that. Indeed, would you even have believed me? And furthermore, I have always disapproved of your decisions in this matter. That you have been protected, even though you do not wish to be, has been of some… of some comfort… to me.” He dabbed delicately at the corners of his mouth.
Just then, one of T’ing’s guards appeared in the doorway. He spoke rapidly in their language, then disappeared again. T’ing grew very still. Then he stood abruptly, came to her side of the table, and tendered her his arm. “Come. We must go. You’re not safe here.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said firmly. “My men are—”
“—already dead,” he finished. “I have just been so informed.”
Wexler reeled in horror. Although she had come to detest their presence, the fact that they had been killed shook her profoundly. “Why? Where?”
T’ing’s grasp on her arm tightened. He effortlessly pulled her to her feet, though she tried to resist. They proceeded to the back of his townhouse to a closet. He opened the door, then popped a side panel. She saw a stairway leading down. “Come on.” Still holding her elbow, he escorted her forward and led the way down the stairs.
The stairs terminated in a garage, but not his garage. It was, she surmised, the one for the townhouse that backed up to his. And in it was a Mercedes, black, with no trace of diplomatic tags or insignia on it.
One of T’ing’s bodyguards was already there, standing by the door. Another was behind the wheel of the Mercedes. T’ing opened the back door, and handed her into the car behind the driver. He reached over her, fastened her restraint harness, and walked around to get in on the other side. He spoke in his own language, and the driver replied. The garage door began lifting. Two more bodyguards were outside, evidently having completed a search of the area. One of them slipped into the front passenger seat, and without further ado, the driver took off. Almost immediately, the radio crackled. T’ing turned her. “We are being followed. Please, hold on to the armrest and do not be alarmed.”
Almost before he finished speaking, the Mercedes slewed violently across two lanes of traffic, over the median, and begin heading back in the opposite direction. A matching Mercedes fell in behind them, and she saw
